Disclaimer: Unfortunately not mine.

Love, Harry
Chapter 1 - Dear Sirius

July 21, 1996

Dear Sirius,

Hermione said that this might help, to write you a letter. I don't know how you'll read it, but she said it would find its way to you, one way or another. I suppose I'll just have to take her on faith. After all, maybe it'll make me feel better about this. About you.

I feel like there's so much I haven't said to you. I feel like I should say it now.

I'm so sorry.

I didn't mean to make it seem like

Before I met you, I

Remus always told me that you

I don't think I can do this. I'm sorry.

July 23, 1996

Dear Sirius,

I owe you some sort of response. I don't want closure, but I feel like I need it. Maybe this really will help.

I can't say that I've ever really considered how I would die. I suppose I probably should, considering how my life's been going thus far, but to be honest, I guess I just don't like thinking about it. Ever since Cedric in the graveyard, death's kind of been a weird thing for me. I know it's entirely possible with the situations I get myself into, but… is it weird to fear death only when it's not your own?

You don't even have a body we could have buried. It's like you never even existed. You deserve a coffin, and a service, and a proper funeral. You deserve so much.

Never mind, this was… this was a bad idea. I was right before. I can't do this. Bye.

July 25, 1996

Dear Sirius,

I'm sorry. I don't even know why I keep coming back to this. Part of me is furious at you for springing into action the moment you knew I was in danger without thinking about the risks. I want to be able to yell at you for being reckless, being stupid, being so damn loyal – but even imagining being able to scream at you is hard, because that means that you'd be here for me to scream at, and I know that's impossible. Each time I remind myself, it hurts a little more.

I can't believe you had to make us all face your death like this. We're still young. We're teenagers in the middle of a grown-up war. We were just starting to think the world was small enough to manage. I can't believe you.

I miss you so much, Sirius, and nobody and nothing will ever replace you, but when Ron and Hermione are married (we all see that one coming) and have two kids, you won't be there. When Ginny's a champion Seeker for England, you won't be there. When Fred and George have their joke shop and are making millions of Galleons a month, you won't be there. And when I'm an Auror, fighting dark wizards because that's the only stupid job that I'm really even qualified for, you still won't be there.

I'm sorry. I don't blame you for… for coming to Department of Mysteries. I'm glad I got to see you one last time. I'm sorry we never really said goodbye. I didn't mean to… I just… I'm sorry.

July 31, 1996

Dear Sirius,

It's my birthday today. I'm sixteen, and this morning I had a dream that I was at the Weasleys and I had an actual birthday party, with a cake and everything. I blew out the candles and I wished that what happened last month had been a horrible dream. I don't even want to think about how I felt after I realized it would never come true.

I'm sorry about that last letter. I was angry, like I often am… I don't want to be so mad at you that I won't miss my chance to grieve for you, though. I want to miss you. I don't want to stop.

You won't ever write to me again. It's so hard to come to grips with that. But I have to, because it's the truth: you're dead, deceased, kicked the bucket, met your maker. Gone. And there's nothing I can do to change that. Forget Occlumency. This is the hardest lesson I've ever had to learn.

I don't know if you knew – or know – this, but everybody was kind of nervous about you. I hate to say it, but it was mainly for the reasons that Mrs Weasley mentioned the night I first came to Grimmauld Place. Being in that house must have been horrible, and I know you never really got to mourn my father… so seeing me again was probably confusing. And since I look like him, I can't imagine how that might have been for you to see me. But really, I don't mind you calling or thinking of me as my dad. I never did.

Maybe, when you saw me, it's true that you thought "James" before you thought "Harry." Maybe you were that desperate to have your best friend back. But I don't believe it. You knew the difference. You're with him now, finally, and my mom and Cedric and my grandparents. And I'm still stuck down here.

You represented a lot of things that I never had, and might have needed. I wouldn't know the mental effects on a person who loses his parents at a young age and is forced into growing up in a tense Muggle household – but to me, my life was normal, and it wasn't until I really got to know Ron and Hermione that I realized what I'd missed out on. You brought a lot of it to me, though, or perhaps just a little. But a little of that is better than none. And now I don't even have that.

It's weird, getting all of this out. I never would have told you this if you were still alive. I thought you knew it all. But I guess, considering how you showed up in the Department without seeming to realize what it'd do to me – what it's done to me – if something happened to you, then I guess you didn't know any of this. Normally, I wouldn't tell you. But then again, normally, you would be here.

You're not supposed to be gone. We were supposed to get through this together. You escaped Azkaban, for Merlin's sake, and ran around with a werewolf every month, evaded the Ministry for two years, and survived twelve years with the dementors; surely you could escape death. You have to be alive. For a while, I could convince myself of that, but when you didn't come back through that stupid curtain after I'd screamed and yelled for you, that's when I knew. You've never kept me waiting before.

