Letter to No One in Particular

They had never let him cry since he was young. When he had his first fall, he was taught to fight the tears back for the tears would not solve his problems. Tears, he was told, were signs of weakness. And that was not the path they wanted for him. And they made it very clear through their actions at home.

The blank parchment stared at him in an almost friendly manner. Perhaps it was just his imagination playing tricks on his tired mind. Biting his lower lip, he picked up the quill that was lying next to him, dipped it gingerly into the blackness of the ink and held the quill above the ink bottle, not knowing where to start.

After a while, he slowly brought the nib of the quill to the top of the left margin, pausing to collect his thoughts momentarily. Then he started to write and watched as the ink flowed out smoothly on the paper and formed flowery words. Bitterly, he wondered why his words could be so beautiful yet his life seemed to be the complete paradox. He needed no answer from anyone else save himself. It was all his family.

They thought they knew all about him, but they were never more wrong before. All they saw in him was nothing more than a defiant teenager who needed to grow up and learn how to be a man. In school, he wanted to be respected. But it always ended up the same. He would be feared and never loved except by his two true friends.

The students in his house always seemed to get into trouble in school but they knew that they could turn to him to help him. He always seemed calm and collected, never faltering in the face of what people would deem as danger. And each time, he had to fight the feeling of thinking lowly of them. They were after all in the same house. He would have to face the people throughout his school life. But now, he was going to explain it to them. His hand moved more freely across the paper as though it was no longer in his control. Yet there was never a flicker of doubt in his eyes that the words in front of him spoke for no one else but him.

To Whom It May Concern:

This is my letter to no one in particular but it is mine to speak for.

He had suppressed his fears, emotions and thoughts for far too long. Finally, he was going to let them hear him out, whether they wanted to or not. Maybe they would not see him as that arrogant prat in school anymore. Perhaps they might even understand why he does what he does. He knew that war would be upon them. Would he be seemed as a coward? Nothing mattered then and he had his plan in mind already. There was no turning back at his current state.

Was it so hard to want to be seen as a normal student? Circumstances and fate did not permit it. He always did dig deeper into situations than others but he just never did share. People were most probably not interested in what he had to say. Perhaps the people in his house would be interested.

But he did not want to think for them contrary to what most people thought of him. He would rather that people have their own opinion than to follow him for the sake of following him. His hands continue. Maybe they would finally see that cynical bitter side that he had hidden from view. His eyes started to sting horribly.

Why are you so blind? Can you not see that the blood incurred during wars belong to those who want nothing to do with it? Stupid, stupid world...

Can you not see that it's the innocent who suffer for those who crave power? It's those hurt the most are those who least deserve the hurt. And I'm not even just talking about physical hurt. The emotional wounds will heal but it can take a really long time.

He could no longer deny that war was finally upon him. And he was grateful for the refuge which Hogwarts provided for the students who stayed true to Dumbledore. Many more became acquainted with the members of the Order of the Phoenix and many students started their own small groups to stick together and encourage each other, to spur each one on.

People were aware of their current situation and even position in the war. It took time for people to even accept them for the choices they made. Everyone then started to try to accommodate him and his two best friends but he preferred to sit in the Great Hall and engage Moody in conversations despite the traumas the teacher had provided him in his fourth year in school.

Moody proved to be a trusted confidante. He went to Moody when he had thoughts to share and confusions to clear. However, he never shared everything. There would always be something hidden from Moody in the conversation. Strangely, he never once doubt the fact that Moody might know all he was thinking even if he did not voice it.

Yet his eyes were always so cold, refusing to be melted by anyone who cared. Moody knew that well enough to just be the young wizard's confidante rather than guardian. However, the young wizard did let his guard down around his two best friends. They were the only ones who cared enough to take his mind off the "fan club" forming in school. People often said that the eyes are the windows to one's soul. His best friend had said that once to him too. He knew very well what she meant for in her eyes, he saw despair unlike that of her strong character.

But he was not like her. He was brought up in a way most people weren't. He never had that happy family which he longed for, lest to say a normal Wizarding family. No. His windows would remain closed to the world and opened only to the young boy he often saw in the mirror. The tears would melt the ice window. But they did not let him cry. He would not cry in front of them. They would never see into his windows and he knew it would be that way forever even though he did not want it.

