July 30, 1997
Lily Potter blinked awake as the first blush of morning light slipped quietly through the curtains, spilling across her face like a warm whisper. It should have been comforting—the gentle hush of dawn, the way the sunlight painted gold over her skin—but instead, her chest was tight, knotted with nerves that had arrived before her eyes had even opened.
She lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling above, trying to find steadiness in the silence. Inhale. Exhale. Again.
You've faced worse than this, she reminded herself, the thought flat and unconvincing. Her mind, always sharp when it needed to be, couldn't push away the restless unease coiled in her stomach. The sort of nervous energy that didn't vanish with reason. Today wasn't just another assignment. It was the day—the culmination of years poured into late nights, early mornings, and choices that had quietly reshaped her life.
She shifted slowly, unwilling to disturb the fragile quiet, and pushed the duvet aside. Her feet met the cold wooden floor with a sharp jolt that made her suck in a breath. It was oddly grounding. A small discomfort, yes, but real. Tangible. She welcomed it.
She sat there for a moment, elbows on knees, letting her hands dangle while she stared at the floorboards. They were scuffed from years of pacing, of rushing to get ready for shifts, of half-awake wand fumblings. All those mornings had led here, hadn't they? And still, the doubt crept in, soft-footed and persistent.
Will they listen? Will they see me? Not just as a name on a file or a tragic backstory turned cautionary tale—but really see her. As someone who'd earned her place. As someone whose voice mattered.
Her gaze slid towards the far wall, to the row of photographs perched on narrow floating shelves. They travelled with her, always. Through moves, through losses, through the growing up she'd never quite meant to do. Her eyes caught on one—James, captured mid-laugh, head thrown back, his eyes dancing with that maddening, impossible joy he used to carry so effortlessly.
Her breath hitched. No matter how many years passed, that photo had the power to undo her.
Merlin, James, she thought, her chest tightening. You were never supposed to become a memory.
A soft smile touched her lips—wry, tired. "Still talking to ghosts," she murmured, running her fingers through her hair, tangled from sleep.
The clock blinked quietly on the nightstand—5:50 a.m. Too early for comfort, too late for denial. There'd be no drifting back off now. She crossed the room with slow, barefoot steps, each one measured as if she could stretch time just a little longer.
At the window, she pressed her fingers to the glass. It was cool, nearly cold, smooth as ice beneath her touch. Below, the city was beginning to stir—commuters shuffling down narrow streets, children's laughter echoing faintly between buildings, a shopkeeper fiddling with keys as he flipped a sign to open. Life moved on, as it always had.
But Lily didn't. Not entirely. Some part of her remained frozen, stuck in the space between what was and what should have been.
Fifteen years. A lifetime and a heartbeat.
The ache of it hadn't gone—not really. It had simply changed its rhythm. No longer the sharp stab of fresh grief, but a low, insistent throb that echoed beneath everything. A quiet ache that coloured her mornings and haunted the spaces between conversations.
She closed her eyes, forehead resting lightly against the cool pane. You're not that girl anymore. But sometimes, she still felt like she was—wide-eyed and furious, with nothing left to lose.
And yet, she had made it here. Despite it all.
Harry had only been a baby—soft-cheeked and wide-eyed, clinging to her fingers with chubby fists—when James had been taken from them. He never had the chance to know his father. Not truly. Not the way Lily had. He hadn't heard the deep, unrestrained sound of James's laugh echoing down the hallway or felt his solid, calming presence during the wild summer storms that used to rattle the windows of their old cottage. He hadn't seen the way James's eyes softened whenever he looked at his family, like they were the whole world to him.
She'd told Harry stories over the years. About his father's reckless bravery, the way he could never back down from a challenge. About the effortless charm that got him into trouble—and out of it. About the way he flew, like he belonged in the sky. But those were only fragments. Carefully chosen pieces. The safe bits.
There was so much she'd never said.
Not because she didn't want to. But because some memories were still too sharp to touch. Some truths sat like splinters beneath her ribs, and saying them aloud would only drive them deeper.
They talked, of course. She and Harry had always shared space, meals, and even laughter. They lived together. But sometimes, it felt like they stood on opposite sides of a quiet, invisible wall—built slowly over the years, stone by stone. Grief. Guilt. The silences they mistook for protection.
