Archive of Our Own

Mary Macdonald never considered herself as someone brave.

Sure, the hat sorted her into Gryffindor when she was eleven. And sure, she had fought in the First Wizarding War against Voldemort. She had nerve, she was reckless, and she would do anything to protect her family, but she wasn’t brave, not really. Or at least, she didn’t think so.

What made someone brave, anyway? Was it running towards danger, when all your instincts told you to turn away? Was it having enough strength to face your fears and then walking out unfazed by them?

Mary wasn’t sure of the answer. What she was sure of, though, was her shaking hands, short breath, and unsure steps as she walked towards the blueish house at the end of the street.

She had found the address a couple of weeks ago -- well, her daughter had, as they now worked in the Ministry of Magic. After months of asking them to, she had finally conceded as a one-time-only favour. After all, giving away the address of the Boy Who Lived was something not many dared to do.

Mary had been thankful then, thinking of that to be the perfect opportunity to finally meet the man that little kid she used to know had become. But now, as she heard the sounds that her high heel shoes made against the pavement, all she wanted was to run away.

What had she been thinking, coming here? The boy - man, she corrected herself quickly -, probably didn’t even know of her existence. She was no one to him.

But he was everything to her.

Harry was the only person left that connected her to her past, as indirectly as it might be. Mary had dreamt of his green eyes, the ones that once belonged to a ten month old baby, so full of curiosity and excitement. She had dreamt of meeting him and seeing in him her long lost friends, of telling him all about the years and adventures she shared with James and Lily at Hogwarts, and of how his face would shine at the mention of such happy memories. But she has also seen the truth.

Plastered in tons of Daily Prophet articles, there was the face of Harry Potter.

The first time she read an article about him, he was no more than fourteen years old. Mary still remembered the surprise that had filled her body when she saw his picture for the first time, so like his father. It was 1994. She was living in France by then, and her husband, Simon, had been playing with their seven year old daughter in the garden. It had been a shock, seeing Harry’s picture and realizing how much time had passed since 1981, as if her own daughter wasn't proof of that.

The article talked about the Triwizard Tournament and how Harry was one of the Hogwarts champions. For a second, she thought about how excited James would have been seeing his son partake in such competition, one he and the other marauders - except Remus, he was never one to be up to unnecessary risk - used to talk about, dreaming to one day compete there and be named winners. She read about her passed friends' mention in the article, and thought that yes, James would have loved this. But then, Mary saw Harry’s expression. There was not a bit of excitement in his eyes. Instead, confusion and frustration clouded his face.

That’s when she understood that perhaps Harry wasn’t what she imagined him to be. After all, who knows what his life has been like ever since she saw him for the last time, thirteen years ago? He didn’t seem to enjoy people talking about his past, his parents; he seemed to resent it.

So, who was she to painfully remind him of fate’s cruelty, of how he was torn apart from them? Who was she to rub in his face the fact that she got to spend ten years with his parents when he could barely have one?

Now, though, ten years after Voldemort was defeated once and for all, she found herself wanting to talk to him. She liked to think that it was for Harry, that he deserved to know who his parents had been and the amazing things they did. That perhaps, by doing this, Mary could bring a little bit of happiness to his life, instead of pain. He had suffered enough, after all. He might need this as much as she did. Besides, Mary didn’t know if anyone told him about James and Lily’s years at Hogwarts. She never knew if Remus reached out to Harry. Mary hoped very much Sirius hadn't.

That’s how she found herself in front of the blue house. It was a bit isolated, farther from the other houses in the streets, and it seemed to have a big garden perfect to play quidditch in. There were few windows, Mary noticed, perhaps this was Harry’s way to keep some privacy for himself. Most had their blinds down, impeding her to look through, but one of them, the first window to the left on the second floor, was open.

And there he was.

Harry Potter.

Mary hadn't seen him in person since he was a baby. Long before he became The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, The Saviour of the Wizarding World.

By then, he had only been Harry James Potter. Son of James and Lily Potter. Cub, as Remus and Sirius liked to call him. Bambi, as Mary and Lily did, being the only muggleborns in their group.

James, on the other hand, had never used any nickname for Harry, always calling him his son, his boy. Because, why call him anything more than that, when he found so much pride and joy in seeing that kid and calling him his? Of looking at his green eyes and brownish skin, the soft, messy curls of his dark hair, and knowing that he was the product of his and Lily's love. A ray of sunshine in their darkened lives.

Yes, she remembered now. No one had been more proud of becoming a father than James Fleamont Potter.

And Lily, of course, of being his mother. How could Mary forget the sweet smiles and the adoring glances, her soft voice singing Harry lullabies every night, James by her side?

Mary could only imagine how they might be feeling right now, watching their son from wherever they were become the strong, talented, kindhearted man they always knew he would be, even after all the pain and exhaustion that came with fighting a war. Even after the world did everything it could to take his light away from him.

Flashbacks came fleeting into her mind. Memories of voices and laughs, of a Christmas where the scary reality of a war was overpowered by the warmth of the people she had loved the most. Mary remembered hoping for her life to be just like that, holidays spent with friends. Her new found family.

Hope hadn't lasted too long, soon vanished with a green light and the piercing pain of losing too much. Of losing everything at once.

Now Mary was standing in front of Harry's house holding a package that weighed too much on her hands and on her soul. Inside of the brown cartoon, pieces and memories of her happiest years, pictures that captured the innocence that once shone in their eyes, laid unperturbed. In them, there was no trace of war, no grief. Giving them to Harry felt like letting a part of herself go.

Maybe that is what Mary needed, after all, to finally close the grieving cycle she had fallen into after news of Voldemort's fall had reached the newspapers ten years ago. Mary hadn't felt like that since the end of the First Wizarding War, drowning in the pain of losing the closest people to her.

At first, when she read the news, Mary remembered relief dancing through her veins. They have finally won. Voldemort had met his end.

But then she read the names.

