"It must be even worse for you, seeing as your mother passed on too, just three weeks ago---"
At that point, Draco broke off to gasp, his voice stricken, "His mother, too! Is that true?"
"Oh, yes," Harry ground out, squinting to try to make out Malfoy's features. Pointless, really. The most he could see was a blurry white face surrounded by a wavering halo of silver-gold. Surreally angelic. But this was no angel. He deserved to know what he'd done. Him, not his father, not this time.
"Now Dudley's got no-one," Harry blithely went on, calculating every word to be a blow. "I know what that's like, don't forget. No parents... You think of it every Christmas, every birthday. Well, hell. You think of it every day."
Draco's teeth were chattering. "How did she... ah... was that Death Eaters as well?"
"No, leukemia," Harry snapped. No point to secrets now, was there? Voldemort knew everything already. "It's a Muggle disease. I left school to try to help her, but it didn't work. She died, and I got wizardsick."
"How could you help her?" Draco questioned. "We can't cure Muggle diseases."
Harry debated for a moment, though he knew all along, really, that he was going to tell him. Might as well; it was one more way to twist the knife.
"They stuck a really big needle in me, Malfoy, and sucked out some of my bone marrow--"
"They did not!"
"Ask Severus," Harry sneered. "'Cause yes, they did. Muggle doctors. My marrow was supposed to make hers grow back right, or something, but she had a reaction to it instead, and died."
"But you're afraid of needles!" Draco exclaimed, the parchment sheets falling through his hands, that time.
"Yes, I am! Sweet of your father to play on that, wasn't it? He found it out from my bereaved uncle who was almost insane with grief that the operation had ended up so badly! But hey, no harm done, right? At least your father got to have his jollies reminding me, over and over, how stinking awful it was for me to try to help my aunt!"
"I feel sick," Draco announced, sounding every bit the part.
"Too bad," Harry spat. "Stop your pathetic whinging and write."
Harry went on, then:
"It must be even worse for you, seeing as your mother passed on too, just three weeks ago. I wish I knew what to tell you, Dudley. I only really know one thing, and it may not help, but then again, it just may.
"All the time growing up, what was hardest for me about being an orphan was not knowing who was to blame for my parents' deaths. Car accident, I was told--"
"Car accident?" Draco echoed. "What car accident? It was Avada Kedavra, wasn't it--"
"I can't explain every bloody thing about my childhood; we'll never get the letter written! Now shut up and write!"
Harry continued:
"Car accident, I was told, with no more detail than that. I used to fantasize about finding out just how that accident happened. I used to dream I'd track down the man responsible and beat him to a bloody pulp with my bare hands. The way I figured it, because of him I'd lost everything, and I was going to take every last thing from him, in recompense. But I couldn't do any such thing, not knowing who was even at fault in that accident. Then I found out I was a wizard, of course--"
"Oh, you have got to be making this up," Draco broke in again, shouting that time. "You didn't know you were a wizard? How is that even possible?"
"This is every word true," Harry hissed. "Like I said before, ask your Head of House. He knows. Now, are you going to write it? Because I'm this close to telling you to get out!" He held his thumb and forefinger a smidgen apart, and flung the gesture up right before Draco's eyes. Nice to be able to see well enough to aim, finally.
Draco didn't say a word, though he did set quill to parchment once more.
"Then I found out I was a wizard, of course, and learnt there was never any car accident, and suddenly, all my hate and anger could have a focus. Another wizard killed my parents, and I know who it was. Now, when I think of bashing brains against a wall, I can picture him, and hope.
"You may not see what all this has to do with you, Dudley, but you will, in just a second, here. See, while Aunt Petunia's death was really no-one's fault at all, like we talked about on the phone--"
Draco made some sort of gasping noise, probably over the picture of a wizard on the phone. Either that, or because he didn't have any idea what it was.
"...like we talked about on the phone, your father is dead because of one person, and I can tell you who he is. Draco Malfoy. He found out my summer address one day in class, here. And God knows why, but the little shite thought it would be amusing to pass this information on to his father. That's just the kind of person he is. Thoughtless, cruel, evil. Sick, in fact. See, he's known for years and years that his father's number one goal in life is to suck up to his boss (the evil wizard who killed my parents, by the way) by delivering me to him to be killed.
"So Draco gave his father your address in Surrey, and when his father was finished getting all he could from Uncle Vernon about me... well, you saw what happened. Draco's to blame, for all of it. He's the reason you'll never have that really nice sauce your dad used to make to put on the steaks. Every time you eat a steak for the rest of your life, you'll think of your dad, I know. You'll miss him, and wonder why it had to be this way. But at least now you can have a focus for all that hate and anger. It helps, trust me."
Draco was gasping with practically every breath by then, his hand a trembling blur as he wrote out line after line of self-condemnation. Harry closed his eyes and listened to the scratching sound, waiting for the Slytherin to catch up. Then, in absolutely glacial tones of utter contempt, he went on:
"I thought I'd describe Draco Malfoy so you'll know how to picture him. It's how I see him, anyway, though believe me, he's such an unpleasant person to be around that I really do try not to look his way if I can avoid it at all. Anyway: tall and thin, with skin so white you'd swear he was some flesh-eating ghoul that had never been above ground. White-blond hair he fusses over constantly. In fact, I think his hair is his main interest in life, which goes to show you how he could do something like he did. I mean, he just doesn't care about anyone or anything except one Draco Malfoy. His eyes are silver, which would almost be a nice color if they weren't constantly narrowed with hate.
"Because, you see, that's what Draco does. That's all he does: he hates. He's what they call a pureblood wizard, which basically means he thinks everyone else is beneath him. He hates Muggles (that's people like you), and he hates wizards and witches that happen to have Muggle parents, and he even hates wizards who are descended from anybody who had Muggle parents (that's people like me). Hate, hate, hate. I swear it must be his middle name. Want to hear a good one, though? Draco has this a close friend named Severus, who's a well-educated and intelligent wizard, really worthy of respect. And Severus recently explained to me that he'd done a lot of research, and found out that every wizard has Muggle ancestry, even Draco. So, if Draco has the least shred of integrity (which he doesn't), he really ought to start hating himself. Fat chance of that, though. He'll probably just decide to hate Severus, instead. Anyway, it doesn't really matter if Draco hates himself, 'cause I bet you can hate him enough to make up for it. I sure do.
"I absolutely hate his fucking guts.
"Well, Dudley, enough about that ugly git. I hope to see you soon, and figure out where we go from here.