Love Letters to You

Harry James Potter has always dreamed of a family, a home where scorn and resentment didn't linger in the shadows, a home where the love was limitless and freely given. 

(He should have known he would find no such things in the Black's home)

"Welcome to the Ancestral home of the House of Black," Sirius says sardonically with a grand, sweeping gesture. 

Harry gives a small chuckle. "Dreary place," he remarks. 

Sirius gaffs, his laugh more of a bark than an actual one. "Horrible place," he agrees. He then sighs, shoving a hand in his old jeans. Shadows dance on his gaunt face as if Azkaban still hasn't entirely left his godfather. "Horrible, horrible place." 

"So, why did you choose it?" Harry asks. 

Sirius only ruffles his hair, laughing when Harry bats away his hand, complaining. "Don't got a choice, being Lord Black and all." 

It is odd, almost like a paradox to see Sirius curl his lips into a sneer as he mentions his family when Elara, his daughter, holds her name like it is both a shield and a crown. 

Harry clears his throat, feet shuffling well despite himself. "Elara's coming soon?" 

And then, the oddest thing happens. 

Sirius wilts and then turns cold. His eyes, grey and darker than his daughter's (not that Harry looks at those often, he does not), almost seem harsher at the mere mention of her name. A mere trick of the light. "Guess so, but she'll only be here after you get used to the place."

Ah, Sirius doesn't want to overwhelm her. 

Smart. 

"How did she react to all of it?" Harry can't help but ask. He remembers Elara, fire in her eyes and magic on her fingertips, snarling at the mention of her father's name. The Gryffindor knows there is something in their relationship that is almost taboo, untouched with much left unsaid behind the cracked family.

The letters the two exchange must be fiery. Does Sirius laugh at his daughter's silver tongue the same that Harry laughs when he gets to bicker with Elara?

(he also remembers how silver and pretty her eyes looked up close, like starlight held into pearls. How her body was soft and warm under his hands, and even as he pressed his wand to her, Elara's fire never died)

Sirius shrugs. "As well as a Slytherin can react," he then smirks. "Probably frothing of the mouth because she lost her status."

"She's no longer Lady Black?" Something in Harry twinges at that. The Gryffindor doesn't know Elara that well, to be honest, not in the way he knows Ron and Hermione. He only knows her as the pretty Slytherin Princess who, somehow, is kinder and softer than the ones she calls friends. 

Sure, she's vicious as hell when push comes to shove, but she wears her title like a crown and is nobless oblige incarnated. 

Harry likes to think of her as a friend, though he knows that the Slytherin House would sooner hex the living shit out of him if he decides to act as one. 

"Not till I draw breath," Sirius pauses, considering and softening. "And if you don't want the title." 

Which is odd, almost baffling, because Harry is a Potter and not a Black. 

"I'm not a Black," he points out.

"And that's a good thing." 

Harry blinks at that. Aren't the Blacks practically royalty? 

"I don't want to be Lord Black anyway," Harry remarks. "Elara's Lady Black as far as I'm concerned."

"If you're so sure, Prongslet. But let me know if you decide otherwise." 

"I won't. You can't just take that away from Elara." Harry protests. Call him a puppy drunk on love or a decent human being, but it isn't fair and though he knows that life isn't fairà - Merlin knows how much life treated him like shit - Harry cannot do that to Elara. 

He cannot do that to the girl that smiles so sweetly to him, a smile that is like gold dripping from the sun, rare but infinitely precious. No, Harry refuses to be the reason why Elara Black loses her smile. 

Sirius almost looks surprised at his vehemence, as if he did not expect the Gryffindor to hold his own daughter in high esteem. "You like her, or something?" Sirius asks as they enter the Manor, the feeling of misery and grief heavy around them like a ghost that lingers, shackled to the very foundations of the building. 

"She's a nice girl," Harry responds with faked ease in his voice, trying to smooth out all affection that Ron swears he always uses when talking about Slytherin's darling. It wouldn't do to look lovestruck around Elara's father, Harry doesn't want to be hexed by an overprotective Sirius, thank you very much. 

Sirius does something complicated with his face. "She's a Black." 

