Chapter 11

Lily couldn't help smiling at the sight of the students—faces alight, legs bouncing under the tables, the sort of giddy anticipation that made the air fizz with energy. It was all so familiar. The nerves, the excited whispers, the darting glances. She felt, not for the first time that evening, as though she'd stepped sideways into a memory. A dream stitched together from her own schooldays, looping back with uncanny precision.

Then, like sunlight cutting through mist, came the voice that could quiet even the rowdiest common room.

"Now that we are all fed and watered," Professor Dumbledore began, his tone light and wry, "let us begin the Recognition Assembly. You'll find before you a parchment—do give it a glance. It contains all the information required for this evening's festivities."

Lily watched as heads dipped towards the crisp sheets that had appeared without ceremony on each table. The room filled with the soft rustle of parchment and the sharper sounds of surprise—gasps, squeals, and the odd disbelieving laugh. Some children lit up like Lumos spells, eyes wide, cheeks flushed with delight. Others blinked down at their pages with growing dread, scanning and rescanning as though willing their names to appear by sheer force of hope.

She remembered that feeling.

That tight knot in the chest. The ridiculous hope you couldn't quite extinguish. The way your breath caught just before your eyes reached the bottom of the list.

Her own eyes drifted—unbidden—to Harry.

Dumbledore spoke on, his voice steady, mellow. "Student life, like life itself, is no straightforward thing. Balancing one's studies with responsibilities—friends, family, one's own ambitions—is no small task."

Lily's heart softened. Oh, Albus, you haven't the faintest idea. Or perhaps he did. Perhaps that was exactly the point.

She thought of Harry—her brilliant, stubborn boy—staying up past midnight more times than she could count, eyes bleary, fingers tangled in his hair, textbooks spread like battlegrounds across the kitchen table. There had been shouting, once or twice. Once he'd threatened to Vanish his Arithmancy notes if they didn't stop reproducing like Doxies.

But he never gave up.

"Remember," Dumbledore went on, "every struggle faced is a stepping stone. A shaping force. Success is sweeter when won through adversity."

Lily pressed her hand gently to her chest. That's it, she thought. That's exactly it.

But she wasn't really listening anymore. Not properly. Her gaze had found Harry again—sitting a little too straight, his hands twitching beneath the table, trying not to look like he was hoping for anything at all. Beside him, Ron gave him a quick, firm nudge of encouragement. The kind of gesture boys did when they didn't want to talk feelings but still meant them.

Thank Merlin for friends, she thought, a little breath catching in her throat. They saw what she couldn't reach. They held the line when she wasn't allowed to.

Dumbledore's voice changed then—lighter, with a familiar gleam tucked into it.

"And some," he said, his eyes sweeping the room before resting unmistakably on Harry, "have gone above and beyond."

Then—yes, she saw it—he winked.

The room erupted. Applause burst like a spell gone off. Students stomped, whooped, and clapped with such force that the very walls of the Great Hall seemed to hum.

Harry froze. For half a second, he looked completely stunned. His ears went bright red.

Lily laughed, pressing a sleeve to her cheek where the tears were already gathering. Oh, he's blushing. He's actually blushing.

Dumbledore gestured to the long table behind him, stacked high with polished trophies and shining plaques. "I believe," he said, "a bit of recognition is in order."

Lily didn't realise she was holding her breath until her lungs gave a sharp little jolt, desperate for air. She hardly registered the names being called—students standing, walking forward, faces aglow with disbelief and pride. The applause washed over her.

And then—

"HARRY POTTER!"

The sound that followed was thunder. Not just clapping now—it was stomping and shouting, a wave of noise so thick and fierce it made Lily's eyes sting. She shot to her feet before her body knew what it was doing, hands clasped in front of her mouth.

Harry still hadn't moved. For a moment he looked stricken, like someone had petrified him.

Then, slowly—so slowly—he stood.

He looked unsure. Vulnerable, even. But then something shifted. Not arrogance—never that—but a quiet certainty. The smallest flicker of belief. As though, just this once, he allowed himself to think, Maybe I deserve this.

