Dear Friend,

How silly that sounds, to write that upon this page although we have never met. And yet somehow there is something confiding about a blank square of parchment that makes you want to pour out your heart in a half a dozen lines of ink.

It was the Healer who first came up with this idea. He believes it will help me to express my feelings; to someone other than himself I expect. I can’t help it that he feels upset when I attempt to lead a normal life; there is something decidedly unfair about trying to imprison a young girl in the prime of her life in such a dreary room. I simply can’t wait until he has decided to let me come home again.

It really is dreadful here. The sheets, for instance, are white; plain, clean, and exact. Everything here is like these sheets, from the walls to the people. It almost makes me want to throw up. I miss my lucky red comforter, my lopsided piles of books, and the smattering of clothes tossed on every available chair and bedpost.

I hope to go home tomorrow. They have never yet kept me here longer than three days. I wish I could live like everyone else.

Sara Liddell


Dear Friend,

It’s me again, although I’m sure you could have guessed that before I even wrote it. Who else writes you such silly letters?

Even though it has been nearly two weeks since I got out from the hospital, everyone in my family has been tiptoeing around me. Whatever else may be wrong with me, I’m not made of glass. And if Mum refers to “our little scare,” one more time I’m quite certain I shall go mad.

My friends, Elsie and Loren came over today. At first I thought they were only bringing my missed homework until they let the cat out of the bag and told me that Jon had been asking about me during the lunch break. A year ago I would have given my wand arm for him to even notice me, and now he cared enough to ask my friends! My sweet sixteen is in three weeks, and I’d like to dream that he would be my first kiss.

But now I’m babbling. You, dear friend, hardly want to know the manner of my adolescent love life, I’m sure. Not that it is really even been interesting until lately. Two years ago I would have rather read the entire Transfiguration book in one sitting than have a five minute discussion about boys. It’s funny how things change with time.

I can’t help but wonder about the future now. I want to be a curse breaker for Gringotts at the moment. Wouldn’t that be interesting? And it is such a useful job as well, with travel to all manner of exciting places. When I get better, I want to go and climb the Matterhorn. A picture of it sits here by my bed, rearing up in all its majesty against the clear blue sky. A king among mountains, and I would climb it to see what it sees. I would also love to go to India and visit the Taj Mahal; it has such an interesting history behind it. One retired curse breaker, Evan Fletcher, wrote a book about his experiences there with the Indian wizards, the jadoo wallahs, at least I think that is what they call themselves. Maybe I too can write a book about my experiences; these letters certainly seem to be good practice for that eventuality.

I’d better stop, I promised the Healer not to overdo it, and I can hear Mum coming in with my medicine.

Sara


Dear Friend,

I’m writing you once more from a hospital bed; I had another of my “spells” last night and Mum rushed me over, although I really can’t remember much of it.

I have my own room this time; it’s small and white; but blessing of all blessings, there is a window. When I am lying here, I can watch the birds flying or the clouds rolling past in their stately procession. I have already spent hours just watching and dreaming. If I wasn’t so tired, I would see if I could find a way onto the roof, and spread out a blanket there under the sun.

One of the junior healers has agreed to sneak me the Prophet so I don’t entirely lose touch with the world while I am here. I don’t want to be the only one in school not to know of the fallen bridge, again. He-who-must-not-be-named is whispered around all of the floors, and I have heard snatches of fearful conversations as people have walked past my door. Everyone seems so loathe to tell me bad news. I know that the world is hardly a perfect place, yet they are trying to raise me on sunshine alone. I want to help make it better, and I certainly can’t do that through ignorance.

A Healer has come to do some more tests, so I had best lay this letter aside. I can only wish that you, my friend, always enjoy perfect health.

Sara


Dear Friend,

Another girl was brought into my ward today, in fact she is rooming with me. I couldn’t even see her at first through the bustle of people surrounding her in their flapping white robes. But at last they parted and I thought they had left me a mummy for a roommate. The poor girl is wrapped from head to toe in bandages with slits for her eyes, nose, and mouth. What I can tell, from eavesdropping on the healers, is that her house was attacked by Death Eaters while she was the only one home. They trapped her inside before torching the place and she is pretty badly burned. I know it must be serious by the hushed voices and worried looks they keep trading.

How can such people attack a helpless child? It makes my blood boil. Even most animals do not behave as badly as such people. Is that what we have sunk to? Mere animalism?

On a more pleasant note, Elsie and Loren came again today, and this time they brought Jon with them. I was so surprised I hardly knew what to say, stuttering over even the simplest of phrases. He likes me, he really does and I pinched myself twice to make sure it was not a pleasant dream.

