Ab Epistulis

Chapter 1: "Misaratus Avius"
Misaratus Avius, a novel by J. Evans, sat on the corner of the desk buried under several stacks of papers and folders. Its pages were yellowed and had that funky wave to them from being gripped too tightly over an extended period of time. The corners were curled up and bent, and the cover of the book had a brown stain in the lower left corner from coffee. There was also a mug ring in the center of the cover picture, as if the book had been used as a temporary coaster. If you picked the book up, you might have noticed the smell of coffee and cigarettes, and if you thumbed through the pages, occasionally, you might have found a chocolate-smudged thumbprint.
"Goddamnit, Blaise," a very disgruntled blond man muttered, furiously searching through mountains of files and endless rows of shelves. "Have you seen my book?"
"Have you checked the loo?"
"Why the hell would I check there? What kind of barbarian would bring a book into a toilet?" Draco ran his index finger along the spines of books filed in the shelf and testily threaded four fingers in his hair. "Fuck, it's not here." Draco turned from the bookshelf he was fingering through and scanned the office once more in a last-ditch attempt to find the missing text. The room itself was large, but gave its occupants a closed-in feeling of comfort from the bookshelves lining the wall, and the fireplace tucked safely between two of the larger shelves. An mahogany desk was stationed towards the rear of the room, and two over-stuffed leather-upholstered chairs sat adjacent to each other with an ornate Victorian lamp between them.
A black haired head popped into the doorway of the room and arched an eyebrow. "You know Drake, I don't know how you find anything in here. You are quite possibly one of the most unorganized people I have ever had the fortune of knowing." Draco shot his friend his patented glare and rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. Though not dirty, the room was by no means clean. Business folders covered a small cheery oriental oak coffee table as well as the mahogany desk. A wool throw was cast over the back of one of the chairs, and a smattering of books surrounded the two chairs.
Blaise walked completely into the room and headed straight for the desk. "Have you looked under these yet?" He motioned to several files strewn about on the desk and began shuffling them around.
"Of course I have!" Draco snapped. "I couldn't find it." He began opening up various file drawers and shuffling through them. "I even looked through the desk drawers, thinking that it may have somehow slid off the desk into one the drawers." A book was suddenly shoved directly in front of Draco's nose. He snatched the book from his friend's loose hold and quickly thumbed through the pages, as if checking to see if it was still intact. "Where did you find it?"
"It was buried under some of your files." Draco groaned audibly and thanked his friend under his breath. "You know, you could save yourself a lot of hassle in the future if you would just organize your shit."
"And mess up this perfect system of disorganization?" He grinned through his scoff. "Honestly Blaise, one would think that after all these years, you'd know me better than that."
Blaise rolled his eyes and headed for the door. "Too right you are, old friend." He stopped before exiting the room and turned back. "Why were you looking for that old book, anyway? You've read it at least a dozen times already; surely you're not going to read it again?"
Draco smacked the book across Blaise's chest as he passed him out into the hall. "My dear Blaise, I've never been one to appreciate the finer aspects of organization; while you have never been one to appreciate the finer aspects of literature."
Blaise snorted and walked into Draco's kitchen. "And that, my friend, is why you own the bookstore and I am a hired business solicitor. I'm organized so you don't have to be." He paused a moment and scratched his chin. "Though, how you can be so completely disorganized and keep your bookstore as neat as you do, I'll never know."
Draco poured coffee into his favorite mug, the one decorated with miniature cauldrons that steamed when hot liquid was poured into the mug, and smiled. "Ah, the divinity of hired help—never do business without it."
Blaise helped himself to a cup from Draco's cupboard and poured some coffee for himself. "You never did tell me why you wanted that damned book again. Really, Draco, you've read it a thousand times over, why again?" He watched his friend over the rim of his plain, white mug, cooling the scalding liquid by blowing a stream of air through his lips.
