Love Letters to You

BREAKING NEWS: LESTRANGE MANOR RAZED TO THE GROUND

In a shocking turn of event, Lestrange Manor, home to the Noble House of Lestrange and unplottable till last night, is found by the Aurors. Only, instead of a grand castle with imposing towers and a long history, our Auror force only finds smoldering ruins, history torn into pieces and splattered with ancient and pure blood. 

Bellatrix Lestrange, Lady of the Lestrange, and her Lord Husband are found, beheaded, burned beyond mesure and their wand hand more a mess of torn muscles and bone than anything else. 

What happened?

BREAKING NEWS: DOLOHOV, MACNAIR AND OTHER PUREBLOODS FOUND DEAD, A DARK MARK CARVED INTO THEIR CHEST ALONGSIDE THE ONE THEY WEAR ON THEIR LEFT ARM

BREAKING NEWS: RESCUE OF TED TONKS. WHY WOULD ONE MUDBLOOD BE SPARED OF THE MINISTRY'S REGISTRY

The Second Wizarding War is bloody, with heavy casualties on both sides. Harry would like to say that the Order did its best, but a small part of him, the one that stood silent when a girl he once knew tortured a teacher who would rather see him dead, thinks otherwise. 

He thinks of the children, people he roamed the halls of Hogwarts with, dead on the battlefield, fighting for adults. 

He thinks of Hermione, who still wakes up at night, apologies tumbling from her lips because as much as she was ruthless during the war, his best friend abhors the cruelty the Death Eaters made her fall back on. 

He thinks of Ron, his left hand gone to a curse, but better that than Fred's life, right? 

An evil or the other. 

They are seventeen. 

With more blood on their hands than the adults who hid behind empty words of mercy, of goodness as if it had saved anybody. 

Fuck goodness, Harry thought as Luna collapses from a curse that Doholov, and he tries to tear the Death Eater's throat open with a well-placed Sectusempra. 

He should have remembered that it was one of Snape's spells and as such, his buddies would know how to heal from its damage. 

But still, having that asshole's blood spilled is a poor gift to soothe his fury, much less when Luna still wears his scars to this day.

Harry carries those, too. 

Some are physical, others less so. Some are etched into his mind like the Hocrux he bore for 17 years, the worst being carved into his heart in the form of absence, a yearning that can never be answered, never be grasped. 

Such is the price of being the Chosen One, the one who had to fight for a world that would have cowered even as thousands were massacred. 

The Gryffindor holds multiple titles as for now: the Chosen One, the Boy who Lived, the Man who Conquered. It comes with responsibility, a political weight that, if not for his time with the Slytherin Court, he would not know much of, much less wield as corrupted officials try to escape righteous punishment. 

Surprisingly, there are few names that Harry can recognize among those convicted. Goyle, he knows, but the Slytherin has only been a foot soldier, judged so incompetent his sole crime is to wear the Dark Mark. 

Parkinson, Harry can barely reconcile the proud girl with the woman who stands before the court, accused of torturing fellow students. She stands alone, with alone the Ministry appointed lawyer for her defense, though she offers none. The dark-haired girl only juts out her chin proudly.

"I have never done anything criminal," she sneers. 

The judge, one Peneloppe Clearwater, quirks a brow at that. 

In the audience, there are disbelieving snorts. 

"You have murdered over a dozens of Muggles and have tortured countless students this last year. And you claim it is not a crime?"

Parkinson offers no response directly to Clearwater. Harry doesn't know if it is because she is a Muggle-born, and as such, the proud pureblood refuses to even address someone she views so low. 

Yet, that isn't the case. 

The Parkinson heiress, not that her House holds any prestige or asset after the war, allows her gaze to roam throughout the courtroom before settling on Harry. She smiles, all teeth and venom as she speaks, her gaze never faltering. "I have done nothing that your precious Black hadn't done before the War. Yet, where is her trial?" 

Harry's jaw clenches at the mention of Elara Black's name. 

It is one he has tucked away for a while now. 

Maybe it is to spare himself some grief, to not remember the girl that has left Britain behind without a single glance back the day Dumbledore left. 

Maybe it is because he knew how Voldemort could sometimes haunt his dreams and didn't want to give the fucker more ammunition against him during the war. Not that it did any help; everyone and their grandmothers know of the grand love story between the Light's Golden Boy and Slytherin's Princess. 

And it's subsequent end. 

"It is not Lady Black who is on trial here," Clearwater points out. 

"Because the traitor left." 

Eyes drift towards Harry, almost as if on instinct. Journalists bend over the stands, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of any sorrow, grief that their precious savior could wear. 

Harry gives them none of the satisfaction. 