He started walking.

And Lily's heart followed every step.

Every missed meal. Every scraped parchment. Every time she'd sat outside his door, listening to silence and wishing she could do more than knock.

He walked with the weight of all of it. And yet, somehow, lighter than he'd ever looked.

Go on, sweetheart, she thought, as her vision blurred. Go and take what you've earned.

Tears slipped down Lily's cheeks—quiet, warm, and unashamed. She made no move to brush them away. This wasn't about a plaque. It wasn't about applause. It was proof. Proof that effort mattered. Those hours spent with sore eyes and ink-smudged fingers meant something. That kindness, courage, and simply carrying on could still shine in a world that didn't always seem to notice.

Professor Dumbledore placed the award into Harry's hands with a gentle formality, the gleam of pride unmistakable in his eyes.

"And for courage in the face of adversity," he said, his voice full and steady, "for meeting every challenge with integrity and resolve, we present Harry Potter with the prestigious Hogwarts Achievement Award."

Another swell of applause burst through the Great Hall, more raucous this time, somehow warmer. Lily's hands flew instinctively to her mouth. She couldn't see clearly—her vision blurred with tears—but she felt it. The moment. The stillness inside the roar. The love blooming in her chest like a spell made of starlight.

Harry stood there with the award in his hands, blinking down at it as though it might vanish. And then—he turned.

His eyes moved across the hall—past students, past professors, past friends—and found her.

Lily's breath caught. The world narrowed to that single line between them.

He smiled. But not the awkward, self-conscious half-grin she saw so often. This was quieter. Certain. A smile that said, We did it, Mum.

And it wrapped itself around her like a whispered charm—steady, soft, unbreakable.

She nodded, blinking furiously now, her face aching with how hard she was smiling. There were no words that would've fit, not really. None that could hold this much feeling.

As Harry returned to the table, Ron yanked him into a lopsided hug and said something that made him laugh—with a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. Lily knew that laugh. She'd once heard it as a baby's squeal, then a child's shriek in the bath, and now this—a deeper, older version, but still unmistakably him.

She sat down again, limbs trembling slightly with the weight of it all. Her heart felt full to the brim, like one more smile might spill it over.

He wasn't her small boy anymore. Not just. He was becoming. Becoming the sort of young man she had always hoped he'd have the chance to be. And in spite of it all—because of it all—he was still standing. Still whole. Still himself.

For tonight, that was enough. More than enough.

The applause faded, and the hum of conversation resumed—low and lively. Students began rising from their seats, gathering cloaks, and clapping each other on the back. A few still blinked down at their awards as though unsure how they'd ended up with them at all.

Lily lingered.

Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, fingers still a touch shaky. The tears had dried, leaving faint tracks along her cheeks, but her chest was light. Not floaty—just… lifted. Like some invisible heaviness had been gently unhooked from her ribs.

At last she stood, folding herself into the slow tide of bodies heading towards the doors. Her eyes never strayed far from Harry.

He was walking a few feet ahead, flanked by Ron and Hermione. Ron was still grinning, clearly milking the moment. Hermione kept dabbing at her eyes with the corner of a handkerchief, trying to pretend she wasn't.

Harry had tucked the award under his arm like it was nothing more than a textbook, but there was a quiet pride in the set of his shoulders, a warmth beneath his usual awkward shuffle.

He always tries to act like it's nothing, Lily thought, amused. Like he didn't nearly lose an eyebrow trying to finish that potion last month.

She remembered the letter—him claiming half the cauldron had exploded. "I swear I followed the instructions," he'd written, ink smudged where something had splattered the parchment. She'd had to read it twice to check he was still in one piece.

But Merlin help her, she'd never laughed so hard.

"Nice going, Potter!" Someone called from up ahead—a younger Hufflepuff, from the looks of it, face glowing like they'd just seen a Quidditch star.

Harry gave a quick nod, ducking his head as if he could hide behind his fringe. "Thanks," he muttered.

Lily bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself grinning too broadly.

He'd never get used to the attention. Just like James.

