FicWad

Shoulders heavy, Harry trudged up the path towards the house, each step dragging more than the last. His mum’s face haunted him—quiet, wounded, disappointed. That look had rooted itself behind his eyes. It wasn’t just guilt clinging to him; it was something colder, deeper. Like shame.

Inside, the silence swallowed him whole.

The door clicked shut behind him, muffled and final. The stillness in the house was thick, the kind that made you feel like you were trespassing in your own home. Regret clung to the air, sour and stale.

“Brilliant, Potter,” he muttered, voice echoing into the silence. “Really outdone yourself this time.”

He kicked off his trainers and let them thud to the floor, uncaring where they landed. The couch sagged as he dropped into it, the cushions embracing him in the familiar way that only old furniture could—but somehow even the sofa felt disapproving today, like it was fed up with all the flopping and flailing and mess.

Harry stared at the ceiling. That crack in the plaster above the fireplace had been there since the last storm. He’d meant to fix it. He never had.

Ron and Hermione’s voices floated in his head—not real ones, just old echoes. Warnings. Reason. Hermione’s clipped, firm tone: You really ought to think this through, Harry. Ron’s more hesitant: You sure this is a good idea, mate?

He shut his eyes. Darkness pressed in, but it didn’t block out anything. The guilt stayed. It didn’t fade. If anything, it seemed to root itself deeper, anchoring him to the couch like devil’s snare.

Then—

Hoot!

The sound pierced the quiet like a spell fired in a library.

Harry jerked upright. An owl burst in through the open window, wings flapping madly, knocking a photo frame sideways as it swooped round the room before landing—more by accident than design—on the arm of the sofa.

“Pigwidgeon,” Harry muttered, rubbing his forehead. “Of course.”

The tiny owl bounced excitedly, feathers sticking out at odd angles. His wings still twitched like he hadn’t quite finished flying. A letter, slightly askew, was tied to his leg.

Harry untied it, fingers quick.

Harry,

I need your help—now. Come to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley as soon as you can. Fred and George roped me into “helping” sort products in exchange for galleons. I’m beginning to think the payment part was a lie. I’m stuck here until you come rescue me.

I used Pig instead of Hedwig this time—he flew off before I could even attach the letter properly. That ridiculous owl. Hopefully he still makes it to you.

See you soon, I hope.

—Ron

Harry snorted.

The image of Ron, half-buried in crates of Skiving Snackboxes, trying to outrun an enchanted pair of boxing telescopes while shouting at Pig to hold still for once—it was so utterly ridiculous he couldn’t help but laugh. A proper laugh, too—not the bitter kind, but one that bubbled up, surprised him, and loosened something tight in his chest.

For the first time all day, the weight lifted. Just a little.

He set the letter down on the coffee table, the parchment landing with a soft thwack.

Maybe this was the universe giving him a nudge. Or a shove. Either way, Ron had been trying to drag him into that shop for weeks now. Maybe it was time to let himself be dragged.

He pushed himself up, limbs stiff. The hallway mirror caught him as he passed—a slightly rumpled, hollow-eyed version of himself staring back. He didn’t linger.

In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face and let it run down the back of his neck. Peeled the day off him like old robes—too tight, too worn, too full of everything he didn’t want to feel right now.

He’d clean up. Change. Go.

Maybe he couldn’t fix everything with one visit. He couldn’t un-say what he’d said. Couldn’t unsnap the silence that followed. But he could show up. That had to count for something.

Lily rubbed her eyes, fingers pressing into the sockets as if she could chase the exhaustion away by force. All she managed was to smear it deeper. The lamp on her desk flickered again, casting jittery shadows across the room. Her paperwork—meticulously prepared, now utterly pointless—seemed to breathe with every draught, rustling softly, mockingly.

She blinked, hard. Tried to focus. Tried to care. But it was no good. The report she’d poured weeks into, all those late nights and quiet sacrifices, now felt like a bad joke—its punchline delivered by her son.

Always Harry.

One interruption. One misstep. And the whole thing unravelled like poorly woven thread.

