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Letters From America	By : tambrathegreat Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 1912 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: All recognisable Harry Potter characters and settings belong to JK Rowling. All others are my own. I make no money from this endeavor.

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Sorry for the long time between updates. I have been suffering from a back injury that put me on some pretty strong meds and consequently made me less than creative. Now that I'm off them, I hope to get back on my regular once a week update schedule.

This chapter was red-moused by Jilliane.

Chapter 3

Gin,

We finally made it to South Dakota last night; that's in the upper middle part of the States. This country is so... vast, I guess is the word. The Great Plains, as they are called, are like something from a dream. I wish you could see it. From about Indiana on, the land is flat, well, not really, because there are rolling hills that stretch from one end of the horizon to the other. It just looks flat because there is very little to break the line of sight and such. The land is amazingly open and the people here are hard-bitten, but nice. Kind of like the Australians we met on our honeymoon, only they speak more slowly here. It's odd to see indentations from wagon wheels that passed through here over a hundred years ago, bitten into the ground as if they were monuments to the people who passed through on the way further west. There are a few sparse stands of trees on the land, most of them lying by small washes that they call creeks, or are planted along fence lines. When we stopped for dinner last night, I asked the local sheriff, who was eating at the booth next to ours, why the trees were only on the fences and he told me that most did it to keep their homestead exemption when they moved to the land. It was a condition the government set for them to settle the land here. Something about soil conservation and a time called the Dust Bowl that happened in the 1920's and 30's. He mentioned a drought, and how topsoil was blown from Canada all the way to Oklahoma and Texas, creating great clouds of black dust for hundreds of miles. He spoke about that event like it was ancient history. It's hard for me to think that this land is so new that there were 'settlers' only a hundred fifty years ago that moved onto almost virgin land, and that a hundred years could be ancient history to them.

The sheriff asked us about England even though he was fairly knowledgeable about it himself. He said he spent some time there in the military and had loved London when he was there. He even told us a few stories that I can't repeat, lest the kids read the letter. I'll fill you in later. When he asked us what our business was, Draco told him a sanitised version about looking for an old army buddy of ours whom we had tracked to one of the Indian reservations around here. The sheriff told us to be careful, that we might need to read up on some of the history before we went onto tribal lands with "guns blazing." Draco looked a little ill when he said that, and assured him that we had no firearms in that posh, slightly haughty way of his. The sheriff had a good laugh about that, and Malfoy went into a little snit after the man left. Gods, Malfoy is so hilarious.

Tomorrow is Sunday, so I've had to cool my heels in this drab little motel room whilst he goes to confession this evening. He said he'd go to early Mass tomorrow so that we can drive the short way into Rosebud, which is the name of the reservation. I told him I needed a day off myself just so he wouldn't be in a tiff after the service. I'm not really complaining about his devotion to his religion, we all know what he was like without it, but really, can't he skip a Sunday? I'd say it's just not normal, but then I have to remember about whom I'm writing...

&*&*&

Monday morning Harry and Draco set out from the Buffalo Trail Motel, in Winner, South Dakota, heading west toward Rosebud. They had been cautioned by several of the local members of the constabulary to guard against offending the citizens of the Lakota Nation. Draco certainly hoped Harry would be more circumspect in his dealings with the aforementioned natives than he had been so far with others in his life.

During their road trip from Miami to Rosebud, Draco had started reading a book about the battle that had effectively ended the Indian Wars, as they were called. The book contained outrage after outrage against the once proud tribe of natives, who had been sequestered on a barren strip of land, and told of the events leading up to a massacre at Wounded Knee, South Dakota. Draco was dreading their foray into the natives' realm. He feared he might offend them with his mere presence. He finally admitted the evening before that the treatment of the natives he had read about brought back very bad memories for him of the war in England, and what the Dark Lord had intended to do to the undesirables under his control. When Harry did not press for more information, Draco was glad. It was, it seemed, enough for Harry that Draco felt horrified by the dogma he had once espoused.
Just outside of Winner, South Dakota, Harry started pointing out the local fauna rather excitedly. Draco had to admit that the herds of bison that dotted the plains were quite impressive. Potter had mentioned about reading that the herds used to be millions strong, and at one time had stretched for as far as the eye could see. Draco couldn't imagine that many animals being supported on this nearly barren land.

For lunch, they stopped at a field that was dotted with small mounds of dirt. Draco was charmed by the little creatures that popped out of those structures, chittering noisily to each other with their little hands held limply at their chest, and then scampering back to the safety of their homes when they noticed Harry and Draco. Harry consulted an Audubon guide book he had picked up in Omaha, Nebraska, and informed Draco that the animals were called prairie dogs, even though they were rodents, and were known to carry a form of bubonic plague. It was the same disease that had swept Europe in the Middle Ages. Draco's enthusiasm for the personable little animals was considerably dampened after that. He abruptly returned to the car and cast several cleansing and healing charms on them both just to ensure they did not catch the disease. Potter merely shook his head in consternation, but said no more on the subject.

