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Elemental	By : AngelaBlythe Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Ginny Views: 3286 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
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ELEMENTAL

~by The Labris~

CHAPTER FIVE:

Writing

Half-Love Point

October 2, 1996

Reader,

I�m overjoyed that
you decided to respond to my note. I rather hoped you would. I
feared I would have to move my hiding spot if you hadn�t responded. I
would have doubted your character had you just tried to read without any
response. That�s half the fun, critiquing the work.

As for your writing
skills, well, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You write
beautifully. Not perfectly, but there is always room for
improvement. When I become a writer, I know I will have a long way to go.
But thank you for the compliment.

Your life reminds me
of someone I know...or rather someone I�m aware of. I think I know them
better than they would like, if they knew, of course. I don�t pity them,
and I don�t pity you. You seem like you wouldn�t accept pity from another
person. I don�t deal well with pity either, though I know many people do.

I think I would
prefer hatred to pity; at least hate is real. People that pity are fake;

I�ve found that out.
But then, you already know my views of fake people. I think my loathing
of pity stems from the fact that I don�t believe it is an actual emotion.
Hate is an emotion, a very strong emotion. It takes a lot of feeling to hate.
Just like love, it takes a lot of feeling. Pity though? No.
You can pity a person you have never met, thus it if forged, thus it is fake,
thus you are accused of feeling something fake, and thus you are fake. I
feel I can justly draw this conclusion about pity and people who �feel� it.

Oh, how did you like
that? You get to hear my first rant of the year. I fear I may go on
several of these tangents. Pay them no mind if you want. Most of
them are me babbling endlessly anyway. Just don�t get me started on
poetry, Keats in particular.

With no hesitation,

Writer

October 4, 1996

Writer,

I don�t think
�paying no mind� to your tangents would be productive at all. Especially
if they are about emotions. I will admit I don�t understand many
emotions. You seem to be well acquainted with them, however, and I wish
to learn from you.

I suppose you could
say I�ve never really loved another person, not truly at least. I love my
mother, I think. It is hard for me to tell, the thought of loving was
weaned from me quite thoroughly at an early age by my dear father. He is
not a good man. Not a good man at all. He took that from me, and I
am angry. I�m confused too.

I too wish to love,
however long it may take me.

I concur with your views
on pity. I detest pity. It always puts me on edge. Some would pity
me, I think you are right. I wouldn�t accept it, however. Pity is
one of the things weak people give, for they have nothing else. Either
that or very strong people, for they have enough to spread around. I
don�t pity the strong ones. I don�t pity the weak ones either, though.

The weather is
getting cooler.

I only wrote that to
get away from the topic of pity; it was making me uncomfortable. But it
has been nice weather. Especially for October. Good Quidditch weather.

I don�t have
anything else. I think that�s why I started talking about weather and Quidditch. Kind of silly.

Thoroughly
embarrassed,

Reader

October 8, 1996

Please excuse the
delay. I�ve had trouble getting away for the past couple of days. It
happens like that sometimes, I think. Sometimes, all I�ll have to do is
go up (or down, I�m rather confused about how Inverted Tower works) into the
tower and write away the day. Other times, I can�t believe how busy my
adolescent life is.

I don�t have any
disillusionment on the fact that I�m still young. Some of my �peers�
claim to be �fully grown and independent witches/wizards.� I often have
to choke back laughter. Fifteen and no direction hardly constitutes as
�independence.� They make me so angry sometimes. Angry, maybe, is
an exaggeration. I find them amusing.

You wish to be
educated on emotions? (Rather random, I know. But you know I am
very, very random, so you shouldn�t be upset.) Well, I can�t say that�s a
request I�ve heard often. Actually, you could call that a request I�ve
never heard.

Don�t feel awkward
or anything! I�ve just never heard it put that way. At the risk of
falling into categorizing people, I�m going to take a guess you are Slytherin.

You don�t have to
answer that unasked question. Actually, I would prefer it if you
didn�t. I always pictured Slytherins as rather
unemotional. I know a Slytherin, though I
cannot reveal their name, and they are rather cold. I still like them
though and feel fortunate to know them.

But as for educating
you on emotions? I don�t know. It may be out of my realm of
expertise. Well, if I have a realm yet. I could try. You can
always try. Love may be a hard one. Even people educated in love
would have a hard time describing that one, I think. You get in the whole
logistics of �true love� and �predestined love� and �first love� and then �love
at first sight� and then you have to enter the territory of �loving and losing�
and �the ability to truly love.� I get lost on just plain love, much less
the notion of soul mates and etc.

Other emotions I
have a fair level of understanding of. I consider my family life to be
more or less happy, and I have experienced some of the �finer� emotions, as I
call them. I suppose I should explain the difference. I personally
categorize feelings into three categories. The �rough� emotions are deep
and primal, usually the strongest emotions. Love, hate, jealousy,
competition, and fear I put in there. (As a note, there are many more
dark emotions in �rough� emotions because they came first. Most people
learn dislike before they learn like. Example: A baby learns the word �no�
before �give.� Dislike of something before the like of something.
It happens all the time.) The �finer� emotions are what I feel are the
more complex ones. It�s rather hard to explain. I would categorize
peace, melancholia, happiness, contentment, and obligation in the �finer�
emotions, because you have to have experience with them to understand
them. The third category is stupidly simple to understand. They are
fake emotions, a.k.a. pity.

