July 30, 1997
Lily Potter opened her eyes to the soft morning light spilling through the curtains, warming her face. The day had barely begun, but already her chest felt tight, her stomach fluttering with nerves. Sunlight filtered across her skin, gentle and golden, but it couldn't quiet the storm building inside her. Today was it—the day she presented her report to the ministry's top brass. Years of long nights, quiet sacrifices, and pushing herself harder than anyone had asked—this was the culmination of it all.
She stayed still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. A breath in. A breath out.
You've done harder things than this, she told herself. But the weight of the day pressed against her anyway. She was no stranger to pressure—being an Auror demanded resilience—but this was different. This report wasn't just a task. It was her voice, her experience, her convictions laid bare before the most powerful people in their world.
With a quiet sigh, Lily pushed the covers back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The cold wooden floor greeted her feet, grounding her for a moment. She welcomed the sting. At least it reminded her she was still here. Still moving forward, even if it didn't always feel that way.
Doubt crept in, like it always did before something big.Would they listen? Would they see her as capable—or still treat her like the girl who'd survived the war but never quite escaped its shadow? She knew what some of them thought. That she'd only risen so far because of what she'd lost. Because of who she used to be. Not because of who she'd become.
Her eyes drifted to the walls of her room, lined with photos that had travelled with her through each move, each new chapter. She paused on one in particular—James, frozen in time with his wild grin, eyes full of life and mischief. That spark in his gaze still caught her off guard sometimes. Still made her feel seventeen, breathless and invincible.
A tight smile tugged at her lips.
"Look at you, Lily," she murmured, brushing a hand through her hair. "Still talking to ghosts."
The blinking clock on her nightstand read 5:50. Too early to be awake, too late to go back to sleep.
She crossed to the window and placed her fingers against the glass, cool and smooth beneath her touch. Below, the city buzzed to life. People rushing to work, children laughing, shopkeepers unlocking their doors. The world moved on. It always did.
But inside, Lily felt suspended—caught between the past and the present. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since that night when everything changed. Since the man she loved was torn from her, and the future they'd dreamed of vanished in an instant. The ache hadn't dulled. It had simply changed shape—gone quieter, deeper.
Harry had been just a baby. He never got to know James the way she had. Never heard his laugh echo through the house or felt his steady hands during storms. And though she'd told Harry stories—about his father's bravery, his stubborn streak, and his brilliance on a broom—there was so much she had kept back. Not because she didn't want to share, but because some truths still hurt too much to say aloud.
They talked, of course. They lived side by side. But sometimes it felt like there was a wall between them—made of all the things they hadn't said. Her grief. His questions. The years they'd tried to protect each other with silence.
Some nights, when the house was still and Harry had long since gone to bed, she'd find herself standing at his door, wondering if she should go in. Just sit beside him and talk. But the words never came.
And now, her son was grown. Brilliant in his own right. Brave and capable, carrying his own burdens. And still, she wasn't sure if he truly knew who she was beneath the layers of strength she'd built to keep them both standing.
Maybe today wasn't just about the report. Maybe it was about showing him—showing herself—that her voice still mattered. That the woman who had lost so much hadn't disappeared into that grief.
She turned from the window, her thoughts racing. She thought of the other photos—Remus and Sirius grinning with their arms slung around James, Frank mid-laugh, Alice with that knowing look she always wore. They were gone too. But they had shaped her. And she carried them with her still.
Each case she worked as an Auror. Each mission. Each late night pouring over evidence alone in her office. They were all small acts of defiance—proof that she was still here, still fighting for the world they had believed in. Her grief hadn't made her weaker. It had carved her sharper.
She padded into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on her face. The chill snapped her back into the present. She stared at her reflection, water dripping from her chin, eyes a little too tired but still fierce.
Arthur Weasley's voice echoed in her memory, warm and steady: "Trust in your knowledge, Lily. It's why you're here."
