His quill scratched at the parchment, the sound angry and sharp. Drops of ink stained his slender fingers, his face, the paper he was writing on; the ink was all around him.
He needed to do this. He knew of the spell, thanks to him. It should work if done correctly. It must work. It's the only way possible. He needed to get out of here. He needed to escape.
"Are you in there?" His voice cuts through the air like a knife. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't even breathe. Footsteps slowly retreat after a moment, and still, he does not take a breath.
He does not need to. He is barely even alive.
When all the sound that remains is the thrumming of his heart, he finally takes a gasp, sitting back in the grandiose yellow chair, the fur soft against his sweaty, aching back.
He must write this. He needs to. His whole life depends on it. No, likely not just his, but everyone's life.
He had made a mistake, following this man. He had chosen the path of a weak man; he had grown into a con, and now he sat with power sifting through his fingertips like grain, and he'd never be able to catch it all. He had tasted life, and now he did not want death.
He lowered the ink-soaked quill back to the paper, his words blotchy and ugly as he began to write. His tense hands tore at the parchment as he carved out delicate words, each one bearing more of his soul than the last.
Dear Harry
Dear Hadrian
Dear Riddle
None of them fit what he wanted to say. Did this letter even need to be addressed? Did it need to be stated who he was writing to? He knew. He always knew.
Dear Me,
I am so, so sorry. Please forgive me. I do not deserve forgiveness I do not deserve forgiveness I do not deserve forgiveness-
I am writing this to you so that you know what not to do. Do not follow him. Do not. You will die. I am already half-dead myself. I may not even have enough soul left to send you this letter. Would you ever read it? I doubt it. We were never ones to trust the uncertain. Why, when our life was so full of it, I do not know.
You must please keep in mind that life is a journey to be enjoyed and lived fully, not a story running from wolves. You must spend some time appreciating the little things, all of them, no matter how little. No matter how little you feel. No matter what you lack. You will always be good. Stay good. Do not become like me. Avoid letting life pass you by in a haze of our twisted thoughts. You are good. You will always be good. It does not matter what they say to us. It does not matter what we may become. We are good good goOD GOOD GOOD GOOD GOOD
Don't let other people's expectations or pressures change who you are. You should not sacrifice your integrity and values in order to fit in with someone else's opinions because they are what make you who you are. Have faith in yourself and the guts to go down your own path. You can be strong. I just know it. Do not listen to him. He is wrong. You are not weak. It is not okay to be weak. But you must also not be strong. You MUST be normal. A normal little boy. Not a freak.
You will do good. I will make sure of it.
He got up, leaving the letter on his desk as he paced. No, no, NO! It still wasn't good enough. It never would be. Nothing would be. Nothing could hold the feeling of his entire soul. Nothing could feed the anguish as he fans the flames; nothing-
He turns back around, facing his desk. It's been scorched. The letter is gone. Was that him?
It must have been. There is nobody else in the room.
There is no one else. Only him.
He must flee.
Picking up his coat, he slings it on, his frail body covered by it. He wouldn't normally bring it, but the wind is sharp and biting and cold, and the fires in the house barely provide any warmth, so he must.
He walks quickly down the halls, taking sharp turns and staying in the shadows when he can. It's much safer this way. It's always safer. Being in the dark is much better than being in the spotlight. He learned this the hard way.
He took another step, almost towards the large front doors of the house. He sticks close to the wall, walking alongside it like a gecko. His hand brushes something odd, and he freezes. It feels…like paper. He pulls at it. It is paper. But why is it stuck here, of all places?
He unfolds it one square at a time, his heart stopping as he stares at the handwriting. His handwriting. This was his letter.
But it is not one he wrote.
Dear Me,
I wonder if Professor Lupin is right, that this box actually takes these letters to the future. Maybe even to a whole new dimension. That would be cool, I think.
Well, hello. I hope you're doing well. I hope my future is going well. I'm always thinking about the future. Who I'll be. What I'll be. I don't always get it, and sometimes it makes my head hurt, but I always try to.
Me, are we strong? I hope we are. I want to make Father proud. I want to make the world proud. Are we friends with Theo still? I hope so. We promised to be. What about Pansy? Or Susan? Or Kevin? Did we grow closer to Nathan and Neville? Nathan still annoys me now. I bet he'll annoy us in the future.
Me, I hope we're the strongest person ever. I hope we learned how to live our life above others. Because we ARE above them. Father said so, and Father knows best.
I think that's all I'll write. Not much else to say. I don't want to say anything in case Lupin lies and actually reads these letters. I hope we're okay, though.
I hope we're powerful.
Harry
He crumbled the letter. No, no, this wasn't from him. He has not gone by that name in a long time. It has always been Echo. Always, and forever, ever since he- Echo was his name! It was always, ALWAYS, his name!
He looks at the letter, searching for an address, a clue. There is nothing there, not even another name. Who would play such a hateful game like this? Who would-
It was probably him.
The letter bursts into flames. Good riddance, he thinks. He needs to get out of her, and fast. He kept walking, not once turning around to look back at the small pile of ashes he had left.
He missed a ghostly hand placing a letter on top of the pile just for him. A pristine letter on top of his ruin.
This one would not burn, even if he had noticed it.