FIC: Thirty-one Letters - Snape/Harry [NC-17] Title: Thirty-one Letters Author:themostepotente Word Count: 6,000 words Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Snape/Harry Warnings: Epistolary style, AU (Snape's alive), EWE, romance, humour, snark, public sex (dreamt), voyeurism, smoking!Snape, dirty talk, and yes, even a bit of plot *G* Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. Summary: Harry initiates a friendship with Snape through a series of letters. Author's Notes: This was originally written for ze_dragon for the 2008 snarry_holidays exchange. Huge thanks to painless_j, venivincere and lusiology for their betas and invaluable advice. This may be one of the most romantic fics I've ever written.
9th January 1999
They say that each great journey begins with a small step. This letter is my small step. I am extending the hand of friendship. Something I should've done years ago. Yes, I suppose on some level I am a coward.
It was no easy task finding you. Ivanovo amongst the Muggles. I must applaud your ingenuity. Russia was the last place I thought to look. Too cold. I'd stake my Invisibility Cloak you're bundled like a Cossack and hating every minute. Honestly, though, I'd trade frostbite for my sanity, too. I both despise and envy your choices.
Severus, I mean for us to start again. You must be gritting your teeth at your first name in black ink. Clenched your arse cheeks the second time, didn't you? I know I've never earned the privilege, but haven't I earned the right?
I suppose I'm selfish in wanting a clean slate free of pain and anger and deceit. But that's the good thing about blackboards, you see. There's no limit to the times you can erase and start over.
We've always been caught in the middle with one another, and Limbo is a terrible place to be without the prospect of Heaven or Hell. We're both running. Even as we stand still. I know you're hard pressed to admit as much, but you need closure. We need closure.
Have you made it this far without spitting fire? And if you've made it this far, perhaps you'd like to come a bit further?
Please meet with me. I know how you favour a level playing field. Wizard's chess and a bottle of vodka? Winner decides the other's fate.
Write back, you greasy bastard,
P.S. Enclosed is a box of Belgian chocolates. My olive branch.
P.P.S. I might've snitched a few caramels and nougats.
P.P.P.S. Um, I might've left a few poke holes in the remaining bottoms.
P.P.P.P.S. Fancy the fruit crèmes?
23rd January 1999
Inept former pupilPratBoy Who Intruded Potter,
Your aptitude for irritating me is only equalled by your capability of spilling valuable potions components and making a fool of yourself. I would say that I am astounded that you dare to contact me, but alas, I am not. In fact, I expected you to be mewling round my ankles like some dirty old moggie looking for a handout.
Friendship? Start again? Were you not the son of your mother, I would have sent this missive back via Howler. Things standing as they do, however, I would not choose to violate what would have been the wishes of someone we both hold in such high esteem: I will say that I am listening. And you had better plead your cause a lot more fluently than you have, thus far.
I am not caught in the middle, you see, I am precisely where I have chosen to be, and am quite content as I am. I have something that heretofore I've not had the luxury of attaining: peace. And here you come, barging in with a box of second-hand sweets, bellowing after me like a cow after a lost calf. I suppose I should be thankful that I had some tranquillity while it lasted. Ah, well.
You dare such familiarity with me as to use my first name. Yes, it galls me to see it written in that sloppy scrawl you call handwriting, but I suppose it must do. It irritates me to be called Sir or Professor even more, and to use my surname is just stilted. Grudging permission is granted after the fact for your presumptuous term of address for me.
Meet with you, h'mm? I'll consider it, when you send me a reason, in decent detail, of why I should allow you to further intrude into my self-imposed and welcome exile. I should like to see if the quill really is mightier than the wand.
P.S. Enclosed, please find a fine Hungarian blood lolly in answer to your box of chocolates.
P.P.S. I may have unwrapped it, just to be sure it hadn't cracked off the stick.
P.P.P.S. I also may have had a lick or three, just to be sure it wasn't a fake.
