Letters From Hell
By Natasha Shaitanova
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Witches and Wizards…"
Hermione did not look up at the sound of the gravely voice. She accepted the new handkerchief Ginny passed to her at the elbow; hers had been soaked through hours ago.
"…We are gathered here today…"
The orchestra continued to play a soft melody in the background, attempting to fill the staggering void left in the pauses of the heavy voice.
"…To mourn and lament the passing of a great man…"
Hermione heard Ron's breath catch and leaned against his shoulder in response. She did not need to look at his face to know it was just as blotchy and red as her own.
"…A man greater than any in his generation. A man who has given more to our community than the community could ever give back…"
Hermione wrapped a handkerchief over the envelope lying in her lap, to shield it against her renewed flood of tears.
As she sobbed, she wondered cruelly if anyone in the audience understood how true the ornate words really were.
"…A man who has fought with us, laughed with us…lived with us, only to be snatched away in his prime years by a tragedy…"
The orchestra continued playing, heedless of the sea of silent tears as its audience. An occasional whine or moan would sometimes add to a doleful crescendo, but never stopping the piece.
"…This was a man who put us before himself, a man who valued human life without stipulation, a man who would rather save a criminal than save himself…"
Hermione's hands tightened on the envelope, tearing slightly at the damp paper.
What did they even know? Even now, every one of them was playing judge in a gilded courtroom.
"..Some called him foolish, but all admired him. For it takes real courage to—"
Hermione could barely listen. She had already heard all of the oft-practiced lines at rehearsal.
Turning her attention to the envelope, she opened it slowly, gently, as though afraid to disturb the contents. Her fingers shook the same as when she first saw it on his desk.
"…his bravery and dedication was undisputed and beyond anything—"
Hermione turned over the somewhat crumpled sheets of parchment in her hands, smoothing them out. The rustle of those few pages was louder to her than any speech or orchestra.
She choked back a familiar sob as she read the headings for the hundredth time.
"…We may never understand the mind of this man, whom many have come to worship…"
Hermione wanted so desperately to shut her eyes and to pretend that the letters did not exist. That the handwriting was different. That the words didn't reverberate as they did in her mind.
Dear Harry, Dear Draco, I love you, I love you, I love…
"…Perhaps his decision was one of grief, perhaps it was one of symbolism, perhaps it was one of a purpose we cannot come to comprehend…"
Hermione was aware of Ginny looking over her shoulder and of the other woman's tears dampening her blouse, but she did not ask for privacy. They had both already wondered endless sleepless hours over the writing.
Hermione fingered the edges of the parchment, recognizing the signs of wear from countless rereading.
How long had he sat there, probably on the roof, staring at the stars and wanting to shout to all of London that it no longer had a thing to offer?
"…There is no use questioning this man's decision because we have long lost the right to do so…"
Hermione tried to breathe against her constricted chest as she imagined wild, racing eyes tracking the feverish writing of pen over parchment, red and irritated from lack of sleep.
Unseeing, uncomprehending, writing unwritten words.
"…There is no space left in the tabloids and the yellow columns and we can only be grateful. We can only be apologetic and forever respectful to the man who handled all the public threw at him and never punished even the most deserving of his critics…"
Dear Harry
Hermione let the letters fall into her lap and wrapped her arms around her body. Not against the cold…against the pain.
"…We have never paused to tell him one thank you. That will forever be our gravest sin…"
She should have noticed, she should have looked, she should have helped, she should have tried, tried, tried to understand…
It was her gravest failure…
"…let us have a moment of silence for the man who allowed us to see this century…"
Dear Harry, Dear Draco…
Hermione did not need to lay the letters next to each other, compare for the thousandth time, cast a multitude of spells to check…to know the handwriting was the same.
I love you
I miss you, baby
Unsaid, unwritten words written by the same feverish, possessed hand…mindless of the world beyond his own.
"…To Harry Potter…"
And the orchestra stopped. The coffin floated forward between the rows.
His letters fluttered to the ground as Hermione rose in the similar, futile show of respect.
Perhaps it wasn't her gravest sin.
Was there anything one could do, one still part of the world, to stop a grieving man from collapsing into his own reality?
"…Thank you…"
Stars shone over London but there was no one to shout to them.
There was no one standing on the roof.
There were two coffins and five letters of unwritten words.
Ich spring fur dich…
-
A/N: …Well, this is it. I'm sorry if you guys wanted a reunion or something along those lines, but I would pick psychosis over spirituality any day. For the sake of the plot…Well, let's just say that this was more effective.
Please review to tell me how you responded to this!
Did it make sense or should I have been more specific? Was it properly conveying emotion or was it stilted?
Please, this was an experiment in psychological writing; I desperately need your response!
-NS