She had never wanted to burden him. He had already carried so much. But maybe, in shielding him from her pain, she'd hidden parts of herself too well. Too thoroughly. And now he was grown—strong in his own right, brilliant and fiercely kind. A man who'd faced horrors no child should've ever known. And yet, despite how proud she was, despite how deeply she loved him, there were moments she wondered, Does he really see me? Not just as his mother. But as Lily.
Who was she now, beyond the titles? Beyond the roles she played? Beyond the layers she'd built to keep from falling apart?
She turned away from the window, thoughts twisting tighter with each breath. Maybe today wasn't only about the report. Maybe it wasn't just about politics, or justice, or the ministry's polished walls. Maybe it was about reclaiming something. Showing Harry—showing herself—that her voice still had weight. That she hadn't been erased by loss.
Her eyes drifted again to the photos along the walls. Familiar faces looked back—grinning, frozen mid-laughter. Remus and Sirius, arms slung over each other like mischief come to life. Frank Longbottom with that boyish grin. Alice, eyes sharp and knowing. All of them gone. All of them still with her.
Their loss had never left her hollow. Not quite. It had shaped her—honed her. Every mission she'd accepted, every stubborn night poring over case files, every time she pushed back against complacency in the Department—those weren't just acts of duty. They were acts of remembrance. Of defiance. A quiet declaration: You didn't win.
Her grief hadn't broken her. It had carved her into something sharper. Something stronger.
She padded across the flat to the bathroom and turned on the tap, the old pipes groaning in protest. The cold water hit her face in a rush, jolting her back into the now. She looked up, meeting her own eyes in the mirror. They were rimmed with fatigue, a few strands of grey tucked behind one ear—but there was fire there, too. Something unrelenting.
Arthur Weasley's voice echoed softly in her head—kind and certain, the way it always had been. "Trust in your knowledge, Lily. That's why they need you."
She gripped the edges of the sink, her knuckles pale. She did know what she was talking about. She'd followed this case for years—dug through shadows, pieced together the truth when no one else dared to look. It wasn't luck. It wasn't legacy. It was hers.
And still—there it was. The thought she didn't like to name. Maybe Harry will be proud of me today.
She rarely let herself admit how much that mattered. But it did. She didn't want him to only see her as the mother who dodged his questions or the woman who winced at old anniversaries. She wanted him to see someone brave. Someone whole. Even if she wasn't, entirely.
Maybe, she thought, if I can find the strength to stand in that room and speak the truth, it'll open something else too. A space where she and Harry could stop tiptoeing around the silence. Maybe they could start speaking the things they'd left unsaid.
The past would always cling to her. She'd stopped trying to fight that. But she didn't have to let it define her. Not anymore.
She reached for the towel, dried her face slowly, and stood a little taller. Her spine straightened. Her 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 across his bed, the sheets twisted around his legs like they'd been fighting him in his sleep. He hadn't even realised how long he'd been tossing and turning until he noticed the moonlight spilling across the wooden floorboards, silver and cold. It painted strange shapes on the walls—shifting, ghostly—but all Harry could do was stare.
It looked peaceful. Beautiful, even. But inside, he felt anything but.
His chest felt tight. Like something was pressing down on it, slowly, steadily. He couldn't stop thinking about earlier that evening—the conversation with his mum. Or what passed for one. Her voice had been calm, too calm, when she'd said it: "Gone too soon." Like those words weren't still cutting her up inside. But Harry had seen it—the flicker of pain in her eyes, quick but unmistakable. The way her mouth had tightened the moment he looked away.
She always did that. Pulled the curtains over her emotions just when he was getting close.
There was always something she wouldn't say.
He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, the cotton warm and worn beneath his cheek. It didn't help. The thoughts kept spinning, sharper now. He hated this. The not-knowing. The never-knowing. Who his dad had really been—beyond the name, the smiling face in a photograph. Beyond the carefully rationed stories she offered, like scraps from a table.
Why did she always stop just when it started to matter?
"Mum," he whispered into the darkness. His voice sounded too small in the still room. "Why won't you just tell me?"
But saying it out loud didn't ease the weight in his chest. If anything, it made it worse. What if he wasn't ready to hear whatever it was she'd been holding back? What if the truth hurt more than the silence?
The house was quiet—unnaturally so. Outside, not even the wind stirred. It felt like the whole world had paused, waiting. Harry sat up slowly, the blankets sliding to the floor, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The lamplight on his nightstand flickered faintly, casting a soft glow across the room.
He reached for a quill and a piece of parchment from his desk. His hands were trembling just slightly—enough to annoy him. Pull yourself together, he muttered silently. He had to get this out. Somehow.
