FicWad

CHAPTER 1

July 30, 1997

Lily Potter woke slowly to a new day, sunlight pouring through her bedroom window. It warmed her skin, yet failure felt near. Today was pivotal; she would present her report to the Ministry’s top officials, a culmination of years of study as an Auror, an ambition she had nurtured since childhood.

With a weary sigh, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, allowing the coolness of the wooden floorboards to invigorate her. A tangle of nerves fluttered in her stomach, each question more daunting than the last: Would they see her worth? Would they finally recognise the significance of her findings, or would her age render her invisible? The chambers of her mind brimmed with self-doubt, reminders of those watching her closely—ones who had always offered their unyielding support, but also scrutinised her every move.

Her attention drifted to the intricately decorated walls of her room, each framed photo a cherished memory. Lily’s cracked lips curled into a faint smile at the sight of James, his mischievous grin captured forever in time. His eyes sparkled with a life she could almost touch, a reminder of happier days when a future with him had seemed endless. Their friends surrounded her in those snippets of history, Aurors like herself, each representing loyalty and unspoken bonds that could transcend any burden.

“Look at you, Lily,” she whispered under her breath, urging herself to adopt James’s boundless spirit. But the truth lingered heavily, an unshakeable reality contrasting sharply with the whimsical memories. The clock blinked zero-five-fifty, reminding her that time was running out. Could she really do this?

Lily pressed her fingers against the sun-kissed window panes, the city below teeming with life—vibrancy she lacked in her own heart. Fifteen years had come and gone since that night, marked by loss and grief following Voldemort’s wrath. The echoes of his actions haunted her, a constant reminder of her beloved’s absence. Each heartbeat felt like a betrayal to the life they could have shared, her son now a testament to what had been taken from them. She could still feel the warmth of James’s embrace and hear the laughter that had once filled their home.

“Forget,” Lily murmured to herself, attempting to shake free of the spectres of sorrow, but forgetting was elusive. It felt like stumbling through a fog—temporary relief fading against the onslaught of memories. Time hadn’t healed the wound; it merely wrapped it tighter. She allowed herself a moment of vulnerability, surrendering to the complicated tapestry of grief that intertwined with her identity. It was okay to carry the weight of her sorrow, she reasoned, as she turned from the window.

Her heart ached for James, for truths left unspoken. She had readily dismissed conversations about their loss with her son, yet tethered by unasked questions that loomed larger than their shared grief. Perhaps today was not just about her report, but an opportunity for something deeper, to bridge the silence that had stretched longer than their loss itself.

As she freshened up, her mind spiralled back to the ministry meeting, fateful words of wisdom from Arthur Weasley echoing in her ears. “Trust in your knowledge, Lily. It’s why you’re here.” She nodded to herself in the mirror, her reflection gaining resolve. If she could voice her findings, if she could speak importance into existence, perhaps she could also weave honesty into her relationship with her son.

Harry Potter lay in his bed, cocooned in blankets, his eyes wide open as he stared blankly at the moonlight filtering through the window. It danced across the walls like a shimmering ghost, a gentle contrast to the restless turmoil rumbling in his heart. He couldn’t shake off the conversation he’d had with his mother, Lily, earlier that evening. The streetlamps outside had flickered, just like the moments of doubt that settled on his mind.

“Gone too soon,” she had said, her voice steady as she maintained that practiced smile. But Harry had seen it—the flicker of pain behind her laughter, the shadows that curled around her eyes whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. He rolled onto his side, clutching his pillow as if it could somehow absorb the thoughts that whirled through his mind like leaves in a storm.

Harry hated not knowing. It made him feel small, like a child left behind in a playground with no one to play with. His father, a man he only knew through faint memories and whispered stories, had become an enigma shrouded in half-truths and hidden fears. Each time he asked about him, a cloud would pass over Lily’s face. It was a look that Harry had come to dread—the gentle turn away that hinted at a sorrow deeper than he could comprehend.

“Mum,” he echoed to the emptiness of his room, his voice barely a whisper. “Why can’t you just tell me?”

But asking Lily—his mother, his anchor—felt daunting. If she struggled to share the facts, what would he do with the weight of full knowledge?

