They soon reached the edge of the park where the old Quidditch pitch lay, bathed in golden afternoon light. Lily paused, breathing in the warm, late-day breeze. The sky above them was streaked with soft orange, and laughter echoed across the grass like wind chimes.
Children zipped by on broomsticks, clumsy and fearless, their makeshift robes flapping behind them like capes. One boy missed catching a Quaffle and spun in the air, shrieking with laughter as he nearly toppled off his broom. The others cheered, undeterred, their faces lit with pure happiness. It reminded her so much of the way James used to play—messy, loud, and alive.
Harry stood at her side, completely entranced. His eyes followed every move, sparkling with the kind of wonder she hadn't seen in him for a while. His smile was quiet but real. It made her heart ache in the best way.
"You know," Lily said softly, watching him with a fondness that went bone-deep, "you were already zooming around on your toy broom before you could even walk properly. Just a tiny blur across the garden."
He turned to her, grinning. "Really?"
She nodded, warmth rising in her chest. "Your father said you were born to fly. He was so sure you'd be a brilliant Quidditch player one day. I think he was right." Her voice caught slightly. "If only he could see you now."
Harry's smile lingered, more thoughtful now. "He'd be proud," he murmured, almost to himself.
"Oh, he would," Lily whispered, blinking back the sting behind her eyes. "He used to bring you here, you know. This very pitch." She pointed to the far side, where the grass dipped just slightly from years of feet and broomsticks carving paths through it. "You were so little. You didn't understand the game, of course. He'd pretend to be a Bludger and chase you around until you collapsed in the grass, giggling like mad."
A soft laugh escaped Harry. "That sounds… amazing."
"It was," Lily said, her gaze growing distant as the memory unfolded in her mind. James, his hair a wild mess, running with their baby boy tucked under one arm, both of them shrieking with laughter. "There was so much joy back then. Even with everything happening in the world… we had these moments. They kept us going."
Harry's voice was quiet. "I thought of him during my first Quidditch match at Hogwarts. I didn't even know much about him then, but… when I caught the Snitch, I felt something. Like he was there."
Lily placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch soft but steady. "He was. You carry him with you, Harry. You always have."
"I wish he could've seen me," Harry said, eyes drifting to the sky as a broom zoomed past. "Just once."
She squeezed his shoulder. "Every time you take flight, he's watching. He's there in your courage. In your stubbornness." She smiled. "And definitely in your tendency to break rules when you think it's the right thing to do."
Harry chuckled, but there was a faraway look in his eyes, like he was chasing the shape of a memory that had never been his to begin with.
The game on the pitch was slowing. The young players were dismounting, laughing breathlessly, their cheeks flushed and hair wild. The sun dipped lower behind the trees, and the sky began to blush with shades of pink and lavender.
Lily felt the years folding in on themselves. She could almost see a younger version of James running across the field, broom in hand, shouting triumphantly about a last-second goal. Could almost hear his voice, animated and full of mischief, spinning stories that danced somewhere between truth and embellishment.
"Do you remember the stories he used to tell about his Quidditch days?" Harry asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.
Lily gave a soft laugh, her throat tight. "He had so many. And he told them with such fire. He loved the thrill of the game—the way the wind felt in his hair, the roar of the crowd. He made it all sound like magic."
"I used to imagine it," Harry said. "Him flying through the sky, dodging Bludgers, scoring impossible goals. I don't know why, but hearing you talk about him now… it makes it feel real."
Lily's heart swelled with a bittersweet ache. She wanted to give him more. More stories. More memories. More of James.
"If I could give you just one more moment with him," she whispered, brushing a hand through his hair, "I would. Just to let you see the way his eyes lit up when he talked about you. Just to hear him laugh with you."
Harry's voice was barely audible. "I'd give anything to hear him talk about one of his matches. Just one. The excitement in his voice… I can almost hear it."
She stepped a little closer and wrapped her arm around him, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. "He's part of you, Harry. You're living proof that he was here and that he mattered. And you're making him proud—every single day."
Lily watched her son lift his gaze to the sky, the late afternoon sun brushing his cheeks with gold. A group of children tumbled through the air on toy brooms, laughing, chasing, and shouting joyfully as if the world hadn't changed. Harry's eyes sparkled as he followed them, a soft smile forming—so much like James's when he used to fly.
He stood quietly for a moment, soaking in the sight, and Lily saw something shift in him—something warm and wistful.
