Pain, pain everywhere. Laying on an old, blood-stained bed was a little boy. Not little in the sense of innocent or juvenile, but small. It was the fifteen-year-old Harry Potter. He groaned as he turned slowly from his left side, onto the right. His breath came with hoarse coughs.
'Pathetic, Potter, truly.' He thinks. He started his favorite solitary and sarcastic game: 'What would Granger do'.
"Oh Harry, you know, if only you would listen to professor Dumbledore, you would realize that your family loves you. They simply don't know how to show it. Just be patient and behave yourself. This makes me think about our second year when you snapped at Ron and me when we wanted to help you with your dark ability. I think I read somewhere in 'Hogwarts a History'....."
Harry grimaced, he didn't give a flying fuck what 'Hogwarts a History' says, but knowing Hermione, there must be hidden life lessons in that big and heavy book.
Thinking about his 'friends' didn't lighten his current mood. After weeks of living in solitude and in the dark, his rage was building just by thinking about them. His birthday came and went. No cards, no food - it was not like he actually needed sustenance! How was a cup of milk and a plain and dry toast supposed to be enough? - no fucking sign of life. Hedwig flew to them dutifully, twice a week, but always returned empty-handed. His loyal companion always returned to him, even without any owl treat to give. Yes, she was kind of snobbish when her feathers got dirty when Harry petted her, but hey; negative attention was still attention. It's a big win in Harry's book.
After wallowing in his own misery, Harry tried to sit up. This proves to be difficult. His lungs were still screaming and his ribs were painful to the touch. Vernon did not use only his fists and belt on him yesterday, but his feet as well. He didn't think anything was broken, but he wasn't a Healer.
'Baby steps, Harry. Just sit up. Just wriggle up. Inch for inch. That's it.'
Sitting up, he assessed his injuries. His legs were strained, baby-makers... check. Still functioning, not swollen, blue, or god forbid, absent. Looking himself up, the damage was more...noticeable. Blue, green and yellow bruises were scattered on his upper body. His arms are bruised and swollen. Breathing hurts. Yep, enough said.
Tap, Tap, Tap
Harry looks at his window. A Blakiston Fish-Owl was looking through the glass. Harry slowly dragged himself out of bed and walked carefully to the window. After opening it, the eagle owl just stretched its leg for Harry to take what was attached. After taking the letter, the owl hooted once and flew away into the night. Harry shuffled back to the bed, let gravity do its work, and let himself fall on the old mattress. Slight tremors in his hands showed the strain Harry was in. He was just. so. tired.
Harry looked at the letter. The handwriting was neat.
'That rules Ron out', Harry thought darkly.
After looking for anything malicious; and yes, Harry did know a thing or two about curses or compulsion charms. Well, not how to disable them per se, but he was good at detecting them. He came empty-handed and so, opened the letter.
Dear Mr. Potter,
A belated happy birthday to you. I do hope that you had a fulfilling day. Though we are not acquainted, I find myself drawn to you. You see, you are an enigma. You are a wizard from a prominent family, although my father told me that you haven't partaken in any season, Light or Dark. I haven't heard a whisper of a simple Yule celebration, not even with a light-orientated family such as the Abbott's or, do I dare say, the Longbottoms. On the other hand, I hear tales of a second and third, miraculous, escape from the greatest wizard in the world. Yes, I dare say greatest, for while his conduct must be (for a light wizard as yourself) appalling, he is powerful. Do you see my problem? While everything points at a mediocre, juvenile, light wizard; nothing more than a Blood Traitor, your very actions show a powerful young wizard. Why is it that one such as yourself lives with muggles? Is the love for this family so powerful that you forsake your magical heritage? I can't wrap my head around it.
I can see that my tone is scolding, and I guess it is. You see, I am a proud wizard. I am proud of my heritage and my ancestors. I love magic. You have your whole life before you. Why don't you embrace the magic world to its fullest? It's got so much to give you, and you so much to give it.
I do not expect a reply. But I do hope my words stir something in your being. If you do want to give a reply, just use my name. Your owl will know where to deliver it.
