The toilet spat her out as though it regretted swallowing her in the first place.
Lily staggered a little, catching herself with one hand against the Ministry's polished stone wall. The sudden chill in the Atrium air smacked her square in the face—not quite refreshing, not quite cruel—just sharp enough to remind her she hadn't slept properly in three nights. She inhaled slowly, deliberately, trying to shake the scent of mildew and ancient copper piping still clinging to her robes like some stubborn jinx.
Honestly, who designed this entrance? Some sadist with a flair for plumbing and a deep hatred of dignity, no doubt.
Her fingers were damp. She wiped them quickly on the threadbare hem of her sleeve, suppressing the childish urge to gag. The Ministry loo network had always been a joke in the break rooms—until you were the one travelling through it at half-seven in the morning, knackered and cross-eyed, hoping not to appear in front of the Minister with toilet paper flapping from your boot.
"Blimey," came a familiar voice, light with amusement. "Looks like you've already seen off half the Death Eaters before breakfast."
Arthur. Just a few steps ahead, red hair glowing faintly under the Atrium's artificial lights, a grin as open and disarming as ever. And for one second, something inside Lily loosened its grip.
"If I ever do that again," she muttered, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear, "I'll hex someone. Probably myself. Magical sewage as a form of transport—whose bright idea was that?"
Arthur stepped closer, chuckling. "Ministry policy. Keeps the riff-raff out."
"And the staff suitably humiliated," Lily added, adjusting the precarious tower of parchment under her arm before it collapsed. "Here. Take this before I decide to chuck it in the fountain."
Arthur accepted the bundle with both hands and a low grunt. "Merlin's trousers—what is this? A spellbook? Or a slow and deliberate murder attempt by bureaucracy?"
"It's the case file," she said wearily, rubbing the back of her neck. "And the backup file. And the annotated duplicate of the backup. Plus a few scribbled thoughts on justice, caffeine, and the futility of hope. I was tired."
Arthur peered at the top sheet. "Are these runes… or stress drawings?"
"Bit of both."
Her shoulders throbbed. Her back twinged. Her soul, if it was still present and accounted for, gave a low moan of protest. "I had to rewrite the whole thing after I spilt tea on the first copy. Cold tea, too. Didn't even get the pleasure of drinking it."
They stood in that odd, electric hush the Atrium always held in the mornings—magic humming faintly beneath the floor tiles, like the whole building was thinking about waking up but hadn't quite committed. Overhead, the floating lights flickered half-heartedly. It all felt faintly on the edge—like everything was being held together with spit, wand polish, and sheer will.
The lift dinged somewhere in the distance.
Arthur looked at her sideways, his voice softer now. "And how's Harry?"
Lily hesitated.
Just the one question. Always the one. So small. So ordinary. So ruinous.
Her gaze dropped to the tiles. Familiar. Scuffed. Safe. Her chest tightened.
"Not… great," she admitted, low and guilty.
Arthur didn't press. Just waited, like he always did.
"I think I botched it this morning," she said, barely above a whisper.
"What happened?"
She exhaled through her nose. "Told him I had to stay late. New case. I was halfway through my checklist when he reminded me—Hogwarts' Recognition Assembly. He's been looking forward to it all year. I didn't even look up. Just brushed him off."
Arthur winced. Quiet, but clear.
"Yeah." Lily gave a tired, mirthless smile. "He didn't argue. Didn't sulk. Just… went quiet. That kind of quiet you can't fix with an apology or a box of Honeydukes fudge."
The words sat between them, heavy and dry, like old parchment too brittle to fold.
Lily pressed her fingers to her temples, willing the pounding behind her eyes to subside. "I keep telling myself I'm doing my best. That it's temporary. Just one case. One more file. One more meeting. But he's not counting files, Arthur. He's counting how many times I miss him."
Arthur nodded slowly, brows drawn.
"He's so much like James," Lily said, voice catching ever so slightly. "The way he hides things when he's hurting. The way he still holds out hope I'll get it right next time."
She didn't say the rest.
That she wasn't sure she would.
The lift arrived with a reluctant clang, its iron doors groaning open as though personally offended at being called into service.
They stepped inside. It creaked slightly beneath Arthur's armful of parchment.
"I said I'd make it up to him," Lily blurted, too fast. The words stumbled over each other, clumsy, a bit desperate. "I will."
"I know you will," Arthur said gently. "You're doing your best."
But what if her best wasn't enough?
She could still see it—Harry's shoulders, sagging. The quiet nod he gave, eyes fixed somewhere just past her. He hadn't slammed a door or stormed off. He hadn't even raised his voice. He'd simply… left. Like he'd already stopped hoping she'd be different next time.
There'd been a time, not so very long ago, when she'd known everything about him. What he was reading. Which spells fascinated him. Which Chocolate Frog card he'd trade a week's worth of pudding for. Now all she caught were flashes. Out-of-context fragments from a story she was no longer central to.
"I'm thinking of getting him that new Quidditch book," she said after a beat, quieter. "The one on the British and Irish teams. He mentioned it a few weeks back. Thought it might cheer him up."
She leaned back against the lift wall, arms folded, holding herself together.
"I just wish I didn't always have to fix things after the fact. I wish I'd been there in the first place."
The lift gave a sympathetic rattle, as if in quiet agreement.
Arthur gave her a small smile, the kind that meant trouble was coming. His head tilted just slightly, that Weasley knack for kindness layered with inconvenient truth.
"It's a good thought," he said, "but hasn't he already got that one? Hideous green cover, hippogriff with its wings on backwards?"
Lily froze.
