With Shadows (Arc I)
By: Handmaiden of Aphrodite, formerly Yoruko
Slash warning! Draco/Harry, post-OotP, spoilers for all of it therein; also, everyone's as in-character as humanly possible. I own nothing except the plot bunny.
The First Correspondence: The Amiss LifeRevised Edition
July 5
It is such a hard thing, to lose someone. While before you could always think of it objectively and realize how horrendous it is, when it actually happens it captivates you like the mournful demise of the last ray of sun when the day finishes. I considered the possibility of one of my friends dying more often than was, perhaps, good for me, but it was never a reality, never a real option. After the events at the Department of Mysteries, I was never the same.
Am, am, I correct myself insistently. I can't keep distancing myself, but it's just…just so bloody difficult sometimes. No, not sometimes—all of the time. It is an aching pain that never wanes, a parasite that thrives within a wound in my heart. I look around as I do my chores and feel as if a burr has buried deep inside me. Who would have thought that the loss of one person could make me see the world so differently? It occurs to me that quite a few people might, actually; those that have experienced the tragedy themselves.
As I lay on my bed, I cannot bring myself to think past one thing: Sirius. Even contemplating it is hurtful, an injury that throbs. My only other alternative is to gaze upon the ceiling, unthinking and unblinking, not seeing even the grimy, cracked plaster. But images of my godfather still flash behind my eyes, regardless of my lurid state of mind. Homework has already been finished, and checked and double- and triple-checked. Hermione would be proud. The threat of the Order upon the Dursleys was sufficient to allow me a strange mix of freedoms: once again imprisoned in my room and receiving less sustenance than is probably good for me, they allow me to keep my school things with me and assign less chores, most likely because they don't want to see me again. Although I suspect Dumbledore hinted that I was being watched at all times, which is in itself an irritant. The dearth of food does not upset me; I hardly have an appetite nowadays.
An owl flies into my bedroom, and I am apprehensive and annoyed, yet grateful for the respite. Spirits lightened from seeing Hedwig again, I smile softly, a bare movement of my features as I pet her, replacing her food and water. She coos in loving response, and such a simple action makes an odd difference in the world, the blue tones shifting to slightly less-skewed hues. Hedwig is a pure white blotch of shocking color against the scenery of negligent disarray; gray lines the walls, devoid of any decorations, and the old floorboards are that pale shade of grayish white that it only achieves at great age. They creak occasionally, which annoys and relieves me by turns. The furniture is limited to my measly four-poster, barely a mattress with sheets placed on top of an old metal frame, and my Hogwarts trunk, which I use to write and sit upon conversely. The cage Hedwig spends some time in is placed next to the headboard, adjacent to the window.
I have found myself to be an insomniac. Nightmares are not the only deterrent; I feel useless as I lay about, as if my entire existence is meaningless except for the insistent need to defeat Voldemort. I muse upon the fears that my life will not mean anything after he is dead, but they do not last long. If I could feel such pain at losing Sirius, how must others feel? I am incapable of even killing one lone man, and because of this they suffer. An example that returns to me is Remus Lupin, who I dearly wish to speak with again, but I am too afraid of his opinion of me to approach him. I am not brave; I am not anything extraordinary. I am a pathetic boy, lauded as a hero, as the savior of the world, when I cannot even get an Outstanding on my Potions OWL. So much for my career as an Auror, although I do not think I could stand to work every day in the Ministry after what had happened. They say that the ache lessens with time; I wonder if I will have enough time to feel that happen.
Finally I open the letter, and my smile, long faded, is something to reminisce about. It is from Hermione, and she offers condolences.
Dear Harry,
I hope I find you well, although I do not hold too much hope for this. I am ever so worried about you! Please, please do not blame yourself for Sirius' death. After all, he wouldn't want you to think that way, would he? You don't blame him for your parents, do you? I know you don't, so don't torture yourself over this. If nothing else, work towards the future; you can live so his sacrifice is not in vain.
