Ah. I have done something I swore never to do. I have written a Harry Potter fanfiction. It's not that Potterfiction is bad, in any way. In fact, I like it better than the books themselves, as blasphemous as that may seem to some. But EVERYONE does it. There is so much Potterfiction in the world it's scary. And everything's been done before, which sucks because then you're always just an imitation of someone else who got to the idea first.
But that doesn't matter, because this thing clawed it's way out of my head whether I like it or not. So it's up to you, I suppose. Enjoy.
With love, Jiia.
Letters are deceitful, secretive things. They hide so much between their words, things that are so important, but that a letter can never show.
You can't tell how many torturous hours a single page took to write. You can't see the careful thought behind every word and phrase. You can't see the hesitation, the reluctance, the anguished shudders as every last word is forced from an unwilling hand.
You can't see the hopeless resolve, turning bright eyes dark and making strong shoulders slump. You can't see the unshed tears, held back by sheer will alone. You can't see the pain, the sorrow, the heavy burden of knowledge as the words appear, one by one, on the empty page.
Letters are deceiving, because all you can see is what I write, sitting at our desk and watching you dream of a beautiful future we can never have out of the corner of my eye.
I write horrible, spiteful, hateful words that I despise with all my heart. I lie to you, in this ancient medium that lends itself so wonderfully to lies. I say "I never loved you," and "It was all just pretend." Things that I don't mean, have never meant, even in the days long past when I so wanted it to be true. I push you away with a wall of barbed wire words, meant to hurt and harm. I write to break you, and it's all that I can do not to just tear it up into a million tiny pieces and crawl back under the covers and just be with you, warm and safe and happy.
When it's finished, I'll leave you sleeping with this terrible letter leaking its loathsome untruths into the pillow that should have been mine. Soon, you'll wake, and discover my treachery. I can't bear to think of it, of the tears in your eyes as you read my false confessions of guilt. Your heart will break, but you won't be at all surprised. You've been waiting for this last great betrayal since the day our lips first touched.
By the time you finish reading, and letter lies forgotten on what was our bedroom floor, it will all be over. I'll already be gone, off into the old familiar darkness to face the serpentine monster that haunts both of our dreams. Maybe I'll succeed, and come home to you, to a slap in the face and a heartfelt hug as you realize what I've done. Somehow, this doesn't seem too likely.
The best I can wish for is a draw, one singular explosion of magic that immolates us both in a single instant. I'll take him down with me, and somehow find redemption for all the evil that I've done. Even if I can't destroy him for you, I can still forfeit my life to him and thus protect you from him, for just a little bit longer. As Dumbledore always says, the power of love can do great things.
Where will you be when I die, I wonder, as I make up a thousand petty reasons to hate you, none of which are even the slightest bit true. Will you have gone out to search for me, scouring the Hollow for some sign, some trace, so that you may find me and exact your righteous revenge? Will you
run into the arms of your friends, letting them how they were really right about me all along? Maybe you'll stay home, tearing my face out of every picture and erasing all traces that I ever lived.
I hope that's the case. I don't know what I'd do if I turned around to see you standing there, emerald eyes dark with your inevitable pain and anger. I'd never be able to do what I need to do. Not to your face.
So I write you a letter, full of words I don't mean and disdain I've never felt. I write you a letter because I can no longer bear to lie to your beautiful face, and letters are deceitful things.
I place the letter carefully on the pillow, struggling to make it seem as casual as it needs to be. Your dark brow furrows with some unknown thought. Perhaps a nightmare, or one of your hurtful visions. You call out my name, soft voice so full of pain I can't stand it.
I lean down and brush your raven hair aside, pressing my lips against the jagged mark that meant this could never be.
"I love you, Harry." I whisper, quieter than your even breath.
I stand up, and turn around, and walk away, and close the door as softly as I whispered your name. And then, just like that, I'm gone, out of your life and out of your heart, as if I had never been.
All that's left is a letter written in lies.