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With love, Draco.

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Dear reader,

I apologize for my shaky handwriting should it stand as an inconvenience when you read this letter. I would have been able to write with my left hand had it not been for the Blood Curse that his Lordship inflicted upon me sixteen years ago. The effects didn’t show until recently and now blood-red veining is twining my fingers, stemming from the Dark Mark branded on my forearm. It is a shame, though, to think that I used to take pride in graceful, slanted lines of writing that stretched across my wedding invitations and now I cannot even afford the small blessing anymore, not without a searing pain spreading towards my heart.

Enough whining, Merlin knows how much time I’ve wasted on self-pity. I’m going to concentrate on finishing this letter while I’m still able to sit upright since I won’t be able to move my upper body next week. I don’t need a Healer to tell me this; I’ve profound enough insights into the Dark Arts to know. I am writing, probably for the last time, to let you know about the real Harry Potter. Now, I’m not talking about The Boy Who Lived or Saviour of the Wizarding world although you may find traces of the young boy walking bravely towards his own death if you look closely enough at the way he carries himself. I’m telling you about the Harry Potter who would sing songs just to keep you from getting out of bed too early on a Sunday morning. Yes, that berk.

Who am I to tell you about him? Well, as his current husband, I have plenty to say about him. And if I’m lucky, you’d love him a bit, too, after reading this letter. You may even want to marry him.

The first thing you should know about him is that once he loves you, he loves you big. I’m not talking about grand things like a Diagon Alley proposal or a holiday on the Anastasia – first wizarding cruise of its kind. I’m talking about how his love shows in the smallest things and how something big blooms within your heart, exploding in bursts of light brighter than the finest Lumos when you receive his love. You might wonder how a child brought up in a loveless home, in the darkness of the barbaric cupboard under the stairs can possibly have such a capacity for love. Well, Harry Potter never ceases to amaze you, even if sometimes he does so with the coal-burned bacon.

He loves you in the way he cooks for you. Of course, it is only appropriate to remember how one’s lover takes his coffee, but Harry will learn to cook for you. Let him know you have a soft spot for cobbler or even chicken masala and he will secretly learn how to cook your dish. He has burn scars on his hands, on the downside of his palms from the time he was forced to cook for his Muggle relatives at the age of seven, yet he cooks for you for the price of a peck on his cheek. He doesn’t even mention it if he sees the sign of tears in your eyes. He is just that fucking kind, the Gryffindor he is, and sometimes you feel breathless from the way he baffles you.

He loves you in the way he is willing to let you dictate his choice of clothing on the days when you visit your parents, despite one of them being a power-hungry old man that almost ends up in Azkaban if not for the testimony from the boy he actively tried to kill ever since day one. His determination in not letting anyone have control over his life was there, present and undeniable. Yet, he asked you to show him what to wear to tea on Sunday afternoons. Standing in front of your armoire, he holds out items clumsily because he is used to Muggle jeans and Converses, not frock coat or dark robes that cover his ankles. Because making you happy is so important to him.

He loves you in the way he walks barefoot on the cold floor, shirtless as well, to make you a mug of hot cocoa when you wake up drenched in sweat, feeling ridiculously frightened because isn’t it supposed to be over by now, the pain from your past? Seeing that I wear Blood Curse designed to cut off my blood stream any moment now, I’d say it is hardly over. Not for a long time. He will hold you, even when you pinch his arm and call him daft because “the heater is not on yet and you’ll catch a cold, git.” Even when you might tremble a little too much to utter a word. So that in the midst of terror, you’ll know that he loves you. He loves you.

The second thing you should know, he has the quiet kind of anger. You may be familiar with his explosive fits during Hogwarts, but that isn’t the case anymore. You will find out that he hasn’t flown off the handle since the second time the Killing Curse hit him. Maybe it’s because nothing measures up to that traumatic experience. Nevertheless, you shouldn’t be fooled by his calm demeanour when he walked out to that balcony in Sirius Black’s old bedroom. I’m not saying you should approach him immediately,  just that you should tell him to go back inside after half an hour or so. Go back inside and solve it before bedtime. If you’re the patient kind of person, you can join him out in the frigid cold and tell him about your feelings all you want. I never actually do that, because it’s much better to talk to him inside where I can push him down the bed and listen to him talking about what has been bothering him all day. Point is, don’t let him feel lonely. He’s had enough of that to last a lifetime.

This ridiculous man named Harry will call you beautiful when he sees you undress. Will call you beautiful when you dress before going to work. Even when you are sweaty and have mud on your face after spending a whole day outside doing mundane work that can have been completed with magic (“gardening”, he said. Ridiculous). He also blushes the loveliest shade of rose when you tease him back, calling him beautiful while smudging dirt on his face, too. Call him wonderful and he hides his face behind his square hands, somehow embarrassed. It was as if his humility isn’t baffling enough, you will feel it affecting you, too, making you appreciate life and family, friends and love the way you have never before. I’m telling you, that’s how he will make you feel. And I’m not writing just because I’m close to losing everything mentioned above, again.

You can’t expect him to always be in charge; that’s unnatural. Harry needs you to take control sometimes, needs you to tell him what he should do, and he will let you. He needs to feel that he isn’t lost. I promise you, the feeling of him writhing beneath you, his eyes closed tight because he can’t open them anymore with the pleasure you’re giving him, will give you the most unfamiliar feeling of amazement. He was a fucking power furnace and he submits to you because he trusts you, and he thinks you are the only one whom he would allow to do this to him. Only you, he would say. Only you, he would moan. Only you, he would whisper, after he tugged his face against your chest, worn out.

He has this little musical instrument called ‘ukulele’. It looks rather mundane and plain with the size of a vase but he likes the sweet, tingly sound coming from its string. He can’t play the piano to save his life and is unable to see why Chopin and why Beethoven, but he sure can woo you with his ukulele. He sings as if he is talking to you, a conversation in music. There’s something lazy about the songs when he sings about keeping you in bed, but it’s never sloppy. He sings to cheer you up and sometimes to tease you. Imagine someone teasing you by creating art. What a berk.

If you’re the regular Harry Potter admirer, you probably know that he’s incredibly handsome. Love him in the truest meaning of love, and you’ll see further than his scar. His eyes are mischievously, deadly, and warmly green. How can the color green be so hot, so intense when he peers down at you being caged in his arms? How can he be so perfect with his imperfections, hair all over the place and lips too plump and eyebrows so thick? I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself.

 

I am writing this as a gift, a gift he would probably hate at first. Still, this is the most unselfish thing I have ever done because if I could, I would keep him to myself. Let people think whatever they want of him so that only I know the real him. I wanted to spend the next fifty years by his side when I was still well, and now I want to spend every second with him until we run out of calendars because time doesn’t exist in eternity, does it?

Harry deserves to be happy. At first, I didn’t know what I want more: recovery for myself or happiness for Harry. Well, I know now. And I’m sure you do, too. Harry should be happy, even if I can’t continue to bring him happiness. I am writing, hoping that the right person will read this and be able to make him happy again. He’s out there, taking longer than usual to buy me quills and papers. I know he’s probably staring at the bottom of his empty pint in the Leaky, unable to face me or my slowly rotting arm. I know he needs someone new to help him move on after this. To love him and help him love again.

There’s a blank page after this letter that I purposefully leave so that you and Harry can begin your new journey together. From wherever I end up after my last breath, I hope this letter can help start a new chapter for you and him.

 

With love, Draco.