"AS MUCH AS I TRUST YOUR TASTE, PLEASE TELL ME YOU AREN'T SERIOUS."
I blinked, smiling back, "about what?"
"A rose? That's so cliche, love, I'd think you'd want something a little more creative if someone was to ask you."
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾
"Then why did you have that rose?" I said, "the one in the courtyard."
"You saw that?"
"I saw it."
Another pause.
"It was foolish of me," he sighed, "I guess I got so caught up in the excitement of it all, I forgot we were...us."
☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
"And I really don't mind," I smiled, "I saw the rose last week, and knowing you bought it for me was enough."
I felt something warm press against my skin, and I realized Draco had placed his hand against my arm. He didn't seem to realize he was doing it, because his eyes were glazed over in a saddened expression.
"I just..." he said softly, "I just wish I could give it to you."
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THEY ALL CAME FLOODING IN.
Letter, after letter, after letter, started flooding into the Burrow like a sea of paper boats. They were coming through the window, the chimney, spilling out through the mail slot, and popping out of vents and holes whenever they could.
And at first, all I could do was ignore the panicked exclamations coming out of Molly and Arthur's mouths, as they bounced around the kitchen trying to avoid the flurry of letters. But then I felt something spur out of my stomach and up to my throat.
To say I had a lock over my heart would be an understatement. It was like a chest. A thick, metal, treasure chest that was put in place because I feared giving my heart to anyone else, but now...after reading the first letter in a year, it was like something had been pulled out of the depths of me.
Something like a key.
I had never forgotten about him. I could never forget about him. Although I was hesitant to admit it to myself even, I knew he was the only thing on my mind whenever I couldn't distract myself with anything else.
And I couldn't reach him because I wasn't allowed to. It was for both of our safety, as Dumbledore said, but I wanted nothing more than to curse him for keeping up apart. And believe me, the first week at the Burrow, the only thing I could do was churn out letter after letter to send to him—to let him know I was okay, and that I missed him more than words could ever say.
But my owls were intercepted, and the letters burned.
But somehow, all 78 of his letters came through.
So I read all of them. At first they started off the same; that of a normal love letter at least, with words that melted my heart into butter:
Love,
I miss you, I think about you, I remember bits and pieces of happier times. All of those memories have you in them, and now that you're gone, I don't remember what happiness is like.
Then the next ones had angst written in the lines. Nothing too sad, but I could almost feel the pain that seeped off of his quill into the paper.
Love,
I'm not scared anymore. I'm not scared, because I know that even though you're gone, I still love you. And I know it's real—love, I mean. Because if it wasn't real love, then I wouldn't trust that you'll come back.
And I know you will.
And I'll be waiting.
Then they became richer, the words he was so scared that I would see because his heart was spilled onto the paper entirely:
Love,
I've begun to slip into an endless spiral of anger and hatred, and guilt, blaming myself for the reason for your departure. My body is seeping with it all, and I can't take a step into that hallway without being weighed down with the knowledge that I wouldn't walk by you that day.
That you're not around.
I've begun to become obsessed, tearing apart my room until I find something that belongs to you. I need something. I fear I'll forget, and since you left me nothing but memories, I'm worried I'd lose my mind and those with it.
And then they became controlled. Painfully controlled, as if he was afraid of his own mind and the words he wanted to say:
Love,
I miss you. I hope you are well. Sometimes, I wonder if you're staring up at the ceiling at night, just like I am. It's solace, at least, knowing we're staring up at the same sky.
I just wish you were next to me.
And then came the last letter.
and it wasn't the same, it wasn't rich, it wasn't painful, it wasn't controlled, and it wasn't paragraphs like the rest.