Draco looked down at the book and sighed. "I don't know, Blaise. I really don't. I've never read anything like it before. There's just..." he paused, searching for an answer as to why the book mattered so much. "There's something about it that intrigues me. It reaches a level of complexion that grasps me unlike anything else I've ever read. The relationships that the characters share, they pull me in. I love the fact that there is absolutely nothing redeeming or happy about this book, yet it leaves me with this feeling of hope and inspiration at the end, as if everything's going to be okay." Draco stroked the edge of the fraying cover with his index finger as if it were the most precious metal in the world. "The way the author strings words together is like flowing water. There are passages that leave me breathless and without a leg to stand on. I could read this book a thousand times and I would still find new reasons to love it."
"You get this look in your eyes," Blaise said softly, "when you're talking about it. This faraway look of..." he paused, "I don't know, but it takes you somewhere—that much is clear. Has the author written anything else?"
"No, and believe me, I've looked." Draco flipped the book and opened the last page. "See this?" He pointed to a small paragraph, no longer than a few sentences. "This is the only thing anyone knows about him, J. Evans. He doesn't do book signings, he doesn't do interviews; he doesn't even promote his own book. Do you know how bizarre that is? I should know, I've organized a fair few in my own time with the store. But this guy," Draco trailed off. "No one really knows. There isn't anything that mentions a new book, future projects, or anything."
"How did the book do on the charts?"
"About average; not excellent, but not too terrible. I don't think many people actually understand the story. There is a subtle intricacy that was masked through the tale, underlying the entire plot. There is so much going on that it can be difficult to keep track of at times. But the plot!" Draco set his mug on the counter and began waving his hands in the air in his growing excitement. "It was about a war, but didn't actually have anything to do with the war itself. What makes the story enticing is how he, Evans, creates each character and how he develops them in accordance with what's going on in the war. There's never a major battle highlighted in the story--rather, it's about the battles between themselves and their own personal wars. It is simply brilliant! The characters he created, they are so real. When you read the story, they become more than simply characters; they become your friends--you know them how the author knows them."
Blaise smirked. "Is that why I caught you crying like a little girl reading one night, stuffed in that old chair of yours?"
Draco scowled into his coffee cup. "For your information, the main character's best friend had just died, and his lover--well, they weren't technically lovers--betrayed him. He joined forces with the wrong side, but he wasn't really on the wrong side, the main character just didn't know that at the time. In fact, he thought that his lover had killed his best friend and defected. However, his lover was only acting as a spy, but the main character was still hurt. It was a very intense, dark moment in the book."
Blaise, still smirking, nodded. "I'm sure it was."
Draco scoffed. "Piss off." He was being ribbed, but jumped to the defense of his two favorite characters anyway. "Their relationship is the most intriguing in the story. As I said, they're not technically lovers, but it is implied; or at least that's how it comes across to me. I'm willing to bet that ninety percent of the people who read this book will completely miss the intricacy of the main characters' relationship, but it adds to the beauty of the tale. The dynamic between them is so great. They totally hate each other, but the attraction between them is undeniable. You just know they're itching to get into each other's trousers." Blaise arched his eyebrow at this. "Oh shut up, you. They are. If you would just read it, then you'd know what I was talking about. There's depth there that's impossible to ignore."
Blaise placed his mug on the counter and looked at Draco seriously. "Draco, you are quite possibly the gayest man I have ever met."
Draco snorted and grinned. "That's a bit rich coming from a man with whom I slept on and off all through school."
"And stopped once school ended. Besides, you were the only one and that was over ten years ago" Blaise grinned. "I like women too much."
"Okay, ladies' man, finish up your cuppa and sod off. I still need to look over these documents you brought and sign them. They need to be returned to you by one o'clock today, correct?" Blaise nodded. "Excellent. Thank you for stopping by this morning to drop these off, I really appreciate it." A slight smirk tugged on the corner of Draco's lips. "That takes care of one of the things you owe me."
Blaise snorted. "Drake, if I'll be paying you back until the day I die to offset what you've done for me, and even then I'll still probably owe you a few."
"You only owe me half of what I owe to a few other "choice" people that I really wish I didn't owe things to, namely my soul. But such is life. If it weren't for those people, then we wouldn't even be here. But, that's ancient history, so why dwell on it?" Draco shook his head, pushing old history out of his mind.
