Chapter Text
You know me too well, Harry. I suppose that’s what happens, after 3 years of being madly in love. (Feel free to read that in a sarcastic tone, perhaps with a smirk.)
What can I say? It was easier, to run. To hide, to flee, to never look back. Much easier than facing all of the shit that the war left behind.
Anyway, Harry. Allow me to paint you an image. You always told me that I have a gift with words.
I’m walking down the street. It’s a typical, hot day, the leaves rustling in the tree behind me. I’ve got a carton of milk and a loaf of bread in my hand, humming some random song that got stuck in my head (I think it was All Star, curse you for introducing that song to me). I head to my apartment. I open the door, the key scraping in the lock. I am greeted by not one, not two, but 10 different wizards meandering about in my living room.
I think it’s safe to say that I wet my goddamn pants. Metaphorically, of course.
In any case, they told me that I was now free. That I could go home, collect my inheritance, that I would receive a prize of some sort (Order of Merlin, I think, I can’t remember). And that was that. Two minutes, and I was welcomed back into the Wizarding World with all the apologies of the Ministry.
Freedom. The word is strange. I don’t think I’ve ever been free, not really. There was always my Father, or Voldemort, always something that stopped me from -
It was easier, I think, to leave without telling you goodbye. Less painful, perhaps, because I knew you would try to stop me. I knew you would burn down the world in a heartbeat, face Voldemort again. It’s always been your personality, your infuriating, beautiful personality, to give up everything for someone you love.
And if you feel the same way that I did, that I do, you’ll know that it is love. Though, you never doubted that. It was always me.
So I won’t waste my breath trying to convince you otherwise. You know that it won’t be easy, loving me. I’m bitter and broken and far too shattered and I don’t know if I would be able to pretend otherwise. War changes people - you know that as well as I. I don’t know if we’ll ever be the same, if we could ever go back to how we used to be before.
There was a quote I read, somewhere, about how the very same flames that harden stone melt metal. How some people rise from trauma and others crumble from it, how sacrifice only means anything if you have something to lose.
It was easier being alone. Voldemort was persuasive - I would have given up the Order in a heartbeat, killed Dumbledore and damned the entire Wizarding World if it meant keeping you safe.
For the Greater Good. It was a quote by the late Dark Wizard Grindelwald, something that resonated with me throughout everything. Would I have sacrificed everything, sacrificed you for the Greater Good?
Because you know me, Harry. I would burn down the world just because you weren’t there with me. So I’m not sure if that was a smart choice, pardoning me, letting me back into your world.
But it was beautiful all the same. Magical, I suppose (ironic isn’t it? That the one who was born into magic would be the one to lose it). We were something, something wonderful, life forged in a war of death. Because it’s much easier to find someone you would die for than to find someone you would kill for.
It is what it is. We were young and naive and hopeless, forced into a war that should not have been ours and we lived. Scarred, yes, covered in bloody gashes and painful memories but we got out. We survived.
That’s what I whisper to myself, in the dead of the night. We survived. We survived.
I dreamt about you, last night. The bed always seemed too large without you in it - I turn around, reaching out for someone and awoke holding onto air.
In the dream, we’re together. We’re always together. The Dark Mark is on my forearm, stark in the pale light. You trace your thumb over it, and it sends shivers down my spine.
I turn to you. “Do you think it’s possible to change? To become a better person?”
You smile down at me. “Always.”
I’m staring at my bags right now - there are 7 of them. The apartment is empty, of furniture and of clothing. My fingers are curled around a pen - I am absentmindedly flicking it, like I’m casting a spell. You still have my wand by the way - I want it back.
Don’t bother sending me any more letters, Harry. Tell me yourself. I’ll see you at the Spot, where we always used to meet.
I’ll be waiting.
Yours,
Dragon
PS. We survived.