A Letter from Draco.
Dear Severus,
It feels very strange to put quill to parchment and shape these simple words. I realise that I don't know who you are, but, at the same time, I know you in ways that others can't begin to even imagine..
I am so uncertain about these next words. Hell, I'm uncertain about any words. Whenever I try to say something it blurs before my eyes, fading and blinking, and meshing into strange ungainly shapes of ruined fortresses. Maybe, if I can just get through this one letter, then maybe I can get through one conversation with Harry that doesn't end with me in tears.
I am terrified, Severus. Terrified in a way that maybe only you can comprehend. Each and every step I take in learning to be a new person is a step out into darkness. Harry is there, at my hand, but sometimes... Sometimes I just want to push him away and scream at him and curl myself up into a self-reliant, dead little ball of flesh and nerve, and never feel those searching green eyes on me again. And then I am terrified that maybe I will snap one day, and pour out all my loathing for the compassion he shows me, compassion that I know I am not worthy of, but that's still the only thing holding me on this plane. I want to pull him close and never let go, and I want to push him away and never see him again. I am terrified.
Severus, can I ask you to do this for me? To read the outpourings of my soul? I have no one else. Well, that is not true. In fact, it is my defense mechanisms rebuilding, and I am so terrified that I will shut Harry out, yet equally terrified of letting him in. What would happen if he saw all this hate and pain and darkness and turned from me? Can I risk that? Can I not risk it? What can I do? I am lost.
I am lost. I take the steps blindly, but I see no light at the end of my long tunnel. I have only the rubble of my life to rebuild from, and how can I rearrange the bricks to be something brave and loyal and just and ambitous, when I have only before known one of these qualities?
I paused for a long time after those last words. I must sift the rubble of my life, and find the truth. This takes time, and I am so impatient. Besides, Harry looks at me with concern if I stare out the window for too long. He worries about me. He cares about me, and I don't know what to do. I am worried, frightened, deathly scared, of winding my life around Harry Potter. What if I choke him?
There. That thought. I have never felt that before. I have always experienced my emotions, my feelings, running like waves through my body to be controlled and bottled and willed back, like a sucessful Cnut at the seashore, but I have never before felt someone else's emotions. Or even considered them. As you say in your letter, it takes imagination to feel compassion. To choose the right thing.
For the first time in my life, I have imagination. I can look at the world not just as a place of surfaces and things to know, but as a place of infathomables. It occurs to me that maybe there are things I cannot know. Things I can only guess at. Things I can only imagine. And with imagination, who knows what will come?
In fact, one thing has come already, and that is dreaming. I have nightmares, Severus. I guess that you must have had them too, maybe you still have them now. Muggles say that your dreams represent things that your unconscious mind is processing. Harry's got me writing a dream journal. It scares me. So many things scare me. When I see the dream in the smoothness of my hand I give it new shape. When I can talk about them, the shapes lose their lurid relief, and fade into a tired shadow of tone and line. But some dreams I cannot share with Harry. Some dreams are too much tied up with my own desperate ambivalence toward him, a subject that I do not want to discuss, am too frightened to discuss. In my dreams I see myself as Harry. We are one person, with hair like the cold ashes in my hearth and eyes like sea foam. Inside us we war, me striving to mesh, him striving to break free from me. I worry that I identify with Harry too much. I worry that if I push him away one more time he will never come back. I worry that if I let him too close he will sicken on my bleak despair and leave me. I worry that I want him. I worry that I might tell him. I worry that I will always remain here, without shape or form. I worry that Harry will not like the form I take. I worry...
I am too confused to go on. Please, please, read this. I will send it off immediately, before I can let fear turn me back once more.
Yours, Draco.
A Visit From Severus.
The little cottage is just as I remember it from when I was grounded here so many years ago, in the fall of Voldemort, when I was desolate with anguish that I had not yet atoned all the blood on my hands.I remember how empty it is inside - the less things for people to smash. It has always been so.
Some Muggles believe that hauntings are caused by stones, especially quartz, retaining the impression of an emotional scene. Someone who is sensitive to the vibration can then experience the scene again. It's a nice thought, assuming that you haven't actually met a deranged ghost intent on reenacting some dreadful scene with relish. But this house... I wonder what kind of vibration this house hides in it's stone walls? This house has seen so much.
