Little Whinging, Surrey
11 March, 2004

Dear Godfather,

          I wish you could have sent me your letter by owl, Sirius. Or maybe by one of those enormous multicoloured tropical birds you used when you were on the run, or a clumsy pelican like the one you drafted to deliver my seventeenth-birthday present and that nearly broke all the windows before falling through the chimney. Even a bat would have been better.

          I know you had no choice in the matter—although I'm sure that if it weren't for the guards watching your every move through their tellies you'd probably have found a way to summon some kind of winged creature and convinced it to "play owl" for a while. Hell, you probably could have talked a bee into carrying an elephant all the way here, I'm sure of that. Now that would have been a sight for those poor Muggle guards. Not to mention Dudley and our neighbours.

          Muggle post services used to be pretty good and reliable. Well, that was what Uncle Vernon used to say, I never got that many letters this way. But I reckon they were always slower than owls. I remember telling Mr Weasley how they worked, and you were there in your animagus form, with your head on my lap, and you dozed off in the middle of the explanation. Yeah, I know, I was never much of a storyteller, certainly not as good as you, and not remotely as good as Remus. But I supposed it was all the stamping and selecting and processing and labelling and selecting again that bored you to sleep. Too many people involved, I guess. And writing from prison... well... let's just say that your letter probably passed through LOTS of hands, some of them not too willing to let it reach its destination, before finally getting to me.

          And when it did, just this morning, thirteen days after you wrote it, I could not laugh, Sirius. I wanted to. I could hear your voice saying the words to me, with that smooth, gleeful tone you'd always use when trying to cheer me up, and I could see your eyes gleaming and mouth twitching in one of your trademark winning smiles, but I could not laugh. Because four days ago I got the other letter. The one saying that you weren't being melodramatic and un-Gryffindorishly pessimistic after all. Saying I will never get any more letters from you.

          Saying I will never see you or hear your voice again.

          Dawn. Firing squad. Quick and painless, or so they claim. As if they hadn't made you suffer enough. Yeah, still better than the Dementors, I suppose, but that's not saying much, is it?

          I wasn't there. It was just you and the soldiers. Oh, and the press, of course. Albeit you didn't make the first page, like you'd surely have when the Daily Prophet was still running. Small note on the sixth page of The Sun, four days afterwards, that was all. With a small photo too. Muggle photo. Black and white. Not moving. Never moving again.

          I don't know if anyone told you, but when the Parliament approved the death penalty for the "subversive enhanced", they adopted a curious tradition from I really don't know where. One of the squad's guns should be loaded with blank cartridges, so there's smoke and noise but no projectiles are fired—something like a Dungbomb that doesn't smell. The executioners should pick their guns at random, so none of them will know if they'll be shooting real bullets or not. I suppose the idea is to allow each shooter the hope that he won't be the one killing the prisoner in cold blood.

          I can't say that makes much sense to me. If you point a gun and pull the trigger, knowing there's a reasonable chance that the bullet inside is real... I mean, would you risk casting Avada Kedavra if you couldn't tell for sure that your wand had come from the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes? Or rather, would you risk casting Avada Kedavra with a fake wand at all?

          One of those unbearably painful ironies, you would say, that none of the soldiers who killed you might have felt like a murderer, while I...

          I wasn't there. I left you there. I knew what could happen, and I still have my powers, and my beloved Firebolt—oh Sirius, can you ever forgive me for what I've done to it?—, I could have done something, at least I could have tried! You told me not to, I know, you insistently, repeatedly, vehemently told me not to, but why did I have to listen to you? Would you have listened to me, were our positions reversed?

          There might have been a reason. I remember you shaking me by the shoulders and snapping arguments that eventually won me over. Right now, I can't recall a single word. I can't think of a single reason that would make the risk of losing you acceptable.

          It's still lying on the floor inside the cupboard, that letter. Not yours, the one they sent me. It was a telegram, actually. Those are supposed to be faster. Although if they really wanted me to know it faster, they could have tried the fellytone, like Ron used to call it. I suppose the idea behind telegrams nowadays is giving news as gravely, succinctly and dryly as possible. Like having Professor Snape as an emissary. Gosh, what a thought.

          I reckon I knew what it was before opening it. I mean, why else would I have hidden inside that goddamned cupboard to read it? Not that I know why I did it anyway. Probably doesn't matter.

          Curiously, my first thought was, "I didn't tell him about his jacket". You know, the black one with the lion on the back? I found some greasy stains—don't know where they came from, I swear!—so I tried to wash it but I must have done something I shouldn't have because the lion's fur became greenish and there are white dots all over the collar now. I was afraid to tell you about it, I knew you loved that jacket, it was Remus who gave it to you, and I didn't want you to be upset with me.

          There is so much stuff that doesn't really matter anymore.

          I wanted to do something about that telegram. Rip it to microscopic pieces, burn it, disintegrate it. Punish it somehow. I don't seem capable of doing anything else, so maybe I could make that blasted piece of paper suffer and scream in agony.