"He does?"
"Mmm. Read it last time he was here. Walked straight into a wall and insisted it was an 'unexpected door'.Molly's still laughing."
She blinked. Once. Twice. "I must've missed that."
Arthur's eyebrows lifted, just a little. "You were standing right next to him."
And there it was—that sickening little twist in her gut. Cold. Sharp. The kind of realisation that made you want to stop time and rewind it, even just five minutes.
She'd been there. Right beside him. And somehow, she hadn't seen. Hadn't noticed the book. Hadn't registered the way his face lit up when something caught his imagination. That used to be second nature. Like breathing.
When had she stopped looking?
The answer came quicker than she liked.
When surviving had replaced living. When keeping up with everything meant dropping bits of him along the way.
"I'll be there tonight," she said softly. "I won't miss it."
Arthur didn't try to reassure her this time. Just nodded. Solid. Present. The kind of friend who didn't need to fill the silence.
"And if you fancy pretending to enjoy an hour of awkward teen speeches," he added, with a tilt of his mouth, "I've got decades of experience. Comes with the 'embarrassed father' territory."
Lily laughed for the first time that morning. The sound cracked something tight in her chest, letting a little light through.
"I might hold you to that."
"Just keep the twins away from the food table," Arthur said mildly. "Last time we did one of these, the Muggle Ambassador spent twenty minutes duelling a teacup."
She winced. "You really must write a memoir."
The lift gave a final shudder and chimed its arrival. The doors groaned open onto Level Two.
And just like that, the world changed.
It always did here.
Noise met her first—a swell of voices, shouts, the crack and fizz of minor spells mid-cast. Cloaks whipping past. The sharp click of heels. The familiar scents of ink, potion residue and worn leather, all baked in with too many early mornings and too much coffee.
Even now—beneath all the exhaustion, the doubt—something inside her sparked.
This was what she'd trained for. This mattered. The pace, the pressure, the sense that what she did made a difference. Even when she felt frayed. Even when she knew she'd got it wrong elsewhere.
They moved together through the ordered chaos of the Auror Department, ducking rogue memos and sidestepping flustered trainees, Arthur somehow managing to carry her mountain of parchment without losing so much as a corner.
And then—now. If she didn't say it now, she'd never find the moment again.
Lily glanced sideways. Arthur's face was set in that usual look of quiet concentration, focused but not impenetrable. There was space. Enough room in the moment to slip something through.
She leaned in, her voice low but edged just enough to cut through the din.
"Arthur… I want to talk about something. About… changing our destinies."
He looked at her, not startled but wary in that mild way he got when something serious was brewing. "That's a bold phrase to open a Monday with."
"I mean it," she said, firmer now. "I've been thinking. About whether there's more to all this. Not just the job—but the way we live it. We're constantly reacting, aren't we? Containing disasters. Following rules written by people who've long since stepped off the battlefield. I don't know if I can keep doing this without asking what it's actually for."
Arthur didn't reply straightaway. He simply kept walking, parchment still balanced against his chest. But he was listening. She could feel it in the way his pace slowed, just a fraction.
"I want more than damage control," Lily continued. Her throat felt tight. "I want to build something. Not just hold the line until we're too tired to care. Not tick boxes until we're just another set of names in some ministry file. I want to shape what comes next. Something that lasts."
That stopped him.
Arthur turned to face her fully, expression unreadable for a second. Then: "You really think that's possible?"
She held his gaze. "Not everything. Not all at once. But yes—I think we can choose where to aim our lives. And if we aim right, maybe others will, too."
He gave a soft huff—a sort of half-laugh, half-sigh that said more than words might've. "What are we talking about here? Time-Turners? Hidden prophecies? One of those odd old crones in Knockturn Alley with a 'limited-time offer on your fate'?"
Lily allowed herself a small smile. "Not quite. But… something like that. I'm thinking fifty years ahead. Maybe more. Not to cheat time—just to understand it. To live like it matters what happens next."
Arthur let out a low chuckle. "Fifty years, is it? Ambitious."
But his voice softened on the last syllable, the weight of it shifting.
"We can't outrun death, Lily," he said quietly. "Can't dodge every tragedy. All we've ever really owned is the next choice we make. If we're lucky, we string a few good ones together. The rest is just… living with the ones we didn't."
His words hit like well-placed magic—subtle, sure, and entirely unarguable. He hadn't said them to comfort her. He'd said them because they were true.
Still, Lily's breath caught. Not because he was wrong—but because it still wasn't enough.
"Maybe," she whispered. "But I'm not talking about fate, Arthur. I'm not trying to rewrite the stars. I just… I need to feel it. That this life we're building means something. That I'm not just following orders. That I haven't already missed the things that matter."
Arthur's gaze gentled.
"Like Harry," he said quietly.
She didn't reply. She didn't have to.
She'd missed the book. Missed the look on his face. Missed that one moment that mattered more than all the rest put together. And not because she didn't care—because she hadn't been present. Not really. Not where it counted.
"I don't want to wait until it's too late," she said, and her voice nearly cracked. "I want to be brave. Not just out there, with a wand drawn and the badges and titles. But in here, too. Where it's real."
Arthur was quiet for a moment. Then, without fanfare, he shifted the stack of parchment into her arms.
"There. That's the first step sorted," he said with a grunt. "Now go to that assembly. Be there. And maybe write a note to yourself somewhere in that frightening planner of yours. Something simple. Like: Stop. Listen. Look."
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It didn't erase the ache in her chest, but it gave it shape. Gave it direction. And that, at least, was something she could follow.
