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September, 20—
A literal hole in the ground; this is how angry I am
Dear Harry,
This is not a love letter. No, this is a letter of grievances.
I am not impressed, I am not in the least happy, and I have no intention of catering to your monumental ego. What the fuck were you thinking? You could’ve widowed me.
Yours,
The Husband You Evidently Forgot You Had
P.S. Bring me some of those green sweets you brought from Japan last time.
Mount Tsurugi Hotel Letterhead
September, 20—
My hotel room
Draco
I’m afraid you’re going to have to be specific. I don’t remember almost dying at any point recently.
I didn’t realise love letters were on the table. How does one write a love letter? Would you like me to write you one?
Oh Draco Dearest, how your eyes shine in the moonlight like pools of silver and something else appropriate. My heart beats for you and my dick longs for you. Forever and ever.
Yours
Harry
P.S. I will bring back some green sweets. How is your dig going?
September, 20—
My tent
Dear Harry,
I was referring to the incident in which you LEAPT OFF YOUR BROOM, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING BABOON, and then FELL TO WHAT WOULD HAVE BEEN YOUR UNTIMELY, YET DESERVED, DEATH were it not for the swift actions of your blessedly competent teammates.
I’m okay, thank you for asking. (You didn’t.) My emotional state, however, not so. I’m aggrieved. And grieved. I dropped my favourite digging mug listening to the wireless—I swear, I have never heard Lee that terrified before. My heart and mug shattered and while my heart may be on the mend, I’m afraid the mug is unsalvageable.
R E T I R E M E N T
I spelled it out for you so as to not unnecessarily scare you, as I imagine one does with children and ludicrously smart dogs.
On the subject of love letters. No, for goodness’ sake, do not write me love letters. Or—well, if you truly wanted to express your undying love for me, I suppose you could. Have you ever written one before? No, don’t answer that. I enjoy love letters, actually, when they’re not mine. Have you read Letters to Niezka by the famous sorceress and suffragette Grishina Sofya Nikolayevna? The penmanship is astounding. May I also recommend to you Raaid el-Qasim, who corresponded with his lover on matters of philosophy as well as matters of the heart?
My dig is going well, thank you for asking. (You did.) We’re currently unearthing what we think might have been a lavatory (and you can stop your sniggering at once, heathen, lavatories are the best, second only to middens) and we are all terribly excited.
Your loving husband,
Draco
P.S. Actually, could you enclose some of those sweets in your next letter? I cannot possibly be expected to wait three whole weeks for sweets.
P.P.S. Perhaps I should congratulate you on your victory, but that would somehow imply the victory was all yours and not in actuality carried on the shoulders of your eminently intelligent and talented team.
September, 20—
Your study
Draco
As requested, your green sweets. I’m sorry about sort-of-almost-dying. Would it help if I told you I was acting in the spur of the moment? I saw a chance and I took i leapt for it. I shall endeavour not to recklessly endanger myself (and your heart) again. See? I can also talk like a knob.
I am not ready to discuss R E T I R E M E N T yet.
I went to a Muggle bookstore before we Portkeyed back to Russia and onwards, to get those books, and then realised that those people are not Muggles and you probably already have them in the library. I talked to the staff there though and they recommended to me The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf, who were apparently very famous writers. I will read it and then tell you all about it.
Ah yes, I found the books. Not that your eclectic system of organisation helped. Anything else I should look for?
I wasn’t going to snigger about the lavatory, but now I think I will. Snigger snigger.
The team is heading to Scotland tomorrow for a boot camp, then to France for a game. I’ll come down early to see you on your dig after—unless you’re horribly busy? You can tell me all about your exciting lavatory.
Yours,
Harry
September, 20—
My tent
Dear Harry,
Yes, come.
Your long-suffering husband,
Draco
The digsite was completely inaccessible for anyone who didn’t know how to get to it, which was why Draco had gone to pick up Harry at the nearest Muggle train station. Harry had had to Portkey into Magdeburg (via Berlin) and then take the Muggle train to Hettstedt, from where Draco would drive them the rest of the way. Draco was waiting for him in the very small car park leaning against his Muggle car, apparently called a beetle, while not taking his eyes off the entrance to the Hettstedt train station.
