Unbeta'd.

I own nothing.

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To Whom It May Concern,

It's been a wonderful year. I've enjoyed our letters, it's managed to keep me sane. Merlin knows I needed it, despite it being you.

The war is over now. You won. I'm proud, I am. I may have always been proud, that may have been what made me so angry. For that I apologize, despite it's tardiness.

This is not a useless letter. My point is short and simple; You will not hear from me again. You may not hear my name again. Despite the end being past, despite the rest of our lives expanding out in front of us like carpets, we're walking two different paths. You're rises to glory. Mine leads into the dregs of society.

Ironic how that happens, isn't it.

I wish you luck. You deserve it with one of those Weasels on your arm. She's good for you, naive and innocent just like everyone else you stand up for. I don't mean to be bitter, but consider me green.

I hope you forget me one day. Goodness knows I'll never forget you.

Sincerely,

Whom Shall Always Remain Concerned.

The note was ancient. Sixteen years ancient, a technical antique. But it was worn and well loved, edges yellowed, creases soft from it's endless number of readings. The last relic of someone he never expected he would miss. Of a time before complexity, when life was friends and school, potions class and rivalry. Before the children and the wedding and the job and the news papers and the Minister breathing down his neck (despite it being friendly).

And it remained in his back pocket for every day of those sixteen years, heavy as his heart. An ache somewhere there shouldn't be when his wife smiled, red hair framing her face beautifully.

Her weight was warm on his arm while his son ran head-long into the throng of students, the steam engine as magnificent as he could remember. She was talking. He was calling to his father, saying goodbye, goodbye father.

Father wasn't paying attention.

He Who Shall Always Remain Concerned had caught his eyes, hand outstretched to a smaller, though no less beautiful copy of himself. He saw no woman on His arm, though the child clung like his life would fall to pieces. As the Whom crouched before his copy, he smiled. Father's breath was stolen away.

The child held to Whom, tight and frightened and so small, so young. Then the child was released and sent on his way.

They brush shoulders. They share a look. They share a smile.

They're gone again.