Then, his voice—so certain—broke the peace.
"Mum," he said, hesitating for just a beat. "Can we go see our old house?"
Lily stopped mid-step. The question hit her like a quiet shockwave. She turned to him slowly, feeling the thud of her heart quicken in her chest. She'd known this day would come, eventually—but not today. Not so soon. She wasn't ready.
That house… It lived in a part of her heart she kept sealed shut. Behind that door lay so many ghosts—some loving, some unbearable.
She glanced at Harry. His eyes held a tentative hope, shaded by the innocent need to understand who he was and where he came from.
She didn't want to say yes. She didn't want to open those doors again.
But she couldn't say no.
"Of course," she said softly, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice.
They walked in silence and moved through the square and turned down a quiet, forgotten street. Lily's breath grew shallow as they neared the end. Her pulse thudded louder with each step. And then—there it was.
The cottage.
Two stories of memories and ruins. The garden, once trimmed and blooming under James's lazy but loving care, had become wild. Ivy curled up the crumbling walls. The paint had long since peeled. The windows, dusty and lifeless, stared back like tired eyes.
Lily stopped at the rusted gate. Her hand hovered above the latch. For a long moment, she simply stood there, staring, her throat tight.
It looked smaller than she remembered.
And sadder.
But the ache in her chest wasn't just from loss. It was from love—so much love, frozen in time. This was the place where they had laughed together in the kitchen. Where James had sung lullabies off-key to a baby who wouldn't sleep. Where she had danced barefoot in the hallway, holding Harry close to her chest.
"Mum…" Harry whispered beside her.
She turned and saw the wonder in his eyes. He was taking it all in—the way the roof sagged slightly, the overgrown hedges, the wildflowers pushing through the cracks in the stone path like little bursts of rebellion.
"Is this really where we used to live?" he asked.
Lily nodded. "It was," she said quietly. "Once."
The wind stirred the petals of a nearby daisy. She stared at it for a moment, her mind drifting back to warm summer afternoons—James tossing Harry in the air, baby giggles echoing in the garden, sunlight streaming through the kitchen window.
"Can we go in?" Harry asked, his voice low but hopeful.
Lily's stomach twisted. Go in? Was she ready for that?
"I don't know if it's safe," she said gently. "It's been empty a long time."
"Please?" he asked, turning to her fully now. "I just… I want to see. I want to know."
And Lily, looking into those eyes—so bright, so much like James's but also entirely his own—found herself nodding.
"All right," she whispered. "But stay close to me."
The gate creaked open with a reluctant groan. Together, they stepped through. The garden felt like it belonged to another world, one frozen in a memory. Long grass tickled their ankles as they walked slowly to the front steps. The porch sagged, the wood beneath their feet moaning with age and abandonment.
Harry slipped his hand into hers, and she squeezed it tightly. He didn't know the full story. Not yet. But he could feel the weight in the air.
They stopped at the door. Its blue paint was faded and peeling, but Lily remembered the day James had painted it. He'd insisted on that particular shade—a colour he called "sky after a storm".
Harry reached out and pushed the door gently. It swung open with a long sigh, as if even the house had been waiting for them to return.
They stepped inside.
The scent of dust and time wrapped around them. Light filtered through the broken blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. The living room stood still, the fireplace at its centre, now draped in cobwebs. A forgotten armchair slouched in the corner. The edges of an old rug peeked through a blanket of dust.
"Wow," Harry breathed.
Lily didn't answer. Her eyes drifted to the far wall, where a faint outline still marked the place they'd once hung family photos. She could almost see them—James with his lopsided grin, baby Harry with mashed peas on his cheek, and her own smile frozen forever in that frame.
She closed her eyes and let the wave of it wash over her.
Love. Loss. Joy. Grief. All wrapped together in the walls of this home.
And Harry—her Harry—standing in the middle of it all, anchoring her in the present.
"This is where I took your first steps," she said, her voice trembling. "Right here. You wobbled straight into that armchair, laughing the whole time."
He turned to her, eyes wide. "Really?"
She nodded and gave a tearful smile. "And that fireplace? Your dad burnt three different dinners trying to impress me."
Harry laughed. "That sounds like him."
Lily stood quietly behind her son, her heart tightening as she watched him stare up at the staircase.
He didn't turn to her, but she heard the rawness in his voice when he finally spoke.
"That's where Dad…" His voice cracked like a branch under too much weight.
