Pairing(s): Harry/Snape, Harry/Lucius
Word Count: 1700 +/-
Warnings: Talk of Major Character Deaths, Mental Instability, Thoughts of Suicide
Summary: God, I wish you would read this. How I desperately long for you to be sitting in our parlor and reading this silly letter of nothingness to no one in particular, but I know you won't.
Author's Notes: Many, many thanks to the fast and furious songquake for the eleventh hour beta save, as well as drarryisgreen. I hope my giftee doesn't mind that I went in a different direction.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I make nothing from this. JKR wrote them. I just wanted to play with them a little.
―Audrey Niffenegger, The Time Traveler's Wife
I don't know why I am even bothering to write this. No one will ever read it and I'll more than likely burn this inane correspondence before the ink begins to dry on the page. On the other hand (and the most likely outcome), my captors could discover this journal and use it against me. Either way, this endeavor is rather meaningless.
I found an empty journal tucked away in the girl's dormitory some time ago, but I haven't had the energy or will to write in it. I thought, since the rightful owner is more than likely dead, they wouldn't mind if I used it for my own purposes. I've been restless here and I figured this might help settle me somehow.
I've been here for several months. There are a few of us locked in Gryffindor Tower, a jumble of all the houses, even Slytherin. I have Ron and Hermione. I have books and the run of the Common Room and dorms. I suppose it could be worse.
Who am I trying to fool? I suppose I am a fool.
I hurt. I hurt. I miss you.
I've not had the time to write. No, I've been kept far too busy for such a frivolous pastime. Voldemort has me performing tricks at his whim. My life is nothing more that a series of bootlicking sessions, followed by vigorous torture sessions, ending in public humiliation.
You'd be impressed, love. I've finally, finally, learned to control my emotions publicly. There are so many times I wish I could just reach out my hand, snatch a wand from some pathetic Death Eater lackey's hand, and end this. So many times, I have had to bite my tongue. It would have only caused those I care about more pain; not that that really matters now. I learned that the hard way. I know you'd smirk at that. Of course, I had to learn it the hard way; I'm a foolish, stubborn Gryffindor.
I suppose that if it had just been me to feel the consequences, I might have fought harder. I might have stayed defiant for as long as I could, be a thorn in their sides, not make it too easy for them. I would have if not for tonight.
No. Now, I will do as I'm told. I will keep silent. Oh yes, I learned the hard way.
To add insult to injury, I am forced to live as a Muggle. No wand, no magic. Period. The tower is warded with a dampening field; a suffocating presence that I can hardly stand. The bracelet on my wrist suppresses the rest. It's been so long since I've performed a spell that I've almost forgotten the glowing pleasure, the warm caress of magic moving through me, but….anyway. At least I'm not stuck in a cupboard again. Thank heaven for small mercies, right?
Hermione is gone. Ron is gone. I'm alone here now: just me, this journal, and the vast emptiness of these rooms.
I wish you were here.
I suppose it's normal to start talking to yourself after an extended period of time alone. I suppose it's only natural for someone to hold entire conversations in his head or talk to inanimate objects. I'm sure that no one would judge me for trying to find relief from the monotony and agony that my life has become.
Normal. Natural. Perfectly all right. Yes.
It doesn't matter though. I don't have the will or desire to care anymore. Not that there is anyone left to judge my flagging sanity and wish me well.
I suppose at this point, after so much time (has it been years? I'm not clear on the timeline of events since you've been gone) of being secluded from the world, it was either talk to myself or shriek my throat bloody, cry out to the empty air until I could no longer produce sound, and then continue to sob silently until the end of my days. Neither option is truly any good, but this is the lesser of two evils and I have already experienced the joys of a ravaged throat, thank you very much. I'd like not to go through that again if I can manage it—though, sadly, I know the futility of hoping for it not to occur. It is inevitable that it will; it is the nature of my life now.
I don't know why I am even writing this. I am sure that if you were here to read it you would scowl and say, 'Self-indulgent stroppiness does not become you,' or simply quirk one of those sable brows I love so much as if to say, 'Really, Potter?' God, I wish you would read this. How I desperately long for you to be sitting in our parlor and reading this silly letter of nothingness to no one in particular, but I know you won't.
You will never read it. I can't send Hed… I can't owl you and even if I could, you wouldn't receive it. I'm not allowed contact with the outside world I'm afraid. I'm too dangerous to be permitted to roam freely, yet too valuable to kill. I'm a fallen symbol. A reminder that good does not always triumph over evil. I'm an icon of lost hope.
