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For most, November 4th, 1981 is a day of celebration. It is a day for parties, and streamers, and cake.
Not for the Order.
What’s left of it, at least.
The funeral is practically desolate. There’s not many of them left.
Against all odds, the sky is bright. Beautiful.
It feels as though the sun should’ve stopped shining the day the Potters died. It stuns Alice that it hasn’t.
Summer has always been her favorite season, and, long gone as it is, this day reminds her of it. Reminds her of better days, spinning in the sun, squinting past the shade.
Days so far in the past, she can’t even picture them. Her only memories from this summer are of funerals and fights.
The war is over, the days are brighter, and yet something in her says she will never have perfect summers like that again.
Emmeline. Remus. Mary. Frank. Neville. They’re all that’s left.
They’re the only people gathered here.
Lily has family, she knows, but none who bothered to show up. James’ parents are long gone, and as of four days ago, his only remaining family- not that anyone would consider him that anymore- is rotting in Azkaban. Harry is missing.
Dumbledore and Mcgnagall had payed their respects before the burial, but other than that, no one else had arrived. There’s no one else left.
Lily and James are heroes. They saved the Wizarding World, somehow. The whole Order knows. The whole world knows. And yet it’s just the five of them.
The funeral was almost the day earlier. Dumbledore wanted to get it over with as soon as possible, wrap up their lives in the same hurried fashion as they had wrapped up the world. But, without words, the five who remained decided that November 3rd should not be the day the world mourned James Potter. The suggestion alone felt almost blasphemous.
James and Lily are buried together, of course, and Peter- what’s left of him- has been scattered under a willow tree he frequented, back when the war was a whisper in the back of their minds. A figment of Dumbledore’s imagination. Back when they were so, so innocent.
Associating the Marauders with quiet is wrong, fundamentally, but that is what this is. Quiet. Alice isn’t sure Remus has spoken a singular word since that night. Not that she blames him.
There is, of course an elephant in the graveyard.
Sirius.
No one- no one that matters, at least- has said a word about him. Not when the news broke, not on his birthday. Not today. It feels wrong. Not at James’ funeral. Not before he’s even in the ground.
Soon enough, though, he is. Buried right next to his home, a home that is now visible for all to see, thanks to Sirius Black. It’s already covered with graffiti. Death has made James and Lily Potter quite famous. Harry even more so.
Another thing they’re not talking about.
Not that there’s many people to talk about it with.
Only five.
After the funeral, there is no gathering, not like there was for the Prewetts, or the Bones’, or Marlene, or Dorcas. Instead, Mary Apparates away the second the service ends, Emmeline hikes back up the hill, planning to visit Marlene before she goes, Frank takes a squirming Neville from Alice’s hands- missing his playmate, no doubt- and Remus just… stares. He stands with his hands in his pockets, staring at the upturned ground where Lily Evans will lay forevermore like it has the answers to the Universe hidden somewhere within it. And Alice… well, she goes back home.
Squeezing Remus’ shoulder once before she goes- she’s not sure he even notices,- she makes her way back to their muggle car, straps Nev in, and drives back home.
For three days she’s been living in a sort of Limbo. Even before the war truly began, her duties as an Auror kept her occupied. She was breaking curses, and then hunting down Death Eaters, and then raising her baby with her best friends.
And now she’s just… here.
There was no such thing as maternity leave in the Order, but there is in the Ministry, and as much of a mess as things are, she’s not yet been allowed back. Hundreds of Death Eaters on the run, and yet she’s still here. Stagnant.
She hasn’t had so much as a moments pause in six years, and now that she does… it feels wrong.
Today, like most days, she sits in her living room, cradling Neville in her arms, and absentmindedly reading. She finds that when she can focus on a book, it keeps the other thoughts- the sound of Benjy’s screams, the smoke from the Potter’s house, the loneliness of their new lives- at bay, even if only for a little while. Frank is not afforded the luxury of maternity leave, although he is given some leeway. He is allowed to work from home, cooped up doing paperwork in his office. He hates it as much as she does. But at least he’s close. You never know, these days.
She rocks in her chair, and she stares at Neville, and as horrible as it is, she yearns for more. She loves her son, with everything in her. But still..
It feels almost anticlimactic. Years of fighting, and all it takes is one missing little boy.
It feels like it’s not over.
Like he’s not safe.
Lily had always been a bit of an over protective mother, panicking about the little things, and ever since her loss, Alice’s maternal instincts have increased tenfold. If someone as strong as Lily can be lost so devastatingly, where does that leave her?
Looking at her sleeping baby, she’s struck with a sudden need to do something. Deeper than it has been in her time off. Like this is important. Essential.
She puts Neville gently into his bassinet, the one set up so that he’s visible from her office, and then she practically runs to find stationary.
Sitting at her desk, she feels almost silly.
Alice Longbottom has faced off with Voldemort himself- three times now. She has lived and fought through a war since she was 17 years old. She has married and given birth within that war time, and she has persevered through it all. But this? This is the hardest thing she’s done yet.