They were listed and next to them was the age they had been once they died. Mary guessed that was what affected her the most, what made the names something more than ink on a piece of paper. The ages gave them a bit more of humanity, it gave the readers a sense of acknowledgment that every single person listed there had been someone with a life ahead of them, a life they never finished living.

Most of them were kids, Mary noticed, caught in a fight that wasn't supposed to be theirs.

And then....

Remus John Lupin, age 38.

The last of her friends, now reunited with the rest of them.

Mary wished, very deep inside of her, that it could be her instead of him. But that was selfish.

She could still remember Remus's screams the night she told him the events of October 31, 1981, when she broke the news to him. By then, Marlene and Dorcas were dead. The first ones to go, and the memory was still a sore one, their absence still too sharp. Mary and Remus... they hadn't been prepared to lose more people.

“James and Lily are dead,” she told him. “They died protecting Harry from the hands of He Who Must Not Be Named. Peter is dead, too; he confronted Black. Because it was his fault, Sirius's. He's the reason they're all dead, and now he's in Azkaban paying for his crimes.”

Mary guessed it must have been particularly difficult for Remus to digest the news, being that Remus had loved Sirius in a way that she could never understand. He had planned on telling him, once the war was over, hope still lingering on him.

Remus never got a chance, Black also took that away from him.

They stayed together for a while after that, Mary and Remus, holding onto each other desperately. The only pieces of a puzzle that weren't lost. But they were lost, in some ways more than others. The first war was over, they could do anything they wanted, but they didn't have the energy to.

Yes, they weren't dead, but they both wish they were.

So, soon they parted ways. Clinging to one another was hurting them more than healing them, it was better to be alone for a while.

Mary sent letters, Remus replied to some of them. But a couple of months went by, and they stopped. Communication was cut, and they were left to their own devices.

It was one of Mary's biggest regrets.

And even after years of not talking to him, Mary knew that, if someone deserved peacefulness, it was Remus Lupin. Remus, who lost his friends to the guy he had pinned for years, and was then forced to face full moons alone for so many more.

Yes. It was selfish on her part wishing to be dead and back with her friends in the afterlife, when Mary knew more than anyone that Remus deserved it the most, and that she had her own family to take care of.

But, oh, how she missed her friends. Twenty seven years, and it was still agonizing, being the only one left. Lonely, too.

Remus had been the last person that directly united her with her past, and now he was gone, as well. Reading about his death felt like a dagger stabbing her right in the heart, ripping a piece of herself apart.

By losing the people she loved, Mary also lost a part of herself -- memories that she only shared with them vanished under the awareness that there was no one left that knew what it felt like, no one else to remember and laugh and cry and retell stories. Memories were a reminder of loss, more than of the love she had felt. They only brought pain.

So now, with shaking hands and her heart beating fast, Mary walked toward Harry's door. He was standing next to his window reading a letter, an owl by his side, patiently waiting for him to finish. Mary realized she was scared of seeing him after all those years. He had always been extremely similar to James, even as a baby, with eyes that twinkled with a green color so like Lily's. She was scared of the memories that the boy - now a man - would unlock. She was scared of seeing James and Lily during their last year alive in him; the uneasy expression James used to wear and Lily’s distant eyes.

Harry deserved to see his parents as they were before the war, so full of life and so full of love, not like in their last moments of life, where survival was a priority and the exhaustion of a war started to appear in the corner of their faces. And she could show them to him, give him the pictures and the notes they exchanged during classes, none of them paying attention to what their professors were saying. But she wasn't ready to give them up, not now. Maybe not ever.

So, with a strangled sob, Mary turned her body and walked away. She tripped over a rock on her way out, letting out a surprised cry when her knees touched the pavement. Mary didn't look back to see if Harry had noticed, she only took the stuff that had fallen out of the package, messily putting them back in, and ran.

One day, Mary thought to herself as she put distance between Harry's house and her, she would come back and put an end to her grieving. One day, she would be brave enough to confront the boy and give him access to all the memories that now only belonged to her.

But that day wasn't today.

No, Mary never considered herself as someone brave.

Harry heard a thud and then steps walking away.

It was a loud sound, and he forced himself to look up from the letter he was reading to check in case it was any of his kids who had gotten hurt.

It wasn’t.

He watched with a frown as a woman ran away, heels slowing down her pace. She had curvy, dark hair, and the white color of her robes contrasted with the chocolate of her skin. Harry thought he heard a cry, but the sound was muffled by the glass in between. He watched her until she was nothing but a blurry image, getting smaller by the second, and then there was nothing. The street was empty again, the only sound he could hear was of Lily Luna’s cries next to him, waking up from her nap, and Ginny’s laughs coming from the first floor, where she was playing with their sons.

“Harry, is Lily O.K.?!” he heard his wife scream. Harry got out of his stupor and turned away from the window, nothing there to look at anymore.

“Yes! She just woke up!” Harry replied, taking his daughter in his arms and leaving the letter he had been reading aside. It was from Ron, inviting him to a night out next weekend with other aurors in their team.

Lily’s screams were getting louder, and he tried to calm her down by pacing around the room, singing a lullaby under his breath. Harry could feel her breath over his neck, his daughter’s moving arms beating softly his chest, and the wetness of her tears soaking the fabric that covered his shoulder.

“Shh, it’s alright, Lily, my love,” he whispered tenderly. “Daddy’s here, you’re alright.”

Harry’s hand was on Luna’s backhead when she finally calmed down, incongruent babbling replacing the cries, and he drowned a sigh that threatened to leave. He walked to the window again, looking at the place where he last saw the woman, Lily still moving in his arms.

It was a weird feeling, like a pull begging for him to follow, a small voice on the back of his head whispering soothing, convincing words. So he kept staring at the street, the lullaby still lingering on his tongue. Harry never considered himself a good singer, not really, but Lily seemed to enjoy his voice, or she found it funny, at least, as she laughed when he cracked a note.

