Note written on the first page of a blank leather-bound notebook
My dear son or daughter,
It's early enough that I don't know which you'll be, and the Healers tell me I might not know until I'm holding you in my arms. You're going to be like me, a Metamorphmagus, a baby changeling, I'm certain of it. And so you're playing coy with your defining features, the same way you're playing with changing your mother's hair. Your father prefers it pink, you know. You might keep that in mind in the future.
I'd heard some of my Aurors talk about keeping books like this when they were pregnant, letters they wanted their child to read when they grew up, things they wanted to write down because they were worried, by the time their baby was old enough to understand, they'd have forgotten the thread of the story, the details that brought it alive.
I never really had a story to tell you until now, until I lost my best friend, and it's suddenly absolutely clear that I don't want to forget a single detail about who he was, about what he was like. I had hoped you would know him, that he'd hold you in his arms and spoil you rotten and get to see you grow up. But he's left us now, and he only got to know you as the alien sprog inside me who made me gag at the mere mention of honey, who made my tummy round beyond my control when I'd always been able to change whatever I wanted about my body. He only knew you as the future, and he insisted he'd be your godfather. Maybe we'll call him that anyway.
So, who was he? He was a friend who always let me borrow his Levis and always insisted I stretched them out when I returned them, even though they fit just the same on his bony arse. Be sure you find a friend who'll let you borrow your his or her clothes when you grow up, all right? There's something about trusting another person with your Levis.
And while you're at it, find a friend who doesn't mind if you colour-code and alphabetize their closet when you return the Levis. Someone who appreciates the way you fold his towels in thirds because he can't ever get it quite right. Someone who will make you a cup of tea and demand to know, without a word, with just a single look, what it is that's bothering you so much you've been reduced to organising other people's closets and folding other people's linens with disturbing precision. Find a friend who knows you, who cares about you enough to know when borrowing clothes is just borrowing clothes, and when its about needing to have some part of someone with you all day so you don't feel so alone.
Your father's calling me. He's made soup for dinner. You'll find out sooner rather than later that we're both pants at cooking, but your Dad, he's not half bad with anything that stirs together in one pot.
I'll write again soon. I have lots of stories.