As if it means something. 

"She's Elara."

Before they were Potter and Black, before they were Gryffindor and Slytherin, they had started off as simply Harry and Lara. 

Two kids rolling their eyes in Madam Malkin's shop at the pretty girl's brother who lectured grown witches over shades of greys and silvers. 

Sirius nods slowly, his eyes glazing as if he is no longer there. His hand twitches as if unconsciously trying to grasp onto something that is slipping away. "She's Elara- my He-" 

"Filthy traitor master is back," a voice interrupts, and Sirius immediately scowls, hatred twisting his features and a sneer most often seen on the most hateful Slyterins painting his lips. 

"Filth"

Harry had never thought Sirius could sound so hateful. 

Till he did. 

As pathetic as it sounds (Seamus's words, not his), Harry immediately recognizes the voice that drifts sweetly from downstairs. It is posh, delicate with a careful pronunciation and it is Elara's.

(he's heard it yelled a thousand time and more in Hogwarts, exasperated and fond at the same time in a way he knows only he can make Elara Vespera Black do so)

He almost wrenches the door open in his haste, stumbling and barreling through the stairs. Only his skills as a Seeker are enough to save him from nose diving to Elara's feet. Thank Merlin for small mercies. 

"Elara!" He greets, beaming from ear to ear. Because without the more conservative Slytherins around, when it is just Lara and Harry, he sees someone no one else (except sodding Draco Malfoy) will ever know. "Welcome!" 

"Potter," she greets with a dip of the head, posture perfect as usual and an emerald blouse tucked neatly into her skirts. By the familiar warmth in the tip on his ears, Harry knows he is blushing. How can he not when he sees Elara so clearly favoring emerald, his eye color? 

(no matter how much she denies it, Harry knows better now and it is something he never lets her forget)

"How about Sirius show you your room, and I give you a tour afterward, yeah?" he suggests. It gladdens him to be able to, for once, show her something. After all, it had been Elara to introduce him to many wizarding things, all in the name of curing his stupidity, but still. 

Only, Elara's features, more hesitant than he had ever seen them before, harden slightly. 

"I don't need a tour, Potter, I lived here." 

Which, ah, he didn't know. Harry gives her a sheepish smile, hand scratching at the back of his neck.

"Oi, no need to be rude. Did the Malfoy teach you any manners?" Sirius butts in. Unnecessary, but well-meant. After all, Sirius doesn't know that, unlike all rumors alike, he and Elara don't try to tear each other throat's at the soonest opportunity.

Only on Wednesdays. 

Elara ducks her head. It is a jarring sight, one so disturbing Harry almost stumbles down the rest of the stairs, but manages to catch himself at the last second. 

Elara never ducked her head. Her chin is always raised, confident in her name and prowesses. 

Sirius scoffs as he climbs up the stairs, probably to go back to the solar to continue his cleaning, only pausing to ruffle Harry's hair fondly. Which rude because Harry had actually made an attempt today at taming his hair, more of a bird nest than not. His godfather doesn't think to bid his own daughter goodbye, which makes Harry hesitant, unsure. 

"Right,"he says with strained cheer. "Well, you're lucky, you only have to go up a few flights of stairs! I have to go all the way up."

Elara only nods, for once, silent. 

There isn't a smile, small but so precious, playing at her lips.

There are no witty remarks and mischief hidden behind clever words.  

Harry cannot help but think that silence doesn't suit Elara Vespera Black. 

Too bad that is what he gets for the entire day. 

It starts out small. 

Small gestures that are love and care that Sirius is free with every time his godfather is with Harry. Yet those same gestures are nowhere to be seen when it is just the Lord Black and his daughter. 

A seat at Sirius's right when Harry knows it is the Heir's, the daughter's right to sit at her father's right. 

Harry tried to change it, correct the mistake that could be biting as an insult which Sirius probably doesn't remember, Azkaban having stolen away his softer, more refined side.

Harry knows his godfather. 

And the Sirius he knows wouldn't be so needlessly cruel. Not when he loves them. 

However, switching seats only gets Elara sharp words, the kind that Aunt Petunia would say with a smile to her neighbors. The ones that only holds malice. 