At four o’clock in the morning, shadows danced across the walls of Harry’s small, cluttered room as the flickering candlelight fought the encroaching darkness. The world outside was silent. Gripping the quill tightly, he could almost feel the pressure of words swelling in his chest, clamouring for a release. Yet they remained elusive, swirling in his mind like autumn leaves caught in a wild gust of wind—beautiful, but ungraspable.

Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself. With trembling fingers, he pressed the tip of the quill to a pristine sheet of parchment. The ink flowed, and for that moment, he felt a flicker of hope. Each stroke of the quill felt like carving out chunks of his soul, revealing truths that had long been cloistered behind hardened walls.

“Dear Ron and Hermione,” he began, his quill gliding over the surface, “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a complete fool. Things have been… strange since I got home.”

He paused, the weight of his own honesty nearly stifling. The silence of the room pressed in, intensifying the ache of his unshared emotions. Harry pressed on, writing about the oppressive quiet that loomed between him and his mother, those long, drawn-out moments that felt like an eternity. It was as if she had become a spectre in their house, floating through the rooms, haunted by worries too heavy for words, all while offering barbed comments about his friendships.

“You’ve been spending too much time with that Weasley boy and that Granger girl,” she’d said, her voice cold and distant. Harry could still see the disappointment etched into her lined face, her eyes clouded by an unyielding tide of expectations and fears. It stung more than he could express. The nights after those conversations often found him lying awake, the sting of her words and the heavy silence between them pressing down like a lead weight.

He thought of Ron and Hermione—their laughter, their unyielding support against the darkness of war and personal strife. “You’d think I’m being dramatic,” he wrote, “but I feel like I’m losing my way home.” Each time they spoke, they argued in his favour, urging him to believe that his mother loved him, that he was simply undergoing a phase, but they couldn’t feel the rift that had opened so wide between them. To them, it was a familiar lullaby; to him, it was the thunder of a storm, consuming everything he knew.

Lily’s words reverberated in Harry’s mind, a haunting melody that never ceased. “You must make me proud, Harry. I sacrificed everything for you.” Each time he faltered at school—whether struggling with potions or transfiguration—he felt her disappointment creeping in. The idea that he was a burden had burrowed into his heart, a persistent weight that pushed him harder with every bitter review from his mother.

“Have you spoken to Professor McGonagall? Your failures are inevitable,” the words stabbed deeper each time. It felt as if his mother were chiselling away at his self-worth, shaping him into what she wanted instead of who he might become. His heart sank. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried—he poured over notes, lost sleep, and even skipped meals, all for a thread of approval woven into every fibre of her perception.

He thought of Hermione’s words when she’d spotted him trembling over a Potions textbook. “You’re doing extraordinarily well.” Her genuine encouragement felt inadequate this summer; no amount of praise could lift the spectre of his own insecurities.

Why can’t I just be good enough? The familiar rhythm of anxiety pounded in his head, reminding him of the constant grind. He imagined the disappointment in Lily’s eyes if he didn’t excel, the heaviness of that silent, lingering judgement that followed him home.

Weeks turned into months of endless studying, each achievement feeling like a stepping stone on a mountain that would never end. His desire for perfection consumed him entirely. During the summer, Harry stared at a stack of dusty, half-read books, Lily’s list of chores another chisel marking away at his spirit.

“Harry, I need you to get all these chores done, and don’t forget to review those study materials for Potions,” Lily had said, her eyes burning with ambition. The expectations loomed like a thundercloud, promising a storm. At sixteen, he often felt his life was dictated by a stringent playlist of his mother’s desires—he was to hit every note, never falter, never stray offbeat. The thought twisted his insides with dread.

Lost in thought, his hand paused mid-sentence as the clock struck six, the resounding chimes pulling him back into reality like cold water splashed on his face. He blinked, surprised at how swiftly the hours had passed, each tick marking a shift in his unease. He marvelled at how cathartic the act of writing had been, yet that fleeting comfort began to fade the moment he sensed the impending weight of another morning.

With a sigh, he signed his name and set the letter aside. The ink glimmered like a beacon in the soft glow of dawn’s approach, yet it felt like the ink itself was bearing witness to his struggles. “Maybe tomorrow,” he murmured, resignation threading through his voice. He hoped for some elusive understanding that had thus far slipped through his fingers, waiting for the moment when the bridge back to his mother might somehow be built.

He lay back in his chair, staring at the shadows that flickered and danced on the walls, contemplating what words might come to him in the light of day. Would his mother listen, really listen, if he spoke from his heart? Or would the distance between them only grow, as treacherous and vast as the universe itself?