Arthur's gaze drifted forward as they wove through the flurry of movement that never quite stilled on the Auror floor. His steps slowed, just slightly, until the rush around them seemed to blur into background noise.
When he spoke, it was softly, as though trying not to jostle something fragile.
"So… You've been researching this?"
"I have," Lily replied, steady, meeting his eyes. "Quite a lot, actually."
That earned her one of Arthur's knowing looks—mild, but deeply perceptive. The sort of look that didn't ask for confession because it already held the truth.
"That explains the late nights, then. The missed dinners. You've looked tired lately."
The comment caught her off guard. It shouldn't have—Arthur missed very little—but still, something in her chest jolted.
"You noticed that?"
He gave a quiet shrug, the kind that meant more than it looked. There was nothing dismissive in it, only warmth and a kind of worn-down wisdom.
"Of course I did. You think I wouldn't? I've seen you drifting off mid-sentence. Scribbling on napkins when you thought no one was watching. Whatever it is you've been chasing… it's starting to leave its mark."
Heat rose to her cheeks before she could stop it.
She hadn't realised he'd seen that much. James hadn't said anything. Neither had Remus, and he usually noticed everything. But Arthur had. Somehow, without fuss or judgement, he'd seen right through the walls she thought she'd put up neatly enough.
"I didn't mean to be obvious," she said quietly.
"You weren't," Arthur replied with a faint smile. "But I've had seven children, Lily. You learn to spot the difference between focus… and fixation."
That might have made her laugh, once. On another day. Now, her throat was too tight for anything more than a quiet breath.
She looked away, across the sweep of desks and darting owls and Aurors mid-discussion. The entire floor buzzed with that peculiar kind of urgency—vital, loud, and strangely distant. Like watching her own life from the outside.
"I just…" she began, then stopped, hunting for the words. She didn't want to sound defensive. Or worse—lost.
"I want to do something that matters. Not just paperwork and field reports. Not just patching up the mess left behind. I want to build something. Something lasting. Something that actually helps people."
Arthur didn't answer straight away. And when he did, it wasn't with humour or distraction—it was with the quiet weight of someone who'd felt the same once, years ago, and learnt where the sharp edges were.
"That's a good thing to want," he said gently. "Really. Just… don't forget to live in the now while you're chasing what's ahead. The future will wait. But life—" He glanced around the department. "—It's already happening."
The words didn't sting. They settled instead. Like warm tea on a fraught stomach. Familiar, aching.
Had she missed it? Had she been so focused on the next thing—the next paper, the next revelation, the next great idea—that she'd stopped noticing what was right in front of her?
Her son. Her home. The un-magicked bits of life that needed her just as much as any Dark wizard takedown ever had.
"You're right," she said softly. And she meant it.
For the first time in weeks, the fire burning in her belly didn't feel quite so wild. It hadn't gone, not completely—but it had… narrowed. Sharpened. Like it had a direction again.
Arthur hesitated. She felt it in the slight shift of his stance. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Careful. Measured.
"Also…" he began, slowly, "my children are close to yours. With Ron being Harry's best mate… I've heard things. Bits and pieces. About home."
She stilled.
He held up a hand, palms open. "Nothing I went prying for. But… enough. And I think you deserve to know."
Lily's jaw tightened, just slightly. "He talks to Ron about me?"
The edge in her voice startled even her. Sharp. Too sharp.
Arthur didn't flinch. "Not like that. Not to complain. It's not betrayal, Lily—it's a boy trying to make sense of something he doesn't know how to say aloud. And when it comes to you, he's not angry. He's confused. And he's hurting. He's looking for comfort. For understanding."
She didn't speak. Couldn't. The usual din of the office had dimmed, like someone had drawn the sound out of the room and left only the silence to press in on her. Her heart thudded—steady, relentless.
Arthur's voice was quieter now, careful.
"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 read like he was waiting. Hoping. That you'd reach out. That he'd know your love isn't earned or conditional. That it doesn't vanish when he lets you down."
Lily blinked. Once. Then again.
The words hit her like falling glass. Sharp. Cold. Clear.
Her son—her Harry—was afraid her love had limits. Not because she'd stopped loving him, but because she hadn't made it easy to feel. Because she'd been too wrapped in worry and work and relentless urgency to reach for him in the quiet.
"I do love him," she said at once, too fast, too loud. "More than anything. Everything I've ever done—it's always been for him. Always."
"I know that," Arthur said gently. "But that's not always what he feels. Not when you're distant. Not when he feels like a responsibility instead of your boy."
The words weren't cruel. They were worse than cruel. They were true.
Lily's throat tightened.
"But what happens between us—that's ours," she said, her voice taut and fraying. "It shouldn't be passed through Ron like I'm some stranger."
Arthur didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. He only watched her, eyes kind, voice soft.
"He's not betraying you. He's reaching for a way to understand. And he trusts Ron to help him name what he can't say to you yet. But he wants to say it. He's looking for you, Lily. The you he remembers. The one who knew when he was lying about brushing his teeth. Who could spot a fib from the way he held his wand."
A broken sound escaped her—half laugh, half breath.
"I used to know him," she whispered. "Every little thing. I knew when he was nervous just by the way he tapped his thumb. Now I'm late to everything. Late to his moods, to his thoughts. To him."
"You still have time," Arthur said, steady as ever. "He's not beyond you. But you'll lose him if you don't stop running at the pace of fear."
Lily's eyes burnt. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to chase off the growing ache. Her voice, when it came, was quiet and flat.
"I want him to be strong," she said at last. "James gave everything for him. Died for him. That has to mean something. He can't just float through life, acting like it's nothing."
