Work Text:
Potter,
I’m constantly surrounded by people, but I’ve never felt more alone.
I pour myself into being better; every day, I bend and break myself to the will of others. I sit in silence, too afraid to talk for fear of slipping, too afraid to exist for fear of disappointing everyone. It’s happened before—you know. I’m a ghost, unnoticeable, easy to leave, unextraordinary in the most ordinary of ways. I’m me. Most days, that doesn’t feel nearly good enough.
I’ve tried to fix myself, to dial down my unappealing traits: I’m not overly enthusiastic about wand-making at Ministry galas or charity events, and I don’t go into depth when posed with questions about myself. But, sometimes, the cracks show. I’ll talk about myself for a split second too long, or I’ll unintentionally go on a tangent about acacia wood versus blackthorn. No one wants to hear about that.
Even at my shop, I can’t help but feel guilt whenever customers come in. Don’t you know you’re purchasing a wand from someone despicable? Don’t you know that he’s a fraud, a bully, a nobody?
It’s suffocating, and I’m running out of air.
Still, I’m here. I can’t pack up the shop, and I can’t go home. Making wands is my everything, and so are you—even if you don’t know it.
D. M.