Chapter 5

Lily sat utterly still in the half-light of her flat, her shoulders curved inwards as though still bracing against a blow that had already landed. Tears tracked down her cheeks, slow and silent, but she didn't wipe them away. Didn't feel them, really. Her eyes—red, swollen, vacant—remained fixed on the rain that ran in crooked trails down the windowpane. She wasn't watching the street below or the grey blur of the sky above. She was simply… there. Suspended in a kind of terrible quiet.

How had it all changed so quickly?

Only yesterday, this same flat had felt alive. Every room had echoed with Harry's energy—his warmth, his movement, the low hum of his voice as he wandered from room to room, chattering to his owl, singing absently to himself, and complaining about burnt toast. Chaos, she'd called it more than once, with a tired laugh. But it had been the kind of chaos that made her feel alive.

Now, there was nothing. No sound. No footfall. No laughter. Just a stillness that pressed in around her.

She drew a breath, slow and shaking. Even that felt like a betrayal.

How could she still breathe when he wasn't?

The rain outside blurred her reflection in the window, softening the angles of her face until she could no longer recognise herself. What stared back wasn't Lily Potter. Not really. Not the woman who'd once duelled Death Eaters and walked into fire for those she loved. No, this woman was hollowed out—emptied. Just the shape of a mother with no child left to mother.

The tears didn't stop. They fell like the rain, gentle but relentless.

In her mind, memories came unbidden. Harry was on the sofa, legs draped over the armrest, nose buried in some tatty old book he refused to let her charm back together. Harry fussing over Hedwig, offering her bits of chicken even after she'd pecked at his ear. Harry laughing at something daft on the wireless, his head thrown back, his eyes lit up with mischief.

Lily had scolded him often, but only because she'd loved him fiercely. She would give anything—anything—to be able to scold him once more.

The silence was unbearable now. It wasn't just the absence of noise. It was the absence of him.

She shifted slightly, though her body felt stiff and foreign. The ache in her chest hadn't dulled. If anything, it had rooted deeper, a raw, twisting thing. Everything that used to matter—her research, her schedule, the stack of unopened post on the counter—seemed impossibly far away. As though they belonged to someone else in another life.

She hadn't gone outside since… since it happened. The world beyond her window carried on in its stubborn, indifferent way. Buses rumbled past. Umbrellas bobbed through puddles. Somewhere, someone was laughing.

But Lily wasn't. She hadn't moved forward at all.

Time hadn't stopped, but hers had. Ever since that night. Ever since the scream. Ever since the world cracked open and swallowed the best part of her.

She blinked, and a fresh wave of pain broke over her like cold water.

Harry couldn't be gone. Not Harry. Not her boy. He'd already survived so much—Death Eaters, the war, everything. Hadn't she given enough? Hadn't she already lost James?

Why? She cried out silently, over and over again. Why him? Why not me?

Her fingers clenched around the sleeve of her dressing gown, twisting the fabric hard enough to hurt. It was the only thing that kept her grounded, kept her from slipping into that dark, endless place in her mind. The place where she was truly alone.

She closed her eyes, willing it all to be a nightmare. Any moment now, the door would bang open. He'd come in, hair soaked from the rain, laughing sheepishly, shrugging out of his robe and saying something ridiculous like, "You'll never guess what happened at Flourish and Blotts."

She would turn and see him there, real and alive.

But when she opened her eyes, the room was still empty.

And the knowing crushed her all over again.

The questions came then, hard and fast, battering her from within. Why did he leave angry? Why didn't I stop him? Did he know I loved him? Did I tell him enough?

She bent forward, head in her hands, and the sobs tore through her. Great, heaving things that echoed in the stillness like something wounded. The pain was too much for one person to carry. It didn't stay inside her—it spilt out, soaking into the floorboards, the walls, the silence.

She thought she had cried all she could. But the tears kept coming.

Eventually, slowly, she climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last. Her knees buckled halfway up, and she slid to the floor, landing hard outside Harry's bedroom door. Her back thudded against the wood. She didn't flinch.

The door stood shut. Untouched.

Cold beneath her fingers when she reached out to touch it.

A boundary.

A tomb.

