Happy Birthday Mr Potter!
I wrote this insanely early because I was bunnied for it and because I am apparently competely incapable of reading a calendar. (Who knew?)
This is in honor of Mr James William Potter, whose birthday (at communiquills, anyway) is April 12th. So. This is both for stagboy for being such an ace best friend to my Sirius as well as for the completely unbelievably amazing fleshdress who plays him. The both of us are grateful for the both of you a million times over.
And now, a letter. I apologize that it turned out MUCH less cheerful than I'd originally envisioned.
*loves*
Prongs-
It's been a while since I've written, I know, and I should apologise for that. It's shameful really when you consider that it's not as if I have much to do lately.
How have you been? Well, I hope. And the lovely wife?
You know that she's a beat beautiful girl, James, and smart as hell. Just don't Just make sure that you hang on to her (and don't tell her that I said any of that - she'd never let me live it down).
So, why am I writing to you?
You daft bugger -- it's your birthday, of course! more or less. I don't always know So HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Twenty-two. It's an odd age, isn't it? I don't feel twenty-two. Do you? But then if I've never been it before, how would I know what it should feel like? Isn't it funny how people say things like that? Isn't it odd that I've just done so?
Twenty-two. It doesn't seem possible.
I guess I had a lot of ideas about what I'd be doing - what we all would be doing - by now. Strange to be so very off the mark there. I'm not used to being so incredibly wrong. Better luck next time, maybe? You don't think that I
Since it is your birthday, I reckon I should tell you all sorts of wonderful things about yourself, right? And then you can tell me what a fucking girl I am. Still. I think it does need to be said, no matter how much it might make you question the existence of my balls.
You've been a bloody good friend to me over the years, all things considered. Eleven years now. Fuck, that's half my life. and I can't even imagine what I'd do witho You've always been there, it seems. Helped me out of far too many sticky situations. Helped me back into dozens of others. We've had Quidditch and jokes, parties, long drunken binges (I swear that the events of your stag night will never be revealed so long as I live) and lazy summer Saturdays at your parents' house. I'll never forget any of it. Never. And I wouldn't change anything either, no matter how things may have turned out. That is to say, I wouldn't change anything of your part in it all.
You've always known me better than I knew myself, somehow. But it wasn't all cleverness, was it? We did some bloody stupid things, didn't we? Some damned stupid things. It makes me wonder sometimes what might have
Well. I'll be rambling all bleeding day if I don't bring this to a close soon. Wouldn't want to have Lily be any more cross with me than she already had cause to be.
I understand that you can't really write back. It's not as if I'll actually be able to send this in any case. I mean, with what? Attach it to a rat? No owls. No window. And how would I address it? I suppose it doesn't matter.
It's your birthday, James. And you would have been twenty-two. I miss you so much sometimes I think it might kill me. But I'm not going to let it. I don't care how long it takes. I'll find a way. I'll put things right. I promise.
love
Much love,
This is in honor of Mr James William Potter, whose birthday (at communiquills, anyway) is April 12th. So. This is both for stagboy for being such an ace best friend to my Sirius as well as for the completely unbelievably amazing fleshdress who plays him. The both of us are grateful for the both of you a million times over.
And now, a letter. I apologize that it turned out MUCH less cheerful than I'd originally envisioned.
*loves*
Prongs-
It's been a while since I've written, I know, and I should apologise for that. It's shameful really when you consider that it's not as if I have much to do lately.
How have you been? Well, I hope. And the lovely wife?
You know that she's a beat beautiful girl, James, and smart as hell. Just don't Just make sure that you hang on to her (and don't tell her that I said any of that - she'd never let me live it down).
So, why am I writing to you?
You daft bugger -- it's your birthday, of course! more or less. I don't always know So HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Twenty-two. It's an odd age, isn't it? I don't feel twenty-two. Do you? But then if I've never been it before, how would I know what it should feel like? Isn't it funny how people say things like that? Isn't it odd that I've just done so?
Twenty-two. It doesn't seem possible.
I guess I had a lot of ideas about what I'd be doing - what we all would be doing - by now. Strange to be so very off the mark there. I'm not used to being so incredibly wrong. Better luck next time, maybe? You don't think that I
Since it is your birthday, I reckon I should tell you all sorts of wonderful things about yourself, right? And then you can tell me what a fucking girl I am. Still. I think it does need to be said, no matter how much it might make you question the existence of my balls.
You've been a bloody good friend to me over the years, all things considered. Eleven years now. Fuck, that's half my life. and I can't even imagine what I'd do witho You've always been there, it seems. Helped me out of far too many sticky situations. Helped me back into dozens of others. We've had Quidditch and jokes, parties, long drunken binges (I swear that the events of your stag night will never be revealed so long as I live) and lazy summer Saturdays at your parents' house. I'll never forget any of it. Never. And I wouldn't change anything either, no matter how things may have turned out. That is to say, I wouldn't change anything of your part in it all.
You've always known me better than I knew myself, somehow. But it wasn't all cleverness, was it? We did some bloody stupid things, didn't we? Some damned stupid things. It makes me wonder sometimes what might have
Well. I'll be rambling all bleeding day if I don't bring this to a close soon. Wouldn't want to have Lily be any more cross with me than she already had cause to be.
I understand that you can't really write back. It's not as if I'll actually be able to send this in any case. I mean, with what? Attach it to a rat? No owls. No window. And how would I address it? I suppose it doesn't matter.
It's your birthday, James. And you would have been twenty-two. I miss you so much sometimes I think it might kill me. But I'm not going to let it. I don't care how long it takes. I'll find a way. I'll put things right. I promise.
love
Much love,