Upon arriving at the Rosebud reservation, both men were treated to more than a few suspicious stares. Harry parked the car in the space in front of a building that was marked as the tribal headquarters for the Rosebud Lakota band. Under the English another language, presumably the native tongue read, "Sicangu Lakota Oyate: Land of the Burnt Thigh." The sign gave Draco pause, wondering if they hadn't been rather hasty in their pursuit of Snape onto this land. He followed Potter into the building after a few moments of furtive observation of the natives who were in the process of conducting their daily business. It was the first time that Draco had felt alien and unwelcome in this country. It left him feeling wrong-footed and cross.

When we started out on this quest, I did it because I wanted to make sure Snape was well. In the time it's taken for us to find him, I realise I need something from him as well. I want him to acknowledge that I am not James Potter. To be honest, when I was a child, I idolised my dad. I heard all these great stories from his friends, from Dumbledore, and from Hagrid, and anything would have been better than being with the Dursleys. I mean, I could have been raised by a pack of hyenas and been happier. I've never told anyone this, but I found out some things about Snape's life during school. I won't tell you how I first found out, because, to be honest, the story shows me in a very bad light. I just know that my dad was a bully, and Snape was his main target. My dad wasn't that everyone thinks he was. As hard as that is to acknowledge as an adult, imagine the torture it was when I was younger.

Anyway, I want Snape to recognise me. I am Harry James Potter, not James Potter, not Sirius Black, not Remus Lupin, or Peter Pettigrew. I never tormented him. I never started any of this... mess... that was between us. I was just a fucking scared kid who was trying to find his way.

I don't know why this makes me so angry now. I mean, I know why it makes me angry, but I don't know why I feel this fury welling up in me at the thought of what I could have had, what might have been, if Snape had dealt with me as if he were an adult.

Honestly, I think he quit maturing when my Mum dropped him. He stayed that fifteen year old boy that was full of anger, pain, and angst. I guess if you had done that to me, with my history, well I might have been the same way. I don't know.

I also think that my dad and the Marauders had a lot to do with him not growing. Shit, it's all going round and round in my head.

Gin, I miss you and I wish I could talk to you about this. You've always been the voice of reason that I've relied on to talk me through the tough times. I feel lost without you...

Harry sipped his pale imitation of beer as he and Draco discussed what had not been said at the tribal headquarters. They were in a small hole in the wall tavern on the outskirts of Rosebud, run by a taciturn Native American man, and his equally dour wife. Harry's Auror sense had kicked in during their interview with the tribe's vice-president.

"They know something," he observed.

"Of course they do," Draco replied, picking up his fork and spearing a bit of the fluffy white fry-bread that was not covered in the spicy red sauce from the beans. He bit into it and closed his eyes. "You should try this. It's fantastic."

Harry was in the midst of peeling the thin label off his beer when Draco made his comment. He looked about, noting with some trepidation the amount of attention they seemed to be drawing from the assembled patrons of the honky-tonk. Harry slid his wand out of his holster and into the palm of his hand, ready, but not visible. He could see that Malfoy had done the same.

"I think we need to find a place to stay tonight, in that town we saw on the highway. I don't think we're going to get any information on Snape here." Harry swallowed after the sentence, his throat aching as if the words were dragged out of his gullet around a lump the size of Scotland. He felt as if they were losing something precious by not connecting to this area as Snape apparently had. He crumpled the wet paper from the bottle into a ball and rolled it back and forth on the table.

Draco's answer was a non-committal clearing of his throat as he pushed a bit of the bread and meat mixture toward Harry. "Try it, Potter."

"I don't want any, thanks," Harry declined. Malfoy grumbled something under his breath, and Harry eyed him with a scowl. "I hate it when you do that."

"What?" Malfoy quirked an eyebrow at Harry. "You hate it when I eat? Or when I ask you to try something outside that middle-class box you have yourself in?"

"Sod off, Malfoy," Harry said. "I'm fucking sick of you in general, and your superior attitude in particular."

Malfoy took another small bite, his jaws knotting as he chewed. He swallowed and answered, "As if you're any easier to live with. Christ could have taken lessons in martyrdom from you. Tell me, Potter, why do you want to find Snape anyway? Is it for some misplaced sense of gratitude for Severus saving your sorry hide so many times?"