The blank parchment stared back at him, almost accusingly. He stared at it for a long time before he finally pressed the nib to the paper.
"Dear Ron and Hermione," he wrote.
Then he stopped. What am I even trying to say?
His jaw clenched. He closed his eyes and took a breath before continuing.
"I'm not sure how to say this without sounding stupid, but things have been… weird since I got home."
Even writing it felt like peeling something open inside him. He pushed on.
He wrote about the silence. The way it settled over the house like dust—heavy, quiet, choking. The way his mum drifted from room to room like she was half-there, her mind elsewhere. Her words came out clipped, precise—like she was scared of saying too much. Or anything real.
And when she did speak, it felt like walking into a storm.
"You've been spending far too much time with that Weasley boy and that Granger girl," she'd snapped yesterday. No warmth. No real anger, even. Just cold, sharp edges.
But her eyes had betrayed her. Harry remembered them. Wide. Unsettled. Not angry—afraid. Of what, he didn't know.
He bit down hard on his bottom lip and kept writing.
"I know she loves me. I do. I just don't know if she knows how to show it anymore. Or if I'm supposed to pretend it doesn't hurt when she looks right through me."
He stopped again. His hand hovered above the parchment. Maybe this was too much. Maybe Ron and Hermione wouldn't understand. They always said to be patient with her. Said she'd been through a lot. That she was scared—for him, not ofhim. But they didn't hear her voice the way he did. They didn't feel it—how her love didn't wrap around him the way it used to. Now it cut. Quick and quiet.
"You'll probably think I'm overreacting," he wrote, "but I feel like I'm losing my way home."
He stared at those words, at the curl of the ink still drying. It was true, even if he hated admitting it. Home didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like a place full of echoes. Of things left unsaid. Of ghosts no one wanted to name.
Maybe his mum had her reasons. Maybe she thought silence was safer. That not speaking was a way to protect them both. But Harry didn't feel protected. He felt lost. Like there was a part of his story still missing—hidden behind the way she'd flinch whenever he mentioned his dad.
And all he wanted—more than anything—was for her to let him in.
He dropped the quill onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. The room was still quiet. Still cold.
Just tell me, he thought. Please. I need to know who he was. Who you were.
But the walls stayed silent. And his mother, two doors down, was still behind hers.
There was that one sentence.
The one that never really left him. The one that echoed, again and again, like a curse disguised as love.
"You must make me proud, Harry. I gave up everything for you."
He didn't even know how old he was the first time she said it. Maybe seven. Maybe younger. But it had never stopped. She'd say it softly sometimes, like it was meant to reassure him. Other times it came like a warning—sharp, final. But no matter how she said it, it hung over him. Always watching. Always waiting.
I gave up everything for you.
It didn't feel like love. It felt like debt.
Harry stared at the ceiling, his hands clenched on the desk. He couldn't sleep—not with that line ringing in his head. He turned onto his side, then back again, heart pounding for no reason he could name. His breath felt shallow. Tight. Like he was running but hadn't moved.
How was he supposed to live up to that?
Every time he stumbled, every mark that came back just short of brilliant, he could feel the disappointment before she even said anything. It was in the way her lips pressed into a thin line, in the silence that followed. Sometimes that silence hurt more than words.
He wasn't allowed to be unsure. He wasn't allowed to fail. He had to be everything—perfect, focused, and composed. Strong. Or else he was nothing.
Just… another letdown.
His fingers trembled. He picked up the quill again and tried to steady it, but it slipped through his grip and hit the floor with a dull clink. That tiny sound seemed to echo like thunder in the quiet.
He let out a sharp breath, his throat tight.
The half-written letter sat there, waiting. Staring back at him. But how could he explain any of this to Ron or Hermione? Even they wouldn't understand, not really. They knew about grief. They knew about pressure. But this?
This was lonelier. This was quieter. This was waking up every morning already feeling behind, already feeling wrong—like you're playing a part someone else wrote for you, and no one ever gave you the script.
He let his head drop into his hands.
"You'll never get it," he whispered—not to anyone in particular. Just to the walls. To the silence.
His mind reeled back to a moment that never stopped hurting. He'd come home with a mark just a few points below top—just a few—and she'd looked at him like he'd failed entirely. Her voice had been distant. Clipped.
"Have you spoken to Professor McGonagall? Your failures are inevitable."
