Shattered Foundations, Unbroken Love : a Larry Stylinson Tale

Into Harry's world

Harry lived in a world where silence had become a foreign concept. The ceaseless noise of war had invaded every corner of life, the background hum of danger woven into his daily routine.
Each day, the distant thunder of explosions, the sharp staccato of gunfire, and the occasional scream of jets ripping through the sky served as reminders that the war wasn't far away. It was just on the horizon, slowly creeping toward them, day by day.

Before the war, Harry's neighborhood had been a vibrant, lively place. The streets were lined with narrow, colorful houses that glowed warmly in the sunlight, and the roads were always filled with the sound of children playing, shopkeepers calling out to passersby, and neighbors chatting by their fences. But as the conflict had drawn closer, those sounds had been replaced by the distant wail of sirens, the rumble of military vehicles, and the ever-present hum of fear. The cheerful streets were now abandoned, windows boarded up, doors locked, and every house seemed to huddle in on itself, as if bracing for the inevitable.

Harry's family had lived in this house for as long as he could remember. It wasn't much, just a small apartment in a row of similar buildings, but it was home. The walls were adorned with old photographs, the kitchen table was always slightly wobbly, and the smell of his mother's cooking filled the air every evening. For Harry, the house was more than just a structure; it was the place where his family laughed, argued, celebrated birthdays, and shared their dreams.

His mother was the heart of their home. Even in the darkest of times, she had a way of making things feel normal. Every evening, as they sat down for dinner, she would light a single candle and say, "As long as there's light, there's hope." It had become a ritual, something to cling to when the world outside their windows seemed to be falling apart. His father, on the other hand, had become more distant as the war approached. He would spend hours watching the news, his face etched with worry, muttering about the government, the soldiers, and how things used to be different. He was a man burdened by the weight of trying to protect his family in a situation where he felt powerless.

Then there was Gemma, Harry's younger sister, who was only twelve but already old beyond her years. The war had taken her childhood, forcing her to grow up too quickly. She no longer played with her dolls or giggled as she once did. Instead, she would sit quietly, her wide eyes absorbing everything with a seriousness that no child should ever have. Despite the fear that had settled into her bones, she always clung to Harry when things got bad, trusting him to make it better, even when he wasn't sure he could.

The war hadn't always been this close. For years, it had been a distant storm on the horizon—something happening in other cities to other people. Harry's father would talk about it sometimes, about how it had started with disagreements over borders and resources, how the politicians had failed to keep the peace, and how little by little, it had spiraled out of control. At first, it seemed like just another conflict, the kind that would pass with time. But it hadn't. It had grown and spread, swallowing up entire regions, pushing people from their homes, and leaving destruction in its wake.

In the early days, Harry's family had been able to ignore the war, even as it edged closer. There were occasional power outages, shortages at the grocery store, and whispers of soldiers moving through nearby towns, but life continued. The children still went to school, shops still opened, and there were even moments when they could pretend that things were normal. But as the months dragged on, the conflict became harder to ignore. The school had closed after an airstrike hit the outskirts of town, and now, most of the stores were boarded up, the shopkeepers long gone. Curfews were in place, and every night, the sound of fighter jets soaring overhead served as a grim reminder that danger was lurking just beyond the city limits.

Harry had always been a resilient boy. At sixteen, he was tall and lanky, with a shock of dark hair and a sharp mind. He had dreams once—dreams of becoming a physiotherapist, of studying in the capital, of changing people's lives. But now, his dreams seemed distant, buried under the rubble of his crumbling world. His thoughts were consumed by the present: keeping his family safe, finding enough food, and hoping that the next bomb wouldn't fall on them.

That night had started like any other. The sun had set, casting long shadows across the apartment as the family gathered around the kitchen table. His mother had prepared a simple meal—bread and some canned beans. Food had become scarcer over the past weeks, but they made do. His father sat at the head of the table, his face drawn and tense, as he listened to the distant sounds of artillery fire. Gemma sat beside Harry, her small hand gripping his arm—her eyes wide with fear. They all knew the war was getting closer. The air felt thick with it, as if the very walls of their home were holding their breath.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a blood-red glow over the war-torn city, Harry's family gathered for what would unknowingly be their last dinner together. The meager meal sat between them on the table, a plate of bread and beans that barely filled their stomachs but had become a familiar comfort amidst the chaos. The kitchen, once warm and bustling, now felt like a ghost of its former self. The flickering candlelight danced across the faces of his parents and sister, casting long, ominous shadows on the walls, as if the house itself was shrinking under the weight of the war.

Harry's father sat in silence, his brow furrowed, listening to the distant sounds of explosions that had become a regular soundtrack to their lives. His hands, once steady and strong, now trembled as they rested on the table. He hadn't spoken much in the past few days, only offering the occasional comment about the news reports that seemed to get worse by the hour. The government had lost control of several key cities, and the rebels were advancing rapidly. The fighting was no longer just distant booms on the horizon; it was closing in on them.

His mother, however, refused to let the war steal every moment of normalcy. She smiled softly as she lit the single candle in the center of the table, the one she always said represented hope. Her eyes, though tired, still held a flicker of determination. "As long as there's light," she whispered, "there's hope." It was her mantra, a phrase she repeated to herself as much as to them, and though Harry had heard it a hundred times before, it still offered a sliver of comfort in the face of the storm outside.

Gemma sat beside Harry, her small body pressed close to his. At twelve, she should have been laughing with her friends, worrying about school, and dreaming about the future. Instead, she clung to her brother like he was the only solid thing in a world that was crumbling. Her eyes, once bright and full of curiosity, were now wide with fear, reflecting the dim candlelight as she stared at the window, waiting for the next explosion.

"We should move to the shelter," Harry's father muttered, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was hoarse, as if it took great effort to speak. He didn't look at any of them as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the window where the faint glow of firelight from the distant battle lit the night sky.

"There's no time," Harry's mother replied softly, her voice calm but strained. "If we move now, we'll be exposed. It's safer here."

Harry's father shook his head but said nothing more. They had argued about this many times before. Harry knew his father felt powerless, frustrated that he couldn't protect them the way he wanted to. But the truth was, no one was safe anymore, no matter where they were.

The distant sound of planes approaching made everyone freeze. It was a sound they had all come to dread. The rumbling engines grew louder, filling the air with a sense of impending doom. Harry's stomach clenched, and his heart pounded in his chest as he exchanged a look with Gemma. Her hand tightened around his arm, and he squeezed back, trying to reassure her even though he was just as scared.

The sirens began to wail, piercing through the quiet of the night with their shrill, terrifying sound. They were no strangers to the sirens, but this time it felt different. The planes were closer.

Too close.

"We need to get to the hallway," Harry's father barked, standing up abruptly. His chair screeched against the floor as he pushed it back. Harry's mother was already moving, her calm demeanor gone as the reality of the situation hit.

Pookies!!!!

Welcome to my first attempt of writing a 

here we goooo