She drew in a slow, shaky breath, hoping to gather herself, but the air in the office was thick—sour with disappointment, stale with long-lost hope. It clung to her clothes, her skin, and her bones. Her fingers reached for the report, trembling slightly. Page by page, she crumpled it. Not in a rage—no, it was quieter than that. Like a burial. She shoved the ruined paper deep into her bottom drawer and slammed it shut with finality.

The door creaked open—typical Arthur, no concept of subtlety—and in he stepped, bright-eyed and grinning, as if the sky weren’t currently falling.

“Did you get the approval?” he asked, voice far too cheerful for a room draped in shadows.

“Almost,” Lily said flatly. “Harry made sure of that.”

Arthur blinked. “Harry? He was here?”

“To the meeting,” she snapped, before she could stop herself. “Walked in like he owned the place. Apparently had something urgent to say. Or maybe he just fancied making a scene.” Her tone sharpened with each word. “I worked weeks for that report. One interruption, and the whole thing fell apart.”

Arthur winced. “Merlin. What was he even after?”

“I don’t know,” she said, rubbing her temple. A dull ache was building there, blooming like a bruise. “Some nonsense about bringing me something I’d already had in my hand. It wasn’t even important. Just… a folder.”

She exhaled sharply. “I’m tired, Arthur. Really tired. I can’t keep doing this—unravelling myself every time he’s in crisis.”

Arthur stepped inside fully now, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. The brightness in his eyes dimmed into something softer—concern, mostly.

“What happened exactly?” he asked gently.

But Lily didn’t answer. Instead, she glanced at him, her jaw tight. “Why are you here? You didn’t just pop in to ask about the bloody meeting.”

Arthur hesitated, then offered a small, lopsided smile. “No. You’re right. I came to check on you. You’ve looked dreadful lately—no offence.”

She huffed a faint laugh despite herself. “None taken.”

“But also,” he said, the sparkle creeping back into his voice, “I’ve something to tell you. About the dagger.”

That made her look up properly. “The silver one?”

Arthur nodded, lowering his voice as if even the furniture might overhear. “It’s not a relic. Not in the usual sense. It’s a weapon. Cursed. Fatal. Even the smallest cut, and there’s no spell or potion that’ll save you. It… drains magic. Like it drinks it.”

Lily felt a shiver crawl down her spine.

The memory came back sharply—of them, only yesterday, hunched over ancient texts in the Ministry’s dusty archives, dust motes floating like ghosts. Back then, it had been a curiosity. Now it felt like a secret that should’ve stayed buried.

Arthur pulled out a scrap of parchment and began scribbling. “I think I’ve found somewhere we can learn more—hold on—”

The ink bottle tipped.

Black liquid spilt across the page, soaking into the parchment in great inky veins.

“Oh—Merlin’s arse,” Arthur muttered, leaping back as though the ink might leap up and bite him.

Lily stared at the spreading blot. Then, despite everything, she let out a short, dry laugh.

“That,” she said, reaching for her wand, “is exactly why I use self-inking quills.”

She murmured a spell, and a soft silver light swept across the mess, vanishing it in a quiet shimmer. The desk was spotless again, as if nothing had happened at all.

Arthur watched, impressed. “You make that look easy.”

Lily gave the faintest ghost of a smile, but her thoughts were already elsewhere—on the crumpled report, on Harry’s interruption, and on the dagger. Always something slipping through her fingers.

But perhaps not everything.

“Arthur,” she said slowly, watching the freshly cleaned parchment, “what if we followed this lead together? Properly, I mean. No more passing glances. No more half-measures.”

His eyes lit up like he’d been waiting for her to say it.

“You mean it?”

“I do,” she said, and this time, she meant it. “Let’s find out what this thing really is. Before someone else gets hurt.”

Arthur grinned, brushing ink off his sleeves. “Brilliant. I know just where to start.”

And for the first time that day, something in Lily felt… still. Not fixed, not healed—but steady. A direction. A thread to follow.

And perhaps, with luck, that thread might just lead somewhere worth going.

Harry stepped into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and, for the first time in what felt like days, didn’t feel like the ceiling of the world was about to fall in on his head.

The shop was bedlam. Honest, joyful, slightly dangerous bedlam.