She'd said it so casually. Like it didn't matter. But it did. It killed him.
He blinked hard, but the sting behind his eyes didn't go away. He was so tired. Tired of chasing her approval. Tired of wondering if today would finally be the day she looked at him with pride instead of expectation.
He'd skipped meals and stayed up all hours revising until the ink blurred on the page. He'd memorised entire textbooks just to give her something to smile about. But no matter what he did, it was never enough.
Never smart enough. Never fast enough. Never good enough.
It was like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in the bottom.
The words on the page in front of him blurred together. His potions book sat open beside it, unread. He tried to remember what he'd just looked at. Nothing stuck. He rubbed his forehead hard with the heel of his hand. Hermione's voice flickered in his memory.
"You're doing extraordinarily well."
He knew she meant it. She always did. But this summer, even her kindness couldn't break through. It just… bounced off. Lost in the noise inside his head.
Not good enough. Try harder. Be better.
The voice didn't sound like his. It sounded like hers.
All he wanted—just once—was to rest. To breathe without the weight. To stop climbing for a second without fearing the fall. But he couldn't. Not with her watching. Not with that look in her eyes when he slipped, that sharp disappointment wrapped in quiet.
It followed him everywhere.
He looked over at the stack of books by his desk. Crooked. Dusty. Half-read. The parchment pinned to the wall above them was still there—his mother's handwriting, neat and stern:
Potions revision. Transfiguration essay. Defence drills. Clean the parlour.
It felt like a curse carved in stone.
Another list. Another line to cross. Another way to fail.
She'd said it again this morning.
"Harry, I need you to finish these chores—and make sure you review those Potions materials."
Her voice had been firm, clipped. Not unkind. But not warm either. Her eyes were sharp—too sharp—like she was measuring him again. Like everything mattered. Every breath. Every misstep.
He swallowed against the dryness in his throat.
He was sixteen. Sixteen, and already exhausted by someone else's dreams. Her voice was the rhythm of his life now—tick-tick-tick, like a metronome he couldn't ignore. Step wrong, and the whole world might crash down.
And all of it—every test, every chore, every look—was wrapped in that one sentence.
"I gave up everything for you."
He didn't know how much longer he could carry it.
The clock struck six.
Each chime was sharp, loud—cutting through the stillness like a slap to the face. Harry jolted upright, as though waking from a bad dream. His neck ached. His legs were numb from sitting too long in the same hunched position. Time had disappeared again. Just vanished. He rubbed his eyes, startled to find them damp.
He'd lost hours to the spiral—again.
The letter sat before him, its ink still fresh, glinting faintly in the amber glow of the lamp. He stared at it, hands limp in his lap. It felt alive somehow—like it could feel what he was feeling. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Maybe he just wanted something to understand.
He sank deeper into the chair, pulling his knees up slightly, staring at the dance of shadows flickering across the walls. They moved like memories, taunting him. Every thought circled the same place, like a drain he couldn't climb out of.
What if I told her everything? Really told her?
Would she listen? Would she even hear it, past her own pain? Or would she just shut him out again—colder, quieter than before?
A soft creak cut through the silence.
He looked up, startled. She was already standing in the doorway.
She hadn't knocked. She never did.
Her face was pale, drawn in the grey half-light. Eyes shadowed, mouth tight. She looked older than usual—fragile, almost. Ghostlike.
"You're awake," she said. Her voice was flat, brittle with exhaustion. She leaned slightly against the frame. "Would you mind making me breakfast? I still need to get ready for work."
Harry blinked. That was it?
No good morning. No are you alright?
He opened his mouth to say something, anything—but she was already turning away. The door clicked shut behind her with quiet finality, leaving the air colder somehow.
He sat frozen, a strange ache twisting in his chest. She'd never asked him to make breakfast before. Not once. It shouldn't have mattered. But somehow it did.
He rose stiffly, pulling on a grey jumper and crumpled trousers, not really caring how they looked. He glanced at himself in the mirror above his desk and grimaced. Hair messier than usual, skin pale. He looked as unbalanced as he felt.
Still half-asleep, he opened the door—and walked straight into her.
There was a thud. A sharp intake of breath. Papers flew like startled birds into the air.
"Argh!" she gasped as the bundle she'd been carrying scattered across the floor. She bent down, clearly in pain, one hand pressed to her lower back. Her jaw tightened.
"Harry!" Her voice was clipped and sharp. "You need to be more careful. Someday, you're going to break something that actually matters."
