To whoever obtains this letter,
Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe I'm just being an impulsive teenager… I don't know. But Hedwig does; my girl will always get my letters to who they're meant for. So I'm trusting her with this—whatever this is.
I know I'm going to die eventually. A lot earlier than the rest of my classmates. I just don't know how.
It's strange, isn't it? The Boy-Who-Lived, destined to die, whether it be at the hand of the person he destroyed or the very people who "raised" him. I just don't know anymore. Nothing makes sense. If I'm going to die, why can't I just be a Gryffindor about it…?
My name is Harry James Potter. I was born on the thirty first of July, 1980, and I am going to die.
You probably know me. If you don't, you don't. Hell if I know where Hedwig is sending this…
If I make it through this summer, and through the next school year, I'll most likely be dead the next. My uncle—he—… These days, he's always so angry at me. Well, he's always been, really, but recently… I just… I thought things would get less violent as I grew older—as the Order began to try and protect me more.
I was wrong. I should've been used to being wrong, but still…
You know what, this is a stupid idea. I should've never written anything—and I shouldn't send this either—but Hedwig's here looking insistent that I give her something to send off, and I've always been a sucker for my owl…
Nothing will change, even if you're Lord-bloody-Voldemort who gets this.
I… I… I'm sorry for burdening you with this, whoever you are.
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I promised I wasn't going to write again. Promised. Swore to myself—but apparently that doesn't mean anything because here I am. Trying to write with a broken wrist and a few broken ribs. Am I failing miserably yet?
I probably already have. No one's cared enough to tell me.
So… I'm not really sure how this works. Is Hedwig going to send this to a different person? Did my first letter actually go anywhere at all? It must've, since my girl didn't come back with anything, but who knows. I certainly don't. I never got a reply either, from you or whoever got my first letter, which means a) they think that I'm a freak or impersonator or that it was a prank, or b) that it fell off along the way.
I personally think a) is more likely; Hedwig never fails a delivery.
So… uh… here I am. Harry bloody Potter—literally. Don't know what I've been doing and never have, but oh well.
Say, do you think you've ever lived? If anyone asked me that, I probably wouldn't know how to reply. Funny huh? The Boy-Who-Lived, not even sure if he'd ever lived… how ironic. But true, really. I'm not sure, not certain, don't even know what the hell living is. Is it to live with a family? To be happy? To love someone? To be loved?
I feel like a crumpled up piece of paper. Tossed in some dark corner and'll be forgotten for the next several months… and when they find me, they'll probably smooth me out and look over barely legible writing, take one glance, frown, and crumple me back up again. Throw me out. Put me in the trash. I don't know.
I never know anymore. What kind of Gryffindor am I, pathetic and cowardly here? I don't have any confidence, don't have any courage… I've always just been Harry. Who've I been kidding when I say I'm a Gryffindor? That person who slew a basilisk, that person who got the Stone, that person who valiantly fought a Hungarian Horntail…
Who was that? Certainly not me. I'm just Harry. Always have been. I—
I just—Why me, I'm just a—
Sorry. I don't know I—
Sorry.
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I think if there was one thing I regret most in my life, it was being unable to love properly. Hugs, touches, kisses on the cheek—I can't handle them. They're just—I dunno. They make me nervous.
If I can't communicate my feelings, how the hell can I know I feel them?
But it's terrible—being alone. I never realized how truly lonely I was until I got to Hogwarts. Everyone had their own group of friends, and I was so happy when I met Ron and Hermione—
I think I loved them. I'm not sure. What does love feel like? What does it look like? How can I know if I—
If I…
If I…
Well, it could be worse. It could be hailing outside, and I could be out there, locked out because of some trivial task that I probably did correctly but was accused of screwing up just because. Instead, I'm inside a musky, dirty room where I only manage to get fresh air through a window that I broke and covered up with a piece of cloth. My only company is a bird—she's actually my very, very best friend and a wonderful friend—, and sooner or later that bird will fly away to deliver this message to someone I don't know.
If it even goes to anyone.
It's summer, and that always means good things to everyone else except me. Why am I the exception? Why can't it bring moments of happiness to me too? Why am I alone?
Is it my fault that I'm like this?
…Well… You know when I said I thought I was going to die soon?
I still think that. Maybe this summer. Maybe. I wonder, when my time finally comes, will it be painful? Or will I just fade to black, like the movies I've only heard about?
This is probably depressing you… sorry.
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I don't know how this happened, all I know is that I want to keep writing. To you. To whoever gets this. To wherever this letter ends up. I can't say it's therapeutic, but it's more like there's—more like I—
I have this thing. It makes me want to do something, even when I physically can't, i.e. when there's probably a couple bones broken and parts of me that are sprained and some big, fat bruises covering me, but that's really besides the point. I have this thing.
And if I don't do anything, it becomes some sort of an itch in my mind—something I can't scratch but still persistently there and forcing me to do anything, even if it's ridiculously reckless and stupid and moronic and something that's going to get me killed.
Yeah. Maybe that's why I ended up in Gryffindor. Because of my thing.
I just… you never reply, and part of me feels happy about that, but the other part is disappointed whenever I never get a letter back. I mean, you don't have to, if you're reading this, because it's totally alright if you think I'm a creeper and mentally unwell and probably need a trip to St. Mungo's—physically and mentally—I…
I'm rambling. I always ramble. I don't know why. I'm stupid.
This is sort of addicting.
You never reply, but… well, is it weird how I feel like I know what you're thinking? You're always so calming—even if I don't know if there's a you behind everything, and hell maybe I really am insane because I feel you, even when I know I shouldn't.
Because there isn't a you, is there?
But I think it's almost as if I can know... know exactly when Hedwig arrives to you, wherever you are, and you read the letter, and you finish, and it just gives me this sense of… calm. I'm always so hysteric whenever I write to you, but afterwards I'm just so—
I don't even know you. If there is a you.
I can't find any words to say what I'm feeling. It's stupid, I'm stupid, but… you never make me feel that way.
Am I writing to someone? Really?
Or have I just gone insane?
Either way, this is better than aching all over when I don't do anything. At least I'm given some sense of purpose behind the pain.
…Sorry. I don't know what to say anymore.
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I think life is messed up. Who the fucking hell cares about the concept of fair? It's stupid. Fair totally contradicts itself by being the definition of the person it's relative to, so there's never really a "fair". It's all a lie—just like the cake is a lie and I don't know why the fuck I'm so angry.
I'm never angry. I'm always too tired to be angry. But I am now—furious, that is—and it's pissing me off even more.
Did that even make any sense?
Fuck. Screw it. I don't even know why I'm on this subject.
Fucking Dumbledore. Fucking friends. Fucking Order. They can all go choke on some pumpkin juice or something.
I wish I could go there. I want to get out of here. I hate it here. Hate it. I—
I don't know what I'm feeling anymore. There's anger—loads of that—but I can't separate what's sadness and what's pain and what's fatigue and what's that and what's this and—
I feel like I can't breathe properly anymore.
Today, I got a letter from my friends. They said I couldn't go to the HQ. I don't even know why I hoped. Don't even know why I asked. Fuck me—I'm so stupid. Why did I have to care? Why did I have to pray? Why did I have to believe like an idiot Gryffindor would?
I'm so tired and angry. I don't know anything anymore. I think I'm lonely, but I'm not sure. All I think about is getting out of here, and then this happens.
I'm not scared of death. I think I'm wishing for it now. Why does everything have to hurt?
Everything except you. I don't know why. You're like—you're—
You're fucking amazing. You're probably tired of me saying this, but I don't even know why. It's just—it's like you're part of another universe. You're so away from here, but I'm still able to talk to you, even if you don't answer back, but I can almost feel you and it's weird and strange and fantastic and—
It's like you're the only thing that's right now. The only thing I know is there—which is completely ridiculous because I doubt your existence every day—but screw me, right?
What do I know?
It's—I'm sorry. I've probably weirded you out, if you haven't been weirded out already from my previous letters.
You make me feel pathetic. Like I'm Harry. And that's okay—because I am Harry. And I want to be.
Sorry. I'm not making any sense.
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It's going to be my birthday soon. I know I've probably sent you at the very least two dozen of letters and have never gotten a reply… but it makes me wonder, y'know? Who are you? Oh well. It doesn't really matter much. Even if you were Lord-bloody-Voldemort himself, I probably wouldn't mind.
Because you've been there for me. Here, there, anywhere. When I'm broken, when I'm angry, when I'm mad… you've been there for all of me. And I appreciate that.
The Order sent me a letter a couple of days ago. Said I might be able to come back after my birthday. Dunno if they're lying or not—I wouldn't put it past them. I'm tired of hoping—I really am.
I can't bring myself to care anymore. It's so lonely here…
I don't hate them, but I don't love them either. Can't say I'm very fond of them right now. It's like the "first" of everything—you form an attachment to your first wand, your first teacher, your first candy… I'd say first love, but I don't think I've ever experienced it.
At one point, I thought I loved a girl named Cho Chang. Now? She was just a pretty face.
Anyways, I don't think the Order really cares about what goes on here, as long as I don't leave. How many beatings has it been since I got here? I haven't kept track. Too many times, too many broken bones, too many memories better left forgotten. Not once has the Order done anything.
I'm tired of being angry at them. I'm tired of being confused. Sometimes I just want to lay here and wait for the world to waste away with time. At least then my body wouldn't ache more than it usually does.
Sometimes I wish you'd say something to me. A part of me knows you're there, and another part doubts. I know that it's selfish to want that, but I do. You don't have to though. I understand. I don't want to overstep my boundaries—whatever they are.
Thank you, by the way, for treating Hedwig well. She always comes back from her flights preened and well fed. She's happy. It makes me smile to see her so enthusiastic. It's—it's been awhile… she's always just been so worried for me, and now there's you, and it's just…
I don't know how to describe it. It's almost surreal, but this has been going on long enough so I can tell it's not just some illusion my mind made up to keep me from doing something stupid.
Did you change me? Did something monumental happen while I was delirious in a pool of blood? I can't tell, but something about me feels… lighter. I think you did that. Whoever, whatever you are.
Thanks.
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D-do you remember my first letter? Where I was so confused, and hesitant, and just a little awkward?
Okay, a lot awkward. There you go—I said it.
Er, well… Yeah. A lot has happened since then, and then when you look back, not much has. I've still got broken bones, some new bruises; still hungry and thirsty and dirty. But then there's you. You're like a blot in the whole painting, though it'd probably be a pretty depressing picture. You were a blot, at first; a blot of color. And then… slowly, you became part of the painting. Whoever was painting this meshed you in.
You fit. You worked. You were part of everything. But you're still there—as you, whoever you are—and you're still bright and people will always look at you first if they ever see this picture… The only difference is that you're part of it all.
You're not some strange, far away figure that'll bring about the Armageddon or something if I don't worship you three times a day.
But, well, enough of that. I'm—you know, I'm still a teenager, and we're really stupid and can't form our words correctly, right?
We're just a big, fat, ugly mess. Take that literally or figuratively, anyway you like.
…I think I'm dying. Like, really dying.
Sorry for just throwing that at you.
It's—it's funny. Sort of. Okay, maybe not, but this whole thing started out with me saying I was going to die. And now I am. And this is probably my last letter to you.
But it's okay. Because you'll know. The only thing I regret is that I'm not going to feel you reading this, like I usually do.
But that's okay too. I can't have everything—probably never will. Definitely never will, in fact.
It's hard to write this—sorry, my handwriting is probably even crappier than it usually is—and not just because I'm seeing black spots either.
I want to see you. Meet you. Talk with you face to face. Will you know me? Will we talk like old friends? Will you scorn me? I want to know it all—the good and the bad. I want to hear the way you speak, whether it be with a strange accent or smooth and British. Whether it be masculine or feminine. Nervous and shy or confident and cocky.
Please don't regret never replying to me. I—
I—
Please, I—
Sorr—
Thank—
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A familiar sound of flapping wings came from the open window. The man sitting behind the desk stood, rising to meet his guest who had visited quite often over the summer. She came through with a beautiful glide, guiding her large wings through the open frame. Her normally pure white, lovely feathers were marred with slight streaks of red; blood, the man knew.
An arm lifted, on which she landed gracefully until the man conjured a perch for her. He watched as the unique owl landed, only eating the barest minimum needed from the food tray after such a long flight.
Hedwig had brought a solemn air with her, and suddenly the man knew. He knew and he dreaded that knowledge, or at least as much as he could with his broken personality.
With pale, bony fingers, Voldemort reached out to gently pry the expected letter from her foot. It came loose immediately, and the crinkled paper was easily unfolded as it usually was. His eyes flew across the page, drinking every single piece of it in, from the barely dotted 'i's to the drips of blood that increased as the letter went on.
:Massster?: The sibilant hiss of his loyal companion caused Voldemort to turn his head.
:Nagini,: he greeted back.
They did not speak again for a very long time. All that could be heard was the slight ruffling of Hedwig's feathers.
:Tomorrow,: Voldemort finally hissed, :the Order will fall. The day after, Hogwartsss. Then, the Minissstry.:
:Little Ssserpent,: she hissed back, :isss dead?: Nagini rose her body off the ground, tongue flickering towards the blood stained letter. So much blood—too much.
