The toilet spat her out like it regretted ever having swallowed her.
Lily staggered slightly, catching herself against the polished stone wall of the Ministry's Atrium. The sudden chill in the air slapped her face—not quite refreshing, not quite cruel—just enough to remind her that she hadn't slept properly in three nights. She took a deep breath, slow and deliberate, trying to shake off the lingering scent of mildew and old copper pipes that clung to her robes like a stubborn jinx.
Honestly, who had designed this entrance? Some sadist with a thing for humiliation, no doubt.
Her fingers were damp. She wiped them quickly on the frayed hem of her sleeve, resisting the childish urge to gag. The Ministry loo network had always been a bit of a joke among staff—until you were the one travelling through it at half-seven in the morning, sleep-deprived and overburdened, hoping not to emerge in front of the Minister with toilet paper trailing from your boot.
"Blimey," came a familiar voice, bright and amused. "Looks like you've already fought off half the Death Eaters before breakfast."
Arthur stood a few feet away, red hair catching the artificial glow of the floating lights above, his grin as warm as ever. For a moment, just a flicker, Lily felt something unclench inside her.
"If I ever have to do that again," she muttered, brushing a damp strand of hair behind her ear, "I swear I'll hex someone. Possibly myself. Who on earth thought magical sewage was a dignified way to arrive at work?"
Arthur chuckled, stepping closer. "Ministry policy. Keeps the riff-raff out. And the staff humble."
"Mission bloody accomplished," she grumbled, shifting the awkward bundle of parchment clutched to her chest before it toppled. She shoved the mess into Arthur's arms. "Here. Before I decide to lob it into that fountain."
"Oof—Merlin's—what in Bagnold's name is this?" Arthur grunted, clearly not expecting the sheer weight of it. "Is this… a spellbook? Or are you attempting to murder me slowly with paperwork?"
"It's the case file," Lily said, rubbing at the tension knotting her shoulder. "And the backup file. And the backup to the backup. And a few of my breakfast thoughts I scribbled on the margins when I couldn't sleep."
Arthur peered at the scrawl, eyebrows lifting. "Are these runes, or just… stress drawings?"
"Little of both," she muttered. Her arms ached. Her back ached. Her soul ached, if that was still something she had possession of. "I had to rewrite half of it when I spilt tea over the first copy. Didn't even taste the tea, come to think of it."
They stood for a moment in that peculiar hush of the Ministry—where magic buzzed faintly under the surface, humming through the stone like a tired song. The ceiling lights flickered overhead, tired themselves. Everything felt one sigh away from collapse.
The lift dinged softly in the distance.
Arthur glanced sideways at her, voice gentler now. "How's Harry doing?"
Lily hesitated.
That one question. So simple. So dangerous.
Her eyes dropped to the floor tiles—scuffed, familiar, safe. Her heart gave a quiet thud, heavy and guilty. "Not… not great."
Arthur didn't speak. Just waited.
"I think I mucked it up this morning," she added, almost under her breath.
"What happened?"
"I told him I had to work late," she said, swallowing down the knot rising in her throat. "New case came in. I was already halfway through my checklist when he reminded me about the Hogwarts assembly."
Arthur's mouth pulled into a quiet wince. "Oh."
"Yeah." She gave a mirthless smile. "I brushed him off without even looking up. He didn't argue much—just walked off, dead quiet. That's the worst bit. He didn't yell. Didn't sulk. Just that look."
Arthur gave a small nod, sympathetic. "That look that says, 'This is going straight into the book of childhood trauma.'"
Lily laughed weakly, the sound cracking. "Exactly. I swear I saw the title form behind his eyes: Why My Mum Loves Her Job More Than Me: A Memoir."
The lift arrived with a reluctant clang, the doors groaning open as if irritated to be of service.
They stepped inside. It creaked slightly under Arthur's armload of parchment.
"I said I'd make it up to him," Lily blurted, too quickly. The words felt clumsy, desperate. "I will."
"I know you will," Arthur said. "You're doing your best."
But what if her best wasn't good enough?
She remembered the way Harry's shoulders had sagged. The way he'd nodded without meeting her eyes. He hadn't slammed a door or thrown a tantrum. He'd just… left. Like he'd already stopped expecting better.
There had been a time—not so long ago—when she'd known everything about him. What he was reading. What spells he was curious about. Which Quidditch teams he cheered for and which sweets he sneaked under his pillow at night. Now, it felt like all she caught were snippets. Headlines. Out-of-context moments of a story she was no longer a main character in.
"I'm thinking of getting him that new Quidditch book," she said quietly. "The one about the British and Irish teams. He mentioned it in passing last month. Thought it might cheer him up."
Lily leaned back against the lift wall, arms folded tightly.
"I just wish I didn't have to fix things. I wish I'd been there in the first place."
The lift gave a sympathetic rattle, as if in agreement.
Arthur smiled, gently but with that slight tilt of the head that always meant he was about to say something she wouldn't like.