That awkward little shuffle, the way he tried to disappear into himself whenever someone praised him—it was so James. Only, where James might've added a wink or a cheeky toss of the hair, Harry simply looked startled and mildly horrified. But his eyes—they were shining.

He felt it. That flicker of recognition. Of being seen, not for what he'd survived, but for who he was.

As they made their way towards the Entrance Hall, Lily let her thoughts wander.

Merlin, she thought, I'm proud of him.

But it wasn't just pride—not the sort you'd wear like a shiny badge and show off at family dinners. It was something deeper. Fierce. A knot of relief and love so enormous it almost hurt. Gratitude, too, in that aching, breathless way that comes when the person you love most in the world manages to keep going—when they might've had every reason not to.

Watching Harry this past year had been… difficult. Painful, if she were honest with herself. There had been weeks where his eyes were always ringed with shadow, and he barely touched his food. Days he wouldn't speak unless spoken to. Evenings where he just sat, motionless, staring at the wall like it might answer back.

But he never gave up.

He never gave in—not to the weariness, not to the worry, not even to himself. He'd pressed forward through every doubt with quiet, stubborn resolve. Not for glory. Not for praise. Just… because he had to.

And now, here he was, walking taller—not just for the award, though that had helped—but for what it stood for. He hadn't earned it by charm or shortcut. He'd earned it through sheer, relentless grit. Through care. Through the unshakeable loyalty of the two friends who flanked him like twin shadows.

"Wait up!" Lily heard herself call, her voice soft but urgent. She quickened her step.

She didn't want to lose sight of him. Not yet. The moment wasn't finished.

Harry glanced back, his face lit with that same small, quiet smile he'd given her in the Hall. It carried more meaning than whole speeches. It was the sort of smile that lived in the corners of memories.

She caught up to him easily, falling into step beside him. For a while they said nothing. It was the good sort of silence—the kind you didn't feel the need to fill.

And then, because her heart was too full to keep still, Lily nudged his arm gently. "I'm incredibly proud of you, you know."

Harry blinked, then gave a sheepish laugh, all breath and bashfulness. "Thanks, Mum."

Just that. Two words. So ordinary. So extraordinary.

She'd never quite got used to hearing it—Mum—not after all the years when she couldn't. Each time he said it, it landed in her chest, cracking something open inside her that never really healed.

She looked at him, smiling properly now. "You earned that award. Every bit of it."

Harry shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck in that way James always had when he was trying not to look pleased. "I didn't think I'd get anything."

Lily arched an eyebrow, mock stern. "Well, you did nearly poison yourself in Potions. That ought to count for something."

That made him laugh, and it was a sound that filled her like light. She'd have bottled it if she could. A laugh like that could carry her through a thousand grey days.

They walked on, the corridor ahead full of milling students, chattering excitedly, bumping shoulders and dragging cloaks. Yet Lily barely heard any of it. The world, for just a moment, was narrowed to Harry's voice, his step beside hers.

He looked up at her again. "You helped me, though. I wouldn't have done any of it without you."

Her throat tightened. She placed a hand on his arm and squeezed gently. "No, love. You could have. But I'm glad you didn't have to."

Before she could say more, her eyes caught movement to the side—Professor Dumbledore, gliding through the crowd with his usual quiet gravity. He moved like he carried the air around him. Calm and composed. Reassuring by nature alone.

But tonight, something in him seemed dimmed. Distant.

He approached, and Lily tried to meet those blue eyes—so bright, so ancient—but she faltered. Her stomach twisted. Some part of her, the part that always sensed storms before they broke, felt it in her bones.

Dumbledore's hand found her shoulder. "All will be well," he said gently.

The words were meant to soothe. But they struck her instead, like a closing door.

She gave a small nod, drawing on strength she didn't entirely possess. Please let him be right, she thought. Please, not tonight.

Not when Harry had smiled. Not when he had laughed.

She heard Ron's voice not far behind her. "Where's Dad gone?"

"He and Dumbledore have business," Molly replied, calm as ever, as though "business" didn't taste like danger on the tongue.