"Back to the book, have you ever though about sending the author a letter? Despite the fact that he's a Muggle author, you love that book, so why not let him know it? Isn't that the reason people write?" Blaise shrugged his shoulders in seeming indifference at his friend's incredulous stare. "I know I know. It was just an idea. Try not to dismiss it so quick, okay?"
Draco drew his lips into a straight line and arched his eyebrow. "We'll see."
Blaise rose from the stool at the counter and headed over to the entryway. "If that's everything, I'll see you at one o'clock this afternoon, okay? Until then, look over those documents and make note of anything that doesn't work for you, but this is the edited copy so everything should be okay. And again, please think it over. It's not a bad idea, and might even be therapeutic in some ways." Draco gave his friend a nod and watched him Disapperate.

Orlando liked to think that he knew his owner fairly well. They had lived together for the past few months, and although Orlando wasn't very old, he liked to think that he knew a thing or two about living. He stretched his long, sleek body out on the counter and lounged, batting the handle of one of the hanging pots with his long grey tail. His goldenrod eyes were trained on Draco, watching his owner's eyes dart back and forth between a small book and a blank sheet of paper. The fingers of his left hand thrummed against the counter in beaten cadence while his right hand grasped a quill, waving it in the air so the end of the plume caressed the bottom of his chin.
Deciding that Draco needed some kind of help, Orlando got up and padded over to his owner. He gently butted his head into Draco's arm and licked the back of his hand, nudging it with the tip of his nose. Draco turned to look at his cat and smiled. "Hey, little guy. Do you want to help me with this letter?" Orlando nudged his nose against the hand once more in affirmation.
Draco set his quill down and scratched the side of Orlando's face and gradually moved his fingers to hit that spot, the spot, that Orlando couldn't reach behind his ears. He let his eyes fall closed and leaned into the talented fingers, purring loudly to signal his contentment. If this was what his owner needed as help, then Orlando was more than happy to deliver it. "So what ideas do you have?" Orlando pushed the bottle of ink closer to Draco with his paw and looked up into his eyes. Draco arched his eyebrow and smirked. "Oh, so you think I should just get over myself and write the damned thing?" In response, Orlando nudged Draco's hand toward the abandoned quill. Draco chuckled. "Alright then."
Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window and cast a soft orange shadow in the room as dusk set in. Orlando's gray fur had a copper glow from the light that poured over him as he basked on the counter next to Draco, whose pale skin now shone a rich bronze from the waning light. Two hours had passed since Draco started the letter and the clock on the wall alerted that it was approaching ten at night. Draco looked down at the paper in front of him and sighed.
Aside from the fact that this was not something he was used to doing, what does one say to the author of their favorite book? I love you and want to worship you properly? I have an unhealthy infatuation with the lead character? Do the main character and his rival have something more than a few traded insults going on? Draco groaned and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and placed the quill on the counter.
The letter was simple. Not too much flattery, but not quite formal. He hoped the author would be able to understand how important the book was to him without thinking Draco some gushing plebeian. Malfoy's do not gush and they are most certainly not plebeian. Then again, Malfoy's don't write letters of praise either. Draco shrugged off the thought and gave the letter a final review to check for errors or imperfections.
Deeming it worthy, Draco folded the parchment into a neat square and slid it into an envelope. He sealed the letter with his customary green wax and trademark Malfoy crest. Satisfied with the final product, Draco went into the room where he kept his owl. "Hello, Isis, I need you to take this letter to the Muggle post in London." The owl hooted in protest. "I know I know, I normally have you deliver my letters to Muggle post boxes yourself, but this one is different. It needs to go to a box at an agency and I doubt any Muggles would appreciate a large black owl flying through their building. It isn't going directly to the recipient. I'd have you take the letter straight to the source, but I'm afraid I don't have the correct address." Isis cooed her acquiescence and gently nipped the envelope from Draco's fingers. Draco stroked her beak affectionately and promised her treats and sugar-water upon return. He opened the double-faced window and watched his owl leap to the windowsill, spreading her impressive black wings as she took to the air.
