I loved him. This is not his fault. It's mine.
Now, I have paid the price.
twelvetwelvetwelvetwelvetwelve
The sunrise outside is bright in a mockery of joy. Red spills through the cracks in the closed curtains, invading the circle of light sourced from a flickering candle.
The desk on which the candle sits is old and worn from years of work. Wax drips onto a piece of parchment, barely readable in the growing light.
Dear Draco,
What more is there for me to say? I miss you. I want you to burst through the door with your arms spread wide. I want you to laugh with me, to cry with me. I want you here.
Do you remember the first time we made love? Do you remember the last time we kissed? Do you remember the first time we kissed?
I do. It was a rainy day. Out of nowhere, you just sat on me, said, "You know, I do believe I love you," then kissed me. Hard. Just like that.
It's weird because I didn't even resist. I don't think I wanted to.
We used to be so scared of hurting each other. Now you have hurt me, even though you promised to never.
I know that this is not your fault. It's mine. I know that there's nothing I can say to turn back time.
The whole Ministry's worth of Time-Turners would be no good. It was inevitable from the moment you became involved with me.
I know that I have to be strong, but I can't do it anymore. I've lost you, but Voldemort is still alive. The war still reigns supreme. Chaos is our dictator.
Would I have been able to do this if you'd still been here?
I do not think so.
Yours eternally,
Harry.
A large snowy owl lands lightly on the desk. A man lifts his head from his hands and shakily rolls up the letter and ties it to the owl.
"Take this to Draco," he says levelly. The owl hoots softly in reply, and then flutters out an open window, high on the wall.
The man buries his head in his arms again. When the candle, instead of burning out, falls over and catches on a stack of parchment, the man only looks up, smiles softly, and falls back into his arms.
"I'm coming," he whispers hoarsely, voice clogged with unshed tears. He lets the comfort of oblivion envelop him, his emerald eyes closing to never open again.
Blood still flows from the open wounds on his wrists. By now, the light outside is pale gold, and his owl has touched down on an unmarked gravestone near to the battlefield.