Letters to You

“Oi. Draco!” one of his dorm mates yelled from the stairs. Draco jumped. “There’s an owl up here for you.”

Draco made his way upstairs, utterly confused about two things. Number one, why hadn’t he just gotten the mail during breakfast. And two, who the bloody hell was mailing straight to his bedroom?

“On the bed,” said the same guy as earlier. Draco was pretty sure his name was Terry Boot. 

“Thanks.”

He sat on the bed and tore open the letter. The owl who had delivered it was still on the bed, hopping around. It was really actually strutting around, as if it was its bed, not Draco’s. 

“Why are you still here?” Draco asked.

The owl looked at him, annoyed.

“Whatever.”

Draco returned his eyes back to the letter. 

“D.M,

I’ve noticed that you’ve been looking exceptionally depressed since the beginning of term. It’s understandable of course, but you seem to be especially affected. Whenever I see you, you’re quiet, and you’ve got eyes under your bags like you haven’t slept at all. It seems like you’re retreating into yourself, because you have nowhere else to go.

Sorry if this seems a bit personal or rude. I just want you to know that you don’t have to deal with whatever you're dealing with alone.

For my own reasons, I’m going to remain anonymous, but if you send a letter back, use Marcell and he’ll find me. (He’s a bit arrogant though.)”

Draco looked down on it, dumbfounded. How was it anyone's business but his own if he had been feeling…withdrawn lately. Besides, it was really something how this person could make such accusations while not even revealing their name. It really was ridiculous. 

“Well?”

“ ‘Well’ what?” Draco snapped.

“What’s the letter on? Bit weird to have it delivered to your bed isn’t it,” Terry Boot had said. 

“And how is this any business of yours?”

“Ah…it’s a love letter isn’t it.” Terry smirked.

Draco scowled. “It’s not a bloody love letter.”

“Right.”

Draco crumpled up the letter into a ball and threw it under his bed. The letter was absolutely ridiculous, and definitely not a love letter. 

“You can go now, Marcell.” Draco muttered. 

“Who’s Marcell? Your lover?” Asked Terry

“Merlin, Boot, it’s the owl's name. What’s it to you anyway?”

“Nothing. Sorry for trying to be friendly.”

“That’s what being friendly is? God, maybe it’s a good thing I don’t talk to anyone.”

“Anyone? Really? Sounds bloody lonely if you ask me.”

“Yeah well I didn’t ask you, did I?” Draco retorted. 

Terry just shrugged and changed into his sleepwear.

***

Harry felt like an idiot. Honestly, what was he thinking? Sending Malfoy that letter. Malfoy! And actually expecting - hoping even - that he’d respond. That he’d respond to an overly personal anonymous letter sent by an owl full of self importance. Right.  

It had been two weeks since he sent it, and Marcell still had not returned with a reply. It was also two days before Halloween, and Dean and Luna had perfected their tattoos. 

Dean had gotten a soccer ball on his ankle, and much to Seamus’s delight, it had moved around like wizarding pictures do. A goal also appeared whenever Dean felt particularly happy.

Luna had gotten a small pair of spectacles on her wrist that sparkled whenever her dad had written a new article. 

“ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT,” Dean yelled, laughing as the 8th years crowded him and Luna. “We’re gonna start doing tattoos for people on Halloween.”

A cheer erupted and people broke off into groups, chattering about what tattoos they’d be getting.

“Five sickles a tattoo,” Luna said. “But it’ll be a galleon or more if it’s particularly difficult or large.”

Nobody seemed to care about the price. They were all just excited to have magical tattoos.

“Only for those 16 and older, or if you’re turning 16 by the end of the school year,” Dean added. “And trust me, we’ll know if you’re younger.”

Immediately the younger people who had come to the 8th year room erupted in protest. 

“Look,” he said. “You won’t want to be getting a ridiculous tattoo at the age of 12 and having to keep it forever. We’re still working on tattoo removals.”