Lily felt her breath hitch. Her chest ached. She had replayed this very moment in her dreams and nightmares a thousand times, but nothing could prepare her for the real thing—for standing here again, with Harry beside her. Her brave boy. Her broken boy.
She nodded slowly, her eyes already stinging with tears. "Yes. That's where he… where it happened," she whispered. "He stood there and chose you over everything else. He didn't even hesitate."
The words came out with more fragility than she expected. Her voice trembled with the effort of holding it together, but she couldn't—she didn't want to pretend anymore.
"I didn't see it happen," she said, her eyes fixed on the spot where time had once stood still. "I was unconscious. I refused to move, to step aside. He cast a spell… something meant to knock me out. I—I never saw James fall. I couldn't help him. I couldn't save him."
The silence that followed made everything feel louder—the creaking floorboards, the wind brushing the windows, the soft rhythm of their breathing. Her hand rose instinctively to her chest, as though trying to calm the chaos inside her heart.
"I blamed you," she admitted, her voice smaller now, more ashamed. "Not really, not truly, but… somewhere inside me, I did. I knew it wasn't fair, but the grief didn't care about fairness. I couldn't face you, Harry. Every time I looked at you, I saw the life he gave up. And it hurt so much, I didn't know how to live with it."
She closed her eyes, and the tears came freely. Years of guilt, buried and hardened like stone, cracked wide open. "I'm so sorry," she said, barely able to get the words out. "I should have been stronger for you. I should have loved you louder, sooner, and better."
She felt her knees weaken and leaned against the wall. The pain was too much. And yet, somehow, the warmth of Harry's hands found hers. His touch was gentle, steady, and grounding.
When she opened her eyes, he was right in front of her, eyes glistening, lips pressed together as he fought back his own storm of emotions.
For a moment, neither of them said a word.
She thought about his first steps. His first words, his first day at Hogwarts, and the nights he cried alone and she wasn't there to hold him.
And still, he stood here. With her.
"Mum," he said at last, so softly it almost didn't reach her ears, "it's okay. I understand."
It was more than forgiveness—it was a gift, a balm, a bridge across years of silence.
She reached up and touched his face, brushing back a lock of messy hair. "You look just like him," she murmured, her voice filled with wonder. "But your heart… that's all yours. And it's beautiful."
They stood there a while longer before finally turning from the stairs. The house around them felt like a museum of memories—quiet, haunted, sacred. Every step they took away from it felt like a small release, a letting go.
Outside, the wind danced through the trees, carrying whispers of laughter and long-forgotten lullabies. Lily clutched her coat tighter around her, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve as they made their way toward the small graveyard tucked beneath the willow trees.
"I still remember the way James used to hold you," she said, her voice steadier now, but still laced with sadness. "He'd lift you up and spin you around until we were both dizzy from laughing. He loved you so much, Harry. He would've given the world for you. And in the end… he did."
Harry walked beside her, quiet but close. She glanced at him—at the way he bowed his head, the way his shoulders curled inward with a grief she knew too well.
"I wish I remembered him," he said after a pause. "I wish I knew what his voice sounded like. Or what it felt like to be in his arms."
Lily reached for his hand again, and this time, he didn't let go. "He was warm," she said softly. "And loud. And brave. He had this way of making you feel like everything was going to be alright, even when the world was falling apart."
Her voice caught in her throat as they reached the edge of the graveyard. The headstone stood just ahead—simple and unassuming, yet it held the weight of the universe.
They passed beneath the old kissing gate, its hinges groaning softly with age. Lily paused beneath it, just for a breath. How many couples had stood here before them, whispering promises? How many parents, children, lovers—how many had said goodbye beneath this archway, not knowing it was the last? It felt sacred, somehow. Weathered wood and rusted iron, yet holding generations of love. She reached out and brushed her fingers over the gate as she stepped through, almost like offering it a thank you.
Harry walked a few steps ahead, his shoulders tight with silent weight. Lily's heart ached just watching him. She could feel his grief even before she saw the tears welling in his eyes. He was her son—she knew every expression on that face. The way he moved now was how he had as a child when he was trying to hide how badly something hurt. Silent. Brave. So much like James.
The cemetery stretched quietly before them, rows of weathered stones basking in the soft sunlight. The air smelt of damp grass and earth, and somewhere nearby, a bird sang a lonely note. Lily let herself listen, just for a second. The world kept turning, even here. Even in places like this.
Harry stopped.
She didn't have to ask—she knew.