“... Mama’s gonna buy you a dog named Rover. And if that dog named Rover won’t bark, Papa’s gonna buy you a horse and cart...” he sang softly to Lily, eyes focusing on her for a moment. He took her little hand and moved it around in circles, pretending they were dancing, and she giggled. Harry felt his chest fill with warmth, overwhelming love pouring through his skin for the little girl in his arms.

She poked his glasses, a belly laugh escaping from her throat when Harry winced at one of the corners hitting his eye.

“Lily!” he exclaimed severely, although there was fun in his voice. “Don’t do that, you redheaded, little monster! Don’t poke at daddy’s glasses!”

But then, head turned to the window so his daughter couldn’t play with his glasses anymore, vision still a bit blurry, Harry saw something.

It would have been easy to miss, with how small it looked, if it hadn't fallen on the grass next to the pavement. Harry thought it might be a letter, noticing the black ink against yellowing paper, and deflated a little. Perhaps it had been just a witch trying to express his gratitude for killing Voldemort who thought that could have better luck by delivering the letter herself -- Merlin knew it had happened before.

It would be best if he just ignored it, really. It had already been ten years since the war ended, and he was more than tired of them. He had been relieved, actually, when the letters finally stopped arriving! After so many years, people were finally understanding that Harry just wanted to live a life as normal as possible, memories of the war left behind like anyone else wanted to.

But… It has also been very long since someone sent a letter. It wouldn’t hurt to read it, would it? Just to see what people were talking about him nowadays.

So, with Lily playing with his hair, he walked down the stairs and opened the front door. Light came rushing in, brightening the dark hallway, the ray of sun hurting his eyes. Lily let out a squeak of excitement, and Harry remembered how much she loved staying outside. Perhaps he should take her out more, let her watch his brothers play quidditch with Ginny in the garden.

But right now, he wasn’t thinking about that.

He walked fast to the piece of paper, feeling droplets of water sticking up to his skin as he touched the grass. It had rained two hours ago, and the sun had just started to appear, so it made sense that the place was still wet with the reminiscence of the rain. Harry brought out his wand and casted a few spells in order to be sure that there was no malicious magic hiding within the ink, and smiled to himself when every spell he used came back negative.

Harry picked up the letter, calloused fingers touching the soft sheet of paper, and walked to the safety of his house again. Lily cried out facing the door as Harry closed it, threatening to give him a tantrum, but Harry didn’t pay it much mind. He already knew how to avoid them, so he just sat on the sofa, Lily on his right knee, and started moving it up and down.

Harry listened to his daughter’s giggles as he inspectioned the paper, his glasses already in place. It appeared to have been ripped from a piece of parchment, some corners bigger than others. There were yellow stains, giving up how old it must be, and Harry felt a feeling of confusion wash over him.

But what actually caught his breathing and made his hands tremble, was the content of it.

Five different handwritings. Three different tones of black ink. One conversation, messily scattered all over the parchment.

This was his father’s, as he inferred by the nicknames used so carelessly, like the world belonged to him and only him , no existing worries outside of this old piece of parchment and the ink that covered it. Harry also recognized which words belonged to Professor Lupin from all the time he corrected his essays back in third year, and the fancy curves of Sirius’s letters.

There was also a round handwriting that belonged to a girl named Mary if Harry was following the flow of the conversation correctly. A name he didn’t quite recognize from his uncles’ stories, but that had been close enough to these people to keep the conversation going as a note passed between classmates.

Harry looked at the window in front of him, although its blinds were closed, and wondered if maybe that woman could have the answers to his unspoken, unthought questions.

One Week Later

They never got visitors. At least, not unexpectedly.

Usually, when Simon wanted to hang out with his friends, or Mary’s family was around, they planned it carefully. Simon loved to prepare the house for whoever might visit, taking portraits with them out and putting them over the furniture, or cleaning particularly well a part of their house that the person in question liked to go to. It was a known rule between their social circles to always notify them in advance before coming.

So it was a bit weird when the doorbell rang, announcing someone at their door, when they hadn’t made plans with anybody.

Simon looked up from his book. He was sitting in front of Mary as she finished sewing a dress (it was the beginning of spring in London and many couples had asked her to design their wedding dresses, as she had gained quite a good reputation among clothing designers back in France), and their eyes locked for a moment in confusion.

Who could it be?, their eyes asked one another. After so many years married, Mary and Simon had come to understand each other quite well, no words needed. So they communicated. A tilt of Mary’s head to the right indicated she was thinking of Amanda - their daughter -, as it pointed to a portrait they had of her, but Simon frowned deeper, telling her that she wasn’t meant to visit them for another week, too caught up with their work.

Another movement, this one from Simon’s wrist. A circle and a finger pointing to her, and Mary knew he was talking about her parents. She denied with a turn of her head, and soon after Mary stood up, fabric left behind.

She hadn’t expected to find Harry Potter standing at her door.

She probably should have, as it had only been a week since Mary herself walked to his house. It was probably some kind of divine justice, seeing as she hadn’t notified Harry of her visit either.

“Er… Hi,” he said with doubt in his voice. Harry looked a bit uneasy, hands grabbing hardly to the strands of his baby carrier. There was a baby hugging his chest, white small hands clinging to his shirt. Her short, red hair seemed to prickle his chin, as Harry moved his head with uncomfort to the side.

Mary looked at him with surprise, from the brown skin to the unruly hair. His eyes were green behind the glasses, shining with uncertainty.

“Hi,” she heard herself saying.

“Sorry to come uninvited,” he said, as if she hadn’t done the same thing to him just a week ago. “I just… You left this,” he handed her a note, yellow paper so familiar when she took it.

