A/N: This is my first fic, so please be nice. My dad's birthday is coming up, so I'm thinking of using this poem in his card.

Disclaimer: If I was J.K. Rowling, I would be rich and not be writing fanfiction about the very stories that I am famous for.

Now, on to the story!


No one knew that every year, on December 15th, Harry Potter would write a card for his father, James. He didn't know why he did; he just did in hopes that his father would receive it. He knew it was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous because James Potter was dead.

No one knew that every year, on December 15th, Harry Potter would write a card for his father, James. He didn't know why he did; he just did in hopes that his father would receive it. He knew it was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous because James Potter was .

But he wrote a card for him. And every year, Harry wrote the same exact thing, the same poem, in every card.

Harry never sent those cards, nor did he keep them. Instead, he burned them, hoping that they would reach James, wherever he was.

So that brings us to Number 4 Privet Drive, in Surrey, England. In that house, up the stairs, down the hall, and through the shut door of Dudley Dursley's second bedroom, a thin boy with messy jet black hair sat at a desk, scribbling on a piece of parchment.

Nothing seemed unusual about him, nothing except the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead.

In that house, Harry James Potter sat, finishing up his card for his deceased father.

When he was finished, he sat back and read his completed card with his emerald green eyes. He sealed the card and went outside to the backyard. The Dursleys were out at a dinner party for Harry's Uncle Vernon, who had gotten another promotion at his drilling company, and left Harry at home, believing that he couldn't leave his room, seeing as he wouldn't turn seventeen for another year.

However, they had forgotten to lock his door in their rush to be unfashionably early, so his door was left wide open, allowing him to exit his room.

Once he was in the backyard, he took out the lighter he had stolen from Dudley, and set the card aflame in a patch of dirt behind the shrubs.

He watched it burn for a few minutes before walking back to his room, where he then wrote to his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.

Outside, the smoke rose to the heavens, leaving Harry wondering, hoping, that his card reached his father.

Little did Harry know that James Potter did receive those cards.

He did. Every year, he did.


Hey Dad,

It's me again. I just wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday. I hope that you received this, because it isyour birthday. Anyways, I'm about to start my sixth year at Hogwarts, and Voldemort is still killing non-purebloods and blood-traitors. I'm worried for the safety of my friends. All of them.

Well, in any case, Happy Birthday. I hope you, mum, and Sirius are okay, wherever you are. I wrote this for you. I know that it's the same as last year, but I think that it really describes what a good dad is supposed to be like. I bet that that's what you were—no, are—like.

Love,

Harry James Potter

God took the strength of a mountain,

The majesty of a tree,

The warmth of a summer sun,

The calm of a quiet sea,

The generous soul of nature,

The comforting arm of night,

The wisdom of the ages,

The power of the eagle's flight,

The joy of a morning in Spring,

The faith of a mustard seed,

The patience of eternity,

The depth of a family need,

Then God combined these qualities,

When there was nothing more to add,

He knew his masterpiece was complete,

And so,

He called it…Dad.