“Once enough money’s been gathered, we’ll take volunteers to practice on,” Luna said with a smile. “We’ll do the testing on ourselves too, of course.”

Harry was impressed. Dean's tattoo had been scoring goals since the announcement was made.

“I reckon I’ll get a dragon on my back. It could breathe fire whenever I do a spell,” Ron said.

Hermione slapped his shoulder, “That’s ridiculous Ronald.”

“Yeah Ron,” Harry said. “You should get it on your chest. Much more manly.”

Hermione and Ron laughed. They had talked for a few hours more, mostly about tattoos. The suggestions had gotten more absurd as time went on.

“A working marauders map on your thigh."

“Do you think it could be charmed to disappear?”

“Probably. But I think a huge, roaring lion would suit me better.”

“Puh-lease. Hermione, what’re gonna get?”

“A tattoo that can show any book in the world, any time.”

“Oh stop it Ron. Obviously it’ll be a tattoo that shows test answers I’ve forgotten.”

“Shocking. Really? Our Hermione Granger? A forgetful cheat? Never.”

“Harry should get an extension of his scar. A whole lightning storm across his body.”

“No, no. One where I can see the most popular quidditch game currently being played, in real time.”

“I’m still thinking about the dragon.”

***

The next two days went by painfully slow. 

“Dunno if we’ll be able to do all the tattoos by the end of the year,” Dean said with a grin. “It’s really wild how many people want em.”

“Well, it really is impressive magic you and Luna have managed.”

“Thanks, Hermione.”

***

“Everyone, everyone, turn to page 283. You’ll find there the ingredients for Veritaserum. Now, can anyone tell me the properties of Veritaserum?”

Hermione’s hand shot up. 

“Miss Granger,” called Professor Slughorn.

“Veritaserum is a colourless, odourless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth.”

“Very good. 10 points to Gryffindor.”

“Right then. We’ll be starting to brew it today, and it should be done by next month. Up here,” he gestured to the cauldron on the desk, “is a perfectly brewed batch of Veritaserum. As you can see, it looks identical to water."

Anyway, you’ll find the ingredients you need for today on the table in the back. Chop chop, now.”

There was much shuffling about. 

“Halloween night,” said a voice behind him. “You in?”

“What?” he asked.

“Truth or Dare. Theodore Nott’s gonna try and nick some Veritaserum.”

“Alright then. Where?”

“Common rooms, probably.”

Harry nodded and turned back to his potion. Truth or Dare and tattoos. 

***

Halloween had finally approached. Draco had heard much talk of Truth or Dare and Dean and Luna’s tattoo thing, but all Draco really wanted to do was lay in bed and disintegrate.

Halloween, in Draco’s opinion, had absolutely sucked this year. 

He hadn’t taken notes in potions the other day, so he hadn’t memorised the instructions on how to make Veritaserum. He couldn’t stand the thought that Potter had done better on the quiz than he did.

His hand had been cramped all day, because he sprained it during quidditch the day before and had been too proud to go to Madame Pomfrey. His wand movements during Charms were dreadful.

He had been dragging himself to History of Magic, and he was late, of course, when the annoying shape of Harry Potter ran into him. Barrelled into him really,  because Draco was knocked to the ground, landing on his hurt wrist. 

“Merlin’s beard, Potter, don’t you ever watch where you’re going?”

“Sorry,” he said quickly. His head was darting around, and he checked the old looking watch on his wrist. “Bloody fucking hell, I’m so late,” he said under his breath.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth, Pott-” Draco started. He cut himself off, slapping his hand to his mouth, hurting his wrist again.

Potter hadn’t seemed to notice him. He did seem to notice Draco’s wincing.

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

“Nothings wrong with my hand.”

“Did you land on it funny, or something?”

“I said nothing is wrong.”

“Let me see your hand,” Potter said, and before Draco could refuse, Potter had grabbed it. Draco winced again and hoped that his face wasn’t as warm as it felt.