How doleful I've become.
I'm sure you would approve of my ever-widening vocabulary. Honestly, there is nothing for me to do but read and write. I might as well try to finally accomplish something worthwhile, try to better myself. I know, love, it's many years too late, but I am trying—for you, only for you.
If Hermione were still alive, she would say that what I'm doing is unhealthy; that I am misdirecting my grief in unhelpful ways. She would nag and nag and nag me until I would be on the verge of exploding. Ron would be next to me sulking, huffing 'Why do you care about that greasy git? He's awful, mate, honestly.' I'd tell him to shut his gob and he'd retaliate by calling you a slimy Death Eater. I'd blow up at him and storm out of the room. Then a few days later, we'd sheepishly reconcile, and everything would go back to normal.
There's that word again: normal. I hardly know what that is.
You know, I've only seen Ron a handful of times since we lost. Macnair has him; broke him, from what I can tell. Ron was never that strong to begin with—you remember how he ran off while we were in the Forest of Dean—but there was nothing left of my best friend as he passed me in the hall; just an empty husk of a man. It's not surprising though. Losing Hermione was just too much. That and I heard he's the only one left of his family, except for Ginny; Draco has her. Bill and Charlie were killed in the last battle, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley died long before them when Bellatrix burned down The Burrow (which you already know), and no one knows what happened to Percy. It seems wrong to be living in a world with so few Weasleys, but then, what about this world makes any sense? To know that great a loss would break the spirit of any man.
I really should stop writing. Nothing good will come of this. Nothing, and yet I can't stop myself. Even though I know you are gone, I can't seem to make myself let you go.
I wish… It's funny. I can see you so clearly in my mind's eye, smirking that infuriating smirk at me as I grasp pathetically to write this worthless letter.
You know, it wasn't until you were gone that I realized you picked up some rather bad habits from Lucius Malfoy. I know you never talked about your past relationships with me, but I can tell that he was a great influence on you. Sometimes when we are in bed together, I can see a faint shadow of you in him, or vice versa, whatever.
Oh, yes. I suppose I should tell you about Lucius. Voldemort lends me out to him from time to time for sex. As much as I wish I could say that he is a right bastard to me, I can't. It's funny how much I hated him; the feel of his well-manicured hands stroking my flesh, caressing my face. I can't say that I feel the same now. In a world where up is down and black is turquoise, I find that Lucius is my only relief.
He's kind, much kinder to me than his offspring is to Ginny. I suppose I should be glad to have the elder Malfoy in my bed. He takes great pains to ensure that I am well prepared, that I am not torn or used too harshly. He even allows me to come. It's easy to do. He is a very skilled lover, but I'm sure you know that, love.
On the nights he lingers, our bodies twined together sweaty and sated, I can almost imagine I'm in your arms. For a few seconds, I am almost happy, but it never lasts. How could it? He is the golden, glittering light to your darkness. Yes, Lucius for sex, Bellatrix for torturing; it's all very cozy. A fine domestic situation we find ourselves in.
Domestic. What a strange word. Domestic: an adjective meaning family, home, household. It also means tame, in reference to a pet. It's also a noun for servant. Quiet a fitting title for me now, don't you think? Harry Potter: Domestic.
I'm sitting here shaking my head at my own pathetic ramblings. Honestly, there is no point. You're dead and so am I. Even though I am technically breathing, am not buried in the dirt, I'm not alive. I haven't been for years now; at least I think it's been years. It's so hard to tell how time actually moves when you're trapped in a room.
I can tell I'm unraveling the longer I write this. My hands are shaking, love. I… God. I love you so much and every day without you rips the wound in my heart wider and wider, until I'm sure it could envelop everything: a black hole, a tar pit, a sink hole.
I'm not sure how much longer I can go on like this. I think that if we were both trapped here together I could survive this. The two of us alone in the tower, cut off from the world with only each other for company sounds like heaven to me. I could take being beaten and abused; I could take anything, if only I knew that you would be with me throughout it all.
This world with its harshness and malevolence means nothing. I don't care about humanity. You are gone, the only one I will ever love: my teacher, my friend, and my husband. Without you, my life is as futile as this letter.
I suppose there is nothing left to say.
My prince—I will miss you until my last breath.
I love you, Severus. I love you. I love you. I love you.