Title: Shamrock Tea
Main Characters: Irrelevant.
Ships: Irrelevant.
Rating: M (There will be certain scenes edited out for here for the rating. If you would like to know the other location of this story, please e-mail me.)
Genres: Angst, Drama, Romance, and Tragedy
Summary: Before I begin, I feel it imperative to tell you that it matters not who I am or to whom these letters were written. There will be slash although the characters will remain unknown.

Note: This fic, in part, was inspired by the book 'Shamrock Tea' by Ciaran Carson. I have borrowed the name of the book and the names of the chapters. Also, the creation of Shamrock Tea. Of course, I'm not making any money off of this and this is barely a crossover fan fic. All characters appearing in this story are from HP. I just wanted to get that settled.

Shamrock Tea

Before I begin, I feel it imperative to tell you that it matters not who I am or to whom these letters were written. All that matters is that for a very long time these letters were my life. I spent months on each one, but the timeline is not important either. I feel it equally important to tell you that whereas some of these letters are based on reality, some are not. Some are memories, some are present day actions, and others are fantasies. All in all there are one-hundred-and-one of these and I intend to share with you each of them, but I shall not tell you if the contents of them actually occurred or not, for that does not matter either.

Letter One: Paris Green

To a fond recollection of you,

The attitude of everyone at this gathering is sombre. Whenever I dare approach anyone and they turn their solemn gaze to meet my own equally grave expression, I feel as if I am intruding. The room I am in is full of familiar but unrecognisable people that have mourned all day and grieved all evening. It is approaching midnight and I feel as if I should go but I am not sure if I have a home to return to. I don't much like the idea of having to find that out. That is what made me think of you because I always thought of you as home. I refer not to your body for that is rather vulgar, but to your presence. Whenever you were around I felt a sense of safety that only a home can provide. I wish that I could have that back, but, really, wishing is for children and I am no longer a child.

This memory of you that had seized me so suddenly was of your eyes. I suppose that this is because I have been looking into dark, grim eyes all night, but perhaps the memory of yours is just so intense that I cannot help but recall the look of them and the sensations they sent through me when you looked my way. Then, after wallowing in the rustling sensation that had started up in my body upon that mental sight, I slowly began to recall the way that the corners of your eyes would lift whenever you smiled at something I had said to you. I will not be sentimental and linger on that thought, it's just the simple truth that I was one of the few that could ever make you laugh. After that, I realised what memory I was suddenly being reminded of... the night that we found ourselves all alone in our dormitory. You were painting for the very first time with a set of paints that you had bought over summer holiday. You looked up at me, for I was sitting on my bed studying and you were kneeling on the floor on the far side of yours. You asked me, 'What do you think the sky of Paris looks like at night?' and I looked over at you as if you were mad. You laughed when you saw the way I was staring at you and you hastily explained 'I mean, all those soft yellow lights and the night being indigo blue, wouldn't that make it --' 'Green?' 'Precisely.'

I just laughed then and shook my head in response but I thought about that over the preceding years and came to the conclusion that your logic was not that far off although I have been to Paris and the sky is not green there. You're an artist and you always will be and artists see things from their own perception of reality. It took me years to discover this, but when I finally did, I came to love you even more although I felt as if I already loved you as much as humanely possible.

Now it is closing in on one in the morning. I still feel as if I should go but I loiter in the grand room where I feel alienated, a stranger amongst my own people. I feel as if it is I who has died, and maybe I have just a little bit. I have been dying all my life with the exception of the brief reprieves when I was at school and in your presence. How could you have affected me so? I thought that I would never get over the loss of our companionship but I thought that I had in the end. Yet, being back here amongst all these strangers I used to know, I feel as if I never did get over you and only lied to myself to seem stronger than I actually was, to keep from feeling as if I were dying, and to pretend that I was happy with the way that things turned out. I was deluded for so long, but now that you're gone and the pungent scent of the smoke of Shamrock Tea is floating round me in a thick haze, I see everything clearly. If only I had seen them so clearly then, maybe we... There is no use in finishing that sentence for dreaming is also for children, and, really, I am no longer a child.

It is now three and I have found myself nodding off too many times to be ignored by the others who are now staring at me as if I am some sort of beast, which I now realise I am. I must return to the streets with the rest of those who will never feel at home again because the world is devoid of that one, irreplaceable person that, due to horrible circumstances and the cruelty of fate, they had been happy with but are now lost without. Just know that I shall never allow myself to forget you again and I will do everything to keep in mind that memory of you that gets more vivid with every intake of smoke I make on my pipe. Perhaps, in time, I will find you once again.