(image credit to D. Sharon Pruitt - thank you!)

Every empty hour, she wrote him a letter.

On some days, the minutes would just stack up and up; she would have no choice but to face reality and press her pen to the worn-out paper, paper that seemed exhausted by the weight of every heartfelt thing she had ever written.

And yet, she wrote on.

It was an eternity. Or that's what it seemed.

She spent most of her days laboring over the letters. They were windows to a wide-open field where she could lie and rest, let the sun warm her face, energize her dead bones, embrace her with the ebullience of a new life. Because in this dark, cramped house, she could feel the life drain away from her pallid little body a bit more each day. The words she wrote kept a firm but loving hold on her senses; without them, it would be all too easy to succumb to the dreariness of everyday life.

Sometimes she would hobble downstairs and walk a mile to the nearest mailbox, the bulging envelope clutched in her elegant and frequently-strained fingers; other times she would be too weak to crawl out of bed, so she would have the family owl fly them out of the window. Most of the time, though, she made the effort to go outside. The letter created an excuse for her to take greedy breaths of fresh air before coming back indoors, reeled in by the disapproval of her controlling family.

Even in the winter, when the snow lay on the ground outside of the manor, it felt colder inside the rooms of the house than it did in the frozen, crystalline universe that existed just beyond its doors.

She also knew that he would prefer the Muggle mail, and that was the second reason she usually made the venture outside, trembling unsteadily on her shaky legs. It was very odd of him to enjoy such a practice as receiving Muggle mail, but he did nonetheless, and it made her lips meld into a small, soft smile when she thought of his reaction each time he found a letter in his own mailbox. He was quite opposed to most things that involved that lower class of beings - those Muggles - but there was something that sent him a perverse sort of pleasure about receiving a letter that had perhaps taken days to get there, shuffled though an assembly of confused postmen and most likely dropped, misplaced, or otherwise impeded in its journey to him.

But that was simply one of the things that made him who he was: he was a secret to the world, really, until she found him out that one day. And then once she came to know him, he was perhaps the most truthful, honest, and sincere person she had ever met, a man so faceted with riddles and mysteries that he was just enough of a person to be considered good, but also just enough of a puzzle to be considered enigmatic - and enigma was something that she both adored and could simply not tolerate at the same time.

Astoria loved him.

Astoria loved him.

And if he ever wrote her back, maybe she would believe that he loved her as well.

With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the letter.

My dearest,

she wrote.

I pray that all is well with you. Mother and Father have begun regulating my meals again, and I am hungry all the time. They're still angry at what happened between us. I feel as though they'll never forgive me.

They do know that I write to you. They see me scribbling away every day, but perhaps they pity me, for it is mostly the only thing I am good at nowadays. I take solace in this fact, for although I am not speaking to you directly with my words, I may yet be allowed to speak to your heart, though I rather long to scream into it.

I ask that you forgive me.

Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me a thousand times over.

I swear, I never meant to come between you and Daphne. I never meant to come between my parents' wishes and what was so clearly happening between the both of us. I never meant for any of this to happen, and I'm sorry. It's my fault. I never should have led you on. I never should have believed that what we had, or what I thought we had, would ever work out.

I think I may stop writing to you soon. You never reply, but I guess that's because you have a family now. Daphne would probably be mad at me if she found out about the letters as well. It's best to just cut this off.

Dearest, this is where I tell you goodbye. Kiss Daphne for me. Make her happy with your love, even if that's something you can't do for me. And maybe, if it's not too much to ask, pray that I will find happiness myself. I know it sounds selfish, but the only happiness I have ever known was when I was with you, and you've only served to make my heart jealous for more.

With love always,
Astoria

As she rose to descend the stairs, newly-written letter in hand, Astoria stopped. She glanced back down at the words she had just penned. They sounded so clinical, so severe, so sad. A soft pattering danced across her heart, and the uncertain part of her mind swung to the forefront. She couldn't stop writing to him, could she? No. Not now. This couldn't be the last letter. The very last one? No. She needed him. She always had, and perhaps now more than ever.

With this resolution, she very willfully tore the page in two.

She sat down.

And she started writing again.

Because, after all - the last hundred letters she had written to Draco weren't enough to say goodbye.

And nor would this one be.

a/n. Hey everyone, I'm back! Arisen from the dead, as I'm sure many of you may be presuming. Hope you enjoy this random little oneshot. More to come, hopefully(: