Love Letters to You

Elara had never found herself lacking. 

For better or for worse, she had been enough. 

Enough in her Lady Grandmother's eyes for all the blood and eyes she shares with her traitorous lord Father. 

Enough for her brother of soul that had searched for its other half. 

Enough for the Pureblood to bow to as they should, for the world to lower their eyes and heads because Elara is the Last Black, and she had proven herself worthy of that name. 

But when her Lord Father, innocent as it turns out of his most notorious crime, betraying the Potters and not leaving her for another family, comes to greet her with a tentative smile that only strangers wear, Elara knows that he finds her lacking. 

Maybe it is her hair, waves of silk and ebony like his, that he finds distasteful like her Lady Grandmother who would yank it harshly as Elara panted on the floor from a Crucio well-earned.

Maybe it is the Green she wears instead of Red, the scales of the snake she is - not her words - that seem to plague her face for her lord father does not look at her for more than a second before his eyes wander, a flash of ice and steel that she is too trained to ignore.

The joy he had worn only a minute ago has already been snuffed out, and Elara thinks that it is guilt that weighs on her tongue and leashes her words.

I heard that you had loved me.

Mother had said so.

It was a reassurance that her Lady mother would whisper, when disease didn't hold her tight into its grip, and Mother could still hold her hand.

"Blacks don't usually love. But my little star, your father did love you so." 

"Really?" little Elara would breathe like it was salvation. 

Mother would laugh softly. "How could he not love you?"

Mother used to say you loved me, Father. 

A silence stands between them, a wall of glass that neither wants to touch or approach. 

When did you stop? 

Blaise would never believe her if she ever had the foolish thought to tell him so, but Elara knows when she is unwanted. 

How can she not when Kreacher both loathes and adores her at the same time? Her House elf loves her when she wears ice for a face and loathes her when she smiles. 

Too much like her traitor of a father to him. 

Her Lady Grandmother too had not wanted her. Not at first, not till Elara had proven her Black blood that came with fire and blood and a kindness buried six foot deep. 

But, Elara thinks, shouldn't Fathers want their daughters? 

Lord Malfoy, Uncle Lucius when he is fonder of her, when she was claimed by the Malfoy magic, had wanted Draco, had adored him, and never stopped. 

Sirius Black looks at her like she should have never been there. 

Like she is a wand movement de trop, like a spell cast silently that should have never been allowed to cast. 

If you hadn't wanted me, why did you ask for me? 

She heard of how her Lord Father had escaped Azkaban to save Harry Potter.

The newspaper had written enough for a novel: Lord Black escapes for his godson, Heir Potter. But what of his daughter?

Elara wonders the same. 

What about me, Father?

Potter comes down, barreling down the stairs, already smiling and welcoming her in the Ancestral Home she had grown up in. As if he is the one at home while she is but a guest, already overstaying her welcome. 

"Elara!" He greets with a smile that always threatens to steal the very breath of her. "Welcome!" 

"Potter," she greets with a dip of the head. 

"How about Sirius show you your room, and I give you a tour afterwards, yeah?" he flippandly suggests like the oblivious Gryffindor that he is. Elara wonders where her lord Father had placed her, if he had even allowed her to room within the family pavillion? She knows the room she had called her own was Potter's, it is after all the the Heir's, the favorite's. 

"I don't need a tour, Potter, I lived here." Perhaps her words are a bit biting, a bit cutting because a frown creases her lord father's brows as Potter deflates, puppy ears downcasted. 

"Oi, no need to be rude. Did the Malfoy teach you any manners?" Her lord father snaps at her like a dog that bares his fangs. He spits her soul family's name like it is dirt and irreverence, and there is something in his eyes and the way he puts a hand to his hip that reminds her of the Crucio curse. 

Elara ducks her head like the good pureblood heiress she is to be. 

Because fire is only necessary when defending the family, the Name. 

From above her, because her lord father has already started to go up the stairs, already done with his wayward daughter whom he holds no care for, no interest for, she can hear his scoff. 

Potter glances at her, something in his emerald eyes, almost hesitant. It is a bad look on him. "Right,"he says with strained cheer. "Well, you're lucky, you only have to go up a few flight of stairs! I have to go all the way up." 

Elara, if she hadn't been raised by her lady Grandmother, would have, could have flinched. 

She is Heiress Black. 