“It’s sprained,” Potter said simply. 

“I noticed.”

Potter pulled out his wand. “What do you think you’re doing, Potter?”

“Fixing your bloody wrist,” he said irritably, rolling up Draco’s sleeve. His eyes paused for a moment on the Dark Mark. “Episkey”

Draco’s wrist seared with pain for a split second, and then it was gone. He looked at Potter, who looked impressed by his spellwork. 

“I haven’t done that before,” he explained.

“Well.” Draco said, spinning on his heel and walking away. “Thank you.”

Potter had grinned at the thanks (not that Draco was looking at his lips or anything) and had run to catch up to him. “History of Magic?”

“Yes. I’m late.”

“Same.”

“Great. I can blame you then.”

Potter laughed. “Right. Actually, I don’t think Binn’s will’ve even noticed we’ve been gone.”

Draco noticed that Harry talked very quickly. His walking seemed more like a skip, and Draco thought it was strange how he could have so much energy.

They walked in silence the rest of the way there, Harry walking over to join Granger and the Weasel while Draco sat in the back by himself. When the two of them had talked, Harry had turned around and grinned at Draco.

Draco had found this so disturbing that he knocked over his ink. Fuck you, Potter, he mouthed. But Harry had already turned back to the front. Spilling his ink did nothing but further worsen his mood.

Stupid Potter and his stupid smile. Stupid Potter holding my stupid hand. Stupid Potter.

***

Finally, the school day had ended. The common room was full of students, some of them not even 8th years.

“Tattoos,” Pansy said, when she saw the look on Draco's face. “I’ve gotten one. It’s actually kind of neat.”

Draco felt a pseudo pain on his forearm. The last time he had gotten a tattoo, it burned like hell. He thought back to when Potter had fixed his wrist, and how he had looked at the Dark Mark with a sort of pity.

“Right then,” Draco started, “Where does the line start?”

Pansy looked surprised, but pointed anyway. 

It felt like ages when Draco had to sit in line for a tattoo. Often he thought about leaving altogether, that this idea was dumb. But he didn’t want to see the Dark Mark anymore. It wasn’t him.

“Next?” Luna said.

Draco went up.

“Ah, hello Draco. What would you like?”

“Er-” he rolled up the sleeves on his left arm. “Could you cover this? With flowers. Narcissus flowers.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “Do you want to charm it?”

Draco hesitated. “Could you er- make the flowers go into colour whenever my mother is going to write to me?”

He feared Luna was going to make fun of him, ask if he missed his mum that much. But she didn’t. She just said, “Of course. Do you have any letters from her? Helps with the magic.”

“Yeah, I can go grab one.”

Draco pushed himself up from the floor and ran up the stairs. He threw himself under the bed, searching for some spare letters. He found a crinkled one, and remembered the anonymous letter he had gotten a few weeks ago. Draco had actually mostly forgotten about it, and considered replying. He didn’t really have anyone to complain to, and who better to talk to then a stranger?

But first, Draco needed to find a letter from his mother. At last, he spotted his mother's handwriting and rushed downstairs.

“Here,” he said, handing Luna the parchment.

“Perfect. Hold out your arm for me.”

Draco did, rolling his sleeves back up again. Luna took out her wand, warning Draco that it might burn a bit. But compared to getting the Dark Mark, the flower tattoos from Luna felt downright nice. 

“All done,” she said.

Draco looked down at his arm, and he was elated to see that the Dark Mark was hardly visible. “Thank you! I-”

“Five sickles, please.”

“Right.” He dug around in his pockets, pulling out five silver coins. “Seriously, thank you.”

Luna smiled at him again, and turned back to the line. “Next.”

Draco went back upstairs, unwrinkling the letter from unknown. He grabbed some spare parchment and Terry Boot’s ink and started writing.

“Dear-” then he realised he didn’t know who he was talking to.

“Dear You,”