"That's a good start," he said. "But didn't he already have that one? The Quidditch book, I mean. With the hideous hippogriff on the front? He was reading it last week—walked straight into a wall and claimed it was an 'unexpected door.'"
Lily froze mid-step, blinked once, then again.
"He did? Are you sure?"
She was already playing the moment back in her mind, trying to picture it. Trying—and failing.
"I must've… missed that."
Arthur's head tilted a fraction more. Kind eyes, but no less pointed. "You were right next to him, Lily."
And there it was again—that sickening pang, low in her stomach, sharp and cold. She'd been right there and still hadn't seen him. Hadn't registered the book in his hands or the smile he always wore when he was properly engrossed. That used to be second nature—like breathing. She used to notice everything: the curve of his brow when he was curious and the exact sigh he made when he was pretending not to be upset.
When had the details slipped through her fingers?
The answer came too easily: when she'd stopped being present and started surviving on autopilot.
"I'll be there tonight," she said softly, barely trusting her voice. "I won't miss it."
Arthur didn't offer comfort in words this time. Just a nod—solid, understanding. A kind of steady presence she hadn't realised she'd needed until this very moment.
"And if you need to pretend to enjoy an hour of awkward teen speeches," he added after a pause, "I've got decades of experience. Comes with the 'embarrassed father' package."
Lily laughed this time. The kind that eased some of the guilt coiled tight around her chest.
"I might take you up on that."
"Just don't let the twins near the food table," Arthur warned, eyes glinting. "Last time we did, the Muggle Ambassador spent the evening locked in battle with a nose-biting teacup."
She winced in mock horror. "You've got to write a book someday."
They reached the Auror Headquarters just as the lift let out a subdued ding and slid open with its usual reluctant sigh.
The instant Lily stepped onto Level Two, the world changed. It always did here.
A wall of movement and sound hit her at once—raised voices, the rustle of parchment, a dozen spells mid-cast. Cloaks swept past like storm winds, clipped heels echoed down the marble corridor, and that unmistakable smell of ink, potion residue, and too many early mornings filled the air.
Even now, even under a mountain of stress and personal guilt, something inside her lit up. The buzz of it all—the urgency, the purpose—it reminded her why she'd become an Auror in the first place.
They moved together through the controlled chaos, ducking stray memos and sidestepping hurried trainees, Arthur somehow managing to carry her mountain of parchment without spilling a single sheet.
And then—now. She had to say it now.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His expression was thoughtful, distracted by the task ahead, but not closed off. It was her window.
She leaned in, voice low but cutting through the noise like a charm.
"Arthur… I want to talk about something. About… changing our destinies."
He glanced at her, more curious than surprised, though there was a flicker of caution behind his eyes. "That's a bold phrase to open a Monday with."
"I mean it," she said, more firmly now. "I've been thinking about whether there's more to all this. Not just the job, but the way we live. We're constantly reacting. Putting out magical fires. Fixing things. Following rules written by people who've already left the battlefield. And I don't know if I can keep doing it without asking… what it's all actually for."
Arthur didn't respond immediately. He simply kept walking, his silence neither dismissive nor indulgent. He was listening.
"I want something more," Lily went on, heart racing a little faster with each word. "I want to make the future. Not just serve it. Not just tick boxes until we retire and vanish into ministry records. I want to shape something lasting. Something meaningful."
Arthur stopped walking. Turned to face her properly now.
"You really think that's possible?" he asked.
She met his eyes. "I do. Not everything. I'm not foolish enough to think we can rewrite every law or erase every mistake. But… we can choose where to aim our lives. And if we do it right, maybe we can help others do the same."
He gave a soft exhale, part laugh, part sigh. "What are we talking about here? Time-turners? Secret prophecies? Dodgy old oracles in Knockturn Alley?"
Lily smiled faintly. "Something like that. But bigger. I'm thinking fifty years ahead. Maybe more. Not because I want to cheat time—because I want to understand it. I want to know what comes next. What comes after all this?"
Arthur chuckled under his breath. "Fifty years, eh? You're ambitious."
But then his tone shifted. Quieter. Surer.
"We can't outrun death, Lily," he said. "And we can't see everything coming. The only thing we ever really own is the next choice we make. If you're lucky, you string a few good ones together. The rest is just… life."
His words hit harder than she expected. Like they were carved out of something older than either of them.
Lily swallowed, biting back the urge to argue—not because he was wrong, but because it still wasn't enough.
"Maybe," she whispered. "But I'm not talking about fate. I'm not here to argue philosophy. I just… I need to know that this life we're building means something. That I'm not just following orders or going through the motions. That I haven't already missed the things that matter."
Arthur's gaze softened. "Like Harry."
She didn't answer. Didn't need to.
She'd missed the book. Missed the look on his face this morning. Missed the moment that had mattered because she wasn't paying attention.
