Corresponding
With Shadows
By: Handmaiden of Aphrodite
Slash warning! Draco/Harry, AU after OotP, spoilers for all of it therein; also, everyone's as in character as humanly possible. I own nothing except the plot bunny.
The Forth Correspondence: That Thing Called Puberty
July 19
I looked silently out my window. Writing letters to Sirius had definitely helped, but it wasn't like there was a time line for grief. I couldn't set a clock by my recovery, and more's the pity. It'd have been nice to have something concrete for once in my life. There was no extension to that thought: I wanted something solid, something real and dependable. My godfather had been that.
Now he was gone.
The impulse to write arose within in me; by now it was familiar. I moved slowly, letting my mind settle into a pattern of coherence, and knelt before my school trunk. Parchment, quill and ink were already set upon it, ready for use. It wasn't like I had much else to do these days aside from chores, and I'd already completed those.
Sirius –Your death is horrible. It seems like the defining moment of my life, as if I've been consumed. Sometimes I want to follow you into it.
My eyes widened. I reread the words I'd written in my own hand. A quick intake of breath, audible and shocked; why had I written that? This much introspection couldn't be good for me. I hastily scribbled out the last sentence. Whether Sirius was receiving these letters or not – and I had to believe he was – admitting you had contemplated suicide was hardly something to tell one's guardian. That was the very meaning of the word, after all: guardian, as in, prevent silly teenagers from killing themselves.
I hadn't seriously thought about it, after all. It was more a deep seated longing for simplicity. I wanted more than anything to forget about the existence of everything wretched and vile in my life. It seemed to compose so much of it. Eliminating those things was my life's task, it felt like, the purpose of my existence.
How depressing. I firmed in my reasoning and went on.
...as if I've been consumed. Most of the pain was – is – because I've felt like it's my fault you died. It's been long enough now, though, that I have to wonder about that. The responsibility might surely be mine, and justifiably so. But was I the actual cause? Or did you really feel that strongly for me, knowing what was probably coming and going ahead anyway?
Remus told me that you were prepared to sacrifice everything you had, your life, your memories, all of it, just for my sake. What an awful thought. I don't want anyone to do that for me. To be a martyr... It's not so grand. It's the fate probably awaiting me as well, but at least I get the dubious pleasure of living on in history. You? You're blamed for selling out my parents.
It's disgusting. I hate the government. I hate Fudge. I hate Voldemort. I hate all the damn people who think they know so much. They don't know me! No one does! Not even you, but that was the miraculous part about you. You didn't need to know. Is that what is called unconditional love? I think it must be.
I miss my parents a lot. So much that when I looked in the Mirror of Erised way back in first year, that's who I saw.
But I know that if I looked now, I'd see you. Voldemort wouldn't exist. Not because he was dead, but because he never lived. Tom Marvolo Riddle would've stayed sane, and a Head Boy, and probably a contemptuous creature in his own right, but not a megalomaniacal tyrant. Do you know who'd also be there?
Well, if you do, that's one up on me. I'm lonely, and not just from missing you. My friends don't feel like friends. My teachers are too frenetic to be trustworthy. And the worst part is that I have no one to turn to. I've never been a talkative person, you know, but everyone needs someone once in a while. Even you, right?
So why didn't you talk to me?
Again I stared at the words. What was I thinking today? There was no possible way I could be so accusatory. This was Sirius, for god's sake! He was dead, had died to save me! I vigorously crossed it out, furious with myself. Black marks streaked the page angrily in two places, ugly blemishes on the raw vulnerability the words exposed.
The strokes of my signature were abrupt, sharp, and swift.
The letter was sent soon after.
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July 20Sighing, I heaved the black plastic bag over my shoulder and began the trek to the garbage cans. They were kept near the fence in the back yard, on the edge of the property. Something so obsessively landscaped as the Dursley's yard would never have trash on the front lawn. God forbid a neighbor should glance over and see a leaf out of place.
I removed the lid to the recepticle, grunting as I lifted the immense weight up higher in order to shove it inside. The Dursleys always had an immense amount of garbage, and as one of the least pleasent jobs possible, it was, naturally, delegated to me. I turned back towards the house, thinking that it looked quite a bit like a camoflagued predator, looming in wait for unsuspecting prey to walk by.
Well, that was hardly me. I was anything but unsuspecting. I opened the screen door, and just as I was about to step inside, the high screech of my aunt's voice cut across the air as piercingly as any mechanical malfunction. Personally, I rather thought Aunt Petunia was a malfunction. My only uncertainty was of what kind.