"Harry, get up." Harry turned away from the light shining through the bedroom window and clutched a pillow over his head as a shield. He groaned loudly and tried to bury himself deeper beneath the covers.
"Harry Potter, I'm not kidding. If you don't get up this instant I'm going to leave you to your own means and you can make breakfast yourself." Harry slowly pulled the pillow down from his face and peeked out over the top of it. He squinted, adjusting his eyes to the brightness of the room and smiled up at the angry blonde hovering over him. Her face softened a bit at his smile, but she refused to give up. "Fine." She folded her arms across her chest and raised a challenging eyebrow. "If you want to be late to the first meeting of the new school year, that is entirely up to you." She huffed slightly, resting her hands on her shapely hips. "I, for one, would like to try and avoid the wrath of Snape and McGonagall until after the school year starts."
"An unlikely goal, but I'll let you live in your little fantasy world for now and get out of bed." Harry smirked and sat up, letting the covers fall off his shoulders and slide down his chest.
She shook her head in frustration and rolled her eyes. "I don't know why I put up with you, at times."
Harry shot her a winning smile and reached out to grab her by the waist and pull her down onto the bed with him. She let out a yelp of protest, but gave up quickly and settled into her lover's arms. He kissed her forehead and brushed a lock of blond hair out of her eyes. "Because I am devilishly handsome, and incredible in bed." He paused, scratching the stubble on his chin momentarily. "My large bank account doesn't hurt, either."
"You are absolutely right. There is no way that I'd stay with you because I actually loved you. What kind of nutter would I be then?" She smiled and batted her eyelashes coquettishly at him.
He pulled her closer to him and planted his lips over hers, silencing any protest. When he pulled back, he cupped her cheek with his palm and looked at her with all the love he felt shining in his eyes. "My nutter." He smiled softly and released her, following her into the shower a moment later.
Two hours later, two neatly dressed adults made their way across the Hogwarts lawns towards the great castle. Upon their entrance, a house elf directed them to the staff room and they quietly slipped in the back, hoping to go unnoticed. Hope, however, was an exercise in futility.
"Mister Potter and Miss Kelly, how good of you both to finally join us." Snape hissed as the pair sat down. Harry visibly shrank down into his chair while Grace simply sat, trying to look unaffected. Headmistress McGonagall walked over to where they were sitting and handed Grace a cream-colored folder and Harry a large manila envelope. Professor Snape cleared his throat and continued. "While you two were absent, we discussed possible field-trips to London during the holiday break for those in the 6th and 7th years who are staying back. Before you leave, Mister Potter, your opinion would be appreciated."
Harry blinked, momentarily stunned. "You're asking my opinion on how to deal with your students?"
Snape narrowed his eyes and folded his hands across the podium. The gesture seemed simple enough, but Harry knew it was Snape's way of maintaining authority (while trying to look more-than-a-little intimidating in the process; which he did). "You do have more experience with children gallivanting around the city of London than the rest of us. Do you think this is a feasible idea?"
Harry was flummoxed, still stunned that Snape was asking his opinion. "I think it's a brilliant idea, Sir. It would give the kids a chance to not only get out and see the city, but it would also be a perfect opportunity for kids who are less fortunate to experience London on a whole new level. I have experience with activities on the cheap for kids that age because of the orphanage. If you're interested, I can bring some of the information by at a later time."
Harry got a sick sense of foreboding when an evil glint of malice entered his former professor's eyes. "Actually, Mister Potter, you and Miss Kelly are now in charge of this little project." When he grinned, Harry could see his yellowing teeth and could only imagine the toxicity of his breath. The effect was entirely disturbing. "Enjoy, and I expect a full outlined plan by the end of October as well as a working permission slip draft."
"But, Sir, I'm too—" Harry tried to protest against this new "assignment", but there was no point.
"Case closed, Mister Potter." Snape hissed. Harry glared coldly at him.
He leaned over and whispered in his Grace's ear. "Bugger this. I have my stuff so I'm going to head back to the orphanage. I'll see you at home tonight, right?" Grace nodded, while still paying attention to her two bosses' lectures. He leaned over and kissed her cheek before slipping back out the door.