          I'm hallucinating, aren't I?

          Well, it's still there where I dropped it, locked in the cupboard. Too bad it's probably not whimpering of loneliness and starvation.

          I'll eventually need it anyway. It has the location of your... of the place you are... where they put your...

          Oh Merlin.

          They buried you. Your body... corpse. In a grave. All right? I said it.

          And thankfully they seemed to have marked the place. Not that I can visit or anything for now. It's inside the prison and won't be accessible for one year (quarantine, they say), and even then only for family, and I don't know if that applies to me. I mean, I don't know if they will consider me family. I know you did.

          That should be all that mattered.

          Anyway, I thought your letter deserved a reply.

          I mean, it's not like I can read all the stuff you wrote and NOT reply.

          Even if after reading all that I have no idea what to say.

          At least I know there's a pretty good chance that you are reading this. You could never resist it. Remus would glower and growl at you, but you just couldn't help it and you would never mend. Whenever someone opened a piece of parchment around you and started writing, you just had to go and snoop. No threats would keep you away. No spells would keep you from trying. My crazy godfather, I still can't believe you snatched Dad's cloak from my trunk just to take a peek at my Divination homework. I'd never have believed it if I hadn't heard you choking behind me—my poor, dear godfather, you really thought I had really Seen those predictions in the Tarot? I was just trying to guarantee my good marks, and that was the only way with Professor Trelawney. She alone would have believed I had Seen myself dying after being lynched by penguins. Well, she and you, for about two minutes, until I pulled the cloak, saw your face and laughed myself sick. The look on your face, Sirius...

          So I know you're here now. Right behind my chair, leaning over my left shoulder, breathing very slowly not to distract me. You're frowning at my handwriting, and wondering how someone can be so clumsy as to get his fingers all covered with ink like this. You're rubbing your fingers on your lips, like you always did when you got nervous—Remus told me it's a habit you acquired after you quit smoking—, because you always get nervous when I start rambling, you never liked to see me upset. And your stomach is growling, because it's past 1 o'clock and you're always hungry around that time, no matter when you had breakfast or how much you ate then. But you won't leave until I'm done writing. Hunger and tiredness will never surpass your curiosity.

          You don't have to worry about me, you know. I'm fine. And you know I can take care of myself. No need to keep watching over me all the time. Just move on and go to wherever it is wonderful people go when they die, okay? I have my work to distract me, and I have Dudley to annoy me, and a house to take care of. I'm safe and keeping a low profile, and I know how to be an average, ordinary, irrelevant Muggle, the Dursleys spent years teaching me that and I'm finally grateful for that—more and more ironies, but hey, that's life.

          So be cool and take care of yourself, all right? You've done your job here. Now you can be with Remus again—I'm glad you two didn't have to be apart for too long; you were strong and held yourself in pretty well, but I know how miserable you were without him. Moreover, you can finally meet Mum and Dad once more. All these years of guilt for what happened to them will be over at last, because I know they'll tell you it's okay and that they don't blame you. You really need to hear it from them, face-to-face, and now I can rest assured you will. Then, the two Marauder brothers, Prongs and Padfoot, will be reunited, and along with impish Moony will certainly change the face of Heaven for good. I'm sure the three of you will leave no stone—cloud?—unturned. You'll be all right, and I'm happy for this.

          You believe me, don't you?

          Of course you don't. You know me too well.

          Oh gosh, what am I doing? We were pathetic, you and me, weren't we? "I'm fine, I'm fine," we would always say, when it was so damn obvious that we weren't, pretending we didn't know how foolish a lie that sounded. I'm still doing it, but what's the point? Either you're gone forever and can't read a word of this, or you can and have already noticed that the reason my handwriting is so horrible is because I can't see a damn thing through my contacts because they're drowning in my tears and my hands are shaking and the paper is soaked wet and I've never felt so alone and miserable in my entire life and I used to think I knew all about being alone and miserable, well, guess what, I didn't.

          Goddamn it, Sirius, I want you back. I want you back right now.

          It can't end this way. It just can't, it's not fair! We had this huge list of things we were going to do together to make up for the time we lost, we haven't done one third of it, and now all our time is lost again, and for good? How? Why? What IS the bloody point?

          Where in hell is written that everyone who tries to be a parent for me has to die?

          And why you? It's so not fair, Sirius! You were NOT made for a jailbird life! I don't care about what you could have possibly done in previous lives, you didn't deserve Azkaban, and you didn't deserve this. You were always a wild, untamed, maddening spirit and the world would be so boring without you, WILL be so boring without you. You can't go, Sirius!

          Why didn't you let me try and rescue you? Why did you let them take you away? Why didn't we all run away from here while we could? Why couldn't we stay together? Why did you let Hagrid take me away to the Dursleys, why did you have to be framed and arrested, why did you have to take 12 bloody years to get out and a whole year more to tell me the truth? Why did you have to come into my life at all if you weren't going to stay? Why did you have to make me like you and get attached to you if you were just going to leave me again?

