Dear Dad,

There are a hundred things that you have taught me. In fact, there are probably more. You once told me that there is nothing on earth more beautiful than the frost on a winter morning, and you used to let me draw pictures in the frost upon the window panes, even though you had to clean the glass of fingerprints later. There are a hundred ways to make tea, but I always think that you made it best. There are a hundred ways that a hug can be given, but yours were always the warmest. Most of all, there are a hundred ways in which I love you, and the day you died I started to count them.

Some evenings when the night grows dark and storms roll across the horizon I remember the way you used to read to me, even if it was far past my bedtime and you had to get up to teach the next day. I loved you then, and when the storms come in now I love you more, even though you are not here anymore. Perhaps it is because I miss you so.

Remember that time I got a rip in my favourite blanket? The one I could not sleep without? I think you probably do, wherever you are, and if you do you will recall that you hunted all over the house in the middle of the night for some thread and a needle, because that ragged old blanket would not hold together with magic it was so worn out. I still can see you sitting in your study as I stood by the arm of your chair, watching as you pulled the thread through that beloved blanket of mine. Do you remember how you wrapped it around me, and carried me to bed? I lay awake a long time that night, feeling the spot on my blanket where you had stitched it back up. Sometimes I think you've stitched up more than just my blanket, because some hurts only you seemed to be able to heal.

The summer I was fifteen and came home sick after I'd tried firewhisky for the first time still makes me feel ashamed, but somehow I think you knew that I felt guilty enough already for what I had done. You held me up while I was sick, and you rubbed my back when you thought I was too miserable to be paying attention to anything of that sort. You denied it to your dying day, but you wrapped me in a blanket and you carried me to bed just like you did when I was six. You think I don''t remember, but I do. I also remember how you sat beside my bed, dozing, and waking when I had to throw up again. All I can recall that you said in the morning was that you hoped I'd learned something. I certainly did, and I didn't touch a drop of alcohol until I was of age.

When I wandered into the forbidden forest with my friends during my last year of school you were not pleased either. I'll never forget the way you looked at me. I still feel bad when I think of that look of disappointment, but the words you said will always remain the most vivid part of that memory. You were not the one to give me detention, but even weeks of serving time with McGonagall did not straighten me out as much as the four words you said to me when you sat me down after I got caught. You said only one thing, and it hit me like a tonne of bricks. "Was it worth it?" you asked in a low voice, and all I remember is lowering my head to hide my shame, because it wasn't. I knew you were mad at what I had done. I knew you wanted to storm and rage at me, but you did not. It was love that made you ask me that one question, the one thing that would truly get me to see what I had done. It was because you knew me through and through.

I know I've only said a few reasons why I love you so much, Dad. But like I said, there are a hundred, if not more. In fact, the number of things you taught me is probably equal to the number of ways I love you, because everything you did, and everything you told me was because of that. Maybe this all sounds sentimental, and maybe it's soppy, but it is the truth.

All things aside, here's to you, and here's to your life. You may not have made discoveries that changed the world, Dad, but someone's word was changed because of you, and it was mine.

Your son,

Harry

P.S. On a slightly less sentimental note, I think one of your finest moments was hexing Lockhart onto his back during the duelling club. That was legendary.

If I could send you this letter from the grave, I would, but the postman does not come here, so I guess I'll hope I get to tell you all this someday.

I wonder if my classes ever saw the link between how incoherent my notes were, and the prevalence of thunder and lightning during the previous night. I honestly did not mind getting up to read to you though, but it did hurt in the morning. Sometimes, however, I was up anyway, so there was no harm done. Nights like those I really enjoyed getting you all to myself, without all the Hogwarts staff and students vying for your attention. You know, I think that you were a very lucky child indeed to grow up mostly in a school, even if it was a little untraditional. It is a wonder you didn't turn into a total brat, with an entire castle for a fan club.