Oh, my time is
up. Study calls to us all.

Apologetically,

Writer

October 12, 1996

Writer,

I can�t tell you how
much you�ve already taught me. Your explanation is something I�ve never
heard, much less thought about. You are very wise, despite what you may
think. No matter how much or little you may know about the subject of
emotions, you are years ahead of me.

I have so many
questions, but I will let you go in steps; I feel that is the best thing I can
do right now.

A thought came to me
while I was reading over your previous entries, and I would like to share it
with you. You appear to have very many people who care about you, who
would miss you if you were to die (not that I�m considering it myself).
And it dawned upon me; who would care if I died? You have these Painters,
and Butterfly, and Stag, and perhaps this Jewel, but I have my mother and, I
like to think, you. So if I died tomorrow, you wouldn�t even know who I
was, though you would mourn me. My mother wouldn�t even be allowed to
mourn because of my father.

So this got me
thinking more. Well, more about death at least. I came to the
conclusion that I fear death very much. It took me a very long while to
admit that to myself, but somehow it only took me seconds to write it to
you. I don�t want to die; it is the one thing I fear. It reminded
me that it was a �rough� emotion, at least by your system of
categorization. I looked over the things you listed as rough and decided
to add one of my own. Revenge.

I want
revenge. I feel that emotion very well. Just like I feel hate,
competition and, I�ll admit, jealousy. But who I want revenge on doesn�t
matter; you don�t need to know. The fact is I feel it. I feel the
�rough� emotions, not the �fine.�

That scares me too.

Confused and
disturbed,

Reader

October 16, 1997

Reader,

It took me three
drafts to write this to you, Reader. I hope it answers your questions and
soothes your confusion.

Emotions are fickle
things, greasy and slippery. You think you can find an explanation for
them, and then the concept goes awry, sucking you into another dimension of
feelings. It�s happened to me a thousand times. I�ll tell you a
story, though it is kind of embarrassing.

I was very young
when my crush developed (upon who and how young don�t matter). It was
very strong and very young, though it would grow. I was convinced, at a
very delicate age, this was the only man for me for the rest of my life.
In a word, I was in love.

Or at least I
thought I was. I met him for the first time, and my feelings grew.
Every time I saw him, my heart skipped a beat. Every time he looked at
me, I wanted to keel over and die a happy prepubescent little girl. And
yet, he didn�t return my feelings.

�Why?!?
Why!?!� I would scream silently into the night. The whys and whys just
built and built. He liked another girl; that is why. He didn�t love
me; he loved her.

And that was when it
hit me. I wasn�t in love. I was in love with being in love, if
there is such an inane confusion. I look back now and think I was young
and stupid. Then I realized all healthy little girls get fancies like
that, all of us. I wasn�t so hurt after a while; it began to heal.

Slowly I began to
realize I didn�t need to be in love with him; I didn�t need him at all.
And I found someone, and though I didn�t love him, I appreciated him, and he
appreciated me. Not too long ago, we broke up, and though, yet again, I
was hurt, it didn�t hurt as much, because I wasn�t in love. Don�t get me
wrong, I loved him, the boy I went out with, and I still do, but I wasn�t in
love with him, if that makes any sense.

It may or may
not. Especially to you, no offense. Now the boy and I are very best
friends. There are other stories about those two boys and boys like them
I have known. All girls have stories like mine or similar. Hell,
maybe they don�t. I like to think they do.

But this whole story
just tells me I don�t really know any emotion, and I don�t think anyone really
does, not truly. Humans like to classify things, to put them in
places. It helps them understand. So at a level, they do, and it
does give them some level of goodness, a higher level than they had before.

So when you say you
don�t understand it, I concur. No one may ever understand it. But then,
that is the way of things.

Sincerely,

Writer

October 19, 1996

Writer,

I confess to reading
your latest entry twenty-seven times and am still slightly confused.

I make but one short
request: Tell me another story please.

Apologetically,

Reader

October 22, 1996

Reader,

Another story, he
says. Yet again you force me to draft and draft again and again to give
you a good and perfect story. Well, the man wants a story. I�ll
assume you mean my first story was good, but it can get better. You
flatter me. Your mere asking flatters me.

Another story, well,
let�s hear a story about confusion.

Stag, as I will call
the man that I believed I loved, is the first subject in Confusion. The
other I will tell you about is Painters, the boy with whom I went out and am
now very good friends.

Stag stayed away
from me for years, barely looking my way, for he was embarrassed, and probably
rightly so, that I loved him and he never felt the same way. I can�t give
you too much insight to his feelings; I don�t know him well. Funny how I
was in love with someone I never met, and I couldn�t love someone I knew for
years, Painters, I mean.

Anyway, Stag came to
me, this year actually, and made me think. Love really is the most
slippery of emotions. Stag asked me if I would like to go to Hogsmeade with him that weekend. My feelings about Hogsmeade are that only people who don�t know anything go
there for a date. The whole idea is just...just too simple and
fake. I can�t clearly say to you what I mean.

I told him I wasn�t
quite over my failed relationship with Painters, which wasn�t strictly
true. I just didn�t want to lead on Stag; he didn�t deserve it, no matter
how much pain he caused me. And on some level, I wasn�t quite over
Painters. He was in love with me; I figured that out easily enough.
But I couldn�t love him back. There is some high about having someone�s
love, or at least I think there is. I�ve only received an immature form
of it. I think I miss it too.

