A/N: This story inspired by "Though Hell Shall Bar the Way" by Thistlerose.

"New Moon"

1 September, 2008

Dear Sirius,

How's death treating you, my old friend? As it's getting close to that time when you come round to see me, I thought I'd make first contact this time.

Things are good here. The Weasley family grows, and Harry is uncle to a dozen redheaded munchkins. It didn't work out with that girl he was seeing -- again. I worry that his past, from the Dursleys to the war, will prevent him from ever giving in to love. Sometimes I ask myself if I should claim any blame for that, if I should have tried harder to . . . I don't know, to contact him somehow when he was a boy. Dora says I've surpassed all expectations in the area of fatherhood; if she's telling the truth, and not just giving me false confidence, I wish I'd had that ability when Harry needed me.

Dora is well, by the way. You'd like her husband. I try not to resent him when I have to send Cyon back to them every other week, but such are the modern accommodations we make when two grieving people fall into bed in the middle of a war, expecting not to live to see the morrow.

Oh, my. That was horrible. And I call myself a writer?

I've tapped your life for as much creative potential as possible, I'm afraid, so I've started on Harry's. I write for children and make it all seem like a grand adventure. My publisher is pushing me to call it The Chronicles of the Boy Who Lived or some such nonsense, but I told Harry I wouldn't do that to him. The covers are cartoonish and so are the plots; no one important dies and the hero is always right. Twenty years ago, I'd have called it selling out, but I think of it as therapeutic reconstruction. Taking the mess of our lives and turning it into something Cyon and his friends can read and enjoy. Anyway, reality wouldn't be any more appropriate for children to read than it was for children to have lived.

Moving along to the bad news -- no, not bad -- it isn't, honestly. My son is eleven this year and he did not receive a letter. I spoke to Minerva; he isn't in the book. I try not to be a hypocrite, try not to let slip any disappointment or indulge in self-blame. And yet my mind wanders along the same roads that I know my father's did so many years ago, either when I was bitten or when I told him I was in love with you. I hear my father's words coming from my mouth when I try to comfort Cyon, tell him that being different isn't bad. But Cyon will have at least one Muggle role model because . . .

What I'm trying to say is that today is a big day. We saw Cyon off to his public school this morning. He's getting so big, but he looked too small to fend for himself alone in a dormitory. How did we survive? How did our parents survive sending us away?

I'm avoiding the issue. You always hated when I did that. What I'm trying to tell you is that I've met someone. A while ago, actually. He loves me. He's nothing like you, and I love him, too. He's an English professor, has never heard of Voldemort or Hogwarts, and says he loves me too much to not give my work honest criticism. I think you'd like him. (Hell, who am I kidding -- you'd hex him through a wall.) I've asked him to move in with me. Tomorrow. We were waiting for Cyon to start school so the change would be less stressful.

Well, I've said it, and I can imagine the look on your face. I'm sorry. I don't completely understand how this magic works, but you told me that an 'improper ghost' is only able to visit the people who are still holding on to him. I hope you receive this message. I hope you understand. I thought I was only allowed one love in my life; I thought that was why you kept coming back, from Azkaban and then from death, however brief those visits were. But I'm forty-eight years old, a father, I love my partner, and pining for a dead man is a little like being dead myself. My family needs me alive. So I'm asking you to stop coming back.

Stop scowling at me. I'm sorry. He isn't replacing you; I could never love anyone the way Ilove you. Please be happy that I'm happy, Pads. Please don't become a poltergeist and throw my books and teacups about. You know I'm rather fond of them. If you love me, you'll believe that what I'm asking you to do is for the best. I need to let you go.

Hope all is well with you. I'm sure you're busy sullying your wings and conquering Alexander the Great, proving at last your theory that he didn't get his title on the battlefield. Whenever I see rain clouds, I'll think of you -- mucking up Heaven with your cigarette smoke.

I miss you.

Love always,

Moony

A/N2: Also inspired by "Chris, Look What You've Missed" from Naked Boys Singing, a Moony song if I've ever heard one.

Love and chocolate to my beta reader Marebehr.