A/N: I debated whether to go for the "Longest Time An Author Leaves Story In Hiatus" record, or to just give the Commerce assignment the finger. I guess I gave the Commerce assignment the finger ^_^
By the way, yay! We've reached the Hundredth Review Milestone! *Takes out hanky* I'm – just – so – proud …
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18th January 1996
Slytherin Dormitory
3:34 PM
Hey,
Just been released from Hospital Wing and am feeling like shit. Personally I have a few bones to pick with you. "What else don't Malfoys do?" you asked last letter, and I promptly reply:
1) Malfoys don't do karaoke. Period.
2) Malfoys don't dress up in chicken suits on Tuesdays.
3) Malfoys don't talk with their mouth full.
4) Malfoys don't lie, except when they want to hurt someone's feelings, except to someone they don't give two knuts about, and except when they feel like it.
5) Malfoys don't pretend to be above everyone else in status and power, they know they are.
6) Malfoys don't mince their words, and on no account do they employ the usage of euphemisms.
7) Malfoys don't write senseless fanfiction.
8) Malfoys don't use contraception.
Some old ancestor set those rules generations ago. Off the top of my head these are the ones I remember, though I'm not too sure about the contraception one. Guess which rule I broke in a sudden bout of temptation.
Anyway, apart from the above you also said "I half expected you to start quoting Macbeth or something", offered me some foul-proof ideas to fool Father and the Dark Lord as if they were THREE YEAR-OLDS, questioned my sanity, accused me of being melodramatic, labelled me a caterpillar, and in general suggested I was a coward. All I can do, in retaliation, is make rude signs at you behind your back and say …
"Is that a dagger I see before me?"
Aha! See? I am quoting Macbeth. An irrelevant quote, but a quote nevertheless. I found an old dog-eared copy in Father's library years ago, and I must say I'm not very impressed with Shakespeare's depiction of the three witches. According to him all witches spend their time making sinister prophecies, or sitting around a cauldron brewing up evil potions while chanting stupid stuff like "Double, double, toil and trouble". That Macbeth is really something, though. I mean, this guy had ambition. He knew what he wanted, and he went for it. Sure, in the end he got his head skewered, but that's beside the point. For a few tiny moments he was living his dream, and that's what counts, right?
You know, yesterday I was rifling through the letters you sent me – no, I wasn't thinking of burning them – and I noticed something VERY scary. It happened fleetingly, only for a few times, but its nasty presence was still blatantly obvious –
We reverted to first names.
Yes, gawp and stutter all you want, but for one letter I actually addressed you as Harry, not the usual Potter or Pothead or other such cute epithets, but Harry. And you, twice at least, addressed me as Draco, not Draino, nor Crazy Suicidal Idiotic Bastard, but Draco.
And I ask myself - sane, sensible person that I am - how in bloody hell did that happen? When did we go from Top-Rate Insult-Hurtling Arch Nemeses into bloody Blood Brothers? Why did we stop lacing our words with venomous insults and started to write about real, straightforward, honest things? Why did I actually throw away that pretentious Slytherin outer shell and started to reveal my heart, bit by painful bit, to YOU, of all people?
I guess, because unlike the others, you listened.
Sure, I still hate you with every ounce of my strength, you're still so cocky and assured and so damn optimistic and painfully self-sacrificial to the point of stupidity, but at least you're honest. You're Harry Fucking Potter through and through, one hundred percent pure, right to the bone. No added frills.
And you've got balls. Remember that very first day of school, on the Hogwarts Express, when I offered you my hand in friendship? You, in all your silly Gryffindor righteousness, instead of allying yourself with the richest and most influential wizard in the school, chose to stand by a nondescript boy of the poorest and most disgraceful variety. You looked me straight back in the eye and replied evenly "I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself." In that single sentence you made clear to me exactly what you thought of me, and I hated you for it.
But what I'm struggling to say is, how can you be so strong? Fighting is staying alive to do good and staying true to what's right, you say. You tell me that surrendering to that piece of "demon spawn" would be giving up, and that this would make me weak. You tell me to pull myself back together and to start fighting. To fight what? To fight my father, who's had me clutched in his iron fist since the day I was born? To fight the rigid stereotype in society that all Slytherins are henchmen of the Dark Lord and love to wreak evil and havoc on the world on a regular basis? To fight this inner impulse within me to just go along with every single expectation ever ladled on me by my parents? To fight what surely must be my eventual destiny as a Death Eater? To fight that little voice inside my head that says you can do this, you can stand by what you believe to be right?
I can't. I can't do this. I can't do this all by myself.
Then when it had seemed that all my hopes were frayed and death seemed the only way out, you had to butt in and save my life. Standing on the highest tower of the castle with the icy wind flaying at my cheeks, staring down into the dark abyss below, I'd never felt so lost, so disoriented, so devoid of purpose to carry on. But then, waking up in the hospital wing with the most pungent sense of loathing for you was, ironically, what spurred me on. That nauseating warmth I felt at the pit of my stomach told me that my duty was to go on living, and to go on regarding you as number one on my List Of Arch Enemies Whom I Want to Disembowel and Send Into the Deep Depths of Hell to Burn Their Arses Off.
And do you realise that I've just added the Dark Lord and Father to my list?
There, I've got everything off my chest, and despite the tedious, roundabout method that was employed, I'm sure you get my drift. I don't have to make myself clearer. You're in this now, Harry Fucking Hero Potter, whether you like it or not. And because 9) Malfoys don't form friendships; they form alliances that last for life, you can't back out of this. We're allies now, and the consequence of this is that it'd annoy me for just about two minutes if I heard that you'd died a very tragic and painful death. Well, if you ever tell Dumbledore (or anyone else) before the 28th about this I shall be forced to have that two minutes of discomfort. On your discomfort I shall not dwell.
This alliance doesn't mean I don't hate you as much as I used to, though. It just means that I've realised, as much as I don't like to admit it, that every word you said in your previous letter is true.
I might not be able to change my past and what I've become, but I may be able to change my principles, stand by what I believe is right, and ultimately shape my own destiny.
Reply soon,
Draco Malfoy
P.S. I've marked the 28th on my calendar with extra dark ink. Ten days, and ten days left for us to concoct cunningly sly Evil Plans, as you said.
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A/N: I hope that wasn't too heavy on the angst. Rest assured, loyal readers, for pretty soon we'll find ourselves near the climax and right in the thick of kick-arse action. I want to beg a favour of you all: constructive criticism! PA and I would really appreciate it if you could just take the time in your review to mention one thing that's bad/good with this story. Imaginary chocolate cake will be dealt out to all!
Disclaimer: We don't own the characters, we don't own Hogwarts, all we own is the plot and the QuikOwl stamps.
The lines "… consequence of this is that it'd annoy me for just about two minutes if I heard that you'd died a very tragic and painful death … On your discomfort I shall not dwell" is based loosely on a paragraph from a seriously hilarious but weird book, The Man Who Was Thursday by GK Chesterton. A minefield of witty one-liners, I assure you.