I�ll assume you
recall the night I became inebriated and wrote in this diary. I recall
it. I also recall saying some rather confusing things about a mysterious
�him� saying he only loved me as a sister. It was Stag. And it
didn�t hurt. Well, a little, but only a little. As it turned out,
he was the one leading me on. I became rather upset with him. But
then, I couldn�t be really angry with me...he was my �brother.� Did you
catch the sarcasm?

So I move onto my
next experience in Confusion. It has to deal with Painters. As I
told you, he loved me. But I didn�t tell you the reason why he broke up
with me. I should explain that Painters is a very strong person, no
matter how other people see him. He doesn�t like to be played with, and
he is very supportive. He would have supported me with all my problems my
whole life had I let him. I am thankful I didn�t.

Anyway, back to my
experience. He told me he broke up with me because I didn�t care enough
about the relationship. It was true to a point. I did care about
him, just not that way. As for the relationship...it�s embarrassing to
say, but I was barely involved. I sat next to him at meals and helped him
when I could in classes, and of course we had a physical relationship, but we
never went very far. So when he broke up with me, I took it as we should
just be friends. I thought we were � and are now � much better at being
friends than being a couple.

But then something
happened, not three weeks ago, that confused me more than Stag. Painters
kissed me. Maybe I should set that up a bit. I was very tired and,
well, bitchy one day. I yelled at some people; then I yelled at
Painters. I felt so bad I burst into tears, publicly, and Painters took
me up to his dorm, clearing out the inhabitants easily.

After he tried his
best to comfort me, he kissed me. It wasn�t a bad kiss, but it felt
rather like I was kissing someone related to me. Not like I�ve ever done
something like that before, but it is what I assumed it would feel like.
He apologized profusely, and I let him explain himself. He told it like
this: �You are the most beautiful woman most men will ever hope to see, and at
the same time you scare them.�

Fantastic. I
scare boys away. Glorious. I thought it was just my brothers.

So you understand my
feelings about love yet? I hope the stories helped; they were great
learning points for me. Maybe my failed life will help you.

But now, I think is
time for you to tell me a story, Reader.

Good luck,

Writer

PS � Take your time
and don�t feel pressured. I�m sure it will be a good story.

October 28, 1996

Writer,

I decided to take
your advice with a grain of salt. It turned out writing a story was much
harder than it seemed, and I took your advice for what it was: Really good
advice.

I fear it isn�t
quite as good as your stories, but it is a try. I know you to be not the
squeamish type, so when I tell this to you, I trust you won�t defile our little
book here.

I was, like all of
us, eleven when I received my letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry. I was eleven when I first saw my true enemy. And I was
eleven when I first realized my three hatreds.

The first, a rather
easy one to explain, is being lied to.

The second, however,
takes a bit of explanation. I will not conceal from you that my father
isn�t the kindest of men. He is evil, and I truly hate him. But for
the first time in my life, I had methods to fight back. I had been given
my first wand; I won�t tell you what type, it isn�t important. I had been
given my first method of killing the one man who made my life and the life of
my mother miserable for as long as I remember.

One night, a day or
two before the start of term, my father decided, that once again, it was time
for my mother to learn her place. He beats her, not often enough for it
to be called planned, but once is too much. That was the first time I
ever did anything about it. A small curse I learned, nothing potent or
very powerful. I�m actually proud it did anything at all.

It gave my mother
time to get away; though I�m not sure it helped her later. He beat me
that night; he has this...this weapon...he carries with him. No
specifics, I know. But he beat me with it. He gave me a scar no one
can see, but I will always remember.

It was then, the
moment, looking at that cut for the first time, I stared into the eyes of the
man I truly hated, my first hate, if there is such a thing, and I didn�t
cry. I haven�t since, not once.

I will move on, for
the pain of the hate still haunts me. It is still in me, waiting,
watching.

The third hatred is
much less than the first two. I guess you could call it a petty hatred,
but it is deep for more than one reason. No specific name will be said,
but we will call this person the bastard. He doesn�t even get
capitalized.

I met him in Diagon Alley, though I didn�t know it was him at the
time. He rejected my offer of friendship, not once, but twice. You
must understand; friendship isn�t something I ever desired. But somehow,
in that room with the bastard, I wanted to be his friend. I was still
hurt from my father, trying to convince myself there were good people out
there. I was proven wrong by the first person I met.

Nice.

I�ll admit I never
was the most pleasant of children. I was, until then, my father�s
son. I still am in public. But I don�t think I went about trying to
get friends right. So I got left with nothing, nothing worth talking
about anyway. I was rejected, and it hurt, I�ll admit it.

Over the years, my
hatred was fueled by other petty things, the memory that I had once wanted a
friend and I was denied. Don�t get me wrong. I don�t simper around,
trying to find my true friend, but things hurt still, I�m human. And
rejection hurts everyone. As you were rejected by Stag, I was rejected by
the bastard. Though I let my feelings fester and rot into hatred.
You let it go, which, in retrospect, I should have too.

This is becoming too
hard. I think I�ll stop now. I want to be left alone. I�ve
never done this before, and it�s like opening old wounds and letting someone
spit salt into them. Disturbing visual, I know.

Reader

October 29, 1996

Reader,

I won�t say anything
other than write when you feel you can. I will wait for you to be ready
again.

With hope,

Writer

November 9, 1996

Writer,

Forgive me, please,
for my delay of response. I feel rather foolish now, having looked at all
the time that passed. I don�t know how lonely you felt or what you went
through. I apologize again.

