July 30, 1997
Lily Potter stirred as the first pale light of morning slipped between the curtains, settling across her face like a quiet breath. It ought to have been comforting—that hush before the world fully woke, the sun tracing soft gold over her skin—but instead, her chest felt tight, drawn inwards with the sort of nerves that arrive long before your eyes open.
She lay still, watching the ceiling. Her breath came slowly and deliberately. In. Out. Again.
You've faced worse than this, she told herself, though even in her own head the words felt flat. Unconvincing. Her mind—sharp when it mattered—couldn't reason away the unease that twisted in her stomach. This wasn't just another early morning, not just another shift or summons. Today meant something. It cost something. Years, really—spent in corners of rooms, at the edge of meetings, in the quiet between choices that seemed small at the time, but changed everything.
She shifted carefully, not wanting to disturb the fragile stillness, and peeled the duvet back. Her bare feet met the cold wooden floor with a sharp jolt that dragged a breath from her. Grounding, in its way. At least it was real—a small, solid thing she could hold onto.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, she let her hands hang loose, staring at the worn floorboards. They were nicked and scuffed from years of pacing, rushing, half-awake wand grabs, and the general chaos of a life half-lived on edge. So many mornings had started like this—some full of hope, others… not. But this one felt different. Heavier.
The doubt crept in, soft as a whisper. Will they listen? Will they see me? Not just the name on a report or the headline to a tragedy they all thought they knew—but her. The person who had come through it. Who had fought through it. Who'd stayed when so many had not.
Her gaze drifted to the photographs lining the narrow shelves on the far wall. She brought them with her everywhere—through flats and safehouses, through grief and the slow, strange process of growing up in a world that had once tried to end her.
One frame caught her eye. James, of course—mid-laugh, head tipped back, his eyes alive with that ridiculous, irrepressible joy he used to wear like a badge. Merlin, that laugh. She felt it as much as she heard it in her head.
Her throat tightened. Even now, after all these years, that picture had a way of undoing her.
You were never meant to be a memory, she thought, and for a moment it was unbearable.
A quiet, crooked smile tugged at her lips. "Still talking to ghosts," she murmured, fingers threading through her tangled hair.
The clock on the bedside table blinked: 5:50 a.m.
Too early to be civilised, too late to pretend she might fall back asleep. With a slow breath, she rose, barefoot steps soft against the creaking floor. She crossed the room like she could stretch time, like walking slowly might make the next hour last longer.
At the window, she pressed her fingertips to the glass. It was cold—clean and still. Below, the street had begun to stir: a delivery lorry groaned past, someone whistled tunelessly, and a shopkeeper flipped a sign to Open. Life moved on. Of course it did.
But Lily hadn't. Not completely.
There was still a part of her frozen in time, stuck somewhere between what was and what should have been.
Fifteen years. A lifetime and a blink.
The sharp ache had dulled, mostly. Not gone—never gone—but changed. Now it lived just beneath the surface, humming in the quiet moments, colouring the way she looked at mornings like this. Not pain exactly. Not anymore. Just something missing.
She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. You're not that girl anymore, she reminded herself. But sometimes she still felt like her—fierce and furious, standing in the wreckage with her fists clenched and nothing left to lose.
Harry had only been a baby—soft-cheeked and wide-eyed, wrapping his fingers around hers with those little fists—when James was taken from them. He'd never had the chance to know his father. Not properly. Not the way Lily had.
He hadn't heard that rich, unguarded laugh echoing down the hallways or felt the steady warmth of James's presence on stormy summer nights when the windows of their old cottage rattled in their panes. He hadn't seen the way James's eyes changed whenever he looked at them—like nothing else in the world mattered.
Lily had told him stories over the years. About James's reckless courage, the way he could never leave a dare unanswered. About his infuriating charm—how it got him into trouble just as easily as it got him out of it. About the way he flew, as though he were born for it. But those were only fragments. Safe ones. Carefully chosen.
There was so much more she hadn't said.
Not for lack of wanting. But some memories still pressed too close. Some truths sat lodged like splinters beneath her ribs, and saying them aloud would only push them deeper.
They talked, of course—she and Harry. Shared space, meals, laughter, and even arguments. They lived together. But still, there were times it felt like they stood on opposite sides of a wall neither of them had meant to build. Quiet, invisible, built of silence and grief and years of well-meaning half-truths.
She had never wanted to burden him. He had always carried far too much for someone so young. But in shielding him from her pain, she wondered if she'd hidden too much of herself along the way. If, in protecting him, she had become a stranger in some ways.
Now he was grown. Strong. Brilliant. Fiercely kind. A man who had faced down darkness more than once and come through it with his heart still intact. And she was so proud of him it ached. But still—there were moments, quiet and uncertain, where she wondered:
Does he truly see me?
Not just as his mother. But as Lily.
