Proof of Life

Heir to the Prince



Whatever can go wrong, will.



That old Muggle maxim never seemed more fitting than it was applied to the events of the final battle, Harry thought ruefully.



A ridiculous number of Death Eaters had managed to make their escape and worm their way back into the wizarding world’s underground.



Shortly after they thought they had won and were safe, the school had been stormed. The Headmaster's office was demolished. Dumbledore's portrait had burned down and a number of artifacts were destroyed. To Harry's dread, the Pensieve with Snape's memories was among the artifacts that had been lost. Wiithout it he had no way of clearing Snape's name.



Speaking of Snape...



“Maybe he survived,” Harry said yet again, pacing back and forth across the Gryffindor common room. “I just can't believe he's gone. “



Hermione just hugged her knees, curled into herself on the couch and sniffled miserably.



“I don't think so, mate,” Ron said with the ruthless honestly that Harry had come to appreciate over the years. “Losing that much blood would have killed an elephant.”



Hermione issued a quiet, plaintive whimper.



“Then where is his body? Huh?” Harry demanded. “ Tell me, Ron! We've been looking for two weeks! If he's dead, where's his corpse?”



“Maybe the Death Eaters took it with them,” Ron said reasonably. “Thinking he's one of their own. Decided to give him a decent burial.”



“Oh right, that's your theory? Decent Death Eaters? And where's his bloody Pensieve! I can't even prove anything to the Ministry without it! How could I have been so stupid to just… leave it there?”



“Harry, you couldn't have known,” Ron said patiently. “You were about to die, as far as you knew. You ... had other things on your mind. Like making sure Nagini got killed, and... er... dying.”



That wasn't much of an excuse in Harry's mind and he kicked himself mentally once again. It would have taken just a few minutes to hide the Pensieve in the Room of Requirement. Why didn't he think of that?



“You should open your post,” Hermione said suddenly.



“Huh?” Harry spun around to look at her. “That's kind of an odd, random thing to say.”



“I just thought,” Hermione murmured, “if he did survive, maybe he'd send you a note of some sort. Not an open letter, but a ... secret message that only you'd recognize.”



Harry could have slapped his own forehead. Why didn't he think of this sooner? He proceeded to tear through his post furiously, looking quickly at the contents: a letter from Mrs. Weasley, a card from Fleur Delacour, a few formal school bulletins, and an official-looking letter, bearing the Gringotts seal. Harry broke the seal hastily and stared at the contents of it, his eyes opening wide in shock as he read:



Title Deed, to benefit Harry James Potter, by way of Severus Tobias Snape



As of the night of May 3, 1998, at 00:48 A.M., to Harry James Potter, the following belongings have been transferred:



One end-of-terrace house, at 27 Spinner's End, and all the contents thereof,

Contents of vault 723 at Gringotts Wizarding Bank, in the amount of 1294 Galleons, 4 Sickles, and 11 Knuts,

Contents of unmarked vault 58 B at Gringotts Wizarding Bank, in the amount of 800 Galleons,

Personal effects of Severus Tobias Snape as can be retrieved from his dwelling in Slytherin Dungeons at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.



“I don't get it,” Harry said finally. “Does it say what I think it says?”



Hermione snatched the letter from him and read it over quickly.



“It appears that as of May second you own everything that ever belonged to Severus Snape,” Hermione said sadly.



“Why?” Harry whispered. It didn't make any sense at all. “How is that possible?”



“The only thing I can think of is that he had magically established you as an heir before he passed away,” Hermione murmured. “That would account for the automatic transference of property to your name.”



Harry bowed his head, suddenly horrified that he might start bawling in the middle of the Gryffindor common room. The man Harry had despised and scorned for years had given all that he had ever owned to him.



Harry shook his head, feeling a stinging in his eyes. He blinked furiously to be rid of it and said tightly,

“So he is really dead.”



Ron's face contorted slightly and he pressed his arm to his eyes. He then stood up abruptly and left, clearly embarrassed by the display of emotion. Hermione sobbed quietly, hugging a cushion with both arms. Harry continued to pace. He had failed the one man who had done more than any other to help the war effort. Without the Pensieve he had no way of ensuring that the fallen hero would receive the recognition and honor he never lived to see.



Her sobbing had quieted and Hermione was watching him numbly. “Harry, you are making me dizzy,” she said finally.



