FicWad

Emerging from the cosy chaos of the Ministry’s infamous toilet network, Lily felt a blast of cool Atrium air brush against her cheeks. She wiped her palms on the tattered hem of her robes, brushing away the infernal remnants of her journey through the murky plumbing system.

“Seems you’ve already faced a dozen Death Eaters,” Arthur Weasley teased, his ginger hair a stark contrast to the polished marbles of the Atrium floor. His familiar grin made her feel instantly at home, despite the discomfort lingering from her recent journey.

“Oh, I’d take on Death Eaters any day over using that foul toilet,” she replied with mock resentment, pushing rebellious strands of hair from her face and tucking them behind her ear. “If only the phone booth were closer to my house, I could avoid it altogether.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “You’d think the Ministry of Magic could band together and do something about it. Perhaps even summon some house-elves?”

Lily groaned in genuine exasperation. “I swear that toilet is cursed! Can you hold these papers for me?” she asked, shoving a hefty stack of reports into Arthur’s arms. “I’m afraid they might slip from my hands at any moment.”

He accepted the stack with surprise, arching a brow at the sheer volume. “The meeting must be incredibly important if you felt the need to bring all of this,” he remarked, squinting at the dizzying array of notes, maps, and articles.

She let out a long sigh, stretching her arms above her head as if trying to shake off the tiredness that came with the weight of responsibility. “It is,” she replied, her voice steadying. “I need every piece of information at my fingertips. I can’t afford to overlook anything crucial.”

As they stood awaiting the lift, the flickering fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the small corridor, making the atmosphere feel heavy. Arthur flicked his gaze toward Lily, whose brow was furrowed with worry. He could sense the weight of the moment pressing down on her—a heaviness that went beyond the typical pressures of parenthood.

“How’s Harry been doing lately?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with concern.

Lily’s expression darkened, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Harry hasn’t been himself recently,” she replied, the hint of anxiety creeping into her voice. “I believe I may have contributed to his unhappiness this morning.”

Arthur studied her, his heart sinking as he sensed the self-blame pooling in her words. “What happened this morning?” He felt compelled to dig deeper, wanting to understand the root of her guilt. “Why do you think you upset him?”

Just then, the lift arrived with a jarring clang, and they stepped inside. The doors closed with a soft hiss, sealing them off from the bustling world beyond. Lily sighed, her breath a soft exhale of regret. “I lost my patience with Harry earlier. I told him I’d be home by eight because of a new case, completely overlooking the Hogwarts assembly tonight,” she confessed, her tone remorseful.

Arthur felt a rush of surprise. He knew how much the assembly meant to Harry. “Did Harry remind you about the assembly?” he pressed, hoping to draw out more of her feelings.

Lily nodded; her gaze dropped to the ground as if ashamed of her own distraction. “Yes, Harry mentioned it, but I was so preoccupied with work that it slipped my mind. I’ll have to make it up to him somehow.” Her thoughtful tone suggested she was already envisioning ways to mend the rift created by her neglect.

Arthur recalled his own family’s struggles. He scratched the back of his neck nervously. “Molly reminded me as well,” he said, hesitantly sharing his own admission. “She believes I don’t spend enough time with the children.” He offered Lily a gentle nudge. “Just don’t forget about the assembly later, alright?”

“I won’t forget this time,” she said, a small smile breaking through her moment of guilt. “I’ll make it up to Harry and ensure we both attend the assembly together.”

Encouraged by her shift in spirit, Arthur took a deep breath. “Did you notice how well Harry did in school this year?” he asked, striving to lift her mood. It felt good to focus on something positive.

“Yes, I did,” Lily replied with a hint of pride, but moments later, she paused, searching for the right words. “I was thinking of getting him a gift—maybe that popular Quidditch book he’s been wanting.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “But Harry already has a copy of that book about the British and Irish teams,” he chimed in, shaking his head slightly to help her see reason. “He was absorbed in it when he was here last, going on about how much he liked it, so another one might be unnecessary.”

