Thank you for sharing your diaries with me. I read them all, from the beginning—the earliest ones opened eagerly, as if they were excited to be read after so long. The ones written during your adolescence were more reluctant. One volume in particular was unwilling to open, so I set it aside and skipped that year. Later I turned around to see that it had opened on its own, the faded ribbon bookmark pointing towards your familiar handwriting on the first page.
I love you. I love that you have shared this part of yourself with me. There is always more of someone to know, even after you think you know them very well. Now I feel like I know your family, your friends—I wish I had been able to have a longer conversation with Pomona Sprout at our wedding, she is delightful—and your own good, honest, brave nature.
What a Gryffindor you are, my dear! They didn’t make you Head of House for nothing. I was never brave; only a little clever, and too witty for my own good. I see you writing that about me, when we first met all those years ago, and admire your perception. You saw in me what I did not see in myself—or what I could not see at the time. As you wisely noted, we both have changed.
I was embarrassed to read about my decades-old actions; ashamed that I had ever made you uncomfortable with my jokes or flirtations. I would claim it was not my fault, that I was being a man in imitation of the other men I knew, but that is dishonest. I was being who I was.
I don’t want to say I don’t know why I was flirting with you, back when we worked together at the Ministry. We are now married, after all. The why should be obvious. But it was also inappropriate, at the time, and I did not recognize that. You did. You were the one who took steps to change our relationship. You were the one, these years later, who took steps to change it again.
For that, my dear Minerva, I am eternally grateful. (Also, I cannot write as well as you—see, I have already fallen into cliche!)
What will we do, with the decades we have left to us? Travel the Floo Network from country to country, seeing how witches and wizards live on the other side of the globe? Invite my sister’s children to the cottage, and indulge them in sweets and games? Read our copies of the Daily Prophet side by side as we sip our tea? Sometimes I think there is still time left to invent something, or open a shop, or start a charity, or write a book. That used to be my dream—to have enough original thoughts to fill a full volume. But you, my love, have already filled dozens.
Your thoughts are as unique and and sharp and aptly perspective as you are. You teach transfiguration, but in these diaries you have transfigured ideas. You’ve changed the way I look at the world. (I’ve already told you that you’ve changed the way I look at myself.)
So. What shall we do next, you and I together? I believe a honeymoon is in order. I know that your teaching duties do not lend us the capacity to drop everything and live that luxurious life of constant travel, all misplaced luggage and drafty hotels, but if you’ve changed my view of the world then I want to view it all again, with you. Perhaps a week-long trip, to start. There’s a shop in Diagon Alley that sells Portkeys for Adventurers, a mystery destination in every package. Would you take that adventure with me?
I hope you do not mind that I have taken the liberty of writing this letter directly into your diary. I do not think you shall; the book did in fact nudge the quill in my direction, and then turn to a fresh page.