“Sorry, 'Mione,” Harry whispered. “Would you come with me?”



“Where?” she asked.



“To his place. Spinner's End,” Harry said. “Please... I don't think I could on my own.”



“Of course I will, Harry,” she said softly. “Floo?”



“Yeah.”



They tossed a handful of Floo powder into the hearth and said, “27 Spinner's End”. They emerged later in a dark, tiny room that looked more like a padded cell than the sitting room of a house. They stared around together, noticing the tiny kitchenette, the minimalistic furniture, and the books crammed into the bookcases lining the walls.



“There's a hidden door there,” Harry pointed absently. “I remember... from the Pensieve...”



Hermione nodded, following him. The door opened to reveal a staircase that led upstairs. Harry went first, with Hermione walking behind him. Upstairs was just as lackluster as the downstairs. There was another tiny room, set up as a laboratory. Hermione scanned the shelves, her eyes coming to rest on a small jar with something sealed inside. She lifted it off the shelf and held it on the palm of her hand tenderly, as if it were a fledgling bird.



“What is it?” Harry asked.



“Boomslang skin,” she said. “Remember how I stole his boomslang skin for the Polyjuice?”



Harry chuckled unhappily. “How could I forget?”



Her hands clasped around the tiny jar. “Do you think he'd mind if I took it?” she asked timidly. “I want something to remember him by.”



“I think he'd like that,” Harry whispered, before he walked out of the laboratory, Hermione still on his heels. The other room, a bedroom, was slightly larger. The bed was large, and as Harry sat on it he realized that it was surprisingly un-uncomfortable A few changes of clothing hung on an open clothes rack that stood next to the bed. Harry bowed his head and stared at the bedspread. It was a deep navy blue color, un-patterned and faded, but free of stains or rips. He stretched out on the bed and inhaled deeply.



For some reason he had aways imagined the potion master's place would smell repulsive, but the smell of the bedroom was surprisingly soothing. It smelled like aged wood and some kind of herbs.



“Smells like thyme,” Hermione murmured, stretching herself out on the bed next to him.



“Mmmhmm.” He kept his eyes tightly shut, as his fingers dug into the pillow.



“You are crying,” she said.



“Yeah,” he agreed.



“It's not your fault, you know,” she murmured. “You had no idea... none of us did.”



“It doesn't matter whose fault it was,” he said tightly. “He's dead.”



The moment those words fell off his lips, a sinking, nauseating feeling permeated his gut.



Dead. There was so much horrifying finality in that word.



“I'm sorry,” Hermione offered hesitantly.



“Me too,” Harry whispered. He curled into himself, hugging the pillow. For the longest time, he wept quietly, while Hermione lay next to him, simply waiting, and petting his hair, as if he was a small kitten, separated from its mother.



Eventually he was out of tears. The emptiness of the loss had settled inside, draining him of all willpower.



“It's getting late,” Hermione said quietly. “Are you going to sleep here?”



“Yes,” Harry said unapologetically.



“I'll stay with you then,” Hermione said softly. “I don't want you to stay here alone.”



Harry sniffled again. “What would Ron think if he knew we were in bed together?”



“Given that we are in Snape's bed I don't think he'd be awfully worried,” Hermione said reasonably, kicking off her shoes and climbing under the covers. Harry kicked off his shoes as well, but lay on top of the blanket, burying his face in Snape's pillow. The smell of thyme and aged wood surrounded him and cradled him, almost as if an embrace of intangible arms.



“Harry,” Hermione asked sleepily, “Can I ask you something?”



“You can ask me anything you want,” Harry said.



“His injury was pretty bad,” Hermione said. “I mean... there's no way anyone could have survived that.”



“I know,” Harry agreed. “What's your question though?”



“Well,” she mused, “Did you see or hear anything ... that I don't know about? Something that made you think he might have survived?”



Harry lifted his head from the pillow and stared at her. The brightest witch of her age lay on her back, the covers to her chin. Her eyes were tightly shut.



“Harry?” she prodded him. “What led you to believe that he might have survived?”



He sighed tiredly. There was no point mentioning the spell, was there? It obviously hadn't worked.



“Nothing,” Harry said. “It was nothing.”



She did not press. Harry dimmed the lights and allowed himself to fall asleep, his back turned to his best friend, his mind swimming in the smell of aged wood, old parchments, and thyme.



To Be Continued...