Lily looked surprised, her eyes widening in realisation. “Oh, really? I must have missed that.”

“You were right there with him,” Arthur clarified, his expression warm yet reassuring.

The lift doors at the Auror Headquarters opened smoothly. Stepping into the bustling atmosphere of the second level, they were greeted by an air alive with the urgency of their colleagues. Aurors navigated the space with purpose, their feet scuffling against the polished floor, papers fluttering in their wake.

Lily adjusted her glasses, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and trepidation as they ventured deeper into the organised chaos. Desks were strewn with stacks of documents and folders, lending a distinct sense of disarray to the otherwise formidable structure designed to maintain order in the wizarding world.

As they wove through the crowd, Lily felt a determined resolve building within her. She had to seize this moment. Leaning closer to her friend Arthur, she spoke with a quiet intensity that contrasted sharply with the surrounding clamour. “I’d like to discuss the possibility of changing our destinies,” she began, weighing each word carefully. “Lately, I’ve been grappling with the idea that there might be a deeper meaning to life beyond the predetermined paths we’re expected to follow. I want to break free from this monotony and forge my own way forward.”

Arthur raised a sceptical eyebrow at her declaration. “Do you truly believe that’s achievable?” His tone was more curious than dismissive, but Lily could see the hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Yes, I do,” she affirmed, her voice unwavering and laced with passion. “It’s about taking control of our own narratives and manipulating certain events. It won’t be easy—I understand that—but I’m resolute in my efforts. Perhaps, in doing so, I can inspire others to do the same.”

“Similar to the concept of time-turners?” he asked, a playful glint in his eye.

“Something like that,” Lily replied, her spirit buoyed by the conversation. “But I want to explore further, to glimpse what the future might hold in the next five decades—”

“Fifty years?” Arthur interrupted, chuckling softly. “Even in that span, mortality remains inevitable and beyond our influence. The only aspect we can control are our own choices.” His tone softened, allowing a note of sincerity to seep through. “Having a peek into the future is a privilege, not a certainty. We must cherish each passing day, for it could be our last.”

Lily nodded, acknowledging his point even as she felt her enthusiasm dim slightly. “Okay. But that’s just one perspective. I don’t want to debate the idea of predetermination right now,” she said, her voice regaining its fervour. “What intrigues me more is the possibility of a deeper purpose in life. Are we simply drifting through existence without any real direction or significance? I refuse to waste my time pondering preordained outcomes when I could be seizing the day and living life to the fullest.”

Arthur paused, his expression contemplative. “I understand,” he finally replied. “So you’ve done extensive research on this?”

“Extensive,” Lily said with conviction. “It’s been quite consuming.”

“That could explain why you’ve been getting home late, missing meals, and looking fatigued in the mornings before work,” Arthur remarked, a knowing smirk crossing his face.

Lily gazed at him in surprise, her cheeks flushing red. “How did you find out?” she asked, astonished by his perception.

He shrugged nonchalantly, but there was a glimmer of concern in his eyes. “You think I wouldn’t notice? The late-night murmurs of your ambition creeping into our conversations? The way your gaze drifts when you’re deep in thought? You’ve been almost... obsessed with this.”

Her heart raced as she reflected on the countless hours spent lost in books about the nature of fate and free will. Arthur’s concern made her reconsider the depth of her pursuits. Yes, she was determined, but she didn’t want to alienate the people around her in her quest for meaning.

“I just... I want to make an impact, Arthur. I want to discover something that helps everyone, something bigger than myself,” she finally confessed, her voice softer.

Arthur’s expression shifted from scepticism to understanding, and he nodded. “And that’s worthy,” he said gently. “But don’t forget to live now, too. Destiny might be waiting for you, but that doesn’t mean life isn’t happening in the meantime.”

His words settled in the air between them, grounding her. “You’re right,” she admitted, the weight of his wisdom dulling her fervour but lighting the path ahead.