But forgiveness is
short lived. I think I want to meet you.

With hope,

Reader

November 10,
1996

Reader,

At the risk of
sounding overly cautious and uncomfortable, I respectfully decline. I�m
not ready. I feel, deep within me, I�m not ready to meet you yet.

I�m not angry with
you, please don�t think that. I don�t know if I could be mad at you.
You�ve only told me the truth or what my mind perceives as the truth.� You�ve never misled me into anything.
Without actually meeting you, I trust you more than any one single
person. I feel I�ve known you for a long while now.

And yet I�m not
ready. I�m sorry, I truly am, but I am not ready.

I hope this doesn�t
make things uncomfortable. I don�t feel uncomfortable; neither should
you.

So perhaps I should
update you on some things. I don�t know if you picked it up, but I pose
for Painters when he paints. He has two friends, whose names I can�t
disclose, and I let them use me as a model. Painters is trying to build a
portfolio to get into some art university. He�s been making it for years,
and I�ve known about it. He asked me one day to help him, and though his
request was rather odd, I complied.

I pose nude for
them, to let them see the workings of the human body. It doesn�t make me
uncomfortable; it is for art. Art is one of the things I truly believe
in. I�m sure if I, for some reason, needed a nude male model for my
poetry, they would be happy to help. I don�t think that will
happen.

But back to the
update. My brother found the photographs. They took some my third
or fourth time posing, so I didn�t have to come in all the time. Painters
is quite a good photographer as well. So my brother found them, along
with his girlfriend and Stag. They weren�t pornographic, not at
all! But the fact that I was a younger sister, nude, in front of a bunch
of boys � well, three � made him very uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to the
point of anger, I suppose. He beat up Painters, all three of them.
Single handed, actually. At some level, I think I�m proud. But that
level is very, very, very far down. Very.

In fact, it was so
far down that I became very upset with him and burned him. Quite
literally. A gift from my mother.

I know we agreed on
no specifics, but I feel I can trust you. I learned this only this year,
and no one but my mother, my father, Dumbledore, you, and I know about
it. When my mother was pregnant with me, she got stuck in a
Meeting. It was Wind and Fire. I was gifted with hybrid genes,
making me perhaps the first human, Wind, and Fire combination in history.
It is called being Elemental; a few other people are like me, but they are made
purely from Elements.

I don�t know how
much you know about it, but what I know is Elements have the ability to create
children, babies, that look human but aren�t. They are different in many
ways but not appearance, at least I don�t think. I�ve never met a true
Elemental, so I wouldn�t know. But as I�ve explained, I am Wind and Fire
and human.

I don�t know how
smart it was to tell you that. Dumbledore says I am in great danger, that
I should be protected from something. He won�t tell me what though.
I must be too fragile.

But my
brother. I almost killed him. I mean I really almost killed
him. Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey got there in
time and was able to save him quickly. He was back in school the very
next day because of her quickness and skill.

I lost my temper,
and I lost it because he was ignorant and refused to see. It is one of
the few things I truly hate. Ignorance is no excuse, and the ability to
reason and be reasonable is something humans are born with. People who
don�t use this ability make me sick, and I can say without pause that I hate
them.

I think I want to
stop writing now. I�m crying, you see, and the paper will get
ruined.

In shame,

Writer

November 13, 1996

Writer,

I think I�ll have to
go one step at a time, very slowly.

Firstly, I realize
you feel meeting me would jeopardize your well being in some way. I
understand and am not hurt. I can wait. I am, for the most part,
patient.

Though, as for your
second matter, I think more caution on my part needs to be exercised.

I did figure out you
were a model for someone, a nude model. I commend you. You must
either be very brave or very confident. I suspect it is a bit of
both. I think doing something like that for art is selfless and something
good people do.

Art is, in my
opinion, the only redeeming thing in our culture. When all else is dead,
all of us have been extinguished by war and hatred, one thing will
remain. If that one thing is anything, it will be art. Music,
writing, and physical art. It will outlast us all and smile among the few
good things humans have done. Even the Muggles
have it right when it comes to art. Everyone has it right when it comes
to art.

This brings me to
the next part of what I want to say.

You blame yourself,
don�t you?

I don�t know what
you blame yourself for, but it is something. And it is big. It
isn�t just the incident with your brother; there is another thing, a bigger
thing. I won�t ask you about it; it isn�t my place.

I just have one
thing to say: Stop. You can�t blame yourself for everything that goes
wrong in your life. I can tell you do it, don�t even try denying
it. It isn�t just with big things, little things too. It isn�t
always about you. (Which, by the way, is a rather selfish way to think;
something people often accuse me of, so I know what I�m talking about.)
Thus it can�t always be your fault. Take responsibility for some things,
but not things you can�t touch.

With your brother,
however, the blame was mostly yours. I won�t shade it for you; you are a
strong person. You should have controlled your temper and your
power.

Believe it or not,
I�m proficient in understanding the workings of Meetings and Elementals.
You see, my mother is a Wind Elemental. I, as her son, have some control
over the element Wind, though I am very weak, I admit. It is a skill you
need to develop. I�ve yet to have the need because I�m not very
powerful. You, unfortunately, sound like you have more power than you know
what to do with. You must train yourself, start small and work your way
up.

This is my advice to
you, Writer.