"Potter," Elara asks, a careful, cold smile on her lips. "Please pass me the duck?" 

Harry grabs her plate, carefully adding duck to it before giving it back with a smile. "There," he says, almost proudly. 

There's a pause. Did Harry make a faux pas? Again? (it wouldn't be the first time) 

"Ah," Elara breathes out gently. Her eyes, grey and stormy, glance up to him almost as if shy. "Thank you." 

Harry smiles, but it dies into a line as Sirius, whiskey already heavy in his breath, pipes in.

"Little Slytherin can't get it herself, can she?" Sirius grumbles at his plate and Elara falters. She folds her hands neatly as she says, "My apologies, Potter, for bothering you." 

Harry frowns. "It's fine, Elara." He pointedly adds, louder to make a point, "always a pleasure." 

Sirius scoffs, pouring another whiskey shot. "You don't know what always means, kid. You don't want to say always to a Black. Especially not that one." 

Alright, that's it. Harry understands Sirius is hurting, having spent last night with Moony, and had been woken up in the midst of a nightmare, like he was back in Azkaban, but it doesn't excuse his rudeness that borderlines scorn towards his daughter. He puffs out his chest, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as indignation colored his every move. 

But before he can do anything else, Elara's careful voice, too neutral, too unchanging for it to be natural, echoes in the eating room. "It's alright, Harry." She smiles gently at him though there is a sadness to her smile, which Harry doesn't understand. "And do not worry, Lord Father. I won't misunderstand." 

"Good," Sirius nods. "Remember your place." 

Harry stands up at that. Fire in his chest, he turns to his godfather, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Stop being an arse Sirius!" 

His godfather softens, vaguely apologetic. "Sorry, Prongslet." 

And Harry doesn't notice at first, in the moment, because he is young and still wearing the lens of a kid desperate for a family, but Sirius doesn't apologize to Elara.

He never does. 

I wonder. 

Elara, did your father ever apologize to you?

Did he ever kiss your forehead?

Did he ever just hold your hands to tell you I'm here like he did to me?

(I know he didn't. I know he would prefer you a ghost and unseen by us. I know it now when the hurts are years old.)

I'm sorry you had to see it. 

I never wanted to bring you pain. 

(But now, I know that I did so anyway)

Elara used to go seek refuge in the drawing room sometimes, Harry noticed. She would tuck herself away in the corner, wave her hand as if casting a charm, and a quiet, soft melody would play as her fingers danced on the piano keys. 

It was pretty, quiet and vulnerable the way that Elara had never allowed herself to be. 

At first, she had been shy, stopping her playing as soon as she caught sight of Harry who couldn't help but linger awkardly around just to hear her play. And then, slowly, she started to continue, letting Harry bask in the quiet comfort that her presence and music brought. 

It was their place. 

Away from the odd tension that lingered around the house. 

Away from the world. 

Till one day, Elara doesn't stop by the drawing room, steps suddenly hurried as she rushes past its entrance and dark grey eyes resolutely staring straight ahead as if merely looking into the room would make her crumble into pieces. 

Harry pokes out his head from the drawing room, hand grasping at Elara's thin wrist as she passes by. "Elara?" he asks softly. He tries to direct her to the couch inside the drawing room so they can talk and she can rest, the shadows beneath her eyes all too telling, but she shakes her head, wrenching her hand away from him. 

She never did so, even when the world thought the worst of him. 

Elara never flinched away from Harry's touch. 

The Slytherin's eyes are wild, like a cornered animal baring her fangs, and magic dances on her fingertips. 

"Do not," she snarls before almost fleeing. She still hasn't looked in the room, at the couch where they used to read, each tucked in at opposite sides.

Harry chases. 

"Do not what, Elara?" 

She doesn't respond, but Harry won't let her go away, not when there is grief and sorrow in her eyes and shame dipping her chin. Harry cannot because that is not the Elara he knows, and he wonders who he has to hex to take it all away. 

"Elara!" he calls out, only to get ignored.

What did Zabini used to say again. Ah, aux grand moeux, les grands moyens. 

"Lara!" 