Lily glanced at her, and for the briefest moment, envied her. Molly could keep her voice steady. Could pour tea and carry on. Lily, meanwhile, felt like she was being peeled in two—one half walking beside her son, the other forever watching the shadows.

"Oh—Mrs Potter," Hermione piped up, appearing at her side. "My mum and dad are planning a little celebration at home, if you'd like to come with us."

The words fell gently, kindly. But they scattered like dust before they could take root.

She wasn't really there—not in the way she wished she could be. Not when every part of her was tuned to Harry. He was still within reach, still beside her, but she knew that feeling: the calm before.

The war might've been over. But the echoes never stopped. The old dangers never truly disappeared—they lingered, clawing through cracks, reaching out in whispers and dreams.

And even on nights like this, when the light was strong and the hall was full of laughter, Lily could still feel them.

Waiting.

Then—

"Mum? Are you all right?"

Harry's voice cut through the fog like a wand through mist. Lily blinked, startled, as if yanked from some invisible current pulling her under.

"What?" she said—too quickly, too sharply. Her eyes refocused, and there he was: Harry. Her son. He was watching her closely, brow drawn tight, that faint crease between his eyebrows just beginning to form. It struck her with an ache so sudden, so sharp—he's too young to be worrying like that.

Hermione tried again, bless her, her tone still bright but thinner now, as if she too could feel the tension curling in the air. "It's just—we're going for a bite with my parents, Mrs Potter. You'd be very welcome—if you fancied joining us?"

Molly, always watchful, always knowing when to step in, caught the moment before it soured.

"That would be lovely, Hermione, dear," she said with a warm smile, laying a gentle hand on Lily's back. "But why don't we all celebrate tomorrow at the Burrow instead?"

"Oh, that would be brilliant!" Hermione lit up again, visibly relieved. "My parents would love that."

Her parents nodded politely, clearly grateful for the soft redirect. Lily, though, barely heard them. The world around her had begun to recede again, voices sounding like they were underwater. Her thoughts were spiralling, faster now.

And then—Harry.

He turned back to her, voice quiet, hesitant. "Mum… is something wrong?"

Lily reached up, brushing a hand across her brow. Damp. When did that happen? The castle's stone corridors were cool tonight, but she was sweating like she'd run from the Astronomy Tower.

Get a grip, Lily.

"No, nothing's wrong, sweetheart," she said. Too brightly. The kind of tone that tried far too hard to sound fine. She hated how brittle it sounded in her own ears. "Where would you like to go?"

Harry blinked, visibly surprised by the change in her voice. He tilted his head slightly, ever the perceptive one. He's not buying it, she thought grimly.

"Well, um…" he said, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. "Maybe the Three Broomsticks? We could grab dessert?"

She froze.

The Three Broomsticks. Of course. Why wouldn't he suggest it? It was a perfectly normal choice. Familiar. Comforting, even. But for Lily, the name alone struck her like a slap. That place had been unthinkable today. Too close. Too tied to memories she'd spent years trying to lock away. One too many shadows clung to those corners.

Harry kept talking, oblivious to the battle going on inside her. "They've got that new dessert—something like a chocolate explosion. Ron says it actually makes a bang."

"Would you like to go somewhere else?" She said it too fast, too sharp again, like someone slamming a door. She winced. Softened. "I mean… perhaps you'd prefer a change of scenery?"

Harry blinked. "Er—sure, we could go to Madam Puddifoot's or something—" But his voice trailed off, flat, uncertain. He didn't want Madam Puddifoot's. He was trying to make it easier for her.

Sweet boy. Always putting everyone else first. Just like James, in that maddening, noble sort of way.

"But I'd really prefer the Three Broomsticks," he added, voice quiet now, almost apologetic.

And then—Ron.

"The Three Broomsticks again?" He groaned, clearly unaware of the atmosphere around him. "I know it's your favourite and all, but come on—"

"His favourite?" Lily echoed faintly, not meaning to speak aloud.

