"Potter," said Snape, more brusquely than was normal during these Occlumency sessions, "sit."

Harry sat down in the chair in front of Snape's desk. Instead of taking his usual seat across from Harry, Snape gripped the back of his armchair, peered across the desk at Harry, and said, "Congratulations. On your Quidditch victory this weekend."

"Umm... thanks?" Harry fidgeted with the edges of his sleeves, his thumbnail catching on the fraying on his left cuff. He had a feeling that there was more going on than a mere "congrats on the game," but couldn't figure out why Snape was so jumpy. "Slytherin played pretty well, though," he offered, "gave us a good fight and everything."

"Not well enough, apparently." The corner of Snape's mouth twitched in an approximation of his usual wry smirk.

"Well... your Chasers should tighten their formations, I'd say. They probably know that already, though; it's nothing new. Though they did a lot worse this time with Vaisey out of commission. The reserve Chaser needs work -- Slytherin probably hasn't been holding enough joint practices. Apparently Charlie made that mistake one season when he was captain -- Charlie Weasley, I mean -- and it didn't work out too well for Gryffindor." Harry cut himself off, realizing that Snape probably wasn't all that interested in Quidditch, even if it did involve Slytherin.

"I will be sure to tell them so," said Snape, a true smile ghosting over his lips. "But also..." he coughed, and continued, "I wish to thank you. For your actions last Friday night, and Saturday morning."

Harry could not help staring a moment, but quickly picked his jaw up off the ground, and said, "You mean, helping you with the potion? And the, umm... the broomstick thing? I -- err... you're welcome?"

Snape nodded, or seemed to, his hair falling in curtains around his face. He produced a slim hardbound volume from within his robes, his hands obscuring the title. "I have been thinking about our conversations this past month," he said, "and it has occurred to me that you have not been receiving the aid that students in your position should. Perhaps this is a result of... negligence, on the part of your Head of House. Or perhaps you are in a somewhat unique situation, given that you are not Muggleborn, but were essentially raised as such -- and so the relevant parties did not anticipate such a need."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you not realize that there are supplementary resources available to Muggleborn students, to aid them in acclimating to the Wizarding World?"

Harry furrowed his brow. "Well, you did tell me that there were books I should check out in the library. I asked Hermione about them, and -- of course -- she's read all of them already. I'll get around to it, really. I've just been really busy."

"I -- Potter. I did not mean it as a reprimand," Snape said stiffly. "It is merely... I recognize that Hogwarts has been rather negligent on that score. These matters are addressed in the acceptance letters that are posted to Muggleborn students, but you received the standard Wizard-born one, because your parents attended Hogwarts. I -- here." Snape held the book out to Harry, extending his arm somewhat abruptly. "This is for you."

Harry took it and ran his fingertips over the embossed lettering on the cover; it read, The Muggleborn's Handbook: A Practical Introduction to the Wizarding World. "I... umm, wow," said Harry, "thanks."

"The title, I will grant, is rather a misnomer, given that you are most definitely not Muggleborn," said Snape, as if he hadn't heard the last part, "but you will nonetheless find this useful. More useful, in fact, than if you had simply perused Ms. Granger's copy. Open it."

Harry opened the book. It was not, as he had thought, new. On the inside of the front cover was written, in silver indelible ink, "Lily Evans, Gryffindor House".

He swallowed around the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, and whispered, "Thank you, sir. I don't know how -- you didn't -- where did you get this?"

"Given that your parents' house was largely destroyed, the Headmaster thought it best to salvage those items that were undamaged, or at least not beyond repair, and put them in storage until you were in a position to claim them -- that is, when you graduate and acquire a residence of your own. Most of these items were not personal effects, you understand, but practical items, like furniture and silverware and the like, so the Headmaster thought it prudent to leave them packed away. This book was one such article."

Harry exhaled sharply. "There's... there's a whole room full of my parents' stuff?"

"Yes. I would, however, advise you not to attach undue sentimental value to it. These are not items like the invisibility cloak, for example. They are much more commonplace -- dishes and linens, the sort of domestic goods one would find in any household. I daresay most of your parents' books and papers, and clothing, even, caught fire during the attack."

"But still -- where is it? The room?"

"In Hogwarts Castle. You may petition the Headmaster for access, if you truly desire; I assure you, you will not be able to gain entry on your own, or even via the Weasley twins' dubious talents. But before you dash off to the Headmaster's office immediately following our lesson, consider that, for the same reason that you should not have lingered before the Mirror of Erised, you have no pressing need for artifacts you cannot yet put to use."

Harry sat very still for a long moment, and then, sounding deflated, replied, "Yeah, I guess you're right. I just -- well -- "

"You have very little that belonged to your parents," Snape said quietly. "Your desires are... understandable."

