Snapage: "Letters"

Title: Letters
Author: Caesia
Rating: PG, reference to violence
Characters: Snape, Marauders, Mothers, Parchment
Summary: Inspired by this bit from Juxian Tang's Damage Control: 'I wonder what they say to the parents of those who died. An accident? Accidents happen in Hogwarts, all the time. If Black succeeded in his plan, with the Shrieking Shack, it would be what my parents would get, just a letter with apologies.'

Wrote it kind of a while ago. Just a lark, or more a mourning dove... (yes it's bad pun day) Anyway.

LETTERS

She held the parchment in front of her. She couldn’t read the words. Green. His ink was green.

Sincerest apologies. Deepest regrets.

But what the parchment actually read was – “I have done all I can, Mrs. Lupin.”

What the parchment actually read was – Your son is going to die.

A hearing. Her little boy behind silver bars. Whimpering. Her own whimpering.

She shrieked through her damp and trembling hand; the parchment burst into flame and singed her fingers, her whole body quivering with rage.

Her husband ran in from his study to see what was the matter.

Dumbledore, I trusted you!

She had no words, no speech within her to answer his gentle concern. She faced him with gravestones in her eyes.

Romulus T. Lupin, 1960 – 1967.

Remus J. Lupin, 1960 – 1976.

An executioner’s blade, a wolfkiller’s grin in her eyes.

…

Her husband received the post. He read the letter, then tossed it onto the desk in front of her. “Your son is dead.”

His voice was gruff, not cold, not mocking. Lavinia let its unaccustomed timbre penetrate her consciousness rather than the content of his words.

She knew better than to believe what her husband told her.

But gruff, as if he was upset. No blade in his voice turning its edge on her, coating his speech in silver sarcasm.

The parchment crisp in her fingers as she turned the note toward her. Brief - brief! And Dumbledore's obscenely elaborate handwriting, seemingly innocuous purple ink.

Lavinia loathed the new headmaster, had despised him since he'd taught Transfigurations, and she'd been a girl.

All this she thought before she read the note, before she allowed herself to understand the words.

A werewolf. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her visage calm. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream and rail and fight and fight and fight.

Severus was dead.

A werewolf. It was almost ludicrous. What was a werewolf doing at the school?

Her son was dead.

Lavinia felt tears, almost to her surprise (she'd never wanted, never loved her dirty, scraggly, silent boy), and found she had no will to stop them.

Her husband paced. For once, he seemed not to notice her so vulnerable.

…

Kreacher dealt with the owl. Mrs. Black had other concerns. That one of those concerns was a progressive illness that made every movement a twinge of agony… She had borne children. She had grown up playing with pain. Incurable sickness was beneath her concern.

But she didn’t get up from her table, and Kreacher brought in the mail.

“From Hogwarts, Ma’am,” he breathed, a glint in his eye that they both understood, though of course she only barely acknowledged the elf.

Sirius.

She stood up to read the letter. Better that way. Prove she was strong. She could take whatever her son could throw at her, raise that boy to be the wizard he was meant to be.

The muggle-loving headmaster’s words wove around and attempted to disguise the truth, but Mrs. Black could see it as clearly as if it were splashed across the parchment in fresh, glistening blood.

Sirius has killed someone.

Well. It was bound to happen eventually.

Perhaps now, the boy would learn some responsibility.

There would be an inquest. Mr. Black could deal with that. Their name still held considerable sway; their alliances held sway in the Ministry.

And she would hold Sirius’s deliverance over him and finally, finally, he would come to accept his role as Black heir.

She looked again at the letter.

Snape. A pureblood name. Just like Sirius to take it out on his own.

…

“To Mr. and Mrs. Potter:

Mum, Dad, two of my friends are in trouble. They killed a boy. They killed Severus Snape.

It’s really Sirius’s fault, but he didn’t know what he was doing at the time. He doesn’t think ahead. Remus is a werewolf. Sirius told Snape how to get to him. He was afraid Snape was going to expose Remus. I know it doesn’t make sense. It made sense to Sirius at the time.

Remus is a werewolf and the Ministry will decide to put him down. You have to stop them. Sirius is going mad. They’re going to call him in for questioning, too.

Remus had nothing to do with it. He didn’t even know what had happened until the morning when he woke up in a cage.

I think Sirius really will go mad if they kill him.

Please do what you can.

Your son,
James Potter.”

…

In sixth year, when James pushed a note over to her that said “Do you think it’s my fault that Snape is dead?” staring straight at Binns and looking for all the world like he was thinking about his latest quidditch match, Lily spent endless seconds trying to decide what to say.

Because deep in the core of James Potter, in the most secret source of his arrogance, his absolute confidence in himself and the world, there was a crack.

She wanted to say “No” and watch the warm surety seep back into his eyes.

She wanted to say “YES” and watch his prideful soul break open, watch the careless smirk vanish forever from his face.

When she slipped the note back, it read, “You have to decide for yourself.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his sharp nod, grim acceptance of the truth.

And she knew she would love him even if he had delivered Snape to the wolf’s jaws himself.

...