Harry pushed his bottle away from him, his voice rising as he answered, "Piss off! What do you know, Malfoy? It's not like he even cared about me. He did it all for my Mum." Harry struggled to stand, knocking his beer over in the process, and jostling the table with his knee. "I'll be out in the car when you're through."

He strode through the room, his face heating at the stares directed at him. It seemed as if every pair of black eyes in the establishment was on him. He turned one more time to Malfoy and gave him a two-fingered salute before he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

...I read a little about the recent history in this area. It seems that on the sister reservation, Pine Ridge it's called, there was a pitched battle between some FBI agents and some of the local tribe. There's a fellow called Peltier that has spent years in prison on little or no evidence that he was, in fact, the assassin of at least one agent. I can see why the natives (they like to be called Lakota, because that's their tribe, and there are further designations about which branch of the tribe that they come from. It all smacks of those talks we had about the pureblood issue, without the wealth and privilege, if you get my meaning) (After chasing that hare, I had to go back and reread what I wrote. Ha! Ha!) Anyway there is a lot of hostility between the Lakota and the whites in the area. There have been a few revisionist films and books that treat the Lakota with some respect, but I suspect they show only glimpses of what it's like to be housed on this reservation. I can't explain any better than that, without you seeing it.

I told you we were going to the tribal headquarters today. The workers in the office were never outright rude, but they just weren't helpful at all. I tried to coax a secretary to give us some information, but she was just as tight-lipped as the rest of them. Malfoy said it was because I went in like an Auror. He says they don't like authority figures on this reservation, especially white ones. Well, I say bollocks to them.

I really don't know what we're going to do if we don't get any information on him here. I mean to try one more time tomorrow. I'll give some gifts, like the department did with those Japanese blokes who came over on that exchange.

Gin, I just feel so wrong-footed here. I wish I was home...

Draco waited a few moments before he pushed his Styrofoam plate away from him and laid a few dollars on the table. He had not been this furious at Potter since sixth year. The wonder-boy's reaction to his taunting was completely out of proportion, yet Draco still felt the need to goad him further.

Potter didn't know Severus. Well, not that anyone did really, it was just that Potter knew him less well than most.

Draco thought back on all the times he had seen Severus nearly at the end of his rope, all the times in that last year that Potter had caused him to be tortured, all the times Severus was in a white-lipped rage after the Dark Lord required payment for his failure to capture Potter and the other two. Of course, Potter had been on the run that last year, but he still caused Severus plenty of problems. The Dark Lord had thought Severus should be able to locate the trio, and Severus, for so many reasons, could not.

Draco felt as if he were banging his head against a brick wall when he spoke to Potter. He cared more than he admitted that Potter might be hurt in the end. Severus had never been a forgiving sort, thus the vendetta against a child for his father's misdeeds. But it went deeper than that. Draco suspected that Severus had never forgiven himself for the choices he made when he was younger.

Self-flagellation over past sins was a feeling with which Draco was well acquainted.

He ran the heel of his palms over his eyes, hoping to clear his head before he had to face Potter for the half-hour long drive to the hotel. When he looked up, the barkeep was cleaning a nearby booth, recently vacated. The man's glance stole to Draco's table, and Malfoy acknowledged the furtive flash of the man's eyes with a barely perceptible nod.

In a rough whisper, the barman said, "I know who you're looking for. Meet me in at the door to the kitchen, near the bathrooms, and I'll tell you what I know about that Wichihmunge* you've been asking about."

Draco waited until the man left before he moved from the table and picked his path through the bar, a smile on his face for the first time that day.

&*&*&

Harry flicked on the radio in the auto to give his hands something to do. It was times like these, when he was stressed, angry, and lonely, that he craved a fag. Ginny knew, but everyone else was clueless that Harry Potter was an ex-smoker. He had started right after the Final Battle, and quit just before James was conceived. When Ginny had found out he expected disgust, but she had merely shrugged and informed him that he was an adult and they were his lungs. However, she wouldn't snog him for weeks after that, unless he brushed and swabbed his mouth with the astringent mouthwash of which wizards were so fond.

He had picked up the filthy habit to help him concentrate on anything but what had been his life for the last seventeen years. The pull on the cigarette, the drawing into his lungs, holding the smoke, watching the tip flare, all had occupied his mind in a distant sort of way. It seemed, at the time, that he had lost almost everyone that mattered to him, and had nearly lost Ginny several times during the previous year. Eventually he had returned to the empty house on Privet Drive and had spent weeks sleeping in Dudder's bed, reading his cousin's collection of graphic novels, eating all manner of greasy foods, and smoking. He had hoped, at the time, to stink up the house really well, so that when his family returned they would be at the very least, inconvenienced. He hadn't counted on Vernon Dursley having a heart attack at his sister's house after he stormed out of the safe house in December, or Aunt Petunia moving to Leicester after the end of the war, to take up with an old beau.