Kind regards,
R. Singulier
Harry read the letter twice. Just what does this all mean? The letter must be from a pure-blooded or at least half-blooded wizard. The words 'Blood Traitor, 'inheritance' and 'ancestors' told him that much. Harry did feel scolded. He felt illiterate like Snape just finished correcting his essay about Flobberworms and it was the work of a first-year instead of a fourth year. He doesn't know about the wizarding holidays and culture. What about Yule? Yule was just the magical version of Christmas right?
In a split second, Harry decided to reply. He had nothing to lose. Maybe this was a good thing. His understanding of the wizarding world was below appropriate. This guy sounded like a Ravenclaw, or maybe a Slytherin. He's nothing like his current friends. Maybe this was just what he needed. A new acquaintance. A new friendship.
Harry took a relatively neat piece of parchment and his quill. How to start. What to say? His thoughts went to Voldemort. What if this was some elaborate scheme to get to him? Harry felt his blood run cold in his veins. And suddenly didn't care. So what he may be a death eater? For now, this was an anonymous face. Someone he didn't know. He wanted to tell him stuff. Everything, nothing.
Dear R. Singulier,
After reading your letter, I must confess to feeling confused. You do seem to know a lot about me. Maybe you could tell me something about you?
You are right. I do know little about the wizarding world. I do love everything about it. The first time I visited Diagon Alley I was mesmerized. This new world should have been my safe haven, my new home. I can assure you that is not by free choice that I stay outside of Wizarding Britain for the summers. I asked Headmaster Dumbledore multiple times to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays. My requests are denied every single time.
I'll tell you a secret. And I really don't care who you tell, because if no one believes what I say about myself, why would they believe you? And yes, I already thought about the possibility that you are a follower or supporter of Voldemort. I don't care. This is just a letter, nothing more. So I will tell you my deepest secret. Not even my friends of Hogwarts know this.
I hate them.
I hate my relatives. There are days I fantasize about Voldemort storming into my relatives' home. How he would walk into this boring and bleak house and notice the pictures. The picture on the wall, of my perfect relatives. I'm not in any of them. Not even in the background. Nowhere. They hate me, for my magic. Call me 'Freak', deny me to be anything other than a slave. I fantasize that he walks into the living room and asks for me. My uncle would scream and deny a Harry Potter living with them. Not out of love, or obligation, but out of denial. He doesn't want me to exist. So he denies everything. In my fantasies, Voldemort tortures my relatives and kills them. After that, it's my turn, of course. But every time I welcome it.
So I do embrace magic. I do embrace my heritage. But every single time I try to find out more I am denied. I'm spit on. I'm called a liar. In my second year at Hogwarts, my peers ostracized me. Just because I am a Parselmouth. Just because it's 'common knowledge' that snake speakers are dark, so I must be dark. It has not helped that the Chamber of Secrets was opened that year, and many students were petrified. But even then, my own friends did doubt me. That was the last time I talked with a snake. I just don't want to see my friends' reactions. They don't understand.
So maybe I don't know the magical world. I don't know your customs. Our customs. I don't know about our holidays. But just to be fair: nobody told me and I could not research them. Neither Flourish and Blotts nor Hogwarts have any books about these things. No classes about traditions either. Why not? Why is it that there is a Muggle class, but not a Wizarding class? I do not understand.
I'd like to hear more from you. I never heard of the Singulier family. Is your family native to Britain? Did you go to Hogwarts?
Kind regards,
Still Alive
Harry slowly got up from his bed. His letter was not very neat, but it was legible. Folding the letter and wrapping it he opened the window. Hedwig was there in a second, glad to finally have a job.
"Hedwig, girl, listen. Please behave yourself with this person. He seems to be nice. A bit stern and maybe angry, but appears not to want to kill me. Maybe I can learn from him. Hermione would be proud of me, learning during summer and all." Hedwig nibbed his fingers and hooted softly. "Take the letter to R. Singulier. Make me proud."
Hedwig took off into the night and once again Harry was alone. He dropped once again on his bed. This night turned out to be different from any other night. Maybe his response was too direct. To be honest, Harry never let his mask down. Never let anyone see behind his many layers. But this R. Singulier doesn't know any fake version of Harry. Not Harry the Gryffindor. Not Harry the Boy-Who-Lived. Just Harry, okay, angry Harry, but not Harry with an extra layer. So maybe, this isn't the biggest mistake of his life. He hopes.