"I guess. Yeah, I --" To his horror, Harry felt tears pricking at the backs of his eyeballs. He took a deep breath, much the way Snape had taught him to, for Occlumency. "I won't, then. I'll wait 'til I have my own place."

Snape inclined his head, his dark eyes radiating subtle approval. Harry found that the gesture warmed him, more than he imagined it would, even as his eyes threatened to spill over. He found, also, that he was clutching his mother's book to his chest, and with a twinge of embarrassment, lowered it to his lap. "You didn't have to do this," he said reluctantly, willing his voice not to crack.

"You have said as much to me before, under different circumstances. It grows tedious. I am well aware, as you should be, that I do not have to do anything." Snape paused, shaking his head. "Do not imagine that this is motivated by a sort of misplaced gratitude, or anything of that nature. I can see how you might have come to that conclusion, given that this followed directly after I... thanked you... but recognize that it is not a kindness. It is a mistake, on Hogwarts's part, that I wished to rectify."

"Well, you could have given me any old copy. You could have told me to check it out of the library or something, if you just though I needed to read it. But you got me my mum's copy. That -- I don't know. That means more."

"Perhaps it means that I would prefer you to have an annotated copy, without having to procure one and mark it up myself," said Snape, deceptively lightly.

"I -- annotated?" said Harry, nearly dropping the book. "Really?" He carefully turned several pages, to find that there was indeed copious marginalia in a fine, cursive hand. "My mum wrote all of this?" he whispered.

"Yes. The handwriting matches that in the cover, does it not?"

"Wow," said Harry, fingering the pages with the near-reverence that he had once displayed towards his father's cloak. It felt like something he should be reading by wandlight, with the curtains drawn tightly shut around his four-poster, in the middle of the night. He closed the book and tucked it into his bag between his Charms and Potions texts. "I'll read it later," he said, aware of Snape's eyes on him, even more so than usual. "We should probably get to the lesson," he added, with a reluctance that he hadn't felt in quite some time, when talking about Occlumency.

"Indeed," Snape intoned, a shuttered expression in his eyes.

They stayed in Harry's mind that night, and if Harry was less focused than he had been in some weeks, Snape did not rebuke him for it -- much.

Harry went to bed early that night. His friends did not doubt him when he told them that Occlumency had been particularly draining and so he would turn in before midnight; they were arguing again, and didn't pay him much attention.

Harry drew the drapes shut around his bed and incanted a Lumos, propping his wand up against his pillow. He then pulled out his mother's book and, lying on his stomach, flipped to the first page.

The first section was about wands: their usage and care (Harry hadn't known that wands needed care, beyond wiping them off if they got dirty); how wands worked (mostly things he already knew from Charms); the etiquette of handling one's own wand in the presence of others, as well as the wands of others, with their permission; a brief history of the usage of wands; et cetera. He skimmed most of the text, lingering instead on the notes that his mother had made. They were mostly practical things, like the best places to hide a wand in Muggle clothing; apparently, she sewed wand-pockets into all of her sundresses one summer. Harry could picture his mum in a yellow polka-dot dress like the one he'd seen Hermione wear at the Burrow, maybe holding hands with his dad, walking by the lake. It made no sense, really, if he thought about it; she would have worn Hogwarts robes at school, and she probably drew the sewing patterns in the margins of The Muggleborn's Handbook years before she started dating his dad, but it was a beautiful picture all the same.

He dug out the photo album Hagrid gave him and found one of his favorite photos of them: they were walking back from the Quidditch pitch, likely after an evening practice, his dad with a broom in one hand and holding his mum's hand in the other. The lighting wasn't very good; it was getting dark out, and the moon wasn't up yet, but the sunset caught in his mother's hair, which glowed like fire. His mum reached up to push her hair out of her eyes, letting go of his dad's hand, but his dad got there first and tucked her stray locks behind her ear. It was kind of sweet, Harry thought, and was he ever glad that they never snogged in this photo, but seeing them be tender to each other made Harry's heart ache, just a little bit.

It reminded Harry of the time he'd been at Grimmauld Place the previous summer, and Ron's mum was making dinner. It had been pouring dreadfully outside, and Mr. Weasley had just Apparated onto the front step. Without putting down his briefcase or taking off his boots, he swept into the kitchen and kissed Mrs. Weasley on both cheeks. Ron had made a disgusted sort of face -- he, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were playing Exploding Snap at the kitchen table -- but Harry remembered watching Ron's parents for a few seconds, until Hermione shot him a knowing look and patted his hand under the table. He looked away quickly -- he had not realized he was staring -- but the image stayed with him for days afterward. Ginny had found him sitting cross-legged on his bed that night, flipping through his photo album while Ron was in the shower; she sat down next to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and looked at his parents' wedding photo with him. She didn't say anything, but then again, there was nothing to be said.