The words hit harder than they should've. Harder than he wanted them to.
His throat closed up. "Mum, I'm so sorry—"
But she cut him off. "Just clean it up," she snapped. "Put everything back in order."
And just like that, she was gone. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway, steady and brisk, until a door slammed shut—loud enough to make him flinch.
Harry knelt slowly, shoulders heavy. He began collecting the papers, hands shaking slightly. He wanted to disappear. Just sink into the floor and vanish.
I didn't mean to ruin anything. I just wanted to help.
He looked up, hoping she'd come back. That maybe she'd soften. Say something that made it okay again.
But the door stayed shut.
Just like everything else.
He spent the next hour organising her notes. Reading through each page, trying to work out where they belonged. He checked the order twice. Three times. Made neat stacks. Lined everything up perfectly. Maybe if he did this right—exactly right—she'd forgive him.
Maybe she'd see that he was trying.
Maybe she'd see him.
He stood finally, balancing the pile carefully in both hands. Every step towards her door felt heavier than the last. When he reached it, he hesitated—then knocked softly.
Silence.
A faint rustle came from inside, but no reply.
He paused, breath held.
Still nothing.
Slowly, quietly, he turned the knob and stepped inside.
She stood by the window, her dark blue robes billowing slightly as she moved, quick and purposeful, like someone trying to outpace a storm. Her fingers worked with a sort of frantic precision, stuffing documents, quills, and folded parchment into her worn old bag.
Harry stood in the doorway, just watching for a moment. She hadn't noticed him yet. Or maybe she had, and she just didn't want to say anything.
She looked like she was fighting time itself.
He didn't want to interrupt. Part of him wished he could just turn and slip away again, unnoticed. But she looked up.
Her eyes widened—then immediately narrowed with urgency.
"Are you finished?" she asked, breathless. "Did you put them in order?"
He nodded.
For a heartbeat, something warm flickered in his chest—pride, maybe. A tiny glow. He'd done it right. He'd helped.
But it faded the moment she turned away.
"Good," she said briskly, yanking her cloak from the bedpost. It whipped behind her like a sheet of wind. "Put them on the bed."
He walked over, careful not to knock anything else over, and placed the stack gently on the rumpled blankets. His eyes caught the time—quarter past seven. She hadn't eaten. Again.
He hesitated. Then softly, "Mum… you haven't had breakfast. They'd understand if you were a few minutes late."
She didn't even pause. Her voice came quick and clipped. "I can't risk it. And I'm not hungry anyway."
Her tone wasn't sharp. Just tired. But it still stung. Not because of what she said—but because of what she didn't.
You matter too, he wanted to say. You could stop. Just for a moment. Sit down. Breathe. Let me look after you for once.
But she was already tucking quills into the inner folds of her robes, her face drawn with concentration. Her presence filled the room—but her attention never landed on him. She was close enough to touch, but somehow impossibly far.
He tried again.
"I'm sorry about earlier," he murmured, watching her carefully. "I didn't mean to mess things up."
Her eyes stayed on the papers. "There's no need to apologise." Her voice was smooth—too smooth. Dismissive.
But he couldn't let it go. The guilt sat heavy in his chest. "I should've paid more attention. I rushed out—I didn't think—"
"It's done," she said, louder now.
The words hit hard—like a wall slamming down between them.
She turned at last, something sparking behind her eyes. Not fury exactly—but something brittle. Fractured. Her jaw tightened.
"Please. Just go. I need a minute to myself."
He stopped breathing for a second.
It was the way she said it—please. But not in the way that asked for kindness. It was a warning. A request wrapped in steel.
His lips parted, then shut again. He nodded once. Small. Mechanical.
And stepped back.
As he left, he caught one last glimpse of her—shoulders hunched now, bent under invisible weight, her eyes scanning the stack of papers with tight focus. Still working. Always working.
He closed the door behind him as gently as he could manage.
But inside, it still slammed.
Lily exhaled, slow and heavy, as if breathing might steady the storm inside her. She pulled back into herself—shoulders drawn, spine stiff—as if folding away the part that still ached when she looked at him. Harry stood in the doorway, so still, eyes wide and uncertain. He looked like he wanted to speak but had no idea how to start.
And she couldn't bear it. Not again.
The silence between them wasn't the comfortable kind. It was full of sharp edges, pressing in around them like the walls themselves had grown tired of watching them talk past one another. How many mornings like this had there been? How many times had they stood in the same rooms, trying and failing to say what mattered?