She gripped the edges of the sink. Shedidknow what she was talking about. She'd spent years building this case, untangling corruption, digging for truths others were too afraid to name. Her voice had power. She just needed to let it be heard.
Maybe Harry would be proud of her today. The thought snuck in quietly. It wasn't one she often admitted to needing, but it was true. She wanted him to see her—not as the mother who flinched at his questions, not as the woman who avoided certain dates on the calendar—but as someone brave. Someone whole, even if the cracks still showed.
Maybe, just maybe, if she could find the strength to stand before that room and speak her truth, it would open something else too. A way back to the conversations she and Harry had avoided for far too long.
The past would never release its grip entirely. But Lily was done letting it silence her.
She dried her face and stood a little straighter. She had a report to deliver. But more than that—she had something to prove.
Not to the Ministry.
To herself.
And maybe, in some small way, to James too.
Harry lay in bed, restless and tangled in his blankets. The moonlight streamed through the window, soft and silver, casting strange, shifting patterns across the walls. It looked beautiful—peaceful, even—but it didn't match how he felt inside. His chest was tight, his thoughts heavy. He couldn't stop thinking about the conversation he'd had with his mum earlier that evening.
Her words kept echoing: "Gone too soon." She'd said it with a calm voice, like it didn't hurt her. But Harry had seen the pain flash in her eyes, the way her mouth tensed when she thought he wasn't looking. There was always something she wasn't saying—something she was holding back.
He rolled onto his side, burying his face in his pillow, as if it could somehow smother the noise in his mind. His thoughts spun in circles, wild and sharp, like leaves trapped in a storm. He hated this feeling—not knowing. Not knowing who his father really was. Not knowing why his mum always shut down the moment he asked.
The not-knowing made him feel small, like a little kid lost in a place he didn't belong. His father wasn't a person to him—just a shadow built from broken memories and vague stories no one wanted to finish telling. Every time he brought it up, his mum's face would change. Her eyes would grow distant. Her voice would falter. And then she'd change the subject.
"Mum," Harry whispered into the quiet, his voice barely above a breath. "Why won't you just tell me?"
But even saying it aloud made him feel helpless. What if he wasn't ready to hear the truth? If it hurt her this much just to hint at it, what would it do to him?
The lamplight on his bedside table flickered. Everything felt still outside—too still. Like the world was holding its breath. He sat up slowly, grabbed a quill, and reached for the empty parchment on his desk. His fingers trembled slightly, but he didn't stop. He had to do something—anything—to let this out.
He stared at the blank page. It felt like it was staring back, daring him to speak. He took a deep breath and pressed the nib down.
"Dear Ron and Hermione," he wrote, his hand tight around the quill. He paused. What was he even trying to say?
"I'm not sure how to say this without sounding stupid, but things have been… weird since I got home."
He stopped again. Just writing it made his chest ache. But he kept going. He had to.
He wrote about the silence in the house. The way it stretched between him and his mum, cold and heavy. How she moved through the rooms like a ghost, always there but never quite present. And how, every time they 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 just yesterday. Her voice had been sharp, emotionless—but her eyes told a different story. A story of fear, of pressure, of expectations he couldn't begin to meet.
Harry clenched his jaw at the memory. It wasn't just what she said—it was how she said it. Like his friends were a threat. Like being close to them made him weak. That hurt more than he wanted to admit. Because Ron and Hermione were all he had. They got him. Or, at least, they tried.
He pressed the quill to the parchment again.
"You'll probably think I'm overreacting, but I feel like I'm losing my way home."
Would they understand? They always told him his mum loved him—that she just didn't know how to show it. That she was scared, or tired, or worried about him. Maybe that was true. But they didn't hear her words like he did. To them, her love was something solid. Safe. To him, it felt like walking through fire—never knowing when the next burn would come.
And then there was that one sentence. The one she kept repeating like it was a promise—or a curse.
