Indifference Towards Difference || Harry Potter

15 | Burn Bright And Bleed Bronze

"The length of our days is seventy years— or eighty, if we have the strength; yet their span is but trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass, and we fly away."
Psalm 90:10

~~~

Dragon, my darling.

I trust you have been keeping well; what very little information I have been provided concerning you inclines me to that happy belief. A small thing, but rare, and one I still cherish and hold dear to my heart.

As is the way, with what little information I have received of you, I may only give a little of myself in return. Know that I am recovering, more so by the day as the knowledge of your safety gives me strength.

Be strong, my darling dragon. Know for one to thrive, they must first survive. Hold firm to what you know, and if you have nothing to hold to then know I would endure the Dark Lord's wrath a thousand times over for you. Concern yourself with nothing more than what you need to; it would not do well for you to develop frown lines so early.

Burn bright, Draco.

For those who didn't know Draco well— not that such people numbered very high— they would've called him heartless, unfeeling, for the way his features stayed blank and passive throughout the re-reading, and then afterwards also. But Draco had always been taught that erring even in private, a sudden outburst whilst alone would only give more room for an unaffordable slip-up in public. And though he had never really heeded such advice before, it had become increasingly useful, even necessary, these past few weeks.

Hence his features remained as though he had merely read an update on current wizarding fashion, a stony facade to the turmoil within.

Of course his mother had been delicate and vague; she'd always been good with words. Words were her weapons, her wit as sharp as her wand. Draco had never quite learnt to be the same; instead he had adopted his father's talent of reading people, reading between the lines and the re-stitched hems of people's robes— a forte encourage further by his godfather.

He allowed himself at least a tired sigh— it wouldn't look too out of place, he thought. Everything these days required some sort of sigh.

His mother's flair for equivocal compositions was relievingly familiar, but equally tiring. A conflict that both quelled and battled with his own.

What little he had been able to garner from the letter to do with her was unsatisfactory, and yet he would've taken so little over nothing.

He'd never taken himself for a beggar. The thought elicted a vapid laugh.

Her constant talk of him showed not only motherly care, but avoidance. The reassurances she gave were not only to him, but to herself. She was recovering, but not completely well.

And she had finished with his name.

Draco cursed his father's Lord for all he had done.

***

"I trust you slept well, Harry Potter?"

Harry glared at Salazar Slytherin over Snape's less-greasy-than-usual head— it seemed the Potions Master had discovered showers. But not again with the "Harry Potter", and Harry had a feeling that the man knew he had done anything but sleep last night.

Truth be told, he buzzed all over. His eyes burned, his hands trembled— whether all of this was from hyper-awareness or sheer exhaustion, he did not know. If he did a little tasseography right now, the tea leaves probably wouldn't even bother with the ambiguity of obscure, mis-shapen  symbols; they'd just straight up spell out: "YOU IDIOT. YOU ARE DOOMED."