Lily’s weary face peeked into the room after a knock on the door. With a sigh, she asked, “Since you’re already up, could you please make me breakfast? I still need to get ready for work.” Without waiting for a response, she closed the door behind her, leaving a blinking Harry to process her abrupt request.

After hastily pulling on a grey sweatshirt and pants, Harry rushed out of his room, his dishevelled hair untouched. Unaware that his mother stood just beyond the doorway, he collided with her in his rush, sending the stack of papers she held tumbling to the floor in a disorganised heap.

“Harry!” Lily’s shrill voice pierced the air as she slowly rose to her feet, her sore back protesting the movement. “You need to be more careful and pay attention,” she scolded, glaring at her son with frustration. “One day, you could end up breaking something important.” She shook her head disapprovingly.

Harry tried to apologise, but the words caught in his throat. After a brief silence, Lily took charge. “Please clean up this mess and make sure all the papers are neatly organised,” she directed him.

Quickly, Harry began gathering the scattered papers from the floor, attempting again to apologise. “Mum, I’m so sorry—”

“Now!” Lily interrupted, raising her voice before storming off and slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Harry was often perplexed by his mother’s perception of him as a burden.

Harry let out a weary sigh as he stared at the closed door of his mother’s bedroom. It felt like an impenetrable barrier on this dismal morning, a reminder of their fragile relationship. After spending nearly an hour sorting through the scattered papers on his desk, meticulously organising the chaos, it had become a futile exercise in earning his mother’s attention. Carrying a neat stack of documents in his hands, he knocked gently on the door, the sound echoing in the stillness. A faint shuffle from within was the only response, and when no invitation came, he slowly turned the doorknob and stepped inside.

The room was a whirlwind of activity. Lily, dressed in a swirling dark blue robe, moved with hasty grace, shoving items into an open bag that lay sprawled across her unmade bed. As she caught sight of Harry, she halted, her eyes wide with surprise that morphed quickly into urgency.

“Are you done?” she asked. The tone was near frantic, a familiar note that Harry had learnt to recognise. “Did you put them in order as instructed?”

He nodded, pride subsiding into acceptance of her tense demeanour.

“Good!” she exclaimed, urgency painting her words as she snatched at her cloak, the fabric fluttering like a flag of distress. “Place them on the bed.”

Obediently, he walked over and laid the stack down on the comforter, feeling the weight of expectations bearing down on him. Glancing at the clock—it was already a quarter past seven—Harry felt a twist of anxiety form in his gut. “Mum, you haven’t eaten,” he reminded softly. “I’m sure they would understand if you were a few minutes late.”

Lily’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t take that chance,” she insisted, a tinge of desperation in her voice. She was now rifling through her papers, working with a focus that felt more akin to a chess player making a last-ditch effort than a mother preparing for a simple meeting. “But it doesn’t matter; I don’t feel hungry right now.”

Silence enveloped them, an uncomfortable chasm that seemed to grow with each second. Harry’s heart sank at the strain between them. Remorse mingled with embarrassment; he hung his head, guilt pooling inside him. “I’m sorry for earlier,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“There’s no need to apologise,” she replied quickly, avoiding his gaze as she sorted through her documents.

“But it was my mistake,” he pressed, the weight of his conscience too burdensome to ignore. “If only I had been more cautious, maybe things would have turned out differently. I should have been more attentive.”

“It’s done!” Lily retorted, her voice cracking through the air with unexpected sharpness. She turned to him, her expression a mixture of frustration and anger. “If you would please excuse me, I would like some time alone.” With that, she turned away, closing herself off once more.

Harry stood there, rooted to the spot, the deafening silence ringing in his ears. The walls that surrounded him felt both familiar and suffocating, each thread of their relationship weaving back into the same dysfunctional pattern of misunderstanding and neglect. Despite her sharp words, he could see the worry etched on her face, the pressure she placed upon herself reflected in her hurried movements. It tugged at his heart, even as waves of frustration crashed over him.

With a heavy heart, he took a step back, stealing one last glance at his mother, who was now enveloped in her own world of chaos. The mother he loved now seemed so distant, tethered to her responsibilities but adrift in an ocean of her own making. He wanted to reach across the void, to pull her back to him, but the words lodged in his throat felt heavy and unspoken.