“Also,” Arthur responded cautiously. “My kids are very close to yours. With Ron being Harry’s best friend, I’ve come across some information about his home life that perhaps I shouldn’t know.” He looked at Lily with concern. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up, but I believe it’s important for you to be aware, especially since Harry seems to be facing challenges lately.” He paused, unsure how to proceed.

“Harry confides in Ron about everything concerning me?” she shot back, her voice sharper than intended. “That doesn’t seem fair, considering all I’ve done for him.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed with concern. “I mean no offence,” he began, leaning forward, his hands clasped tightly. “Based on what Ron has shared with me, it seems Harry is looking for advice and support from his friends—especially when it comes to how he feels about you.”

Lily’s demeanour shifted, a flicker of hurt passing over her face. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Why would her son share private thoughts with others instead of coming to her?

“He cares about you, Lily,” Arthur continued gently. “The letters Ron showed me—they reveal so much. Harry loves you, but it’s almost as if he’s afraid to show it. He needs your support. Remind him that he is loved unconditionally.”

“I love him,” she replied defensively. “But everything we share is our business. He shouldn’t feel like he has to find solace in his friends instead of coming to me.” The tension crackled like fire.

“Lily, please,” Arthur urged, his voice softening in earnest. “We’re worried for him. Don’t yell at Harry. He’s afraid to upset you,” he implored, his brown eyes wide and earnest.

She ran a hand through her hair, frustration boiling just beneath the surface. “Who said I would scold him? The mere idea of it... I want him to be brave, like James, who sacrificed for him,” Lily huffed as she glanced at her watch. “Harry needs to take accountability for his actions.”

Arthur’s sincerity didn’t wane as he replied, “He is brave, Lily. But he’s just a child, still coming to terms with everything that’s happened. You can’t hold him accountable for things beyond his control.”

Her gaze shifted to the papers strewn across her desk; the ink smudged slightly from her hurried scrawls. “I have to run,” she said, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel. Gathering her scattered documents, she prepared to leave, her mind racing. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Good luck,” Arthur said. “And don’t forget tonight at Hogwarts,” he added before walking away.

Lily nodded in acknowledgement as she continued searching for her missing spectacles. They must be here somewhere! She could scarcely believe she had misplaced them again. Suddenly, in her distracted haze, she felt something cool and smooth. Her fingers curled around what she thought was the frame of her glasses, but as she absentmindedly lowered her hand, it collided with the wall with an unfortunate thud.

“Unbelievable!” she muttered, recoiling. Her heart sank as she registered the sharp crack that split through the air. She turned her hand over to find her glasses resting in her palm, and her stomach dropped. The lenses glimmered in the morning light, but now they bore a terrible crack that zigzagged across one side. “Can’t I catch a break?”

Harry sat alone at the breakfast table, the light of the early morning streaming through the kitchen window. He nibbled on his toast, but the taste seemed muted, overshadowed by the quiet emptiness around him. The chair across from him, where his mother usually sat, remained empty, a familiar sight that had become part of his daily routine. He twirled his fork absentmindedly, trying to escape the grip of silence that enveloped him, like a fog creeping into the corners of his mind.

His mother, an Auror, was often on missions that kept her away. Harry respected her dedication; he admired the bravery and cunning required for her job. Yet within him, there lay a tender frustration. Each morning, he cooked breakfast, planning for two, while feeling the weight of her absence settle around him. The plates he set up were often left untouched, the food growing cold, just like the space where she should have been—warm and full of life.

Finishing the last bite of his toast, he took a moment to glance at her empty chair, wondering if she had eaten last night, or if the dinner he had prepared had joined the breakfast remnants in the fridge. He knew better than to complain; she was saving lives, after all. Yet a part of him just wished she would remember to take care of herself too, to sit down for one proper meal where they could share thoughts, laughter, or even silence together.