I do not have any experience with losing a loved one, but my mother tells me it is extremely painful, which I do not doubt. I have asked her and looked a few things up in some books about healthy ways to cope, and everything has said that blaming yourself will only prolong the hurt! Well, I'm sorry for the repetition, and I'm sure you're sick of meaningless platitudes by now, anyway. One thing constructive that I did find was a habit of many old cultures – especially the Asian ones – which is to write letters to the one who passed away. Write them whenever you feel the need, and know that he will be reading them some day. Mum says that it helped her a great deal after the death of her father, so I hope it helps you, too.
Enough of that, though! Has anything new been going on in your life? I rather doubt this, considering the Dursleys, but I do hope they are not quite so horrid this summer. Perhaps the Order scared them into submission. That would certainly be an improvement. Currently I'm inquiring as to whether or not I can see Ron again in a few weeks' time, and, since I'm muggle-born, maybe I could visit you. Is there some kind of preferred excuse that would hold well for this? Mentioning Hogwarts would probably not be for the best, so I shall think of some and tell them to you beforehand. Also, I'll ask Dumbledore for permission, of course, even though I suspect you've had rather enough of Dumbledore. I must say that I can sympathize with you, but I ask you to remember that he is trying his best, and is only human. I know this will not seem like much, but I am not making excuses; I support you totally in whatever you wish to do, Harry. Please, though, at least listen to me before dismissing me. That is all I ask.
I attended a book conference on the Lord of the Rings by Tolkien, which you might know of, in light of the recent films made. It was quite good in some respects, although rather disappointing in others. Have you read them yourself? They were certainly revolutionary, and I find them refreshingly droll at times. Lastly, I must ask, for I am rather at a loss: what would you wish for your birthday?
I miss you terribly, Harry, and worry about you constantly. Do write back soon, if only to alleviate my fears (although that depends entirely upon the content of your response). I eagerly await your reply.
Sincerely and with love,
Hermione
As with everything else these days, my initial response is simply a numb complacency. Automatically I move to acquire a fresh sheet of parchment, and I place it on top of my trunk, then move the ink bottle and old, ragged quill next to it. It takes me quite a few minutes to formulate my reply; I do not want to have to use more parchment than necessary, since it is not easy for me to obtain more, should I run out, and it would be disgustingly pitiful if I were reduced to making replies on the back of the sent letters. My periodic assurances to the Order do nothing but diminish my supply, and as such I was tempted to use torn-off scraps, so short were they. But that would be impolite, and I was learning to anticipate, if not enjoy, the subtle manipulations that politics of any kind embodies.
Hermione,
Thank you for your concern. Please do not worry about me overmuch; it will not change anything, after all. I am doing alright, and try not to dwell on things. The Dursleys have, actually, improved; while I am kept in my room, I am not allotted so many chores. When Hedwig returns with this, would you give her some water for me? I am concerned about her. Thanks for the advice, too; I just might try that out for myself.
It would be great to see you again, but I am not sure as to what would pass with my relatives for an excuse. Certainly Hogwarts would not work. Perhaps you were someone I met at the train station? I'm not as good at preemptive thinking as you are, though, so I'd best leave it up to you. On the subject of those books: I've read the Hobbit as part of my muggle schooling (and also since Dudley left it lying around), but not the others. I'm glad you had fun. I don't have any idea about what I want for my birthday. Whatever you end up selecting will be more than fine. Once again, do not worry about me too often.
Sincerely,
HarryI was not particularly eager to see Hermione again, but I definitely couldn't tell her that. There was no way I was discussing Sirius with her, either. Her concern merely succeeded in making me uncomfortable. I wasn't used to these displays of affection; Ron's letters were much easier to answer. Maybe being vague would make her let up. It wasn't likely, but I had nothing else to do, did I? I hope I wasn't too forward in asking her to take care of Hedwig, but there was nothing else I could really do. There was no reason to send her to Ron, after all, what with Pig being our messenger.
While I was at it, I might as well formulate something to the Order. I avoided directing it to Dumbledore, since he was likely to give me some kind of long-winded reply filled with, as Hermione had suggested, useless platitudes. Professor McGonagall was formal, and stuffy, enough for my purposes. After a while these letters grew tiresome, and I amused myself with thinking of new ways to word them. It wasn't as if I had much to do, but there was, as always, much to distract myself from. As of late, I noticed that I'd grown quieter, more prone to keeping my own council, and secrecy soon came as second nature.