Silently, Harry slipped out of the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

Lily stood by the window. The muffled sound of footsteps fading away echoed in her mind, punctuating the silence left in the wake of his departure. It had been a fight, a loud and messy explosion of emotions that had spiralled out of control. It was the second argument that morning, and with every angry word exchanged, the bond that tied them together frayed a little more.

Regret washed over her, settling in heavy layers in her chest. Logic told her that she was justified, that her emotions were valid—that the anger she felt was a response to the constant turmoil in their lives. But all she could feel in that moment was the sharp sting of shame. She hated herself for the way she had reacted, for losing her temper, for turning a disagreement into something hurtful. He was just a child, after all, grappling with the revelations of growing up.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass—a withered version of herself. Gone was the vibrant girl filled with dreams of adventure. In her place was someone sallow and drawn, shoulder blades jutting out almost painfully against her thin frame. The echo of life’s burdens had left marks on her skin, and her hair hung in dull strands, lifeless. Turning away from the reflection, she released a shuddering breath. With determination, she reached for her cloak, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked toward the door.

Lily stood in the kitchen, the stillness of the early morning settling around her. She had moved silently, hoping to steal a few precious moments of solitude with her thoughts. However, as she turned her gaze to Harry, who was engrossed in his task of slicing ingredients for breakfast, she was caught off guard by how much he mirrored his father. Every inch of him, from the way he hunched slightly as he concentrated to the wild mop of black hair that seemed to grow perpetually tousled, resonated with memories of James.

The way Harry’s brows knitted together as he focused, and the little pout that appeared on his lips when he was deep in thought—this slight impression of determination reminded her too much of James. In that moment, waves of nostalgia cascaded over Lily, each one pulling her deeper into the past. She could almost hear James’s laughter echoing in her mind, a gentle reminder of what they shared, now overshadowed by a void that felt insurmountable.

“Harry,” Lily began softly, but her heart was heavy. The sound startled him, and his grip on the knife slipped. A flicker of panic flashed across his face as the knife fell from his hand, clattering onto the tiled floor while he cried out in pain.

“Harry, are you okay?” She rushed over, her maternal instincts sharpened by fear.

“I’m fine; it’s nothing,” he deflected, but the crimson trickling through his fingers told a different story.

“Let me see your hand,” Lily insisted, her voice unyielding as she coaxed him to reveal the wound. When he finally did, her heart dropped.

“Nothing?” she exclaimed, a mix of urgency and disbelief threading through her words. Without waiting for his reply, Lily pulled out her wand, her fingers steady. “Episkey,” she murmured, and in moments, the wound began to weave itself closed, the bleeding stopping as if a hidden magic had stitched the skin together.

Harry watched in awe, the pain fading rapidly, but a different kind of concern shimmered in his emerald eyes now. “Mum?” he asked tentatively.

“Yes?” Lily replied, shifting her focus to him, noting the nervousness etched on his youthful face.

“Remember when Ron invited us to the Burrow for my birthday tomorrow? And to stay for the rest of the summer?” The hope in his tone was clear.

“But after your big meeting, it would be the perfect time to relax and visit the Burrow,” he interjected, his tone desperate, as if he could conjure a way to remake her mind.

She sighed, knowing the answer. “Harry…”

“Mum, I really want you to come,” he pressed. “You could finally meet all my friends.” His eyes shone with enthusiasm, a glimmer of shared joy that made her heart ache even more.

But Lily shook her head subtly, the regret nestled in her expression.

A storm of disappointment washed over Harry’s features. He turned away, hurt pooling in his expression. He knew his mother all too well; her fears, cloaked in the guise of concern, often kept them both anchored to the past. Harry longed for freedom—freedom from the shadows that lingered in their home since James’s passing, yet he couldn’t shake the abysmal understanding that some wounds were too raw to heal.

“You’re not coming,” he mumbled, dejectedly, averting his eyes as he fought back the emotions that churned within him. The disappointment felt like a weight in his chest.

Lily took a breath, her heart breaking a little more. “I wish I could, but you know how swamped I am with work right now.”

As he stepped back, Harry’s shoulders slumped. Despite his understanding of her stress and responsibilities, his hopes of celebrating together flickered and then extinguished into darkness. The emptiness was suffocating.