The dawn was bringing light to the world outside, but inside, Harry’s thoughts raced with the day ahead. It was the day of the Recognition Assembly, an event he had both anticipated and dreaded. He would soon be departing for Hogwarts, but before all of that, he had a personal ritual to complete. He gathered himself, taking a deep breath and mentally checking off the tasks he had yet to accomplish around the house.

With purpose, he finished breakfast, cleared the table, and washed the dishes, each task performed with a quiet determination. He cleaned every corner of their cosy house, ensuring it felt welcoming despite the absence of its heart. It was almost like living with a ghost—the memories of laughter echoed through the hallways, remnants of the times when life felt whole.

Once he was satisfied with his manual labour, Harry made his way upstairs to his bedroom. The walls were plastered with posters of Quidditch teams and fantastical creatures, remnants of his childhood. Tracing the edge of his desk, he crossed the room toward Hedwig’s cage. His faithful owl had been a steadfast companion through good times and bad, unfurling her loyal spirit at the mere sight of him.

Gently, he unlocked the cage. Hedwig blinked, her sharp eyes reflecting the light streaming in from the window, displaying an intelligence that felt almost human. As she took flight, soaring gracefully around the room, Harry felt a flutter of pride. She was free, just as he yearned to be—free from the cloistering silence that sometimes buried him, free from the fears that clung like shadows.

After collecting his letters, carefully folding each piece of parchment, he fastened them to Hedwig’s leg with a practiced ease. She cooed softly, eager to take off on her next adventure. He opened the window wide, the wind rushing in as if it had something to say. With one last affectionate stroke on her soft feathers, he whispered, “Stay safe out there.”

With a powerful flap of her wings, Hedwig ascended into the sky, disappearing into the horizon.

Sitting quietly on the edge of his bed, Harry felt a familiar pang in his chest. Inspired, yet burdened, he reached for the wooden drawer beside him. This drawer was more than mere storage space; it was a portal to his innermost musings. As he pulled it open, a wave of nostalgia washed over him, every item neatly organised. Among his essential school supplies—books, quills, and parchment lay the leather-bound notebook, its spine cracked from frequent use.

Flipping through the pages, he stumbled upon verses marred with his indecision: inkblots that resembled spilt emotions, scratched-out lines that could not convey the rawness of his experience. This was more than a collection of words; it was an intricate tapestry of longing, vulnerability, and the complexity of youth. Harry’s eyes fell upon a blank page, his heart contracting at the bittersweet remembrance of afternoons spent thinking of a good poem to write.

Perching on the edge of his bed, he gazed contemplatively at the blank sheet of paper before him. He settled the quill between his fingers, taking a moment to breathe in deeply, staving the tide of emotions that threatened to envelop him. In this sacred space, he dipped his quill in the inkwell and began to write.

“With stream in my eyes, I kneeled and looked above,” he penned, each stroke releasing a flicker of light into his darkness. It was in the now-familiar feeling of the quill rasping against the parchment that he found comfort. Words began to flow from the depths of his heart, stitching together fragments of memories, hopes, and the gentle weaving of love. He poured out the honesty of a boy wrestling with loss, yet craving connection—a bittersweet identification of who he was and who he had lost.

“Satisfied,” he whispered to himself, placing the quill down as though releasing a weight he had long carried. He penned the title “A Mother’s Love” atop the page, feeling the comforting clarity that came with finality. He intended to revisit the poem later, allowing the words to breathe before arriving at revisions.

With care, he placed the notebook in his desk drawer, a protective hold over what felt both fragile and empowering. As a final touch, he began to tidy his bedroom, a routine that brought a sense of order to his life. Each item returned to its rightful place felt like a step toward reclaiming a semblance of control over his narrative.

After a morning of cleaning and organising, he felt a fleeting sense of accomplishment wash over him as the clock on the wall chimed softly, its hands pointing to half past eight.

With a quick glance at the clock, a familiar feeling of urgency propelled him toward his mother’s room down the narrow hallway. He forced himself to remember the list of chores they had discussed earlier, reminding himself of the importance of being efficient in their small home. Taking a deep, steady breath, he approached the door, his heart racing slightly with trepidation. He turned the doorknob slowly.