P.P.P.P.S. Makes rather a good substitute for sealing wax, doesn't it?
24th January 1999
Oh, you're good. The blood lolly was brilliant. Fouler than the smelliest bottom burp and stickier than any bogey your trombone hooter could produce. Good to see you can keep up. , old man. Just the sort of cheek you'd expect from an impudent brat trying to get under your skin, yes? Or, perhaps, I've actually managed to coax a smile from those thin, pursed lips of yours. Ah, to be a blot of ink on this parchment. Hard to tell, isn't it? Shall we make a game of this?
So, how long has it been, Severus? How long has it been since you've creased the lines of laughter and forsaken the lines of worry and anger? Must it begin and end with my mum, or would such a dalliance be wasted on the intruding prat? You could practise smiling, you know. A mirror doesn't laugh back.
Aren't you even the least bit curious as to how I found you? No? Well, I'm going to tell you just the same. You gave mum a locket with a piece of your hair tucked inside. Told her she could always find you. That the magic of your lodestone would never fade…
Meet with me. Meet with me, and I'll show you defeat in sevensixfive four moves.
P.S. I might have had a nip or two of the vodka to pluck up the courage to write back.
P.P.S. Nasty stuff, this. Would probably eat the gold off a Snitch.
P.P.P.S. All right, it was more like a few glasses.
P.P.P.P.S. A bit of Russian humour for you: A Russian, a Muggle and an Animagus walk into a Death Eater rally…
P.P.P.P.P.S. Shit, I forgot the punchline. It's the vodka.
7th February 1999
Indeed it must always begin and end with your mother, because without her, none of it would have had either a beginning or an ending—for either of us.
I must say, I am quite stunned at your presumption in using the locket I gave to your mother all those years ago, but not entirely surprised. You always did have a way of taking what was offered and then eight inches more, didn't you? Hearing my words of dedication to the one woman I ever loved thrown back in my face, though... that caps it off. You have outdone yourself in poor taste.
Smiling and laughter are private matters for me. You do not see my mirth or my good humour because, then and now, you haven't earned the privilege. In fact, you haven't earned the privilege of communicating with me at all. Consider my deigning to answer you a bit of magnanimous folly on my part.
Oh, and four moves is a fools' mate, Potter. I am no fool. If you dare to answer, let alone appear in my presence, you will be on the receiving end of a beating—at chess to start with, and intellectually to end.
P.S. Only a complete philistine drinks the swill you deem good Russian vodka. Also, good vodka should be savoured a proper ten seconds before being swallowed.
P.P.S. Philistine is spelt with a 'ph' and not an 'f''.
P.P.P.S. You've the filthiest mouth. Were I one of your little trollops, I might find it endearing.
P.P.P.P.S. Your delivery leaves little to be desired. If you were an owl, you'd be defeathered and then decommissioned. Step away from the rotgut vodka.
P.P.P.P.P.S. Bring your own set. I do not want your hands on mine.
8th February 1999
Only you would turn a correspondence into a lesson. It's always a lesson with you. Or a dressing-down. Or a beating. And speaking of beatings, where is it quilled in ink you're a better chess player? I'd hardly call games against the Carrows victories. I'm told Alecto thought the pawn was a small crustacean. Neville was quite the spy seventh year.
I have to wonder, though, why the man who insists he's the better chess player always lost against my mum. That's not the sort of act she'd consider chivalrous but rather stupid. I know she never once let you best her in Potions without a fight. But I'm sure my motivations confuse you just as much as yours do me.
Smiling and laughter shouldn't be private matters for anyone. Happiness is meant to be shared. One could argue the sun still beats from behind the clouds, but that it doesn't spread its hidden warmth. Or something like that. Read it on a fortune once, and it made sense at the time. I mean, honestly, what would it take for you to smile, Severus? Or to see you drunk? If all it takes is you beating me with a game of chess…
Expect me in a few days.
