What a Spell Can't Fix

A.N. Thank you, reviewers. Well, I suppose this is Part Two, which I separated from Part One simply for the purpose of purposelessness. OK? Disclaimer, yeah, yeah, I don't own anyone, anything, or anywhere. From this story, at least.

Part Two

He hadn't found the letters until the second week of the holidays, and even then it had been three days before he had opened any of them.

The Snitch had captivated his attention, too, and he wondered who had stolen it for him. Certainly it had not been there when he packed his trunk - but then, he thought suddenly, he hadn't packed his trunk. A small, sad smile flitted breifly across his face. Ron. Oh, thank you, Ron.

But he recognized the scrawls on all three notes and wondered for three days. He could throw them away - but never know. He could read them - but it would hurt. So he busied himself with practicing Quidditch with that Snitch, and writing every two to three days to Tonks or Lupin or Moody.

Finally he told the pain to screw itself. He was going to read the notes.

And oh, they hurt.

Dear Harry,

I hope you never read this, because if you do it will mean that I've been sent back to Azkaban, or been given the Kiss, or that something else happened and I'm not going to be able to talk to you anymore.

First, I want you to know that, officially, Grimmauld Place is yours now. I left it to you, stating you as my not-quite-legal-but-still-official charge. If I'm sent to prison or otherwise unable to return, my statement of wills will come into effect. The house and everything in it are in the possession of a Mr. Harry J. Potter. When you come of age, you can move there and give Kreacher a good kick for me.

Secondly, this is the only note of this sort that I'm writing - the only just-in-case, so I'd like you to pass on some messages for me, if you don't mind.

I don't know the circumstances under which you're reading this, but I do hope that Dumbledore will help it find its way to you. I'll start off here with Remus - please, tell him I'm sorry for leaving him - because I think the only way in which you'll ever read this will be if I leave Grimmauld Place, so it will have been my choice and I won't do it without reason. So tell him it wasn't meaningless, and tell him that friends last a lifetime and brothers last longer.

Tonks - Nymphadora - she's the last member of my family worth anything, and if she ever needs help, Harry, a place to stay, make sure she has it. Tell her to do her best, and that I'm sure she'll make a better Auror than I could ever have been. And please tell her not to make her hair look like Snape's ever again. That was frightening.

Phineas is really the only other person left, and I doubt that he's very happy with me, knowing that I will be unable to - let's say, let the Black blood live on. Tell him that blood isn't everything, but it must be an awful lot to him if he cared about a Gryffindor. And tell him thanks, will you?

Harry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. If you ever read this, ever, I've got another piece of probably meaningless information for you. In my room, upstairs, under a loose floorboard against the east wall, is a small vial. It's five drops of my blood, preserved properly. If you cut your wrist and use a charm or something to make sure that my blood is mixed with your own. Then the house - you'll know what I mean, trust me - will obey you. Old magic.

I love you. You're the closest thing I'll ever have to a son, to someone to care for, and I owe you my life, although if you read this it will be nothing.

Under that floorboard, there are also some things I think you might find interesting, and their keys. The Waffling Watch - your father's invention, that! - and a list of useful spells for school that might be best retreived immediately. There are also a few letters that James wrote me before he died. When I was sent to Azkaban Remus got them, but he returned them to me and I put them there for safekeeping.

I don't want you to grieve, Harry. If I'm in Azkaban I won't last there long - I vowed I would never return, and I won't be able to escape. If I'm dead - I don't think that you're reading this because I've been given the Kiss, because I'd sooner kill myself - then I'm not running anymore, and I'm not hiding, and I'm with your parents, and I'm at peace with whatever has happened. Because you're not alone - you have your own Marauders, Ron and Hermione - and perhaps Ginny, as well, eh? You're not alone and you never will be, because I'm always here. Damn. I don't know what I have to say. I can't put into words what you mean to me.

Love,

Sirius

This was the first one Harry read, unable to help himself, and he cried for the longest time afterwards. Sirius didn't want him to grieve, but who could help it? There was no escaping the tears.

The next letter was not as saddening, and not as painful, but perhaps as touching.

Dear Harry,

I don't know when you'll read this. I just wanted you to know a few things.

One of them is that I'm sorry. Sirius meant something to all of us, at least, but he was everything to you, I know. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I should have been there for you, but I was too stupid and too slow. I know that you feel responsible, but you aren't. You aren't, Harry. It could never have been your fault, and I've heard all about what happened and I still agree. But it wasn't Dumbledore's fault either, or Sirius', of course, or even Snape's, although all of them have connections to it. So do you, and so do I, and so does everyone. But it's none of our faults. We know whose fault it is. Voldemort's. The Lestrange woman's. Never yours. Never.

I want you to know how much you mean to Hermione and I. You're practically my brother, but you mean at least as much to me as any of them do, and I need you to know that.

I'd also like to thank you. If you hadn't taught me all that you did about Defense Against the Dark Arts, well, I wouldn't be around to write this to you. Something odd happened, when we were running, and I found something out. Something that's, to quote Hermione, 'actually theoretically impossible'.

My Patronus, Harry? It's you.

Your friend, always,

Ron

He cried after that one, too. Not as hard perhaps, or with as much feeling or reason. But he cried. The words toward the end of the letter were wonderful and painful. It's you. And despite his tears, Harry managed to smile.

The next letter made him think, and puzzled him.

Potter -

You may think it strange, receiving a letter from me. No, this is not a letter in which I tell you the truth about things, or in which I renounce any grudge I have against you. Certainly not. Little as I like to admit it, Mr. Potter, this letter is an apology.

I will not lie to you. Yes, I hate you. I hated your father. I hated your godfather. Nonetheless, I feel honor-bound to give you an apology - to do any less would be below me.

I am not saying that I believe my actions were not justified, certainly, but that justification is not everything. You had no right to look into my past as you did, but perhaps now you have a taste of my point of view - not that I ever wished to give it to you. Certainly now you cannot deny that your father's head was rather overinflated.

I should not have stopped giving you Occlumency lessons. It was a mistake to do this, and it cost your godfather's life. For this, I am sorry beyond anything I can say, for much as I detested and loathed him I know that he need not have died. You were actually quite a promising student in Occlumency - I do not think any student of your age could have fought against my probing as well as you did, but I had hoped that you would do better. I feel certain that you must not have enjoyed having me search through your memories, but I cannot say I am sorry for that now. Perhaps now I understand you more, although it changes little. I am sure that Dumbledore will be a better teacher, if he chooses to take up the role. I feel responsible for Sirius Black's death, and I know that he was part of the reason that you are alive today to defy the Dark Lord - and thusly part of the reason that I am alive.

Professor Severus Snape

Which left Harry wondering how much had really changed, after all.

At the bottom of his trunk, Harry found the mirror, in perfect condition, and began to form a plan in his mind.

But that is a tale for another day, perhaps, another time, and I do not know the outcome.