Chapter Text
To my pen-friend.
I’m not going to lie; I endeavour to be as honest as I possibly can be when writing to you.
I think this was a terrible plan, and I hate the entire concept of it. I could tell that the girls were scheming for the inter-house unity that McGonagall has attempted to force. I strangely like the idea of it, but the execution of it seems to be shocking.
I’m not particularly sure of what I should reveal in these letters, but my assumption is that they will most likely be burned upon reading, so I doubt it matters. I wish to congratulate you if you made it this far.
This week, the two most exciting things were the looming conversations about job prospects in “the real world,” and the party we had on Sunday night. I may have drunk too much, though. It is... unlike me to become intoxicated. I suppose the post-war guilt has finally caught up with me.
It’s peculiar. It seems to have affected everyone in different ways. One boy I know used to have the most wonderful eyes, that shone like gems when he smiled, but now all I see are heavy pebbles that weigh down his heart with mistrust. It wrenched at my heart to witness the life and soul being coaxed out of the castle by an invisible sorcerer of pain.
Maybe I should attempt to lighten up this writing...
I could tell you mundane, bland, miniature observations about myself? Whilst it is certainly self-indulgent, who knows; you may consider it to be fascinating.
Primarily, I dislike coffee and tea, yet I drink both to remind me not to harm anyone when I first awaken. Hot chocolate, however, is a guilty pleasure of mine. In fact, all chocolate is perfect in my eyes. I prefer mint the most: it holds an unreplaceable freshness to its flavour. The next fact is that I am allergic to certain types of bird, which thoroughly upset my parents when they purchased several expensive creatures without consulting me beforehand. The main problem is that I secretly adore birds, but I am doomed if I go anywhere near them. Ironic, really.
I wish I didn't have to write first. I'm too nosy and honestly uncertain to be writing to someone without being able to ask them questions. I could leave you some, but I don't want to pressure you into answering them. It may be odd, but I want to learn the tiny details about everyone; the ones that a best friend picks up on after ten years of knowing one another.
Make me a promise, pen-friend? Ask me and answer me something each letter? I'll begin with something simple: favourite drink?
I'm not too sure of what else to put. I guess I need to await your answers before responding accordingly. I so desperately want to describe my image of you. Currently you're just a nameless fellow, a common traveller down a path that leads nowhere. You have no face, but I picture you to have the most dazzling smile and personality. I want you to be everything I am not: brave, and content, and happy.
Even without meeting you, I've romanticised you. How ridiculous.
From,
Your Pen-friend.
P.S. I hope you are happy, no matter who you may be.