Inferno | Draco Malfoy

101 | II | Finally and Truly

My hands shake involuntarily as I read the numerous letters, and hell, there is an overwhelming quantity of them, all varying degrees of wear and tear.

A few are crisp and neatly folded, as if they were penned just yesterday, while others are tattered and faded, their ink smudged by time and perhaps a few tears.

The crumpled ones seem to tell a story of frustration, hastily discarded before being retrieved again, while the burnt edges hint at moments of anger or desperation.

Each of these letters is addressed to me, written by Draco Malfoy.

And with each passing moment, the truth crashes over me like a relentless wave, an unstoppable force that pulls me deeper into its tumultuous depths as it suffocates me.

Despite my desperate attempts to push the truth away, to bury it beneath layers of denial and distraction, my heart beats uncontrollably, thumping against my ribcage as if it might burst free and escape the reality I cannot face, for even the very air around me is a palpable reminder of the chaos swirling within.

A pounding sensation reverberates through my head, a relentless beat that drowns out the world around me, leaving me feeling detached from reality; it's as if I'm trapped in a glass box, watching life unfold from a distance, unable to fully engage with my surroundings.

My thoughts are all over the place, and they elude my understanding, for each one is a fragment of the overwhelming emotions I cannot quite grasp. They whirl around me, taunting me with their unpredictability as I struggle to catch hold of even one coherent thought as if I am trying to catch smoke with my bare hands.

The sight of these letters, each one seemingly in a twisted and unsettling game with me, tightens my stomach in knots, in a way that is both physical and emotional. This visceral reaction stirs a deep-seated sense of unease within me, manifesting nausea that obscures my senses, leaving me feeling unsteady and disoriented.

It is as if the very nature of the meanings conveyed by these letters seems to resound within my consciousness, for each letter appears to bear a heavy burden, pressing upon my chest, while the implications of their content cast a pall over my mental and emotional state.

I can almost hear the echoes of their importance, resonating in a disquieting harmony that underscores my fears and vulnerabilities, rendering it increasingly difficult to attain peace or clarity amid the chaos.

And the more I dwell on them, the more they seem to bend and contort, ensnaring my mind in an inextricable entrapment of despair that seems utterly inescapable.

I attempt to take a deep breath, but I cannot, not upon recognising this distinctive handwriting as that of the notes accompanying the thornless roses.

Each curve, each swirl and each loop is identical, a seamless blend of intricacy that is unmistakably his, for I have come to realise that he has altered his handwriting to convey these tokens of affection towards me.

And as I try to hold back my tears, I start to reread several of the letters, striving to comprehend that what I am holding is real as I delve deeper into the depths of his thoughts, finding myself beginning to question everything I thought I knew about him — and about myself.

In this disorienting state, time seems to stretch and warp, each second dragging on like an eternity. I'm caught in a liminal space, teetering on the edge of understanding yet unable to fully embrace the clarity that lies ahead.

The throbbing in my head intensifies, a reminder of the turmoil within, and I close my eyes, hoping to find some semblance of peace amidst the chaos.

But even in the darkness behind my eyelids, the tempest continues unabated, relentless and unforgiving, leaving me to wonder if I will ever find my way back to solid ground.