Draco's letter stunned me. I had been ambivalent about writing in the first place, and then, when all the horror and dirt and guilt and anguish flowed off my quill and onto the parchment... Well, I very nearly didn't send it. But I did. I don't know why; it's not like Draco needs more images of pain and fear and anguish and betrayal to contemplate. But I cannot give someone hope and light. I can only hold up a mirror of consequence - what happens when you push people away and don't set straight. You end up a bitter man, with poison still in your veins after so many years. You end up still scrubbing your skin raw in the shower to rid yourself of the afterimage of yellow hands clutching you like the earth of a grave. You end up pushing everything away. I am still so lost and alone. But Draco needs me. Maybe my mirror can help him.
Working on the potions with Hermione has been good for me, I think. She has such boundless compassion, such fierce faith in the underlying good in everyone, coupled with the fervent belief that, should you be proved not to have this underlying good, then you deserve to die in a horrible fashion. She is Joan of Arc - a woman of God, who slaughters with pietistic zeal in a worldly cause. A woman who transcends boundaries and limitations and commits terrible acts in her search for justice. And acts of grace, too. Her eyes see everything. She believes I am a good man. She wore me down; insisting that, since we must work together, our relationship must, necessarily, reach a level of intimacy and trust. She calls me Severus, without any inflection of scorn or contempt. She's even got Sirius Black calling me by my name, gods know how.
So, when she found me reading Draco's letter, she was about as subtle as a brick. "You'll go and see them, then, Severus." she said, in a tone that was obviously not a question. "I'll write a letter for you to give to Harry." Well, I somehow found the letter in my hand and my feet on the worn, sandy path to an isolated cottage.
Draco is so fragile. Harry is so protective. I can see it in his stance, his eyes, everything. I can see Draco's painful ambivalance, and see the reason for it. Harry is so strong, it would be so easy to just drape over him and never think again. It says much for Draco Malfoy that he has not done so. I hand the letter to Harry, get rid of him with some difficulty, and sit next to the fire with Draco.
"Yes." I say. He looks confused. I clarify: "Yes, you can write to me, and I will read it, and I will help you in every way I can." I make the promise, with truth in my heart. It seems to tumble from my lips unbidden. His eyes search mine.
"Good." he breathes. "Just knowing that someone who has been through this is willing to listen..." I frown. I don't want to replace Harry in any way. Suddenly, I see it.
"Draco, do not underestimate how much Harry needs you." He is shocked, it has never occured to him that Harry might need him. I continue: "He needs you, so much. He needs you with an intensity I have never seen before. He needs you to heal and grow, and stand beside him, so that he will then not need you, and you will not need him, and you can be held together by loving desire for each other rather than the dull throb of responsibility and need." Draco shakes his head with disbelief.
"Harry doesn't need me." he says, very quietly. "I need him, and I am so frightened of that."
"Harry does need you, Draco." I sigh. Words have never been my forte. Perhaps I should just force feed them both some veritasium and exit quickly. Then, I remember Hermione and Sirius's letters. I did not read them, but I have some shrewd suspicions as to their contents. "Has Harry shown you the letters that Hermione and Sirius wrote when they sent you here?" His eyes cloud with confusion. Obviously not. "Ask him." I wave him from the room, and settle by the fire. On second thoughts, maybe I should leave. This encounter may prove to be something best unwitnessed by an outsider. I stop to write a note on some parchment and leave it on the table.
Dear Draco,
Anytime you wish to write to me, you are welcome. Anything you wish to write about, I will read. I will give you the ear you need for things that you cannot - yet - talk to Harry about. Do not shut him out. Recognise that he is as vulnerable and aching as you are, and that you have a gift to offer him as precious as what he offers you.
I will listen to you and support you through your need. But, one day, you will not need me either, and on that day we can be held together by friendship. Just friendship, one of the most beautiful, sacred, and elusive of bonds.
Yours, Severus.
I turn and walk away, my mind still humming with thoughts of friendship and need.