No one else will ever see that underlying depression that I see. I am cool, calm and collected on the outside but inside, I am crying phantom tears with phantom eyes. You say I stride, my chin slightly raised and that I elude a sense of poise. My head raised high only conceals the insecurity within me. The insecurity that the world had never known I felt about myself. You will never ever see the twisted and tormented hypocrite that I see myself as

You think you know me. You think you see the real me from how I act in school. But you don't see the real me when I'm alone in my room.

Not only were his eyes filled with coldness, his heart was frozen to the warm embrace of love. His friends had often spoken to him of a random girl from different houses, even their enemy house, admiring him. Yet he remained indifferent to the girls who even tried to get his attention. He was not on the look for perfection but who would love a man with a past like his? Who could accept him and his eccentric family when he had problems himself, trying to accept them. Even though his friends convinced him that memories are still worth the pain, he remained closed.

Is love that scary? I cannot accept reality for I am but a dreamer. I do not live in the fantasy of that perfect one for me out there. But who can ever find it in themselves to fall for a man like me? Yet, I do not deny that I do silently pray for that someone to come along soon enough to break my wall down.

I do want to fall in love. Let me meet a girl, sensitive and insensitive; humble and egotistical; gorgeous and ugly; gentle and rough; unpredictable and steady. Let me meet a girl who will love me with her all and help me through my trials and tribulations in life. Yet, it is too late; it's all too late for turning back now.

He seemed to only hurt more with each passing day or even second. He did share trivial worries with mere acquaintances but deep inside, he had a room full of trouble hidden in his heart and the key to that room was lost. It seemed to be holding more than it should be.

Besides he knew that no collected sane person would attempt suicide, least to say contemplate it. No one would know though. All that the attempt had left were emotional scars etched into his memory and heart for as long as he could live. The physical burnt mark on his arm from his wand was left to the imagination of those around him. But that was going to change in a matter of minutes. The tears were rolling down, wetting his collar and blurring his vision occasionally. The velvet robe remained dry while the tear it caught glistered gently in the candlelight. But it did not faze him. His hands continued more vigorously.

I cannot fathom how a man with so many skeletons in his closet and demons to fight can be seen as collected. They only observe the surface. No one bothers to dig deeper. Then again, I would never allow anyone to do that. Why? It's called pride, the shell that protects me.

He knew the shell would wear down eventually. It would take time for he learnt most of what pride was about at home when he was younger. His pride was all he had left to keep him from crumbling in front of people. That was the one thing that his family helped achieved. But that was why no one had the chance to see the crying, hurting child so full of grief and pain. Even if they did, they would never be able to fully comprehend the torrent of emotions trapped in that frame which he had grown to know as his body.

One thing they would never have the chance to see in him was the wonders he could have created for the world. They were blind to his talents and his gift. Few have had the chance to watch him at ease in the sky alone with the elements, away from the rest of the world. With their comments, they only clipped his wings further, forbidding him to take flight.

Even fewer have had the chance to read his writings. When he was tired from studying, his hand would pick up the quill and stories would pour out with mere words strung together in the most beautiful way possible. One of his friends had read his works once. After just one story, the friend could only stare at him, amazed by the images conjured with nothing more but mere words on a parchment.

Yet he remained caged in the prison many would call home. So many saw the cage that held him as somewhere safe where comfort is easily sought. So many thought he was a pampered child for they had never seen his home. No one ever had the chance to comprehend what his life was outside Hogwarts and at home. No one had seen it except his two best friends.

Only they were able to grasp the horrors he endured with the people he deemed family. He hated going home despite what so many thought. The riches in Gringotts were not what he called family even though they did supply short-lived comfort when he went to Hogsmeade. Even when time cleanses the physical scars, the mental and emotional scars from the people he grew up with would never fade. His family did not know that dreamers were never satisfied in comfort zones. They never even knew that he was a dreamer. What about his friends? Silently, he feared that they never even know it too. Perhaps the letter would change things then.

I never did once stand up for my thoughts, or even my dreams. You beat me down with your harsh words and lectures on how my dreams were too far-fetched and impractical in today's world. You mired my flight towards the things I felt were important. It seems as though family honor and pride and name is all I have to focus on. What about my desires or passion? It is my life! But now, I finally decide what path to take for myself and I am walking down it now. I will never be that misguided wildflower that I was once.