Who was she now, really? Beneath the name, beneath the role, beneath the layers she'd built to keep herself upright.
She turned from the window, her thoughts drawing tighter with every breath. Maybe today wasn't just about the report. Not only about politics or the ministry's polished corridors. Maybe it was about something else. About taking her voice back. About showing Harry—and herself—that she hadn't disappeared beneath the weight of the past.
Her gaze flicked again to the photographs along the wall. Familiar faces looked back at her. Remus and Sirius—caught mid-laugh, their arms slung round each other like trouble on legs. Frank Longbottom, that ever-hopeful grin. Alice, sharp-eyed and knowing. All of them were gone. And yet, somehow, still here.
Their loss hadn't left her hollow. Not quite. It had shaped her. Every mission, every long night with parchment and ink and stubborn determination—those hadn't been acts of duty alone. They were acts of remembrance. Of resistance. A quiet, steady defiance: you didn't win.
Her grief hadn't broken her. It had refined her. Sharpened her edges. Made her into something steady.
She crossed the flat, the floor cold beneath her, and turned the tap in the bathroom. The pipes gave their usual groan in protest. The rush of cold water shocked her awake as it hit her face, and for a moment, the spiral of thought fell still.
She looked up. Met her own eyes in the mirror.
There was tiredness there, yes. A few strands of grey tucked back behind her ear. But something else too—a flicker of fire that had never quite gone out. Not really.
Arthur's voice came back to her, gentle but certain, like it always had been. "Trust in your knowledge, Lily. That's why they need you."
Her hands curled against the sink, knuckles pale. She did know. She had followed this case from the beginning—dug through shadows and scraps, pieced together the truth when no one else would touch it. This wasn't luck. And it wasn't legacy. It was earned.
And still—there it was. That quiet, unspoken thought she rarely let herself linger on:
Maybe Harry will be proud of me today.
She hardly ever said it, even to herself. But it mattered.
She didn't want him to see only the mother who had flinched from certain dates or the woman who had gone quiet at the wrong moments. She wanted him to see someone brave. Someone whole—even if she wasn't. Not completely.
Maybe, she thought, if I can stand up there and speak the truth—clearly, without flinching—it'll open something else too. A space for the things they hadn't said. For the silence to shift.
The past would always cling to her. That much she'd accepted. But it didn't have to define her. Not anymore.
She reached for the towel, dried her face slowly, and straightened. Spine lifted. Shoulders squared.
Today wasn't about proving anything to the Ministry.
It was about proving it to herself.
And maybe—to James, too.
Harry lay sprawled on his bed, the sheets tangled round his legs like they'd turned against him in the night. He hadn't realised how long he'd been tossing about until he noticed the moonlight spilling across the floorboards—silver, cold, and far too still. It made odd, shifting patterns on the walls, like shadows that had somewhere else to be.
It looked peaceful. Quiet. Almost beautiful.
But inside, he felt anything but.
There was a tightness in his chest, as though something heavy had settled on him and refused to shift. He couldn't stop thinking about earlier—that conversation with his mum. If you could call it that. She'd said it so calmly, like it didn't still tear her up: "Gone too soon." Just three words. But Harry had seen it—the way her eyes flickered, just for a moment, like the pain had slipped through before she could shut it away again. The way her jaw tightened the second he looked away.
She always did that. Pulled the curtain shut just as he got close.
There was always something she wouldn't say.
He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. It was warm and familiar beneath his cheek, but it didn't help. The thoughts kept coming, faster now, sharper.
He hated this—the not knowing. The never knowing. Who his dad had really been. Not just the grinning face in the photo album or the name people spoke like a legend. But the real person. The father he was supposed to remember.
His mum's stories came like rationed sweets—offered carefully, with the best bits polished smooth. But just when it started to matter, just when he thought he was finally about to understand something properly, she'd stop. Every time.
"Mum," he said into the dark. His voice sounded small in the stillness. "Why won't you just tell me?"
But saying it aloud didn't help. It made everything worse, somehow. The weight in his chest pressed harder. What if he wasn't ready to hear the truth? What if it was worse than he imagined?
The house was too quiet. Not even the wind stirred. It felt like the whole world had stopped breathing, just for a moment.
Harry sat up, the blankets falling to the floor in a heap. His feet met the cold floorboards with a dull thud. The small lamp on his bedside table flickered once before settling into a dim glow.
He crossed the room in silence and grabbed a quill and some parchment from his desk. His hand shook—just a bit—and it annoyed him. Pull yourself together, he thought, jaw clenched. He had to write it out. Somehow.
The blank parchment stared up at him. Daring him.
He stared at it for longer than he meant to, then slowly pressed the nib to the page.
Dear Ron and Hermione,
He stopped. What was he even trying to say?
He let out a breath through his nose and shut his eyes for a second, gathering the words.
I'm not really sure how to write this without sounding like an idiot, but things have been… strange since I got home.
