start of the long distance communication
I wonder, Harry thinks, staring up at his ceiling. What would’ve happened if I‘d shook his hand on the train.
It’s a thought that comes as fast as it goes because he remembers how awful Malfoy had been to him in his seven years at Hogwarts. But the stress of actually teaching and having to prepare for his move has him thinking about things he would've never had before.
There’s also the letter sitting on his desk that needs his attention. He’d gotten it in the afternoon, after he had finally finished his last meeting as semi head of the Auror department and he hadn’t known what to do with it at first.
Fan mail? He’d wondered, but it was too inconspicuous for that. His second thought had been that it might’ve been doused with a potion, or something that would make him grow an extra finger. He hadn’t known whether he should burn it or send it to Hermione for further investigation.
But the handwriting on the front made him pause. It was…familiar, in an odd way. Harry wracked his brain, trying to place where he recognizes it from, but now that he’s in bed thinking about it?
It looks achingly familiar.
And he can’t, for the life of him, go to sleep without knowing what’s inside.
“Maybe this is why Hermione’s always worried about me,” he mutters as he pushes off his bedsheets, hands closing around his glasses as he lets out a yawn, jamming them onto his face. He gropes around his bedside for his wand, whispering a quick “Lumos” before sitting up and allowing his eyes to adjust to the brightness.
He squints down at his watch. Brilliant, it’s late , he thinks, wondering if he can go back to bed.
With a sigh, he stretches, feet shuffling into his slippers as he trudges towards his desk. “I swear I put it right here,” he grumbles, shuffling through the papers and folders he’d brought back from the ministry. The Chudley Cannons banner catches his eyes, the bright orange assaulting his eyes as he blinks before frowning. “Huh, I guess I must have stuffed it in here without realizing…”
Quickly forgetting about the banner, he refocuses his attention on the envelope in front of him.
“Addressed to my best mate,” he says, raising an eyebrow at the lack of address. It’s a bit careless, and he falters, wondering if it’s someone else's mail. Curiosity wins.
If I get taken out by a curse like this, he thinks dryly as he unfolds the letter. Then I probably deserve it.
“Hey mate,” it reads, and he furrows his eyebrows. “Sorry for not writing sooner. Training‘s been a nightmare, but that’s no excuse either. I reckon I’m rubbish at this but you didn’t exactly owl me, so I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re even now. Or whatever fancy arithmancy muggles do in that numbers class of yours. Subtract one useless friend from another and you get zero and what do you get? Zero friends. Brilliant, if I do say so myself.”
Harry laughs at that, some of the tension disappearing from his shoulders. “But enough about this. I heard from the grapevine (the Daily Prophet) that you’re quitting the Aurors? Bloody hell, you could’ve told me! I’ll bring you a dragon egg as a congratulatory gift- but don’t tell mum, of course or she’ll go mental. Or anyone else, for that matter. Sneaking out a dragon's egg is serious stuff.”
Harry blinks, frowning in confusion. He doesn’t think he knows of anyone that’s quit the Aurors recently, but a lot could have happened in the past few weeks he was cooped up inside recovering.
Still, something about the letter nags at him and he sighs, looking around for a spare piece of parchment.
After a moment of hesitation, he begins to write. “Hey,” he begins, a little cautiously. “I wasn’t expecting a letter, to be honest. I think you might have…mistaken.” He crosses that out with a frustrated scratch, tapping the quill against his chin. Hmm…how do I say this?
“There might have been some miscommunication going on,” he tries again, mind drifting back to the conversation he’d unknowingly spied on. It seems like the poor guy needs a better friend.
“If you need to talk, you can always owl…” he mutters to himself before shaking his head. ”No, that might come on too strong.”
He debates his next words, letting his head fall to rest on his arm. “I don’t mind exchanging letters,” he finally writes, trying to keep it simple. “It’s always nice to have someone to talk to.”
He finishes proudly, reading over his words. Not too friendly and not too formal. With a satisfied nod, he folds it neatly, setting it aside. He’ll look for an envelope in the morning, trying to fight back a yawn as he drags himself back to bed.
Oddly enough, he’s looking forward to the response.