"Harry Potter!" she screeched, unseen and offscreen of the stage of my life. "Don't you forget about the recycling again, you vexing child!"
"Child?" I muttured to myself, irritated at the slight. "Some child..." I raised my voice, careful to keep it bland. One thing I did not look for was trouble. "Yes, Aunt Petunia."
I caught traces of her chuffed murmuring from the next room, and pursed my lips. The anger and indignation I felt at everything welled up inside to the point of boiling. It felt as if my insides were being curdled by the sheer vehemence of my emotions. I didn't presume to any extravagence. At least, I didn't think so. I closed the door slowly and carefully, the rage in me kept confined to the tensity of my muscles. My arms were taught, and as soon as the knob was released, my fingers clenched into a fist.
Closing my eyes, I exhaled in a long moment of enforced regulation of sentiment. I would not let my feelings rule me any longer. The results of it the last time I had were clear, and despite my recent thoughts on the ambiguity of my guilt, that was an affirmation I took to be so important it was akin to a vow.
The recycling was in a low bin, more difficult to carry than the trash. I hefted it in both arms and began the short journey. Almost three quarters of the way there, a strong wind kicked up, blowing papers out of the bin and onto the lawn. I cursed loudly and effusively, drawing on all the vocabulary I'd learned from Ron, the twins, and Sirius over the years.
Ignoring the returning shout from the house – "Keep your mouth shut on those expletives, boy! We run a civil house!" bellowed Uncle Vernon (did my relatives all have ridiculously enhanced senses?) – I quickly strode to the line of sedate plastic recepticles and distributed the recycling. I placed the empty bin on the ground and sighed, looking around at the small mess of papers left behind. At least the wind hadn't persisted; otherwise I'd have looked a damn arse, trailing around after them, desperate to catch them and escape a reprimand.
I was really pretty pathetic sometimes. Maybe I'd write to Sirius about it, after I caught these infernal papers...
I was in for a surprise, however, as the last one I found was a pamphlet about maturing sexuality. It included a rather extensive section on homosexual people, including a list of common occurrences leading up to one's realization that they weren't straight. I scanned it absently, wondering at the lack of talk about anyone at school who was gay, as I walked back to the bins.
I stopped suddenly. I stared.
No way. No way was I...
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Sirius –I think I might be gay. This should be the last thought on my mind right now, what with the war and all, but somehow it's the first. Adolescense makes arses out of us all. What the bloody hell am I going to do? I'm not going to go out and start shagging blokes right and left, that's for damn sure, but what does this mean?
I guess the whole thing with Cho makes a lot more sense now. No wonder I always thought the kisses were odd. Well, I guess in the end it doesn't matter anyway, since I'm hardly looking for a romantic attachment. That's a mess I don't want any part of.
I have to wonder, though – what did you do when you were my age? Did you ever have these thoughts? We never talked about anything like this. I never got the "birds and the bees talk." No one thought of it.
I'm so alone. I don't know what to do.
I'm sorry.
Harry
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Notes:
I can't believe it's been more than a year since I last updated. O.O In all honesty, I really considered this abandoned, but I was looking at my reviews again today and inspiration hit. So never underestimate your power, reviewers. :D
A quick note: I know where I'm going with this now. I have actual plot. Kind of. It's back to Harry for the moment, but if you're patient with me – and review a lot :D;;;; - I'll write the next chapter quickly. Yes, it'll be Draco's reaction. I promise that it'll also include more of Draco applying his recent thoughts to the world. And probably the chapter after that will be Draco and Harry meeting. Well, we'll see. I certainly have little idea how I'm going to get to the ending I envision, and I'm sure it'll change again before I even get there...
Thanks so much for bearing with me, and please forgive me any inconsistencies or silly things like Harry sounding too smart. If you have any thoughts whatsoever, please tell me anyway, though. Suggestions are always considered.
Lots of love, and here's an extra preview for next chapter in return for waiting so long:
I don't want to be an Auror. Why did I tell McGonagall that? I don't know what I want to do with myself. I feel lost.
Incredible. Potter was simply incredible. He hadn't even thought about sex until he was almost sixteen? What a poofter.
Kind of an amusing thought. A gay Auror. I wonder what sort of news headline that would make.
"Thinking of writing a letter, were you?" / "Yes." / "To whom, I wonder." / "It's no business of yours. Father." / "Careful, Draco. Be most careful. There are ways..."