Dear Harry

Harry, mate--

Here we are then, at the end of the world. It's a little funny, actually. I know, I know; No, Ronald, it is not funny, this is Harry's life we are talking about, how dare you suggest that the situation is humorous?!

Harry, the little voice in my head is starting to sound frighteningly like Hermione.

But that's all beside the point. That's just a little tidbit of information that I think you should know about because--well, because you're my best mate and you know everything about me, anyway, so I figure you ought to know that as well. And...well. Right. Anyway.

No, but seriously--the only thing funny about this end-of-the-world thing is that...well, I mean, think about it. We've been together for seven years--bloody hell, has it been that long already?--and we have managed to put ourselves in chances of approximately two-hundred-million-gazillion-bagillion-to-one of death and managed to come out alive every time.

Not unscathed, sure, but alive. Which was, essentially, pretty cool. I mean, I'm not exactly looking forward to death. But hey, I'm not afraid of it or anything. No way. I'm afraid of a lot of things, I'll admit it, but death isn't one of them.

The novelty wears off when you face it every single year. It gets old.

Now what I am afraid of is Hermione. I mean, she's bloody terrifying when she wants to be. But you know that; I'm not her only best friend. I'm afraid of my Mum, too, because when she gets angry I just want to crawl into a hole and bloody die. Oh, and I might be just a teeny, tiny bit afraid of Ginny.

Don't laugh. You've never seen her royally pissed off.

Isn't that weird, though? I'm afraid of my family's disappointment, but I'm not afraid of Voldemort. If that isn't screwed up, I don't know what is.

Anyway. Harry, you're my best mate. You know that. I'd die for you--you know that, too, and probably really hate it. You're like a brother to me. You know that--or at least, I assume you do, because if my mother hasn't been clear enough on that fact, you're just bloody stupid. And I know this letter isn't exactly somber and I haven't told you not to dare die because I will set my Mother, Ginny, and Hermione on you all at once, but that's because...

Well, it's because I honest-to-Merlin don't think you're going to die.

Maybe it's wishful thinking, or best-mate-instinct, or something. I don't know; I don't care. I just know, know, without a doubt, that you are going to come back from battle today. You'll be really bloody, you'll look like shit, and probably be more depressed than you've been through all of our years together--depressed in a good way, though. Depressed because of all the people that have died getting you where you are today. But you'll get over it; you'll get past it.

And I'll be there, too. With you. Feeling just as awful, wanting to put my fist (or head) through a wall just as badly, but we'll get through it together by doing the manly thing: not talking about it to one another and acting all macho until our respective girlfriends force us to tell them about it and we wind up on the Common Room floor in the fetal position, sobbing our eyes out.

But after we do all that, we'll be all right. And slowly, we'll all get back to normal.

Er...well...normal-ish, anyway. Because quite frankly, I'm a little unsure of what "normal" is to you. Especially when there isn't some royally pissed Dark Tosser out for your head.

And I mean that literally. Your head is much more attractive than his.

Anyway; Harry, mate, go out there and beat the shit out of Voldy for me, all right? You're my best mate and I...well, I'm rather fond of you and would like it very much if you didn't go ahead and die on me.

Thanks very much.

See you later, mate. Good luck.

--Ron