The room was dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of a bedside lamp. As he stepped inside, its soft light illuminated a world of memories. The walls were adorned with an eclectic mix of framed photographs, each telling a piece of the family story. Harry’s eyes gravitated towards a particular photo that had always captured his attention: a moment frozen in time showing his mother, Lily, gently cradling him in her arms. Around them, laughter practically danced off the frame, as James, his father, made a series of ridiculous faces in an attempt to elicit giggles from his baby son.

A bittersweet smile crept onto Harry’s lips as he gazed at the image. It conjured a warmth within him, but also a sharp pang of longing for the father he had never known. He often wondered what it would have been like to grow up with James—a hero to many, yet just a dad to him. He could picture their walks in the park, the stories he would tell him, and the adventures they might have shared. The absence stood stark against the backdrop of his vibrant childhood memories, shaping a part of who he was.

But the comfort of nostalgia was heavy. Harry had learnt early on that dwelling too long in the past could extinguish the light that flickered ahead of him. He shook his head as if to scatter the thoughts like loose leaves caught in a breeze. “Not now,” he whispered to himself, stepping further into the room.

Harry scanned the impeccably tidy room for any stray objects that might need cleaning, a habit he couldn’t quite shake. Everything was in its rightful place, but the sight of a dust-free surface offered little comfort. His eyes traced the corners, the shelves, until they landed on a dark blue folder resting at the base of the bed, its presence stark against the polished wooden floor.

Curiosity piqued; he approached it, frowning. He should have noticed it sooner. Who could leave such a thing lying around? With a cautious hand, he reached for the folder. The moment he flipped it open, the title jumped out at him: “Ministry Report—Drafts,” rendered in elegant, slanted script. His heart sank.

At first, Harry’s face twisted into a scowl. These reports were always so dense and tedious, encompassing a world that seemed to exist miles away from his own. A world of bureaucracy, regulations, and endless policy reviews that had little relevance to him. But as he leafed through the pages, something stirred within him.

A wave of understanding washed over him, and the scowl transformed into a mask of fear and worry. This wasn’t just another mind-numbing report. The draft was marked “Urgent” in bold letters at the top of the first page—an ominous declaration that sent chills through him.

In a state of urgency, Harry quickly exited the room and made his way down to the fireplace with a sense of determination, not bothering to change his clothes or second-guess his actions. He was aware of the importance of acting swiftly in the situation at hand. Despite his personal dislike for floo travel, he grabbed a handful of floo powder, bravely stepped into the fire, scattered the powder around him, and disappeared into the swirling green flames.

In the heart of the Ministry of Magic, the air was thick with urgency, swirling like the green flames that had just spit out Harry, determined and dishevelled. His heart raced not only from his rapid journey but from the anxiety of needing to find his mother. The cold stone floor beneath his feet was a stark contrast to the heat of the flames, grounding him despite the chaotic whirl of emotions.

Harry smoothed down his untidy hair, noticing the curious stares of passersby. Whispers danced around him, fostering a sense of discomfort, but he pushed it aside. The Ministry’s grandeur, adorned with shimmering chandeliers and walls lined with portraits of illustrious witches and wizards, felt almost foreign to him today. He squinted at the memos zipping past, barely registering their messages.

“Are you in trouble?” Nymphadora Tonks’ voice cut through his focus, lighter than her concern suggested. Stepping into the lift beside him, her vibrant aura was a welcome distraction from his fluttering thoughts.

“No trouble,” he replied, though his brow was furrowed in worry. “Just… my mum.” She has a meeting today but forgot this folder.”

“Her?” Tonks enquired, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Oh! Yes, the department heads meeting. Right now, in fact. Let’s get you there.”

A woman’s voice was heard saying, “Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.”

As the lift dinged to a halt, the doors swung open, revealing a stark and professional corridor bustling with witches and wizards in tailored robes, a world filled with political tension cloaked beneath a veneer of civility. Harry stepped out, smoothing the edges of his sleeves, his stomach knotted with urgency.