Even that felt like too much and not enough at the same time. But he kept going. Word by word, like picking a lock.
He wrote about the quiet. The way it hung over the house like dust—settling into everything, even the air. He wrote about his mum floating through the rooms, never quite in them, like her mind was always somewhere else. Her words came out careful. Clipped. As though saying something real might crack the whole place open.
And when she did speak, it felt like standing in a storm.
"You've been spending far too much time with that Weasley boy and that Granger girl," she'd snapped the day before. Not angry, not really—just… cold. Distant. Like she was using her voice as a shield.
But her eyes had given her away. Wide, almost panicked. Not angry—afraid.
Harry swallowed hard and dipped the quill again.
I know she loves me. I do. I just don't know if she knows how to show it anymore. Or if she even realises how much it hurts when she looks right through me.
He paused, staring at the ink glistening wet on the parchment.
It was the truth. And saying it made something twist inside him.
He set the quill down and pushed the chair back. The silence returned, curling round him.
He didn't know what he wanted, really. Answers, maybe. Or just… something honest.
But he did know this: whatever his mum was carrying, whatever she thought she was protecting him from—it wasn't working. Not anymore.
And he was tired of pretending it didn't matter.
Ron and Hermione wouldn't understand.
They always told him to be patient. Said she'd been through too much. That she was frightened—for him, not of him. But they didn't hear her voice the way he did. They didn't feel how it changed—how her love, once warm and certain, now came edged like a blade. Quick. Quiet. And never quite safe.
"You'll probably think I'm overreacting," he wrote, his handwriting slightly crooked, "but I feel like I'm losing my way home."
He stared at the words, the ink still glistening faintly. They sat there, heavy and awful. True, though. Even if he hated what that meant.
Home didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like somewhere he was meant to belong but didn't. Like someone had emptied it out and left only the echoes behind—half-formed memories, silences where there should've been answers, and shadows no one dared name.
Maybe his mum had her reasons. Maybe silence was her way of keeping things safe. Maybe she thought if they didn't talk about it, the grief couldn't touch them. But it had. It always had. Harry didn't feel protected. He felt like something had been cut out of him before he even knew it was there. Something she wouldn't give back.
And all he wanted—more than anything—was for her to let him in. Just once. To stop turning away when he mentioned his dad. To stop pretending like he was a subject she'd already buried.
He dropped the quill with a dull clatter and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes until stars bloomed behind his eyelids. The air in the room felt close, like it hadn't moved in hours.
Just tell me, he thought, not for the first time. Please. I need to know who he was. Who you were.
But the house was silent. His mother, two doors down, was still behind hers.
Then there was that sentence. The one that never really left him. That threaded itself through his thoughts whether he wanted it to or not. The one that clung, heavy and bitter, long after it was spoken.
"You must make me proud, Harry. I gave up everything for you."
He didn't even know how old he'd been the first time she said it. Seven, maybe. Possibly younger. It had come in all different tones—gentle, wistful, sharp like the crack of a whip. But always the same words. Always the same weight.
I gave up everything for you.
It didn't feel like love. Not really.
It felt like debt.
Harry stared up at the ceiling. His hands were clenched on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. He didn't think he could sleep—not with that sentence ringing in his head like some cursed charm no one could lift.
He turned onto his side, then back again, heart pounding for no reason he could name. His chest felt tight. His breath came too shallowly. It felt like running towards something without ever getting closer.
How was he supposed to live up to that?
Every time he fell short—every less-than-perfect mark, every misstep—he could feel it. That pause. That thin line her mouth would settle into. The quiet that followed. That silence hurt more than shouting ever could.
He wasn't allowed to be unsure. Wasn't allowed to fail. He had to be focused, brilliant, composed—strong, always. Or else he was nothing.
Just… another disappointment.
His fingers trembled. He reached again for the quill, tried to steady it—but it slipped from his grasp and fell, striking the floor with a soft clink. Somehow that tiny sound echoed, like it had no business being that loud.
He drew in a sharp breath, eyes stinging, though he couldn't say why.
The letter sat half-finished, waiting for words he didn't know how to write. But how could he explain this to Ron or Hermione? They knew pressure. They knew grief. But this wasn't that.
This was lonelier. This was quieter. This was waking up already feeling behind, already feeling wrong—as though he was meant to be playing a part someone else had written, only he'd never been given the script.
His head dropped into his hands.
"You'll never get it," he whispered—not to them. Not to anyone really. Just to the walls. To the stillness. To the dark.
His thoughts dragged him back to a memory that still sat like a bruise just beneath the surface. He'd come home with a mark just shy of top—barely a few points off—and she'd looked at him like he'd dropped straight to the bottom. Her voice had been cool, clipped. Detached.
"Have you spoken to Professor McGonagall? Your failures are inevitable."
She'd said it like it meant nothing. Like it was a fact. But it hadn't felt small to him. It had felt like being winded.