She rested her head against the panels and closed her eyes, her breath catching in her throat. She didn't open the door. Couldn't. Not yet.

Behind it lay everything he'd left behind. His clothes, his books, and the silly trainers he never put away properly. Traces of a life that had ended too soon. The echoes of who he'd been.

She couldn't open it.

It felt like stepping over some invisible line—one she wouldn't be able to cross back over. As long as the door remained shut, there was still the illusion… that he might be inside. Just resting. Just quiet.

She let her forehead rest gently against the wood. The coolness grounded her for a moment, but not enough. Her chest rose with a trembling breath.

Did you know, Harry? She thought. Did you know how proud I was? How much I loved you—even when I was furious with you?

The last words between them still hung heavy in her mind. They'd argued—nothing truly awful, but sharp enough. Sharp enough to sting now. He'd walked out, jaw clenched, anger flickering in his eyes.

And she'd let him.

She hadn't followed.

And now there was no second chance. No do-over. Just the memory of a slammed door and all the words she hadn't said.

Lily closed her eyes, her tears silent, slipping down her cheeks unchecked. The rain had begun again outside—soft, steady, the same rhythm it always kept. But everything else had changed.

The flat felt like a mausoleum. The warmth had gone out of it. Only echoes remained.

At last, she lifted a hand to her face, wiping at the tears with fingers that trembled despite herself. The motion was slow, almost weary—but something had shifted. Just a little. A thread of something fragile had begun to pull her forward.

She owed it to him—to say goodbye properly. Not with fear, but with love.

Still shaking, Lily reached for the doorknob. Her hand lingered there a moment. The metal was cold beneath her palm.

She took a breath.

And then, with quiet finality, she turned the handle.

The door creaked softly as it opened—only an inch at first. Just enough to let the air slip through. Then she pushed it wider and stepped inside.

It was like walking into a memory.

The air was still, but full of him. The room hadn't changed. It was exactly as he'd left it—and that made it worse, somehow. It felt alive, in the way grief always seemed to preserve a space. Every little detail whispered his name.

The bed stood neatly made, the maroon blanket smoothed without a single wrinkle. The Quidditch posters on the wall fluttered slightly from the breeze threading through the cracked window. A Gryffindor banner hung beside the bookshelf, faded in the middle from too much sun.

His life, frozen in small things. Ordinary things. A pair of socks half-stuffed under the bed. A chocolate frog card tucked between the pages of a book. A broom polish kit still open, as if he'd meant to come back and finish.

Her chest constricted.

She crossed the room slowly, every step fragile and deliberate. Her eyes fell on the desk, where a scatter of parchment, ink bottles, and bent quills formed a familiar kind of chaos. Not mess—him. His ideas, his worries, his sketches of spells, half-finished letters never sent.

Then she saw Hedwig.

The snowy owl rested in her cage, head tucked under wing, her feathers fluffed in sleep. Lily stared at her for a long time. The sight of her—safe, present, still here—made something tighten behind her ribs. That owl had been more than a pet. She'd been Harry's companion, his confidante when no one else understood. Hedwig had stayed.

She moved again, barely making a sound, and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her. She ran her hand along the blanket, smoothing nothing in particular, just needing the feel of something he had touched.

The quiet pressed in, but not cruelly now. Not entirely. It felt… reverent. As though the walls themselves held every laugh, every late-night thought, and every sigh Harry had ever breathed within them.

Her eyes drifted across the room again—until they landed on a photograph in a simple wooden frame.

She knew it before she even picked it up.

She and James—spinning in circles in the park, laughing like children on their wedding day. Her veil had flown off halfway through, and James hadn't stopped grinning, not even once. The sun had been warm on their backs. The music had been terrible. And it had been perfect.

Lily smiled at the memory. Not a big smile—a ghost of one. Faint. Fleeting.

It didn't last.

Her breath hitched, and the smile fell away, swallowed by the ache in her chest. It came back sharper now, colder, like standing barefoot on frost-covered ground.

She placed the photograph gently back down. Her hand lingered on it, unwilling to let go.

Harry had asked her to dance last night.

Just a small moment. A quiet offering. His eyes had been so hopeful, his smile so gentle and unsure—and she'd turned away. Not to wound him, never that, but because her mind had been muddled with worry, with all the things she couldn't say, all the ways she'd already failed.