“Thanks, Tonks,” he murmured, urging himself to remain calm. He briefly glanced down the corridor, and it felt impossible to know where to go amid the throng of flowing robes and serious discussions.

“I’ll help you find her,” she said promptly, her eyes shining with a determination that allowed Harry to breathe a little easier. “Follow me.”

They moved through the chaos together, weaving past clusters of employees, instantaneously exchanging brief nods and smiles. The sound of their shoes clicking against the cold floor echoed in his ears, amplifying the urgency he felt.

Finally, Tonks paused near a glass door marked with a sign: “Auror Headquarters,” behind which sat a stern-looking man engrossed in the pages of a newspaper. Her lips twisted into a crooked smile, a spark of spontaneity igniting.

Harry’s heart raced as he spotted his mother, Lily, through the glass door, surrounded by stern-faced Ministry officials who were engrossed in serious discussions. Soft fluorescent lights illuminated their sombre faces, creating a stark contrast to the colourful chaos of Harry’s excitement and urgency.

“I’ll leave you here, Harry. See you later,” Tonks whispered as she made her exit, her vibrant hair changing hues in the flickering light.

With a deep breath, Harry adjusted the folder under his arm, the important documents inside potentially crucial for his mother’s success at work. He stepped forward. The air felt heavy with the weight of expectations. His grip tightened around the folder, and he willed himself to approach the stern-looking man stationed at the entrance.

“Good morning, sir,” Harry said, his voice steady, despite the turmoil inside him.

The man lowered his newspaper, a pair of sharp eyes studying Harry with mild interest. “’Morning, Mr. Potter,” he rasped, clearly uninterested in pleasantries. As he scrutinised Harry, the silence grew thick, echoing in Harry’s ears. He could feel the intensity of the moment—it was not merely about delivering papers; it felt as though he was carrying a piece of his mother’s dedication and passion.

When the man didn’t respond further, Harry took a breath and pressed on. “Excuse me, sir. Could you please deliver this to the conference room for me? My mother, Lily Potter, is expecting it.” He held the folder out, his pulse quickening, as though that simple act meant more than just paperwork.

The man did not take the folder. Instead, he raised his brows, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips. “I’m sorry, but that goes against headquarters’ policy,” he replied, his tone devoid of warmth.

Harry felt his resolve falter but pushed back the doubt. “But she could lose her job!” He took a step closer, urgency seeping into his words, the stakes growing higher in his mind. Beyond the glass door, he could see the silhouette of his mother, her figure straightening as she spoke animatedly with the others.

The man regarded Harry with a measured gaze, his expression shifting to one of slight irritation as he folded his newspaper. “I understand your concern, but I can’t make any exceptions.” With that, he turned back to his reading, signalling that the conversation was over.

Fury bubbled within Harry, mixing with the frustration of being dismissed. He was standing on the brink of failure, and the thought of his mother being overlooked felt like a punch to his gut. His heart raced as he watched her. Lily, hunched over her file case, frantic fingers sifting through documents. The urgency in her actions sent an involuntary jolt through him. He had to intervene.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Harry flung the door open, causing it to creak ominously. It felt like a grand entrance, but the reality was he emerged like a startled deer stepping into a lion’s den. The tension warped around him, whipping at his skin, and the startled faces around the table snapped towards him like the snap of a rubber band.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” he managed, his voice travelling awkwardly across the room. The moment hung in silence, thick and uncertain, before Lily’s head snapped up.

Her startled expression shifted slowly to recognition, but it was more confusion than gratitude. When Harry handed her the folder, he felt the words swirling uncomfortably in his throat. “Um, this is for you. I thought you might need this folder that you—”

He trailed off, his stomach plummeting when he noticed the identical folder clutched tightly in her hand, its edges crinkled and worn from being fished out of her case just moments before. The hope that flashed in his chest deflated like a balloon losing its air. “—already have,” he finished, awkwardly rattling out the last words while feeling the icy grip of embarrassment claw at him.