He blinked, hard. But the sting behind his eyes didn't go. He was tired. Bone-deep tired. Tired of trying so hard all the time. Tired of wondering whether today might finally be the day she'd look at him and see something worth being proud of—not something to fix.
He'd skipped meals and stayed up till his eyes burnt, scribbling notes by candlelight while the rest of the house slept. Memorised paragraphs, practised spells over and over till his wrist ached—anything, anything to see her smile. A real one. Not the polite kind. Not the one that flickered for a second then vanished like it had never been there.
But it was never enough.
Never clever enough. Never quick enough. Never right.
Trying to please her felt like tipping water into a bucket with a hole in the bottom. You could pour and pour, but it would never be full.
The words on the parchment in front of him blurred. His potions book lay open, untouched, beside it. He tried to remember what he'd just read—nothing. Not a word stuck. He dragged a hand across his forehead, pushing hard, like he could press the fog out of his mind. Hermione's voice floated up from somewhere in his memory.
"You're doing extraordinarily well."
She meant it. She always meant it. But lately even that hadn't helped. It bounced right off him. Couldn't get through whatever noise had taken root in his chest.
Not good enough. Try harder. Be better.
The voice wasn't his. It was Lily's.
All he wanted—just once—was to rest. To stop running uphill for long enough to breathe. To stop carrying the weight of every mark, every mistake, like it might collapse the roof. But he couldn't. Not with her watching. Not with those eyes, sharp and tired, measuring him even when they said nothing.
It was everywhere. In the lists. In the silences. In the way she said his name.
He glanced across the room at the books stacked messily on the desk. Crooked. Dusty. Half-read. Just above them, pinned neatly to the wall, was a scrap of parchment in her tidy script:
Potions revision. Transfiguration essay. Defence drills. Clean the parlour.
It didn't feel like a list. It felt like a warning.
She'd reminded him again that morning.
"Harry, I need you to finish these chores—and review those Potions materials."
Firm. Controlled. Not cruel. But not kind, either. Like everything was a performance. Like love was just another job to get right.
Her eyes had done the rest. Sharp. Watching. Weighing.
He swallowed. His throat was dry.
He was fifteen. Fifteen, and already weary of being someone else's dream.
Her voice was the ticking clock now—every second counted, every slip mattered. He had to be composed, reliable, and brilliant. Anything less, and—
I gave up everything for you.
That line again. Always that line.
The clock struck six.
Each chime was like a slap, loud and unforgiving in the quiet. Harry jerked upright. His neck ached, and one leg had gone numb from sitting curled too long. Where had the time gone? He rubbed his eyes. They were damp.
He'd slipped into the spiral again. Lost hours to it.
The letter still sat on the desk, the ink dark, dried stiff where it bled into the fibres. It seemed to stare at him, like it knew everything he hadn't written down. Like it understood him better than anyone else.
He slumped back into the chair, drawing his knees up, watching the shifting glow of the lamp on the walls. The shadows danced like memories, reaching and receding. Mocking him.
What if I told her everything? Really told her?
Would she hear it? Could she? Or would she fold inwards again, cold and quiet, pulling the shutters closed like she always did?
He didn't know what was worse—the fear that she'd reject it or the fear that she wouldn't care at all.
A quiet creak broke the stillness.
Harry looked up, startled. Lily was already there—standing in the doorway.
She hadn't knocked. She never did.
Her face was drawn in the pale morning light, eyes shadowed, mouth tight. There was something brittle about her, like she might splinter if he looked too hard. She seemed older somehow. Smaller. As though she'd been slowly fading, and he was only just noticing.
"You're awake," she said. Her voice was flat, dry with tiredness. She leaned against the doorframe like it was the only thing holding her up. "Would you mind making me some breakfast? I've still got to get ready for work."
That was it?
No good morning. No "Did you sleep all right?" Not even a glance at him, not really.
He opened his mouth to speak—but she was already gone. The door clicked shut behind her, quiet but final, and the cold that had settled in the room didn't lift.
He stayed where he was, chest tightening with something he didn't want to name. She'd never asked him to make breakfast before. Not once. It should've been nothing. But somehow it wasn't.
Dragging himself up, he pulled on a grey jumper and yesterday's trousers, not caring how they looked. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced—his hair was sticking up worse than usual, and there were dark smudges under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. Probably because he hadn't.
He opened the door—
And walked straight into her.
There was a thud, a gasp. Papers scattered like startled birds across the corridor.
"Argh!" she hissed, bending down with one hand braced against her lower back. Her face twisted in pain, though she tried to hide it. "Harry! For heaven's sake. You've got to be more careful. One of these days you're going to break something that actually matters."
He froze. The words shouldn't have hurt as much as they did—but they landed like a punch to the stomach. Heavy. Sharp.
