Almost | James Potter

Dear James

My story is going to begin at the very end. 

Ironic, isn't it?

If you haven't guessed already, I am dead.

I have been for about two weeks now.

You can see anyone you like up here, or you could be conversing with those who had passed, previous friends, and family. And yet my little crush leads me to sit behind the portal, staring at the love that I've had my whole life.

Foolish, isn't it?

I suppose I wouldn't have many people to visit, however. And I should be glad for that. I never opened up much, and had a total of maybe two real friends my whole life and a small family that just consisted of my parents, all of which are alive. 

Sad, isn't it?

But you're not here to hear about my woes in the afterlife, most people care much too much about the living, myself included.

So, I'll paint the picture for you.

.

It was just my funeral, two weeks after an untimely death during a mission for the Order, but nothing significant. I didn't protect anyone, after all, the Prewett twins had died alongside me. I didn't beat a single death eater, had no encounter with Voldemort, no last-second dodge of a curse, or witty remark right before my death.

Just a simple green spell that flew my way, and I didn't move fast enough.

Now, it was two weeks later, and my funeral had just passed. It's a bit strange watching it, though I wouldn't have been able to leave if I wanted to. 

It's cruel, I suppose, but seeing James cry gave me the smallest ounce of happiness. He really did care about me. 

Maybe not in the way I'd like, but he cared about me.

And it's pitiful, I know, to surround my happiness around this one man, James Potter, but I couldn't help it. 

He started to move, leaving the graveyard where Lily Potter, his wife, was now trying to comfort Paige, and that truly did hurt.

Nonetheless, I couldn't continue watching Paige, so I moved and went along with James as he apparated to a flat.

My flat.

I don't think it will be mine for much longer, as I was the only one living in it (Paige had been planning on moving in soon, but never got the chance), but I still considered it mine.

James was walking down the hallway to the small kitchen, tears running down his face. He didn't stay there for long, though, as he turned and opened the door that lead to my room.

He would find them.

I wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

But maybe it would be a good thing for him.

To see my letters.

And he did. He was sobbing and opened a drawer for tissues, accidentally taking out the pack of letters that I had guarded with my life. Funny how fate did it, that he would open that exact drawer, and see them. But he did.

Dear James

Was written on the one at the top. I could see that they had caught his curiosity, and just as expected, he pulled apart the twine that held the letters together. Luckily, he had seen the bright little sticky note that I had placed above them, just in case this exact scenario would happen.

Dear James,

I have some letters here, you can probably tell.

And yes, they are for you.

I'm guessing that if you're reading this then I am dead, because I would have guarded these letters with my life. I'm sorry if I hurt you with my death. I would never want that. But I also guess that there isn't anything I could do about it or anything you could do, so keep living, ok? 

Don't mourn for too long, please.

Anyway, fair warning, if you do read these, don't feel bad for me. You never knew, so you could do nothing about it. It's alright. 

If you want to read these letters, then I'll let you (not that I could stop you).

Love,
Ophelia

He pulled the sticky note off of the first letter, labeled June 16, 1974.

Wiping one last tear off of his face, curiosity growing each second, he pulled off the wax seal and began to read.