The orphanage wasn't anything grandiose, but it was enough. It was a cozy three-story restored mansion converted into several suite rooms. Harry opened it together with Ginny Weasley shortly after the war ended when there was suddenly a large number of newly orphaned children who had no place to go.
Ginny became a medi-witch during the war. Teamed with her mother, whose cooking was brilliant and insight into childrens' minds was unrivaled after raising seven of her own, and Harry, whose patience was akin to that of a saint, the three of them ran the place fairly smoothly. When Harry Apparated into the front hallway, several children ran to greet him, laughing and screaming.
Harry greeted them with his customary bright smile. He tucked the manila envelope under his arm and picked one of the smaller children up, slinging him onto his back. "Hi, guys. What's going on?"
Thomas, a tall blond boy who had been staying at the orphanage since it opened, stepped forward to take the envelope from beneath Harry's arm and answered. "Mrs. Weasley was trying to teach Ginny how to make chocolate brownies without the use of any magic, and the batch exploded when Ginny got fed up and tried to mix them with magic. Mrs. Weasley had charmed the bowl to resist the assistance of magic, so when the brownies wouldn't mix, Ginny only tried to break the charm harder. When she finally succeeded, the brownies exploded from the amount of energy she used to break it."
Harry started laughing and headed towards the kitchen. He could hear the faint sounds of Mrs. Weasley lecturing Ginny on the finer aspects of food made without magic. "Oh dear, it sounds like it's been quite a morning here." He pushed through the double swinging door of the kitchen and took in the two women covered in brown dripping goo. He burst out laughing, causing them both to pause mid-argument and turn to see who had entered.
"Harry!" Ginny exclaimed. "I didn't think you were coming back until this evening. Is everything all right?"
"I think I should be the one asking you that." He said grinning, with an eyebrow raised.
Mrs. Weasley removed her apron and put it the sink to wash the brownie mix off it. "I was trying to teach Ginny the benefit of cooking without magic and things got a bit out of hand, didn't they, Ginevra, darling?"
Ginny rolled her eyes and started to wipe down the counters and cupboards where the mix had spattered after casting Scourgify on herself. "Honestly, I don't see the harm in employing a little mixing charm. If you didn't have that darned Antimagic charm in place everything would have been just fine."
Harry put down Aiden, who was still in his arms, and grabbed a wet rag off the sink to join in cleaning up the mess. "Normally I'd agree with you, Gin, on using magic, but this time I'm going to have to agree with Mrs. Weasley. There's something about using your own tender love and care in cooking that truly makes a difference. It loses that special 'something' when you use magic." Ginny simply huffed and continued to clean.
Mrs. Weasley suddenly looked up from her scrubbing. "Harry, dearest, Hedwig came by earlier and dropped your post off. I put it on your desk in the office."
"Oi!" Ginny stopped cleaning and whirled around. "That's right, Mum. Malfoy wrote you, Harry!"
"What?" Harry turned, wide-eyed, and looked at Ginny incredulously. "Are you sure? What did he say?"
"I don't know what he said, the letter is sealed, but how can anyone miss the gaudy seal of the Malfoy family crest? Though it's not addressed to you, it's addressed to J. Evans. The publishing company simply forwarded it to you."
"I can't even begin to imagine what Malfoy might have to say to J. Evans; this is really quite odd." Harry frowned slightly, thinking aloud more than conversationally. "Though, since he owns that bookshop, I suppose it makes sense. But I just…do you think he knows?"
"Why don't you go find out, Harry dear? Ginny and I can finish up in here. After all, it's our mess." Mrs. Weasley shoed him out of the kitchen and pushed him down the hall. When he walked into his office, his mail was laying in a neat pile on his desk with Draco's letter resting on top. The envelope was a simple cream parchment with elegant green scrawl addressing it. The paper was thick and crisp and the bold Malfoy crest sealed the letter shut with wax that Harry was sure was more than half silver. He cracked the seal and pulled out the parchment. The letter was handwritten on elegant stationary with his business logo and an elaborate Celtic knot heading the paper.