It wasn’t as if he’d miss Harry arriving; this particular train station only had a train stop once every hour, if that. Nevertheless, Draco waited, eyes fixed, cigarette in mouth. It was a relatively new habit. Six years of marriage and he’d only picked up smoking five years in—these days, whenever he was away on a dig or Harry was away with his team or they were both away, smoking felt like a distraction and a comfort.
The train pulled up at the station and Draco gently extinguished the glow and put the half-smoked cigarette back into the pack. A trickle of people exited the station, Draco watching them idly until—there, a shock of black hair and a familiar duffel bag.
“Hello, stranger,” Draco said. Harry kissed him. “Put your stuff in the back.”
“I brought you some nougat from Paris,” Harry said, going round to deposit his duffel bag in the back.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“Tell me again.” Harry kissed him again.
The car rumbled and bumbled out of the village of Hettstedt and towards the smaller village of Stangerode. It was an overcast day—perfect for digging: neither scorching sun nor stinging rain. Draco turned the car down a narrow dirt track that led into the forest, stopping only upon reaching two other cars parked on the track.
“And now we walk,” Draco informed Harry.
“I can’t wait to see your lavatory,” Harry said, following Draco into the forest.
“We’ll see about that.” Draco smirked. The dig didn’t come into view gradually, as one might expect, but rather one suddenly happened upon it. One moment all you could see was trees, the next you were looking at four archaeologists and a couple of tents in a clearing. “Over here.”
Lavatories might be Draco’s second favourite thing (after middens), but even six-hundred-year-old lavatories could have a certain distinct…smell. It was a hole in the ground—it’d not always been a hole in the ground; it had started as a hole in the ground, sure, and Draco had excavated it until it became a hole in the ground once more, so the lavatory was now back in its original form. More or less. After removing layers of dirt, soil, and burnt materials (evidence that this lavatory had at one point had a wooden structure covering it, and that this structure had burnt), he’d reached the treasure trove: human excrement.
As Harry wrinkled his nose, Draco laughed.
“I found traces of cloves,” he said. “We reckon they came from Indonesia. In the fourteenth century, somebody in this tiny German village could afford cloves. Do you know how amazing that is?”
Harry didn't look like he understood, but he nodded very seriously and let Draco tell him all about the dig site.
Later, in Draco’s rented bedroom, with the sweat on their bodies rapidly cooling, Draco fumbled for his cigarettes. He lit the half-smoked one. Harry's body beside him was hot, solid, tangible—a world away from the acrid smoke in Draco’s throat. Still, it calmed him.
“We should write more,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Inhale. Exhale. “I feel like we don't talk anymore.”
Harry was quiet, then rolled onto his side, facing Draco. “What do you want to talk about?”
The lit end of the cigarette seemed like a blaze in the dimly lit room. “We used to talk so much,” he said. “I don't even remember what we used to talk about all the time, just that—I was never bored, talking to you. And now—”
“And now?”
“I barely see you and then I hear on the wireless how you do reckless things that could get you killed, and I'm just so…tired.” Draco finished his cigarette. “I know you don’t want to retire yet, so the only thing I can think of to get more of you is this: letters.”
“I miss you too,” Harry said.
Harry only stayed two nights before he had to go back home and resume his work. He’d be back the following week, for another two nights.
Then Draco wouldn’t see him again for more than two months, until they wrapped up the dig and he could go home, and the Quidditch season went on hiatus.
October, 20—
My tent, my bed, the woods, and waiting in line at the supermarket that one time
Dear Harry,
I am pleased to report that further analysis has revealed traces of pollen, which suggests that the humans who used this lavatory ate honey. This is exciting if only to definitely prove that this is a lavatory, used by humans, humans who lived here.