Somehow, she hadn't known. Or perhaps she had, and it had simply become buried, one more forgotten thing in a sea of worry. She looked at Harry again.

There was a glint in his eye. Not quite excitement, but hope. Hope for something simple. Something normal. A sweet, ridiculous pudding and the clatter of mugs and the warmth of somewhere familiar. Just one evening where he didn't have to be anything but a teenage boy.

Her heart squeezed, full to bursting.

She'd spent so long trying to keep him safe—guarding, shielding, protecting—that she'd nearly forgotten how to let him live. How to let herself live.

And if walking back into old ghosts was the price for Harry's joy—then so be it.

"Okay," she said at last, voice quiet but steady.

Harry's head snapped up. "Really?"

Lily smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "Let's go to the Three Broomsticks."

Harry's face lit up. "Brilliant!" he said, positively beaming. "I can't wait to try that chocolate thing. Ron reckons it nearly took someone's eyebrows off last week."

"Fantastic," Lily muttered under her breath, already imagining magical fire and a dozen potential health and safety violations. "What could possibly go wrong?"

But despite her sarcasm, something warm bloomed beneath her ribs. Because her son—her son—was smiling.

They stepped out into the night, and the air hit Lily's face like a slap—bracing, biting, and real. She breathed in deeply, sharp and cold, the kind of breath that stung the lungs and made your eyes water, even when you weren't crying.

The castle rose behind them, shadowed in moonlight—steadfast, unmoving. But the further they walked from its gates, the more it felt like walking off the edge of something solid. As if the world beneath her boots had softened without warning.

The path to Hogsmeade curled ahead, all soft turns and quiet undergrowth. Not silent, but close. Leaves rustled with secrets. Somewhere off to the right, a twig snapped. Lily flinched before she could stop herself. Her wand was already in hand beneath her robe, gripped so tightly her knuckles ached.

Too quiet, her mind whispered. Too easy.

Harry was beside her, talking about the pudding again—something about mousse and popping candy and a flaming sugar dome. He sounded cheerful, which made her feel worse. She nodded and smiled where it seemed right to, but her eyes darted from shadow to shadow, every swaying branch a threat.

She told herself she was being foolish.

It was peacetime. Dumbledore had said it was safe now. The wards were holding. The Death Eaters had scattered. The worst was over.

But Dumbledore had said a lot of things over the years.

Some of them had been true. Some of them had nearly got them all killed.

The last time she'd walked this path, dusk had bruised the sky just the same. Harry had been shorter then, more boy than young man, chatting excitedly about Zonko's and whether he'd saved enough for a Decoy Detonator. She'd said yes, they could stop by after lunch. That had been the last moment she'd felt at ease.

The memory twisted.

Screams.

A curse shattering the quiet.

The hiss of fabric as it burnt. The acrid tang of blood. Someone dragging her behind a wall—Tonks, maybe. Remus? She couldn't remember who, only that Harry had been somewhere out of reach and her heart had felt like it was being crushed by a giant's hand.

He'd come through it. Shaken, yes. But whole.

She hadn't.

Her feet faltered slightly on the gravel path. Harry didn't seem to notice. He was still talking, bless him. So full of life. Still walking with that bounce in his step, as though the world hadn't already asked too much of him.

She glanced sideways. He looked older these days—more angles in the face, a deeper line to the jaw. But the same eyes. Green and bright and ridiculous. James's mischief, her heart, something altogether him.

He caught her looking and offered a half-smile. "Are you all right, Mum?"

"Hmm? Oh—yes," she said, too quickly. "Just… thinking."

"About what?"

How do I tell you that every step I take down this road feels like walking through ghosts? That I want to throw my arms around you and tell you to run back to the castle? That I don't think I'll ever be done waiting for the next disaster?

"Dessert," she said lightly. "I'm not entirely convinced this chocolate thing won't explode."

He laughed. That same bark of amusement that always came when he found something truly funny. "If it does, I'll shield you with my napkin."

She chuckled. "How heroic."

But the warmth of the moment faded as they passed a fork in the path—one she knew too well. The ambush had started there. She hadn't even noticed her pace slowing until Harry turned around.