Argiletum
82 Royal Mile
Edinburgh
EH1 1TH Scotland
0845 270 1543

12, July
Dear Mister Evans,
I am writing in regard to your novel, Misaratus Avius. I don't make it a practice to write authors and pour out panegyric praise, but your novel touched me in such a way that I felt it disreputable not to. You have crafted one of the most incredible stories I have ever had the fortune of reading. The characters you created have a depth to them that few humans even reach, let alone achieve such a status in fiction. While the story of your main character, Daniel, was intriguing, what makes your novel so touching is the relationship Daniel shares with the rest of the characters. One in particular, however, seems to stand apart from the rest.
The relationship between Daniel and Thomas still plagues me to this day. What kind of relationship did they share? What are your perceptions regarding their association? Though Daniel and Thomas were not friends like Daniel was with Rupert and Emma, the constant friction the two of them had appeared to keep Daniel more alive than the pull of friendship offered by the Rupert and Emma. They seemed to have a love for one another despite the appearance of hatred shared, which seemed to be encouraged by the war surrounding them. When Daniel lost Rupert to the war my heart broke, but when Daniel thought he lost Thomas to the other side because he thought he defected, it shattered me completely. For Thomas to be able to affect Daniel so profoundly there must have been something more than the simple mock hatred they feigned to share.
Finally, I must commend you on concluding the story with a shred of hope. Despite all the pain and tragedy the characters had suffered, you were able to justify it all with the possibility of a future. What they do with the future is beside the point, it's simply enough to realize that they have one, unlike the future they would have faced had they lost the war.
If you have the time, I should like to discuss some thoughts and ideas on your novel further. If interested, you can reach me at the address listed above. If not, it has been a pleasure reading your novel and I hope you continue your craft.
Sincerely,
Draco L. Mafoy
Owner or Argiletum
Harry stared at the letter for ten minutes before he was disturbed by a soft knock on the office door. "What did he want, Harry?"
"You'll never believe this Gin, but he just wanted to tell me he liked my book." He let out a humorless chuckle. "I think he'd have kittens if he found out I was the one who wrote it."
"I take your secret is still safe, then?" Ginny picked up the discarded envelope and looked at it more closely.
Harry shook his head. "Yes. No one knows except you, your mum, Hermione, and Neville. I thought the fewer people who knew, the less chance there was of letting it slip. The whole point of the penname was so no one in the Wizarding World would know I wrote a book. Draco most likely encountered it working in his store."
Ginny shook her head in disbelief. "I still can't believe he owns a muggle bookstore. It seems so…so…" she paused looking for a word to complete her thought and settled lamely for, "anti-Malfoy."
Harry smiled slightly and quirked his brow. "You seem to be forgetting that Argiletum is the largest Wizarding bookstore in all of Northern England and Scotland. Draco was smart when he opened up. He purchased a building on the Royal Mile that connects his store to the Wizarding quarter of Edinburgh as well as the Muggle half. His store has the most extensive collection of potions books in the northern half of the UK, not to mention a substantial collection of other Wizarding books. As for the Muggle half, I must confess that I've not seen it. Though, from what I hear, it's extremely successful."
Ginny shrugged. "Weird. I never thought he'd end up where he did, but I suppose the same can be said for all of us. What are you going to do about this?" She asked, motioning towards the letter.
Harry pursed his lips together and gave a shallow shrug. "I don't know. Write him back, I guess. It seems like the right thing to do. After all, he wrote to J. Evans, not Harry Potter. It was a really nice letter so I feel that I at least owe him some form of response."
"From J. Evans, right?"
Harry nodded. "Of course."
Ginny frowned. "Something about this doesn't feel right, Harry, but I trust you. Just don't let that ferret hurt you."
Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I hardly see how that's possible, Gin. We're different people than we were back at school. I highly doubt that he's out to get me. He just wrote a letter, I don't see the big deal about this. I, as a writer, am simply writing him back. It's no big deal. I'll handle it, okay?"
Ginny grudgingly agreed. "Okay, then." She smiled. "Now, about those brownies…." Harry laughed and followed her into the kitchen.