AUTHOR NOTES: HARRY POTTER AND CO DO NOT BELONG TO ME
SETTING: Amercia/Vietnam in the late 1960s and 1970s
Vietnam, March 1969:
Draco slumped down on the ground with the weight of the world, which was, at the moment, about 73 pounds, strapped to his shoulders.
"Stupid fucking parents making me move to that stupid fucking country just to get shipped off to another stupid fucking country."
"Malfoy, quit muttering to yourself and help me pass out these shitty church letters."
That was Lieutenant Severus Snape. If it weren't for the fact that he was in a position of leadership, he would be considered a mute. Severus Snape was tall, lanky but surprisingly strong, and kind of grimy, but everyone here was grimy so Draco couldn't really hold that against him. His eyes were too small for his head and Draco imagined that if he had longer hair his forehead wouldn't look so big thus fixing the problem of his tiny eyes. His nose looked like he had gotten into too many bar fights and his mouth, when not talking, was in a constant state of straightness, no evidence of smiles or frowns.
He shrugged off the radio and stood up, careful not to attract too much attention to anyone who could be nearby. He took the stack of letters from Snape and his eyes scanned over the first name.
"Finnigan."
"Zabini."
"Clark."
"O'Brien."
4 more names came out before Draco got to the last letter, which was addressed to him. He grunted, unenthusiastically, before opening the letter written by a girl with a weird name.
Unlike the other men, Draco was not particularly sentimental. While all the soldiers around him carried a piece of home, Draco carried nothing; no pictures, letters, or personal trinkets. His 73 pounds was made of necessity, rank, and specialty. He wasn't worried about losing himself to this godforsaken war because he already lost himself back home.
Dear Draco Malfoy,
Hello! My name is Hermione (pronounced Her-my-oh-knee, in case you were having trouble) Granger. I am part of a writing club and we are writing to soldiers to thank you. What you are doing for this country is brave, noble, and will never be forgot. I want to extend my friendship to you in this very hard time. I imagine that you have people in your life to whom you talk to about what is going on over there, but if you ever need a person whose face you cannot picture, I am happy to oblige. In case you need some help deciding whether to proceed with correspondence, I will tell you a little about myself.
I am 21 years old and in my third year of college at Harvard University. I am originally from New York but moved to Massachusetts for school. Unless initiated by yourself, I will always avoid the topic of politics. I don't particularly like talking about them anyway, but now a days it is very hard to not to be pulled into a very lengthy political conversation. I love Elvis, The Beatles, and Aretha Franklin. But most of all, I love books. There is no way I could ever pick a favorite novel. Writing and reading are so therapeutic and there is never a perfect time for reading, because every time is the perfect time. I hope to add your letters to my regular reading list.
I would love to learn more about you if you would give me the chance.
I wish you the best of luck and you are in my prayers.
Sincerely,
Yours to talk to,
Hermione Granger
Draco felt weird reading this random letter. Not that it was the first one he had ever read. He had been here for two and a half months now and even in that short time, he had gotten 7 of these group letters. They always said, "thank you," and they always said something about prayers, but this is the first one he had gotten with an invitation of, as she said, friendship. Of course all of the letters wanted a response, but there was something about this strange girl who loved books that encouraged him to write back. Maybe it was because she was the same age as him and from the same state rather than a middle aged lady from a Baptist church somewhere in Missouri. Maybe it was because she described reading as therapeutic and he felt the same way when he wasn't in the middle of a weird country. Maybe it was because he didn't have anyone else to write to. His parents would never want to hear of the things he experienced and he didn't think she would either, but she offered. His only other friends were there with him, besides Pansy Parkinson, who was engaged to Blaise Zabini, who sat across from him.
Without much more thought, he grabbed a pencil and a piece of stationary and started to write.
A/N: Sorry. Again. This is my first fanfiction so please tell me how you like it. I'm not opposed to opinions.