"Mum?"

"I'm fine," she said, too fast again. Her legs didn't quite believe her, but they moved. "I just… thought I heard something."

Harry looked around, unconcerned. "There's no one here."

Exactly, she thought grimly. That's what frightens me.

Still, she kept going, one foot in front of the other, because her son deserved this. Because he deserved one night. One evening where everything wasn't tinged with fear and grief.

The village lights came into view like a painting unfolding in real time. Warm lanterns, the flicker of candlelit windows. Laughter drifted faintly through the trees, the sound of clinking glasses and music humming low from the pub. The Three Broomsticks stood ahead, golden and familiar.

From a distance, it looked… safe.

Almost.

Her heart thumped, hard and steady. She could still hear echoes from that other night. Still see the streak of green light across the cobbles. But this wasn't that night. Harry was beside her, very much alive, very much here. And she would not let ghosts take this from him.

He reached the door first and held it open, grinning. "After you, Mum."

Lily straightened her shoulders. Took one last breath of the cold air.

And stepped inside.

Warmth washed over them at once—a soft cocoon of golden candlelight, clinking glasses, low chatter, and the comforting scent of fresh bread and mulled cider. It enveloped Lily like a memory: rich, familiar, and painfully gentle, as if a part of her she'd kept locked away had stirred at last.

"Let's sit by the window," she said quickly, eyes scanning the room before the words had properly settled. She tried to sound casual, but the tension in her voice clung to her. She needed to see the street. She needed an exit. Old habits, she told herself grimly. Though perhaps they weren't so old, after all.

Harry didn't question her. He simply nodded and led the way to a small table in the corner, its surface worn smooth by years of laughter and stories and clumsy elbows. Lily followed, heart thudding with that too-familiar rhythm: watch, wait, protect.

She hated how it lingered—this vigilance that never seemed to loosen its grip. Was it caution? Or had it long since become something else?

Harry was already looking around with bright eyes, that soft, half-grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he took in the room. Familiar faces, still warm from the earlier celebration, sat in loose clusters—some in quiet conversation, others already deep into their second round of butterbeer. He looked so young in that moment, so full of light, that it ached.

He looked like James.

Madam Rosmerta arrived with her usual brisk charm, though Lily caught the tiredness behind her smile. Everyone was running on fumes these days, but Rosmerta still carried herself like the heart of the room. She took their order swiftly and disappeared back into the gentle hum of clinks and chatter.

Lily turned her eyes to the window. Outside, the cobbled street glistened under the lamplight, quiet and golden. Families wandered past, laughter spilling like ribbons into the night. Couples strolled arm in arm. It looked… peaceful. Whole. Untouched, if you didn't look too closely.

But Lily didn't trust it.

She watched the shadows, the corners, and the places people might slip through unnoticed. She found herself hoping—absurdly—for the glimpse of a familiar cloak. A member of the Order. One face. Anything to remind her that she wasn't watching alone.

There was nothing.

Just the quiet hum of a village trying its best to keep breathing.

"Do you like this place?" Harry asked, his voice gentle.

Lily blinked and turned. He was watching her carefully—not just with curiosity, but concern. He wasn't just asking about the pub. He was asking about her.

She offered him a small smile. "This was always my favourite. After Godric's Hollow."

The words surprised her. They came out softer than she meant them to, pulling something tender and sore into the open.

A breath of relief left Harry. "I thought you hated it," he admitted. "You looked so… worried earlier."

Lily let out a quiet laugh. It wasn't forced this time. "Oh, sweetheart. That wasn't the pub. That was just… nerves. Coming back here brings up a lot."

She didn't need to explain. Not all the way. Some memories didn't need to be spoken aloud to be understood.

Harry nodded slowly. Then, after a pause, he said, "You looked confident at the meeting. Like you were in charge."

Lily raised her eyebrows. "You were there?"

He gave a sheepish nod. "I brought you that blue folder—but you already had it, so… I left."