After suggesting we write to each other more, I suddenly find myself at a loss for what to write to you. Do you want to know what I had for breakfast this morning? What the weather is like? Which of my colleagues is being especially irritating at the moment? Well, I will tell you.
I had a cup of coffee and a cigarette for breakfast. It was raining a little, and while I hoped the sun would come out, by lunchtime the rain had intensified. Euan (not irritating) built a campfire and we roasted sausages for lunch. Upon further thought I’ve decided not to regale you with the exploits of my most irritating colleague—I’ve decided to be positive today.
When I said we used to talk, I was remembering a past that seems uncomplicated, tainted perhaps by the rosy glasses of remembrance and early infatuation? I was remembering staying up half the night in your bed, talking, with not a care in the world for the fact I had to get up in the morning for lectures and you had to get up in the morning for training. We were younger. Stupider, maybe. Who can say if the conversations we had were particularly profound?
Perhaps what I miss isn’t the conversations so much as the intimacy. That terrifying feeling of vulnerability—do you remember how hard I found it to let you in? It was a thrill in several ways. Exhilarating. Terrifying. I never wanted it to stop. I wanted it to stop. I wanted more, I wanted less, I wanted everything, I wanted nothing. I wanted to hide, I wanted to yell, I wanted all these conflicting things, and now, what I remember isn’t all the ways we shagged, but the quieter moments. How I felt talking to you.
Yours in heart and soul,
Draco
October, 20—
Our bed
Draco
I am reading Letters to Niezka. I like the letters. I think I understand what you meant when you said to write more—these letters are incredibly intimate, aren’t they? I feel like I’m prying. They’re beautiful letters. Grishina was so passionate about everything and she wrote beautifully, or I assume she did. I suppose I should credit her translator as well.
I DO want to know what you had for breakfast (I wish you wouldn’t smoke though) and what the weather was like. It might seem dull or banal, but if you were home, we’d be having breakfast together and you’d be looking out the window and commenting on the weather. I had eggs and toast and a cup of tea for breakfast. It was foggy. The nest in the tree by the window is empty.
I’m noticing about the book that it’s a bit worn, like it’s been read many times. How many times have you read it? What do you find in it when you do? I think I’m still discovering it. At first I wondered why Grishina wrote to Niezka so much because it seems like they actually saw each other every day and lived together sometimes? Am I wrong? Why would you write letters to someone you can easily speak to? But I just read a letter that seemed less like a letter and more like an outburst, like she had to get it out before she exploded. Her handwriting slips, she’s in a hurry, and this line—“I have been a strong lover and a strong bluestocking, and I capitulate to you every time.”—I feel like this sometimes! Like, I can do and be all those things and at the same time it feels like you would only have to ask me to give it all up and I would.
Please don’t ask me to retire yet. I would, if you asked. I would. But I can’t. I can’t.
How do you end a serious letter? I don’t really know what to say now. I miss you.
Yours,
Harry
P.S. I think I’ll go look for some nice stationery tomorrow. Your letters always look so nice.
October, 20—
My tent
Dear Harry,
I won’t ask you to retire. (Do you realise the power you have given me?)
I had a cup of coffee and a pretzel for breakfast. (I don’t really want to quit smoking. I do it when I miss you, which is always. But for you, no cigarette today.) I’ve been put in charge of making another funding application because we’ve found the site is much larger than we thought. We’ve been excavating what we think are two peasant buildings, for lack of better non-professional wording, as the church was excavated and renovated twenty years ago, and I think we’ve unearthed the edge of a large structure, possibly a community hall or similar. There’s more here.
I have lost count of how many times I’ve read Letters to Niezka. I re-read it at least once a year. Every reading experience is different: the first time I read it, I was caught up in Grishina’s prose, the wild landscapes she painted with her words. There’s something very poetic about the way she writes, even when she’s ostensibly not trying. Last time I read this book I found myself wondering where Niezka’s letters to Grishina are. There isn’t a single one in the entire book, and I wonder—how did Niezka phrase her thoughts? Which words did she like to use, how did she cross her t’s and dot her i’s? Was she as bombastic as Grishina, or did she have a more reserved style? Did they complement each other, or did they contrast?