P.S. Good vodka, cheap vodka--what the palate knows, the drunkenness KO's.
P.P.S. I suppose I wouldn't know good vodka if it crawled up my leg and bit me on the arse, hmm?
P.P.P.S. I know what a bloody philistine is and how to spell it, you bastard. How good of you to try and save me countless paper cuts looking it up.
P.P.P.P.S. I called you a bastard completely sober, I'll have you know.
P.P.P.P.P.S. That sounded rather dodgy.
22nd February 1999
If you have an objection to lessons, perhaps you shouldn't go writing anyone with Professor in front of his name. And, were you not such an arrogant prat, I wouldn't have to keep instructing you, would I?
Boredom and their perpetual demands for a rematch led me to continue to play against the Carrows. And I happen to know that, among you, Weasley was the chess player. I won't make it sound like any more of a challenge than it seems you've taken it. As it is, I do indeed expect to see you any day now, shivering and pitiful, on my doorstep.
Your mother beat me at chess because she was the better player. It is that simple. Unlike you, when I make a claim, it is through self-assurance, not self-importance.
P.S. We will not be drinking vodka upon your arrival. My libation of choice is absinthe.
P.P.S. Good vodka is not the only thing you would not know if it crawled up your leg and sampled your buttocks. To give an itemised list goes beyond the scope of this letter—or a set of encyclopædiæ.
P.P.P.S. Then why was it misspelt in one of the essays you turned in for Professor McGonagall?
P.P.P.P.S. I don't give a damn about your current state of inebriation or lack thereof, and you've certainly called me much worse things than a bastard.
P.P.P.P.P.S. This entire series of correspondence is dodgy, and it's not due to my involvement herein.
23rd February 1999
You might've let me crash on that sodding couch of yours. Would it have been such an imposition? Hang on. Don't answer that. Everything for you is an imposition. Still, you might've seen me home safely. Apparition's a dodgy venture when pissed. But then, I'm sure it would've given you great pleasure to read about The Boy Who Lived's tragic splinching. You're smirking, aren’t you? Predictable wanker.
If I live to be as old young as Dumbledore, I will never understand your love of absinthe. Nasty stuff, that. And yes, I know, it wasn't the absinthe that did me in but the vodka chasers. They were a necessary evil. Tell me truthfully -- was that malicious faerie conjured by magic or my imagination? She tweaked my nose and gave my bum a good pinch. No matter. I have no desire to delve into the wickedness that is La Fée Verte again.
Yes, you beat me at chess. Let's just get that out in the open, right? I think I understand why you're so good at games of strategy. I think chess is a fitting representation of your life. You always choose black, because white moves first, and you like to assess what type of player your opponent is. You play well at Knight, defending your Rook, the only home you've ever known. You fight hard to protect your my mum Queen, and though she may not live on in body, she does so in spirit and memory. Your King you go to great lengths to protect, most especially from the Holy Man with delusions of grandeur. And like all Knights, you shield with grace. That is, when you're not jamming your lance up my arse.
Enclosed, please find my toothbrush. That means I'll be paying you another visit. And getting pissed. And staying the night.
P.S. No cleaning the toilet with it.
P.P.S. Yes, I suppose I am a bit presumptuous.
P.P P.S. Dunno what this means, but Sirius once said anything that covered even a bit of your face is an improvement. Personally, I hate your beard.
P.P.P.P.S. Absinthe does not make the tart grow fonder.
P.P.P.P.P.S. My stomach hasn't been the same since the borscht. I'm bringing chicken vindaloo from Love Me Tandoor.
9th March 1999
I would prefer that two subjects remain out of further drivel correspondence you send to me. One is your godfather, the other is your mother. The former, I find aggravating, the latter, painful.
Oh, was I supposed to keep the toothbrush? I'm afraid I gave the horrid thing to one of the old women here, so she can brush her remaining three teeth.
