Reading the Will

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Reading the Will

Chapter 2

Harry opened the window and allowed the owl in to wait until he checked the missive to see if a reply was expected. It was bitterly cold out. The owl pecked at his hand gently, as if thanking him for the moment of respite, and then perched on the long kitchen table to wait, cocking his head inquisitively to watch as the parchment opened.

Harry picked up the beaker from the counter, holding it in one hand, the letter in the other, frowning when he saw the return address. He crossed over to the table, looking at the handwriting that had penned his name, recognising it from his years at Hogwarts. He would have been less surprised if it appeared with red ink with garish slashes and harsh words followed by a begrudging grade. This neat script spoke of the compulsive tidiness and precision that he still thought of as part of the man he had only begun to know after his death.

He sipped his tea, and then opened the envelope, letting the contents spill to the table. Harry was reconciled to the fact that Severus was buried, unsung, and still hated, regardless of the truth he had fought so hard to proclaim to anyone that would listen. The Prophet still ran scandalous stories, and the mention of his name still brought sneers. Now, looking at the small mementoes on the table, he wondered what Snape was doing to have not sent this to him before his death.

He picked up an old photo like the one his aunt used to keep in the bottom drawer of the china cabinet. It was a small photo, slick and shiny with scalloped edges. He flipped it over and saw a picture of two people, elderly and stern, looking back at him.

He held it up in front of him, still frowning, and put it down before looking to pick up the next. He puzzled as his hand reached for a picture cut from a magazine showing a perfectly-made sitting room, with handwritten notations of measurements and how many Galleons they cost written in the margins.

The third piece to have fallen out of the envelope was a picture postcard. The picture showed waves crashing on a sandy stretch of beach with no one in evidence. A palm branch hung over the upper left corner and in the distance, a small island peeked over the horizon. He flipped this over as well, seeing nothing written, no address, and no "wish you were here". He wondered why Snape had never written or sent it and found it strange that now, so long since the final battle, he should be holding it in his hand.

He picked up the folded letter, opened it, and smoothed it flat on the table. Then looking up and grinning at the owl, he gave it a treat and opened the window, releasing it into the night. He refilled his cup, and then sat back at the table, picking up the letter, and began to read.

Mr. Potter

You once asked me what your mother was like. I found that impossible to answer at the time, and even now, I hesitate to attempt an explanation of her based on my limited information. I doubt you will understand fully what I intend to impart to you. However, since I will not have the opportunity in the future, as evidenced by the nature of this letter, I will offer what I can now, in hopes that my words will not once again go unheard.

Harry grinned and sipped his tea, hearing Snape's voice as it would have intoned the words.

Enclosed you will find three items I found at your mother's home the night you were taken. I feel that they are the best representation of her you could have. I have saved them for reasons I will not go into. However, I hope you are now old enough to have them in your possession.

Harry leaned over the table, placing his arms on the wooden surface, and gripped the letter tightly. He had not expected to be so suddenly wrenched into his past. This letter had been written before the final battle. Snape could not have known he would give Harry his memories, or that since that time Harry had found out as much as he could about the dour Potions master.

The couple in the black and white photo are pictures of her grandparents. She had no recollection of them. However, she placed great importance in knowing her past and her heritage. This was, to her, not a search of her magical past, or the bloodline so important in this world, but rather the search of family and a continuity which so often goes unsought in the young. Much like you, she craved to know her family, seeing no difference between the parents she knew and the grandparents she did not.

Harry picked up the picture again, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and brought his hand closer to see the old faces better. He did not know their names, or where they had lived; he knew only this picture of them. He did not know if they were his grandfather's parents or his grandmother's. He thought of Dudley, and for a brief moment wondered if he knew who they were.

He laid the picture down and turned back to the letter.

The second photo, by her admission, is of her favourite place. It is an old picture. I remember she carried it long before we became students at Hogwarts. She would often use it as a bookmark. This was where she claimed to go to be alone and to find solitude. She mentioned once that although she had never been there, she visited often. As I am not one for flights of fancy, you will perhaps understand this better than I.

He smiled and picked up the postcard, but saw instead how he would sit alone in his room, with only Hedwig to keep him company, and study the small picture of Hogwarts he still had in a small box. He wondered if his mother would sometimes look at this beach as her magical place when she felt the world had become too much, as he had looked at his picture to escape the confines of his room at Privet Drive. He saw her suddenly as younger than he had seen her in pictures. He saw her as a first year just starting out with a war before her that she did not know of. He smiled and touched his finger to the small island on the horizon and was suddenly glad to have the knowledge that her life had not been all wars, and hiding, and death.

Turning back to the letter, he continued to read.

The third item I found between the pages of a notebook, the rest being unreadable. I find this the most telling, as should you.

Your mother was, in short, a dreamer. That is not in itself a bad thing. She dreamed of family, a place of safety and peace, and a future in the perfect home she would create. In that, you are much like her.

You cannot hope to know someone without knowing their aspirations, for that is the truth of the person. Any other information you gather is only a source used when writing an essay of accomplishments, failures, or lofty goals suitable for the Daily Prophet or pieces of fiction.

We lived in perilous times, Mr. Potter. We did not have the luxury, as did the students of your time, to look back and know what to expect. If we had, I would not be here to write this letter and your mother would be in the home she had hoped to create. At the time I knew your mother, I put no merit in her dreams and aspirations, only seeking my own path to power. In this, I was wrong.

In parting, I will say only this: Your mother would want you to keep your family close. She would ask you to reconcile with her sister, with whom she was extraordinarily close. She would think it good form to forgive Petunia any past indiscretions you believe you have suffered, and to make amends with all you can. She, as did Albus, believed it was only through family, and those close to us, that we are truly remembered. Lily's accomplishments may help you to define her, but it was her family that sustained her.

Regards

Professor Severus Snape.

Harry re-read the letter and looked again at the photos. Shrugging his shoulders, he leaned back in the chair and frowned. He tried to think of anyone that would remember Snape for more than the list of things he had done. Was there anyone who would truly miss him?

"Damn." He rose to close the window only to turn back and look at the papers scattered across the table. With every one gone, who would still remember her? Who would know her for more than what had happened during the war?

Git, he thought, looking up at the clock and figured if he was going, that he best do it now. He still had a couple of hours before Vernon came home from work. He grabbed the small, shiny picture with the scalloped edges and headed for the door.

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