by Leah
Harry Potter’s bedroom on number four Privet Drive was in what many mothers would’ve called "a right state." After Dumbledore’s death, compounded by the increased dementor population, Harry had been too miserable and exhausted to do much more than lie in bed all day. Hedwig kept trying to cheer him up by bringing him as many dead frogs, toads, and mice as she could.
He had come back here, told Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon he was sick with a wasting wizard disease that when passed to Muggles made them grow tentacles – to ensure they’d give him space – and he had holed up in his room and lain curled up in bed as much as he possibly could.
Whenever he did leave his room, which was as little as he could manage, Aunt Petunia followed him around carrying a rag and a bottle of disinfectant, with a handkerchief covering the lower half of her face, so he figured he was hallucinating when he heard a knock on his bedroom door and just ignored it.
It wasn’t until Professor McGonagall actually forced open the door (impressive, considering all the junk piled in front of it), and started to enter the room that Harry realized he wasn’t hallucinating at all.
Bolting straight up in bed, he made to tidy up the room as decently as he could in the ten seconds he had by tossing a shirt over Hedwig’s rodent-hill, and shoving all his dirty laundry into a corner under an old sheet.
“Good Lord, Potter!" She looked down at the trap of everything at her feet. Obviously, it hadn’t worked too well.
“Are you alright?" she inquired, making her way across to him, a hand outstretched. "Your relatives said you were sick..."
Harry saw the concern on her face and felt a stab of guilt.
“I just told them that," he muttered, looking away.
She didn’t look like she quite understood, and before he could get a lecture about lying to his guardians, he suddenly inquired, "What are you doing here? Professor," he added when he thought about how rude it sounded.
The moment he finished asking it, he wished she hadn’t. She must’ve aged ten years before his eyes – the lines in her face etched deeper by sadness, her usually severe expression gone. After a long pause, she finally stretched her arm out behind her and gestured to a wooden box sitting near the door. Harry hadn’t noticed her bring it in. He waited for her to explain.
“Dumbledore..." she began, her voice wavering, "Dumbledore’s will stipulated that this..." she gestured to the box again, "this be delivered to you. He requested," she went on, "that I deliver it personally. No doubt he feared interception."
Harry nodded understandingly, his eyes never moving from the box. He crossed the room and knelt beside it, "What’s in it, Professor?"
“You needn’t call me Professor anymore, Harry. From what I understand, you are no longer a student," she said, and Harry thought he heard of a note of offense in her voice. Before he could apologize, though, she was going on, "And I don’t know what’s in the box; I haven’t opened it."
She walked back across the room and made to leave, "I have delivered the box safely to you, and I..."
“Professor," he interrupted, rising to stop her, "I’m sorry, I... but I have to fight Vol-"
“I understand, Harry." she said, a hint of a reassuring smile on her face. "You don’t have to explain anything to me."
Harry sighed, and moved out of her way, relieved that she wasn’t upset with him, when suddenly a thought occurred to him, and he called out...
“Professor!"
She stopped at the stairs, her head turned slightly to face him.
“Professor, if I... well, I mean... If I survive... if I win... do you
think... do you think I could come back after and finish school?"
Her face seemed to become more unreadable than ever, and it felt like a lifetime before he saw her smile slightly and say, "What else would you do once you defeated You-Know-Who? Drive the Knight Bus?"
And as she went away, muttering about the fate of England if greatest hero in the world remained a dropout, Harry laughed a little in spite of himself. It was good to know she had so much faith in him.
He then rushed back to his room, locked the door, and knelt beside the box. There didn’t seem to be a place for it to open – no lock for him to point his wand at. He placed his hand on top of it, though, and it popped open at the touch. Dumbledore had really meant it to be for him then. He had enchanted it specifically to respond to him.
And he had left a note.
His fingers trembled as he opened it. It went on to explain that box had been prepared as a precaution in case of his death – evidently he had long worried that he might not live to see Harry defeat Voldemort. It was fairly cryptic, but Harry guessed the box contained information of some sort that Dumbledore hadn’t wanted to give him unless he died.
He peered inside – the box was full of boxes! Slim wooden ones with names across the top, each smaller box containing a composite of papers and memories – a file on that particular person. They contained all of Dumbledore’s most significant memories about that person – the memories he sifted through to make major decisions, he bet. There were so many names, names he recognized, that he wanted to explore – his mother’s, his father’s, Tom Riddle’s and Lucius Malfoy, Lupin’s and Sirius’ and ... deep in the left-hand corner was a box marked Severus Snape.
Harry froze. He could know why Dumbledore had trusted Snape.