Title: Dear Harry
Author: Hollow Nightmare
Rating: PG for language
Summary: After the events of HPB, Harry begins receiving curious letters from Draco Malfoy, which date back all the way the to beginning of Fourth Year. Written to show the last three books from Draco Malofy's POV. Slash, HD.
Author's Notes: The date at the top (assume it has been crossed out, not underlined) is the date in which the letter was written; the date at the bottom is the date in which the letter was sent/received.
August 25, 1994
July 1, 1997
You definitely won't be expecting this letter from me, of all people. I don't even know why I'm writing it, or why I addressed you as Harry, instead of Potty or Potter. I highly doubt I'll even send it.
We've got a strange relationship, haven't we? I'd call it mutual hate (or dislike, rather; hate's a bit dramatic, even for my tastes), but I've recently been wondering about that. In all honesty, I don't think I properly hate you. I've never had a reason to, except to copy my father. And the fact that you refused my friendship. I guess it wouldn't have worked out in the long run, anyway. We're enemies; you're the Boy Who Lived and I'm the son of a Death Eater.
Well, I definitely can't send this now.
I wonder why I still have the insane urge to write more.
I saw you today at the Quidditch match, for the first time since school let out, and now it's like you've invaded my mind. I really am such an arse to you, aren't I? But if you think I'm bad, you should hear the way father talks about you.
He was on of the men in masks earlier, but I guess you already know that. He wouldn't let me join, said I was too young. I was furious at first, but I think now that's mostly just because I was being denied something, not that I really wanted to join. As I watched them from the forest, and I listened to the screams, I decided I definitely didn't want to. It just didn't seem fun. That's all. They are filthy Muggles, of course, and it's not like I was sickened by their treatment, but all the same. Really, I wasn't. Not at all. But it wasn't as... captivating as I thought it would be. It didn't even seem funny.
I've been doing a lot of thinking recently (I do think sometimes, contrary to what you and the rest of the Dream Team may think). About important stuff, stuff I wouldn't dare write in this letter if I knew I was going to send it. I think I've changed my mind about a lot of things, and it's starting to... well, scare me.
I'm just being ridiculous. Me, Draco Malfoy, scared by a few changed perceptives? Ha.
I didn't really want to be spiteful to you today, but it just happened. It always does. I'm expected to hate you, and so I do. Or I pretend to, at any rate. It would be a lot easier (and dare I say... nicer?) if we didn't continuously fling insults at each other, but I can't imagine talking to you otherwise.
And I want to talk to you; I don't know why. You've just got this kind of presence that demands my attention. It would be weird to suddenly ignore you, and I can't imagine myself doing it.
If only you weren't constantly surrounded by the lowest filth I have ever met. I admit, when I saw the Mudblood today, I was quite... I would say worried, but that would imply that I care for her well-being, which I most sincerely don't. I know what would have happened to her if caught, and I'm hazarding a guess that you do too.
I would almost consider it lucky that the Dark Mark appeared when it did. If not, there most certainly would have been a number of fatalities. Do you know how it happened? There are rumors that you conjured it, but that's just bollocks. It scared father out of his wits (which is odd, considering that he seems so loyal to You-Know-Who), and I have to admit that it even scared me. Not that I'd mind him ridding our world of the filthy Mudbloods, but I... let's just say I'm not entirely sure where I stand anymore.
I cannot believe I just wrote that. I need to end this letter now, and maybe burn it. Or hide it. If father ever finds this, you'll be in luck - I'd never return to Hogwarts, and you'd never have to hear from me again.
For some reason, I really wish you didn't hate me.