"I don't want to wait until it's too late," she said. "I want to be present. I want to be brave. Not just out there, with my wand drawn. But in here too. Where it counts."
Arthur nodded slowly. Then handed her back the parchment stack with a grunt.
"Then I reckon you'd best start with the kid. And the assembly. And maybe a note in your calendar that says, 'Stop. Listen. Look'.
She smiled. The ache in her chest hadn't gone—but it had shape now. Direction.
And that, at least, was something.
Arthur's gaze drifted ahead as they wove through the bustle of the Auror floor. His steps slowed, and when he finally spoke, his voice had gentled.
"So… You've been researching this?"
"I have," Lily said, meeting his eyes. "Quite a lot, actually."
That earned her a knowing look—one of Arthur's quiet, fatherly looks, the kind that saw more than she ever admitted aloud.
"That explains the late nights, then. The missed dinners. You've looked tired lately."
She blinked. The comment caught her off guard.
"You noticed that?"
He gave a soft shrug, but there was no casualness in it. His expression stayed kind and steady.
"Of course I did. You think I wouldn't? I've seen you drifting off mid-sentence, scribbling away when you thought no one was watching. Whatever you've been chasing… it's starting to leave its mark."
Her cheeks flushed before she could stop them. She hadn't realised he'd been paying such close attention. No one had said anything—not James, not even Remus. But Arthur had seen it. Seen her. The mess she'd become trying to stay ahead of something she couldn't quite name.
"I didn't mean to be obvious," she murmured.
"You weren't," he said with a small smile. "But I've had seven kids. You learn to spot the difference between focus and fixation."
A laugh threatened to rise, but it fell short. Her throat was too tight.
She glanced away, eyes flicking over the bustle of the department, all parchment and purpose and the low, crackling tension that came with dark times. But her thoughts stayed inward, tangled and restless. It was one thing to feel the weight she carried—it was another to realise someone else had noticed. That she hadn't been hiding as well as she thought.
"I just…" she began, then paused, searching for words that didn't sound rehearsed or defensive. "I want to do something meaningful. Something that matters. Beyond the daily grind. Beyond chasing criminals or sorting memos by wand classification. I want to find a purpose that actually helps people."
Arthur didn't answer right away. When he finally did, it wasn't with the humour he often used to soften the blow of truth.
"That's a good thing to want," he said gently. "Truly. Just… don't forget to live in the now while you're chasing what's ahead. The future's waiting, sure—but life is already happening. Don't miss it."
His words didn't hit her like a reprimand. They settled in her bones like a reminder. A warm, aching one.
Had she been missing it? She'd been so caught up in the next spell, the next paper, and the next impossible idea that she'd stopped seeing what was already there. Her home. Her son. Her now.
"You're right," she murmured. And she meant it.
For the first time in weeks, the fire inside her didn't feel like it was burning her from the inside out. It felt… clearer. Focused.
Arthur hesitated. Then lowered his voice, choosing his next words with care.
"Also," he began, "my kids are close to yours. With Ron being Harry's best mate… I've heard things. About home. About what it's like. Things I probably wasn't meant to know."
Her spine stiffened.
"I hope I'm not overstepping," he added quickly, "but you deserve to hear it. Especially now. Harry seems… off, Lily. Different."
A cold pressure unfurled in her chest.
"He talks to Ron about me?" She asked, her voice sharper than she'd meant. The sting of it surprised even her. "After everything I've done—everything I still do for him—he's whispering things to someone else?"
Arthur's gaze didn't waver. He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped, voice low and careful.
"No offence meant. It's not betrayal. It's… a boy trying to make sense of something he can't say out loud. And when it comes to you, he's not angry. He's confused. Hurting. He's looking for comfort. And answers."
She didn't speak. Couldn't. The noise of the office had faded around her, like a curtain had dropped. Her heart thudded in her ears.
Arthur's next words came slower. He was weighing every one of them.
"Ron showed me a letter once. I shouldn't have read it—but I did. And in it, Harry… he didn't blame you. He never does. But it was like he was waiting. Hoping. That you'd reach for him. That the love you have for him isn't conditional. That it doesn't fracture when he disappoints you."
Lily blinked, once.
The weight of it all landed like stones against her ribs. Her son—her Harry—was afraid of her love. Not because she didn't give it, but because he couldn't always feel it. Because she'd been too buried in fear and work and purpose to reach for him in the quiet moments.
"I love him," she said quickly. Almost defensively. "More than anything. Everything I've ever done—every decision—it's always been for him. Always."
"I know," Arthur said quietly. "But that doesn't always come through. Not when you're distant. Not when he feels like a task on your to-do list instead of a boy who still wants his mum."
The words pierced. Not cruel. Not wrong. Just… true.
Lily's voice cracked at the edge. "But what happens between us—that's ours. It shouldn't be filtered through Ron like I'm… some stranger."
She hated how small she sounded. How close to tears.
Arthur reached out, not touching her, just letting his hand hover near hers—a gesture of presence, not pressure.
