Penning the Letter

The empty parchment lay on his desk, casually tossed aside. He sat back in his favorite chair, his writing chair, as he liked to think of it. He had sat here when his really great ideas would pour through his quill. Only this time they had been dammed up. Nothing was coming to mind.

He surveyed his desk. How clean. How neat. How tidy. It could have belonged to anyone. There was nothing that was his, nothing that seemed to mark it as his territory. It seemed as blank as the parchment.

But as he thought about his apartment, he realized the desk wasn't the only blank thing. The whole place was blank. The walls were white, with no ornamentation. Everything looked stark and clean, like it was in a magazine.

But that was how she liked it. So he wouldn't change it.

He frowned as his eyes went back to the parchment. It shouldn't have been this hard to at least think up an opening. What about 'dear'? That sounded like it could be non-committal enough, but still friendly. 'Dear' had hopes. 'Dear' could be formal and stuff or a term of endearment. A sweet nothing. His frown grew deeper.

If she knew what he was writing, she would be so angry.

Harry's natural stubbornness set in though. She wasn't here anyways. He was free to write what he wanted. What he felt. She was out on another one of her 'girls' night.' Hah. Girls' night. It seemed like every time she went on one, Roger Davies was always the one who brought her home, in a drunken stupor. Roger wasn't a girl, now was he?

He took a sip from his mug. She wasn't the only one who drank, anyways.

His eyes focused back on his letter. Right. He was a writer. It was his job to put things in a nutshell, to sum everything up. He could do this. All he had to do was organize his thoughts. What did he want to say?

He doubted starting off with "I just realized that I love you" probably wouldn't ease her into it. That or "I'm stuck in a loveless relationship" wouldn't do, either.

"I really enjoyed seeing you," he scrawled on the parchment. There. That worked. It was true. It could be in any way, platonic or not. It was a happy way to start out.

But now what? He knew from prior occurrences that really the only time he could be true about what he felt was when he had a large amount of alcohol in him. But getting sloshed right now didn't seem like the best way to write a letter. Plus, it was getting pathetic, him drinking alone. He didn't need to get any more pathetic.

"I've missed you a lot," he scribbled. That sounded good, too. Got the message across just a tad more. Harry's quill moved quickly across the page, his creative juices starting to flow.

The storm that had been threatening London all day was finally doing something. Rain pelted the windows as Harry put down his thoughts.

Harry signed his name with a flourish at the bottom, happy with what he wrote. His eyes quickly scanned it for mistakes. Finding none, he put down his quill and began folding up the letter.

Lightening struck nearby, throwing his dark flat into a bright white hue. Harry stopped his folding. His eyes drew to the bedside table. It was a picture of them. They were happy, smiling. He remembered that day. They had gone to the beach. They were happy then.

Was he giving up hope too soon? Was he just chasing a fairy tale ending? Maybe life was supposed to be hard like this. Happiness had never come easy to him like it had to his friends. Maybe he was fated to work for his peace.

After staring at the picture, he picked up the letter again. What were his options? He could send it. He would ruin one life. Throw another into chaos. He didn't even know if she felt the same way.

He could not send it. He could resign himself to his present life. Misery and lonely nights, going hand in hand. But no one's life would be ruined.

Except maybe his.

But he was the boy-who-sacrificed. The boy-who-made-the-right-decisions. It was up to him to shoulder the burden. He wouldn't let anyone else have to do that, too.

So he started the flames going in the fireplace. Once they had reached enough heat, he threw the unsent letter in. He watched it burn, seeing the "Dear Ginny" in his pathetic scrawl crumble into ash.

It would probably be better this way anyways.