Her eyes flicked toward him—just slightly. She saw the furrow in his brow, the way his mouth opened and closed, uncertain. He looked so much like James in that moment it stole the breath from her lungs. But it wasn't just the resemblance that cut her—it was the look of guilt on his face. That wasn't James. That was all Harry.
He wanted to fix it. He always did.
So did she.
And yet, here they were again—on opposite sides of the same room, both desperate to reach across the gap, and neither of them knowing how.
She blinked hard, jaw clenched to keep the tears down. She wouldn't cry. Not now. Not in front of him. She was too tired—tired of snapping, tired of carrying everything without letting it show, and tired of the fear she couldn't name that clung to her like damp.
Then he stepped back. Just a single step. But she felt it, like a wire pulled taut finally giving way. A small break. A quiet wound.
He didn't say anything.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And that soft sound cut deeper than anything he could have said.
Lily didn't move. She stayed rooted by the window, staring blankly out at the dull morning sky. She couldn't hear his footsteps anymore, but the weight of them echoed in her chest.
They'd argued. Again. Twice in one day.
She told herself it wasn't really a fight. Just a tense moment. Just words spoken too quickly, under too much pressure. But it was a fight. And it had left a mark.
Her arms folded over her chest without thinking, like she was trying to keep herself from falling apart. Regret settled in slowly, not sudden like a blow, but quiet and heavy—something that wrapped around her ribs and squeezed.
She knew she was allowed to be frustrated. She was human. Her feelings were real. But still… the shame crept in like a chill. Shame for the sharpness in her tone. Shame for how easily she let the anger through, while the love stayed buried beneath.
Harry was only a boy. Her boy.
Trying his best. Always trying.
He didn't know how to carry all this weight—how could he?
She turned towards the window, catching her reflection faintly in the glass.
And flinched.
The woman who stared back looked worn thin—shoulders narrower than she remembered, hair dull where it used to shine, eyes tired in a way she couldn't hide anymore. She barely recognised herself. Not the girl James fell in love with. Not the mother she wanted to be.
She turned away from her own face, pressing her fingers to her eyes. The sting burnt, but she didn't let the tears fall.
One breath. Then another.
She couldn't stop. That had always been her answer. Keep going. Keep moving. If she paused too long, everything she'd held in might finally crack open.
So she grabbed her cloak, slung the bag over her shoulder with trembling hands, and headed for the stairs. The house felt too quiet. She crept down carefully, hoping he'd gone to his room.
But when she turned the corner into the kitchen—there he was.
Harry, standing at the counter, knife in hand, slicing vegetables.
Her breath caught.
The angle of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed in concentration—it was James. Not exactly, not entirely, but enough to knock the air from her lungs.
And it hurt. More than she could admit.
He even had that same stubborn frown, the one James used to wear when he thought no one was watching. That determined little pout. Lily stood frozen, eyes stinging as a memory surfaced—James, laughing in the garden, wand behind his ear, teasing her with that same grin Harry sometimes wore. That voice—light, teasing—"Evans, it's not really burning if we don't tell anyone, is it?"
She could almost hear him now.
But the sound vanished before it fully arrived.
And the silence it left behind felt even colder.
"Harry," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper—but the weight of it hung in the air.
He jumped. The knife slipped from his hand and clattered onto the floor with a sharp metallic clang.
"Ah—!" he hissed, cradling his hand.
Panic shot through her. No.
"Harry! Are you alright?" She was already moving before the words had left her lips.
"I'm fine," he muttered, pulling his hand close to his chest, hiding it like a secret. But Lily had already seen it—the quick bloom of red across his fingers, the sharp sting of carelessness.
"Let me see," she said firmly. No room for debate now. She crossed the kitchen in a few quick strides and reached for his hand. He didn't argue. He let her.
The cut wasn't deep, but it was messy. The skin torn, bleeding freely. Her stomach turned.
"This is not fine," she breathed, the words more to herself than to him. Her wand was in her hand without thinking.
"Episkey."
A gentle warmth pulsed from the tip, and the skin began to mend, blood fading, the wound closing like it had never been there. Magic still amazed her sometimes—but it did nothing to soothe the heaviness in her chest.
She held his hand a moment longer than she needed to. Just to feel it. Just to remind herself he was still here.
Then his eyes met hers—wide, no longer with pain, but with something softer. Something more vulnerable.