"He's not turning away from you, Lily. He's trying to find the version of you he remembers. The one who used to listen without checking the clock. The one who noticed when he skipped pudding."
She let out a laugh—just a breath, broken and bitter.
"I used to know him," she whispered. "I could tell what he was thinking just by the way he held his wand. Now I'm too late to everything. His thoughts, his heart—I can't seem to get there fast enough."
"You still can," Arthur said, steady. "He's not close to you. Not yet. But time is slippery. If you don't hold on to it now, it'll slide through your fingers while you're busy planning the future. Also, please don't raise your voice at him. He's terrified of upsetting you."
His words landed like ice down her spine.
Lily pressed her fingertips to her temples, as if she could massage away the pounding ache that had been building since sunrise. Her voice came out tight, too low to be convincing.
"I don't yell," she muttered. "Not really. I just—"
She stopped. The words were there, lodged behind her teeth. She swallowed them like old spells she didn't want to cast.
"I want him to be strong," she finished eventually, but even she could hear the crack running through the sentence. "James gave his life for him. That's not nothing. He should know what that means. He should… live up to it."
Her eyes flicked to her watch—again. The movement was becoming compulsive. Each second ticking past felt like a warning, a reminder she was already running late for something—everything. She hated it. Hated that time had turned against her, slipping away no matter how tightly she tried to grip it.
"He needs to take responsibility," she added. "He's not a little boy anymore."
Arthur's reply came softly, but it cut straight through her.
"He is, Lily. He's still a child. Just one who's been asked to carry far too much. None of this is his fault."
She turned away, sharply.
The words stuck, hot and uncomfortable, like burrs under skin. She didn't want to hear them. Not from Arthur. Not today.
Not when she was already crumbling at the edges.
Her eyes dropped to the clutter on her desk—a scatter of parchment, quills, half-empty ink bottles, and a mug with yesterday's cold tea. Everything was chaos. Disorganised. Like her. The ink on one report had smudged where her palm had pressed down too hard. She stared at it, trying to breathe through the spiral.
If she just focused—if she just kept moving—she wouldn't fall apart.
"I've got to run," she said, voice tighter now. Brittle. She started gathering the papers, her hands trembling just enough to make the task take longer than it should. "We'll talk later."
Arthur stood, watching her in that quiet way of his.
"Good luck," he said, kind but cautious. "And… don't forget tonight. Hogwarts."
Lily gave a faint nod, barely hearing him. Her mind was already skipping ahead—to the next file, the next report, the speech, and the security charm she still hadn't memorised.
She scanned her desk, eyes narrowed. Where were her glasses?
Gone. Again.
"Brilliant," she muttered under her breath, voice fraying. She patted around the surface with rising frustration. They had to be here—she always left them—
Her fingers brushed something smooth and cool near the edge. There. She grasped them in relief and tugged—
And her hand clipped the side of the desk with a sharp crack.
She froze.
No. Not now. Not this.
She looked down, her heart already sinking before her eyes confirmed it.
The glasses rested in her palm—but one lens was split clean through. A jagged crack sliced across the glass, catching the morning light like a scar. Broken. Just like everything else.
Her shoulders slumped. Her throat tightened.
"Of course," she whispered. The words came out hollow, barely more than air. "Of course this would happen."
A ridiculous thing, really—just a pair of glasses. She could repair them in a moment, with a flick of her wand and a muttered Oculus Reparo. But it wasn't the lens that undid her.
It was the symbolism.
Everything had been breaking lately. Quietly. In pieces too small to hold.
Her plans. Her sleep. Her son's trust.
And now this.
She sat slowly, the weight of the morning catching up to her all at once. For a moment she let herself feel the exhaustion. The failure. The quiet, creeping dread that maybe she was losing more than time.
She was losing him.
Harry sat slouched at the kitchen table, his fingers tearing the crust off a piece of toast he couldn't bring himself to eat. Morning light slanted through the window, casting soft golden bars across the floor. The sun was warm, but it did nothing to lift the weight sitting heavy in his chest.
The toast tasted like cardboard—dry, lifeless—no matter how much butter he'd spread on it. He chewed half-heartedly, swallowed, then pushed the rest aside. Across from him, the chair opposite stayed empty. Again.
He tried not to look at it. Really, he did. But his eyes kept drifting back like his brain hadn't caught up to the reality yet. Like some stubborn part of him still expected to hear footsteps down the stairs, a mug clinking on the counter, and her voice saying, "Morning, love."
But the only sound was the ticking of the old clock and the faint rustle of leaves outside the window.
His mum was an Auror. She was brave and fierce—people said she was brilliant at what she did. And he didn't doubt it. He admired her more than anyone. But admiration didn't make up for the silence. It didn't help when he'd lay the table for two out of habit, then clear away her untouched plate hours later, stone cold. It felt like he was cooking for a ghost.
