Fickle was not a word one would commonly use to describe grief. Grief was not known to be light-handed. It was heavy, tremendous in its fracturing weight upon a person's soul, with razor-sharp teeth that carve its gnarly mark deep where physical cures could not reach. Yet, it has not always been violent in the common manners towards Althea. No. Grief was fickle with Althea Valeden. It became cruel in its ways, selective in its mercy and ruthlessness within her life.

At first, that mercy was welcomed. The tragedy of her mother's death was enveloped in the haze of early childhood and diluted by the touch of passing time, leaving her to grow up with a hole that could be crudely patched by blissful ignorance. It did its part in sparing her from a gut wrenching loss that would have surely doomed her to a life of yearning for a maternal embrace that she could not even recall an inkling of.

Perhaps Althea had expended grief’s mercy, or she had offended the fates with how she had blissfully ignored the importance of mourning and healing without a second thought, because the next time tragedy struck, it was with the brutality and weight of a merciless executioner's axe. The day has engrained itself in cruel vividity in her mind, sinking deep underneath her skin and solidifying its dark, haunting influence into fractures. It happened on a random passing day spent pouring over her Transfiguration notes at the breakfast table, only to be nudged by a housemate and have the most horrifying sight shoved into her hands in a nosy frenzy. That bold headline and the terrifying sight of a building actively being consumed in flames will never leave her mind.

“St. Mungo's overwhelmed as muggle town in Northern England sees most devastating fire to date”

“Victims:”

“Leo Daniel Valeden”
“Charles Alvin Daiz”

Something broke in her that day– Something that the dam in her head had been straining to suppress ever since the day Althea’s childhood mind comprehended that her mother was never going to come home. That dam had been fractured, its cracks splintering deeper, further, growing larger, until that headline article landed the final blow.

Looking back on that day, three years later, Althea still could not quite understand what exactly caused her mind to shatter and her sanity to be shaken so vividly. She had not been mentally ill or unwell before that day– or at least, she did not notice. She had grown up with relative privilege, with a loving father who protected her and cherished her, a godfather who brought whimsy into her world when she was afraid to embrace it, and a life with decent ability to afford the smaller luxuries in life.

Althea found herself often pondering and confused these days, especially when she started having an unsettling amount of freedom in time and rest upon her temporary withdrawal from Hogwarts. Miss Feathersbea, her mind healer, had asserted repeatedly that mindful reflection and introspection in balance with awareness of the present is good. It was a struggle– focusing on the present when so much of it was engulfed in the shades of the past. Every visit to St. Mungos flung another blanket of darkness and fear over her, crushing her gradually with its weight.

Then, Miss Feathersbea offered a suggestion, something to keep her grounded in the moment and to help her process the torrent of emotions within her: letter writing. Every visit, Althea was tasked to write a letter. Originally, the letters were meant to be addressed to nobody, to simply recount and pour out her emotions via physical motions of writing on paper, quill to paper, heart to paper. The first day, as Althea sat by her father's hospital bedside, glancing down at the almost unrecognisable figure bundled in layers upon layers of gauze, medical tape, and horrific burns on olive skin, she could not find the will to “look inward”, to lift the quill to the ink pot with shaking hands and inscribe her bleeding heart on paper till she was bled dry.

Althea did not want to decipher the ruin that was her mindscape. She did not want to “stay in the present” and “just let the mind take over.” She wanted to be heard. She wanted that silence and emptiness to be erased. She wanted her family back.

So, Althea began to write.

"Dear father,"

Dear Dad Father,

This is Althea. Sorry that I have not been keeping out with your owls. I've been reading them all, and I have already finished reading the last ones that I missed. Recently, grandma and grandpa pulled me out of school. It has been hard waking up in the morning. I've been really busy, with all the stuff that is happening at school. I haven't joined the sports teams yet. I checked out the broom racing tracks and talked with some people who are duellists. Duelling seemed more interesting than I thought. Remember last summer, when I told you about that friend whom I met on the Hogwarts Express a few years ago? Hanako Tone? He is a duellist too. I think he's actually really amazing. I watched one of his matches, though I didn't tell him because he always runs away. Such talented people… After watching the matches this season, I don't think I should join right now. I've never been that good at magic. Charles would riot if he knew I said that about myself, but I think that's just objectively true. Besides, the Hufflepuff duelling team has enough members anyway, so it is okay.

To be honest, school hasn't been okay. I feel like I'm failing at everything and I'll amount to nothing. School has been alright, and I've been trying to eat well even though I'm studying more, so don't worry about me.

Summer is coming soon, and the weather is heating up again. Can you bring me to that dessert shop again? In that neighbourhood with the 5 cat mural? I miss the yuzu crème parfait. I miss you. I will make sure to respond to your owls in the future, even if I am busy. It's been too long since our last proper chat.

I'll write to you again soon, Father. I think about you, always.

Lots of love from your daughter,
Althea