She hadn't been able to see past it. And the look on his face when she'd refused—gutted, but still trying to be brave—had stayed with her through the night, haunting the edges of every hour.

Now, staring down at the photo of her and James—dancing in sun-dappled grass, laughter frozen mid-spin—she couldn't help but wonder… Had Harry looked at it after she'd gone? Had it made him feel further away, not closer?

Her throat tightened painfully.

"Harry… my son," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

The words cracked something wide open inside her. A fissure she hadn't realised was still holding. Her chest swelled, and the tears came again—thicker this time, and heavy with everything she should have said and never did.

Her gaze dropped—and caught on something peeking from the edge of the drawer. An old journal. The one she'd given him for his thirteenth birthday. She remembered picking it out: dark velvet binding, soft to the touch, and leather corners to keep it from fraying. His initials, H.J.P., gleamed faintly in gold on the front.

He'd unwrapped it with a surprised sort of smile, as though he hadn't expected her to know what he might want—or need.

She reached for it now, her breath catching at the familiar feel beneath her fingertips. The velvet was worn at the edges, and the spine gave a slight creak as she opened it, as though waking after a long sleep.

His handwriting greeted her immediately—quick, slanted, untidy in places. But his. Undeniably his.

She turned to a page near the beginning. Twelve years old.

"Meeting Ron's family was like stepping into another world. Everyone just… spoke. Properly, I mean. They said what they meant and didn't make it awkward. They hugged. Even shouted, but it didn't feel scary. It made me realise how little Mum and I talk about anything that actually matters."

Lily's breath caught. Her hands stilled.

"I wish we could talk the way they do. Laugh like that. Say what we really think. I miss her. I really, really miss her. And I hope one day we'll get it right."

The ink blurred before her eyes.

He'd missed me, she thought, even while I was right there.

She turned another page, carefully. This entry was newer—only weeks old. The handwriting was more hurried, a little slanted, as if he'd written it in one go, afraid he'd stop if he paused.

"Came home yesterday. Thought it'd be nice. It wasn't. Mum barely looked up from her work and said I wasn't trying hard enough at school. Which is mad. I studied loads. Skipped Quidditch. That's love."

A tear slipped down her cheek, but a small, sad laugh escaped her lips. That was James in him. That sharp, dry wit, tucked into the pain like a shield.

"Still… I get it. Sort of. She's tired. Life's been chaos. So I made dinner. Burnt the rice. Dropped the peas. But I tried. Told her it was a 'culinary experiment in modern chaos'. She smiled a bit. I'll take it."

Her chest twisted. She could see it perfectly—him, fumbling in the kitchen, trying to bridge the gap with charred food and silly words.

All he had ever wanted was for her to look up. To see him.

She turned the page again. The ink here was darker and heavier, and the words had a restless energy—like they'd burst from him before he had the chance to tame them.

"I don't want to give up. But it feels like we're slipping further apart every day."

Lily's hand flew to her mouth.

"She stays in her room. Doesn't talk much. I keep trying. I even cleaned the living room. Voluntarily. I think that deserves a medal. Hermione said I should write a poem. A poem. Honestly. But I did it. I actually did."

"I'm scared she won't get it. Or worse—won't care. But I had to try. She's my mum. My best person. I just want her back."

The ache inside her grew too big to contain. The longing in those words… They were love, laid bare. All the trying. All the hope. All the waiting—for her.

The journal shifted in her lap. Something fluttered out from between the pages.

A piece of parchment, folded and creased. She picked it up with trembling hands.

Not a note. A poem.

Folded carefully. Tucked away.

Something he'd written and never shown her.

Her breath caught.

This was his heart—spelt out in ink—and now, at last, she was listening.

A MOTHER'S LOVE

By H.J.P.

All the time I've been waiting

That you will see and know what I'm longing for.

Want to live a life that I'm yearning

Wake my senses and my world of dreaming

Since my life is in solitary

Wondering what if this would be

I'm with you, but I didn't feel any

Mum, do you hear my heart's emissary?

You are my inspiration in everything I do

Even if it's hard to bear and I can't join the flow

But I felt you ignored those things; is it true?

