Title: Letters From A Stranger
Rating: T, for 'just in case'
Genre: Romance/Drama
Pairings: Draco/Harry, Mystery guy/Harry and some others
Warnings: SLASH! Weird rambling letters that are pathetic and may offend some people. Swearing, and other stuff. OOC for most characters.
Summary: Set in HBP. "Hermione, I'm in love with Draco Malfoy and some guy I don't know, but who writes letters I'm dying for to read! How the hell is that normal!?" Harry finds mystery letters in the library and a strange relationship occurs
IMPORTANT side notes: I haven't read book 6 for ages so the time line and some events are going to be mixed up, changed, altered or completely scrapped. Sorry.

Hey,

I know, I'm writting another story. But this one is very short, 7 chapters, exactly. It's to help me get over my writer's block. Sorry, and please enjoy!

Chapter 1
A Volume of French Verses

It was almost December. There was a Christmas feel to the air that Harry found himself enjoying. Hermione was still sore over the potions book and Ron and Lavender seemed to be at it more then ever. Harry couldn't help but feel a little sick when he caught sight of them. Mrs. Weasely was enthusiastic to have them all at the Burrow for Christmas and Harry couldn't refuse, mainly because he was worried Slughorn would decide to throw another Slug Club party.

Since Hermione was angry Harry decided he would be nice and agreed to study in the library with her. It was either that, watching Ron and Lavender suck faces, play Quidditch in the freezing snow or obsess over what Draco Malfoy could be doing. Study didn't seem so bad.

Hermione was buried deep in her Transfiguration book and was writing notes in small, cramped handwriting. She had already written two pages, easily four thousand words, and was only up to the fourth page. Harry himself had only managed half a page and was starting to loose concentration.

The library was practically empty as everyone was starting to relax about the up and coming holidays. Two Ravenclaws were studying in a corner and three Hufflepuff girls were giggling over some new romance novels that Madam Prince had just gotten. Harry fiddled with his quill, wondering what he could possibly do that would seem the remotest bit of fun when Hermione snapped her book closed, startling the green eyed teen across from her.

"Is something wrong?" Harry asked wearily.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, a pained look on her face. "We're only months away from NEWTs."

"Um…'Mione, they're next year."

"That's not far away!"

"Uh…Ok."

She sighed and started to pack away her things. "I'm going to have to write up a study guide." She stood, slinging her bag onto her back. "Come on, I can write you one too."

"No, thanks," Harry hurried to assure her. "I'm good. I'll just stay and um…write more notes."

Hermione looked pleased with the excuse and promised to see him at dinner before leaving. When she was gone Harry started to pack up slowly, wondering just what he was going to do. Madam Prince was glaring at him suspiciously from the desk, as though she suspected him to start trashing her perfect library. Harry escaped her gaze and ducked into a random, abandoned isle.

That woman is crazy, Harry mused, walking down the isle. He hadn't been here before. The books were all old and dusty, neglected for years and left to their narrow isle, away from the rest of people. Harry's fingers traced the spines, leaving a clear trail through the thick dust, the first contact in years. He felt a compassion for the abandoned books and pulled one free.

It was bound in faded brown leather, the title faded away. He flipped through the yellow pages carefully, scared he would rip them. It was a book of German poetry, translated into English. Written by some famous wizard Harry had never heard of, Horst Artz. So this section was filled with poetry? Harry replaced the book and looked around. One volume in particular caught his eye. It wasn't covered in dusty. The spin was creased from years of use. It was thinner and smaller then the others, crammed between two bulky books.

Harry wedged it free and read the cover, A Volume of French Verses, on the front page was a single name, typed in bold letters, Isabelle Leroy. A page was marked and Harry flipped it open. A folded slip of parchment slipped out and landed at his feet. Harry bent down and picked it up. The page in the book caught his eye. It was a short verse and read:

The days of summer pass us by,
The change of seasons greets the day.
Cold frost grips hearts,
The winter sends shivers of longing.
The seasons have changed,
And so have our hearts.

Harry looked down at the note and unfolded it. The letters written upon the page were block and undisruptive as though the writer took great pains to make sure there was nothing of themselves left behind. The one thing that caught Harry was that the page was new.

Like the changing of seasons comes the change of character. How does one change with a season? Can you ever truly change? One can not live long like the way they are then decide to change themselves. It's impossible! The seasons may change but by the same time next year they are back again. Is it to be like that with people? Shall we change ourselves only to change back after a short period? Does anyone, ever really, hold the power to fully change? Is it an illusion that we are different? A fool can believe he has changed but he will forever be the same, no matter what lengths he takes. It is simply better to subject yourselves to what you are then attempt to fool yourself with the notion that you can change. Change is not necessarily good, so why should we change, only to be knocked back again? Humans always take the simple paths in life, change is not simple, so that is why it isn't attempted. We are to be the way we are until we die.

Harry stared at the letter. Who could have written this? Without thinking Harry refolded the letter and slipped it into his pocket, replacing the book and leaving the library. The corridors were freezing and Harry's breath made clouds of mist that hung in front of him. He walked around, not knowing his destination or where he was. Reaching into his pocket he withdrew the letter and read it again, absorbing every word, trying to pull back the layers of the writer and find their mind, the soul that wrote every word, every emotion that was written onto the parchment.

Harry stopped in front of a frosted window and looked up from the parchment that had absorbed him for so long. Whoever they were, Harry was curious to know more about them. Judging by the parchment the writer would have to be a student in the school. He wanted to find them, to understand more of this bazaar writing.

-TBC-

Just so you know, I wrote the verse and the letter, and I'm probably the shittiest poet. Please REVIEW and make me feel better, or yell at me to finish. Thanks.

With love,
Harpy Wings