Harry Writes

    Harry writes. Never in flowing phrases, using no amazing and beautiful imagery. He writes plainly and he writes what he knows.

    His mother played the piano. His father drew lifelike portraits.

    They expect that Harry will have one of these talents.

    But Harry writes.

    Hermione says he doesn´t understand parallelism, allusion, leitmotif, or irony. Ron thinks Harry is the next Shakespeare.

    For his sixteenth birthday Remus gives him a drawing pad. "Your dad used to draw."

    For his seventeenth birthday Remus gives him sheet music. "Your mum used to play. You can use Sirius´s piano."

    Remus didn´t know that Harry doesn´t play piano and Harry doesn´t draw. Harry writes.

    He crafts together a story, mixing elements with such care and dexterity that it´s a wonder he wasn´t a better potions brewer. The characters are not heroes or anti-heroes or tragic heroes. They are normal people. They have no special powers, they grow up normally, they aren´t extraordinary human beings. And yet, as the Daily Prophet described, "Potter makes you feel for these characters who are simply normal, written with no frills, tragic flaws, or great gifts. One cannot help but to be pulled into this story."

    People don´t talk to him like he´s his father anymore. People don´t look into his eyes and think it´s Lily looking at them anymore.

    Hermione decides she must write a book. It is given a horrible review and never published beyond the first edition. Ron has read Harry´s books hundreds of times and still cries at the end of the third one.

    On his thirtieth birthday he receives a package in the post. Professor Snape has sent him a copy of his latest book. The note reads: "I have taken the time to make a few notes." The book is lined in red. Harry has to laugh at the joke and sends the Professor a lifetime´s supply of Runespoor eggs.

    On his thirty-first birthday Harry publishes a very personal book. The names have been changed, the people have not. The setting has changed, the events have not. Very few were able to spot the similarities. That year Snape simply sent him a note and a beautiful journal: "Well done."

    He is thirty-three now and has published ten books. He lives in a lovely townhouse in London and has a dog he has named Snuffles. He has not dated since he was twenty. On what he knows is the last day of the term he receives an owl from Professor Snape.

    "Thank you for agreeing to meet me," the dark haired Potions Master says as Harry sits in the booth opposite him.

    "You´re letter was enigmatic, I had to at least come and see what you were on about," Harry answers quickly ordering a butterbeer from the hovering waitress.

    "I want you to ghost write something for me," Snape tells him. Harry regards him with a startled expression. His heart was beating rapidly.

    "Why?"

    "Because your mother could play the piano and your father could draw, but you can write. You do it very well considering some of the absolute rubbish you submitted in my class." Harry has to chuckle. There is a great deal of trust being offered to him, he realizes, but not just that. Snape has finally acknowledged the fact that Harry is not James or Lily.

    "What is it you had in mind?"

    "My story." A great deal of trust indeed.

    "Are you sure?"

    "I need people to know."

    "It will ruin your image forever."

    "Somehow I doubt that."

    Harry spends more and more of his time at Hogwarts. He´s given up his townhouse. Snuffles and he are living in a small flat in Hogsmeade and Harry is already turning thirty four. Severus is his friend and maybe something more. The book is done, but Harry keeps coming back and Severus doesn´t tell him to get out.

    "Master, Teacher, Tenor, Spy: The Life of Severus Snape as dictated to Harry Potter," is published to tremendous reviews.

    Hermione tries to write another book. It fails spectacularly and his friend finally admits that in this thing she will never be as successful as Harry. Ron, after a year of saying he´d never read what the slimy git had to say, read the book cover to cover in one day.

    Remus gave up on trying to find some connection to his parents. For his thirty-fifth, Remus gives him an antique typewriter.

    He and Severus live comfortably together. Severus bemoans his furniture, which is now caked with dog hair, but lets Snuffles sleep on the bed. Harry helps Severus mark essays and Severus helps Harry to write his most personal book yet: his own life. He writes in the third person and it begins like this:

    "His mother could play the piano. His father could draw lifelike portraits.

     But Harry writes."

"Side of the Road" by Lucinda Williams

You wait in the car,

On the side of the road.

Let me go and stand awhile,

I wanna know you're there, but I wanna be alone.

If only for a minute or two,

I wanna see what it feels like to be without you.

I wanna feel the touch of my own skin,

Against the sun, against the wind.

I walked out in a field:

The grass was high, it brushed against my legs.

I just stood and looked out at the open space,

And a farmhouse out a-ways.

And I wondered about the people who live there.

And I wondered if they were happy and content.

Were there children and a man and a wife?

Did she love him and take her hair down at night?

If I stray away too far from you,

Don't go and try to find me.

It don't mean I don't love you.

It don't mean I won't come back and stay beside you.

It only means I need a little time,

To follow that unbroken line.

To a place where the wild things grow,

To a place where I used to always go.

La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la,

La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la,

If only for a minute or two,

I wanna see what it feels like to be without you.

I wanna know the touch of my own skin,

Against the sun, against the wind.