Parkinson then laughs. It's the same laugh she used when they were children, only sharper. "Hurt, didn't it, Potter? To know your precious Lara abandoned you to the Dark Lord."  

It did. 

But like always, Harry had to accept it and move on. 

It shows that Parkinson has grown alongside Elara Black, has learned from the Slytherin's Court because she catches the smallest flinch from her words. And like a shark smelling blood, she pounces, gleefully pouring salt into a wound that though old, has never healed right. "Black's probably married, right now. Living her happily ever after with her pureblood husband. Maybe even Nott? He always did like her."

Hermione grasps his wand hand tightly. To ground him, to restrain him from cursing the ever-loving shit out of Parkinson. 

Because though Harry has grown, learned to temper his fire and Gryffindor's audacity, it is always the mere mention of Elara that makes all of that crumble. It takes the ground from underneath him, pushes him into a dark, bottomless ocean with only Elara Black's name and memory as oxygen. 

Even three years gone, Elara Black makes him breathe. 

Parkinson's words linger inside of Harry's mind, a poison he has yet to found a cure for: that Elara Black has married and has moved on from whatever they had between them. 

Harry knows it wasn't love. 

Not for a lack of trying, but perhaps the Fates could be to blamed, to care so much for one another, for a promise of true love that was ripped away with the official return of Voldemort. 

It might not have been love, but only because they could not put words to their feelings, to their relationship. 

It might have not been love they shared. 

But-

Oh, who is he kidding?

There are few facts that remain ever so constant in life. 

The sky is blue. 

The sun will rise every morning. 

And Harry James Potter and Elara Vespera Black were in love with each other. 

Are in love with each other, pardon him. 

Oh, though Elara has only said it once or twice to his face, Harry knows she loved him as much as he loves her. How can he not when she wakes up in his arms and instead of slipping away, she cuddles closer, pressing soft, feathery kisses on his jaw, whispers of "i love you" slipping from her in a quiet secret that Harry pretended to remain oblivious too. 

Every time she would charm his glasses before his Quidditch matches were silent love confessions. 

Every time she fell apart in his arms, she left herself vulnerable in both pain and pleasure; it was love. 

Yet, for all that Harry is certain of Elara Black's love for him - at least once, at least once in their life, she had loved him - he isn't so sure now. 

How could he not when she left?

Left with his heart in her hands, left with her closest friends, her Court without a single glance back, without the smallest hesitation. 

Harry should have known it would happen. 

All the signs were there, yet Harry - Gryffindor and still not so proficient when it comes to politics - could not see it. 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Harry asks, a small laugh in his voice, blinking his eyes open to gaze at Elara. She is smiling softly, silver eyes fixed on him, as her right-hand brushes a few strands of hair away and traces his cheekbones and jaw. 

"Like what?" she asks, fluterring her eyelashes innocently. She looks beautiful in his bed, the morning sun hitting her ebony hair yet it remains as dark as it is. 

Harry catches her hand into his own, pressing it to his cheek. "You know what," he pouts as he nuzzles into her open palm. 

She giggles. 

It sounds like bells, bright and light. If Harry could, he would capture its sound to listen to it everyday. 

"I'm trying to carve you into my mind," she says. She then laughs. "Aren't you adorable, Potter. You're blushing because of little me?"

Harry's cheeks are indeed warm. But it does not stop him from answering her. "You don't need to try so hard to remember my face, Lara," he says. 

"No?"

Harry nods seriously. "After all, you'll wake up to it for the rest of your days."

Something flashes in her eyes, too quick for Harry to try and decipher it. Her smile falters for the briefest second before resettling on her lips. Harry does not think to question it. he should have. Instead, Elara pushes forward, dropping a small kiss to his lips. Harry tries to press forward to steal another kiss, but she cups her jaw instead. "I like the sound of that." Her voice is fragile as if it can shatter at any moment. 

Harry kisses her once more. 

"Me too."

Elara Black's last kiss tasted like goodbye though Harry hadn't noticed it because he had never thought of such a possibility. Elara had always seemed grander than life, beloved by those he called enemy and respected even among other everyday wizard. 

"Do not break my sister's heart, Potter." 

Harry laughs goodnaturedly. "If anything, she's the one who could break my heart, Malfoy. I could never break Lara's heart."

Malfoy nods. Unlike the times before, there is no anger in his frame, no bitterness in his eyes at the sight of him. He turns to leave, but pauses. 

"You do know that Elara loves you, right?" he asks. The Slytherin has his back turned to Harry, and so, the Potter heir cannot see whatever expression the blonde is wearing. Yet, oddly enough, he thinks it is something soft, hesitant. Unlike all masks that the Malfoy heir tend to wear around the Golden trio. 