Dear Severus,
It feels very strange to put quill to parchment and shape these simple words. I realise that I don't know who you are, but, at the same time, I know you in ways that others can't begin to even imagine..
I am so uncertain about these next words. Hell, I'm uncertain about any words. Whenever I try to say something it blurs before my eyes, fading and blinking, and meshing into strange ungainly shapes of ruined fortresses. Maybe, if I can just get through this one letter, then maybe I can get through one conversation with Harry that doesn't end with me in tears.
I am terrified, Severus. Terrified in a way that maybe only you can comprehend. Each and every step I take in learning to be a new person is a step out into darkness. Harry is there, at my hand, but sometimes... Sometimes I just want to push him away and scream at him and curl myself up into a self-reliant, dead little ball of flesh and nerve, and never feel those searching green eyes on me again. And then I am terrified that maybe I will snap one day, and pour out all my loathing for the compassion he shows me, compassion that I know I am not worthy of, but that's still the only thing holding me on this plane. I want to pull him close and never let go, and I want to push him away and never see him again. I am terrified.
Severus, can I ask you to do this for me? To read the outpourings of my soul? I have no one else. Well, that is not true. In fact, it is my defense mechanisms rebuilding, and I am so terrified that I will shut Harry out, yet equally terrified of letting him in. What would happen if he saw all this hate and pain and darkness and turned from me? Can I risk that? Can I not risk it? What can I do? I am lost.
I am lost. I take the steps blindly, but I see no light at the end of my long tunnel. I have only the rubble of my life to rebuild from, and how can I rearrange the bricks to be something brave and loyal and just and ambitous, when I have only before known one of these qualities?
I paused for a long time after those last words. I must sift the rubble of my life, and find the truth. This takes time, and I am so impatient. Besides, Harry looks at me with concern if I stare out the window for too long. He worries about me. He cares about me, and I don't know what to do. I am worried, frightened, deathly scared, of winding my life around Harry Potter. What if I choke him?
There. That thought. I have never felt that before. I have always experienced my emotions, my feelings, running like waves through my body to be controlled and bottled and willed back, like a sucessful Cnut at the seashore, but I have never before felt someone else's emotions. Or even considered them. As you say in your letter, it takes imagination to feel compassion. To choose the right thing.
For the first time in my life, I have imagination. I can look at the world not just as a place of surfaces and things to know, but as a place of infathomables. It occurs to me that maybe there are things I cannot know. Things I can only guess at. Things I can only imagine. And with imagination, who knows what will come?
In fact, one thing has come already, and that is dreaming. I have nightmares, Severus. I guess that you must have had them too, maybe you still have them now. Muggles say that your dreams represent things that your unconscious mind is processing. Harry's got me writing a dream journal. It scares me. So many things scare me. When I see the dream in the smoothness of my hand I give it new shape. When I can talk about them, the shapes lose their lurid relief, and fade into a tired shadow of tone and line. But some dreams I cannot share with Harry. Some dreams are too much tied up with my own desperate ambivalence toward him, a subject that I do not want to discuss, am too frightened to discuss. In my dreams I see myself as Harry. We are one person, with hair like the cold ashes in my hearth and eyes like sea foam. Inside us we war, me striving to mesh, him striving to break free from me. I worry that I identify with Harry too much. I worry that if I push him away one more time he will never come back. I worry that if I let him too close he will sicken on my bleak despair and leave me. I worry that I want him. I worry that I might tell him. I worry that I will always remain here, without shape or form. I worry that Harry will not like the form I take. I worry...
I am too confused to go on. Please, please, read this. I will send it off immediately, before I can let fear turn me back once more.
Yours, Draco.
A Visit From Severus.
The little cottage is just as I remember it from when I was grounded here so many years ago, in the fall of Voldemort, when I was desolate with anguish that I had not yet atoned all the blood on my hands.I remember how empty it is inside - the less things for people to smash. It has always been so.
Some Muggles believe that hauntings are caused by stones, especially quartz, retaining the impression of an emotional scene. Someone who is sensitive to the vibration can then experience the scene again. It's a nice thought, assuming that you haven't actually met a deranged ghost intent on reenacting some dreadful scene with relish. But this house... I wonder what kind of vibration this house hides in it's stone walls? This house has seen so much.