Shelves groaned under the weight of odd-shaped boxes and bubbling vials, something behind the counter let out a prolonged scream (which no one seemed concerned about), and a plume of glitter floated serenely past Harry’s ear like it had an urgent appointment elsewhere.

He blinked. “Right,” he said aloud to no one. “Obviously I’ve stepped into some kind of alternate universe.”

“Harry!” came Ron’s voice—followed immediately by a crash as he tripped over a stand of tap-dancing teacups. “Over here! Look at this!”

He held aloft what looked like a fuzzy bit of rope, grinning like he’d just discovered fire.

Harry ducked beneath a flashing sign that read “Laughs Guaranteed or Your Money Back! (No Refunds, Obviously)” and joined him.

“What is it?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Extendable Ears,” said Ron proudly. “You put one end in your ear and the other round the corner—you can listen in on anyone. Brilliant, right?”

Harry picked one up. It was warm. And slightly furry.

“Why’s it got… hair?” he asked warily.

“Fred reckons it improves reception,” Ron said, like this explained everything.

Harry wasn’t sure that was scientifically—or magically—accurate, but then again, nothing in the shop made much sense, and he sort of loved it for that. He imagined trying to spy on Snape with one and immediately pictured the ear bursting into flames from sheer disdain.

They wandered further in, past a pyramid of Canary Creams (complete with a real canary perched smugly on top), a sign that read “Decoy Detonators: May Contain Explosions. Or May Not. That’s Half the Fun!”, and an entire display devoted to “Nosebleed Nougat – Now with Extra Bleed!” which Harry thought probably breached some kind of health regulation.

Behind the counter stood Fred and George, their matching dragon-skin waistcoats dazzling enough to cause temporary blindness. They were juggling products, customers, and the occasional small explosion with ease.

Something warm stirred in Harry’s chest—an odd sort of ache. It wasn’t quite jealousy. Not pride either, though he felt a bit of that. More like… wonder. The twins had done it. They’d taken chaos and turned it into a business. Laughter into a living.

“Oi! You two!” Fred called, spotting them. “No loitering! You’re staff now.”

“We pay in glory and sweets nicked from the damaged stock shelf,” George added.

“Mostly the sweets,” Fred said, mock-whispering. “The glory’s on back order.”

Ron grabbed a stack of Skiving Snackboxes as though his life depended on it. “Come on, Harry. Shelf duty.”

Harry saluted solemnly. “I was born for this.”

They set to work restocking the joke section, lining up products designed to make you vomit convincingly, collapse without warning, or break into impressive fake fevers. Harry placed a box of Fever Fudge next to one labelled Tonne-Tonnegue Toffees and muttered, “Honestly, these should be stocked in St Mungo’s. Might clear the queue faster than magic.”

Ron was wistfully examining a Puking Pastille. “Think of the homework we could’ve dodged. What a waste of perfectly good adolescence.”

George sauntered over, juggling a squeaky gnome, a rubber chicken wearing a hat, and what looked suspiciously like a haunted kazoo.

“Cheers for the help, gents. We’re drowning in orders. Not sure if we’re revolutionising magical retail or just one spell away from being shut down.”

“Bit of both,” said Harry.

The kazoo let out a long, haunted wail.

Fred turned from the till. “If that thing starts singing again, George, I swear I’ll vanish it into the sun.”

Harry glanced at the shelves, then back at the twins. “Seriously, though. This place is incredible. You’ve outdone yourselves.”

Fred puffed out his chest. “We aim to delight. And mildly traumatises.”

“Preferably both,” George added. “With glitter.”

Nosebleed Nougat exploded in someone’s pocket near the exit, and Fred cheered like it was Christmas.

They vanished into the mayhem once more, handing out Fainting Fancies and shouting over the crowd.

Harry paused, one hand resting on a box of Fanged Frisbees, the other still halfway to the shelf. Fred and George moved like wildfire through the crowd—shouting, laughing, ducking stray spells from joke wands—utter chaos, and somehow, comfort.

The shop was loud, certainly, but it wasn’t the sort of noise that pressed in on you. It lifted you. Made space for things you didn’t know you were carrying. Things like grief. Or longing. Or the kind of loneliness that didn’t always have a name.