I'm sorry I was stupid enough to get myself into trouble like that, and risk everyone's lives while was at it. I'm sorry you were locked up and away for twelve years. I'm sorry you and Remus didn't trust each other. I'm sorry you died a fugitive. I'm sorry I didn't agree to meet you in Hogsmeade when you asked me to in the fire. I'm sorry I couldn't fill the gap my father left behind. I'm sorry I cared about you too much to use the mirror. I'm sorry we never really had an honest-to-God talk. I'm sorry I have to say all of this in a post-mortem letter just to have some feasible sense that this will all reach you. I'm sorry you can't hear me say it to you aloud. And I'm sorry that sorry is the only thing I can offer.

You never even got to watch me play Quidditch. It made my day when you told me I fly as well as my dad did.

I would have liked living with you. Did you know that's what I was thinking about when I summoned one of my Patronuses? I can't imagine how you would. I've never told anyone that before. You should have known. I should have said.

You once told me that the ones that love us never really leave us, and that we could always find them – but it's really not the same. You're not here. And that's obvious in the way your absence is like this giant hole that even Remus can't fill for me, though I appreciate his great efforts at trying.

He really misses you, too. This is the second time he's lost you. I suppose he must feel really alone right now. I'll look after him, though. It'll take a while, but I know he'll be okay. I'm just not so sure about myself.

So I guess you're out of it now. It's weird – I've only known you for about three years, and the first doesn't really even count. But I'll never forget the look you gave me in the Shrieking Shack when you asked me to believe your story. I'll never forget how you smiled when I said I'd love to live with you.

I was thinking maybe a house out in the country. Some place where you can see the sky. You probably would have liked that, after being locked up in Azkaban.

When I first saw you – the night I blew up my aunt and ran away from the Dursleys, remember? You saw me right before the Knight Bus came – I thought you were the Grim. I found out later that the Grim was an omen of death. And with a mad mass murderer on the loose that wanted to finish me off, I think I had a decent reason to be scared. I'm sorry I spent the first year knowing of you by fearing and hating you.

Dumbledore said that I was the person you cared most about in the world. I don't know if that's true, but it's kind of nice to believe, so I think I will, for a while. I hope you don't mind.

I wonder if you're one of those all-knowing spiritual beings now. Do you know how all of this will end? Do you know how long I'm allowed to mourn? I want to be able to look back on your death with an acceptable, resigned sadness, but still be able to talk about you without feeling the need to remove myself from the conversation. My parents are too distant for me to feel sad about their deaths; most of the time, all they seem to me, though I hate to say it, are names and faces in old photographs that people give to me to try to make me feel better. But you were real, so much more real. I met you, knew you, saw you, have memories of you – and in a way that's ten times worse, because now those are all I have. At least, with my parents, there wasn't much left as a reminder. Unless you count me, of course.

I don't want to stop writing, or end this letter; it'll feel too final, like I'm closing myself off to you. But I don't know what else to say. I got a lot of it out. And I'm not crying anymore (I'm sorry for the tear stains, by the way, and I don't care who knows about them).

I can't think about Ron and Hermione right now. I can't think about the prophecy or Voldemort. I miss you so much. It's hard for me to focus on or think about much else. I'll never open a new letter from you or hear your voice again. That's all that matters right now.

Dumbledore keeps talking about how love saved me fourteen years ago, and how it keeps saving me from Voldemort. I've never really told anybody I love them; nobody's ever said it to me, either, so love is a pretty weird concept for me, as well. With the way Dumbledore goes on about it, I think he expects it to save all the cats from trees and cure cancer. (Oh, right – cancer is a deadly Muggle disease. There's no cure for it, thus far. You just kind of waste away on a bed somewhere while your family and friends sit by and watch. I don't know which kind of death I prefer; the kind where you know it's coming and you have time to prepare, or the kind like yours: like a Band-Aid, where you rip it off and get it over with. Both options sound horrible. In the end, the person's still gone, no matter how much time you had with them.)

But I'll be all right. I'll be fine. I know I say that a lot, but I mean it this time. I'll be okay. I promise.

Love,

Harry

PS – I'll try my best to beat him. For you and Mum and Dad and Cedric. My word on it.

PPS – Why'd you have to come and try to save me? I hate your stupid nobility. I hate your lack of common sense. I hate it all.

PPPS – No, I don't. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I just can't help wishing.

PPPPS – You were a brilliant godfather. Don't ever doubt that.

PPPPPS – I love you, you know. I love you so much.

A/N: More to come. Hope you like it so far.