"I know."

"Good," Malfoy pauses, squares his shoulders. "But Lara is the Lady of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. You aren't the only - thing - that she loves." 

"I know." 

"For what it is worth, Potter," Malfoy almost sounds grief-stricken, but he knows he misheard it. In Harry's humble opinion, it's probably a side effect of being near First Years who scream out their excitement a bit too often. "I'm sorry."

Two days later, the Slytherin Court vanishes. 

A month passes when Elara Vespera Black leaves Britain. 

Barely days after, the Lestrange Manor is burned into the ground. 

Neville frames the article. 

People wonder how it happened. After all, few could even hope and try to break the ancient pureblood's wards or even try to stand up to Bellatrix Lestrange, an Azkaban escapee, the Dark Lord's strongest lieutenant and a Daughter of the House of Black.

Voldemort is furious and his wrath is so agonizing that Harry blacks out before he can try and ponder further over it. 

Another Order member dies. 

Harry forgets to ask. 

The war is continuing. 

Now that the Second Blood War has ended, peace settles if a bit uneasily. 

Bridges were burned at that time, a clear divide between some wizarding folks and others. If most are trying to go back as to before the war, the Purebloods that remain seem oddly quiet. Harry had expected murders, revenge plans and while some do, most of the pureblood Houses lay low. 

While some are too busy cannibalizing themselves in a bid for ministerial power, desperate to curry favor with the Savior, the Lord of the Noble House of Potter, the Dark faction only watches. 

They were preparing for something, though Harry and the Order notice it too late. 

A meeting is called in the Pucey Manor, one that makes most of the Order members wary.

There is no attack after. 

Some like Lavender breathe easier. 

Others, like Harry, don't. 

Then, the Noble and Ancient House of Shaqif invites all Wizarding Nobility and Upper Class for a Winter Solstice Ball. 

Something, Harry cannot help but think, is about to happen. 

Harry almost stumbles as something quick and heavy runs into him. It is only years of Quidditch and of fighting that stops him from crashing on the floor. He deflty catches the small body that has collided with him. 

"Woah," he laughs, righting the small boy. "That one was close." 

"My apologies, I didn't mean to run over you," the child apologizes, bowing his head and torso. He cannot be older than five yet his voice is posh, stead and sure. A pureblood then, Harry thinks, a foreign one at that for he does not trip over himself in front of Harry's scar. In fact, he barely looks at it, though his silver eyes almost hungrily roam over Harry's face. 

"It's quite alright," Harry smiles. He crouches down so that they are eye to eye. He dusts the child's coat. There is some Floo powder still lingering on the velvet of his Wizarding cloak. "Now, where were you rushing over like that? You could have fallen." 

The child, adorable and beautiful with aristocratic and regal features, nods. "Mother did warn me not to rush," his voice caresses the word Mother with fondness. "I was just too excited." 

"Is it your first time in England?" Harry asks. 

"I was born here. So I was told." 

He does have a British accent, though it is barely noticeable. His hair, ruffled and unruly, frame his small face, making his eyes all the more striking. 

"Do you need help?" the Gryffindor asks, extending a hand.

The child pauses, sharp eyes lingering on the callouses of Harry's hands as if searching for threats - which is so adorable, it makes Harry want to ruffle his hair and mess it up more than it already is - but takes it anyway. 

But it is his lips, the slope of his jaw, that makes Harry pause.

They are eerily familiar. 

As if Harry had already seen them before. 

"That would be appreciated, thank you. I will pay you this debt soon enough."

"Of course, kid. You don't need to pay me back or whatever," Harry says absentmindedly.

The child frowns at that. Harry has already seen this frown somewhere. "It would be bad manners."

"It's fine, don't worry about it." 

His nose too, is familiar. 

It is on the tip of Harry's tongue.

"Regardless, the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black does not leave a debt unpaid."

As if Harry has seen them -

everyday in the mirror. 

Then, the child's words catch up to him, settle into his mind, and carve him into pieces, making him sway as his heart clenches. 

"The House of Black?" his voice is breathless, careful. It is far from what he is feeling right now. 

The child nods seriously. He points at the crest carefully and skillfully embroidered into the velvet of his cloak, quirking a brow.

"The House and Family I am heir to."

Silver shines proudly at the child's words.

silver

"Who-"

Someone rushes in. The man then stops as if frozen into his tracks as he takes in Harry. His face twists into something almost painful before rearranging itself into the cold, blank mask he was so well-known for.

"Potter," he greets neutrally with a dip of the head. 

He's always been good at that. To tuck all emotions and life out of sight. 

Harry instead wears his heart or whatever remains of it on his sleeve. 

"Nott," he spits.