Elara stops at her nickname, the one Harry had lost all rights to when he foolishly ignored her in the midst of their Sorting.

(Harry will always remember the pride, so brilliant and mesmerazing, that shone in Elara's eyes as the Sorting Hat yelled out a definitive Slyterin.

And while the Green and Silver House had cheered loudly, ringing all around them, Harry had stopped smiling. Because Slytherins were evil and there she was, a Black when he was the boy who lived. 

He had seen Elara's eyes seek his eyes and looked away. 

But Harry had been too slow not to notice how Elara's bright grin had died into a small smirk. 

It was the first time Harry had seen Elara stop smiling around him. 

He never wants it to happen again.)

Harry catches up to Elara who paused at her nickname. Probably seething at his gall to use it, but Harry will say it over and over again for her to wait for him. Yet, the Gryffindor falters when he sees tears, angry but tears all the same, welling in her eyes. 

It is like Harry's world shatters. 

Because Elara isn't supposed to cry. 

It is like seeing the sun at night. 

Impossible. 

Harry liked to think of himself as one of the fews who could steal a smile from Elara. Zabini, after a Quidditch party and drunk on victory had told him so. Harry had always been able to see Elara smile. 

"Don't you come near me, Potter," she snarls. 

"Why?" His question is soft in its inquiry. 

"None of your business."

"Lara," she shoots a glare at him but he ignores it with ease. "You gotta tell me what's going on. I can't read minds like you do." 

Elara rolls her eyes. Her voice is softer now. "I don't read minds. Without consent. You make me sound horrible."

Harry lets out a small chuckle. "You couldn't be terrible even if you tried." He pauses, flashes of Parkinson's crumbled, snot running face from First year coming to his mind. "Most of the time." 

"Always, apparently." There is bitterness in her voice, something that eats her inside. 

"They usually deserve it." 

The Slytherin tilts her head. "And did I deserve it too?" 

Her question doesn't make sense. There is a lack of context that leaves Harry confused and floundering. "Deserve what." 

Elara doesn't answer. She just tiptoes and ruffles his hair gently. "Sirius really loves you." 

Harry blinks. Well, that was random. "I mean, I'm his godson. He loves you too." 

Something like pity dances in her eyes. "Mm." Elara then turns away. "See you around, Potter." 

"Harry." 

She pauses. Careful, hesitant. Grief-stricken. "Harry," she repeats. 

And Harry beams. 

Harry had always known that he was a Gryffindor at heart, a Slytherin when in Privet Drive. 

He knows he is no Ravenclaw. 

But still. 

Like Elara would remark casually, there is a limit to stupidity. 

The Gryffindor doesn't know when it finally clicks. It isn't a dawning moment that makes his vision all that clearer, at least, not in the middle of a moment. 

No, everything finally starts to make sense when he catches Sirius in the middle of a nightmare, where his defenses are low and dementors, though they are nowhere near them, still haunt his every breathing moments. 

His godfather is twisting, curled into a ball though a hand stretches out, at something only Sirius sees. There is grief and madness in his godfather's eyes, longing in his voice as he calls out something. 

"My heart-" Sirius chokes a trembling sob that wrecks his body. "My Ela- I'm so sorry. Little Star, don't go-"

His features twist in pure agony. 

"PLEASE, DON'T GO"

And he jerks awake, all of the grief and longing suddenly gone, leaving a darker version of Sirius behind.  

"Padfoot?" Harry hesitantly calls out. "You alright?" 

Sirius straightens, brushing away absentmindedly the tears that had rolled down on his face. "Oh, Prongslet." He sits up, patting the spot next to him. "Yeah, yeah, sorry about that." He then smiles in self-hatred. "Sorry that you saw your old godfather like that." 

"It's alright." God knows how many times Harry had woken up screaming out from a nightmare in which Voldemort lingers with cruelty at the end of his wand. "What were you dreaming of?"

What did you dream of for you to scream for Elara, the daughter you never gave the time of the day?

"I-" Sirius pauses, something haunted in his eyes. "I don't remember. Something from the War, maybe. It was- It was horrible." 

Harry is so grateful that Elara isn't there to hear him. 

