Love,

I almost hesitated writing such a word; mostly in fear that you would roll your eyes and throw this letter in the flames, or rip it to shreds at the thought of it.

But I cannot call you anything but Love.

I'm writing this in the middle of the night, stuck under a broom cupboard in the Manor you once said you 'didn't give a damn' about. Maybe you'd change your mind if you were here.

My father would snatch this quill out of my hand if he saw I was penning this, since he never approves of sharing feelings, yet you are a feeling that much be shared. You have somehow possessed every fiber of my being, and losing you for—a time I can't bring myself to admit—has drained me.

But please listen.

Please.

You always encouraged me to read books, so I'm encouraging you to read this sappy letter till the very end. It's not an easy thing for me to do (which you'd know, considering it took me a year to admit I liked you), but it's been so long I've lost count of what's easy and what's hard.

Ever since that night you left me, I have found that you have stayed.

It sounds redundant, but it's true. You've stayed filling every spare space in my mind. Memories, dreams, thoughts, or ghosts that haunt me in the darkest of hours till I can't remember how to breathe.

But the memories are the worst.

I don't know if I can call them memories anymore; just painful fragments of the past.

I remember the feeling of your hair between my fingers, as you'd lie next to me on the mattress, going on about how you hate the civil complexities of the world. I remember the way you'd tap your chin when you were stressed, or bite your lip when you were angry. I remember the way the sunlight would dance upon your hair like wildfire, the way you would light up a room, the way your laughter was such a precious sound that I obsessed over making you laugh.

I remember the smirk on your lips when you'd donate precious moments of your time to stare at me.

I could never resist that.

Seeing your eyes.

I saw myself through you, and now that you're gone, I can't seem to figure out what to do with my life. I suppose it's selfish of me, writing this letter and complaining about how you've left, as if it was without reason.

But it hurts, love.

It hurts like hell.

It hurts so bad, and no matter how many times I go into that blasted room of requirement, I never find you.

Instead I find that mirror.

That goddamn mirror.

I would stare at it, for hours it would seem, and then I realized that it wasn't a mirror at all. Instead of my reflection, I see yours.

I see you.

I cannot see anything else but you.

And then it occurred to me that the only reason why that mirror is there, is because it's supposed to show me what I desire most. Which is you. It's not even a desire anymore—it's a need. I need to feel the warmth of your skin against mine, and I need to hear your voice one last time, and I need to just....see you.

It's a wish, it's a want, because here hasn't been a day where I have stopped wanting you, and there hasn't been a day where you aren't the only thing on my mind.

You're in my dreams too.

That same, horrible, and heart-wrenching dream that just replays over and over again for hours on end.

it always starts the same.

with your smile.

We're in the field, the sounds of the crowd almost drowning out your voice, but I always try my best to hear whatever you had to say. What you said to me.

'Trust me, Draco'.

That's what you said, remember?

And I never thought anything of it, but now that I have seen it replay for hours on end, I began to realize how horrible of a thing it was for you to say.

Trust me, Draco?

How could you ever believe that I wouldn't trust you? How could you stand there, hold my hand, and beg me to trust you? I have always trusted you.

And you'll never understand how it feels to know...that the last thing you said before everything fell apart was my name?

My name.

My cursed name, a Slytherin name that I wish I could be born without, because it's the name that belongs to the boy that couldn't protect you in the end.

So I made myself a list of rules.

Like we did, remember?

I have promised to abide by them for the remainder of my life, wether it be for a few more seconds, or for a handful of years, because I'll be forever waiting for you, darling.

I hope you're still reading.

Because here they are:

Rule #1: plant a rose petal in the garden every morning

Rule #2: read a book

Rule #3: look myself in the mirror and practice tying a tie

Rule #4: teach myself how to make a bowl of chicken soup without screwing it up

These are things you've asked me to do, and I never got around to doing them, because I thought you'd be by my side till the very end.

But now I'm alone.

And I need to do these for myself.

So I hope to grow a rose garden by the end of the summer, read a whole library full of works so I can quote them to you, ask you to dance with me, worry free that my tux may be lopsided, and make you a bowl of soup when you're sick.

And before you reach the end, there's one more thing you should know.

Perhaps I should tell you that this is the 78th letter I have written to you. At first I didn't know where you were, and it took threatening a Weasel to tell me the truth, but now I've found you. And I know, it's a lot. 78. Most of them are just fragments of my day that I'd normally tell you in person, but obviously I can't do that, and I obviously can't see you because I'm scared I'll walk through the doors and you....

Won't want to see me.

And I couldn't bring myself to send the others, because the thought paralyzes me at the possibility that you might actually read them. I have poured myself out into those letters, things written on a piece of parchment that I can barely admit in my mind, and it scares even me.

You know I don't like scaring you.

But if you ever wish to visit me, meet me by the rose garden at 12pm. I will be waiting there everyday, planting that petal I promised to plant.

And love,

Maybe I'll finally be able to give you that rose.