"I—I'm sorry, Mum," he said quickly, stepping back. "I didn't mean—"
"Just clean it up," she snapped, cutting him off. "Put everything back the way it was."
And then she was gone. Her footsteps clipped away down the hall, each one faster than the last, until a door slammed hard enough to make the walls shake.
Harry knelt slowly, his limbs heavy with something that felt like shame. The papers lay all around him, half-crumpled and out of order. He reached for one, then another, trying to gather them carefully.
He hadn't meant to ruin anything. He'd just wanted to help.
He looked down the hallway. The door remained closed.
Of course it did.
The next hour passed in silence. He worked without speaking, sorting through her notes. Line by line, page by page, trying to piece them back together. He wasn't even sure what most of them were—lists, letters, sketches of magical theory—but he checked the sequence twice. Three times. Made piles. Tidied corners. Aligned edges.
If he did it just right, maybe it would matter.
Maybe she'd see that he was trying.
Maybe she'd see him.
When he was finished, he stood with the stack held carefully in both hands. The weight of it felt like something more than parchment.
He reached her door. Paused.
Then knocked—softly.
There was no reply. Only the faint rustle of movement on the other side.
He waited, heart thudding.
Still nothing.
Slowly, he turned the handle.
She was by the window, fastening the strap of her old bag with swift, purposeful hands. Her dark blue robes fluttered as she moved, catching the morning light in shifting folds. She looked like someone racing a clock that was always just a step ahead.
He hovered in the doorway, unsure. Watching.
Maybe she hadn't heard him. Or maybe she had—and simply didn't want to look.
Then she glanced up.
Her eyes widened for a split second—then narrowed again.
"Are you finished?" she asked, breathless. "Did you put them in order?"
He nodded.
For a moment, something stirred in his chest. Something small and foolish and hopeful. Maybe she'd say thank you. Maybe she'd smile.
But she only turned away.
"Good," she said briskly, grabbing her cloak from the bedpost. It billowed behind her like the wind in a curtain. "Put them on the bed."
He crossed the room slowly, careful this time not to knock anything over, and placed the stack of papers gently on the bed. The blankets were still rumpled. Lived-in. The sort of detail that meant nothing but stuck with you anyway.
His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall—quarter past seven.
She hadn't eaten. Again.
He hesitated.
Then, quietly, "Mum… you haven't had breakfast. They'd understand if you were a bit late."
She didn't look up.
"I can't risk it," she said, voice clipped. "And I'm not hungry anyway."
It wasn't sharp. Just tired. Empty, almost. But it still stung. Not because of what she said—but because of what she didn't.
He wanted to say it—to break the strange, careful silence between them.
You matter too. You could stop. Just for a minute. Sit down. Breathe. Let me take care of you, just once.
But she was already half-buried in her robes again, tucking quills into the inner folds with stiff, practised hands. Her brow was furrowed, her mouth set. She moved with the kind of purpose that left no room for interruptions.
She was right there. Just a few steps away. And still, somehow, out of reach.
He tried again, softer this time.
"I'm sorry. About earlier," he said, watching her. "I didn't mean to mess anything up."
Her gaze stayed fixed on the papers.
"There's no need to apologise," she said evenly. Too evenly. It landed like a full stop.
But it wasn't enough. The guilt still sat heavy in his chest, pressing down.
"I should've paid more attention," he went on, quieter. "I rushed out. I didn't think—"
"It's done."
The words came fast. Sharper. Not angry—but final. Like the snap of a book closing.
She turned, and for the first time that morning, looked straight at him.
There was something behind her eyes. Not fury, exactly. Just… something brittle. Something cracked. She looked like she was holding herself together by threads—and couldn't spare one more for him.
Her jaw was set.
"Please," she said. "Just go. I need a minute to myself."
He went still.
It was the please that did it—not gentle, not warm. It wasn't a request. It was a boundary. A line drawn in stone.
His mouth opened—then closed again.
He gave a small nod. Barely more than a twitch.
And stepped back.
As he left, he caught one last glimpse of her. Shoulders drawn tight. Eyes scanning the papers again like nothing had happened. Still working. Still in motion. As though stopping might make something come undone.
He closed the door behind him as gently as he could.
But inside, it still slammed.
Lily exhaled—slow, deliberate. As if that one breath might anchor her before the rest slipped loose.
She straightened—shoulders drawn, posture rigid—as though bracing against a wind only she could feel. She folded herself inward, tucking away the ache that always rose when she looked at him like this. Harry. Standing in the doorway, still as anything. Eyes wide, uncertain. Wanting to speak, clearly, but caught somewhere between courage and doubt.
And she couldn't bear it. Not today.
The silence wasn't peaceful. It pressed in around them—dense, biting, too full of the things they never quite said. They'd stood like this too many times now, in the same rooms, surrounded by the same strain. Each encounter felt like stepping into a maze they couldn't get out of.
She let her gaze flick towards him. Just a glance.