It was warm. Alive. And for reasons Harry couldn’t quite put into words, it felt a bit like coming home.

He turned back to the shelf, straightening a crooked stack of Decoy Detonators, and reached for the next box.

A light tap on his shoulder stopped him.

He turned.

Ron stood there, eyes wide, practically vibrating with energy.

“Harry,” he whispered, nodding urgently toward the front of the shop, “I think that’s your mum.”

Harry stared. “What?”

Ron pointed, hand shaking slightly. “There—outside. Just look.”

Harry stepped forward, pressing past a tower of punching telescopes, and leaned towards the window. The sunlight threw everything into a soft blur. Moving shapes, robes swishing, laughter from somewhere just beyond the glass.

Then—

His breath caught.

She was there.

Lily.

She stood just across the street, her hair shining like molten copper in the light, drifting slightly in the breeze. She paused outside Quality Quidditch Supplies, tilting her head as she peered through the glass, one hand shading her eyes.

Her lips curled into a soft smile. The sort that slipped out without you noticing. Familiar. So familiar.

“It… it really is her,” Harry said, voice barely above a whisper.

She looked so calm. So ordinary. As though she belonged in that exact moment, in that exact place. As if she hadn’t just turned his entire world inside out simply by being in it.

“What’s she doing here?” he asked, without looking away.

Ron grinned. “Isn’t it obvious? Birthday present.”

Harry blinked. “You reckon?”

“She’s standing outside a Quidditch shop,” Ron said, as if that explained everything. “And you’re—you know—you.”

Harry wanted to laugh. Wanted to believe it. His heart swelled painfully in his chest, twisting with a feeling he didn’t know how to name. The idea of her picking something out for him—thinking of him, remembering—it was almost too much.

“She’s never really said anything,” he said, after a moment.

“Said what?”

“That she’s proud,” Harry muttered. “That she sees me. Not properly. Not the way I—” He broke off, jaw tightening.

It sounded daft, once he’d said it aloud.

“She is proud,” Ron said quickly, a little fiercely. “She’s got to be. I mean—look at you.”

Harry didn’t reply.

Lily shifted her bag onto one arm and stepped into the shop, robes fluttering slightly behind her.

Something about the way she moved—graceful, purposeful—sent a sharp ache through him.

“I don’t know,” Harry said quietly. “Sometimes it feels like I’m still trying to earn it.”

Ron frowned. “Earn what?”

“Her approval. Her attention.” He let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I know it sounds stupid. I just—I always feel like I’m waiting for her to really see me. Like, not just as a son, but… as me.”

Ron didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, next to Harry, both of them staring at the door across the street.

“I think she sees more than you think,” Ron said eventually. “She’s your mum.”

The bell above the shop door jingled.

Lily stepped out, hair a little windblown, cheeks flushed. She held a paper bag tightly in both hands, something inside bulging awkwardly at the edges. But she looked pleased. Like she’d found exactly what she’d been hoping for.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

Ron nudged him gently. “That’s definitely for you.”

Harry hesitated. “What if it’s not?” he blurted. “What if it’s for someone else? What if she just—”

“Harry,” Ron said firmly, “look at her face.”

Harry did.

She was smiling softly to herself, that same familiar smile. The kind that reached her eyes. The kind people only made when they were thinking of someone they loved.

“I want to go out there,” Harry whispered. “I want to ask her what it is. Just… see her properly. Up close.”

“So go,” Ron said, already half turning.

But Harry didn’t move.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “If I ask, it’ll ruin it. I want her to give it to me because she wants to. Not because I caught her.”

Ron looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

They watched as Lily turned, the paper bag still clutched tight to her chest, and vanished slowly into the crowd. The sunlight flickered off her hair one last time—and then she was gone.

Harry stayed by the glass long after.

His chest still felt tight, but it wasn’t the same sort of tight as before. It was something newer. Stranger.

Hope.

Just a little.

Just enough.

Lily glanced at the clock above the Auror Headquarters reception desk. Six o’clock. The second hand ticked on, too loud in the hush that had settled after the day’s end. The usual murmur of parchment rustling, footsteps echoing, and spell ink scribbling had faded. Everyone had gone. Just her now. And the silence.