Mary found herself taken back in time, sitting in the middle of a Charms classroom with Lily by her side and the Marauders on the other. She had befriended them by then, although Lily was only starting to tolerate James. Mary remembered sitting there bored, when a paper butterfly flew right into their desk. Lily had looked skeptical while Mary smiled and opened it, something had finally caught her attention.

         thoughts on flitwick’s new look? i personally love the mustache, think it suits him ;) also… WHOEVER GETS THE NOTE LAST, SEND IT TO THE MARY AND LILY TOO PLZZ - SB

         I, for one, think the mustache is amazing, showstopping, best decision he’s ever taken!!! Hi, Evans :) - JP

         really prongs??? i think he looks better shaved but i dont know… - PP

         You guys are looking too much into this. Pay attention! … But yeah, I guess I’m with Pete. Flitwick looked better shaved. - RL

          moony no!!! BETRAYAL!!! - SB

“This is absurd,” Lily had said, although there was a hint of a smile playing on her lips. Mary replied to the note and passed it back to James, who was sitting next to Sirius, Lily leaving it unanswered. Mary caught her looking at Flitwick’s new mustache more often, though, hair covering half of her face to hide the funny look she gave him.

Mary looked up to Harry, who mirrored her intense stare.

“Honey!” Simon yelled from the living room, the sounds of his footsteps announcing him getting closer. “Who is it-? Oh. Hello.”

Harry gave him a tight smile and waved. “Hi,” he said. Careful to not upset his baby, Harry extended a hand, which Mary took confused. “My name’s Harry,” then he pointed at the little girl he carried on his chest. “And this one here is Lily. My daughter.”

And there it was again, the weight on her chest.

Mary took a good look at the little girl, and stepped back a bit. It was an accurate name, she thought, seeing how similar she was to the Lily she knew. Mary had seen pictures of Harry’s wife before, back in the Daily Prophet. Ginny Weasley, now Potter, if she remembered correctly. She had been named a War Hero next to a lot of other kids who, alongside Harry, fought to defeat Voldemort. In the pictures, Mary had noticed how pretty she was with her flaming red hair, freckled complexion, and brown eyes. She could see her in Lily - Harry’s daughter - face. Same nose, same hair, although she lacked the freckles. Combined with Harry’s traits, the little girl looked a bit like her friend when they were young, barely eleven year old.

Mary got out of her stupor, and nodded.

“I’m Mary,” she said, hearing how trembling her voice sounded. “Mary Macdonald. And this is my husband, Simon Gagneux.”

She felt Simon’s smile behind her, and then saw his pale hand reaching out for Harry’s. He shook it with a smile.

“Oh, right. I’m Potter, forgot about that part,” Harry said, as if there was anyone who had lived during the war who didn’t know who he was. “You, er, you didn’t take his name?”

Mary felt taken aback, but then a nervous laugh escaped her throat.

“It’s alright, I know who you are. And, well, no,” Mary said, feeling her muscles relax. “I’m not giving up my name for any man, as much as I love him, thank you very much.”

“Oh,” Harry looked embarrassed, a pink shadow coloring his cheeks. “That’s great! Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you both. Isn’t it, Lily?” his voice was softer, tone a bit higher. Harry was facing his daughter, who giggled when he moved to the side, giving Mary and Simon a better view of the little girl, whose blue eyes shone with happiness. “Say hi to Mary and Simon, love.”

“‘Ewo,” she replied, waving a little hand to them. Mary could feel her heart melt, and she smiled sweetly at her.

“She’s still learning how to talk,” Harry explained, a proud smile playing on his lips. Then he faced the couple, eyes jumping from one to the other. “Sorry for bringing her, by the way. It was my turn to look after Lily. My wife took the boys to play quidditch with some friends. I was going to go, too, but instead I decided to, er, come here,” Harry frowned at himself, looking to the ground. “I get how stupid that might sound, believe me, but I just really--”

“Well, Lily is more than welcome here, Mr. Potter,” Simon replied, cutting Harry off. The man offered them an apologetic smile, turning even brighter than before, and Mary couldn’t help but think of how much he looked like James in that moment. “And so are you. Actually, would you like to come inside? It’s a bit chilly out here.”

“Yes!” Harry exclaimed, eyes wide open. He then cleared his throat, looking at Lily for, what Mary guessed, a boost of confidence. “Yes,” he said again. “We would love to, thank you. And please, call me Harry. Both of you!”

“Well, come in, then, Harry.” Mary said, her smile growing.

Harry took a couple of steps inside, seeming a little out of his comfort zone. He was a bit weird, if Mary was honest, but in a good kind of way. Shy, but with a twinkle of mischief behind his eyes, imperceptible at first.

Mary showed him the way to the living room while Simon offered tea and walked towards the kitchen after receiving an answer. Harry’s green eyes scanned the room, taking in every aspect of it.

“Sorry everything is a mess,” Mary whispered, giving him a lopsided smile. It was now her turn of feeling embarrassed as she tried to take into her arms some of the fabric she had been working with just before Harry’s arrival. “It’s usually not this disorganized, I promise.”

“Oh, no, it looks great!” Harry said quickly, ever the sweet man she imagined him to be. “I have three kids. Believe me, this is nothing!”

Mary laughed from the bottom of her belly, a soft sound that resounded through the walls. The fireplace was lit, making the small place feel cozy, and tens of photographs were scattered through the walls or framed over the furniture. Mary had never been the self-conscious type, when it came to decoration or her own self, but now she felt naked. Having the son of James and Lily Potter in her home felt right, in some kind of way. It was like a part of her friends living through him, as if she was finally able to show them what her life had become, the warmth, domesticity and prosperity she had always dreamed for herself.

Mary pointed to the sofa in the middle of the room and asked Harry to sit. There were cookies on a plate; Simon loved to snack when he was reading, and she was never one to say no to chocolate chips. Mary offered him some, and Harry kindly accepted two, biting into one and breaking a piece of the other, feeding it to Lily.