He looked so much like James that it made something twist in her chest. But it wasn't the resemblance that undid her. It was that furrow between his brows—the guilt there, the self-blame. That wasn't James.
That was pure Harry.
Always shouldering more than he should. Always trying to make things right.
Just like her.
And yet, there they were—standing only a few feet apart, with miles of unspoken things between them. Both of them were desperate to fix it. Neither knowing how.
She blinked hard, jaw clenched, and swallowed back the prickling behind her eyes. She wouldn't cry. Not in front of him. Not now. There wasn't room for softness. Not when everything felt one misstep from shattering.
And then he moved.
Just a step back. That was all.
But it felt like something was giving way inside her. A thread snapped loose. A quiet unravel.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And somehow, that soft sound hurt more than any argument could have.
Lily didn't move. She stayed where she was, rooted beside the window, eyes fixed on the pale sky beyond the glass. She couldn't hear his footsteps anymore, but she felt the echo of them in her chest. A rhythm gone wrong.
She told herself it hadn't been a fight. Just a moment. Just words.
But it had been a fight. And it had left a mark.
Her arms wrapped around her middle without thinking, as if she could hold herself together through sheer force of will. Regret didn't come fast. It came slowly—like a draught through the walls. Unwelcome, but impossible to ignore.
She was allowed to be tired. Frustrated. Human.
But that didn't silence the voice in her that whispered she'd handled it all wrong. Too sharp. Too quick. Love buried too far beneath all that noise.
Harry was just a boy. Her boy.
Trying. Always trying.
He couldn't carry this—this whole weight of expectations and sacrifice and unspoken things. How could he?
She turned slightly, catching a faint glimpse of herself in the windowpane.
And flinched.
The woman in the glass looked worn. Hair pulled back in a way that spoke more of necessity than care, lines at the corners of her mouth that hadn't been there a few years ago. Her eyes looked tired. Hollow, even.
Not the girl James had fallen in love with. Not the mother she swore she'd be.
She turned away, pressing her fingertips to her eyelids. The sting was sharp—but the tears didn't fall. Couldn't fall.
One breath. Then another.
Keep moving. That had always been her answer. Keep going, and nothing will break.
She grabbed her cloak. Shouldered her bag. Hands trembling only slightly.
The stairs creaked under her as she made her way down—quiet as she could manage, half-hoping he was tucked away in his room, out of sight.
But he wasn't.
She turned the corner and froze.
There he was. In the kitchen.
Harry, at the counter. Knife in hand. Slicing vegetables with deliberate care.
Her breath caught.
The angle of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the crease of focus between his brows—it was James.
Not precisely. Not quite. But close enough to knock the breath from her lungs.
And it hurt—far more than she could ever admit aloud.
He even had that same stubborn little frown, the one James used to wear when he thought no one was watching. That determined pout. The one that meant he was concentrating harder than he let on. Lily stood rooted to the spot, throat tight, as a memory rose unbidden—James in the garden, laughing, wand tucked behind one ear, teasing her with that lopsided grin Harry had inherited without even trying.
"Evans, it's not really burning if no one finds out, is it?"
She could almost hear him say it.
But the voice vanished before it fully arrived.
And the silence it left behind felt even colder.
"Harry," she said quietly—barely more than a breath, but the word hung between them.
He jumped. The knife slipped from his hand and clattered against the floor with a sharp metallic clang.
"Ah—!" he hissed, clutching his hand at once.
Panic surged through her. No.
"Harry! Are you all right?" Her feet were moving before her mind had caught up, her voice sharp with alarm.
"I'm fine," he muttered, holding his hand close to his chest, as if trying to hide it. But Lily had seen the bloom of red across his fingers. The careless sting of pain.
"Let me see," she said, gently but with no room for argument. She was beside him in a few strides, reaching for his hand before he could think to protest.
He didn't pull away.
The cut wasn't deep, but it was ragged. Blood welled along the line of torn skin.
"This is not fine," she murmured—more to herself than to him. Her wand was in her hand before she realised she'd drawn it.
"Episkey."
A soft warmth bloomed from the tip, and the wound began to seal, the skin knitting together with practised ease. The blood vanished. It was over in a heartbeat. Magic had always been a marvel—but it couldn't touch the knot in her chest.
She kept hold of his hand a moment too long.
Just to feel it. Just to reassure herself he was here. Still hers.
And then he looked up at her—eyes wide, not with pain, but with something far more fragile. Hope. Caution.
"Mum?" he said, and the word came out so small it nearly undid her.
She tucked her wand away and turned to him properly. "Yes?"
He hesitated, mouth twitching like he wasn't sure the words would come.
"Remember when Ron invited us to the Burrow? For my birthday? And… to stay a bit over the summer?"
She didn't answer at once.
That flicker in his voice—that hope, offered so tentatively—made her want to say yes on the spot. To say, Of course, of course, and wrap him up in the promise of something warm and light and easy.