Something within her is urging her to write- to tell Neville the things that Lily never got to tell Harry. Just in case.
The war is over. Voldemort is dead. But his minions are not. She was a fool to think she was safe, even for a moment.
Even the cataclysmic even that was the death of the Potters isn’t enough to end this, not for good.
She needs to get back to work.
But first, she needs a failsafe. Something for Nev. To make sure he knows he is loved. That, even if something happens to her, he knows the things Harry never will.
But there is so much it is impossible to say. Her love for him is infinite, indescribable, and yet she needs a way to describe it. She needs to make sure he understands.
When Neville was just six months old, he said his first word.
“Mama.”
She knows that it’s common, really, for a baby’s first word to be a parent; it’s who they’re surrounded with, who they spend the most time learning. But still, she couldn’t help but feel that, with Neville, it meant something. It was important. He was so young, and already, he knew her. He recognized her.
Her love for him was already so strong, by that point.
She knew Frank loved him, knew he would probably never love anything or anyone as much as he loved Nev, but still. That moment, the moment he said it, was special. It was for them.
It had been a stressful day.
They were losing the war, and she had a brand new baby. Lily was her only saving grace.
Alice is older than the Marauders, if only by a few years. She and Lily had never been close, beyond conversations in passing, studying tips and quidditch commentary, but their situations were so similar, they couldn’t help but be drawn together.
Lily was an angel, a perfect mother, all it took was one look at her to understand how much she loved her son, how much he meant to her. Alice felt small, in comparison.
She never let it phase her, though. Day after day, fight after fight, she and Lily would meet, and they would gossip, and let their kids play, and allow each other just a moments reprieve from the war, a moment to feel normal again.
The day Neville said his first word had been just like that. Normal.
They had been at the Potters, before they had gone into hiding. Before Godrics Hallow, there was a small apartment near Hogsmede, a far cry from the mansion James had grown up in, but big enough for the three of them and their kitten. The apartment was cozy, but the decorating was abysmal, and Neville and Harry had been crawling around on the floral cream carpets, babbling to each other as Alice helped Lily with some of her St. Mungos documents, back when she was still attempting to apply. Lily had offered Alice gum, a simple, kind gesture, one that neither thought very much of. It was her favorite flavor, as it always was. The Potters knew everything about everyone, and shopped accordingly.
Neville had stolen the wrapper.
It had seemed so small in the moment. Just a simple call of, “Neville, give that back to mama. It belongs in the bin, not in your mouth, darling.”
And then, like magic, real magic, he had said it. And nothing had ever been the same.
Lily had squealed and shouted, and Sirius had come running, thinking the worst, only for Lily to point at Nev, and tell him what had happened.
Alice, in her joy, had scooped him up off the floor, stealing the wrapper back and cooing excitedly at his tiny face. The minute the wrapper was out of his hand, that face squished in anguish, like losing the wrapper was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, so she gave it back, and held it between their hands as he smiled, and said “mama” again.
That day is one of her happiest memories. It is her Patronus, her light at the end of a tunnel.
She may not know what her future holds, but she knows what his will. What it has to be.
As she wraps up her letter, glancing at him from the open office door, she smiles, knowing that no matter what happens to her, Neville will know love. She will make sure of it.
She seals the letter with magic, and gives it a fourteen year lock. She figures that to be enough time, long enough for her to burn it if need be, or for him to find it, if she can’t give it to him. By the time he’s fifteen, even if he’s lost her, he will be old enough to understand, she is confident, just how much love she holds for him.
She writes the locking spell on the envelope, and leaves it on the desk to dry.
Exiting her office, she feels lighter. She feels prepared. She may not know what’s coming, not for certain, but she knows Neville will be just fine.
Taking a moment to run a finger down his sleeping nose, Alice hears a rustling from her and Frank’s bedroom. At first, she thinks that Frank must’ve finished with work, and headed to bed, but a quick glance at the clock tells her that he should have at least another hour of work ahead of him.
Then, she hears a very distinctive groan of pain- one that is not from her husband.
Hurriedly, she summons the happiest thought she can- Neville’s first word, his first steps, his first play date, his first ice cream- and sends a Patronus to Augusta.
“Death Eaters in the house. Protect Neville,” is all she says, casting a concealment charm over the bassinet, one that she is relying on Augusta noticing, and sprinting to the bedroom.
In it, she finds a bloody-nosed Bellatrix Lestrange digging through her dresser, and Barty Crouch Jr, holding his wand to Frank’s throat.
***
In all honestly, Neville never thought he would read it.
He knew little about it, other than the fact that his mother had written it the very day she had been lost, and Gran had found it, ink fresh, envelope waiting when she had come to collect him.
He thought it was better to keep it safe. Closed and unable to harm him, hidden away.
But he’s here now. Today, of all days.
It’s been ages, since his fifteenth birthday. Almost 4 months. And still. The letter has remained unopened, hidden in the back of his closet. Until today.