She stood for a moment longer, uncertain why she hadn’t moved. The office, all sleek edges and shadowed corners, felt oddly hollow without voices to fill it. The windows behind her glowed gold with early evening light, the kind that made everything softer, sadder. It should have been beautiful. Instead, it only made her chest ache.

The lift waited down the corridor. She made her way towards it, heels striking gently against the floor, each step too precise, too careful. Her robes trailed behind her like she hadn’t quite caught up to herself.

The lift doors opened with a dull chime.

Inside stood a man—older, slightly hunched, with a battered black suit and a hat that looked like it belonged in another decade. His fedora was askew, giving him an air of gentle defiance. He smiled as she entered. Warm. Not the sort of smile meant to charm. Just… kind.

Lily offered a polite nod and stepped in beside him.

The doors closed, the familiar lurch of descent beginning.

She could feel it again—that pressure behind her ribs, thoughts stacking themselves one on top of the other: missed deadlines, incomplete warrants, the gnawing worry that she’d forgotten something important. Or someone.

“You look like you’re carrying something heavy,” the man said, without looking at her.

The voice was low, calm—weathered, like driftwood worn smooth.

She turned her head slightly. “Do I?” she replied, keeping her voice even, though it took effort.

He didn’t answer at once. Just watched the numbers above the door flick down slowly. “People wear their worries,” he said at last. “Yours are sitting right on your shoulders.”

She crossed her arms without meaning to. She ought to have dismissed him. She normally would. But there was something oddly grounding about his presence, like a spell that softened the air between them.

“I don’t tend to share personal things with strangers,” she said, after a pause.

“Good policy,” he said mildly. “But sometimes it’s easier with someone who doesn’t know the names.”

The silence stretched again, but it had changed. It no longer pressed—it waited.

She found herself speaking, voice quiet, almost reluctant.

“I’ve a son. Harry. He’s nearly grown now, though it still doesn’t seem possible. He asked me to come away with him. Just for a few days. For his birthday.”

The man gave a small nod, saying nothing.

“I told him I’d think about it,” she went on. “Work’s busy. It always is. There’s always something else—someone else—needing my time.” She laughed, but it came out thin. “I keep convincing myself it’s noble. Important.”

“It probably is,” the man said gently. “But is it more important?”

Lily looked down at her hands. She hadn’t even realised she’d been wringing them.

“I love him,” she said quickly. “I do. That’s never been in question. But… showing it. Being there. I don’t always know how. It’s as though I’m watching the days pass from a window and hoping he understands.”

“Do you think he does?” the man asked.

She hesitated.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “He’s kind. Quiet, in a way. He doesn’t ask for much. I think—” Her voice cracked slightly. “I think he’s learnt not to.”

The lift creaked as it passed another level.

“He’s leaving tomorrow,” she added. “Early. Said it was fine if I didn’t come. Said he’d understand.”

“But you’re not sure if you would,” the man said softly.

Lily’s throat closed. “No. I’m not.”

The man shifted slightly, his shoulders squared though his voice remained calm.

“What if,” he said, “you said goodbye tomorrow, and that was the last chance you ever had?”

Her breath caught.

“That’s—” she began, but faltered. “That’s a cruel thing to say.”

“It’s a cruel thing to happen,” he replied. “But it does.”

She saw James then—fleetingly, in her mind’s eye. His laughter. His silence. His absence. The way a moment could become a memory before you’d realised it had passed.

“I couldn’t bear that,” she whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Don’t let the clock run out while you’re still holding the gift.”

She turned to him fully then, something rising in her chest she hadn’t let herself feel for months. Hope. And guilt. And fear. All tangled.

“What if I’ve already failed him?” she asked.

“You haven’t,” the man said, meeting her gaze. “You’re still here. And you still have time.”

The lift slowed. The doors began to open with a quiet ding.

He stepped out first, pausing only long enough to glance back at her.

“Don’t waste it.”

Then he disappeared into the corridor, the sound of his footsteps fading.

Lily stood frozen for a moment, the air around her still.