I think the one thing I like best about Jon is his laugh. At first one side of his mouth quirks up, and the other trembles for a moment, deciding whether or not to follow. And then his mouth opens up and the laugh just spills out as thick and rich as honey. It’s the kind of laugh that encompasses mischief and true gaiety. I must confess that I was extra saucy and told all my best jokes just for the privilege of hearing it again and again.

How odd; I’ve hardly written you a page, and yet my hand is so tired from holding the quill I feel it should have been an entire book at least. Perhaps this endeavor seems so difficult because I feel exhausted. I think I shall rest now and write again another time.

Sara


Dear Friend,

Over the past day, I have really gotten to know Isabel, my new roommate, much better. She is such a smart and bright girl, stoic despite her obvious pain. Her mother has spent so much time worrying over her, that she has had to resort to my tactics of gently reminding them she is not about to break. Sometimes this works better than others.

Today, we spent the morning trading stories. She told me about the new kitten she had gotten for her last birthday, the sweetest little ball of orange fluff; they named her Sparks. It is already quite obvious that Sparks is a part of the family now, not a mere pet. In turn, I told her about Blackie, the brown and white splotched spaniel that we have had ever since I was a little girl. I’m still not sure how or why my four year old self decided that Blackie was the proper name for our dog, but now that she has learned it she won’t answer to anything else, so it is no use to try to find another.

We, Isabel and I, have been coming up with a plan to bribe the healers to let us smuggle in Sparks, but so far nothing has come of it. Even a ready stock of compliments won’t sweet talk them into even the slightest of concessions. We considered starting to sing the most annoying song we could think of and threaten not to stop until they brought in our pets, but then Isabel began to cough again, those hacking dry rasps, and she had to stop talking. I tried making faces to distract her from the healer’s probes and nasty syrups, but she didn’t seem to notice and one of the healers did and I was told off quite soundly.

Oh no, he’s glaring this way again so I had best look contrite and try to keep the smirk off my face. I will write again later when the vulture is gone.

Sara


Dear friend,

I don’t even know how to write this, I don’t understand how or why it has happened. It’s not fair, not fair at all and there is nothing I can do about it. Oh, I’m not making any sense, but I can’t find any sense in it so perhaps it isn’t just me.

Isabel is dead. Fun, cheerful, little Isabel. She just couldn’t stop coughing, and there was blood on the sheets, and then she just, just died. Her lungs gave out.

She held on so long, why now, why couldn’t we save her now? After everything. She never deserved to die! She was younger than I am. Her whole life ahead of her. What is it, what happened, why do we even try? What is the point of being born, barely to live, and then to leave once more? Why do we live at all?

Everyone is dying here. Everyone. What is the point of gathering us up and watching us fade away? Who decides when it is time to just pull someone out and send them on? If it is inevitable why do we even bother to fight?

I don’t want to die; I don’t want to fade away into nothingness. I don’t want to be nothing. But I am nothing. I’m not even sixteen and I’ve spent my life in and out of this bed, waiting to die. I have had almost no life outside of these four walls, and what kind of a life can I say I’ve had within them?

What does it matter? We are all worm food anyway.

Sara


We regret to inform you that Miss Sara Liddell has passed away from complications pertaining to her disease. Enclosed is her last correspondence, which was addressed to you.

We are sorry for you loss.

Ethelred Snied
Director of Healer’s, St Mungo’s


Dear friend,

If you haven’t yet read my last letter, please don’t, and if you have, don’t pay any attention to it. I was angry and upset when I wrote it, but I shouldn’t have sent it to you. I’m sorry.

Isabel died, but her life was far from meaningless. If nothing else, she made me smile, everyday. There is no way that I am going to forget that. And I only knew her for a few short days. Just think of how many lives she must have touched before mine. I’m honored to have been a part of that.

The sun was shining in my window today, nice and bright, and I felt like I was bathing in the warm, golden rays. There was something inside of me reaching out, stretching to that yellow face, unfolding like a flower from my chest. I’ve already decided that the first thing I want to do when I leave is go to a beach somewhere, stretch out on the sand, and spend all my time drinking in the sun like honey.

Of course, the second thing I will do is take a swim.

Jon came by again today. He could only stay for a minute, but he promised to come back for my birthday; Loren and Elsie are planning a big party and promised to bake me a red velvet cake- it’s my favorite kind. Only two days until I turn sixteen, I can’t wait.

If only I wasn’t so tired all the time, everything would be perfect. Sometimes every few minutes I can stay awake feel like hours. I can hardly think to write even now. I promise I’ll write a more satisfactory letter when I wake up. I promise.

Sara