He sighed, dragging his fork through his scrambled eggs without really eating. They'd gone rubbery.
She's saving lives, he told himself for the hundredth time. Important work. Bigger than both of us.
But no matter how often he said it, the ache stayed. Quiet and dull, like a bruise that wouldn't fade.
Was it selfish to want her home sometimes? To wish she'd sit across from him for once—not as a hero, not as some bloody saviour of the wizarding world—but just… as Mum?
His eyes flicked again to her chair. Still empty. Still waiting.
Did she even eat last night?
He'd made dinner. She hadn't come home. Again.
He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than usual. He knew he shouldn't complain. She was doing something that mattered. Something good. And he was proud of her. Really, he was.
But pride didn't make the house feel less hollow. It didn't stop the feeling that he was slowly disappearing from her world.
He glanced at the clock again. Time wasn't waiting.
Today was the recognition assembly. He'd earned a place on the honours list—not that he thought she'd remember. She'd said she'd try to be there. Try.
That word always made his stomach twist. It meant she probably wouldn't come. And worse, it meant he was supposed to smile and say, "That's okay," when really, it wasn't.
With a quiet breath, he stood up and pushed the chair back. The scrape of the legs on the floor sounded louder than it should've. Like it was echoing in the space she left behind.
He cleared his plate and mug, washed them carefully, and dried them with the tea towel she never seemed to fold properly. It gave his hands something to do. A routine. A rhythm.
Clean the table. Wipe the counters. Sweep the crumbs. Make the house feel lived-in.
Make it look like someone still cared.
He wasn't even sure who he was doing it for anymore. Maybe for himself. Maybe because it was the only kind of control he had.
The place felt haunted—not by ghosts, but by what used to be here. Laughter. Hugs. Her humming as she stirred the cauldron or sorted mail or tapped out a quick note with her wand. All of it had faded, like old spellwork losing its magic.
And in its place was just… the waiting.
Once the kitchen looked just right, Harry headed upstairs.
His room still felt familiar in a way the rest of the house didn't anymore. The Quidditch posters—creased but proudly stuck on the walls. The pile of worn spellbooks. Drawings of dragons and magical creatures pinned above the desk, their edges curling with age. Bits of childhood frozen like time had stopped in here.
He ran his fingers along the edge of the desk, feeling the little scratches from years of hurried writing and midnight projects. Then he moved to Hedwig's cage.
She stirred when he approached, blinking sleepily before fixing him with that sharp, knowing stare. Her amber eyes always seemed to look straight through him, like she understood without him needing to say a word.
"Hey, girl," he said softly.
He unlocked the cage, careful not to rattle it. Hedwig stretched her wings and launched into the air, gliding once around the room with the kind of grace he envied. She wasn't tied down by people, or promises, or disappointment. She was just… free.
Sometimes he wished he could be like that.
No expectations. No heavy silences. No watching the door and wondering if today she might come home on time.
He watched her for a long moment, letting the quiet settle again.
Then he turned to the two letters on his desk—for Ron and Hermione. He folded it carefully and tied it to Hedwig's leg with practised fingers.
"Be safe, yeah?" he murmured, stroking her feathers gently.
She hooted once, soft and low, then flapped her wings and soared out the open window.
Harry stood there a moment longer, watching the sky swallow her up. She didn't look back.
The room was still, but somehow it felt even quieter without Hedwig. Funny, really—she barely made a sound when she was here. Just the occasional rustle of feathers or the soft clink of her beak on the cage bars. But now that she was gone, the silence pressed in more thickly. The sort of silence you could feel.
That familiar ache stirred in his chest again—not sharp, not screaming, but deep and dull. A sort of tired sadness that never really went away. He took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to release the heaviness.
Crossing to the bed, he sat down on the edge and stared out at the open window, where the last of the morning breeze slipped through the curtains. A part of him wanted to stay like this all day—still, quiet, just breathing. But another part, the one that was used to carrying on, reached toward the drawer in his bedside table.
The wood creaked as it opened. Inside was a neat arrangement: spare parchment, a few battered Chocolate Frog cards, quills with slightly worn tips… and in the middle of it all, the notebook.
His notebook.
He lifted it out with both hands, careful with the frayed edges and cracked leather spine. It felt familiar, like an old jumper he couldn't bear to throw away. He turned it over in his lap, tracing a finger across the worn front cover. So many things lived inside this book. Things he wouldn't say out loud. Couldn't. This was where he poured out what didn't have a place anywhere else.
He flicked through the pages, his eyes drifting over his own untidy handwriting. Some lines were smudged, others angrily crossed out. A few verses circled, rewritten three or four times—like he'd been trying to pin down a thought that kept slipping away.
There were poems written late at night, when the house was too quiet. Others had been scrawled quickly, during breaks at school or in stolen moments when everything felt too much. They were messy. Imperfect. But they were his. Honest in a way words spoken aloud never quite managed to be.