Draco's letter stunned me. I had been ambivalent about writing in the first place, and then, when all the horror and dirt and guilt and anguish flowed off my quill and onto the parchment... Well, I very nearly didn't send it. But I did. I don't know why; it's not like Draco needs more images of pain and fear and anguish and betrayal to contemplate. But I cannot give someone hope and light. I can only hold up a mirror of consequence - what happens when you push people away and don't set straight. You end up a bitter man, with poison still in your veins after so many years. You end up still scrubbing your skin raw in the shower to rid yourself of the afterimage of yellow hands clutching you like the earth of a grave. You end up pushing everything away. I am still so lost and alone. But Draco needs me. Maybe my mirror can help him.
Working on the potions with Hermione has been good for me, I think. She has such boundless compassion, such fierce faith in the underlying good in everyone, coupled with the fervent belief that, should you be proved not to have this underlying good, then you deserve to die in a horrible fashion. She is Joan of Arc - a woman of God, who slaughters with pietistic zeal in a worldly cause. A woman who transcends boundaries and limitations and commits terrible acts in her search for justice. And acts of grace, too. Her eyes see everything. She believes I am a good man. She wore me down; insisting that, since we must work together, our relationship must, necessarily, reach a level of intimacy and trust. She calls me Severus, without any inflection of scorn or contempt. She's even got Sirius Black calling me by my name, gods know how.
So, when she found me reading Draco's letter, she was about as subtle as a brick. "You'll go and see them, then, Severus." she said, in a tone that was obviously not a question. "I'll write a letter for you to give to Harry." Well, I somehow found the letter in my hand and my feet on the worn, sandy path to an isolated cottage.
Draco is so fragile. Harry is so protective. I can see it in his stance, his eyes, everything. I can see Draco's painful ambivalance, and see the reason for it. Harry is so strong, it would be so easy to just drape over him and never think again. It says much for Draco Malfoy that he has not done so. I hand the letter to Harry, get rid of him with some difficulty, and sit next to the fire with Draco.
"Yes." I say. He looks confused. I clarify: "Yes, you can write to me, and I will read it, and I will help you in every way I can." I make the promise, with truth in my heart. It seems to tumble from my lips unbidden. His eyes search mine.
"Good." he breathes. "Just knowing that someone who has been through this is willing to listen..." I frown. I don't want to replace Harry in any way. Suddenly, I see it.
"Draco, do not underestimate how much Harry needs you." He is shocked, it has never occured to him that Harry might need him. I continue: "He needs you, so much. He needs you with an intensity I have never seen before. He needs you to heal and grow, and stand beside him, so that he will then not need you, and you will not need him, and you can be held together by loving desire for each other rather than the dull throb of responsibility and need." Draco shakes his head with disbelief.
"Harry doesn't need me." he says, very quietly. "I need him, and I am so frightened of that."
"Harry does need you, Draco." I sigh. Words have never been my forte. Perhaps I should just force feed them both some veritasium and exit quickly. Then, I remember Hermione and Sirius's letters. I did not read them, but I have some shrewd suspicions as to their contents. "Has Harry shown you the letters that Hermione and Sirius wrote when they sent you here?" His eyes cloud with confusion. Obviously not. "Ask him." I wave him from the room, and settle by the fire. On second thoughts, maybe I should leave. This encounter may prove to be something best unwitnessed by an outsider. I stop to write a note on some parchment and leave it on the table.
Dear Draco,
Anytime you wish to write to me, you are welcome. Anything you wish to write about, I will read. I will give you the ear you need for things that you cannot - yet - talk to Harry about. Do not shut him out. Recognise that he is as vulnerable and aching as you are, and that you have a gift to offer him as precious as what he offers you.
I will listen to you and support you through your need. But, one day, you will not need me either, and on that day we can be held together by friendship. Just friendship, one of the most beautiful, sacred, and elusive of bonds.
Yours, Severus.
I turn and walk away, my mind still humming with thoughts of friendship and need.