Her gaze dropped to her watch—again. Tick, tick, tick. Each second snapping past like a door she was failing to catch. She hated it. Hated what she'd become inside time's chokehold.
"He needs to grow up," she added. "He's not a little boy anymore."
Arthur's voice dropped, gentle but sure.
"He is, Lily. He's still a child. Just one who's been asked to carry too much. Who's watched too many people sacrifice everything for him, without asking if he ever wanted them to."
She turned her face away. Too quickly.
The truth stung like raw wind.
She didn't want it. Not today. Not now. Not when she already felt like a cracked pane of glass barely holding together beneath the pressure.
But still—it stayed with her.
Not scolding. Not cruel.
Just the unbearable weight of knowing she'd been trying so hard to prepare Harry for the world that she'd stopped simply being his mother in it.
Her eyes dropped to the mess on her desk—parchment crumpled at the corners, ink bottles tipped at odd angles, a mug of tea gone cold and forgotten, half-congealed in its dregs. A spare quill lay snapped in two, its feather bent. Everything was chaos. Disorganised.
Just like her.
She caught sight of one report—ink smudged in the middle where her palm had pressed too hard. She stared at it blankly, chest tightening, trying to breathe through the slow, familiar spiral of overwhelm.
If she just kept moving—if she focused—she wouldn't fall apart.
"I've got to run," she said quickly, the words coming sharper than she meant. Brittle. She began gathering papers into a pile, though her hands were trembling now—just enough to make everything clumsier than it should have been. "We'll talk later."
Arthur stood, unmoving. Watching her with that gentle, infuriating way of his. The way that always meant he saw far too much.
"Good luck," he said quietly, tone kind but cautious. "And… don't forget tonight. Hogwarts."
She nodded, distracted. Barely heard him. Her mind had already jumped ahead—to the next form, the next set of notes, the speech she hadn't quite finished, and the security charm she hadn't practised properly. She reached for her desk again, rifling with growing urgency.
Where were her glasses?
Not there. Not on the stack. Not tucked behind the ink bottle. Gone. Again.
"Brilliant," she muttered under her breath, voice fraying at the edges. She swept a hand across the clutter, patting down scraps and scrolls. She always left them here, always—
Her fingers brushed something smooth and round at the edge of the desk. She snatched it with relief—and pulled too hard.
Her knuckles cracked against the corner of the wood.
She froze.
No. Not now.
Not this.
She looked down. Her stomach dropped before her eyes even confirmed it.
The glasses rested in her palm. But one lens—cracked clean through. A jagged break split the glass, like a hairline fracture running through the morning itself. It caught the light, sharp and cold. Broken.
Just like everything else.
Her shoulders dropped. Her hand lowered slowly to the desk, glasses still caught between her fingers. Her throat tightened with something deeper than frustration.
"Of course," she whispered, barely audible. "Of course."
It was ridiculous, really. A simple fix. Oculus Reparo—she could mend them in half a second. But it wasn't the lens that undid her.
It was what it meant.
Everything was breaking. Quietly. In the background. In ways that didn't scream, just splintered. Her routines. Her grip on the job. Her sleep. Her sense of who she was.
Harry's trust.
And now this.
She sat down slowly, as if her body had only just remembered how tired it was. She didn't move to fix the glasses. Didn't reach for her wand. Just sat, the weight of it all finally settling across her shoulders.
For a brief, raw moment, she let herself feel it—the exhaustion. The guilt. The quiet, awful fear that maybe it wasn't just time she was losing.
Maybe it was him.
Harry sat hunched at the kitchen table, idly tearing the crusts off his toast. He wasn't hungry. Hadn't been, really, since he'd come down the stairs. The morning sun slanted through the window in thin, golden strips, lighting up the dust motes in the air and casting long bars across the floor. It looked warm. It wasn't.
The toast tasted like nothing—stale and dry, even though he'd slathered it in butter. He took another bite, chewed without meaning to, then gave up and pushed the rest aside. His fingers were already speckled with crumbs.
The chair across from him sat empty. Again.
He tried not to look at it. Honestly, he did. But his eyes kept flicking back, like they hadn't got the message yet. Like some daft, stubborn part of him still expected footsteps overhead, the rattle of a mug on the counter, and a voice calling, Morning, love, through a yawn.
But there was nothing. Just the slow tick of the kitchen clock and the occasional rustle of leaves brushing the windowpane.
His mum was an Auror. She was brilliant—everyone said so. Smart. Fearless. Respected. He didn't doubt it for a second. He'd seen it for himself, in how people straightened up when she entered a room, how her name meant something. He was proud of her. Of course he was.
But it didn't help much when her chair stayed empty. When he made tea for two out of habit and ended up pouring one down the sink.
He poked at his eggs with a fork. They'd gone cold and rubbery. He wasn't even sure why he'd bothered cooking. She hadn't come home early last night. Again.
She's saving lives, he reminded himself. That's what matters. Bigger things. Important things.
But the thought didn't soften the ache in his chest. It never did. It just made him feel guilty on top of everything else.
Was it selfish—to want her to be here? To wish, just once, that she'd look across the table and see him—not as some miracle she'd survived to raise, not as the boy who had to understand because "this is the job", but just as her son?
His gaze slid, traitorous, back to her chair.
Still empty.
Still waiting.
Had she even eaten dinner?
He'd left some out, just in case. Kept it warm with a stasis charm he'd learnt last year. It was still there this morning. Untouched.