He stopped at a blank page. The clean white space felt strange after all the clutter and crossings-out before it. Something in his chest tightened.
What if there's nothing worth saying today?
What if the words don't come?
But then he thought, Maybe that's not the point.
He picked up his quill. It felt a bit awkward in his fingers—he hadn't written like this in weeks—but also… right. Like coming back to something that had been waiting patiently for him.
Dipping the quill into the inkwell, he let the tip hover above the page for a few seconds. Then, slowly, carefully, he began.
"With tears in my eyes, I kneeled and looked above…"
Each word felt like loosening something knotted. The scratch of the quill on parchment was steady, comforting. He wrote line after line, letting the thoughts spill out. Quiet memories surfaced—soft things, like bedtime stories she used to read when he was little, or the way her hand rested lightly on his back when he couldn't sleep. Other memories were heavier. Her empty seat at breakfast. Missed birthdays. Silence that filled the house louder than any shout.
He didn't stop to think too much. Just wrote. Let it pour.
By the time he laid the quill down, his hand ached slightly and his breathing was unsteady. But something inside him felt lighter. Not fixed, not perfect—but a little less tangled.
He stared at the last line for a long time, then wrote the title at the top of the page: A Mother's Love.
A small whisper of satisfaction stirred inside him. Not pride, exactly. Just… relief. Like he'd finally said something that had been building for ages.
He closed the notebook gently and slipped it back into the drawer. His fingers lingered on the cover for a moment longer, reluctant to let go. That book held a piece of him, and every time he wrote in it, he felt just a little more whole.
Standing up, he looked around the room. It was still a mess—bed unmade, books stacked oddly, laundry in a crooked pile—but it was his mess. And suddenly, he felt the urge to fix it. To straighten the room, to make it feel a little less chaotic. Like if he could put his things in order, maybe the rest of him would follow.
He started with the bed, tugging the sheets straight, then moved to the scattered books, setting them in neat rows on the desk. He folded his clothes, swept the floor, and even dusted the top shelf where old Gobstones and school trinkets had gathered a thin coat of neglect.
It was a small thing, but when he finished, the room felt a little steadier. Like breathing had become easier.
Then the clock chimed.
Half past eight.
He blinked, startled by how fast time had passed. A little jolt of urgency nudged him out of the moment. He had things to do. Mum's list. The chores.
He took another breath, steadier this time, and stepped out into the hallway. The wooden floor creaked softly beneath his feet. Their house wasn't large, but every room held its own share of memories, some quiet, some loud. And hers—his mum's room—felt like the heaviest of all.
He stopped at her door. His hand hovered just above the knob, fingers twitching. He wasn't sure why he hesitated. It was just a room. And yet…
He swallowed, turned the handle, and stepped inside.
His mother's room was dim—only the bedside lamp glowed, casting a golden puddle of light that spilt onto the floor and crept up the edges of the walls. The air felt still, like the room had been holding its breath. For a second, Harry did too.
He stepped inside slowly, his trousers brushing the carpet with barely a sound. The familiar scent hit him at once—something floral, faintly medicinal, and unmistakably her. Lavender and ink. Sleep and worry.
His eyes scanned the room. It looked just as he remembered—too neat, too clean. Her books were aligned like soldiers on the shelves. The bedside table held a small stack of folded parchment, a single quill, and the half-empty teacup she always forgot to rinse. Everything in its place. Everything pretending to be fine.
But the photographs on the walls—they were the real heart of the room. A quiet museum of their life, captured and framed.
One picture, in particular, always pulled at him.
His mum—Lily—sat in a worn armchair, holding baby Harry in her lap. Her smile in the photo was full of light, her eyes fixed on him like there was nothing else in the world. Behind them, James Potter was frozen in motion, mouth open mid-laugh, pulling the sort of ridiculous face only a dad would dare. Harry, in the photo, was wide-eyed, as if surprised by the noise of joy itself.
A small smile touched Harry's lips. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
That was his dad. A face he knew from pictures. A man the world called brave and brilliant and bold. But to Harry, he was just… missing. A wish that never made it into reality. A voice he could only imagine. A hand he'd never held. That space—that absence—was always there, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.
It's not fair, he thought, but the thought passed quickly. He'd learnt not to dwell. Not to live inside that ache. It was too easy to get stuck there.
He blinked the sting away, took a breath, and whispered, "Not now."
As he moved further into the room, something shifted in the back of his mind—an uneasiness he couldn't name. The room was too perfect. Too still. Like it had been cleaned not just for order but for control. To keep something in. Or out.
His gaze swept the shelves. The desk. The floor. His heart gave a little jolt.
There—at the foot of the bed.
A dark blue folder. Thick. Slightly bent at the corners. Out of place.
He froze.
That wasn't supposed to be there.
He stepped closer, each footfall soft, quiet, like the floor might shatter beneath him. The air felt heavier now, the kind of heavy that came before a storm.