The beard stays. And you will eat that foul takeaway outside. If there is even one trouser-cough as a result, you can jet-propel yourself straight back to Godric's Hollow.
P.S. The only thing that outdoes the annoyance factor of your pretentiousness is your puns. Please refrain. I need no further reminders of your true level of character.
P.P.S. La Fée Verte always contains a faerie. Whether or not she possesses good taste is a toss of the dice.
P.P.P.S. You will only stay the night if you succeed in downing a bowl of borscht, properly prepared, with sour cream and spring onions. If you do not, you will wear it, and I will send you home in disgrace.
P.P.P.P.S. Interesting chess analogy. It is the only reason this missive was not delivered as a Howler.
30th March 1999
I didn't mean to grab you and kiss you. I wanted to shut you up, you horrible, pretentious, mocking bastard, but instead, I shut myself down. I wanted to know if your mouth tasted like sneers and scowls.
4th April 1999
Come back. I have fifteen minutes to kill.
5th April 1999
There you go, throwing up your defences again. You're good for that. Come back? SOD YOU SIDEWAYS!!! Merlin, I really hate you sometimes, and now is one of those times.
Come back, and then what precisely? Do you even know what you want? Do you even know what I want? What am I thinking? Of course you don't. But I'm bloody well going to tell you.
I want a promise. That someday you'll let me in. To your head.
To your heart.
You can't make it impossible forever for someone to love you…
19th April 1999
I don’t know whom you think you’ve been associating with, oh witless wonder, but it’s clear you aren’t understanding a few very basic facts.
My life has been sheer and unending hell for as long as I can remember. The only bright spot in it has been the relationship I had with your mother, and I managed to destroy even that. Can’t you see that you have annoyingly wheedled your way into both my heart and my head? If you had not, I would have shut you out long ago and told you never to contact me again.
Don’t expect normality from me. A vessel that has been shattered more than once and then glued back together will always have leaks. There is no magic to fix what has been done to my psyche throughout my life. You will have to accept what I am capable of giving you—flawed as that may be.
26th May 1999
You continue to surprise me, pleasantly so. My first inclination is to apologise for all the lousy hands dealt to you, but I think we both know that fates are unchangeable. Instead, I offer hope, which up until now, has proved just as nasty a four-letter word as well…you know.
I accept your terms - on one condition. That you allow me to bring Bento boxes from Wake Up Little Sushi. Totally mental, but I'm amused by the notion of you eating with chopsticks.
I once read about a Muggle boy who put his finger in a dyke to stop a leak. I have ten able fingers.
And all the time in the world.
27th May 1999
Do you intentionally seek out takeaway restaurants with trite names, or do you merely inflict them upon me for your own amusement? The truth is, I do not find Asian food to my taste. It tends to be either too salty, too spicy or both. I'll stick to borscht. Maybe I will refrain from pouring it on you this time—but only if you refrain from spewing ghastly puns.
Hope? That is not a dirty word. I do believe we both learnt the concept from the same tutor. Even in the end, when he was begging for death, Albus exuded hope like an aura of light.
You are not to become so inebriated this time, Harry. If you really want to know me well, you will interact with me with your senses unclouded. Or… are you, perhaps, even more vulnerable than I?
12th June 1999
The sushi restaurant is Hermione's find. Sorry, I can't take credit for that one.
Have you consigned yourself to routine? Would it kill you to taste salmon roe? Don't mistake what I'm about to ask you for cheek, but did you fuss over your veggies as a child? You gave your mum quite a time, I'm sure of it.
You are a typical Englishman in spades, Severus. Perhaps that's part of your charm. Perhaps not. Asian cuisine, be it Indian or Japanese, is an acquired taste. Anything spicy, really. So, for once, tell your delicate constitution to shove off.
Have you considered that I am just as much of an acquired taste? For most of our dealings, you were adamant about building a friendship. I was some green thingy on your plate to be trifled with. Poked and prodded with the tines of your fork, never to be tried. I don't profess to be quite as hearty as steak and kidney pie nor as stick-to-your-ribs as Yorkshire pudding, but something made you give me a go.