He raked a hand through his hair and let out a breath, sharp and tired. He wasn't trying to be ungrateful. He knew she loved him. Knew she worked harder than anyone. But that didn't stop the hollow feeling. The way it crept in through the quiet. The way it made him feel like he was vanishing, inch by inch, from her world.
Today was the recognition assembly. He was on the honours list—first time in front of the whole school. She'd said she'd try to be there.
That word. Try.
It twisted something in his stomach every time. Because it meant maybe. It meant probably not. And worst of all, it meant he'd have to pretend it was fine.
It's all right, Mum, he'd say. I understand.
Even if he didn't.
He stood slowly, pushing back the chair. The sound scraped across the floor too loudly, like it was echoing into all the places her voice should've been.
He cleared his plate and mug, rinsed them under the tap, and dried them with the crumpled tea towel hanging by the sink—the one she never remembered to fold. The cloth smelt faintly of lemon.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
He wiped the counter. Brushed the crumbs into his palm and tipped them in the bin. Straightened the salt and pepper pots. It wasn't about neatness—it was about something else. About not drifting. About pretending things were steady, even when they weren't.
The place didn't feel empty, exactly.
It felt haunted.
Not by ghosts—he knew what ghosts were like. They talked. They drifted. They had unfinished business. This wasn't that. This was silence. Absence. The kind of emptiness that didn't announce itself. It just crept in and settled, soft and sharp all at once.
He thought of her humming, years ago, as she stirred the soup. The way she'd flicked foam off her quill with a grin. The way she used to notice things—when he'd had a rough day, when he'd left his trainers outside, when he didn't speak but needed to be heard.
It had all faded. Like an old photograph, colours bleeding at the edges.
Once everything was back in its place, Harry turned and headed upstairs.
The assembly was in a few hours. His robes were probably still crumpled on the back of his chair.
And he didn't know if she'd be there.
But he'd go anyway.
Because maybe trying had to start with him, too.
His room still felt familiar in a way the rest of the house didn't anymore. The Quidditch posters were still up—creased at the corners but stubbornly clinging to the walls, proudly defiant. A stack of old spellbooks leaned precariously on the desk, pages marked and dog-eared. Above them, faded drawings of dragons and magical creatures hung where he'd pinned them years ago, the edges curled and yellowing, like they were quietly ageing without asking permission.
It was like time had paused in here, while the rest of the house moved on without him.
He brushed his fingers along the edge of the desk, feeling the tiny grooves and scratches left by years of last-minute homework, ink spills, and late-night scribbles under candlelight. The familiar scuffs felt oddly comforting. At least something here still held the memory of him.
He stepped over to Hedwig's cage.
She stirred at the sound, feathers rustling as she blinked at him, sleepy but alert. Her amber eyes locked with his, steady and sharp, like she saw right through him—as if she'd already read the things he hadn't said.
"Hey, girl," he said quietly.
He undid the latch gently so it wouldn't rattle. Hedwig gave a small shake, then swept into the air with barely a sound, circling the room in one wide arc. There was grace in her flight, effortless and untouchable. She wasn't bound to anything—no duties, no expectations, no long pauses at doorways hoping someone might finally come through.
Just the sky. Just freedom.
Sometimes, Harry wished he could be more like that.
No waiting. No hoping. No sitting across from an empty chair, wondering if today would be different.
He watched her glide for a moment, then turned to the two letters on his desk. One for Ron. One for Hermione. Neither long. He'd written them quickly, just enough to let them know he was all right, even if he didn't feel it.
He folded the letters and tied it to Hedwig's leg with fingers that knew the motion well. Familiar. Steady.
"Be safe, yeah?" he murmured, smoothing the feathers along her back.
She gave a soft hoot, brushed his knuckles with her beak, then launched out the open window without hesitation.
Harry stood there, watching until she disappeared into the sky.
She didn't look back.
And somehow, that made the silence she left behind even heavier. Hedwig didn't make much noise, not really, but now the room felt almost hollow. As though part of it had gone with her.
He took a slow breath. Let it out again.
That dull ache was still there, like it always was. Not sharp, not even painful exactly—just there, like a weight he'd grown used to carrying. He'd learnt to walk with it. Talk with it. But sometimes, like now, it swelled just enough to remind him it hadn't gone anywhere.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, and looked towards the window, where the last breath of morning breeze fluttered the curtain.
It would've been easy to stay there. Still. Quiet. Just breathing.
But the part of him that never really stopped—never really let things go—reached for the drawer beside his bed.
The wood creaked as it opened.
Inside was a neatly ordered mess: scraps of parchment, old Chocolate Frog cards, two quills with slightly frayed ends… and, in the middle, the notebook.
His notebook.
He lifted it out with both hands, careful not to tug at the cracked spine. The cover was scuffed from years of use, soft at the corners where he'd thumbed it again and again. Holding it was like slipping into an old jumper—frayed, familiar, and too worn to be anyone else's.
He turned it over in his lap, tracing the faded stitching with his thumb. The pages inside held things no one else knew. Thoughts that didn't quite fit in letters. Feelings he couldn't say aloud. Truths that, if spoken, might break something.
He flicked through slowly. His own handwriting stared back—slanted, messy, rushed. Some lines had been scratched out, and others rewritten two or three times, like he couldn't quite get them right. There were a few poems, scribbled in the margins late at night when sleep wouldn't come. Some were angry. Others were just sad.
But they were his. All of them.
He stopped at a blank page.
It looked strange, clean and untouched after all the scrawls and crossings-out before it. The emptiness of it made something tighten in his chest. It was waiting—for what, he wasn't sure. A thought. A truth. A way to say the thing he hadn't managed to yet.
