agneskamilla (agneskamilla) wrote in adventdrabbles, @ 2014-12-01 22:39:00 |
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On snowy nights like this Harry used to sit in front of the fire with his mum. She sipped a glass of wine and he had cuddled into her side when he had been smaller, later he just sat there with her and they talked about anything or everything.
It was a tradition of theirs. Last week, even if his mum was extremely weak, Harry helped her to sit at her usual spot and gave her a glass of rich, red wine. It took a tremendous effort of her fragile, wrinkled hand to support the glass, but she still wanted to give Harry one more good memory to cherish. Harry will always treasure this memory of her: hair white, skin like paper, green eyes dulled by her age but still reflecting all her love for her Harry.
She died two evenings later. If somebody had looked at her, they would have said she surely had lived a long, satisfying life, leaving this planet only after a hundred and many more years. Looks can be deceiving, as they say.
It was a well-guarded secret that she wasn’t more than forty.
“No one can know, Harry,” she always said. “People would want to use us, take advantage of what we are. You have to keep it a secret, Harry!” she warned repeatedly. ”We must hide our nature at any cost!”
So they did, and did it well. They were constantly on the move, never settling down anywhere with other people in their proximity. Harry never went to Hogwarts and was home-schooled by his mum. Lily didn’t really have any connections, she only corresponded with her sister and an old school friend.
And Harry never had anybody else but his mum, except a few visits from his aunt.
Petunia was the only one at the funeral as well. After the clergyman had finished his speech and left, they were the only two remaining by the graveside. The coffin had to be closed of course, so they both put their lilies on it before it was showered with the clods of earth.
Petunia squeezed his hand awkwardly.
“She never regretted,” Petunia said shakily. “Not for one minute. She never regretted loving your father even if it landed her like… this,” she whispered.
“I know,” Harry said, battling his tears. “She always said that Love was worth the trouble even if hers had been too short.” Harry smiled; his mum was very insistent on passing this piece of wisdom down to him.
“Do you know what you will do with your life now?” Petunia asked.
“Yes, Mum arranged an apprenticeship for me,” Harry answered.
Petunia nodded. “If you ever need me…”
“I know,” he had said shortly before they parted.
Harry sighs. They will never sit like this again. Now his mum is gone and he needs to move on. After the secluded life they led, it is awfully frightening. Harry is nineteen years old and lived literally by his mother’s skirt in his whole life. He helped her and took care of her in the last few years. And now he has his memories, his secrets, his modest inheritance and a crumbled piece of parchment in his fist with a name and address. A name he heard a lot but its owner he has never met.
Severus Snape