One more
thing. I think you should try and forgive yourself. I don�t know
for what, and I don�t think you should tell me yet, but at least forgive
yourself for your brother; then he can forgive you, and you won�t feel too
bad.

Sincerely,

Reader

November 17,
1996

Reader,

Very wise words,
very wise, indeed. I only fear I can�t do it. My character permits
it, but my mind won�t let me. My mother always said, �When the mind is in
doubt, the heart is in pain. Ease the pain in the heart however you can,
for we are nothing without heart.�

My mother is a very
wise woman, I think. If I healed my heart, maybe forgave myself for all
the things I�ve done (and you may not believe it, but it is a rather extensive
list); then maybe I can find peace of mind. Maybe. Peace of mind
would be nice.

I don�t know how
though.

Sorry this is so
short. I�m rather tired. I haven�t been sleeping right.

Would you mind
telling me a story? I don�t think I care if it is dark or not.

Apologetically,

Writer

PS � Funny that the
�writer� asks the �reader� to tell them a story.

November 21,
1996

Writer,

I would be happy to
tell you a story. I warn you, however, it isn�t at all about forgiveness,
and you probably shouldn�t follow what I did at all. It�s a story, true,
but just a story.

I have always been
told I am the best at everything, that I, because of my lineage, am better than
those around me. It is the thing little boys like to hear, that they are better
than those they know. It is a form of competition, I think.

The hardest lesson I
have ever learned is losing. I hate to lose, not as much as other things,
but I hate it. I don�t like feeling inferior; it is a solid part of my
character that I don�t ever see changing.

So, imagine if you
will, a boy, not particularly liked, more feared than anything, and highly
competitive. This boy is me. I won�t write specifics, but let�s
call the thing I was competing in Quidditch; it is
the worldwide language witches and wizards communicate in. That and
art.

The bastard and I
both play the same (hypothetical) position. We are both very good, both
very competitive, both very much in contempt of each other. He always
beats me. No matter what I do. I can cheat, I can lie, and do a
myriad of things to ensure my victory, or at least his defeat, and nothing
happens. It always goes right for him! It never goes awry! Anything
he wants, he�s got it. Anything he says, it happens. All his wishes
and commands are met, and it MAKES ME SICK!

I suppose it always
starts as jealousy, because I won�t deny being jealous of the bastard. He
makes me angry enough to kill. Maybe someday I will kill him. No, I
won�t shield you from any of my selfish and sick desires. I�m still
partly my father�s son. You can�t live with him for years and years and
not become partly like him. I only hope I don�t ever become him.

This story isn�t
much of a story, is it?

No. More of an
insight to me, not like you needed any more. I hope this suffices.
I�m kind of angry now. Write back though, Writer. I need to hear
what you have to say.

Yours,

Reader

November 24,
1996

Reader,

Tell me
another.

Please.

Yours,

Writer

November 28,
1996

Writer,

As usual, I cannot
deny you. The lady desires a story. I�ll make it a real story this
time. A good story. Well, maybe not bright and happy, but it�s the
happiest memory I have.

My mother, as I told
you, is Elemental, a Wind. I should describe her to you; for this vision,
I want to create a complete picture. My mother is aristocratic. She
is tall and willowy of build. She has long fingers that play the piano
beautifully. Her hair is very, very blonde, her eyes are very, very blue,
and her skin is very, very pale. I think she is beautiful.

She isn�t overly
powerful for an Elemental, but she always made me happy. She has a way of
walking and being that is different from everything I have ever experienced, or
maybe will experience.

There was this one
time when I was very young, six or seven, I think. The way she touched me
made me feel loved. I always thought she had a lot of love in her but
also a lot of sadness and a lot of pain. She never pitied herself
though. She was the one that brought me up right.

But back to six or
seven. I was sick, sick with something the nurses and doctors living in
my father�s change purse couldn�t fix. I had some disease; a cancer of
power, they told my parents. It meant I had an unreleased part of my
Showing. My father�s side of the family were early Showers, but not
repetitive. Apparently, the Showing power I had used when I was young
hadn�t spent itself and had gone cancerous. It wasn�t common, but then,
it wasn�t uncommon on my father�s side.

My mother sat by me
day by day, her fingers and hands always touching me, making me feel warm and
loved. I don�t want you to get the wrong picture, she wasn�t perverted or
anything; she was a good, healthy person. But it was part of her power,
her cooling, healing power.

One day, the first
day of spring when the air was still slightly cold and the sky pale, she took
me outside, telling my father we�d be back in the late afternoon right before
supper. It was a still day when we went out; the wind wasn�t singing in
the trees like it usually did when my mother and I went outside.

I remember looking
up at her, her crystalline blue eyes closed and her hair straight down her
back. She smiled, the slightest of smiles, looked down at me, and
whispered, �Let�s go on a walk, love.�

The house grounds
are extensive, reaching for kilometers in all directions. We walked and
walked and walked. We walked. After I couldn�t, my mother carried
me like I weighed nothing. I suppose I almost did. My mother isn�t
very strong physically, but by then, the cancer had made me skin and
bone. She carried me for a long, long time.

Finally, near some
thin and spindly trees, we stopped. By then, the wind was whistling
symphonies in the spring air, whipping about us and almost pushing us
forward. Then she stopped and put me down. I�ll always remember
what she said to me.

