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The Letters


Life at the Dursley’s was hard. The chores, belittling, and lack of food made it unbearable. The only thing that kept Harry going was the letters that would appear in in his cupboard every evening.

Drama / Other
Age Rating:

Part 1: The Letters

Six-year-old Harry Potter pushed back the tears from his eyes quickly before his uncle saw them. Tears were weakness. Tears were for whims. Tears were pathetic. Tears would not save him. Tears would only mean more pain.

"YOU, BOY, ARE BANNED FROM THE REST OF THE HOUSE UNTIL I SAY OTHERWISE!" Uncle Vernon yanked the black-haired boy up roughly by his arms and shoved him out of the kitchen, into the hallway. Harry can hear Dudley laughing at his misfortune. "YOU SHOULD LEARN TO RESPECT YOUR ELDERS! BURNING OUR FOOD AND MAKING A MESS AREN'T WAYS OF SHOWING RESPECT, YOU PATHETIC FREAK!" he yelled giving Harry harsh shake.

Harry stumbled along, his hand burning in pain from where he caught the hot pan of spaghetti noodles as it fell to the ground. He said nothing about how it was Dudley who had pushed him into the stove, which would not help matters at all. He could only watch as Uncle Vernon opened his cupboard and threw him in. Harry hit the opposite wall quite hard, but he bit back a sound. He didn't turn and watch as his uncle slammed the door shut and turn the lock. Only then would Harry let the silent tears fall down his cheek.

After a few minutes to collect himself, Harry turned on the light. The light bulb cast a very dim glow around his cupboard. He sighed, knowing the light bulb was about to die, which meant finding an old bulb in the attic. Harry looked around his small space. Soon he would be too big for the cupboard. What would his aunt and uncle do with him then?

Then he saw it, his saving grace from heaven. He smiled and eagerly reached for the rectangular white letter that sat on top of his pillow, his name and the date written on top. He took it in his hands, delicately. Without hesitating, Harry opened the letter very carefully. He did not want to damage the letter or the envelope. Once the flap was opened, he carefully took out the odd, thin paper-like sheet. He opened it and read:

Dear Cub,

I don't know about you, young one, but my day hasn't been very interesting…well, it might amuse you. I got fired from yet another job. I am not all that surprise, as you should know by now, that happens quite often. However, I did not get fired for my illness this time. I really did not like my boss. He was making unfair advances towards a young female co-worker of mine (do not be alarm if you don't understand what I mean...someday you, unfortunately, will). I couldn't handle watching it happen. So, I stood up for her and…well, I got fired. Don't worry about my co-worker. She quit when our boss fired me. Just to let you know, I did not walk away defeated this time. I may have left a surprise for him in his office. You think he'll like the color hot pink and bright yellow? It certainly should brighten his day, don't you think? His office really needed the color change.

Harry giggled quietly in his hands. He knew enough about the boss, to know that he would not like the color hot pink and bright yellow. Harry didn't even question how he changed the color of his boss's office. He continued to read.

With my day now open to whatever I wanted to do, I read…a lot. I was so use to working at this time of day that I did not know what to do with myself. I am usually quick to adapt, but I really liked my job at the library. So, my day wasn't interesting at all…fine! Something else did happen that you might find…interesting? amusing?...my former co-worker did stop by my house (still wondering how she knew where I lived) to thank me for standing up for her against our boss. I believe she asked me out for dinner…not as a date, mind you, but as a thank you dinner. I told her I'll let her know. You think I should, cub? As soon as she finds out about my illness…well, let's just say, walking away in the opposite direction would be the most polite response. And she is quite young. Barely into her twenties. Guess that isn't too young. I'm still in my twenties myself. However, I feel much, much older.

I'll let you know what I decide tomorrow. You hang in there, cub. Just keep in mind that in five years something wondrous will happen to you and a whole new world of possibilities will open up. Maybe we might even meet then. I hope so. I really do. I know you might get tired of hearing…well, reading this, but I am sorry. I really am. Sorry that I can't be there for you. Sorry that I can't take care of you. Sorry for being unable to watch you grow into the boy are you today. Just know, Harry, my cub, that I love you very much and I miss you so much. You are my world. You are the only reason I keep pushing on day after day…just knowing someday I will see you again. Someday I will be able to hug you and tell you face-to-face how much I love you. Without you, I would be completely alone in the world. I don't think I would be able to get by without you. Writing to you is my first and real comfort I get day after day.

Love you forever,


Harry hugged the letter to chest after reading it for the second time. He didn't know who Moony was or how his letters ended up on his pillow every evening, but he was glad. He loved reading Moony's letters. He didn't know much about who Moony was and he rarely, if ever, used names in his letters. Names of people and places are usually excluded from the letter, but Harry didn't mind.

The first time he got a letter from this mysterious Moony, was a year ago. Thinking of the first letter had Harry digging out the old tin box he kept all the letters in. He hid the box in the wall in the back of the cupboard. It was a loose piece of wood Harry discovered years ago. He hid his most precious things. Stuff he did not want the Dursley's to find…ever. Once the tin box was in his hand, Harry opened it and placed the latest letter on top before digging out the very first letter from the bottom. He opened it and read.