She felt something soften in her chest. He was always watching, this boy of hers. Always quietly folding himself around others, keeping his presence small so they wouldn't worry about him.

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the clink of a glass nearby and the low hum of Rosmerta's voice from across the bar.

Then Lily reached into her cloak and drew out a small parcel, neatly wrapped in old brown paper and string. It had sat in her pocket all day. She hadn't quite had the nerve.

Until now.

"I want you to have this," she said quietly, placing it on the table between them.

Harry looked at it, frowning slightly. "What is it?"

She nudged it toward him. "Something I should have given you a long time ago."

He opened it carefully, as he always did—patient, gentle, like he knew some things ought to be unwrapped with reverence.

Beneath the paper was a small brass case. It caught the candlelight, its surface glinting with delicate etchings of vines and stars. Old magic, old care.

Harry opened it—and froze.

Inside, nestled in deep blue velvet, was a pocket watch. Gleaming, still. Timeless.

He turned it over, and there, etched into the back, were two simple initials: H.E.

His breath caught.

"It was my father's," Lily said quietly, the words catching slightly at the back of her throat. "He gave it to me when I started at Hogwarts. I carried it with me all seven years." Her voice wavered. "And now… I want you to have it."

She hadn't meant to get emotional. But the memory came too fast, too vividly: her father's warm laugh that morning on the platform, his careful hands tucking her scarf into place, the way he pressed the watch into her palm with a kiss on the forehead and a wink. Keep time for yourself, Lily, he'd said.

And now Harry was holding it like it might break.

He turned it gently in his hands, careful as anything, then noticed the tiny hinge at the back. His fingers brushed it open, slow and deliberate, revealing a hidden compartment lined with deep blue velvet. Two photographs were tucked inside.

The first was already curling at the corners—Lily and James with a baby wrapped in soft blue blankets, eyes bright with laughter. The image was alive with joy. Harry stared at it, breath caught.

"They took that on your first birthday," Lily said softly. "You wouldn't stop trying to eat the camera."

He gave a shaky laugh, running his thumb over James's smiling face.

The second photograph made him pause.

Two older figures smiled up at him—her parents. His grandparents. Her father's hand rested gently on her mother's arm, and both of them beamed with quiet, steady warmth.

"Are they…?" Harry asked, his voice just above a whisper, eyes wide with something fragile—hope, or maybe grief.

Lily nodded, throat tight. "Your grandparents. They loved you. So much."

Harry stared at the picture, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he closed the case carefully and held it to his chest, like he was anchoring himself with it.

"Thank you, Mum," he whispered.

And for a single heartbeat, the world seemed to go still.

Madam Rosmerta returned with a smile and a quiet grace, balancing two frothy butterbeers and a generous plate of chocolate trifle. "Here we are, dears," she said warmly, eyes twinkling as if she understood more than she let on. "Enjoy."

Lily offered her a grateful smile. As Rosmerta glided away, Harry lifted his mug and tilted it slightly in the air.

"To Grandpa," he said.

Lily clinked hers gently against his. "To all of them."

She took a sip, the butterbeer warm and sweet on her tongue. For a moment, the quiet was companionable.

Then the words came. She wasn't ready for them, but they came anyway.

"I'm so proud of you, Harry."

Her voice shook as she said it. The words were too small, really. Too late. But she said them anyway.

"You're doing so much better than you think. You've faced things no one should have to. And you did it alone, most of the time."

Harry looked at her, his brow creased, expression cautious—like he wasn't sure where she was going. He didn't speak, but the question was there, written all over his face. He always tried to understand people—always searching for meaning in the silences.

Lily swallowed. The truth pressed against her ribs like it had waited years to be let out.

"I haven't been honest with you," she said, her voice barely steady. "Not with myself either. I've told myself, for years, that I was doing the best I could. But the truth is—I pushed you away."

Harry flinched slightly. Not dramatically, but enough. Like something in her words had grazed an old bruise.

"You've carried so much," she continued, more gently now. "And you've never wanted anyone to see the worst of it. Maybe you thought I wouldn't care. Or that I wouldn't understand."