He crouched and picked it up, fingers brushing over the cover. Smooth. Cold. His name wasn't on it, but something told him this mattered.
He flipped it open.
A header stared back at him:
Ministry of Magic—Internal Report Drafts
His stomach tightened.
These weren't just notes or scribbles. These were the kinds of files that made adults whisper and meetings go on too long. His mum never brought these home. Not unless it was serious.
He turned a few pages, scanning words he barely understood. Half of it was technical rubbish—regulations, policy changes, proposed shifts in field protocol. But then, halfway through—
One word, stamped in bold red ink:
URGENT.
His throat went dry.
More pages. More diagrams. Mentions of field agents. Something about increased threat levels. Auror assignments being reassessed. Danger ratings rising across key regions. His mum's name popped up on a line—underlined, connected to something marked "classified".
His heart started thudding, faster now. That sinking feeling deepened.
She didn't know.
She was in a meeting. She must've left in a rush. She hadn't seen this. Hadn't realised she'd dropped it.
She needs this.
Harry stood, folder clutched tightly against his chest. His mind was already spinning ahead, calculating steps, sorting panic into action.
She needs this now.
He didn't think. There was no time. Still in his pyjamas, bare feet against the hallway floor, he sprinted downstairs, nearly tripping on the last step.
The fireplace loomed ahead. Green powder sat in its bowl—always there, just in case.
His hand trembled as he reached for it.
He hated Floo travel. Always had. The spinning, the smoke, the feeling of falling through something that didn't want him there. But that didn't matter now.
He stepped in, tossed the powder with force, and shouted, "Ministry of Magic!"
The green flames roared up, swallowing the world.
Then he was gone.
The Ministry atrium rushed up at him, and Harry stumbled out, breath shallow, knees unsteady.
He looked around, eyes wide.
Witches and wizards bustled past, their robes a blur. Gold statues gleamed in the light. Enchanted memos zipped overhead. Everything moved like normal.
But nothing felt normal.
His hand clenched the folder so tightly it hurt.
Find her. Now.
His mum's name echoed in his head. She needed to see this. She needed to have it. Whatever it was, it couldn't wait.
Harry pushed forward, ignoring the stares. People were whispering. Watching. He knew he looked out of place—hair a mess, jumper creased, eyes wide and frantic.
Let them stare.
The ministry felt like a maze. High ceilings. Endless corridors. The portraits on the walls watched him like they knew something he didn't.
He barely noticed the lift until it opened in front of him.
"Harry?"
He turned.
Tonks.
Bright hair. Familiar face. Her voice cut through the fog in his head like a lifeline.
"You alright?" she asked, stepping beside him.
He shook his head. "No—well, I'm not hurt. But—my mum. She left this behind. She's in that meeting, right?"
Tonks raised an eyebrow, glancing at the folder. Recognition flickered in her eyes.
"Yeah," she said. "Department heads. It's happening now."
Harry's heart kicked harder.
"Come on," she added quickly. "We'll get you there."
The lift chimed.
"Level Two," the calm voice announced, "Department of Magical Law Enforcement…"
The doors opened.
Harry stepped out, trying to pull himself together. The corridor ahead was sharp and sterile. Witches and wizards in tailored robes rushed past, serious voices murmuring things he couldn't hear.
His legs moved, but his mind kept racing.
What if it's already too late?
"Thanks," he muttered to Tonks, eyes scanning the corridor.
Where is she? Which room?
He was just a kid in a ministry full of power and secrets. But right now, he might be the only one who knew this folder mattered.
Tonks touched his arm gently. "I'll help you find her," she said.
Her voice was steady, and somehow that helped.
He nodded once and followed.
Each step felt heavier. But he couldn't stop now. Not until she had it.
They moved through the ministry's chaos like two fish swimming upstream, dodging employees who were too busy or too important to care. Every so often, Tonks would throw someone a cheeky wink or a mock salute. Harry just nodded awkwardly, clutching the folder like it was a life vest in a storm. The sharp tap of their shoes on the polished stone echoed around them, quickening with his heartbeat.
At last, Tonks stopped outside a sleek glass door labelled Auror Headquarters. Inside, a grumpy-looking man sat like a gargoyle, buried in a newspaper, face set in a scowl that said, "Talk to me and I'll bite."
Tonks gave Harry a crooked grin. "This is your stop, Harry. Good luck." Her hair flashed from bright pink to electric blue as she turned and strolled off, completely unbothered.
Harry barely noticed. Through the glass, he spotted his mum—Lily Potter—standing in a room filled with stiff, no-nonsense Ministry officials. She looked like she belonged, standing tall, her eyes sharp and focused. The fluorescent lights washed everyone out, but she still glowed. She was his mum—and she looked powerful.
He adjusted the folder under his arm. Important documents. Very important. Potentially career-saving. No pressure or anything.
He took a breath and approached the newspaper gargoyle. "Good morning, sir."