The dark lord did not answer her. Instead, he moved around to his desk and hissed out a parseltongue password, opening a drawer that had not seemed to be there before. It was filled with crinkled messages, each carefully preserved, and each in the same messy, chicken-scratch scrawl that spoke of nonexistent childhoods and inexperience with writing using quills. But that was probably all he managed to keep with him—a quill and some paper.
With strange gentleness, Voldemort placed the current letter—the final letter—on top of the rest. As the handwriting continued to degrade as the words continued, dried ink and blood smears caused the last few sentences to be illegible, even for him.
:Yesss,: Voldemort replied to her, :Harry Potter isss dead. And hisss birthday will be known to the world—even surpasssing the day I was vanquished. July 31st will alssso be known asss the death of Albusss Dumbledore.:
Nagini's tongue flickered in and out of her mouth as she hissed in contentment. A hand had risen to gently scratch her scales, and she bumped her head against her master's palm as he continued his ministrations.
:It'sss a sshame,: she quietly hissed.
:Yesss,: Voldemort replied, :It isss.:
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Harry appeared at what seemed to be a white King's Cross Station. It was… odd. He woke up, suddenly feeling all better, with no aches and pains, but he didn't remember falling asleep standing up. Or, well, dying upright, because he was pretty sure he died.
He looked down at himself, expecting blood stains, and instead he found his body was bare. Naked, just as the day he was born. It was odd how that thought didn't make him all too uncomfortable.
On a bench not far from where he stood, Harry saw the glistening silver of something familiar. He strode towards it, bending over slightly to grasp the material. Silky, velvet, thin cloth slid across his fingers, and he immediately identified it. His invisibility cloak.
Would he become invisible right now, if he put it on? Usually it wasn't a question, but now it made him wonder. If he was dead, what use was it to be invisible?
Gently, Harry pulled it around his shoulders, wrapping it about himself. It was… warm. Like a blanket for his soul. Maybe it was.
The sound of wailing met his ears and, startled, he turned his head left and right. There was nothing but whiteness, but the wailing was still there. Harry kneeled, looking under the bench.
A babe, looking unwell and sickly, was curled underneath.
He swallowed. Something felt… familiar about this—this thing. He knew it from somewhere. Carefully, Harry reached out to cradle it, managing to pull it from its spot and hold it against his bare chest. The wailing stopped, and the fetus nuzzled closer.
Yes. He knew what this was. Everything seemed to click into place—the letter, the feelings, Hedwig, everything.
For who better to send his insecurities to but another part of himself?
Harry smiled. He would wait here, in this mysterious white place, until the rest of them came, because he was certain they would.
With slow movements, he climbed onto the bench and laid down flat, adjusting the invisibility cloak to partially wrap around both of them like a cocoon. Perhaps when he woke, Voldemort would be there, ready to accept death together as they should be.
"And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."
After all, everything made sense now. He had been condemned to his death the moment Hedwig had left the window with his first letter… and how could they both live separate existences if they were two parts of a whole? Magic did not like the separation of a soul, and horcruxes were never as severed as Harry Potter and Tom Marvolo Riddle had been.
Through time. Through magic.
In the end, all that was left was to come together again.
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Death, Voldemort decided, was strange. He had chosen the path willingly, for one, after his long reign that lasted several hundred years, and had not expected it to come so quickly and easily. It wasn't like falling asleep—where you tossed and turned for hours on end until your mind decided to shut down—no, it was brisk and calm and he had barely felt the difference, like walking down the street. His stride remained steady, paced and smooth, but the scenery about him changed.
And changed it did.
He appeared to be in a train station, King's Cross to be exact. It hadn't changed much from the time he had been there. The surroundings were clean, pure and innocent, and there was no train in sight.
Voldemort felt a tug—a pull on his mind and heart—turning him to a certain direction. Several meters away was a body wrapped in velvet cloth, unmoving with something cradled to its chest. He moved closer, guessing who it was but wanting to make sure.
Harry Potter lay motionless upon a bench, eyes closed with no glasses upon his face, a fetus held close. He knew what it was immediately.
With a pale finger, Voldemort reached out to gently trace what had been the iconic lightning bolt scar. Had it really been so long since he had seen this boy?
His boy.
Eyelids flickered open, and green met red.
Harry smiled. "Welcome back," he breathily whispered.
"I'm sorry I was late," Voldemort replied.
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Whoa, that was a rather long chapter.... I didn't knew that I had that capability to write such a long chapter! So...... All of this was written yesterday night and today..... Using all the time I should have been sleeping......... So...... Enjoy!! (I know this was very lame..... Sorry)
P.S. I will update today again as I am having a writing fever (is that even a thing?) and as this is a one shot......
Bye :)