The Time Turner

A Blast From the Past

"Come on, mum!" I urged my mother to hurry up. I couldn't wait to visit Diagon Alley. Although, I'd visited there multiple times every month to help my Uncles with their shop, this visit was special. I'd be getting all my supplies for my trip to Hogwarts. "I'll be ready in a minute". She said as she emerged from one of the many storage spaces within the house, carrying a large wooden chest. "Before we went out, I wanted to give you this". She said. "What is it?" I asked her. She gestured to the chest, indicating that I should open it and find out myself. I wiped the dust that had accumulated over the chest over the years worth of neglect. I lifted open the lid to find it mainly filled with books, though it also had a few wands and other trinkets. Out of curiosity, I picked up one of the books, which had also accumulated dust over time. The yellowing of the pages, along with the weathering of the spine, and the scratched cover, suggested that the book itself was ancient. I opened the cover of the book with care, to ensure I wouldn't cause further damage to the book. The name, "The Half-Blood Prince", was sketched inside. "But this is......Are you sure that you want to give me these?" I asked her. "I'm sure. I never really had the opportunity to know Snape. We only had the knowledge of our relationship for a few years. I was nearly convinced that when he died, his secrets died with him. But after the war, I inherited all of his belongings. Though our relationship was rather distant, I felt that I was bridging the gap, that I was getting closer to him every time I went through his books. But although I didn't know him growing up, that doesn't mean you should. Take these at the very least". She insisted.

There were five books total. A diary with several entries torn out, three textbooks, and an overfilled notebook chocked full of extra pages. Though together, they seemed to weigh about fifteen pounds, I squeezed them against me into somewhat of a hug. Simply holding them in my hands, made me feel a certain warmth. And though it wasn't as ideal as having a living, breathing grandparent, this was the next best thing. "Thanks, mum!" With just the touch of the leather bound notebooks written in with Snape's neat manuscript, I felt closer to my grandfather.

I neatly packed all the books into my enchanted leather messenger bag, that had been given to me on my last birthday from my parents. Technically, the card had said, "from grandpa and grandma", but I knew who the gift was truly from. My only living grandparents, on my paternal side, had been tortured to the extent to where they no longer remembered my father, his wife, or his children. But nonetheless, I still loved them, even if my father had to introduce us, his immediate family, to his parents every visit. I placed the strap over my shoulder, the bag feeling as light as air. "Alright, I'm ready". Said my father who seemed to have had magically appeared in the middle of the room along with the rest of my siblings. From the lack of apparation dust and floo powder, I suspected that magic was not involved in my father's sudden appearance. "Oh, Neville. I thought I told you to give away that sweater. Look, it's falling apart". My mother began pointing out all the flaws in her Mrs. Weasley like sweater, in which my father's first initial was knitted on the front, that she had knitted for him. As the creator of the sweater, of course my mother was the most critical of the sweater than the rest of us. But my mother had a point. The sweater, which my father made a point to wear at least once a week, if not twice (it was my father's favorite among favorites. This of course, was because my mother had knitted it especially for him in one of their years together at Hogwarts), was indeed, falling apart. "I could never give this away". My father objected, which he seldom did, appearing rather hurt that my mother had asked this of him.

"You're sounding as if the world had ended. I'll tell you what, if you put the sweater in storage, I'll knit you a new one". She said. My father pondered his options of what to say next. "It's not just a sweater, Scarlet. It's got sentimental value". "How much sentimental value could one sweater possibly have?" She asked my father. "Well then, what's that?" My father changed the subject by pointing out the sweater she had been wearing. The sweater was the exact same, except it had a large "S", for Scarlet, embroidered on the front. My father had knitted it for her for Christmas one year. This was no small feat for him. I'd never seen him so determined. As hard as he tried, it still was far from his best form of handiwork. I knew he'd have much difficulty with it when I was teaching him, had turned away for one minute, and found my father entirely tangled in a pound of yarn when I turned back. But my mother loved it, just as how my father loved his. "Alright, then for Christmas, we'll knit each other sweaters as gifts, and then we'll put our current ones into storage". My mother came to a compromise, which my father then nodded in agreement to. I glanced back over at the clock.