But she didn't.
And he felt it. She could see it—he knew.
Still, he pressed on. "After your big meeting… it'd be perfect, wouldn't it? Just a few days. You could meet everyone. They've all been dying to meet you. Hermione especially—she talks about—"
"Harry…" she said softly.
And she hated herself, because even she could hear it in her voice. The shape of a refusal, disguised in gentleness.
He kept going, all the same.
"You'd like it," he said, a little too quickly now. "They've got this orchard out the back and chickens that always escape, and Ginny's brothers are—well, mental, but in a good way—"
"Harry," she repeated.
His face lit up, just for a moment, like it had when James used to convince her into things she was meant to say no to. That wild, hopeful glint in his eyes—it was the same. The same grin that used to undo her with nothing more than, "Come on, Evans—live a little."
And for a second, she saw it all: sunshine, laughter, a crooked table in the garden. Peace.
But it slipped away before it could settle.
She didn't even have to speak. The pause gave her away.
And Harry crumpled, silently. No sound. No drama. Just the slow sag of a boy who'd hoped too hard and heard everything in her silence.
"Oh," he said.
It was barely a sound.
"You're not coming."
Lily's throat tightened. "Harry… I want to. Truly. But work's—"
"Yeah," he said, cutting across her. "You're busy."
The words landed like a stone. He didn't shout. Didn't argue. Just stood very still.
She reached for him—but he took a half-step back.
Not harshly. Not angrily.
But just enough.
"I'll still go," he said. "Ron'll be waiting."
And then he turned and walked out.
No door slammed. No raised voice.
Just quiet.
And somehow, that was worse.
Lily stood alone in the kitchen, hand still half-raised, as though the moment hadn't quite realised it was over.
But it was.
The air felt colder now. The sunlight spilling through the window had turned pale and washed-out, more shadow than warmth. The space Harry had just left behind seemed oddly loud in its emptiness, as though the room itself hadn't expected him to go.
She looked down.
The chopping board lay askew. Half-sliced vegetables sat limp beside a damp cloth. The knife, dropped in a hurry, was still on the floor where it had fallen.
Everything was unfinished.
She closed her eyes.
Her shoulders folded inward, like wings too tired to lift. And the silence, old and familiar now, wrapped itself around her again—soft, but suffocating.
James would have gone with him, she thought.
The words came sharp, uninvited. Bitter. Raw.
James would have made it better. He would have known what to say—probably something foolish, utterly ill-timed, but exactly right. He would have grinned, ruffled Harry's hair, and called him "mate" like he was already grown. He'd have made them both laugh, even when they didn't want to.
But he wasn't here.
She was. Just her.
A mother still patching herself back together in a world where he no longer stood beside her—and trying, day by day, not to lose the boy they'd made together.
And sometimes, in the quietest corners of a morning like this, she feared she already was.
Harry shut the door behind him with a soft click, letting it settle into place, as any more noise might tip something over.
He leaned against it for a moment, hands loose at his sides, fingers still faintly tingling where the cut had been. The magic had done its job—skin smooth, blood gone—but it hadn't touched the bit that actually hurt.
He'd known she'd say no.
Of course he had.
But knowing didn't make it easier. Didn't stop that stupid little bit of hope from flaring up anyway, only to be knocked flat the moment she hesitated.
His eyes drifted to the bed. Clothes half-folded, Ron's ancient Chudley Cannons jumper thrown over the end like some ridiculous orange flag. A handful of birthday cards from the Weasleys sat slightly crooked on the pillow. Normally, it would've made him smile. Warmed him up inside, like standing in the Burrow kitchen when Mrs Weasley had the oven on and everyone was shouting at once.
But right now, it all looked like it belonged to someone else. Someone who lived in a simpler sort of world. Someone whose mum said yes.
Harry dropped onto the bed, the mattress giving a soft sigh beneath him, and covered his face with his hands. His breath caught against his palms—warm, unsteady. He wasn't angry. Not exactly. Just… tired.
Tired of always being the one to try.
Tired of walking on eggshells around things they never said out loud.
Tired of pretending everything was fine when it wasn't.
The room was quiet. Not peaceful, just… hollow. Like there was something missing. Like grief still lived in the corners, even if no one ever talked about it.
She's still scared, he thought. Still hoping Dad's just late coming home.
He hated thinking it—felt mean, ungrateful—but it was true. And maybe that was what hurt the most. That she was still clinging so hard to what she'd lost, she couldn't see what was still standing right in front of her.
He rolled onto his side, eyes landing on the photo by the bed. The one that never moved.
His mum and dad, twirling in a haze of summer. Laughing like they didn't know anything could go wrong. James had his arm around her shoulders, and she was looking up at him, eyes shining. Open. Young. Certain.
The sort of people who thought there'd always be more time.