“Sorry about coming here uninvited, again,” he started saying. “I just saw that you had left that note at my house the other day, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I used a tracking spell and it kind of led me here? And anyways, it’s not like you can tell me anything about it, really! You did the same to me, so it’s only fair, you know?” Mary wasn’t sure of the expression she must have made, but Harry suddenly looked alarmed. His mouth was open and his hand stretched out to her, conflict dancing in his eyes. He didn’t touch her, though, only coming close enough to her to try to seem comforting. “That came out awful! Oh, Merlin, what I meant is… It wasn’t my intention to just appear in your home, but ever since you came to mine and I found that note I hadn’t been able to sleep. It’s just… That parchment? I’m pretty sure I recognize the handwriting and some of the initials, and I need answers.”

Mary didn’t know if it was a demand or a question, but either way she felt out of breath when he spoke the words. However, she slowly nodded. He was here now. Her past had come to confront her, instead of her running towards him. It was kind of poetic, really, how Mary had run away the minute she saw him behind that window, thinking of how she wasn’t prepared to see him at all, to let him know everything, so instead he came to her. Asking for an answer, demanding for a story.

Mary couldn’t blame him.

“Sure, ask me anything.”

“Did you know my parents?” A stupid question to ask, seeming as she had notes that once belonged to them in which she appeared too, but she let it slide.

“Yes, I did,” Mary replied with a soft smile. Memories came rushing to her mind but she pushed them aside.

At that moment, Simon walked in, a tray with two steaming cups of tea taking up his hands. He let them on the table in front of them, smiling friendly at both. With a look, he told Mary that he would leave them alone. Simon knew how much she needed this conversation, despite how much her hands were starting to tremble. Mary needed his courage, the safety that he transpired, but this was a fight she had to face alone.

After receiving a ‘thanks’ from Harry, Simon walked out muttering excuses of having to finish some stuff for work. From the look of his face, Mary could tell Harry didn’t believe it.

“So…” Harry turned towards her one more time. “Were you close?”

Mary nodded, eyes clouded. She smiled sadly. “Very. With your mother, at least. We shared a room back at Hogwarts. Perfect roommate, if I must admit. Very tidy and always up to late night conversations. She gave the best advice and was always so kind to everyone. It was nice to confide in her, you knew she would never judge you.”

The left corner of Harry’s lip went up, and he chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, “that adds up to some of the stuff Remus told me. Was Simon friends with my dad, by any chance?”

A tickling sensation rose up on the back of her neck, warmth filling up her body. Mary felt her face lit up, the memory of that bookish boy carrying a little version of the man in front of her coming to mind.

So he had reached out, after all. Remus had gotten to see Harry before everything went down to hell.

Mary felt her inside burn with excitement, too much that she almost forgot about Harry’s latter question.

“No, he’s a muggle,” Mary answered. “After the war, I traveled to muggle France. That’s where I met Simon. Being muggleborn helps plenty when trying to talk with cute muggle strangers,” she said, her voice breaking with a little laugh. “But enough about that! Remus contacted you?!” It was funny, although she couldn’t understand why, but she felt happy. Oh, how happy she was knowing that Remus had found enough of his strength back for him to get to Harry. “That’s brilliant. What else did he tell you?”

“Not a lot, really,” Harry replied, trying to hide the sadness behind his voice. Lily, the baby, was out of the baby carrier and was now sitting on Harry's knee playing with what was left of her cookie. “I met him at Hogwarts, he was my third year DADA teacher. Told me I have my mother’s eyes, which was nice. Everyone that knew them back then did.”

“Well, it is true. You do have your mother’s eyes. Such a beautiful tone of green, I always envied her a little because of them. But well, the universe must be fair! She got the perfect eyes and I got everything else!” Mary laughed, and she noticed that she actually found happiness in remembering this stuff. It wasn’t as sad as she thought it would be, opening up. It was freeing.

Harry laughed too, a contagious sound that made her insides feel warm. Looking at him was like looking back in time.

“I’m just kidding,” Mary said after the laughter had extinguished. “Your mother was one of the most beautiful women I ever got the chance to meet.”

“She was pretty,” Harry agreed, eyes wondering in the distance. “I wish I could know it from memory, though, not from pictures.”

Talking about pictures… Mary glanced up to where the stairs led to a second floor, and felt a stab in the chest. The package she had intended on giving Harry was up there, hidden under her bed. She thought for a second of giving it to him. After all, Harry had made all that travel in search of memories only she could give him, it would be selfish not to.

But she was selfish and she wasn’t prepared. Mary could not give it all to him just now.

“Sirius also said some stuff, although he talked more about dad than mom. I guess it makes sense, given that they were best friends.”

Mary looked at him carefully, hands folding in her lap.

Sirius Black.

Sirius Black had been near Harry, the same kid he once sold to Voldemort. The reason why Harry’s parents were dead.

Mary felt anger rising through her chest.

“Sirius?” she asked with a clenched jaw that made her words come out stretched. Harry looked at her funny.

“Yes! My godfather,” he replied as if it was obvious. As if that wasn’t the man who brought all that pain into her life.

“Harry… Was Sirius in contact with you?” He gave her a confused nod. “Do you know who he is? What he did?” It couldn’t be possible that Remus would have let that man get close to Harry, regardless of the feelings he once held for him, but Mary wasn’t so sure anymore.

It took Harry a minute before he understood, a glint of comprehension appearing in his face.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, almost on the verge of laughing.

Mary tilted her head in confusion, anger bubbling inside of her.

Not even Lily’s little “Oh!” mirroring Harry’s made her feel less uneasy.

“Right!” Harry said, hands up to the sky. “You don’t know! I guess that’s obvious, given that it wasn’t made public. Sirius wasn’t the spy. He didn’t betray my parents.”

“What?” No, that wasn’t possible.

“Turns out it was all Pettigrew,” he explained. “Apparently, Sirius and him changed roles and made Pettigrew secret keeper at the last second. It was all Sirius’ plan - but not the way you think -. He thought that it would throw off the death eaters. Everyone would suspect him to be the secret keeper being my dad’s best friend, but nobody would suspect Wormtail. It was the perfect trap, until it wasn’t. Peter betrayed them shortly after.”