Something had shifted. Subtle. Small. But real.

As night deepened, Hogwarts held its silence like a secret. The torches along the corridor sputtered gently, throwing tall, shifting shadows across the stone floor. Their warm light didn’t reach the knot curled cold in Harry’s stomach.

He stood near the back of the Gryffindor crowd in the Entrance Hall, surrounded by laughter and chatter, the excited buzz that always filled the air before a feast or a ceremony. Someone’s robes brushed his arm; someone else let out a whoop of laughter that echoed off the high ceiling. But it all felt distant, as though Harry were standing behind a pane of glass.

He adjusted his tie without thinking—red and gold, slightly crooked—as if straightening it might settle something inside him. It didn’t.

His mum might be coming. Maybe. She’d said she’d try.

But since this morning’s conversation—tense, clipped, left dangling between them—there’d been nothing. No note. No owl. Not even a message passed along from McGonagall or someone in the Floo Office. Just silence. Heavy, stretching silence, filled with all the things they hadn’t said. Again.

“Oi, Harry. You alright?”

Ron had sidled up beside him, hands shoved into his pockets, his hair sticking up worse than usual.

Harry blinked. “Yeah. Just… wondering.”

Ron gave him a look. “About your mum?”

Harry hesitated. “What if she doesn’t come?”

Ron shifted his weight, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes. “She might just be late. Mums always say they’ll be on time, and then something happens. Mine once missed half a match ’cause she got talking to Mrs Abbott about celery soup. True story.”

Harry didn’t laugh.

“But what if she’s not late?” he said quietly. “What if she just… didn’t come?”

Ron opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again.

“She’s still your mum,” he said at last, not unkindly. “Even if it’s hard. Sometimes people just need space.”

“Or they just stop trying,” Harry muttered, before he could stop himself. The bitterness surprised even him. It sat heavy in his throat.

Ron sighed. “You’re not the only one dreading family tonight, mate. Snape nearly took my head off last week in Potions, and I’ve been avoiding Mum ever since. She’s going to ask me about it the moment she sees me.”

Harry glanced at him. “Thought you said you were doing better?”

“So did I,” Ron groaned. “Turns out porcupine quills aren’t the same as lionfish spines. Who knew?”

Harry gave a faint smile, but it didn’t stick. His eyes had drifted back to the doors.

Still nothing.

The crowd began to shuffle toward the Great Hall, voices rising with anticipation.

Ron nudged him. “Come on. Let’s go in before Hermione starts thinking we’ve been cursed.”

Harry moved with him, but each step into the Hall felt heavier than the last. Inside, the candles floated above the tables as always, glowing softly. Laughter bounced from one end of the room to the other. Professors were gathering at the high table. Parents and family lined the benches near the walls.

Harry scanned every face. Once. Then again. Hope flickered, then faltered.

Still no sign of her.

His chest felt tight. His hands, shoved into his pockets now, were cold.

“Harry!”

Hermione reached him quickly, her parents just behind her, smiling politely. She looked up at him, concern in her eyes.

“You haven’t seen her?”

He shook his head.

Hermione hesitated. “She’s probably just late. Or nervous. Give it a bit longer.”

But Harry had been giving it longer. For years. And somehow, he always felt like the one doing the waiting.

“She should’ve been here by now,” he said, voice low. “If she really wanted to come—she would’ve.”

Hermione didn’t argue. She just touched his arm lightly, then turned back to her parents.

The ceremony began. Students were called up. Names echoed through the hall, followed by bursts of applause. Ron clapped. Hermione cheered. Harry didn’t hear any of it. He kept his eyes on the doors.

Nothing.

The ache in his chest had dulled, settling into something heavier. Not anger. Not sadness. Something in between. Resignation, maybe.

And then—just as the headmaster began a new round of names—the great doors creaked open.

No one else seemed to notice.

But Harry turned.

There she was.

His mum stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, her eyes searching. She looked tired. Her robes were slightly creased. There was no triumphant entrance, no warm smile. Just hesitation. Guilt. Uncertainty.

She didn’t move.

For one awful second, neither did he.

His heart thumped once, hard. A strange heat rose behind his eyes.