There it was. James's grave.
A simple white headstone, polished smooth and clean. Someone must've cared for it all these years. Maybe Remus or Sirius, before… Her chest tightened. So many friends gone. So many memories clinging to that name carved into stone.
James Potter.
Beloved husband. Cherished father. Loyal friend.
The words struck her like they always did. No matter how many times she saw them, they felt like a wound that hadn't healed right.
Harry dropped to his knees and reached out, his fingertips brushing the engraved letters like he could wake James if he just touched them softly enough.
"I miss you, Dad," he whispered.
Lily felt her breath catch. The words were simple, but they pierced the quiet air. She stayed back for a moment, giving Harry space. Watching him kneel there—her baby boy, grown now, but still carrying the ache of a boy who lost his father far too soon—brought a sharp, unrelenting ache to her chest.
She lifted her wand slowly. Her hand trembled just a little as she whispered the spell, summoning a bouquet of roses. Not just any roses—James's favourites. Crimson, with golden edges. She remembered planting them with him once in the old backyard, their fingers muddy and hearts light.
The bouquet shimmered in the sunlight, each petal catching the light like it had been kissed by magic itself. She walked forward quietly and laid them at the base of the stone. A simple gesture. But full of love.
Harry looked up and gave her a soft smile—tired, tearful. She reached down and brushed his messy hair back from his forehead, just like she used to do when he was little. That single touch carried everything she wanted to say.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, and for a moment, the scent of roses filled the space between them. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
Lily sat beside him, letting the silence stretch. Not awkward. Not empty. Just quiet in a way that said, I'm here. I'm always here.
"I wish I had more time with him," Harry said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't really remember anything. Just stories."
Lily felt her heart break all over again. She reached for his hand and held it tightly. "I know, sweetheart. But he knew you. He loved you more than anything in this world. He was so proud the moment he held you."
She paused, her throat tightening. "He used to sit by your crib at night, talking to you like you understood every word. He'd tell you about Quidditch and Hogwarts and how one day you'd be chasing Snitches like a pro. He had dreams for you, Harry. So many."
Harry gave a small, shaky laugh. "He sounds like he was kind of a dork."
Lily smiled. "The biggest dork. But he was ours."
They sat in silence again, and Lily's thoughts drifted backward—golden days in the meadow, laughter echoing through the house, baby Harry on James's shoulders, clutching tufts of his hair like reins. So much joy. So much love. She held onto those memories tightly.
"He'd be so proud of you," she said softly, her thumb brushing his knuckles. "Of the man you've become. The courage in you… it's his too."
Harry turned to her, eyes glistening. "Do you really think he knows?"
She nodded. "Love like his doesn't just disappear. It echoes. In every smile you give, in every brave choice you make… he's there. Love doesn't end, Harry. It just changes shape."
For a long time, neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say, really. Just being there—together—was enough.
Eventually, Harry stood and helped her up. The creak of the iron gate behind them startled Lily, pulling her back to the present. She turned for one last look at James's name etched in white, letting it etch into her heart all over again.
Then they began to walk.
The path was uneven, patches of moss and old stone jutting from the earth. Lily kept her eyes on her feet, but her mind wandered—memories flickering like old film, her heart still caught between then and now.
And then, her foot caught on something. A small stone. She barely had time to gasp before she stumbled forward, arms flailing. Her side clipped a tombstone with a sharp thud, and pain bloomed through her ribs.
She collapsed to the ground, breath knocked out of her, heart pounding in her ears.
"Mum!" Harry's voice cut through the haze.
"I'm okay," she gasped, waving a shaky hand.
She pushed herself upright slowly, her hands brushing dirt and dried leaves from her dress. Her arm ached, and her side throbbed, but nothing seemed broken.
Still shaking, she reached for her backpack. Carefully, she unzipped the front pocket and found her glasses tucked away. She pulled them out—and her stomach dropped.
There it was. A thin crack running along the edge of the frame.
Lily stood at the edge of the graveyard, her arms folded tightly across her chest—like the ground beneath her wasn't steady anymore. Like the world had shifted, and she was the only one who noticed.
A soft voice broke through her thoughts.
"Mum? What's wrong?"
Harry. Of course he'd noticed. He always did. He had this quiet gift, this way of sensing when something wasn't right with her—especially on nights like this.
She didn't look at him right away. Her eyes stayed on the ground, on the soil that seemed too fresh, too final. She rubbed her arms, as if she could warm herself from something cold that lived inside her now.