There was a trace of sadness in his voice, but mostly he looked unperturbed. He had known the truth for a long time, had time to adjust and take it in. Mary hadn’t.

All her life, she blamed someone innocent for the pain she felt. Mary had cursed his name and even celebrated the day he was sent to Azkaban to pay for his sins. And all that time, Sirius had been taking someone else’s penitence, paying for the crimes of another man. Of a man he trusted.

And she had cried Peter’s death.

That bloody rat had fooled everyone.

Mary felt her back touch the soft back pillows that decorated the sofa. She was out of breath, letting the truth sink in. Harry watched her patiently, surely too familiar with what she was feeling, and didn’t pressure her to say anything. He extended a hand, though, and she took it gratefully. Mary needed someone to ground her, and Harry was more than happy to do it for her.

Mary wasn’t sure if she was happy to know the truth. Decades and decades of blame came rushing in, making her head dizzy and the insides of her stomach twist.

She had accepted Sirius’ blame too quickly, never even stopped to question it.

Oh, Merlin. How could she?! Looking back, how could she have ever thought Sirius the spy, when that man had proved in every chance he had to be the most loyal friend James ever had? When he loved James, Lily and Harry more than he ever loved himself?

Mary was going to be sick.

At least now that she knew about Sirius’s innocence, she finally felt at peace with her memories of the handsome guy and his giveaway grins. Perhaps not on what she had thought of him after that cursed night, but yes with what had been of him before.

“I need a moment,” she said, although by then she had had more than that.

“All the time you need.”

“Is…” she started asking, voice shaking and knuckles too white from the pressure. “Is Sirius still alive? I heard he escaped Azkaban but I stopped reading the Daily Prophet for a while after that. The memories…. They were too much.”

“I get it,” Harry smiled sadly. A deep sigh followed, and he passed his hands through Lily’s red hair. “No,” he answered with a grim countenance. “No, he isn’t.”

Mary didn’t pressure anymore, seeing how his godfather’s death weighed on Harry.

She took a shaky breath, trying to put herself together, and nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

They stayed silent for a while, Lily’s babbling and Simon’s muffled voice talking on the phone the only sounds filling the house.

Mary glanced back at Harry. He had his finger trapped by Lily’s little hands, and was smiling at her, though it didn’t meet his eyes. Harry seemed distant now, lost somewhere in his thoughts and the memories. Mary understood that feeling quite well, being that she had spent almost her whole life feeling that way. She figured Harry must know it, too, given all the loss he had suffered.

Mary wondered how many names on the list she saw many years ago had belonged to Harry’s friends, to his new found family. She wondered if he still grieved them.

By the look in his eyes, Mary guessed he did.

“Wanna know something funny?” Mary asked, trying to sound more cheerful. Harry looked at her, glasses tilted to the side, and nodded without too much excitement. “Your mom and dad had a cat. Lily adopted it one night after work, she said their house needed a little more life -- it was before she got pregnant, of course!”

Harry huffed, tilting his head to the side. “Yeah, I know. I read about it in a letter mom sent to Sirius,” he laughed slightly. “Said I almost killed it with a toy broomstick he gave me as a present!”

“Yes, you almost did! Poor Crookshanks, got the scare of his life!”

“Crookshanks?” he asked with a frown. Mary nodded, dark curls covering the side of her face.

“Yeah! Lily named him. Funny name, isn’t it?”

“My... My friend Hermione’s cat was named Crookshanks!” Harry said, life coming back to him. He wore a funny expression. “The witch at the animal shop said he’d been there a long time, do you think…?”

“I mean, stranger things had happened!”

“Yes,” he agreed. “That would make sense, if I think about it. Crookshanks seemed to have a soft spot for Sirius.”

Mary laughed softly at that, thinking of the irony.

“Did it?” she asked disbelievingly. “And did you know that Sirius was scared shitless of the cat, too?”

“He was?!” And there it was, Harry’s lit up expression. It had only been a couple of minutes since she last saw it, and Mary had already been missing it. Now that she looked at him with a smile, Mary felt a wave of affection run through chest.

His smile, too, was Lily’s.

“Oh, yeah! Never said it out loud, but we all knew it,” she narrated. “James would make Sirius babysit Crookshanks just to laugh at his terrified expression all the time. And Sirius would always give the cat treats to assure it wouldn’t eat him in his sleep. Now that I think about it, that must be why Crookshanks grew so fond of Sirius! Always fed him so well!”

“That’s brilliant! Merlin, to think Hermione’s cat was such a close connection to my parents… I would have petted him more often if I had known.”

“I bet you would’ve,” she said softly.

Then, a small thud was heard and suddenly Lily was in tears, her cookie broken in pieces on the floor. She pouted at it, hands stretching to try to catch its remains, and she was opening and closing her fingers. With a loud “Dadda!” she poked softly at Harry’s chest, asking him with her eyes to make her cookie go back to what it had been.

“Sorry, love. No can do.” Harry gave Mary an apologetic glance and reached out for another cookie, but Lily was crying too loud and she refused to accept any cookie that wasn’t the one on the floor.

Mary remembered Amanda’s tantrum when they was a baby, her constant outburst of crying under the smallest of problems.

She loved having a grown adult now, long past her time for dealing with babies. Harry seemed to be looking forward to it, too, as he stood up with Lily in his arms and paced around the room. By the look of his eyes, he was starting to regret bringing his little girl with him.

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…” he sang, voice barely a whisper in his baby’s ears, but Mary caught the melody still.

Harry’s voice was rough but warm. Mary could feel affection emanating from each of the words he let out, tired of the routine but always quite happy of being needed. Of knowing that in each verse he sang, in every melody he tried to do, there was comfort. That someone felt safe in his voice and warm in his arms.

She remembered James' voice now, as they stared at Lily holding a much smaller Harry in her arms long ago. He had looked tired, his finger constantly pushing his glasses up his nose trying to remain awake while Lily danced around the baby’s room humming a melody.