"Mum?" he asked, and it was so quiet, so careful, it made her ache.
She tucked her wand away and turned fully to him. "Yes?"
He hesitated. Then: "Remember when Ron invited us to the Burrow? For my birthday? And… to stay for the summer?"
She didn't answer straight away.
That flicker of hope in his voice—that tentative reaching—it made her want to say yes before he even finished. But she didn't.
And he could feel it.
He rushed on. "After your big meeting, it'd be perfect, right? Just a few days to relax and—"
"Harry…" she said gently and hated the way it already sounded like a no.
He pushed through it anyway. "I really want you to come. You could finally meet everyone. My friends. They'd love you."
His face lit up, just for a moment, and Lily saw it—that same gleam James used to have when he was trying to talk her into something. That wide, hopeful look that made her laugh even when she wanted to say no.
For one moment, she saw the summer as he did. Laughter. Fresh air. Peace.
And then it slipped away.
She didn't even have to speak. The hesitation in her eyes betrayed her.
And she watched him break.
Not loudly. Not with anger or tears.
Just a soft collapse, like the air had left him.
"Oh," he said, too quietly. "You're not coming."
Lily's throat tightened. "I want to, Harry. I do. But work's just…"
"Yeah," he cut in. "I know. You're busy."
The words fell flat between them. Dull and heavy. She reached out, needing to close the distance—but he stepped back, just enough to make it clear: he didn't want comfort.
"I'll still go," he said, turning away. "Ron'll be waiting."
And then he was gone.
No door slam. No angry footsteps.
Just quiet.
And somehow, that was worse.
Lily stood in the empty kitchen, her hand still outstretched, the moment already over. The air felt colder. The sunlight through the window was too pale. The space he'd just filled seemed to echo.
She looked down at the chopping board. Half-cut vegetables. A damp cloth. The knife was still on the floor.
Everything was unfinished.
She closed her eyes, her shoulders folding inward. The silence pressed in around her again.
James would have gone with him, she thought, bitter and raw.
But she wasn't James.
She was just… here. A mother still piecing herself 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, she feared it was already happening.
Harry closed the door behind him with a soft click, letting it rest gently shut—like if he made too much noise, something might break.
He leaned back against it, his hands at his sides, fingers still tingling faintly from the cut. The magic had sealed the skin, but it hadn't touched what actually hurt.
He'd known she'd say no.
He'd known.
But knowing didn't make it easier. It didn't soften the blow. It didn't stop that little piece of hope inside him from getting knocked over again.
He glanced at the bed: clothes half-folded, Ron's ridiculous old Chudley Cannons jumper draped like a flag, some birthday cards from the Weasleys leaning crooked against his pillow. Normally, the sight would've made him smile. Would've reminded him there were still parts of life that felt good and simple.
But right now, it all looked like it belonged to someone else. Someone who lived in a lighter world. Someone whose mum said yes.
Harry dropped onto the bed, the mattress sighing beneath him, and buried his face in his hands. His breath caught against his palms, shaky and warm. He wasn't angry—not really. He was just… tired.
Tired of trying to bridge the gap between them.
Tired of watching her stretch herself thin, running on fumes, refusing to ask for help.
Tired of pretending that things were fine when they were anything but.
The room was too quiet. Always too quiet. Like the silence itself had weight. Like grief still clung to the corners, invisible but sharp.
She's still scared, he thought. Still stuck. Still hoping Dad's just late coming home.
He hated thinking it. Hated the sharpness of it. But it was true.
And maybe that's what stung the most—that she was still reaching backwards, holding on to something already gone, instead of looking at what she still had.
He rolled onto his side, gaze falling on the photo by his nightstand. The one that always stayed there.
Mum and Dad. Laughing. Spinning in a blur of happiness, captured in a moment Harry couldn't remember. Could neverremember.
James's arm wrapped round her. Her eyes bright, unguarded.
They looked like the kind of people who thought the world would always give them more time.
Harry picked up the frame and brushed his thumb across the glass.
"I just wanted her to come with me," he whispered. "Just once."
He wasn't asking for much. He didn't want her to come to impress anyone. He just wanted her to see. To see that he'd made a life, a real one—good and messy and his. One he wanted to share.
To see him.
To be proud.
But instead, all he got was that look. That quiet, distant sadness in her eyes. Like she wanted to meet him halfway but didn't know how.
He swallowed hard, jaw tight, blinking back the sting. He wouldn't cry. Not now. Not over this.