"You must make me proud, Harry. I gave up everything for you."
That line haunted him. Every time he stumbled—every time he failed to meet some invisible standard—he could feel it dragging behind him like chains. He wasn't allowed to be unsure. He wasn't allowed to struggle. He had to be perfect. Or else he was nothing.
The pressure felt unbearable sometimes. Like, no matter how hard he tried, it would never be enough. He saw it in her eyes when he brought home a bad mark. Heard it in her voice when he didn't answer fast enough. He wasn't just her son—he was her project. Her sacrifice. Her reason. And it crushed him.
"Have you spoken to Professor McGonagall? Your failures are inevitable," she had said once, so casually it chilled him.
Harry's hand shook. He dropped the quill. It hit the floor with a soft clink, but it sounded louder in the quiet.
He stared at the half-finished letter. It didn't feel like enough. Nothing did. He wanted to scream, to cry, to ask for help—but from whom? Even Ron and Hermione wouldn't fully get it. This wasn't about magic. This wasn't about the wizard who killed my father. This was something quieter. Something lonelier.
This was about a boy trying to make sense of the distance growing between him and the only parent he had left.
And he didn't know how much longer he could take it.
Drowning in frustration, Harry stared blankly at the letter in front of him. He thought about all the ways he'd tried to win her approval—late nights spent bent over books, skipped meals, and sleepless hours. He'd pushed himself to the edge just to hear something kind from her, something that told him he was enough. But no matter what he did, her cold remarks always cut deeper. It was like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in the bottom. He never measured up.
His eyes flicked across a line in his Potions textbook, but the words blurred. Hermione's voice drifted back to him—"You're doing extraordinarily well." He knew she meant it. She always did. But this summer, even her kind words couldn't reach him. They bounced off the walls of his doubt, swallowed up by the voice in his head that kept whispering, Not good enough.
He just wanted to breathe, to stop climbing for once. But he couldn't stop thinking about the way Mum looked at him when he fell short—disappointed, sharp-eyed, always expecting more. That look followed him everywhere, even here, even when she wasn't speaking. It weighed on him, a quiet but constant pressure pressing down on his chest.
Days blend together, the hours swallowed by endless revision. Each tiny win felt pointless, like tossing pebbles against a mountain and hoping it might move. The more he chased perfection, the more it slipped through his fingers. By now, all he could do was stare at the crooked stack of dusty, half-read books by his desk. Her to-do list—still pinned above them—felt like it was carved in stone. Another list of expectations. Another reminder that he was always running behind.
"Harry, I need you to finish these chores—and make sure you review those Potions materials," Mum had told him that morning, her voice clipped and firm. Her eyes had that intense gleam again, as if she saw the whole world balanced on his shoulders. The words stuck with him. The way she always made everything sound urgent and essential—there was no room for rest, no room for failure.
He felt like he was suffocating. Sixteen, and already drowning under the weight of someone else's dreams. Her voice had become the metronome of his life, dictating every move, every breath. One misstep, and everything might crash down. The thought alone made his stomach twist.
The clock struck six, each chime loud and jarring. It yanked him out of his spiral like cold water. He blinked, startled by how fast the time had vanished. He'd lost hours again, trapped in thoughts that refused to quiet. Writing helped sometimes—it gave the noise in his head somewhere to go. But even that comfort was fading. Another sunrise loomed, another day waiting to test him.
With a tired sigh, he scribbled his name at the bottom of the letter he'd been working on, then set it aside. The ink shimmered faintly in the amber light, like it was alive—like it knew what he was feeling. He stared at it for a long moment. "Maybe tomorrow," he whispered. His voice cracked on the words. Maybe tomorrow, he'd find the courage to give it to her. Maybe then she'd finally understand what he was trying to say.
He sank deeper into the chair, eyes tracing the flickering shadows dancing across the walls. His thoughts drifted again, circling the same question: If I really told her how I felt… would she even listen? Or would the space between them just stretch wider, until he couldn't reach her at all?