I must say I am surprised you would mention your favourite blanket. Or should I say blankie? Do not deny that that was what you called it. I was absolutely frantic that night, just so you know. You looked like someone had murdered your best friend after you'd discovered that hole (Of all times, why at one in the morning, though?). I had to learn to sew on the spot, but what else would I have done? And yes, I remember carrying you to bed. I doubt you would have made it yourself, seeing as you exhausted yourself mourning your ‘blankie'. I am not sure if I ever mentioned this to you, but you were really quite sweet at that age. You had this one tuft of hair that never lay flat. Incidentally, did you know that I was the same way as a child? My hair gets all over the place unless it has some weight to it, which is why I have always kept it longer. Either way, some nights when you had nightmares I would awake to see this little tuft of hair bobbing by my bed, because there was a point where you weren't quite tall enough for me to see you as I was lying on my bed. It was kind of funny, honestly. Well, until you started crying fit to be tied, and then the urge to laugh was always replaced with my heart going into palpitations.

Speaking of heart palpitations ... Oh Merlin, I cannot believe you brought up that night you got into firewhisky. I swear to this day that it is a wonder you still have any internal organs left after that. I was worried you were going to puke them up. I hope you understand that I was bloody terrified. I was absolutely scared out of my mind. You did not really notice this, but I called Poppy up straight away through the floo while you were lying on the sofa. I spilled everything to her, but she wagered you would be alright, and sent me over a potion that I gave you to help neutralize the alcohol in your system (though I doubt you remember that). I could barely speak the next morning because I was so angry, tired, and worried. On another note, you are right that I denied that I carried you to bed that night until my dying day, but seeing as I am dead (I really do not understand how I have hands to write this) I might as well say that I did. Yes, that is right. Because this letter can't really be delivered, I am going to admit something I would never, ever, under any circumstances say. I enjoyed carrying you to bed. You were fifteen, a basket full of trouble, and a lot of the time I wondered if my little boy was even left at all. That night you reminded me he was still there. So yes, I did carry you, and it was the last time I did so. Sometimes I still miss those days, when you were just a wee thing that hung onto my cloak and hid your face in my robes when strangers came along. I don't miss the crumbs and sticky stuff on the fabric, though. Never in my life did I see any potion residue to match the gross things you managed to get on my clothes. You are lucky I loved you as much then as I do now, you grubby little thing.

Ah, the forbidden forest incident. Do not get me started on that. You learned your lesson. I will say that, and that alone, completely skimming over the ulcer-like symptoms you gave me with your night-time adventures (Why do you think I drank so much peppermint tea? Well ... it certainly had nothing to do with the fact that it settles an anxious stomach. Nothing at all.)

Yes, your confession does sound soppy, but I like it anyway. The feeling is mutual, I assure you, but I will stop writing right here before I sound soppy too.

I changed your life? Well, I better have, seeing as I bloody well helped bring you into the world. But of course, that is an entirely different story, and would probably make you gag, so I'll skim over that. I am glad I impacted your life. Be warned. This may get sentimental. I must admit that ever since the day I first held you, that was really all I wanted, to make your world better. The funny part is, that even though I did everything for you (and believe me, I did. Do you think I enjoyed watching my hair turn grey as you got into whisky and stirred up trouble wherever you went?), in all seriousness, I think that you did more for me. You made me a better person, you taught me how to love a thousand times over, you made me patient, and hands down, you taught me more about teaching than anyone ever could. So, here is to you, Harry.

I feel my letter is not quite as well written as yours. You write so much like your mother, you know. Lily was always very poetic, and I am afraid my writing will never be as elegant as hers, or yours. Maybe that is for the best though. Living in the dungeons was hardly an opportunity for me to move mountains with great speeches. You, however, may yet get to do that.

With Love,

Dad

P.S. It was legendary when I made a fool of Lockhart, although I'll admit that really was not a difficult thing, considering he was an idiot already.