He shoved a few more clothes into the bag at his feet, zipping it halfway before stopping. He sat back, legs swinging just off the floor, elbows on his knees.
The silence filled the space again. Heavy. Hollow.
He stared at the door.
Waited.
Half-hoped she might open it. Say she'd changed her mind. Say she'd come.
But she didn't.
And he didn't expect her to.
Not anymore.
Harry stepped out into the grey morning, the sky hanging low and dull, like it couldn't quite be bothered to rain properly. The air clung to him—damp, chilly—but it wasn't the weather that made it hard to breathe. It was something else. Something quieter, heavier. Like everything he hadn't said to her was pressing down on his chest all at once.
Behind him, Mum followed, footsteps light but distant. She didn't speak at first. She didn't look at him, either. She didn't need to. He could already feel how far away she was—thinking about work, about files and deadlines and meetings that always seemed more urgent than anything else.
It stung in a way that wasn't sharp, just steady. Familiar. Like pressing on an old bruise you'd nearly forgotten was there.
"I'm afraid I'll be home at eight tonight," she said softly.
Eight.
He flinched, barely. Just enough.
She said it so gently, as if that made it better. As if he hadn't been waiting all week for this day, hoping she'd be there.
"Eight? Seriously?" he asked, voice cracking more than he meant it to. "You're serious?"
"I'm afraid so." Still soft. Still distant. Her eyes flicked toward him, guilty but unfocused, like she was already somewhere else.
He felt the heat rise in his throat, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "But, Mum… What about the Recognition Assembly? The rankings? I've been waiting for it all year."
He didn't mean to sound desperate. But he was. Maybe just a little. Maybe more than a little.
Her eyes widened, 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 awful, breathless pause. The one that always came right before the excuses.
He could already feel the shape of the apology before she spoke. Could practically script it himself.
"Oh, Harry," she murmured. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to brush it off. It's just—this report—everything's so urgent right now."
Everything always was.
He forced a smile because it felt like that was his job. "I'll be okay, Mum. Just one evening, right?"
But it wasn't. And they both knew it. One became two. Two became a dozen. Birthdays. Quidditch matches. Evenings like this one, where her absence wasn't loud, but it was felt.
She looked at him properly then, and something in her gaze shifted. Like she'd finally heard it—really heard it.
"I'll do my best to make it," she said.
And maybe she meant it. But those words—they didn't land like a promise. They just echoed in the space between them, already slipping away.
He didn't answer.
Then she said his name, gently. "Harry?"
He didn't wait for the rest. He stepped forward and kissed her cheek, like always. It felt like muscle memory. Familiar. But forced. Fragile.
"Good luck with your report, Mum."
He tried to sound light. He failed.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I'll see you later, dear."
He nodded.
Then she walked away.
And it felt like watching a paper lantern drift out of reach. Pretty. Hollow. Untouchable.
A drizzle began to fall. Barely-there rain. Just enough to make everything feel colder.
Then—impact.
Someone slammed into him, fast and hard, and hot coffee spilt across his front.
"Ah—!"
Harry staggered back. The heat bit through his shirt, and his mouth opened in surprise more than pain.
"I'm so sorry!" The man gasped—black hoodie, startled face—but Harry barely saw him. Barely cared.
It wasn't the coffee. It wasn't the burn.
It was the timing. The way life just kept piling things on.
Even the universe thinks I'm not worth showing up for.
"Harry!" Mum's voice broke in, sudden and urgent, her footsteps fast behind him. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he said quickly, already brushing at his shirt. "It's just coffee."
He didn't want her fussing. Not now. Not when she hadn't noticed until someone else did.
Her eyes snapped to the man. "You should be more careful!"
But the man didn't respond. Just kept walking, disappearing into the street like none of this mattered.
"I'll just—"
But she'd already drawn her wand.
"I'll clean it. Then I'll leave." Her voice was clipped now. Focused. "Tergeo."
Warmth swept over him. The stain vanished. The dampness was gone.
Just like that.
Neat. Efficient. Fixed.
If only everything worked like magic.
"Thanks," he murmured.
"I'll see you tonight," she said. But she was already turning away.
"Take care," he replied.
He poured all the hope he had left into the words. Maybe she'd hear it.
Maybe she'd come.
But as he watched her fade into the crowd, that hope thinned like the drizzle around him—soft, persistent, soaking straight through.
His shirt was dry.
But his heart wasn't.