It is always easier said than done. No one ever said that life was easy. It will come with its ups and downs. Every rainstorm will see its sunshine. He had yet to find his sunshine or even catch a glimpse of the rainbow in the sky. How many times had he seen someone fall and pick him or herself up?

However, when he fell, he never had the chance to pick himself up properly. Someone would just come along and push him down. He had to be stronger but he could no longer find the strength to begin with. It was just so hard to be stronger when he could not even stand. Maybe an outstretched hand would have helped him. But would he lower his pride and take that outstretched hand?

I cannot and I will not lower my pride. So instead of seeking help, I will help myself. To do what? I guess I'll help myself destroy the person I had learnt to accept after so long. I will destroy me. Or am I? Maybe I'll finally find my field of true happiness, if there is such a field.

They had never seen him late at night, alone in his bed. The burden was much too great for his shoulders to bear but yet, he suffered in bitter silence. And on nights when he could not take it anymore, his mind would wonder how long more he was going to shake in his bed with each wreaking sob, his face half hidden in that tear stained pillow. He knew that he was trying so hard to be strong when he was at his weakest. However it was nothing but just a mere visage. The world was his masquerade ball where all he found himself doing was donning that mask of happiness. His room, his bed, was his only sanctuary where the world could never see that same old lines tears trace down ever so often.

You would never know the pressure of keeping up this daily fascia. You have never seen me fall. You were never there on nights when I cuddle up in a ball and just wished that the world would let me go. You were never there on nights when I cried and felt the vein throb horribly at the side of my head until an unspeakable headache overwhelms me. You were never there.

His hand continued in a fluid almost trance-like movement even though his body was shaking as if in a fit. Finally signing off with a flourish, he laid the quill down gently on the desk in his dormitory where he slept alone unlike the rest. Snape did always favor him, especially after he was made Prefect.

The letter was complete and it lay still at the side of the large rosewood desk. People would find it in the morning, he knew. He had promised Blaise and Pansy to go for that morning around the lake. And he could count on them to find him if he failed to show up.

Picking up the small fruit knife, he positioned it on his wrist carefully and made a long slit. The sobbing had numbed his senses. Although he was brought up to think that he was beyond all Muggle stuff, some things were better expressed in a Muggle sense. Call him dramatic or a hopeless romantic who had to be poetic even in death. All he felt was the cold blade but the physical pain was insignificant to the pain he felt inside. When he tried to slit the other wrist, his hand, weaken from the outflow of blood, no longer obeyed the master.

Blood flowed out generously and stained his dark green shirt and the dungeon floor. Tiredly, Draco slumped down on the table. Tears and blood mixed and swirled around his head and he cried harder as his wet gray eyes floated over to the last few words of his letter.

Tears are a sign of weakness, I once learnt. And because of that you never did let me cry, did you, world? No you didn't. So now, I will not let you cry for me. I want no sorrow, pity or sympathy. If you do cry, cry because you're happy for me. Cry because now, I am crying.

**

"Draco's been acting strange," Pansy declared as she sat down, facing Blaise.

"He called me 'Ginny' for the first time and didn't make fun of Luna's name just before he left the Great Hall after dinner," Ginny admitted after a moment of silence as she looked at the girl seated next to her at the Slytherin table. Luna, seated to the right of Blaise, nodded thoughtfully.

Ever since the war started, only three members of Slytherin were left behind while the rest followed the Dark Lord as expected. No one expected Draco Malfoy, of all people, to remain loyal to Dumbledore. Slowly but surely, people had warmed up to the three Slytherin members though Ginny and Luna were the only two who normally sat with them at the Slytherin table.

Pansy looked at Ginny before looking at Blaise again, "Aren't you going to say anything? He's your best friend too, you know, not just mine."

Suddenly Blaise frowned as he noticed that something was missing from the table on his left. Scanning everything quickly, his eyes accustomed to the utensils of fine dining and Draco's eating habits realized that the fruit knife which was always on the bread plate was missing. Quickly, he jumped off his seat and ran out of the Great Hall, towards the Slytherin dormitory. Luna, Ginny and Pansy caught up with him and in the midst of the running, they could hear Blaise muttering to himself, "Oh fuck. Draco, you fucking stupid prat."