To the estimable Lily Evans,

I rather prefer not putting my name on the front of envelopes, as it often means that the recipient will disregard the letter altogether, and all of my extensive time spent writing and re-writing and fretting over the exact wording of my carefully plotted letter shall be in vain (Only joking. I don’t do any of that).

But now you’ve read this far, you’ve already spent this much time reading, and are therefore invested in the outcome of this note, so I shall reveal my identity.

It’s Sam. Sam Dearborn. Egbert the Incompetent’s brother. You remember me, right? Handsome bloke, tall, fantastic hair, kills in a fedora...

Right, that’s me.

And you’re Lily Evans.

What-ho.

And you’re probably wondering why in the name of all that is magical I’ve decided to write to you, approximately one month after our brief and tumultuous affair. The truth of the matter is that I’m bored stiff at the moment, for my best mate and partner-in-crime, the incomparable Sarah McKinnon, has landed herself in one of those new fangled thing-a-ma-bobs, a relationship.

Complete nonsense, if you ask me. (Not really: the bloke’s a dream, and he dotes on her, but that’s neither here nor there).

They’ve been seeing each other for months, but now Sarah up and decides that she’s in love with this Devil’s Spawn, and she spends five evenings a week with him, and she’s just oh so rapturous that poor Sam gets shoved to the side, along with all our plans to someday be old spinsters together, sitting around on a porch somewhere with our eighty-seven cats, playing sedate card games and making rude remarks at passersby, because old people may say whatever judgmental things they like without fear of punishment.

Obviously, this is a problem, because what if Sarah marries this bloke? What if she has a dozen children with him? I wouldn’t mind, except he’ll be something of a time suck, and it might actually mean I have to meet people! Talk to people I don’t know! Make new friends! SOCIALIZE!  It’s utter rubbish.

Actually, I’m just dead bored right now. I’ve written to dear cousin James twice in the last week, and he’s only responded once, and I choose to blame this on the fact that he is also relationshippy at the moment. I suppose you’ve heard all about that—well, I know you have—since, apparently your little school has done everything short of lynching this poor bird. Are you a member of this torch-carrying, “Burn the witch!” screaming majority? Personally, I think you’d make a lousy leader of a lynch mob.

I thought you’d be interested to know that I have had my first encounter with my brother since the end of his tenure as head of DMLE. It was unpleasant, to be sure, especially since the family rather sided with Eggie, and things at home have been rather tense. But life goes on, doesn’t it?

I’m reaching the end of my slight firewhiskey buzz and therefore the end of this letter, and I feel the overwhelming compulsion to be honest with you, Ginger, so here it is.

The truth of the matter is not that I am either lonely or bored, but that I am writing to you because I am avoiding writing a letter that I should be writing. You are a vehicle for my procrastination, if you will. Because, you see, while it is true that Sarah is in the raptures of a new relationshit, I find myself precariously close to the same. And there it is... I’ve met someone, and feel that if I do not wait out this firewhiskey buzz, I may actually do something extremely unwise and arrange a date.

You see, Ginger, in my brief tenure as a Hogwarts student, I was a Hufflepuff—as you know—and Hufflepuffs, for all of their virtues, are not particularly brave.

At any rate, feel free to respond poste-haste, and do not feel free to ignore this letter, or I will be thoroughly upset with you. Unless you, too, have fallen into the relationship trap, in which case, I shall have to lose faith with all of this highly sentimental humanity and jump off a tall bridge without a broomstick.

You understand my meaning, yeah?

With high regards from,

Sam Dearborn