It would break even the strongest person to hear something like that. Especially from someone who they longed to finally meet. 

"It sounded horrible," Harry says carefully. 

Sirius has a hand to his chest. Where his heart lays, scarred from Azkaban. He rubs it as if trying to soothe an ache, a hurt he cannot reach. "Yeah."

When Harry finally leaves the room, he is met with Elara's startled eyes. His jaw clenches at the sight of her in her nightgown with ebony hair loose that shadows her face in the hallway. 

"You aren't supposed to be here." She isn't supposed to be here, close enough for her to hear this. To be tortured by Sirius, who is so often lost in the shadows of the past and the war and Azkaban. 

She flinches at his words. 

Wait, he didn't meant it like that. He has to apologize, take it back. 

"Sirius shouldn't see you."

Godamnit Potter. 

Harry wants to crawl in a hole and die, slap himself silly because he knows his words are barbed, prickly but it is late and sleep makes his mind muddled and all he can think of is that Elara doesn't deserve to see her father in such a poor state. She shouldn't have to hear his cruelty when the ghost of Azkaban lingers around her father and sucks all goodness out of him. 

But like everything in his life, the Potter Luck strikes true again and everything goes to shit. 

Someone snorts behind him. "Too late for that." 

Elara curtsies. "Lord Black."

Bloody hell. 

She must have heard Sirius literally forget about wanting her around, hearing him recall only pain and suffering that he thinks is because of the war and not his own daughter. 

"Daughter." Somehow, Sirius manages to make it sound like a curse. "Pity to see you here." 

Elara doesn't flinch the same way she did with Harry. Instead, she nods as if agreeing with those cruel words. 

Harry can't take it, not now, not anymore. He is sick of hearing an echo of Aunt Petunia in Sirius's care for Elara.

Sirius is supposed to be better than the Dursleys, he is supposed to be good.

"Goddamit, Sirius, can't you be civil for once?" Harry bites out. 

Sirius scowls. "Not to her. Never to her." He spits on the floor, and Harry, Harry snaps. 

Years of wondering why, why is Dudley more beloved, why can't he even get a smidge of the love and care his Aunt has for her son catches up to him. 

He grasps Sirius by the collar, shoving him into the wall. 

"Fucking hell, Pronsglet, why are you getting so worked up over that." 

That as if it isn't his own flesh and blood, Elara, the girl who Harry cares so much for he sometimes forgets how to breathe. 

Her voice pipes in. "Yeah, Potter-" oh, so they are back at Potter now. What about the progress they had made together? "I don't need a knight in shining armor to defend me." 

"Cause no one would ever care to help," Sirius adds, an ugly smirk on his chapped lips. 

Elara's voice is cold, ice in her tone as it whips out, "Talking big for someone who has been abandoned by his precious Order in Azkaban."

"Talking big for someone who shouldn't have been born." 

W-

What?! 

"Sirius! You, you can't say that! She's, she's your fucking daughter!" 

"She's no daughter of mine!" Sirius is hysteric, madness holding his mind and not letting go. "She's nothing." 

Elara walks up to them. Slowly, like one would approach a cornered beast. And they both are probably beasts in her eyes, too violent and cruel for them to even be considered human. 

"You say nothing. But you dreamed of me," oh no, for how long was she here? "You called me little Star." her voice hitches, but her smile is sharp, daring. "Yet you can't even look at me. Why?"

Sirius remains silent to her question. Harry presses him harder into the wall. "Why?" he repeats after her. 

"Because every time I look at you," grey meets grey, "all I see is Azkaban. All I remember is Azkaban. The Dementors." Sirius's voice becomes harsher in his frenzy. "Have you ever been close to dementors? They suck you dry, they take and take and take till all there is left is that empty void in your chest. Like you are missing something that burns and burns because you can't even fucking remember it. I can't look at you because you remind me of all the bad things this world holds. Because everything I look at you, I feel sick." 

Have you ever seen a train wreck in slow motion? 

How about the aftermath? 

It is destruction and fire. 

And its casualty is Elara's smile. 

It dies in a blaze of venom and hatred. 

And a part of Harry, too, dies alongside it.