The man lowered the paper just enough to reveal a pair of flat, disinterested eyes. "'Morning, Mr. Potter," he said, like Harry had already wasted too much of his time.
Harry swallowed. "I need to get this to the conference room. My mum—Lily Potter—is inside. It's urgent."
He held the folder out like it might solve world hunger.
The man blinked. "That's against policy."
Harry blinked back. "But it's really urgent. She might lose her job."
"That's unfortunate," the man said, turning a page.
Harry stared. Was this guy serious? "Sir… she's missing something. This is the something."
"I see," the man said, which was definitely a lie. "Still can't let you through."
There was a pause. A long, awkward, soul-crushing pause. Then the newspaper rose like a drawbridge slamming shut.
Harry's mouth went dry. He looked through the glass again.
Lily was rifling through her case, frustration creeping into her face. Her hands moved faster. She was missing something.
Harry's brain lit up. This is it. This is my moment. A proper save-the-day moment.
So, naturally, he did something stupid.
He yanked the door open. It let out a long, creaky groan—like the universe itself was judging him. The room turned toward him in unison. Every Auror. Every official. Everyone who definitely didn't want to see a random teenager crash their very important meeting.
"Hi," Harry said. Then immediately regretted it. "Sorry—I mean—excuse me. Sorry."
His voice squeaked. Of course it did.
Lily turned, her expression flipping from confusion to mild horror. "Harry?" she said, and that single word somehow carried the energy of a Howler.
"I thought you might need this," Harry blurted, holding up the folder like it was the sword of Gryffindor. "You forgot it."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Lily slowly raised the identical folder already in her hand.
Harry's brain short-circuited. "Oh," he said. "Right. Already have. Great. That's… great."
He heard someone cough to cover a laugh. Definitely a cough. Probably.
"I, uh… sorry about that. Just thought…" He pointed vaguely at the folder. "You know. Important. Career. And I thought, 'Hey, let's be a hero today!'"
Lily's expression could have frozen fire. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes narrowed. Harry had seen that look before—usually followed by grounded-for-life declarations.
"I'll just—go now," he said quickly. "Sorry again. Very sorry. Don't fire her."
And with that, he turned and bolted out, the back of his neck burning with humiliation. He didn't stop until he was in the corridor, slumping against the nearest wall like someone who had just barely survived a duel.
I was wandering the corridor like a ghost with no destination, just thoughts and dread trailing behind me, when—bam—I collided with someone so hard I nearly saw stars.
"Merlin's pants!" I gasped, stumbling. "Hermione?"
A snort of laughter answered me.
"Close, but not her brains," came the reply. I blinked up to find Tonks beaming, her hair an unruly mane of brown curls—until it shimmered and flipped to hot pink like someone flipped a switch.
Oh. Of course.
I exhaled a breath that sounded more like a deflating balloon. "Tonks. Right. Sorry."
"Don't apologise," she chirped, tossing her pink locks over her shoulder. "I get mistaken for Hermione all the time. Probably the tragic brilliance and fashion sense."
I cracked a smile. "Yeah, you've got that whole 'bookish chaos' vibe down."
"But with more tripping over furniture," she added, grinning.
The smile I tried didn't last. It slipped off too fast, like it had never belonged on my face in the first place. She noticed. Of course she did.
Tonks tilted her head. "Hey. What's going on in that stormy little head of yours?"
Without a word, I held up the folder I'd been carrying like it was cursed. My fingers had crumpled the edges. She looked at it, and her face softened.
"Oh," she said gently.
I nodded, voice tight. "My mum already has this. I don't ever want to look at it again."
The silence that followed was heavier than the folder. It wrapped around us. I stood there, heart racing and mind buzzing with every awful moment of that meeting, and then—because the silence was going to suffocate me—I tried to joke.
"I think the meeting went really well," I said, deadpan.
Tonks raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh yeah? Five-star family reunion?"
I groaned and dragged a hand through my hair. "There was glaring. Tension. My mum looked at me like I'd just confessed to setting the house on fire."
She stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder. Her touch was steady. Grounding. I almost melted into it.
"That's alright. You got through it."
"Barely," I muttered. "I said too much. Or not enough. Or the wrong things in the wrong order with the wrong tone and—" I sighed. "Let's just say I made a memorable impression."
"Explosions? Screaming? Dramatic exits?" she asked, clearly enjoying this.
"No explosions," I admitted. "But there was a moment I considered climbing out the window."
Tonks chuckled. "Classic coping strategy."
I looked away, cheeks burning. The words I'd thrown out back there—they weren't even angry, really. They were… desperate. I hated how much I still wanted my mum to understand me, to approve of something, anything.
"Do you ever say something and immediately wish you could cast a memory charm on yourself?" I asked.
Tonks winked. "Daily. It's called being human."
I let out a laugh, this time louder, and the tightness in my chest loosened a bit.
"Thanks," I said. "For not running away while I emotionally unravel in a hallway."
She grinned. "Please. This is the most excitement I've had all day."