�Hush, love.
The wind is singing to you. Can�t you feel it? She�s calling.
I hear her all the time, and she calls to me. Someday, when you don�t
need me anymore, I�ll give myself back to the Wind, my mother. I�ll be
very happy when that day comes, but very sad, too. Someday, the Wind will
call you too, and you will know what you must do. Listen, love, can�t you
hear her? She loves me, and she loves you, too.�

It was the first
time my mother started telling me about my Elemental blood. I�ll confess
to you that I don�t feel it; I may never, not for a long, long time yet.
I don�t think I�ve learned how to listen correctly. Maybe, someday, when
you and I meet, you can tell me.

Back to my
story. I was standing there, right next to my mother, and the strangest
thing began to happen. The wind picked up, flying about us madly. I
began to feel something. As the wind built, I looked up at my
mother. Her skin was practically glowing, her eyes were an unearthly
shade of blue, glowing and sparkling like a metallic silver-aqua. The
wind rushed around us, and that thing inside of me moved. I felt a
flowing sensation in my blood, winding around my very cells.

My mother had cured
my cancer, using the powers of the Wind to cleanse the cancer from me. It
was the purest I�ve ever felt in my life.

Then I went home,
and the most terrible thing I can recall happened. I didn�t figure it out
until much, much later in my life. I don�t think I�ll ever understand it,
but I�ve figured out his secret. The dirty little secret of my father.
It makes me sick to admit it, admit it to anyone, including myself. But
it is there, and it is part of the story. And you have to understand this
is part of me. I want you to understand me.

I came home with my
mother; we were home earlier than she thought we would be because the wind
practically flew us to our house. I never remember running so fast in my
life. It surprised me that my mother was so fast. But then, she is
a creature of the wind, and the wind moves very fast. On a side note, my mother
played Seeker for her house. I trust you won�t try to research that to
keep up our little game. It isn�t in your character.

Anyway, we came home
earlier than scheduled. When we walked in the house, I only found it
slightly odd that my father wasn�t in his study; he was always there, doing
work. We had only just begun to look for him when my mother froze in her
spot, her face deathly pale, more so than normal. She grabbed me around
the wrist, and I thought she was going to break it. I was still very
weak, but I was ready.

As she pulled me
around the corner, I heard the footsteps of my father coming down a marble
hall. The only marble hall in that part of the house was the one leading
to his and my mother�s bedroom. The problem was he wasn�t alone.
Small and quick footsteps followed him. I couldn�t see them in the mirror
opposite me, not yet, but I could hear them.

�And you�ll be a
good boy and not tell anyone,� my father said in his sickeningly cool and sweet
voice. �Otherwise, I�ll have to tell your parents you�ve been a very
naughty boy.�

�N � n � no, M � m �
master,� a small, squeaking voice said.

My mother
automatically clamped her strong fingers over my ears. It was no use; I
could see it in the mirror. She didn�t notice because she was looking
around the corner. I could see the panic in her eyes reflected in the
mirror.

But I could see
something else reflected in that same mirror.

It was my father and
a boy perhaps three years older than me. He was very thin, and he had
dark hair and dark eyes. He looked so scared when my father touched
him. I didn�t understand the touch then, but I remember it making me
uncomfortable. It certainly made the boy uncomfortable. But through
training or fear, his emotions only showed in his face; his body didn�t flinch
at all when my father�s hands ran up and down his form caressingly.

�Now go home, little
one,� my father cooed, pushing the small boy into the fireplace.

I could almost hear
my mother�s heart beating. She was trying not to breathe too hard, trying
not to give us away. She visibly relaxed when my father�s footsteps were
heard walking the marble hallway back to his room. She sighed when she
heard a door slam, turning and kneeling beside me.

Her eyes were
overflowing with tears, her hands shaking violently. Slowly, she pulled
out her jewel. I remember it like it was yesterday. The jewel is
the same color as her eyes. It was crafted out of the wind, a raw jewel,
wind-beaten into a tear shape. She told me once a friend gave it to her.
It fit her very well. She pulled it out of her shirt and kissed it.

�Kiss my jewel,
love,� she said in a shaking voice. �Kiss my jewel for luck and my cheek
for love, baby.�

I kissed her jewel,
her cheek, and then wrapped my skinny arms around her neck. �I love you,
baby,� she whispered brokenly into my neck. �Don�t you ever forget
that! I�ll never let him get you, I don�t care what debt I owe.�

I must have spent an
hour like that, holding her, because when the elves came and said it was time
for dinner, the sun was sinking in the sky.

I will never forget
that day, never forget what that boy looked like, and never forget what my
mother said, nor how I had to hold her and love her. As she protected me
from my father, I protected her from him as well, in different ways.

I think that�s
enough storytelling. I�m tired now, and I�ve been writing for hours.

Yours,

Reader

December 2, 1996

Reader,

I�ll admit I cannot
feel your pain. I don�t know what it feels like to have a father as
despicable as yours. But I have a mother like yours. Not exactly, I don�t
think, but she loves me like yours does. You need to remember that.
She loves you and will never stop. As my mother loves me and will never
stop. She raised you right; she raised you to do the good thing and to
try and love, no matter what your father is like.

I am truly sorry for
what happened. But as always, I don�t pity you. This is something
that obviously shaped you, and I understand why you needed to tell me it.
I understand why you needed me to know. What�s more, I accept it. I
don�t think you�d be the person I�ve come to respect if it hadn�t
happened.