Mum stepped into Harry's room without knocking. Her face appeared first in the grey morning light—drawn, tired, almost ghostlike.
"You're awake," she said, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice was weary. "Would you mind making me breakfast? I still need to get ready for work."
Harry opened his mouth, unsure what to say. Their eyes met for a second—hers expectant, his confused—but then she turned away and quietly shut the door behind her, leaving him standing there, stunned.
His heart thudded as he threw on a faded grey sweatshirt and tugged on wrinkled pants. His thoughts spun. She'd never asked him to make breakfast before. Not once. Glancing at his reflection in the small mirror above his desk, he winced. He looked as off-kilter as he felt.
Still distracted, Harry yanked open the door—and walked straight into her.
"Argh!" Mum cried out as her neatly stacked papers flew out of her arms and scattered across the floor.
She bent down, grimacing as she reached for the fallen pages, one hand pressed to her back. "Harry!" she snapped, clearly in pain. "You need to be more careful. Someday, you're going to break something that actually matters."
He froze, throat tight. The sting of her words hit harder than he expected. "Mum, I'm so sorry—"
But she didn't let him finish. "Just clean it up," she said sharply. "Put everything back in order."
Swallowing hard, Harry dropped to the floor and began gathering the papers. He hadn't meant to mess things up. He just wanted to help. He glanced up at her, hoping for a trace of forgiveness, but her face was already turned away.
Her heels clicked down the hall, each step growing quieter until a door slammed—hard—making Harry flinch.
He let out a breath, shoulders sagging. He stared at the closed door, as if willing it to open again. But it stayed shut, just like everything else between them lately.
He spent the next hour organising her papers on his desk, checking and double-checking the order. Maybe if he did this perfectly, she'd stop being so cold. Maybe she'd look at him the way she used to. Maybe.
At last, he carried the stack in both hands and walked to her door. He knocked softly.
Only silence answered, followed by the faint rustle of movement.
When no voice called out, he hesitated, then slowly turned the doorknob and stepped inside.
Mum stood by the window, a swirl of dark blue robes around her. She moved quickly, stuffing items into her worn bag, her motions frantic and focused. It was like watching someone fight against time itself. He almost didn't want to interrupt.
When she saw him, her eyes widened, then narrowed with urgency.
"Are you finished?" she asked, breathless. "Did you put them in order?"
He nodded. For a moment, he felt proud—but that faded the second she looked away again.
"Good," she muttered, grabbing her cloak. The fabric swirled behind her like a storm. "Put them on the bed."
He crossed the room and laid the stack on the unmade covers, trying not to disturb anything else. The weight in his chest pressed harder. The clock on the wall ticked loudly. Quarter past seven. She hadn't eaten.
"Mum," he said quietly. "You haven't had breakfast. They'd understand if you were a few minutes late."
She didn't even look up. "I can't risk it," she said, voice tight. "And I'm not hungry anyway."
The silence that followed was heavy. Harry stared at her. She was right there—but somehow felt miles away.
He dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry about earlier," he murmured. "I didn't mean to mess things up."
"There's no need to apologise," she said quickly. Her eyes stayed on the papers, her voice too smooth, too fast.
"But I should have been more careful," he said. The guilt twisted in his stomach. "If I'd paid attention—if I hadn't rushed out—"
"It's done," Mum said, louder now. Her voice cracked at the edges. She turned toward him with a flash of anger. "Please. Just go. I need a minute to myself."
Harry froze.
The rejection hit like a punch.
He nodded, lips pressed together, and backed toward the door.
As he stepped out, he caught one last glimpse of her—shoulders hunched, eyes down, lost in papers and tension. He closed the door gently behind him.
But inside, it still slammed.