The quill sat beside the notebook, already inked from the last entry. His fingers hovered above it.
And still, he didn't move.
Not yet.
He sat there, notebook open, staring at the empty page as the light shifted on the floor.
Waiting for the words to come.
What if there's nothing worth saying today?
What if the words don't come?
The thoughts crept in uninvited, curling round the edges of his mind like mist on the pitch. He frowned, thumb running along the edge of the page.
But then another thought followed, quieter—maybe that's not the point.
He picked up his quill.
It felt slightly strange in his hand—awkward at first, like it wasn't sure if it was welcome—but then familiar, like an old friend he hadn't written to in too long. The weight of it settled just right in his fingers.
Dipping it into the inkwell, he let the tip hover above the page. A pause. A breath.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to write.
"With tears in my eyes, I kneeled and looked above…"
The words came slowly at first, like coaxing something wild out of hiding. But each one seemed to loosen something—a knot inside his chest he hadn't even realised was there. The scratch of the quill was comforting, like rain tapping on a window when you're warm inside.
He kept going. Line after line.
Memories came up, unasked for but not unwelcome. Gentle ones at first—how she used to tuck the blanket under his chin just right, the way her voice softened when she read to him, and how her laughter used to echo round the kitchen like music. But others were heavier. Her empty seat at breakfast. The unopened cards on his birthday. The look in her eyes when she came home too late to pretend it was still evening.
He didn't stop to perfect it. He just wrote.
And when he finally set the quill down, his hand ached faintly, and his chest felt oddly hollow, as if something had been scooped out—but not in a bad way. More like something had finally moved. Shifted.
His eyes drifted back to the last line.
Then, above it, in smaller, careful letters, he wrote the title:
A Mother's Love.
He stared at it for a long while.
What he felt wasn't pride—not quite—but something close. A sense of relief, maybe. Like a stone he'd been carrying for weeks had been placed down, and now he could stand up straighter.
He closed the notebook gently and slipped it back into the drawer. His fingers lingered a moment on the worn cover. There was something precious about it—not because it was neat or brilliant, but because it was his. His thoughts, unspoken but real, stitched together on parchment.
Standing up, he looked round the room.
It was still a mess, really—bed a disaster, robes slung over the back of his chair, books piled like miniature towers with no plan—but it was his mess. And for the first time in a while, he felt like sorting it.
He started with the bed, tugging the sheets straight, shaking out the pillow, and folding the blanket at the foot. Then the books—stacked them neatly on the desk, organised without overthinking. Next, the laundry, folded with a kind of stubborn determination. Even the top shelf got a dusting—the one with the old Gobstones set and a broken Fanged Frisbee he still hadn't thrown away.
It wasn't much. But it felt like something. Like he was reclaiming a little space inside his own story.
When he finished, the room didn't look perfect, but it felt steadier. The air seemed easier to breathe.
Then the clock chimed.
Half past eight.
His eyes widened slightly. He hadn't meant to lose track of time. That quiet urgency crept back in—Mum's list was still waiting, along with the rest of the day.
He crossed the room in three strides and stepped into the hallway. The floor creaked underfoot, familiar and worn. Their house wasn't big, but it held its own gravity—some rooms heavier than others.
He stopped outside her door.
His hand hovered near the knob, fingers twitching.
It was just a room. Just her room. But something about it made his heart beat a bit faster.
He swallowed, turned the handle, and stepped inside.
The room was dim. The bedside lamp glowed softly, casting golden light over the duvet, the stack of books on her nightstand, and the slightly ajar wardrobe. Everything felt still, suspended. Like the room had been holding its breath.
He stood there a moment, unsure.
The scent hit him—lavender, ink, something faintly medicinal. Familiar. Her.
It smelt like bedtime stories and worn jumpers. Like letters written by candlelight and rushed mornings with toast and tea and kisses on the head, she didn't always know he noticed.
He didn't move right away. Just stood, letting it wash over him.
The quiet wasn't empty. It was full of her.
But it was the photographs that gave the room its heartbeat.
Dozens of them lined the wall above the dresser and along the far shelf—some still, some moving gently, as if caught between breaths. A quiet museum of memories. Little windows into the life they'd once had.
One picture always caught his eye.
His mum—Lily—was curled into an old armchair, baby Harry nestled in her lap. She was smiling, and her green eyes were fixed on him like he was the most important thing in the world. Behind them, James Potter hovered mid-laugh, his face frozen in one of those ridiculous expressions that only dads seemed to manage—half mischief, half madness. Baby Harry, in the photograph, was wide-eyed, as if he couldn't believe so much joy had a sound.
Harry looked at it now, a small smile tugging at his mouth. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
That was his dad.
A man the world spoke of in golden terms—clever, daring, a born leader. But for Harry, he was more myth than memory. A name in old stories. A voice he'd never heard. A hand he'd never held. That space—where his dad should've been—never truly went away. No matter how many tales people told, no matter how many times he tried to pretend otherwise.
It's not fair, he thought, but let it pass.
He'd learnt not to sink into that feeling. Not for long. It was too deep. Too easy to drown in.
He blinked, took a steadying breath, and whispered, "Not now."
He moved further into the room.
Something in the air felt… off. Hard to explain. The room was clean, yes—but not just tidy. Too tidy. Like it had been arranged with purpose. Not the kind of cleaning done for comfort, but the sort meant to keep things contained. To hold something in. Or maybe out.
He glanced at the shelves. The desk. Her shoes by the door. Everything in its place.
Except—
There, near the foot of the bed.