“She loves to do this,” James had told her in a whisper, trying to not perturb the moment. There was love in his voice. “I think singing Harry to sleep makes her feel safe, just like being held makes Harry feel the same. It’s like they share a connection and bring each other a type of comfort not even I can begin to understand.” He smiled and let his head fall back, exposing his neck and watching them over his nose. “I’m glad they have each other.”

They hadn’t for long.

“Lily used to love that song,” Mary murmured once the baby calmed down, and Harry looked at her with raised eyebrows. It was almost as if he had forgotten there was someone else in the room.

“Really?” Harry replied, surprise coloring his voice.

“Yeah,” Mary laughed. She stood up and walked to them, standing in front of Harry. Lily the baby was looking at her with wide eyes. Mary could see herself in them, from the black curls to the wrinkles in her skin. “But James changed the words, he said that a great wizard like you deserved his own version of the song. I think it went like this: Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy a little owl. And if that owl doesn’t sing, papa’s gonna buy you a quidditch kit.” Lily had trapped Mary’s finger by then, letting little laughs escape her mouth as she listened to her soft voice.

Mary noticed Harry passing a hand through his face, covering it for a second before letting go a silent laugh. She glanced his way, moving her hand side to side for Lily to play, and noticed Harry’s cheeks were a bit wet. Mary had the courtesy not to point it out, as she herself felt a tightness in her chest, too.

“Lily and James… They were amazing,” Mary whispered. Her throat was starting to close and her eyes prickled. “The most wonderful, caring people I ever met. They made mistakes and they weren’t the easiest people to deal with sometimes, but, oh, were they generous, and honest, and so, so full of love. They loved you,” Mary could feel Harry’s eyes on her, but she was looking at Lily. If felt like, if she hoped enough, if she gave enough of herself to this silent prayer, Mary could see her friends through the baby that held her hand. Like she could speak to them through her. “Oh, Harry,” she glanced back at him just in enough time to see a tear fall. “Oh, how they loved you, my boy. You were their entire life, their ray of sunshine. Harry, you were their only hope. You were everyone’s. Mine, too.” Mary let go of Lily’s finger, who made a chuckle at the act, and positioned her hand now on Harry’s cheeks. It was wet against her palm, and Harry's lips twitched downwards, a sad frown decorating his face. Mary tried to smile, but she found herself unable to. “Having you,” she said, a choking sound accompanying her voice. Harry sobbed silently. “Changed our entire lives. You gave us all a purpose, a reason to fight, because we now weren’t fighting for a world of our own, we were fighting for a better world you could grow up in. And I’m so sorry, my boy, that we didn’t get to. I’m so sorry--”

And then she couldn’t say anything else, the tears impeding any word from coming out.

Harry launched himself to her, an arm surrounding her, and Mary rested her head on the space between his neck and left shoulder. He wasn’t too tall, just half a head taller than her, and Mary found herself clinging to him. Lily, who was pressed between their bodies, put a small arm around her waist, probably sensing the sadness that emanated from each of them.

Mary strangled a sob when Harry started to shake, and then his cries weren’t silent. Nor were hers.

In the arms of each other, they let go. They cried because of the injustice of the world, of their tainted childhood. They cried for their losses and the memories that remained. And they held onto one another, scared of letting go and facing the reality that, yes, they had won a war, but they had lost so much more.

Mary heard the muffled sobs on the top of her head, and she echoed them back. She felt the heartbreaking pain that each of Harry's tears carried, and felt his soul break again. In her arms, it did not lay the man who saved the world from Voldemort, the Boy Who Lived nor the Chosen One. In her arms, it laid a kid who had lost too much, a kid who had been stripped away from his parents and the life he should have lived. It laid a broken man and his shattered heart, the remains of someone who had fought and came out victorious, but that in reality had been defeated with the pain of everything and everyone he had to leave behind. A man who built a home from scratch, because his had been burned and left in ashes. A man who did his best to give his kids the perfect childhood, because his had been hell. A man who tried to stay by his children’s side because he knew how it felt to lose a father, a mother, and every paternal figure he ever had.

In her arms laid Harry Potter with all his walls down.

“I was never brave,” she heard herself whisper. “Not like your parents. I should have been there for you, for them, but I was just so scared...”

Harry denied it with a shake of his head.

“Yeah you were. Yes you are.”

“No. I ran away and never faced any of my ghosts, because I’ve always been afraid that, if I look back at them for at least a second, they will come to haunt me. So believe me, I’m not brave.”

Harry stepped back and moved his arm until his hand touched Mary’s shoulder. There was decisiveness in his eyes, a fire as burning as the sun.

“Well, I don’t believe you,” he said, voice charged with feeling. “You are brave. Bravery isn’t doing reckless things, or stuff that could get you killed. Being brave is much more than that. It’s holding your friends’ son and letting him cry like a little baby, even when you’re not strong enough to hold yourself. It’s putting yourself out there and doing what’s best, even if you might not like it, even if it might bring bad memories from the past. Mary, you are brave.”

Mary shook her head, eyes closing hardly. She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself, but Harry shook her shoulder.

“You don’t believe me? Merlin, if you want something out of the book then remember that you fought in a bloody war, Mary. That takes a lot of courage.”

“But I was scared all the time!”

“Of course you were. It was a war. Anyone who isn’t scared, is crazy.”

“I didn’t come back, though. I didn’t fight again.”

“You stayed with your family. You made sure they were O.K. Your family was your priority and you did what you had to do to protect them,” Harry’s voice cracked, and Mary opened her eyes. In his eyes, there was a plea, although she wasn’t sure what he was pleading for. “And you woke up everyday knowing the dangers that awaited you as a muggleborn in a time where people begged to see you dead, and you still chose to continue, to keep working on building a better world, even with the possibility that the one you knew might not make it to the next day. Many didn’t. You faced life, as scary as it was, and you did it in two different wars. In the second one, you were fighting, just not… on a battlefield, but on your own. That is brave, Mary. Living is brave.”

