My Dear Dumbledore,

It's been ten years since you died. Hermione told me I should write to you, that it might be, as the muggles call it, “therapeutic.” As it turns out, magic can’t fix emotional scars.

Where to begin? Ginny and I are very happy. Life is much easier. Not a day goes by that I don't think about the past. I can forgive the lies, the secrecy, the fear, all except for one thing: I cannot forgive you for making me spend what would have been my final year at Hogwarts shitting in the woods.

Wow. Hermione was right! It feels good to put it out there, wherever you are now. If you had just told us what the fuck was going on, Ron, Hermione, and I wouldn't have been stuck camping in the English countryside for months trying to figure out where the Horcruxes were hidden. If we weren't stuck camping, we wouldn't have had to keep shitting in the woods.

For a long time, I blamed Hermione. She packed the escape tent. She supplied the toilet paper. She put three of us in one tent with one bathroom for several months. It's easy to blame her. Then I realized that poor Hermione was doing her best. I mean it never once occurred to me or Ron that we should in any way prepare for the journey that the fate of the world depended on. It’s clear to me now that any forethought at all on her part was really exceptional.

We were children. You expected so much from us. From me. You wanted me to save the world and you never once considered the comfort of my bum. You were like a father to me. But, if my father had lived I would never have had to shit in the woods. He was, after all, super-rich.

The Dursleys were bad. You let me grow up in a house of child abuse to teach me some lesson about humility. But I can forgive years of abuse because at least the Dursleys always had a working toilet. Plus, they buy the good toilet paper. They may have skimped on my education, my well being, and my mental health, but never on a nice squishy roll of TP.

Every day was a nightmare. Ron flooded that old toilet at least once a week. Hermione apparently only buys cheap, single-ply toilet paper. Some days, when I could no longer abide the mounting sexual tension between Ron and Hermione, I would just take a squat behind the tent. I went outside the protection spells a few times and was lucky to not be seen by Death Eaters. The world could have literally ended because I had to shit in the woods.

That may seem like the worst of it, but every time one of us dropped a deuce in the tent bathroom, Ron made the same joke about it being the “final Horcrux.” It was humiliating and our friendship almost did not survive it.

I guess these feelings are still inside of me and so I’ll be writing to you every day until they have, as it were, passed out of me. I do love you. I just need some time and the regular application of topical ointments.

Fuck you.
Harry Potter

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