Dear Harry, my Cub,

You do not know me, Harry, and I am sorry for that. You should have grown up knowing who I was. I knew your parents. We were very close friends, your parents and I. I was going to write years ago, but I had decided to write when I figured you learned to read. The letters that I am going to send to you, daily most likely, are private letters for only you and me. If AD knew I was writing to you…well, truthfully, I don't know what he would do, but he wanted you to live peacefully at your aunts. I was not supposed to see you…which is why I am writing instead. Just bending the rules a tad bit…your father's influence on me throughout the years. He was a bit of a troublemaker in his childhood...and made me into a bit of a troublemaker as well.

I apologize, cub, for not introducing myself (getting a little carried away I guess). You may call me Moony (an infamous nickname your father and our friends called me). I hope you don't mind me writing to you. There is no way to send a reply. So, I'm sorry if you don't want me to write. But I need some form of connection to you, Harry. I miss you so much. You were such a young infant the last I saw you, pulling your father's glasses off his face and pulling his hair. He had some wild, messy, unmanageable black hair. You loved pulling it even after you got your hand stuck in it once…or twice. Your parents loved you very much. I hope you would never think otherwise. They did what they had to do for you.

You use to fall asleep to the sound of your mother's lullabies, laugh hard when your father slipped on one of your toys, and cry when your parents put you to bed. You hated being put to bed, I remember that clearly. You never wanted to be alone and going to bed meant leaving you in a crib by yourself. One time I had to physically pull your parents out of your nursery so you can cry yourself to sleep. They did not like having you cry. That was before your mother started singing to you. She would sing you to sleep in the rocking chair in your nursery. Once you were asleep, she would gently lay you in your crib and quietly walk out of your room. You were a very light sleeper, however, and an hour or two later you would wake up crying. Your father would then go into your nursery, but he was never as successful at putting you to bed as your mother. He loved you so much that he didn't want to part with you, not even for sleep. If it wasn't for your mother you and your father would not be getting as much sleep as you two should. I'm chuckling just remembering your mother complaining about walking into your nursery, only to find the lights on, you giggling (wide awake, mind you) on the floor, with your father entertaining you with your stuff animals at two o'clock in the morning.

I'm sorry, cub, for getting lost on memory line. However, something tells me you don't mind being told about your parents and as I continue to write, more about your parents will be told to you. I will not deprive you of knowing your parents, even if it is through my memories alone. They would want you to know who they were and I know your aunt would not be able to tell you everything. Your mother and your aunt didn't speak often, if ever. So, she would not be able to tell you that your mother use to sing "Love Me Tender" by Elvis Presley to you or how your father use to dance with you in his arms around the living room as your mother cooked dinner in the kitchen, singing "Jailhouse Rock" once again by Elvis Presley. I doubt your aunt even knew your mother's favorite singer was Elvis Presley.

I love you, my cub, and I'm sorry I am unable to take you in and raise you. I have an illness, you see, that prevents to me to take care of a child, no matter how much I want to. The law would not allow me too. But know that if I could, I would have. I love you and I miss you, Harry. I'll write to you tomorrow.


P.S. Your parents not only loved you but they loved each other. One night, two of my friends and I walked in on your parents in dancing in the living room after putting you to bed. Your father had memorized an Elvis Presley song (knowing he was your mother's favorite singer) and was singing it to her as they slowed danced in the living room. Hearing your father singing "I Want You, I Need You, I Love You" was…enlightening. But it was such a private and romantic moment that we left before they noticed us (no matter how much we wanted to joke around about your father's…mushiness (as a former friend of mine would say). My former friend was not the type to be that romantic to a single woman (best if you don't ask).) Of course, that song was their wedding song, which made it all the more special for them.

This was Harry's favorite letter from Moony. It was the proof that his uncle and aunt were liars. They had always told him that his parents didn't like him, that they left him here on purpose and they didn't want to take him to heaven with them. But Moony told him that they loved him and even gave him proof of that love by telling him little things they use to do with him. He even said his aunt wasn't even close enough to his mother to even know her favorite singer.

Since knowing Elvis Presley was his mother's favorite, Harry would use up his recess time in the library listening to Elvis Presley songs. His favorite being "I Want You, I Need You, I Love You" since it was his parents wedding song. It helped him feel closer to them. Just listening to it made him choke up. "Love Me Tender" was a close second, knowing that was the song his mother sang for him and him alone. It made him feel like someone, someone loved. He was not a freak, a waste of space when he listened to those songs. He was a son, a beloved son of two people in love.

Sighing, Harry placed the letter back at the bottom of the pile and hid the tin box in its proper spot. He turned off the light, knowing better then to waste the little juice left in the bulb. He laid down on his cot that severed as his bed. There was nothing to do but try and get some sleep. He rubbed his burnt hand. While reading the letters he had forgotten all about the burn on his hand and now it was itchy and it hurt. But there was nothing he could do about it. With nothing else to do, Harry closed his eyes and within minutes fell asleep. His dreams consisted of a black haired man and a red haired woman dancing and there was a mysterious presence that stood behind him, a hand on his shoulders. The man behind him leaned forward and whispered, "You are loved", in his ear. Harry smiled in his sleep.

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