Dudley had returned. The house had been his inheritance. He took one look at Harry and burst into tears. The two young men had spent the rest of the summer building a relationship that eventually consisted of Christmas and Easter updates in the form of long letters, written in an airily informal and newsy way by their wives. Harry had decided long ago that he could live with less blood kin, as long as he had the Weasleys.

Fiddling with the dials on the radio eventually brought a loud screech of static that caused him to jerk forward, his heart beating as if it would burst out of his chest. A symptom of the war he had thought he lost. Ever since Harry had found out that Snape was alive, he had revisited the Shrieking Shack in a dream he hadn't had in years, one in which Snape's accusingly blank eyes stared up at him as he rattled his last gurgling breath. The molten, ferrous stench of blood always woke him, drenched in sweat and shivering uncontrollably. Always he felt a of mixture sickening guilt and near anguish after that dream. He hoped that seeing Snape alive would rid him of at least that one demon from the war. He had so many.

He finally found a station, a heavy beat and screaming guitar sounding under the wail of a man's voice. It wasn't his type of music normally, but it suited his mood. As he looked at his wizard's watch, he realised he had left Malfoy over an hour ago. He thought, angrily, that he wasn't going to wait forever for the git. If Malfoy didn't come out soon, Harry would either drag him out by his hair, or leave his arse to walk. He hadn't decided which.

Harry waited a few more minutes, now impatiently aware of the ticking time. He had just pulled the keys from the ignition in preparation to hunt down the git, when he saw Malfoy saunter to the car. The bastard knocked on the window, and Harry cursed as he realised he had locked the doors. He leaned over the passenger seat and flicked the lock latch to the open position.

Harry started the car, his mouth set, his expression suitably stony. Malfoy seemed more than a little pleased with himself as he buckled the seat belt and cast an additional sticking charm on both himself and Harry.

The drive continued in silence the entire half hour, until they pulled into the pot-hole covered car park of their night's dwelling place. Harry cancelled the spell and leaned his head back against the headrest. It was Malfoy's turn to pay for the room.

Draco gave a large huff before exiting the car. It was his turn to slam the door. Harry watched him trek to the office, a glass encased mid-century remnant. Harry could only guess what type of d�cor they would find in the room. From the lack of upkeep on the car park, he would be casting more than a few cleansing spells before he would venture under the sheets.

Malfoy returned, jiggling the room key, hooked around his finger from its dirty plastic tag. He opened his car door and unlatched the rear one so he could get his luggage out of it. They had foregone shrinking spells since an embarrassing incident in Baltimore, at a dubious quality highway motel that offered hourly rates.

Harry got out and withdrew his own duffle, slamming the door with a satisfying push. Malfoy's muffled oaths rose from the interior of the car after a thump that must have been his head. Harry almost laughed.

"What the hell, Potter?" Malfoy said to Harry's back, "why are you so pissed at me?"

Harry dropped his bag, his fists clenched at his side. "I already told you. I just want to find Snape and get this over with, without your attitude."

"Why are you so fucking set on finding him?" Malfoy's face, always fox-like in its pointy-ness, took on a more wolfish expression as he sneered. "Is it your need to be a saviour? Is that it? How do you even know this is the right thing to do? How do you know Severus doesn't want to just be left alone? How do you know he won't hex us to Hades and back when we show up on his doorstep? He might, you know."

Harry shouted, "He should know he's a hero, Malfoy. Even you can't deny that he should know that. After all he's been through... for both of us. Or don't you care that he could have died for what he did for you? I didn't think that anyone, even you, could be that selfish!"

Malfoy was on Harry in an instant of flailing limbs and clawed hands. Harry fought back, landing a few solid punches before he felt hands grabbing him from behind. He struggled rabidly against the restraint until he heard the distinctive sound of an American police siren growing closer.

Well, just so you don't find out from another source, Gin, Malfoy and I were arrested last night for brawling. The fight was over nothing in particular, but a long time in coming. We've talked it out, said our apologies and all. I feel really stupid and so does Draco. I'm sorry if this news disappoints you. Even if it doesn't, I'm disappointed enough in myself.

Tomorrow we leave for Oklahoma, a place called Heavener. Draco found out from the barkeep that Snape was living there a few years back.

I love you. You are the only thing that keeps me going sometimes.

Harry

*Wichihmunge: Lakota equivalent of wizard. This word was provided by Paul Morrison of the Sweetgrass Lakota Language website.

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Letters From America