Since you're so quick to point out the goodness and badness of four-letter words, allow me to gently remind you that another such word is only as dirty as you give it credit: help.
Though, I'm certain you'll have lots of unpleasant things to yell in response to my above statement -- and yes, I'm fully expecting a shower -- consider me there and sober.
And confident of another kiss.
13th June 1999
I've tried Asian foods of various sorts many times over the years, and I find them the same: repugnant. And, actually, it was not over the vegetables that my sainted mother got grief. It was over meat that was too undercooked for my palate. My constitution is not delicate, believe me. These Russian winters suit me well. My tastes run to the stark and austere. I prefer dagger-like icicles hanging from an eave and framing a snowscape over a field of wildflowers.
You are indeed an acquired taste, Harry. Forgive me if there are yet aspects of you that I find jarring. Intellect and a certain sharing of experiences have made me give you a try. You are hearty enough. You lived through the same horrors I did. And you stick to the ribs well enough. You made it through three discussions with me without cringing away, reviling me or tuning out. That all means much more than I surmise you think it does.
Help; there is an interesting word. I have had none, throughout these years, and as such, have come not to expect it or want it. I am willing to roll the concept around, though, whether it be sweet as port or bitter as absinthe. Forgive me if I expect the latter until I grow accustomed to the former.
Kiss me, and I may very well react in kind. It depends on how much wasabe you have on your breath.
30th July 1999
It occurs to me that if these letters were ever intercepted, they might appear like lov…er, incriminating correspondence. You know how some people like to jump to conclusions. Or prattle on like ill-disposed Slytherins.
You don't have to ask for help, merely accept it when it's given. And not with a look that resembles chewing your face.
If you ever do brave an asking, mind you, I expect something a little more challenging than soliciting the answer to 'five down' in your Witch Weekly crossword. And, perhaps, something a little less menial than scraping the black from your toast. Though, I have no complaints about the taste of char and marmalade on your breath.
What I propose in the way of help is a good listen. You're bloody frowning, aren’t you? Hear me out for Merlin's sake.
I want to know things about you you never thought anyone cared about.
I want to know about the day you first learnt to write your name in cursive. Or about the day you nicked some money from your mum's purse to buy sweets. I want to hear about your visit to Ollivander's. Or the weight of your first Potion's text.
And…I expect you'll be quiet as a dormouse about anything more. Everything in moderation, says Severus sodding Snape.
Oh, and about the wasabe… I've better uses for it than as a condiment. You'll see.
31st July 1999
As an ill-disposed Slytherin myself, I am here to tell you that if these correspondences were ever intercepted, they might make Witch Weekly or the Quibbler. Believe it or not, we're actually yesterday's news. Our indiscretions might make the third page on the former rag, maybe the second on the latter.
As for accepting help, I will decide if and when I must do such a thing. Surely, you understand that I have been rather conditioned to feel that such offers have attached strings and other encumbrances. It does not and will never come easy for me to accept an offer of that kind.
Come back. I will tell you about how my father beat me when he found the sweets I had bought—not with stolen money, but money earned by helping my mother about the house. I will tell you about being first discouraged by my teachers for writing in cursive before I was supposed to do so, and then derided the next year for my penmanship. Ollivander's? The visit was brief and furtive. We had to be back before my father missed us, or both my mother and I would have taken quite a hiding.
My first Potions primer was light as a feather, Harry. I would have felt the same had it weighed ten stone. I cherished it, mostly for familial reasons -- its existence spanned five generations of Princes. It felt as natural in my hands as an abacus would in an Arithmancer's hands. I would show it to you, but I buried it with my mother as I had no hope of producing an heir.
Leave 'sodding' out of my name. I have better uses for the word, and I will wager that they are superior to any use you have for wasabe.