Or you see my hardships, but you didn't view?

I open my arms, as well as my heart

To receive the love bound from the start

But when I went close, you turned your back

I tried to run to you but lost my track

Mother, could you please say to me

That you love me unconditionally

That all my deeds, even bad, you'll embrace

And you'll forgive me with your wilful grace

Can you utter those words I've wanted to hear?

Can I have those eyes looking at mine?

May I hold those warm hands to enfold my sighs?

May I see your lips giving me a smile?

I love you even when the blue sky is gone

I need you when the darkness comes

Long for your touch, your hug so tight

That would ease my fright in the middle of the night

You grant me life, endow a chance

You give me your flesh, your own blood

That's why I've cherished you since I was in your womb

And I'll treasure you 'till I am in a tomb

But you're miles away; it made me sad

I extend my arms to grasp the times we've had

With a stream in my eyes, I kneeled and looked above

Asking, could I know how and feel a mother's love?

The words on the page echoed every unspoken fear Lily had buried deep inside. They peeled back quiet truths she hadn't dared face—little cracks that had formed unnoticed in the rush of ordinary days. Hidden beneath meals and timetables, errands and reminders, there had been something quieter growing. Something aching. Harry had been hurting. And she hadn't seen it.

He'd been alone in it, locked inside himself, searching for a way to be understood. And now, through ink and parchment, he was trying—reaching out across the silence with something fragile and painfully brave. A boy building a bridge from the ruins of his heart.

Tears slid down her cheeks—slow and without fuss—as the truth settled heavily in her chest. She hadn't known. Hadn't thought to ask. Had gone on assuming he was fine, always fine, because he so often seemed it. Her Harry, with his untidy hair and quick smile and quietly resilient soul. But beneath that… he'd been adrift. Struggling. Hoping someone might notice.

From her perch, Hedwig gave a soft, low hoot. Lily glanced up.

The owl tilted her head, amber eyes steady and watchful, as if she understood far more than she let on. That look—wise and ancient in a way only magical creatures ever seemed to be—held something more than sympathy. It held memory. Witness. As if Hedwig had seen it all.

Lily's heart clenched. Even when she hadn't been paying attention, someone had. That thought should've been a comfort, but instead it pressed deeper into the bruise blooming across her soul.

She lowered herself further into the bed, her fingers still resting on the corner of the journal. The guilt wrapped around her. Suffocating. Had she really missed the signs? The long silences at dinner, the too-easy smiles, the way he'd started leaving the light on in the corridor at night?

She'd brushed it all aside. Told herself he was tired. That they both were. Life had been so full—too full. Work, Auror meetings, bills, the dull rhythms of grown-up life. And somehow, she'd let it pull her away from the one thing that had always mattered most.

I should've asked, she thought fiercely. I should've sat beside him more. Just… listened. Without rushing. Without looking at the clock. Without making him feel like it was all on him to keep going.

The ache to undo it all came like a punch to the ribs. She wanted to go back—wanted to sit beside him with a cup of tea, ask him about his day and really hear the answer. She wanted to ruffle his hair like she used to, even when he rolled his eyes. She wanted another chance. But there were no Time-Turners for this. No do-overs. Only this: the poem. The journal. The aching, open silence of a room where her son no longer stood.

Her limbs felt leaden. Her heart sore. She let herself sink into Harry's pillow, turning her face towards where his scent still lingered faintly—soap and dust and that indescribable something that was just… him.

Her eyes fluttered shut, but sleep didn't come easy. Memories curled at the edges of her mind—little ones, half-forgotten. Harry in the garden with his broomstick. Harry asleep on the sofa with a book open across his chest. Harry looking up from his homework with a grin, asking, "Mum, do you remember that story about Dad and the pixie swarm?"

She hadn't told it to him in months. Years, maybe. She'd always meant to.

She didn't want to run from the grief. Not now. Not when it was the only thing that still tethered her to him. So she let it in—fully, completely—because this pain, as much as it tore her apart, was the shape of love that had nowhere else to go.

And if that was all she had left of him, she would carry it. Every word. Every ache. Every line he had written when he thought she wasn't listening.

Now, finally, she was.