Crêpes

Crêpes

By Eleret

Dear Harry,

I made crêpes today, just like I always do on Christmas morning. It reminded me of you, of course. What doesn't remind me of you?

Do you still make crêpes on Christmas? I bet you don't. I bet that you don't make anything on Christmas. You probably just sit in your armchair and read The Daily Prophet, like a good husband. You probably give the kids presents and grin, and pretend you're not really thinking about your latest piece of work.

I know you won't read this, Harry, but I'm writing it anyway. You probably know I'll send it, by now. I always send you a letter on Christmas, and Easter, and on your birthday. I know you'll see the seal, and immediately burn it. Even if I don't put the seal on it and don't use my owl, you'll still know it's mine. I'll never understand how you can just throw the letters away without reading them. But you do. I guess you just don't want to see that I still love you- you don't want to remember that I'm still here, still moping.

But this wasn't the point of this letter, Harry. The point was to tell you what I thought about while I was making crêpes. Remember that Christmas, Harry? That Christmas during seventh year? We spent the morning in that silly little Muggle flat that you had bought on a whim for when you graduated. We went to the Burrow in the afternoon, and I endured the suspicious stares of all the Weasleys, but that morning we stayed at home in that huge, four-poster bed you bought. We opened presents. It was the best Christmas I had ever had, and I'll never forget it. I've yet to have a better Christmas since.

And then I decided we should have crêpes for breakfast, because I loved crêpes, and my mother never made them on Christmas. You didn't know what they were, but I wasn't surprised. After all, you had lived with crude, uneducated Muggles all your life. So I explained what they were, and it made me feel superior, for once. And you agreed, you said it would be fun.

So we got out a cook book, and looked for a recipe. We had to do it the Muggle way- we weren't allowed to use magic that Christmas, remember, Harry? I didn't know how to use the stove, but luckily you did. I got out the ingredients and started mixing them. The batter was lumpy, but I got sick of stirring, so it stayed that way.

Then you put them in the skillet. There was a lot of egg in them, so they got a bit rubbery, like scrambled eggs tend to be. But they were all right, for all that they were a little rubbery and a little scrunched up from the spatula when you tried to get them out of the pan. And they looked delicious all the same.

We ate them with confectioner sugar and strawberry preserves. And I picked all the preserved strawberries out of my portion of the preserves and gave them to you because I didn't like them. They were delicious and sticky and messy. We ate about a million, so it was a good thing that we had doubled the recipe. Afterwards, neither of us wanted to do the dishes, so we just put them in the sink and they stayed there for three days.

That was the best day of my life, Harry. I think it was the best day of your life, too. I know you can't have been much happier since, what with the war and everything. And I know that your wife can't make you as happy as I do.

I see you sometimes at work, and we exchange quick, pained glances. Everyone but the Weasleys and Granger (now Granger-Weasley, I guess) thinks it's just because we still hate each other and you don't trust me. I find it so ironic that what they label as anger is actually the residue of love. Because, yes, Harry, I do still love you. And I think that you must love me, too. I know you can't love your wife, at least not the way she loves you.

It's funny, anyone else would think, that we can't get back together. Most people would think that if we both still loved each other we would be able to get back together. But Harry, we know it's not that easy. First of all, there's your wife and your kids. And even if you'd never gotten married, it wouldn't have worked. We both know that, don't we?

So how is miss Ginny Potter doing? I know that she knows she wasn't your first choice, or probably even your second. But she's still with you. She smiles when you get home, and she loves you as much as anyone can when their love is not returned. She pretends she doesn't see the faraway look in your eyes. She conveniently forgets that you're always coming home late and leaving early for work. I never knew that she was so loyal.

Frankly, I'm amazed that Ginny has been so strong. I wouldn't have pegged her to be the type to love without having anything in return. But I guess that love can do crazy things to people. So I guess that she doesn't mind that you close your eyes when you make love to her? And she doesn't mind when you say my name in your sleep? Because I know you must, Harry.

Well, Harry, now we're coming to the end of the letter. I don't have much left to say to you. You probably don't know why I even bother to send the letters anymore. In truth, even I'm not quite sure why I send them, but I have my guesses. I think it's because I need closure.

Yes, Harry, closure. I still can't just look back on us and feel happy without remembering the bitter end. I hope to be able to do that by the time I'm ready to die. I hope that one day I'll be able to sit down next to you at lunch at the cafeteria at the Auror station and say, "Hi Harry. How's it been?" And just be friends. I want us to be able to look back on it as just one of those things that happens to people, someday. And I want to be able to smile at you, and just let the past be the past. And just let it be over.

So I guess, until we get there, I'm just going to have to keep writing. I'll write you a letter on Christmas and Easter and your birthday. And you'll keep burning them without reading them.

And I'll keep making crêpes on Christmas morning and eating them all by myself.

Love,

Draco Malfoy.

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