With a deep sigh, Lily pulled back into herself, shutting the world out. She couldn't bear to look at him anymore—Harry, frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, like he was trying to find the right thing to say but couldn't. The silence between them wasn't peaceful. It was loud, almost painful. The walls around them—so familiar, so worn—felt like they were closing in. How many times had they stood here, misunderstanding each other, letting things go unsaid?
Even now, in the corner of her eye, she saw it—the flicker of worry on his face, the way his brow tightened. He looked so much like James in that moment it nearly broke her. But the guilt in his eyes was all his own. He wanted to fix things. She could feel it. So did she. But neither of them knew how.
She clenched her jaw, fighting the tears that threatened to rise. She was tired. Tired of the arguments, tired of the weight of everything she had to carry alone.
And then he stepped back. Just one small step. She didn't look at him, but she felt it—like something inside her pulled tight. A string snapping. A connection fraying. He left without a word. The door clicked softly behind him, and the silence that followed cut deeper than anything he could have said.
Lily stayed where she was, staring out the window. She barely registered the fading sound of his footsteps, but it lingered in her mind, heavy and hollow. They had fought. Again. Loud, sharp, messy. She'd said things she didn't mean—or maybe she did, but not the way they came out. It was the second argument today. Each one left her feeling more distant from him. And more afraid.
She wrapped her arms around herself, like that might hold her together. Regret settled in like a weight on her chest. She told herself she was right to be upset, that her feelings were real and valid. But right now, all she felt was shame. Shame for yelling, shame for pushing him away, shame for letting her anger speak louder than her love. He was just a boy. Her boy. Trying to make sense of too much, too fast.
She glanced at her reflection in the window. The woman who stared back was a stranger. Pale, tired, and thinner than she remembered. Her shoulders looked too small to carry everything she was holding. Her hair, once bright and full of life, hung limp and dull. She looked… lost. Like a ghost of who she used to be.
Lily turned away quickly, closing her eyes against the sting. One breath. Then another. She couldn't stay like this. She had to keep moving. That was the only way she knew how to survive.
With trembling hands, she grabbed her cloak, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the door.
Lily crept downstairs without a sound, hoping for a few moments of peace—just her and her thoughts. But when she looked over at Harry, who was slicing vegetables at the counter, her breath caught. He looked so much like James it hurt.
The way he leaned forward slightly as he concentrated, the messy black hair that never stayed flat, the small frown on his face as he focused—it was all James. That same determined pout tugged at his lips, and for a heartbeat, Lily felt like she'd stepped back in time.
A soft ache bloomed in her chest. Memories swelled up, uninvited—James laughing in the garden, teasing her with that same grin Harry sometimes wore without knowing. She could almost hear his voice again, echoing faintly in her mind, only to fade into the silence that always followed.
"Harry," she said gently, her voice low but weighted. He jumped, startled. The knife slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
"Ah—!" he hissed, clutching his hand.
Fear jolted through her. "Harry! Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he said quickly, pulling his hand close. But Lily saw the blood already beading at his fingers.
"Let me see," she said firmly, crossing the kitchen in an instant. He hesitated, but she reached for his hand, and he let her. Her stomach dropped at the sight of the cut.
"This is not fine," she whispered, more to herself than him. Without pausing, she pulled out her wand. "Episkey."
A warm light glowed at the tip, and the wound began to knit itself shut. The bleeding stopped, the skin smoothing as if nothing had happened. But Lily felt the tightness in her chest remain.
Harry looked up at her, wide-eyed, the pain fading but something else replacing it—worry.
"Mum?" he asked softly.
She tucked her wand away and gave him her full attention. "Yes?"
"Remember when Ron invited us to the Burrow? For my birthday? And… to stay for the summer?"
There was a cautious hope in his voice, like he already knew the answer but was still clinging to the chance it might change.
Before she could respond, he rushed on. "After your big meeting, it'd be perfect, right? Just a few days to relax and—"
"Harry…" she cut in gently, already feeling the wall rise between them.