"Can I ask you something?" Her voice came out quieter than she expected—thin, almost afraid.
Harry stepped closer. "Sure." There was a hesitation in his voice, the kind he used when he wanted to help but didn't know how.
Lily took a breath, hoping the cool air might steady her thoughts. But nothing could settle the feeling that had been growing inside her for almost a day. A strange, creeping sense of dread. Like déjà vu, but deeper. Like her heart knew something her mind wouldn't say out loud.
"If you thought you didn't have a lot of time left…" she began, but her voice wavered.
Harry tilted his head. "You mean, like… today?"
She shook her head slowly. "No. I mean… in life. If you knew the end was near. What would you do with one last day?"
He frowned, clearly surprised. "That's a weird question," he said, but then he grew quiet, thoughtful.
She watched him as he stared into the distance. His face softened, eyes narrowing just slightly like he was imagining something only he could see.
"I'd spend it with you," he said at last, voice low and certain.
The answer struck her heart like a soft blow. She blinked, unsure how to hold back the flood rising inside her.
"Really?" she whispered.
Harry looked at her then, and his expression was warm, open. "Yeah. Just us. Doing whatever. Talking. Being together. That's enough."
A lump formed in her throat. She couldn't speak. The honesty in his voice, the ease with which he said it—it cracked something in her, something she'd been holding shut for too long. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly like she could keep time from moving if she just held on hard enough.
To her surprise, he hugged her back with the same strength. No hesitation. Just warmth.
"Thank you," she whispered into his shoulder, tears slipping down her cheek.
Harry rested his chin gently against her temple. "What for?"
"For saying that. For meaning it," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
There was a pause, just the two of them wrapped in that fragile, beautiful silence.
"For the perfect day," he added softly.
Her heart twisted at the words. So simple. So pure. She pulled back just enough to see his face, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead with trembling fingers.
"Me too," she said, managing a small smile through her tears. "More than anything."
They stood like that for a while—just mother and son, in a moment untouched by the world.
Then Harry looked down and shifted on his feet, a thoughtful crease forming between his brows. "I kind of wish we didn't have to go back," he admitted. "To London. And the Assembly."
Lily nodded slowly. She felt the same. The thought of returning to the noise, the pressure, and the decisions—it felt too heavy, too soon.
Her heart surged with a wild, almost childish hope. "Then let's not," she said suddenly. "Let's just take the Knight Bus and go somewhere else. Anywhere. Just disappear for a while. Or stay here."
Harry gave her a small smile, one that reminded her of James when he was trying to be brave. "We could. But we don't have to run, Mum. We can always come back to this place. Or go somewhere new whenever we want. But tonight…" He looked up at the stars. "Tonight, I want to make you proud."
Lily stared at him, stunned by the quiet maturity in his voice. He was still her little boy, but somehow, in this moment, he felt like something more. Like a young man she was just beginning to know.
Pride swelled inside her, tangled with love and fear.
She hesitated. The thought of going back to the places they'd been earlier—the heaviness of the day, the darkness she couldn't name—made her want to crawl into a corner and hide. But Harry needed her. And she didn't want to leave him alone in this world, not even for a moment.
His voice reached her again, soft but steady. "Mum?"
She looked up to find him watching her, his eyes full of quiet concern and something else—something deeper. A kind of knowing.
"Are you coming?"
Lily took a breath, deeper this time, and let it linger. The night air carried something strange on it—something she couldn't quite name. Not fear. Not dread. But a feeling that change was near, pressing in from the edges of her life like fog.
She reached for Harry's hand, and he took hers without hesitation. His grip was warm and grounding, like an anchor she didn't know she needed.
"Yes," she said, her voice steadier than before. "I'm coming."
They stood together a moment longer in the stillness. The wind whispered through the trees above them, and for the briefest second, she thought she felt a presence there—soft, watching, familiar. As though someone long gone was standing just behind her shoulder, smiling.
She glanced back, but the path was empty. Just shadows and moonlight.
Harry didn't notice. He was already turning, ready to take her home.
Lily followed, a flicker of something rising in her chest—curiosity, perhaps. Or hope. Or the quiet hum of magic stirring where it had been sleeping.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. The heaviness of the day still clung to her bones. But as they disappeared with a crack into the night, she held one truth close:
Whatever was coming—whatever had whispered its warning into her soul—she would face it with him.
And somehow, she knew…
They were not alone.