Harry’s chest was going up and down fast, trying to catch some air. His words kept coming to Mary’s mind, still trying to process all he had said in almost one breath. Mary looked at him astonished as Harry took another step back, pushing his glasses up his nose and passing a hand through his hair. He was looking at the distance, right through the window, and Lily was holding onto him with a scared expression, surely not understanding their sudden outburst of tears.

“You’re not what I expected you to be, Harry,” Mary said softly. Harry let out a strangled laugh.

“Yeah, I get that often.”

“You’re much better,” she said, and Harry looked at her with surprise. “You know, I was very scared of meeting you, of allowing myself to remember and share my memories with you, because I thought it might crush me seeing how… everything changed. I didn’t want to accept any of my friends’ deaths.”

“I get it. Believe me, if there is someone who knows what it is like to lose people, that’s me.”

“You shouldn’t, though,” Mary’s voice cracked, and another tear fell. She looked Harry directly in the eye, no longer embarrassed of the pathetic show she was making of herself, because he mirrored her expression and, with bright, red eyes, Harry gave her a sad, understanding smile. Seeing this, Mary didn’t feel so alone anymore. Crying a sea of tears didn’t feel so hopeless when there was someone who understood the way you felt. “You’re so young…” she said, a lopsided smile appearing on her face. There was no hint of happiness there. “You were so young, Harry, you shouldn’t have--”

“I shouldn’t, you’re right. Life has been, er, unjust to me. And to you, too. To many people. But… we’re still here, aren’t we? Going through another day, broken and scarred, but alive.”

“Broken and scarred,” Mary echoed. There were more tears falling down her cheeks, and she laughed humorlessly. She focused her eyes on the baby, who was looking at Harry with innocent eyes. "But alive."

Harry was no longer the ten month old baby Mary had met. He was now a man who had gone through hell and back, who had faced the worst of evils and a world of nightmares, and walked out with his head held high. He was no baby, the innocent spark of his eyes had long been lost. But there was still hope.

In his voice, in his smile, in his eyes and in the way he looked at his daughter. Mary understood right there and then that he was right. Being brave didn’t mean being reckless. It wasn’t about going through life accepting each and every challenge that presented itself in front of you, but on choosing your fights wisely. Harry had fought a war, and he had won. And he was still fighting, but not for him or for the mere adrenaline of facing danger. He was fighting for his children and every person he loved and lost. He was fighting because he had hope and he was happy, and because he wanted his children to grow in a safe world, worriless about the dangers of the future. He chose his battles with a reason, and he kept living. Nightmares, memories, regrets all hunted him, but he didn’t give up. Harry faced life, and he learnt that not everything was fair and just, that life wasn’t easy, but he still chose everyday to wake up and keep going.

That was brave.

Living fully, letting go, accepting yourself and your past, the good and the bad, that was the scariest of all things. And Harry was doing them all. That was what made him brave.

And Mary wanted to be brave, too.

So she let go, and, in between cries, she told him all.

From the laughs, to the crying. From the pranks they all made or saw the Marauders pull, to the fights they had over the stupidest stuff. Mary told him about watching James fall in love with Lily and how he matured and became a man so rightful and brave that Lily couldn’t help but fall in love with him. Mary explained, in between laughs, the first time Lily told her about her crush and how utterly devastated she had looked, but then of her smile the day of their wedding - so bright and contagious that it made her cry -, and how she had looked at James with tears in her eyes and, with the world ending just around the corner, they professed their love for each other.

And Harry told her of Remus and Sirius, of the surrogate fathers he had when no one else was there. And Mary felt relief wash upon herself, a weight finally coming down, as he narrated that they got to see each other again - pain, resentment, fights and doubt finally gone -. Mary smiled helplessly at Harry when he told her about them living together for a while, thinking - hoping - that Remus had finally gotten his chance, that he had been able to tell Sirius everything he once was too scared of saying out loud. That life hadn’t been too cruel to take it away from him again, even with the little time Sirius and him got in the end. Even when Remus married someone else after Sirius was gone. Because, Mary knew, even if happiness had been theirs for a minute, even if it didn’t last as much as they wanted to, at least it had been theirs to cherish.

Mary ended up walking upstairs, searching for the brown package, and handing it out to Harry. They saw the pictures together, golden moments of happiness captured for eternity in pieces of paper. Some of the pictures were muggle-like. In them, the moment was forever frozen still, and Mary and Harry rejoiced themselves in watching the small details. Harry pointed out things she could have never seen alone, like the stain of chocolate on Sirius’ cheek or the shadow of a bruise starting to form on James’ arm. They saw Lily’s smile, red hair glowing under the sun, her arms behind Marlene and Dorcas, Mary standing in front of them blowing a kiss. There, everything was infinite. No need to grow up faster than they did, no need to put on a brave mask when all they wanted to do was curl under the sheets and hug a person they loved. In the pictures, there was no loss. And that’s how Mary wanted to keep their friends, locked in an eternal bliss.

Harry let her keep the pictures as well as the notes, saying that he already had enough memories of his parents and guardians for a lifetime. Mary insisted, but so did Harry. He had pieces of them, he said, pictures and objects that once belonged to them and were now his.

So, when Harry wasn’t looking, she casted a duplicating spell and hid the stuff on the baby carrier. Lily looked at her with a tilted head, and Mary just smiled.

Letting go, she told herself, didn’t stop her from treasuring her friends’ memory a little longer, on keeping memories in the form of pictures and messily written notes.

Mary didn’t intend on forgetting, just on learning how to live with the pain happiness brought along.

So… Letting go and moving on. Opening yourself to accept the truth. Loving deeply and finding no shame in that. Looking over your shoulder, where your past is, and smiling at it, because you can’t change what’s happened, but you can wake up another day and make sure that all the pain and tragedy, all the tears and sweat, were worth it. That's what it means to be brave.

For the first time in a while, Mary felt the courage dance through her veins.