A folder. Thick. Dark blue. The corners slightly bent. And crucially—wrong. It didn't belong there.
Harry stilled.
His heart gave a soft, startled jolt, the sort that came before things changed.
Slowly, he crossed the room, steps soundless against the carpet. The folder looked ordinary—almost dull. But his gut was already twisting.
He crouched and picked it up.
No name. No label. Just smooth, weighty card, cold beneath his fingers.
He opened it.
And saw the heading:
Ministry of Magic – Internal Report Drafts
The breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't the usual paperwork she left on the counter or scrawled across the kitchen table while stirring tea with her wand. These weren't notes. They were the sort of files grown-ups spoke about behind closed doors. The sort that made people lower their voices. The sort she never brought home—unless something was wrong.
He flicked through the first few pages.
Dense language. Policy talk. Revisions to field procedure. Mostly words that blurred together—but then—
URGENT.
Stamped in red. All caps. A shiver went down his spine.
The next pages were heavier. Diagrams. Departmental charts. Mentions of rising threat levels. Field Aurors being reassigned. A growing list of incidents. Danger ratings ticking up across key regions. And then—
Her name.
Lily Potter. Underlined. Circled. Tied to a footnote marked "Classified – Eyes Only".
He stared.
Everything in him went still. Like the whole room had stopped moving.
She hadn't seen this. She must've grabbed the wrong file in the rush this morning. She'd left it behind without knowing. She was already at the Ministry. In a meeting. Without this.
She needs it.
His hands were moving before his brain caught up, folding the folder shut and hugging it tight to his chest. He couldn't explain it—he didn't think, not properly—but something told him this mattered.
And more than that, it wasn't safe here.
Still barefoot and still in his pyjamas, Harry bolted for the door.
He took the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping over the bannister at the bottom. His heart hammered so loudly it drowned out everything else.
The fireplace loomed ahead. The bowl of Floo powder sat just where it always did—on the mantelpiece, in an old ceramic dish shaped like a teacup.
His hand trembled as he reached for it.
He hated Floo travel. The smoke. The spinning. The feeling like you were being squeezed through a hose backwards. But none of that mattered now.
He stepped into the grate, folder pressed to his ribs, and hurled the powder into the flames.
"Ministry of Magic!"
Green fire roared up around him. The world vanished.
And Harry was gone.
The Ministry atrium rose up around him as Harry stumbled out of the fireplace, lungs tight, knees unsteady beneath him.
He glanced about, wide-eyed.
Witches and wizards bustled in every direction, cloaks sweeping the floor, voices brisk, heels clicking. Golden statues gleamed under the high enchanted ceiling. Interdepartmental memos zipped overhead like frantic paper birds. It all looked the same.
But it didn't feel the same.
Harry clutched the folder tighter—so tight his knuckles were white.
Find her. Now.
His mum's name rang in his head, over and over. She had to see this. She had to. Whatever it was, it was important. Urgent.
He pressed forward, ignoring the stares. People were whispering, pausing to glance at him—hair sticking up worse than usual, jumper askew, eyes too wide. He knew he looked out of place. He didn't care.
Let them stare.
The ministry was a maze of corridors and too-high ceilings. He passed watchful portraits that seemed to track him as he walked, their eyes narrowed, their faces unreadable.
He almost missed the lift entirely—it slid open just as he reached it.
"Harry?"
He turned.
Tonks.
Hair a brilliant shade of violet today, her face familiar and kind. Her voice cut through the noise in his head like cold water.
"You alright?" she asked, stepping closer.
He shook his head. "No—I mean, I'm fine, just—my mum. She left this behind."
He held up the folder. "She's in that department heads' meeting, isn't she?"
Tonks's brow lifted as she glanced at the cover. Something flickered in her eyes—recognition, maybe even concern.
"Yeah," she said, briskly now. "They're in already. Come on—we'll get you there."
The lift doors began to close, and they slipped inside just in time.
"Level Two," said the calm, disembodied voice, "Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
The doors slid open with a soft chime.
Harry stepped out, trying to pull himself together. The corridor was too clean, all straight lines and polished stone. People hurried past in crisp robes, clipped voices murmuring reports, updates, and warnings.
His feet moved, but his mind was racing.
What if I'm too late?
"Thanks," he muttered to Tonks, scanning the long corridor.
Where was she? Which room?
He was just a kid. No one would listen to him. Not here. But right now, he might be the only one who knew this mattered.
Tonks touched his arm gently. "I'll help you find her," she said, calm as ever.
He nodded once and followed.
They weaved through the ministry like fish swimming upstream, dodging hurried staff and floating memos. Tonks made it look easy—tossing winks and the odd salute as she passed. Harry didn't try to be clever. He clutched the folder like a lifeline, like it might vanish if he let go.
Their shoes tapped quickly along the floor, the sound rising to meet his heartbeat.
At last, Tonks stopped outside a sleek glass door marked Auror Headquarters.
Inside, behind a wide desk, sat a miserable-looking wizard hunched over the Daily Prophet, face locked in a scowl that practically screamed, Bother me and suffer.
Tonks grinned at Harry, mischievous as ever. "This is your stop. Good luck."
Her hair flashed bright turquoise as she strolled off without a care in the world.
Harry barely noticed. Through the glass panel, he saw her—his mum—standing in a crowded meeting room, surrounded by important-looking ministry officials. She looked strong. Steady. Her wand holstered, hands folded. She belonged here.
Even with the fluorescent lighting dulling the room, she seemed to shine.
He shifted the folder under his arm. Important documents. Potentially very important. Possibly even job-saving.