I think it is prying, in a way, to read somebody else’s letters, even when published. They were once private. There’s a vulnerability in that, too—the correspondents may no longer be alive to witness their private thoughts made public, but I can appreciate the confidence all the same. It feels sacred in a way. I feel vulnerable too, every time I read Grishina’s letter dated April 21st 1897: “You sleep, the eastern sun and the western moon, and your skin shifts from night to day. The world awakens with you and so do I.” It is perhaps not the most profound passage or the most poetic, rather it seems almost childish and clumsy. She writes more beautifully elsewhere. But the world awakens. Harry, I’m awake.
Yours,
Draco
P.S. My letters are written on certified recycled paper that Alex (irritating) picked up in bulk somewhere nearby for us to write our notes and everything on. It’s not what I would term ‘nice stationery’. I like the texture and colour, though. Very different from parchment.
October, 20—
Our kitchen
Draco
It’s normal to write a letter over the course of a few days, isn’t it? I am busy this week and am stealing a moment over breakfast to write a few lines to you. (Breakfast: eggs, toast, tea.)
I’ve almost finished the book. I read the letter you quoted in your last letter, and I think I agree—it’s not her most poetic, but there’s a very strong emotion in it. I understand.
Today’s breakfast: eggs, toast, tea. Went with orange blossom today for a change. The tree outside the window has lost all its leaves now. I wanted to surprise you next week as we were scheduled for a friendship game in Berlin (I would’ve Apparated to you after the game), but it was cancelled. I’m not going to Berlin next week. It’s in moments like this when I miss you most, when I could’ve had a chance to see you, and then lost it. I’m counting down the days.
I reread your letters all the time. (Breakfast today: eggs, porridge, pumpkin juice.) It’s a new kind of missing you—I come home and hope for another letter, but of course there isn’t one because I haven’t sent this one yet. I sometimes wonder how it happened that our careers diverged so wildly that we spend what feels like most of the year apart, and then I think about what you said about an uncomplicated past. I don’t think our early days together were all that uncomplicated, but it’s easy to think of it that way now, isn’t it? I know it was hard, but at the same time, what I remember most was how happy I was every time you wanted to spend time with me. I still feel that same thrill every time I see you, but now those moments are further apart.
What do you think people would find in our letters hundred years from now? I’m not sure I would want anybody else to read them, but at the same time it feels like I’ve learned something new from reading Grishina’s letters. I learn something new about you when I read yours. Your letters feel very open, but I don’t know how to be like that? I want to be open too, to share in your vulnerability, but at the same time I just want to be where you are and tell you these things in person. Writing them down is scarier than just saying them.
I’ll try.
Today’s breakfast: eggs, toast, tea. I’ve left the sink a mess this week but I’ll do the dishes later. In a way taking these moments to write to you every morning feels like a little quiet refuge or a secret space that nobody else knows about but you. It feels safe here. I miss you. These days I’m missing you more than I’ve ever missed you before and I can’t explain it. Have I reached a breaking point? I don’t know.
Yours,
Harry
November, 20—
My rented lodgings
Dear Harry,
I wonder if we’ve both reached a breaking point? Much as I love to complain about muddy fields I do love my work. Right now I’m also looking forward to this particular dig being over so I can come home and write my papers and not go on another dig for months. I want to see you every day.
I had a cup of coffee and toast for breakfast today. I’m actually trying to quit the cigarettes, damn you. I don’t know what’s happening to me—I feel like I want to elope with you. Not like when we actually eloped, but like…I want to go somewhere with you where nobody knows us and where we don’t have responsibilities. Come to think of it, that’s how our correspondence feels to me. A quiet refuge, you said. Yes. You are my refuge, Harry.
However you may feel about your letter writing, trust that I know you.