9th August 1999
All right, all right. I apologise for the hack job on your beard. It's just that you were sleeping, and I needed to be quick about things. It's just a tiny nick, really. I couldn't help myself. Your whiskers were chafing my nethers.
Now, please allow me over. A statement, not a question. I need to see you.
10th August 1999
Salazar's scrote, boy, who taught you to shave? And with what? A sickle?
No, you cannot come over. Not today. Nor tomorrow. Nor the following day. I have matters to attend to. Find yourself a suitable hobby.
28th September 1999
I had a dream about you last night. I dreamt that we were standing on a dais, frozen in a circle of scrutinising light. We were both naked, our limbs entangled. Our bodies were pressed together, and I could feel the heat pushing through your pores. You removed my glasses gently, and I was submissive to the fingers on my face. Just as soon as our lips touched, the dais began to rotate, and the masked faces of the Wizengamot appeared before us. Not Death Eater camouflage, mind you, but posh masks worn at a masquerade.
Fifty or so distinct voices filled the chamber, but only one of them was compelling enough to make me act upon command, directing me in sibilant tones. I slid down your legs and took you into my mouth, stirred by a chorus of moans and murmurs. Tongues snaked in and out of the mouth slits. Sex acts were pantomimed. Some of our audience took matters into their own hands. It was a bawdy little circus, I tell you.
Blood pounded in my ears as I urged you deeper inside. And then cold laughter broke my concentration.
A gavel, round as an apple and as red as spilt blood, sparked with our verdict as it struck stone.
I woke up moments later in a cold sweat. What do you think this all means?
29th September 1999
Guilty, h'mm? Did you consider that the Wizengamot may be declaring their own guilt, rather than yours? And it may not have been guilt in buggery, but rather guilt in throwing us together until we were left with two choices: either fuck each other or kill each other.
Confess. Tell me of what you are really guilty of, Harry. Maybe I can find some intriguing ways to dispense both punishment and forgiveness.
17th October 1999
I've never been good with prose. I'm not a wordsmith, and I'm wretched with poems. I don't pretend to understand metre or verse. And I know nothing of odes or elegies or even sonnets. But I can tell you in the simplest terms what makes me smile and why I love.
Quite simply, I am a voyeur when it comes to you. I love watching you when you think no one's watching. I love that you insist on an hour of 'me time.' That you stretch languidly on the bed, revelling in your time of gratuitous semi-nudity as you are never without that tattered work robe.
I love that you are precise in your movements and staid with your routines. I love how your finger follows every word on the pages of your grimoire like an instruction ball bouncing over the words of a song.
I love that you still count on your fingers. That you still shave by hand and not by magic. And that you are driven to madness with silly puns.
I love when you slip outside in the dead of night for a smoke. It's a nasty habit, you know, but you remember the one time you and my mum shared a fag out of stupid curiosity. You want to live in that moment when best friends did foolish things together. You play well at Bête Noire, Severus, but when that wreath of smoke encircles your head, I am reminded that you are just as much an Avenging Angel.
And I love that you howl back at the jackal moon and wish for nothing on the stars except for the happiness of others.
Some day I will find my own moment to live in. It won't be an easy choice.
18th October 1999
I love that you watch me and consider me and examine me at the same time that it drives me to madness. I scrutinise you just as thoroughly, you know. Your way of dabbing off after a bath, rather than a good, vigorous drying. Your sorting through the sliced loaf of bread for just the right pair for a sandwich. And even the way your mouth makes a strange little moue when you slip off your glasses to rub at your eyes after I have kept you awake too long.
Smoking is one of the few forays into foolishness that I allow myself, you know. It does indeed remind me of that furtive fag, but I confess that I like the habit even as I understand its deleterious effects. Perhaps, some night, I shall enjoy my evening smoke while you occupy your mouth with something rather larger.
You have your moment to live in, Harry, you always have. It's just that you keep misplacing it, and trying to substitute another.