No pressure or anything.
He took a breath and stepped up to the front desk.
"Good morning, sir."
The man lowered his paper just enough to show a pair of bored, bloodshot eyes.
"Morning, Mr Potter," he said dully, as though Harry had already taken up far too much of his morning.
"I need to get this to the conference room," Harry said, holding out the folder. "My mum—Lily Potter—is inside. She left it behind. It's urgent."
The man eyed the folder. "Against policy."
Harry blinked. "But it's—really urgent. She could lose her job."
The man turned a page. "That's unfortunate."
Harry gaped at him. "Sir… she's missing something. This is the something."
"I see," the man said blandly, though it was clear he didn't. "Still can't let you through."
There was a pause. A long, awkward, soul-destroying pause.
Then the newspaper snapped back up, like a drawbridge slamming shut.
Harry's mouth went dry. He glanced back through the glass.
Lily was rummaging through her case, movements brisk, almost agitated. Her brow furrowed. She was missing something.
Harry's stomach flipped. This is it. This is my moment. A proper, save-the-day sort of moment.
So, naturally, he did something stupid.
He wrenched the door open.
It gave a long, protesting creak—as though the very room disapproved.
Dozens of heads turned in perfect, synchronised horror. Aurors. Department heads. People who definitely had better things to do than deal with some scrawny teenager barging into their meeting.
"Hi," said Harry. Then immediately regretted it. "Er—sorry. I mean—excuse me. Sorry."
His voice squeaked. Brilliant.
Lily turned at once. Her expression shifted from bafflement to something that might one day be used to petrify small animals. "Harry?" she said sharply—his name suddenly sounding far too loud, like a Howler in disguise.
"I thought you might need this," he blurted, thrusting the folder forward like he was offering up the sword of Gryffindor. "You left it."
There was a silence. The kind that made you wish you could Disapparate into the floor.
Then, with excruciating calm, Lily lifted the identical folder already in her hand.
Harry's brain stalled. "Oh," he managed. "Right. You've got it. Brilliant. That's… brilliant."
Someone coughed. Or laughed. It was hard to tell. Probably both.
"I just thought…" He gestured vaguely at the folder. "Important. Job stuff. You know. Thought I'd do something heroic."
Lily's jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap. Her eyes were narrowed—stern, furious, but worst of all: embarrassed.
Harry had seen that look before. Usually just before being banned from leaving the house for a month.
"I'll just—go," he muttered, already backing away. "Sorry again. Very sorry. Please don't fire her."
And with that, he turned and legged it.
He didn't stop until he'd made it halfway down the corridor, where he sagged against the wall, face hot enough to fry a cauldron cake. He stood there, heart hammering, humiliation curling in his gut like doxy venom.
He hadn't meant to make things worse. But if there was a wrong way to do something, he'd apparently mastered it.
He didn't know how long he stood there, drifting through a haze of mortification, when—
Bang.
He collided with someone hard enough to see stars.
"Merlin's pants!" He gasped, stumbling. "Hermione?"
A snort answered him.
"Close," said a voice. "But not quite that clever."
He looked up, dazed, to see Tonks grinning at him. Her hair was a wild mess of dark curls—until, with a flick, it shimmered into fluorescent pink.
Of course. Tonks.
He let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. "Right. Sorry."
"Don't be," she said cheerfully, flipping her hair. "I get mistaken for Hermione all the time. It's the tragic genius and unrelenting fashion sense."
Harry gave her a weak smile. "You've definitely got the bookish chaos vibe going."
"With a bit more falling over furniture," she added, still grinning.
He laughed, but it didn't last. It slipped away almost immediately. She noticed—of course she did.
Tonks tilted her head. "What's going on in that stormy little head of yours, then?"
Harry didn't speak. He simply held up the folder, as if that explained everything. The edges were crumpled now from how tightly he'd been holding it.
Tonks's smile faded. "Ah."
He nodded, voice tight. "She already had it. I barged in like a complete idiot, and she… I just—made everything worse."
The silence that followed sat heavy between them. Tonks didn't rush to fill it, which somehow made it easier to bear.
"I think the meeting went really well," Harry said eventually, dry as sand.
She raised an eyebrow. "Five-star family reunion, was it?"
He groaned and rubbed his face. "There was glaring. Judgement. She looked at me like I'd just confessed to blowing up the kitchen."
Tonks placed a hand on his shoulder—steady, warm. He didn't realise how much he needed it until it was there.
"That's alright. You got through it."
"Barely," he muttered. "Said too much. Or not enough. Or both, probably. In the wrong order. With the wrong tone. I don't know. Just… wrong."
"Explosions?" she asked lightly. "Screaming? Storming out?"
"No explosions," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I did consider climbing out the window."
Tonks laughed. "Now that's a proper dramatic exit. You'll have to show me the technique sometime."
He smiled weakly, but it faded again. He couldn't stop thinking about it—all the things he should've said better. The look on his mum's face. That tight-lipped disappointment. And beneath it all, that same old ache, the one he never knew how to name.
"I just wanted her to get it," he said quietly. "Just once. To look at me and not see… I dunno. A mess."
Tonks's expression softened. "Do you ever say something and immediately wish you could cast a memory charm on yourself?"
Harry gave a hollow laugh. "Constantly."
"Daily occurrence," she said with a wink. "It's called being human."
He laughed for real then—short, but real—and the pressure in his chest loosened, just a fraction.
"Thanks," he said. "For not running off while I completely fall apart in a hallway."
Tonks shrugged. "Please. This is the most interesting thing that's happened all day.