          Damn you, come here and ANSWER ME!          

          I don't want to be angry with you. I don't, Sirius, I swear I don't. I know you didn't want to die, damn it, not like that, and not alone. I know you'd have stayed with me forever if you could, even if it meant delaying your reencounter with Remus, because the idea that you must be around to protect me all the time was stuck in your head, and even if someone cursed you and erased all your memory and knowledge I know the brain cells marked "protect Harry" would find a way to survive, even if the rest of you did not. And that's why I think you might actually be here, seeing me whinge like this. And if you are I know you're feeling guilty for it, because whenever I was sad you'd blame yourself, and I don't want you to. It's not your fault you can't be here. I know that. It makes no sense at all to be angry with you. But if you're here you can certainly see that I am. That I'm furious, that I'm so mad at you I could strangle you, because I just can't be the wonderful person you always said I was and be happy that you're not suffering anymore, no. I have to be this selfish, ridiculous, wailing bastard, feeling sorry for myself, blaming you for leaving me behind.

          Please don't be here, please don't read this, please don't see me now. You did everything you could for me. Your efforts in keeping me safe and on the right track went above and beyond duty. You were the most wonderful godfather any kid could ever hope for, and that's just my luck, because now I miss you so much I can't breathe.

          Please don't mind me, I'm just scared to death, scared of being alone, and more to the point, scared of being without you. You were fate's tacit promise to me that everything would be all right in the end. Even when you had to run away on Buckbeak and stay away for months and those parrots would take ages to bring your letters to me, I could reassure myself that no situation was totally hopeless because eventually I'd get to live with you and everything would be so much better. And when I did get to live with you, you did make everything all right. If you couldn't help me solve my problems you'd ease my mind from them, making me laugh all my fears away. Or cry myself to merciful sleep, and you could always tell when I needed one or the other.

          But you couldn't have stayed forever anyway, right? I'm 23, a fucking grown-up, so what was I expecting? Even The Frigging Boy Who Lived has to become a man at some point and stand on his own. The years with you were like being a little child again (or rather, for the first time). I was loved and sheltered even when I'd misbehave and disobey you, when I'd open my mouth to say things I'd deeply regret later, or when I'd do things that would have convinced the most patient and devoted parent to throw me out the window. You were the one who taught me about unqualified, unasked for, ever-present love—not the opposite.

          You gave me the chance of being just a kid for a while. Not just a kid, but a very happy puppy, safe among the most improbable dog-wolf pack any zoologist had ever heard of. I can't say how much this meant to me. Although I could have lived without all the face-licking, you know.

          I wish things didn't have to change.

          You see, I'm not afraid of dying, Sirius. Now that you're there with Dad and Remus, I know exactly what awaits me on the other side. I can see Paradise clearly now, with an endless season of Quidditch played without brooms amidst a sea of clouds that will suddenly spurt gushes of hot popcorn for no apparent reason, while a band of angels whose hair keeps suspiciously changing colours plays Don Iniquitous' greatest hits. And I know the Heavenly Gates will open for me at once as soon as I say the holy password: I solemnly swear I'm up to no good.

          Perhaps things haven't changed at all then. You're still the promise that in the end everything will be all right.

          No, I'm not afraid of dying. It's living and going on that scares the hell out of me. I know you want me to. And damn, damn, damn, I don't want to disappoint you. You ruffled my hair and told me you were proud of me at times I felt so ashamed of myself I wanted to die, and nothing frightens me more than the possibility of you changing your mind about that. So I won't do anything stupid, okay? Don't worry. You have my word I won't. Marauders honour.

          Anyway, I know that if I get there where you are before my time you'd only kick me back here and order me to stay and live on. And it was always kind of pointless arguing with you.

          Oh my, all this babbling and I still didn't say it, did I?

          I love you too, godfather. I love you, and even if we never meet again I don't think I'll ever be able to put that sentence in the past tense.

          You were the only one who said those words to me, and you were the only one I could say them to. There were others that were so dear to me: Remus, Ron, Hermione... But only you got to be so close to me that I was less afraid of saying them than of never letting you know how important you were... are to me. We understood each other like no one else could. I love you, and I'm glad you've always known that, even back when I couldn't bring myself to say it, but still I wish I had told it to you more often. You're right about one thing: anything besides infinity would have felt too short.

          And please accept my awfully belated apologies for having spat up on your face. I was indeed a brat, an ignorant baby with no manners and no idea of how special you were. Thank you for loving me even then.

          Your son,

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written by Morgan D.
February 10, 2003

Sirius Black, Harry Potter and all the characters mentioned above are part of the Harry Potter novel series and belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros, and Merlin-knows-whom-else -- except for Don Iniquitous and Band, who belong to me.
This letter was inspired by circumstances described in Teka Lynn's fanfic Clipped Wings, therefore fitting in a (hopefully) Alternative Universe where, in the beginning of the 21st century, the Muggle population attained the upper hand over the wizards in Britain.