Author's Notes: My new fic. Ii swear to God, I'm in such a wonderful writing phase! Use me now while my writer's block is gone, LOL. Please read & review. You'll get free cookies if you do. -smile-

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Letters Through the Veil

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December 1, 1996

Dear Sirius,

Alright, I admit it, this is extremely stupid and rather pointless. I know it is, but I am still doing it. It's the time, I think. The part of the year, possibly. Snowflakes in the air, you know. Smell of holidays. I… I just… I can't…

R.

-parchment gets ripped in pieces-

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December 4, 1996

Dear Sirius,

I've just seen a black dog in front of my house and I acted ridiculous enough to offer him a bone. The dog actually snarled at me. And tried to bite my hand! I'm a real loveable person, it seems. No wonder everybody leaves me.

-parchment gets crumpled and thrown away-

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December 7, 1996

Sirius,

Here I am… Sitting in a darkened room before my desk, with a quill in hands and rolls of parchment all around. Loads of rolls. It is fun. No, it's not. But the bottle of fire whiskey is. Keeps me warm.

I am scribbling furiously, then forcing myself to calm down. Then I'm writing nonsense and start throwing it all around.

I didn't have my chance, Sirius. I didn't have a bloody chance to say bloody good bye.

THAT IS NOT FAIR, YOU HEAR ME. NOT. BLLODY. FAIR. AT. ALL.

You've always been so selfish. Always thinking about yourself. I HATE Y…

-parchment gets thrown in fireplace-

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December 13, 1996

Dear Padfoot,

You would call me an unreasonable insane git right now. You unavoidably would. But you are not here, so I can do this and not feel ashamed at all.

It's been six months since you've… since you've been…since you have… gone through that veil... Half a year, mate. About one hundred and eighty seven days. Four thousand four hundred and sixty four long hours. 267840 minutes. 16070400 seconds.

Do you think it's fair? Do you think we're alright? Because we are not. And Harry is doing even worse, Sirius. No matter what kind of situations and problems and tasks he's been through in his not very long life – he is still a child. He is not weak, we both know he's proven himself so many times and I believe in him. But he's had enough, Padfoot. He can't deal with it any more. In his life, all the people he's ever loved are gone. Still think it's fair? I pretend to be a rock when he's around. I stay cool and sober when I see him. But do you think that's how I feel?

Do you think I am doing just peachy? Say yes, and I swear to God I'm going to burn down that Christmas tree in my living room. With all those beautiful sparkly decorations. There are one or two of your snow-men hung on it, too. They are on the side of the tree that's turned to the wall, though. I cannot torture myself with looking at them all the time.

But the fact is – you can't reply with yes. You can't respond with no. You can't say anything. You can't even give me that sarcastic smile of yours. Or a bark. You can't roll your eyes at me or laugh. You can't do anything.

And d'you know what's the saddest part?

I still don't accept it to be true.

So, I'm doing a crazy thing. I am. You can't stop me.. I'm revealing the madness within and, actually, send this letter.

Where? I don't know. Why? I don't know. To whom? To you, Pads.

My poor owl. She'll fly for days, searching for you. And she won't be able to find you, naturally. That's so unfair of me, I know. Maybe I'll be trialed for animal abuse. Werewolf at the court. Maybe I even become a celebrity because of that.

Take care, (oh how ironic this is)

Moony

-parchment is put in an envelope, attached to owl's leg and sent-

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