13th November 1999
You're punishing me, and I hate you just a little for it. You can be so petty sometimes. So unforgiving.
But so can I.
Right about now you're playing Durak with the women. You're winning, but don't get too comfortable with that feeling. Your night's about to get a lot shorter. And lonelier.
You know how you're always fond of telling me I like to take eight inches? Well, I'd love to take your eight inches. Does the feel of a warm, wet and disciplined mouth make your cock throb? I could suck you off all night. If only that old body of yours stood a chance.
I can think of nothing else but you fucking me now. Fucking me hard. I want you to feel the rake of my nails down your back and the spur of my heels in your shoulder blades. I want you to pin me to the bed. Pin me as a needlepoint would pierce its butterfly.
How will you fuck me, Severus? Shall it be on my back with my left leg pulled back at the knee? The tips of my fingers glistening with mimosa and oakmoss. You do love when I prepare myself for you.
Or should it be on my stomach? Facedown in the pillow with my arse in the air.
Perhaps on our sides? So I can nestle into the nook below your chin. Stroke myself at your leisure.
Me, I prefer to straddle your thighs and lower myself down on your cock. Because I like that you curse the time it takes me to sink balls-deep. Because I love that the cords in your neck tighten when I push off with my toes. And because I love when you come underneath me.
Fuck, I want to be close to you now. As close as your own skin. I want your hands on me. I want you to break me, damn you.
Are you impossibly hard now? God, I hope you are.
This is me punishing you. How does it feel, Severus?
14th November 1999
Punishing you? Is that what you think it is? I told you that there are times when I need my own space—my time to do what pleases me without the scrutiny you touted in a previous letter. Even the most loving of masters kennels his dog on occasion, when said hound has become a bit too tedious in his begging for scraps. You are neither hound nor beggar, but you do, at times, tire me with your continual regard. Surely, all prurience aside, I can't be that interesting.
As for your missive making me randy, of course it did. It made Maria Ivanovna and Ekaterina Petrovna randy as well when I translated it to them.
And that, my dear boy, was your punishment.
8th December 1999
I can't sleep. I've tried all night and nothing's working. Please don't tell me to count woolly things as they just turn into braised chops. Wanking's hopeless, too. Now, I'm horny and hungry. Can you tell me a story about you and my mum?
P.S. Be nice to Algernon. He's not happy about this either, and I have the peck marks to prove it.
8th December 1999
Only you would disturb my sleep and stir my loins with such a bother. You will pay dearly for this with your arse, mark my words.
Years ago, your mother and I were discussing matters of domesticity. She held hearth and home in the highest regards. When the subject of children came up, she expressed a deep desire for a son. The dreamy look in her eyes was affecting.
Your mother had a woollen Appleby Arrows cap that she wore on her head lopsided. For a lark, she asked me to place three male names on scraps of parchment, along with three of her own, into the cap and choose.
I don't have to tell you what name was chosen and by whose hand.
Perhaps, it's why I've always had difficulty addressing you by your name until recently.
23rd December 1999
It takes seven Apparitions to get from Godric's Hollow to Ivanovo. I'm so very tired by the time I get to you. Please don't say 'well, then visit less.' That's not an option. I know you're going to turn The Nose up at my suggestion (you're good for that), but consider coming back to England. She misses you terribly as do I during the in-between days. You can do whatever you do there, here. With me at your side.
Don't make me beg.
All right, maybe just a little.
24th December 1999
What you ask is a frightening thing, but as you know, I am no coward. Bear in mind that sex is quite easy, sleeping in the same bed is not. If you are certain that your head and your heart are not at odds with one another, then return to me. We will discuss what I never thought possible for myself. For us.
31st July 2009
It's been a while, hasn't it? Since we've sent letters. And this one delivered by an origami owl. Who would have guessed that the honourable art of paper folding would make me a suitable hobby?
I know I'm just in the next room, but I wanted to tell you that yes, the quill really is mightier than the wand.