Today’s breakfast: two cups of coffee, one with sugar and cream. I cherish your letters, love. I felt that needed repeating; you might not be the most eloquent of humans (I love you) but I can sense the thought you put into them, and I can feel the strength of your emotions (I love you so much).
The weather today is pretty good. It’s crisp, clear. It smells like winter. I think Euan is planning another campfire and sausages (this is why he’s my favourite colleague) and I think I shall be a good colleague and make us hot chocolate over the same campfire.
When I get home the first thing I’m going to do (after kissing you) is finish building that pizza oven in the garden. I don’t think we’re allowed firepits in the city, but if I put up some charms and look very apologetic when the authorities eventually come knocking, it should be fine. We could of course actually go somewhere together, but the truth of the matter is, I don’t need to go anywhere. Is it still eloping if we just stay home?
Eternally yours,
Draco
P.S. I like the paper you used last time. It’s silky smooth and the ink hasn’t feathered. I’m impressed. Even your handwriting seems neater.
November, 20—
Our kitchen
Draco
What is it about fire that makes things feel more homey and safe? Some primal instinct in our animal brains? At any rate, I agree: I don’t need to go anywhere, I just want you here.
I have the day off and I’m going out later to see Ron and Hermione for lunch and then do some shopping for Christmas. (Today’s breakfast: toast with applesauce and cinnamon tea.) I have already decided your Christmas present, so any attempts to hint at something else will be ignored. (I love you.)
I’m glad you like my choices in stationery. It took a while to pick out the paper and I got new ink too, but I wanted to write you letters on something that carried more weight than the scraps I found in your desk. If I’m to write love letters, should they not be on something that does the content justice? Or perhaps it doesn’t matter, and only the words do. I like how this paper feels. It reminds me of you, in a way, like it’s conscenti consin conscientious and neat and very pretty.
I’ve started reading the letters of Raaid el-Qasim and wow they’re old. It’s funny how some of his theories of philosophy (science, I guess, and magic?) sometimes seem completely out of whack, but at the same time I feel like he’s got a point. Like he’s somehow managed to find a grain of truth and is just trying to explain it the best he can, turning the grain over and over and over to study it from all angles. You’re the scientist—what do you think?
I’ll post this letter after I’ve been shopping. I want to enclose some sweets. (Actually I just want an excuse to get myself treacle toffees.) To end the letter with a quote from Raaid: “Absent or present, you are always my light.”
Yours,
Harry
November, 20—
My tent
Dear Harry,
Forgive me for the long wait. We are working long hours trying to wrap up the dig before the frost sets in, and most nights I’ve crawled into bed exhausted, unable to summon the energy to put my thoughts into words. (If my letter smells like cigarette smoke, it’s only because I miss you a lot today and I’m trying to finish off the pack. I think this will be my last one.) I’m sitting in my tent now, having a quick lunch break and writing to you. Thank you for the sweets—I’ve been savouring them.
I had a cup of coffee and a warm cinnamon roll for breakfast. Euan now has the campfire going all day (it’s bloody cold) and we’ve taken to warming all kinds of baked goods by it in the morning. I’m pleased to report that cinnamon rolls warmed over a campfire are much more delicious than regular cinnamon rolls.
I was going to write a sharp, but humorous, dig (ha) at you comparing me to stationery, but truth to be told I’m warmed all the way down to the deepest cockles of my cold, frozen heart. I’m charmed. Never stop being you.
I believe Raaid helped pioneer certain disciplines, but frankly I don’t much care since they’re not related to my field. What draws me to him (and Grishina) is that he is as passionate about his work as he is in love with his lover. They both remind me of you.
I have to confess I haven’t a Christmas present for you (yet). If you have a wishlist, do enclose it in your next letter. If you don’t all bets are off and I might just bring you a pine cone from the woods in lieu of an actual present.