Gran had told him to get it over with or burn it. In her words, fourteen years was long enough to hoard it. If it was important, he’d better get on with it. She said that maybe being with them when he read it would help.
It’s heavy in his hand as he walks through the doors.
The hospital room is cold. Not just temperature wise, but everything else, too.
The decorations are sparse, and, hard as he and Gran have tried, it will always look more like a hospital room then a home.
Weekly, his parents are switched from their own, small, private room, to a joint room. The doctors say the presence of others is good for them, but at this point Neville’s not sure they would even understand the meaning of the word.
He sits by his dad, first, knowing that this will be easier. His Gran assures him his parents loved him equally, but his father has left him nothing. It’s his mother he has to face.
The letter is now shoved in his back pocket. Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he will forget that it’s there, and leave without opening it.
He tells his dad tales of the past year- the tournament, Voldemort, Cedric, making it as theatrical as possible in an attempt to entertain him, if he’s listening. He tries to sound optimistic. The last thing his parents need is something to worry about, even in this state.
Eventually, he runs out of things to say.
Slowly, he gets up, and walks to the right, sitting in the seat by his mothers side. He takes her hand.
“Hi, mum. I know it’s been a while… sorry about that. I’d tell you everything that happened, but I’m sure you heard. Erm…”
Might as well get it over will. Rip off the bandaid.
“I actually- have something. From you. You, er, wrote it. Fourteen years ago, today. I can finally read it, so… I figured why not. Or- okay that’s lie. Gran is making me. But I really am thankful for it, mum. It’s not that I’m not appreciative it’s just… oh, I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
And it is.
He pulls the letter out of his pocket, and glances up at his mothers glazed eyes one more time before carefully prying it open.
He reads it aloud, just to cut the stifling silence, interrupted only by his parents staggered breathing.
Neville.
The great American poet Emily Dickinson once said that forever is composed of nows.
I do not know where I will be when you read this. If I will by by your side, or if I will be long gone. But wherever I am, darling, I hope you are living out your forever.
My nows are not the stepping stones to forever, I’m afraid, but I can only hope that by the time you read this, your life feels infinite.
I know it’s strange, to write this, to prepare for some far off future, but today, that future feels inevitable. I can’t describe the feeling- the fear, that I have, but some part of me knows that I need to be prepared. Lily and James weren’t, and Harry is gone now. Dumbledore won’t say a thing, but I am a mother, and I know in my heart that, wherever he is, he will never understand. He will never have the life he deserves, the life Lily wanted him to have. He will never know of the full extent of her love. I will not let that happen to you, too.
In truth, you are my forever. My now. My always.
No matter what life throws at you, no matter where you are, who you become, remember that, please.
I will leave you with the rest of the poem, and pray that one day, you will understand it. Whether I know who you’ve become or not, whether I am there, by your side or not, I love you. Your father loves you. And that is forever.
Forever is composed of nows-
Tis not a different time-
Except for the infiniteness-
And latitude of home-
From this- experienced here-
Remove the dates- to these-
Eat months dissolve in further months-
And years- exhale in years.
With love,
Mum.
Oh.
Well.
At some point, while he was reading, he had begun to cry. He hadn’t even noticed.
Numbly, he wipes his face.
“I-“ he begins. But what will he say? What could he possibly say?
It’s her turn. She’s made that clear. The letter says so much, and yet so little.
But the message is clear.
The tears are a downpour on his face, his eyes the storm clouds he had so missed, this summer.
Ever since the return of Voldemort, the air has been scorching. Hot and heavy, suffocating him each time he leaves the house.
Gran told him it was like this the first time, too. Bright and sunny when it absolutely shouldn’t have been.
“Mum,” he croaks. “Please.”
He’s not sure what he’s pleading for, exactly. Recognition? That love she had been so sure of? A hint of the woman who had written this letter?
Whatever it is he wants, he doesn’t get it.
Even now, in this moment that has rocked Neville’s entire world, she simply stares blankly ahead, same as always.
His dad is drooling, in the next bed over.
There is no flash behind her eyes, no hint she’s even realized he’d spoken.
He sobs. “Please. Say something. Anything.”
And still. Nothing.
He lays his head in his hands, elbows on her bed, allowing his cries to wrack his body.
Grieving a love he can’t even remember.
It feels cruel of her. To give her this comfort now, to tell him exactly what he needs to hear. It’s not fair.
He stops his crying only when he feels a frail finger on his wrist.
Looking up, he sees that her head has lolled in his direction, and she is fighting to make eye contact. Her eyes are jumpy, but she’s trying. It’s the most life he’s seen from her in 14 years.
“Mum?”
She says nothing.
Instead, her hand finds his, gently lifting it off his face, and intertwining it with her own.
It’s sudden, the switch. He only got a moment of her coherency, but by the time he’s registered it, her eyes are distant, and her hands fall slack.
As her palm tips out of his, all that Neville is left with is expired love and a crumpled up gum wrapper.