She has lived here for the first eight years of her life, learning to be the Lady of the House. She knows it well, it is the place she calls home though she has bled there. It is the place where magic felt like a fire that almost burns but never too much for Elara to feel pain from it. 

Elara Vespera Black was the Lady of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black till her lord father came back and took it from her like he did with everything else. 

(He took her hopes away) 

Fourth floor is the family pavilion. 

Third floor is for the important and esteemed guests. 

Second is for the ones the House of Black has to host despite themselves. 

And Elara Vespera Black knows then and there that she will never be welcomed home again. 

Because her lord father doesn't love her. 

(Mother, you were a liar)

Elara finds her lord father in the drawing room, three bottle of fine whiskey empty around him. She tries to tiptoe away, knowing not to arouse him from his slumber lest he sees her and that grief with its sharps edges cut into her again. 

"I never wanted a daughter." 

The admission resonates inside the room. Something in Elara shrivels up, curls into itself and it hurts. But she knew that already. How can she not when the one who was supposed to be her father curls his lips in irritation and would snap at her for unkind looks she has never sent to freaking Potter. 

Lord Black continues as if he is not ruthlessly stomping on her heart. "Never wanted a wife either. But for the Greater Good, Dumbledore said. Fucking greater good. Told him it wouldn't work, whatever plan he had. Didn't believe me, and now, I'm stuck with you."

"House Black lives on." Elara tries. She knows not if it will make her Lord's apparent pain worth it, but she thinks maybe it will help. Of course, it doesn't. 

Lord Black spits at that. "House Black should have died with me. Or went to Harry-" of course, precious Potter is on her Lord's lips like the boy is salvation. And maybe he is because he keeps Elara sane, alone in this house that should have been her home, but the current compagny taints all fond childhood memories of the place. "I don't know why he is so fond of you. You will ruin him."

"Like you have ruined him?" Elara bites her tongue, but Lord Black only barks out a dark laugh. 

"Yes," he looks considering as he glances at her, grey eyes muddled. "Blacks don't love, you know." 

"I know." It is part of her lessons. 

"But I think I love him." 

Elara understands, it is hard not to love Potter. But there is something in her throat that twists, like thorns that climb up her airway and scrape her lungs raw till she breathes blood. 

You were supposed to love me too.

"You know, I never understood love." Her Lord confides with whiskey for breath. "Saw everyone love and love and I kept asking, when are they going to stop? What about you, daughter?" He says that word like it is a curse and Elara feels like it is one. "Do you think love makes sense?"

"No." She steals a glass bottle from the little cabinet, amber water easily finding its way down her throat and the burn of it only worsens. She smiles as she welcomes it, but pain makes her eyes heavier. "It'll never make sense." 

Lord Black smiles sardonically, a better smile at his daughter's pain than at her presence in his life. "Oh, little perfect Slytherin Black got her heart broken? By who? So I can send him flowers." 

Kreacher used to tell her that her lord father was a cruel boy as a child. Cruel and selfish and only brought grief and shame to the House of Black. 

It appears that Azkaban hasn't taken away that cruelty. 

Maybe that is something they share, Elara and her father. 

They take joy in other's misery and lines and morals never exist in their mind. 

It is the Black's curse. 

Elara wonders if it was Potter who couldn't understand love, if it was the perfect Gryffindor, then perhaps her Lord would find in himself a smidge of sympathy for his godson and heir. 

If it was Potter who got heartbroken, Sirius Black would raize down the world and destroy the one who dared to break the boy's heart. 

But because it is Elara, Sirius Black would only send flowers. As thanks, perhaps. 

Elara only smiles in answer before taking away the last whiskey bottle with her to drain alone in the guest room of her childhood home. It wouldn't be the first time she just wanted to forget. She doesn't answer, it would bring her lord too much pleasure. 

Distantly, the Black heiress wonders if it is only her. 

The child who got heartbroken by her father.

Before Elara leaves, she cannot help but remark, "I heard you loved me before." Maybe it is alcohol that loosens her tongue and makes her Gryffindor blood act out. Lord Black hums contemplatively. "What happened?" she asks. 

"Guess I just ran out of it." 

"Yet, you love Potter." 

"Yet I love Harry." 

I just couldn't keep loving you goes unsaid. 

It's fine. 

Because it turns out that Elara is her father's daughter after all. 

She loves Potter too. 

And like her father, she never did manage to love herself. 

Oh, but Father, did you know?

I loved you. 

I had wished for your love before I knew what you were. 

I have loved you and I have to live with that.