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The letter sat on the windowsill for months.
It had outlasted the flowers on the table, the stack of unread Prophet papers, even the cold spell that froze the pipes in the kitchen. Through it all, the letter remained. It had pale parchment, folded neatly, but its edges had started curling as if reaching toward him. It wanted to be opened.
Harry had never opened it.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t. He simply… didn’t.
Because opening it meant reading goodbye. And once you read goodbye, you couldn’t pretend the world hadn’t changed. Once you read goodbye, that was it. That chapter would be closed and he couldn’t do that yet. Goodbye meant goodbye.
The handwriting on the front still hurt to look at. He knew who it belonged to, and just seeing his handwriting, well it was a dagger to the heart. It had a distinct swirl, a distinct curve to the letters of a hand that has written with quill for years. It was his alright and Harry couldn't read his handwriting.
Ron Weasley.
He’d written it a week before the final battle. Left it with Hermione, just in case. Harry hadn’t known until months later, when she’d pressed the envelope into his hand, her eyes bright and trembling.
“He wrote it before he went after you,” she’d said softly. “He wanted you to have it if…”
If…
Harry couldn’t bear to finish that sentence, even now.
He’d stared at the letter on the windowsill, told himself he’d read it when the time was right, and somehow, the time had never come.
Until tonight.
He knew it. The time had come.
He came home late, his cloak damp from snow, the world muffled and quiet. The flat was dim except for the flickering light from the half broken lamp in the living room. There, on the table beside the old unopened letter, was a small brown package tied with red string.
It wasn’t Christmas yet, but the handwriting on the tag, it was unmistakable, messy, endearingly chaotic and it made him laugh aloud.
“Mum says I should send some of her Christmas batch. Hermione helped. Don’t argue. Eat it.”
The tin inside was filled with soft fudge, half-stuck together in golden lumps. He plucked one piece free, and caramel oozed across his fingers.
When he bit into it, warmth spread over his tongue. It was rich, sticky, and sweet. Like honey and home. Like something that insisted he still belonged to the world. Like safety and care and love. It made him feel comfortable and cozy.
Harry laughed under his breath. “Of course it tastes like you,” he murmured.
For the first time in months, the silence didn’t feel heavy. He walked over to the kitchen, made himself a tea and picked something up. He then walked over to the living room, placed the 2 objects on the table and went back for the fudge. Holding the box of fudge in one hand, he pointed his wand at the hearth and lit a fire.
He sat down in the chair beside the fire, keeping himself warm and cozy, as the unopened letter was placed on the table beside him. He ignored it for a moment whilst he dipped his hand into the box, brought out another sweet and let the caramel dissolve on his tongue. The taste anchored him. He was present, alive. Not lost in what he’d never said, but grounded in what he still could.
And maybe that was why, finally, his hands stopped shaking enough to open the letter.
The parchment crackled softly. The ink had bled a little, as if someone had written in a hurry—or with too much feeling.
“Harry,
If you’re reading this, it means something’s gone wrong. And knowing you, it probably means you tried to fix it yourself. I’m not writing to stop you, because honestly, I know better by now. I probably couldn't. None of us could with your saving people thing.
I just want to say, don’t you dare blame yourself. Not for me. Not for anything. And not for anyone. No one deserves your guilt, there shouldn't be any okay?
You’ve done enough. More than enough. And I’m proud of you, mate. I always was. Even when I didn’t say it right. Even when I was a git about it. I have always been proud of you and I always will.
Take care of Hermione. Let her boss you around sometimes… I have realised over the years it keeps her happy. And find something good for yourself too, yeah? Don’t spend your life chasing ghosts.
You're my best mate and you always will be. No matter what, I love you okay? And nothing will change that. So listen to me for a change okay?
Look after yourself too, don't go holding up all alone or rushing off to risk your life more. You deserve a break and you deserve to be cared for.
No matter what, I am here for you. I love you.
Always,
Ron.”
Harry’s vision blurred. The words swam before him, steady and clumsy and heartbreakingly Ron.
He laughed, wetly, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand.
Then, with glistening eyes, he reached for another piece of fudge. He would listen to Ron, and allow himself a bit more comfort.
The caramel stuck to his thumb this time, warm from the firelight, and when he licked it off, it tasted like every memory that mattered. Memories of Ron flew through his mind, summer at the Burrow, laughter echoing off stone walls, the smell of treacle tart, and Ron’s grin from across the chessboard. The good times of his Ron.
He didn’t even realize he was crying until the tears slipped onto his lips, salt mixing with sweetness.
For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like grief.
It felt like love that had survived.
Harry leaned back in the chair, letter in one hand, a sticky piece of melting fudge in the other. The fire crackled softly, snow fell against the window, and the unopened letter was no longer a weight in his chest. It was now just a story, finally told and ended.
And when his owl tapped against the glass an hour later, holding a note that read
“Save me some fudge, Potter. Hermione ate half already.”
he smiled through the tears and whispered,
“Always.”
That word, that meant so much to his mum and her best mate, grasped by him and his best mate, encapsulated all the thoughts and feelings he had. Just one word, whispered brokenly into the dark night, meant the end of one chapter, and the beginning of another.
Harry nodded, decisively, tears running down his cheeks.
“Always.”