Harry picked it up and ran his thumb over the glass. The smile on her face didn't look like the one she wore these days. It didn't look tired.
"I just wanted her to come," he said, under his breath.
He didn't care about the meeting or the papers or how important everything else was. He didn't want her there to prove anything. He just wanted her to see. That he had a life. Friends. A world she hadn't built for him, but that he'd made for himself. A life she could still be part of—if she wanted.
He just wanted to be seen.
To be known.
To be enough.
He blinked, jaw set. He wasn't going to cry. Not over this.
Not again.
He shoved a few more clothes into the bag slumped at his feet, zipped it halfway, then sat back, elbows on his knees. The room pressed in, quiet and stale.
He stared at the door.
Waited.
Just in case she might change her mind. Open it. Say she was coming after all.
But she didn't.
And the thing was—he hadn't really expected her to.
Not anymore.
Harry stepped out into the grey morning, the sky hanging low and heavy, as though it couldn't quite decide whether to rain or not. The air clung to him—damp, cool—but it wasn't the weather that made it hard to breathe.
It was the weight of everything he hadn't said. Sitting thick on his chest. Tight in his throat.
Behind him, his mum followed, footsteps light but not quite close enough. She didn't say anything straight away. Didn't look at him either. She didn't have to. He could feel how far away she was—already half in the office, probably thinking about reports and deadlines and meetings with names he'd stopped asking about.
It stung, but not sharply. Not anymore. It was more like pressing on an old bruise. Dull. Familiar.
"I'm afraid I'll be home at eight tonight," she said quietly.
Eight.
His shoulders tensed.
She'd said it gently, like it might help. Like soft words could smooth out disappointment if you shaped them the right way.
"Eight?" he echoed, voice breaking despite himself. "You're serious?"
"I'm afraid so." Still soft. Still distant. Her eyes flicked to his, full of guilt but already somewhere else.
He felt heat rise behind his ribs. It wasn't anger—not really. Just the ache of something slipping through his fingers again.
"But, Mum… the Recognition Assembly. The rankings. I've been waiting for it all year."
He heard it in his own voice—too much, too exposed—but he couldn't help it. This wasn't just any day.
Her expression shifted, eyes widening like she'd only just remembered. "The Recognition Assembly…"
"It's tonight. Seven o'clock," he said flatly. "It's the highlight of the year for me."
And there it was. That pause. The breathless, awful one right before the explanation. The apology. The bit that was meant to make it better but never did.
"Oh, Harry," she sighed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—look, it's this report, and—everything's so urgent right now."
It always was.
He gave her a smile he didn't feel. "I'll be fine, Mum. Just one evening, right?"
But it wasn't just one. And they both knew it. One became three, then five, then too many to count. Birthdays. Quidditch. Evenings like this one—quietly important, easily missed.
She looked at him properly then, like something had finally landed. Something she'd missed the first time round.
"I'll do my best to make it," she said.
Maybe she meant it. But the words didn't feel like a promise. Just another thread unravelling in the air between them.
He didn't reply.
"Harry?" she said gently, reaching for his name like it might tether them.
He didn't wait for the rest. He stepped forward and kissed her cheek. Like he always did. Like muscle memory.
It felt fragile. Like pretending.
"Good luck with your report, Mum."
He tried for lightness. Missed.
She smiled. But it didn't reach her eyes. "I'll see you later, dear."
He nodded.
Then she turned and walked away.
And he watched her go, feeling like he was letting go of something small and glowing—something drifting higher and further until it vanished.
It started drizzling. Barely anything. Just enough to make everything colder.
Then—wham.
Someone slammed into him, fast and careless. A hot splash of coffee spread across his front.
"Ah—!"
Harry stumbled back. The heat stung, but it was the timing that made his throat burn.
"I'm so sorry!" The man gasped—hood up, wide eyes—but Harry hardly saw him.
It wasn't the coffee. It wasn't the pain.
It was just… everything. All at once. Like the world had joined in.
Even the universe thinks I'm not worth showing up for.
"Harry!" Lily's voice, urgent now, suddenly close again. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he said quickly, brushing at his shirt, eyes on the ground. "It's just coffee."
He didn't want her worrying. Not when she hadn't noticed until someone else had.
Her eyes snapped to the man. "You should be more careful!"
But the man had already gone, melting into the street like it hadn't happened.
"I'll just—"
"I'll clean it," she said, clipped and precise. "Then I'll leave. Tergeo."
Warmth passed over him. The stain vanished. Shirt dry.
All fixed.
Just like that.
"Thanks," he murmured.
"I'll see you tonight," she said—but she was already turning away.
"Take care," he called after her.
He poured what little hope he had left into the words. Maybe she'd hear it.
Maybe tonight would be different.
But as he watched her disappear into the crowd, that hope faded with her—thinned by drizzle, blurred by the hush of traffic, soaked straight through.
His shirt was dry.
But his heart wasn't.