Accept that I don�t
hate you for your father, because I know your character would think that if I
left it unsaid. I�m not trying to brush you off, really I�m not.
But I�ve been here for a long time, re-reading and re-reading your entry for
the past few hours, and I�m very tired.

I�m happy to report
I�ve gained some power over the dreams. I can filter them away from me
quite successfully. Sometimes a dream slips though, but it can�t be
helped.

And now I�m
rambling.

Goodnight,
Reader.

With love,

Writer

PS � It took me a
while to write the �with love� ending. Don�t let it creep you out; I
think we are familiar enough for it to be only natural.

December 5, 1996

Writer,

Your turn
again. I want a story.

Yours,

Reader

December 10,
1996

Reader,

It took me a very
long time to write this, a very long time indeed. Studying for finals
didn�t help any either. But what I am about to tell you is something I�ve
never told anyone, something I�ve always kept to myself. Some people
think they know the story, but they were never there, not the whole time.
They were always at the edges. But I, I was in the very center, living the hell
every sane person would fear.

This is why I am the
way I am; the same reason this is my first diary in years. I will tell
you the whole story, uncensored, for I trust you very much. I know I said
no specifics, but I doubt you could appreciate the name anyway. It is the
only name I will ever say in this book.

Once upon a time
(please excuse the clich�), there was a very young girl (for entertainment
purposes, we�ll call her Girl). She was a normal little girl with wide
eyes for the world and a sense of curiosity found in most younglings. Her
common sense was lacking in so many ways I�m not sure how she got past three
years of life. She did, but it landed her in hell for one year.

Deep down, Girl was
lonely. She was very lonely. Even though Girl wasn�t an only child
and had plenty of playmates growing up, she never felt that anyone could truly
understand her. She went on with this theory until one day a boy came into
her life.

This boy�s name was
Tom. He was a very nice boy, older than Girl, wiser and more
experienced. Girl was weary, however. In the end, to her eternal
shame, she was captured by Tom. Not physically, Tom couldn�t do that, not
then. But he captured her mind.

It all began when
she wrote in a small, inconspicuous book with nothing but T.M. Riddle written
on it. It wasn�t an extraordinary book by any means; it was plain and
smelled slightly aged. But inside the book, there was the boy, Tom.

Technically, the boy
wasn�t �inside� the book; his soul was. He was very anxious to come out,
as Girl would soon learn. But for the time being, Tom was the perfect
friend.

The thing about Tom
was he could listen. He could listen better than any person Girl had ever
met. Being outshone by countless siblings, no one to tell her problems
to, Girl took to this mild-mannered, soft-spoken, open-eared boy
automatically. They became the best of friends, telling each other
secrets they�d never told anyone. They were more than best friends; they
were soul mates. As Girl found, that was a sick thing indeed.

It all started with
simple questions. Tom wanted to know about a boy Girl liked. (And
yes, this boy was Stag.) It was innocent enough. What does he look
like? Is there anything remarkable about him? Who were his
parents? Who are his friends?

Girl couldn�t find
anything wrong with the questions, besides the fact that Tom was overly
interested in Stag. So she answered them patiently, telling Stag�s story,
or as much as she knew of it, to Tom. Girl was very polite, not wanting
her new friend to be upset with her. If she didn�t know something about
Stag, she would go find out. She went out of her way to make Tom
happy.

Once though, just
once, Tom asked her to do something odd. Something Girl found utterly
repulsive and wrong. I cannot tell you what it is, but suffice to say it
made Girl�s toes curl. But Tom nagged, coerced, guilted,
and yelled until Girl did what he asked.

And no one found
out. And all was okay.

But it got Girl
thinking. Real friends wouldn�t do that. Her brother had many
friends, and he never had to do things like that. Her brother had good
friends, Girl decided. But it made her think again. She shouldn�t
have to do things like that. Friendship wasn�t a system of checks and
balances; it was a partnership, a thing that involved two people who cared for
each other and liked being around each other.

(On a side note,
I�ve heard a very good quote, though I forget the author now. �Never
apologize; your enemies won�t believe you, and your friends don�t need
it.� I recall apologizing many, many times to Tom.)

Girl came to the
conclusion that she and Tom weren�t friends. In fact, Girl came to the
conclusion she didn�t even like Tom, much less want to do things for him.
So she decided to stop. But things are always, as Girl learned, easier
said than done.

One day, when she
was feeling very brave, Girl took the diary with Tom in it, and she threw it
into a place no one should ever find it.

But they did.

And it was the worst
thing Girl could have ever imagined.

Stag found it, and
Stag found the secret of Tom, that he wrote back, and Girl knew Stag would be
in trouble.

So Girl stole.
For the first time in her whole life, Girl stole. She invaded Stag�s
room, rummaged around and took Tom back where she could watch him closely, keep
Stag from him and keep Stag safe. It was hard, looking at the diary day
after day, knowing Tom was in there, waiting patiently for her to open up and
start writing again.

Part of Girl wanted
to. She wanted a friend still; she wanted a friend who would love and
care for her like she�d envisioned true friendship was like. All the
things she wanted came rushing back to her, and she gave in to Tom and the
diary.

Girl began again,
writing more furiously and vigorously than ever before. She told Tom
things, and he listened, taking in what she said and giving her advice and
comfort. She wrote and wrote and wrote; most days until her fingers were
black with ink and sore from the pressure she�d placed on the quill. She
wrote out her hopes and dreams, innermost desires and prayers, fears and
thoughts, opinions and truths.