The silence grew louder as Lily shot him a look that seemed to scream, “What the hell are you doing?” Harry felt an itch of anxiety creep in as he shifted his weight, glancing warily at the Ministry officials, who appeared increasingly puzzled.

“I—uh—false alarm... I’m very sorry,” he stammered, his palms clammy and heart racing. “I thought Lily—” he gestured helplessly, his words blurring together as he caught sight of her increasingly furious expression. “Had everything she needed since she worked so hard.”

Lily’s icy stare sharpened, but Harry pressed on, “This is my fault. I sincerely apologise for the interruption,” he finished clumsily, the words stumbling over each other in their haste to exit his mouth. Without waiting for a response, he retreated, the room’s judgement following him as he hurried back to the safety of the corridor.

Lily inhaled deeply, every part of her feeling like it had been jolted awake. She closed her eyes momentarily, trying to shake off the heightened embarrassment.

Once she opened her eyes, she stood taller, a flame igniting in her gaze. “Shall we move on?” she asked the room, her voice steady and inviting, bridging the chasm that had widened moments before.

Once the door clicked shut behind Harry, the weight of his earlier bravado melted into disappointment. With each echoing footstep, he replayed the uncomfortable moments in his mind: the hushed whispers, the frigid stares, and his mother’s unmistakably disapproving frown when he spoke out of turn. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he could never quite escape that air of expectation that surrounded him.

Blindly wandering past countless doors, Harry was lost in thought when suddenly, his world tilted and he felt a body collide with his. The unexpected impact knocked him off balance, sending him stumbling back.

“Hermione?” he gasped, scrambling to get back on his feet.

A burst of laughter met his ears. “Oh, sorry, Harry! It’s me, Tonks,” said the figure before him, a wild mane of brow hair flowing around her face. In that instant, her hair flickered from brown to bright pink, transforming before his eyes like a mood ring alive with expression.

“My mistake; I thought you were Hermione,” Harry admitted, a hint of relief lightening his heart.

“No worries, it happens all the time,” Tonks replied, her bright smile infectious. “I may have her looks, but definitely not her brains. I’m more of a practical joker myself.”

“Yeah, that suits you,” Harry replied, attempting a smile, though it faded as quickly as it formed. Noticing the change in his demeanour, Tonks cocked her head and studied him closely.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice tinged with genuine concern.

Harry held up the folder he had been carrying, the worn edges and familiar handwriting reinforcing his dread.

“Ah, I see,” Tonks murmured, comprehension washing over her features as she noted the tension wrapped around his rigid frame.

“My mom already has this folder. I never want to see it again,” Harry muttered, his voice low.

A weighty silence enveloped them, filled with thoughts unspoken. Moments ticked by, and finally, breaking the quiet, a note of sarcasm crept into Harry’s voice. “I think the meeting went well.”

Tonks raised an eyebrow, intrigue etched across her face. “Did it?”

Harry groaned, running a hand through his untidy hair, frustration spilling out. “The glaring, the discomfort, my mother’s icy gaze—just what I was hoping for.”

Tonks slipped her hand onto his shoulder, a grounding warmth spreading through him. “That’s alright, don’t worry about it.”

“I think I said too much. Let’s just say it was memorable.” He tilted his head back slightly, his cheeks turning crimson under the combined heat of embarrassment and anger.

“Really?” Tonks teased, her amusement clear.

He nodded, the embarrassment rolling over him, intensifying as he recalled the way his words had tumbled out in a mixture of defiance and desperation for approval.

“Well, don’t let anxiety cloud your mind, Harry. It leaves less room for optimism.” Tonks’ voice was soothing as she flashed him that infectious smile, pairing it with a playful wink that lightened the heavy atmosphere swirling around him.

Harry couldn’t help but return her smile, feeling a flicker of hope. “Thanks, Tonks.”