"I really want you to come," he said quickly. "You could finally meet everyone. My friends. They'd love you."
His eyes were bright with excitement, and for a second Lily felt it too—that fleeting joy. But it vanished just as fast.
She didn't have to say anything. The hesitation on her face said enough.
She saw the change in him—the way his hope crumbled. His shoulders dropped. He looked away.
"You're not coming," he said quietly, the words sharp with disappointment.
Lily's heart twisted. "I want to, Harry. I do. But work's just…"
He nodded before she could finish. "Yeah. I know. You're busy."
His voice was flat now, empty. She reached for him, but he stepped back.
"I'll still go," he said, turning from her. "Ron'll be waiting."
He walked away, but somehow that quiet retreat was worse. The hurt in his eyes lingered even after he disappeared down the hall.
Lily stood alone again, the kitchen silent. She stared at the counter where he'd stood, the morning's peace long gone. The house felt too big, too still. And all she could feel was the hollow echo of what she hadn't said.
James would have gone with him, she thought bitterly.
But she wasn't James.
She was just a mother still learning how to live in a world without him—and trying not to lose Harry in the process.
Harry reached his room and closed the door gently, pressing his back against it. His fingers curled at his sides, still faintly aching from the cut even though the magic had healed it. That wasn't what really stung.
He'd known she would say no. Deep down, he had. But that didn't stop him from hoping. He always hoped. And it always felt worse when he was wrong.
Harry stared at the mess on his bed—half-packed clothes, some birthday cards from the Weasleys, Ron's old Chudley Cannons jumper. Normally, it would've made him smile. Right now, it felt like it belonged to someone else's life. One where things were easier. One where his mum said yes.
He flopped down on the bed and covered his face with his hands, breathing hard through the tangle of feelings that rose like smoke. He wasn't angry. Not really. He was just… tired. Of the way things were. Of watching his mum try so hard to keep everything together when it was already falling apart. Of pretending that everything was fine when it wasn't.
His room felt too quiet. Too clean. Like a space people walked through carefully so they didn't stir the grief still hanging in the corners.
She's still scared,Harry thought.Still stuck in the past. Still looking over her shoulder like Dad might walk through the door one day.
And maybe that was what hurt the most. That his mum was still trying to hold on to something that wasn't there anymore—so tightly that she couldn't reach for what was.
Harry rolled onto his side, looking at the photograph on his nightstand. The two of them—James and Lily—smiling. Laughing. Dancing. Frozen in time. His father's arm wrapped around his mother's shoulders, her eyes bright and carefree.
He didn't remember that day. He didn't remember James at all. But he could feel the absence like a bruise; he'd learnt to stop pressing on.
He sighed and reached for the photo, brushing his thumb lightly across it.
"I just wanted her to come with me," he whispered. "Just once."
He didn't want her to meet his friends just to tick a box. He wanted her to see that he'd built something—something good, even without everything they'd lost. He wanted her to be proud. He wanted to share it with her.
Instead, she'd looked at him like she wanted to but couldn't. Like there was a wall between them that neither of them could name.
The knot in his chest tightened. He blinked hard, refusing to let tears fall. Not now. Not for this.
He shoved some clothes into his bag and sat back, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. The silence felt thicker now. Like it was swallowing up the words they hadn't said to each other.
Harry stared at the door, half-wishing she'd walk in and say she'd changed her mind.
But she didn't.
And he didn't expect her to.
As Harry stepped outside, the grey sky loomed low, pressing down like a weight on his shoulders. The air was damp and cold, but it wasn't the weather that made it feel heavy. It was something else—something thick and invisible, like everything he hadn't said and everything he wished she'd understand without him saying it.
Behind him, Lily followed, her steps light but distracted. She didn't look at him. She didn't have to—he already knew she wasn't really here, not fully. Her body was beside him, but her mind was miles away, tangled in case files, meetings, and deadlines.