She wrote out her
soul. It took a long time, a very long time indeed. She spent more
than fifteen hours a day writing; in class, between class, during lunch, at
night, and whenever else she could. She sneaked away to write, hiding in
dark corners and small hideaways.

And no one found
her.

And it made her very
sad.

She had no more will
to resist Tom. She had been pouring her soul out, and though a strong
soul it was, full of ancient magic, resisting was no use. Tom had too
much of it to let Girl go. And he wanted more.

Then one day, when
Girl was very weak and Tom was very strong, Tom came out of the book, taking a
semi-physical form. He took Girl to a special place of his, a place I
don�t like to talk about and won�t utter the name of here on this earth.

And in this place of
death and decay, he left her to die.

Alone.

Just as Girl was
feeling she could no longer go on, that she would surly die, a voice came, a
very faint one. It spoke of many things, many things; this it said to
Girl: �The greatest thing is to live and live well. Can you escape the
prison/hell you�ve placed yourself in, little fire? Can you beat the evil
inside of and around you?�

In reply, Girl
whispered lowly, �I need help.�

It seemed as though
the voice smiled, if voices could do such a thing. �And you shall have
it, little fire.�

Then Girl woke and
found she had received help. Looking into the eyes of her rescuer, Girl
felt reborn. She felt thankful; she felt real.

Looking around her,
Girl found the implements of Tom�s destruction, and though on the outside she
was crying, on the inside she was smiling vengefully. She wasn�t done,
not yet. Her rescuer wouldn�t take her last bit of emotion from her, not
even with his kind eyes. She wanted to inflict pain; she wanted to be
repaid for her time in hell. She wanted her compensation.

But as with most
things, the sensation passed or was nearly buried; Girl may never know.
Girl moved on, taking only her memories with her, her memories and her
pain.

Funny thing, my
father calls me his angel. His angel.

I was reborn in
Hell. My own personal Hell.

Angel born in
Hell.

I like the lilt of
that.

I hope I disturbed
you, Reader, because I disturbed myself. Many things have happened since
then, a great many things. I�ll always remember the words of that voice.
I�ve never forgot them.

When you said I have
to forgive myself, you meant well. But could you forgive yourself for
being so stupid? I almost killed people with my stupidity. And
while I may not be the most advanced academic student, my inability to see
right from wrong will never endanger people again. For you see, many,
many people were in danger that year.

I can�t make that
mistake again. I think sometimes it translates into I can never make a
mistake ever again. At those times, I just have to slap myself.
Maybe you can do it for me.

Can you see now why
I don�t choose friends I can love or I think can love me back? I took a
chance with you. I don�t know you, but if I ever did love you, it would
be very hard. I�m sure you could be a good friend, but I�m scared of
it. I�m scared to feel. Deep down, just like you, I don�t want
to. But I do, because that is what people do. I move on, because
that is what people do.

I don�t know why I
said those things. They were an afterthought. I don�t know.
Maybe I�m going mad. It seems probable to me.

Confused,

Writer

December 12,
1996

Writer,

I want to meet
you.

Please.

With hope,

Reader

December 13,
1996

Reader,

Okay.

The twenty-second of
December I will be at a small coffee shop called Emerson�s Shoppe. It is
on the northeast side of Diagon Ally. I will be
sitting outside under an umbrella, wearing black.

I trust you will be
there, for you will probably not spend break at the castle as I have been
forced to. I have my ways of getting out of the castle, Reader; don�t
worry about me.

Since you will be
gone the morning of the fourteenth, I hope you get this in time.

Yours,

Writer

December 14,
1996

Writer,

I will be
there.

Dress warmly.

With love,

Reader

Love Point, Part I

Draco sighed as he closed the
book. He had written on the very last page. They had filled the
whole book. It was a book full of emotion and story, fate and hope.
It meant more than any one thing to him; any measure of the imagination
couldn�t have created something worth more to him, not in a million
years.

He had begun writing with the intention to seduce, to make
this woman believe he needed her and would do anything for her. He had
thought it would be easy not to be pulled in so, to be distant to a point of
coldness deep inside him.

As it turned out, it was impossible for him. He
couldn�t lie to her! He couldn�t say one false thing, mislead her or
deceive her. It was impossible for him not to get pulled in. He had
been captivated by her writings in the first place. Having her write to
him and actually being able to write back was more beautiful than he had ever
imagined.

It stirred something, something deep inside of him he didn�t
understand. It made him feel things, things he�d only imagined.
Things he�d shunned once as small and insignificant. One line could send
him laughing. One sentence could fill him with pain. One word
could make him think more deeply than he ever had. One phrase could make
him fall in love with her.

Yes, love.

He knew he felt something for her, and it was more than
friendship. And as much as she talked about friendship, he knew she felt
something too. It seemed, at times, her very words caressed him, cared
for him, wanted him. He tried to tell her the same, not literally, but in
between his lines.

He wanted to meet her, had since the beginning of
November. He found, quite uncomfortably, that he was scared she would
reject him. Draco was never rejected,
especially not by girls. But she instilled that doubt in him, and it
scared him. He didn�t like admitting fear; it was like admitting
defeat. Scared people didn�t get ahead. Scared people didn�t get
the spotlight.

Scared people didn�t love.

And Draco, deep down, knew he
could love her.

So would he meet her?

Yes.

He would die before not fulfilling that promise.
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