At that exact moment, however, the idea of writing to Sirius had never held more appeal, especially since I could tell him anything, even the things I would not dream of informing him of were he alive. I wasn't quite certain about this, though I was willing to give it a try. Not just now, but possibly later…
Professor McGonagall:
I am writing to once again inform you that I am fine. Nothing has gone amiss.
Harry Potter
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She could do nothing but sigh as she read Harry's response to her inquiry. Tempted to lay her head in her arms and indulge in a good bout of hopeless sorrow, Hermione instead put her mind to formulating a possible reason for her visiting Harry. He had been more detached and exclusionary since school had ended, which she had expected, but it still hurt her heart to know what pain he must be in. If only there was a way to make everything better… But she knew that was fruitless, and Hermione could only hope desperately that things would go better for her friend. It was likely futile, but it was all she could do.
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It had taken a long, long time to write just the small amount that I had, and I cried for the first time as I wrote it. Things had poured out of my mind and through my hand to appear on the paper, things that I did not even knew I felt or thought. Tears stained the ink in a few places, but they were hopefully inconspicuous. I wished I hadn't seemed so pathetic in my wording, and it was so rambling it was a wonder it made any sense whatsoever, but if I wanted to be true to myself at all I could not erase a bit of it, even the traitorous parts that revealed how I hoped. Hoping was, perhaps, the most painful thing of all.
The letter was written, but Hedwig was not here. A few days passed, and Pig came with Ron's words, which I replied to promptly, having nothing else to do. I did not reread the letter I had written to Sirius, for the act of composing it in itself was the most relaxing. I was able to think of him without quite as much grief, although it still overwhelmed me. I wasn't certain that I was glad that Sirius would someday read my ever-so-private thoughts, but I didn't want to feel anything, so I didn't examine my inner workings as I usually did.
When Hedwig returned, I set aside the response from Hermione she had brought and wistfully presented her with the one to Sirius. She cooed mournfully and, with it clutched in her beak, took off. Tears came to my eyes once again, but I stubbornly repressed them, refusing to bawl over something so meaningless. Now there was no taking the betraying words back, and I didn't think I wanted to. All that was left was to write another letter, but I could not manage it right now. I didn't doubt that eventually another would come to me, however. Time was something I did have plenty of in the summer, which was odd, considering how very little of it I had anywhere else.
Sirius,
I'm so terribly sorry for everything I put you through. I have little hope of your forgiveness, as I know I was unbearably selfish, but I swear I didn't mean to. I miss you so much it is incredible; I miss you even more than my parents, for I could never speak to them. You, however…You I want to talk to. I go through my day and see things and think things and my first response is to ask you or inform you, but overall I wish I could speak to you, just one last conversation. I know you won't reply to this, as I suspect there isn't a way those up in Heaven (or wherever you are) would allow you to. Perhaps you could say a greeting to my parents for me. I want you to know that I love you, even though I never told you when you were alive, and I wish more than anything, even more than I wish that you were here again, that I had. You were my father, not merely my godfather, and I could not have had a better one. Thank you for everything, and thank you for even the things you didn't give me. I swear I'll avenge you; I swear I'll defeat Voldemort, and your murderer, Lestrange, shall not escape, either. It is the only solace I can offer you, but it is so pitiful. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for all of it. Please do not hate me.
Harry
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Oh my goodness, I'm having such fun with this fic! This little bunny latched onto me last week, and I wrote all this in one sitting. It's absolutely amazing, especially considering I should be writing my other fic, but oh well. :shrugs: Hope you all like this as much as I liked writing it. I have more motivation to write this than I do my other fic right now, but I'm not sure if it'll last. It all depends on my reviews. I can only manage to write Harry in first person, so sorry to all of you Draco-lovers (me included), unless I'm feeling really inspired, it just won't happen. Next chapter would be from Draco's POV mainly, though. I think. I'm just letting this take me where it wants. Feedback is more than appreciated; I live off of it! Thoughts on my characterizations and writing style, especially on how much I had Harry reveal in his letters, would be ideal. Thanks to all of you that read this.