I’ve stretched my break long enough, so that’s all for now. I’ll counter with another quote from Raaid: “Oh my soul, we are tired, we are defeated, but we love…”
Yours in defeat,
Draco
November, 20—
Our kitchen
Draco
I will be thrilled if you bring me a pine cone from the woods. Do you remember being a child and having a friend in playschool whom you might give a rock as a token of affection? I’d say I do, but I don’t think I ever did, and I don’t think I ever received one. I’ll consider a pine cone an upgrade from the non-existent rocks of my childhood.
We’re winding down as well—I have one “real” game left, then two for charity, and we’re booked for some public functions or whatnot, I don’t know. I just go where I’m told to go. I should be completely free in about two weeks, so I have a week free to sort out the house before you come home. (That sounds horrible. I swear I haven’t built a mountain of dishes, I just mean, the floor could do with a bit of scrubbing and I want to get our decorations down from the loft.)
I’ve almost finished the book. I do find Raaid’s ideas very interesting even if you don’t. His letters are so unstructured, like one moment he’ll talk about steel, the next he’ll declare his undying love, then he’ll skip right to talk about phosphorus or dragon liver.
I am flattered? That you think me similar to Raaid and Grishina. I mean, I know their letters aren’t only about eloquence, but they’re both such brilliant people. Honestly, they remind me of you a little. Intelligent, passionate, loving, the opposite of humble.
I never hear from you at the end of digs, so I was surprised to receive your last letter. I know. I’ll wait for you.
Yours
Harry
December, 20—
My rented lodgings
Dear Harry,
I don’t care about the state of the house or the mountain of dishes. I just need assurances that we are fully stocked up on coffee, because so help me God, if I come home and discover there isn’t a single grain of coffee to be found in the house I will divorce you.
Sorry about that, I’ve calmed down. If you want to know, Alex didn’t refill the coffee tin after they emptied it. I would say that my nerves aren’t particularly frayed at the moment, but I fear that may be a lie. The frost hasn’t quite set in yet, but it snowed today. We’re ahead of schedule. I’ll see you soon.
Yours,
Draco
Draco let himself into the house as quietly as he could; it was six in the morning. The light was on in the kitchen, but there was a chance that Harry had just forgot to turn it off the evening before. He left his suitcase in the entrance hall and made his way to the kitchen, bones aching and skin tight with exhaustion.
In the kitchen, bathed in the gentle warm light from the little lamps under the cabinets, was Harry, nursing a cup of tea and reading what looked like a letter from Draco. Draco still had all of Harry’s letters in a careful bundle in his pocket.
“Hi, stranger,” Draco said. “You’re up early.”
Comprehension dawned slowly on Harry’s face. Not quite awake, then.
“Draco.” Harry nearly toppled the chair over in his haste to get up. He pulled Draco in for a kiss. “Your letter arrived. I was reading it. Coffee?”
“I’ll have a sip of your tea.” Draco kissed him again. “I want a nap more than I want coffee. I’ve been travelling half the night.” He slid into his chair, resting his elbows on the table.
Harry joined him, nudging his mug over. “You didn’t say you were coming home early.”
“I said I—” Draco picked up the letter Harry had been reading. “Oh. I didn’t.” He sighed, and then appropriated Harry’s mug of tea entirely. If Harry wanted tea, he could just make more. (Which he did.)
“Do you want breakfast?”
“Mhh.”
Draco slowly sipped Harry’s tea, watching him put together a breakfast for both of them (porridge with applesauce). Suddenly it didn’t feel like he’d been away for months. It felt like he’d always been here, in this kitchen, with Harry, drinking tea. He glanced out the window but it was still dark.
Remembering what else he had in his pockets, Draco put Harry’s tea down for a moment. “I got you a pine cone,” he said, setting it gently on the table.
Harry laughed and came away from the cooker for a moment to give Draco a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. I love it.”
“Mhh,” was Draco’s pleased response.
“I was about to start reading the book of letters from Vita to Virginia I got,” Harry said when he rejoined Draco at the table with steaming bowls of porridge and another mug of tea. “Have you read it?”
“I haven’t.” Draco added a splash of cream to his porridge. “Read it to me?”
fin.