She blinked quickly, fighting tears. "But I do. I do care. I see you, Harry. I see how strong you are. How kind. How much heart you have—even after everything."

He didn't speak. But he didn't look away either.

Lily's throat ached. "I wish I'd said it sooner. I wish I'd shown you, every day, just how much you matter. How proud I've always been."

He blinked a few times, and when he finally spoke, his voice was thin. "What do you mean, Mum?"

That simple question cut right through her.

She wanted to scoop up every missed moment, every quiet withdrawal, and every time she'd chosen caution over comfort. She wanted to rewrite all of it. To go back, hold him close, and never let him wonder whether he was loved.

Lily reached across the table and took his hands. His palms were warm—familiar in a way that ached—and so much larger than they used to be. When had that happened? One moment he was small enough to carry on her hip, and now he was here, solid and steady and far too grown for the years she'd had with him.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said, her voice low. "I made so many mistakes. I didn't always know how to be the mother you needed."

"You weren't a bad mum," he said gently.

But she shook her head. "I wasn't… the kind you deserved. I didn't spend enough time with you. I didn't show you enough warmth. I told myself I was shielding you from the world, but the truth is—I was shielding myself. From feeling too much. From losing you again."

The words cracked something open, and she couldn't hold it back. She covered her face with her hands as the sobs rose, sudden and sharp. Her shoulders trembled with the weight of it all—the guilt, the grief, the years she hadn't got right, and the fear that it might already be too late.

"Mum…" Harry's voice was soft—gentle in the way James's had been when she cried, once, in the garden at Godric's Hollow. She heard the scrape of his chair, then felt his arms wrap round her.

She folded into him, clutching the boy—no, the man—who had come from her, who had survived in spite of everything. He held her tightly, like he was the one keeping her upright now. And maybe he was.

"I never meant for you to feel unloved," she whispered against his shoulder. "I just… didn't always know how to show it. And I'm terrified, Harry. Terrified I'll lose you before I've made it right."

"You won't," he said, voice low but steady. "I'm here. I love you. That's never changed."

He leaned back slightly to look at her, and she saw it—right there in his face. All that unguarded honesty. He still had it. Somehow.

"You've always loved me," he said. "Even when you couldn't say it. I've always known."

She wanted to believe him. His words wrapped round her, but her guilt lingered, quiet and heavy. Still, she gave a small nod, letting the warmth in, even if just a little.

"You're such a good boy," she murmured. "Everything I hoped for. Kind. Brave. Thoughtful…"

Harry gave a crooked smile and reached across the table, sliding the plate of chocolate trifle towards them. "Shall we eat before we both start blubbering again?"

Lily let out a laugh, unexpected and grateful. It was quiet and a little wobbly, but real.

"I'm sorry if I ruined the evening," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You didn't ruin anything," he replied. "You're here. That's what matters."

He took her hand again and gave it a squeeze. Lily looked at him properly this time and saw the child he'd been still folded inside the young man before her. He carried too many shadows for someone so young, but there was light, too. Still light.

She remembered him at five, chasing a butterfly round the garden in Devon, mud on his knees and a grin stretched wide across his face. She remembered him curled up beside her with a book too big for his hands, falling asleep mid-sentence. She remembered the first time he called her Mum, his voice clear and proud.

So many memories, stitched together like scraps of a life she'd never fully learnt how to live. But perhaps it wasn't too late to finish the sewing.

"I love you, sweetheart," she said softly, her voice steadier now.

"I love you too, Mum," he said, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled.

And something in her chest loosened. The hurt didn't vanish—of course it didn't—but the space between them no longer felt so impossible.

She picked up her fork and took a bite of the trifle. It was warm, sweet, and just the right kind of rich. Harry watched her, hopeful, the same way he used to look when he handed her drawings with half the rainbow in the sky.

"It's perfect," she said, smiling.

His whole face lit up.

Perhaps healing didn't come in grand gestures or overnight miracles. Perhaps it came in the quiet—over pudding, and apologies, and hands held across an old wooden table.