Cedric's funeral was a mere two weeks ago.
Ever so often, I got letters from his parents and Fleur — I'm pretty sure Krum was busy writing to Hermione. They avoided his name like the plague and somehow managed to small talk through the marks of their quill.
My roommates were a little more subtle about the thin ice they believed to be stepping on. Sue and Mandy were always ones for conversation; Morag and Lisa were always sincere; Padma was already talking about school and who would be prefect, head boy, head girl, and all that, so she didn't run out of things to talk about.
Luna's letters were just as odd as she was.
Neville's letters were just whatever came to his mind at the time. Sometimes it involved Cedric, sometimes it didn't. What was clear was that if he ever believed he was walking on thin ice, he certainly wasn't afraid of falling into the water.
What these people didn't know was that I was reminded of it every single day without fail.
I shot up in bed, holding my dry throat as I realized how long I had been screaming for.
I looked around my room, realizing that I wasn't in the maze, running through the hedges calling out Cedric's name. I wasn't met with a boy with straw hair, glaring at me through one fake eyeball as he raised his wand, reciting that horrid spell of blinding pain. I wasn't hearing the sounds of a woman and a man screaming in anguish until their brain couldn't remember how to tell them to make a sound.
This was my room.
I glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, an obnoxious thing that constantly reminded me of how little I slept, seeing the hour hand just a little past the five.
Two hours.
With a sigh, I slipped out of bed and walked out the door, meeting with the empty hallways of a house where I once laughed with my brother, cooked with my godparents, and played with my best friend.
My fingertips traced the walls, barren of any photos that held any remnants of past because no one in my family looked back. Not until now.
Neither of my parents were ever home.
My father always conceals where he goes, although I found a letter that mentioned something called the Order of the Phoenix, which he quickly burned.
My mother was always an adventurer, never staying in one place for too long. But now, I never know where she is, but her body sits in the Diggory household, unable to leave out of the goodness of her heart.
I don't think I actually said anything since the funeral. My quill wrote words I couldn't muster and the paper held the voice I didn't have, but my throat had words it couldn't dare say through my hands.
Dipper entered through the window and landed on the back of the chair at the dining table, a parcel only the size of my palm in his beak and some envelopes in his talons.
He dropped them on the counter and retreated to the Owlery.
I stared at the different names - Hermione, Ginny, Mandy, Morag - and fished out the one with Neville written as neatly as possible.
Dear Y/N,
I read The Hound of Baskersville the other day. Turns out my gran already had it! I was imagining a big dog like a grim the entire time. Probably much scarier to me than to Muggles if that's how it was. It was pretty good, but the first one was certainly better. What's the next book called?
Oh, and are you free any time soon? We haven't seen each other in weeks! You can choose the place since you always came with me to the lake during the year.
How are you feeling? Have you left the house at all? We're three weeks into summer break, I'd hate for you to waste it. Write back soon!
Neville
I glanced at the date on the corner of the page.
July 23.
Neville's birthday was soon.
Just 7 days, 18 hours, and 36 minutes.
Mandy got a new cat (again). She named her Peppermint for a reason unknown to both me and her. She just seemed like a peppermint.
Hermione was just telling me about her latest read and asking how I was doing. She never really talked a lot about what she was up to other than her books, none of which seemed interesting to me since the plot was nonexistent, unless spells and potions were a plot.
Ginny was planning on joining the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Chaser, she planned to be.
Morag was planning on doing the same. She's had a broom for years but she hasn't been able to use it. She's planning on being Keeper.
The parcel was a book on hippogriffs from Luna. I already had it, but somehow all the words were printed upside down. Of course Luna, of all people, would have it.
I went to my father's office, filing their letters with the rest.
If my father had ever returned, he made it a point to barely leave a trace. The top of his desk collected dust, the quill on his desk still barren of ink.
But there's no such thing as leaving without a trace.
Otherwise, the carpet shifts on its own, the rubbish fills and is emptied by its own accord, and the scent of burning paper drifts in from a far off land.
Otherwise, the doodles on the wall in the guest bedroom was done by ghosts, the drawings of snakes and dragons were stolen artifacts, and the unfinished notebook with back and forth messages was written by a madman.
People don't leave without a trace.
I glanced back at the small shelf that had little slots for each letter we received, each one labelled with a name. It sat on a much larger bookshelf, with never too many slots for the singular friend my father had, my friends, and my mum.
Draco's hadn't changed since we were eight. That was when we made that notebook, where our words reached each other without an owl.
Mine sat in my trunk, as if I were waiting for it to begin struggling, trying to open again, having the pretentious calligraphy that is Draco's handwriting staining the pages again because the one thing that stayed in the back of my mind that wasn't Cedric was my father's broken voice saying, "It had been years since we just talked."
I slipped out the envelopes and although my mind was telling me not to, my heart was the one pumping the blood through the body that moved.
I placed them on the desk and sat in the cushioned chair, eying the broken seals of the Malfoy family that I had seen in seven years.
Y/N,
Father said that he'd let me borrow his wand. Want to try and burn something?
Y/N,
I've thought of a brilliant game. Come over this weekend.
Y/N,
Bring over that Sherlock book tomorrow... NOT BECAUSE I WANT TO READ IT!
From Draco.
From Draco.
From Draco.
I stared at the letters that formed his name, wondering why I always insisted on adding three more. Draconis.
My father never said what he and Barty spoke about, but I like to think that they were just catching up. Writing in the blank spaces.
I recalled that fake blue eye always managing to stare at me when Barty was disguised as Moody. When Winky lit up for just a moment, asking my if I was my father, even if Caelum was clearly a man's name.
How was she supposed to know he had a kid by now?
When Barty learned my name, saw the features on me that my father took over, felt the slice of my sharp tongue, heard my wits reach his ears, I knew he immediately thought of his best friend, because every time I walked by, he looked at me like I was.
I began looking at the small shelf, realizing that it wasn't pushed all the way into the bookshelf. When I tried, it was stopped by something.
My head tilted and I pulled it off the shelf, revealing a shoebox that couldn't close because of all the papers inside.
I pulled it out and placed it on the floor. The papers were yellowed from their age, but it didn't hide what was on them. Letters, photos, even cheques... from Barty.
They wrote to each other as much as Draco and I, but took far more photos of themselves.
But as I dug through, I noticed that as the letters got older, the name "Barty" no longer appeared. It was "Bartemius."
And I found why.
Dear Caelum,
Barty, eh? Sounds better than Bartemius, that's for sure. Easier to say, too. Maybe I should tell Professor Slughorn to start calling me that from now on. Maybe I'll even tell father one day. But I doubt it. He'll probably be furious, telling me that I'm disowning his name or something. Barty... I like it.
And it was signed Bartemius first, then scratched out and replaced with "Barty." Because my father named him.
In the photos, Barty always hooked an arm around my dad, and my dad looked like he was dragged into the photo. At some point, he seemed to give in, and threw up a thumbs up, the weirdo.
The photos of them moved so they glanced at each other. My dad looked unamused for a moment before laughing, shaking his head.
I placed everything back into the cardboard box and put everything back into place as if I had never found it.
As I began answering the letters sent to me, I tried so hard to keep my mind on the people I met in Hogwarts.
The past was past, and I wanted to keep that philosophy, but the past started to grow harder to ignore.
Even my father could see that.
It's hard to look to the future when you can't see it, when all you know is that you want certain things to happen but you can't quite make them happen.
But the past?
It's haunting.
The once happy memories now missed.
The unanswered questions, the mystery pounding your mind.
Because unlike the future, you can't kill the past.
The past never dies, even if you burn the pictures.