“It’s fine,” he muttered halfheartedly, turning away from her gaze as if leaving would also take away the disappointment that clung to him. He stepped out of the kitchen, leaving Lily surrounded by silence, a silence that pressed down on her heart with painful familiarity.

As Harry stepped outside into the dim light of the overcast day, the air felt thick with unexpressed emotions. The clouds hung low, heavy with the promise of rain, a mirror to the sense of disappointment swelling in his chest. Behind him, Lily moved with an air of preoccupation that left Harry feeling bewildered and disconnected. It wasn’t the first time he had experienced this dichotomy; sometimes, it felt like he was playing a game with shifting rules—a game where the prize was affection, but the stakes were far too high for comfort.

“I’m afraid I’ll be home at eight tonight,” Lily informed him regretfully. “We’re dealing with a big case that’s quite complicated and demanding. It’s really overwhelming, to be honest.”

“Eight? Are you serious?” Harry’s voice was strained, a combination of disbelief and disappointment.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Lily replied, her tone firm yet filled with an undercurrent of guilt. Yet, the determination in her eyes told a different story—one of duty, commitment, and the weight of responsibility she had long shouldered.

Harry pressed on, frustration edging his words. “But, Mum, what about the Recognition Assembly? The one where they announce the student rankings? I’ve been looking forward to it all year.”

The realisation struck Lily like a cold gust of wind, rushing through her thoughts. “The Recognition Assembly!” she exclaimed, the regret evident in her wide eyes. “I didn’t forget about it; it’s—”

“Tonight. At seven o’clock,” Harry interjected, the heaviness in his heart amplifying with each word. “It’s the highlight of the year for me.”

At that moment, the distance between them felt like an abyss. Lily’s face softened as she caught the flicker of disappointment in her son’s eyes, an echo of all the moments she had missed during her demanding career in the wizarding world. “Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to brush it off. I’m just so focused on completing this report.” Her regret swirled around them, almost tangible.

Harry forced a small smile, trying to mask the growing sorrow. “I’ll be okay, Mum,” he said, although the tremor in his voice betrayed his uncertainty. “It’s just one evening, right?”

Lily read the subtext in his words, sensing the deeper struggle beneath his attempted levity. “I’ll do my best to make it, I promise,” she reassured him, but as she spoke, a shadow of doubt crossed her face. How many times had she made similar promises only to fall short?

A moment of silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken words and emotions both knew they needed to address yet feared to broach.

“Harry?” Lily’s voice broke the quiet, more tentative now.

“Good luck with your report, Mum,” Harry said, leaning in to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek, a ritual they had shared for years. It was a familiar gesture, yet today it felt tinged with a bittersweet edge.

Lily smiled back warmly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ll see you later, dear.”

With a subtle nod, Harry bid his mother farewell, his heart heavy with unspoken words. A grey drizzle hung in the air, mirroring the sombre mood of the moment. Harry’s eyes, betraying a lingering melancholy, followed Lily as she walked towards the busy street, drifting away into the world of adults.

But just as he took a breath, the tranquillity shattered. A passerby with a steaming cup of coffee in hand, barreled into Harry like a runaway broom at a Quidditch match. The cup tipped, hot liquid splattered across his shirt.

“I’m so sorry!” the man exclaimed, his black hoodie obscuring most of his face. He sounded sincere, yet the scruffy look of his unkempt hair and wild eyes gave Harry an uneasy feeling.

Lily turned at the noise, her concern evident as she made her way back, a frown deepening across her face. “Harry!” she called out, her voice laced with protectiveness.

Harry held up a hand, brushing it off with a forced smile even as he felt the dampness seep into his skin. “It’s okay, Mum. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” he reassured her, although irritation etched itself into his expression.

Lily’s gaze flicked to the man in the hoodie. “You should be more careful!” she scolded him, annoyance blending with maternal instinct, but the man didn’t seem to have heard her and just kept walking away.

“It’s really fine. I’ll just—” But before Harry could finish, his mother levelled her wand at him.

“I’ll use a cleaning spell first, then I’ll leave,” Lily said firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Tergeo!” The incantation sailed through the air, and just like that, the coffee mark vanished, leaving no trace of the incident.

“Thank you,” Harry said, appreciating the magic in the mundane.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she called over her shoulder as she headed back to the road.

“Take care,” Harry replied, pushing affection into his words. He watched her walk away, wishing on a thread of hope.