Had she come for him? Or because she felt she had to?

Their eyes met.

Harry’s breath caught.

Her eyes—green like his—met his across the space. There were a hundred things in them he didn’t know how to name. But there was no rush of warmth. No sweeping reunion like the ones people talked about in stories.

Just distance. Tired, stretched silence. A thousand words that had never been said, standing like a wall between them.

Neither of them moved.

“Mum,” he said, quietly.

She blinked, as if unsure she’d heard him.

Still, she didn’t move.

Harry took a step forward—but his legs stopped short. He couldn’t seem to cross the gap. His fingers twitched at his side.

Her lips parted. “Harry…”

Soft. Fragile. As though the sound itself might splinter if she dared speak more.

The moment lingered—sharp-edged and uncertain.

She didn’t come closer.

And he didn’t either.

They stood beneath the high arches of the Great Hall, caught in the golden torchlight, neither reaching nor retreating.

But she’d come.

That counted for something. Didn’t it?

They were just settling into their seats—awkward, side by side—when the headmaster cleared his throat and read out Harry’s name.

Top student.

Applause erupted like a wave, loud and echoing, rising from every corner of the hall. But to Harry, it felt far away. Not pride. Not happiness. Just pressure. The weight of expectation—of being the boy his mum wanted him to be.

Hermione turned, beaming. “That’s incredible, Harry,” she said, genuinely pleased, her eyes shining.

Ron gave him a quick smile, though his shoulders were hunched, and he was sneaking glances at the high table where his parents sat. His grin looked uncertain—tugged somewhere between embarrassment and pride.

Harry barely heard them. His eyes flicked to the woman beside him.

She was applauding politely. Her expression was impossible to read. There was something like a smile—small, fleeting. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“Congratulations,” she said, as if it were something she owed him.

“Thanks… Mum,” he managed, though the words stuck in his throat.

He wanted something more. A look. A touch. Some glimmer that she was proud of him, not just the marks or the name or the neatness of it all.

But that was all he got.

And then it was over.

She had only just arrived, and already she was looking to leave. There’d been no proper greeting, no warmth, no time to catch their breath. Just the ceremony, and now the closing of it.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked. Her eyes were already moving, scanning the crowd. Always scanning. Always thinking ahead.

Harry hesitated. The hall still buzzed around them—his friends, the food, the celebration. It felt like stepping out of a dream before it had even begun. “Er—yeah. Just—just a sec.”

He turned to Ron and Hermione, dragging his feet a little. Something in his chest was pulling in two directions at once.

Back at his mother’s side, her voice came again, brisk. “Ready now?”

Harry nodded, but it wasn’t agreement. Not really.

They’d just reached the stairs when Hermione’s voice called out.

“Harry! Congratulations again!” She and Ron were hurrying to catch up, weaving through the crowd.

“Yeah—brilliant job, mate,” Ron said, clapping him on the shoulder. His grin this time was steadier, and there was pride in it.

“Good evening, Mrs Potter,” Hermione said politely, then quickly added, “My parents were wondering if you and Harry might like to join us for dinner tonight.”

Harry’s heart gave a jolt. For a second, the world opened just a bit—a glimpse of something simple. A warm meal. Talking, laughing. A too few a chance to feel like he belonged somewhere.

He turned to his mum, hopeful. Please—just one night. Just this.

Hermione must’ve seen the look. “Mr and Mrs Weasley will be there too,” she added gently, glancing at Lily. “It would mean a lot.”

Ron nodded. “Please. It’s just dinner. Just a normal evening.”

Harry looked between them—his mum, his friends. Duty on one side. Choice on the other. One life asking him to perform, the other letting him breathe.

But Lily didn’t pause.

“No. We won’t be attending,” she said, not unkind but firm. Final. Her hand found his arm—gently, but with purpose. “It’s time to go.”

A strange sort of cold swept through Harry. Something deflated inside him—quietly, without fuss. Like a balloon left too long in the sun.

Ron’s smile faltered. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said softly. Not sure who he meant it for.

Lily turned, guiding him away. “Let’s go.”

And he followed.

Each step felt like he was leaving something behind. He didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d stop himself from running straight back.