It hit him with a familiar ache. That quiet, hollow feeling. Like the space between them was a hallway with too many locked doors. Every time he tried to reach her, something—work, stress, exhaustion—got in the way.
"I'm afraid I'll be home at eight tonight," Lily said, her voice soft but distant. "There's a complicated case at work. It's… it's taking a lot out of me."
Eight. The number echoed in his head like a bell tolling. Too late. Again.
"Eight? Seriously?" He said, not even trying to hide the edge in his voice. It cracked on the way out. "You're serious?"
"I'm afraid so," she repeated, and though her words were gentle, they felt like a shut door. Her eyes held guilt, yes—but also that same hard light of focus. Like she was already back in the office.
Harry felt something tighten in his chest. "But, Mum… what about the Recognition Assembly? The rankings? I've been waiting for it all year."
The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He hadn't meant to sound desperate. But he was. Just a little.
He saw her blink. The impact hit her—he could tell. "The Recognition Assembly!" she said quickly, eyes going wide. "I didn't forget; it's—"
"It's tonight. Seven o'clock." He kept his voice even, though something inside him was starting to crack. "It's the highlight of the year for me."
There it was. That silence. That awful, echoing pause where her words used to be. His stomach turned as he looked at her face—regret written in every line. But it wasn't just this one moment. It was all the other ones, piled up like dust in a corner. Forgotten birthdays. Missed games. Dinners alone.
"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."
Of course it was. It always was. Harry swallowed hard. He forced a smile that didn't feel real.
"I'll be okay, Mum," he said. The words sounded small, even to him. "Just one evening, right?"
But it wasn't just one evening. It never was. One turned into many. And he was tired of pretending it didn't matter.
She looked at him, really looked this time, and something in her expression shifted. "I'll do my best to make it," she promised.
He didn't answer. He'd heard that line too many times to trust it. Still, part of him clung to it. Hope was stubborn like that.
A quiet settled between them again, thick and loaded with things neither of them said. Things he wanted to scream. Do you even see how much I need you?
"Harry?" she said gently.
He didn't answer the question he thought she might ask. He just stepped forward and kissed her cheek like always. A ritual. A routine. But today, it felt different. Forced. Fragile.
"Good luck with your report, Mum," he said. He tried to make it sound light, but it came out heavy. Tired.
She smiled back. Warm. But not all the way. Not in her eyes.
"I'll see you later, dear."
He nodded, watching her walk away. Her figure faded into the crowd like smoke. A drizzle began to fall—thin and misty, barely there—but it soaked into his skin anyway.
Then, suddenly—impact.
Someone collided with him hard, and hot liquid splashed across his chest. He gasped, jumping back. A man in a black hoodie stumbled, holding a now-empty coffee cup.
"I'm so sorry!" the man said quickly.
The coffee clung to his shirt, seeping in. It wasn't the burn that got him—it was the way this one stupid moment was the final insult. Like the world was laughing. Even the universe thinks I'm not worth showing up for.
"Harry!" Lily's voice broke through, her steps fast as she returned. "Are you alright?"
He straightened, quickly brushing at the mess. "I'm fine," he said too fast. "It's just coffee."
He didn't want her fussing. Not now. Not when she should already be gone. Not when she hadn't noticed him until someone else did.
Her gaze shot toward the man. "You should be more careful!"
But the man didn't answer. Just kept walking, disappearing without a word.
"I'll just—"
But Lily had already raised her wand.
"I'll clean it. Then I'll leave," she said firmly. "Tergeo!"
Warmth swept over him, and the stain vanished. Magic. Neat. Quick. Clean.
Why can't everything be fixed that easily?
"Thanks," he said quietly.
"I'll see you tonight," she called, already turning.
"Take care," he replied. He poured as much hope as he could into the words. Maybe she'd hear it. Maybe she'd come.
He watched her go until she was swallowed by the street.
And then he stood there, alone in the drizzle, shirt dry, heart soaked.