“Dear Padfoot, Thank you, thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself. I’m enclosing a picture so you can see. […] I don’t know how much to believe, actually because it seems incredible that Dumbledore…” The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into these letters, these words, words about him, Harry, her son. Impatiently brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he reread the letter, this time concentrating on the meaning.It was like listening to a half-remembered voice.