Disclaimer: I have absolutely no rights to anything or anyone affiliated with the Harry Potter series, which is the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Brothers and other associates. I am not making any profit off this.

We Never Left

I am the whisper
I am the wind

I found him on the Quidditch pitch, down in his first match to date. I am with him throughout, rising when he rises, diving when he dives, zooming back and forth and holding my breath when it seems he might fall. He is an amazing flier. A seeker, like me. I am so proud of him. He nearly chokes on the snitch, but when he holds it in his hand at last, it is the noise of the stadium that shakes him out of his incredulity. But the noise doesn’t reach me, not really. I watch as his face lights up while older boys and girls crowd around him, patting him on the back. He looks surprised to be the centre of this positive attention. Not at all like I used to be, however much he looks like me.

I see him looking at another me in the mirror, and yet I am the mirror, looking out at him. For the first time in ten years, he is looking directly at me. ‘Mum? Dad?’ Lily is beside me, in front of me, around me, and she is waving and smiling. He has her eyes. I want to be here with him forever, waving and smiling, all three of us together. But his eyes look sad now.

Reflection, not light
Echo, not sound

I found him sitting by the river where we used to play when we were kids. He’s waiting for that gorgeous girl, that Lorena, to show up. As he sits, he keeps playing with the giftwrapped, small parcel in his hands, passing it back and forth between his hands. He’s biting his lip. I almost laugh at the sight of him sitting there, so nervous, trying to look so cool. His red hair is longer now than it used to be and he has clearly combed it, then messed it up again to make it look more natural. He’s going to crack a joke the minute he sees her and pretend he hasn’t been glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds. It better be a good one.

Now he’s checking his reflection in the water again, making sure his hair covers one side of his head. Pa-the-tic. Play it cool. Then again, I was always better with the ladies. But he’ll be all right. He’s hidden the ring inside a patented daydream charm that he altered to include his vision of their life together. I’ve watched him working on this for the past few weeks, and I have to admit that it’s a smooth move. Way better than just hiding the ring in, say, a puking pastille.

He’s done well for himself. I hope their kids look like her though. It’s nice to see him smile. Good luck, mate.

Riverbed, not water

I found him in the big oval room with the shiny things everywhere. It’s pretty and I always want to touch all the silver stuff. I don’t though. I sometimes get close to one, trying to see myself reflected in it, but I can’t. There’s nothing there. I remember when I was little and Ab sometimes used to dangle a Christmas bauble in front of my face, because it made me laugh how they make your nose look all big. Ab doesn’t do that anymore. He’s in his bar now, serving drinks to scary, big men. I don’t like it there. It’s too loud. Ab never notices me there. He only sees me in the picture.

It’s never loud here. There’s no picture of me, except for the one he keeps in a locked drawer in his desk so nobody sees it. He’s not pacing tonight. I think he’s still weak. He looks better than the other night, when the angry man was shouting at him and giving him potions, but he’s still so pale. The moonlight from outside makes his face look even whiter. It frightens me sometimes how he’s so old now and not at all like he used to be. The other night, I thought he was going to join me. I thought he was going to come to me. I even thought he had glimpsed me. I wanted him to. I wanted my big brother with me.

But he’s not so big now. He’s slouched at his desk, and he keeps staring at that ring with the cracked stone. He sighs and takes something from his drawer, putting it on his desk. I can see that it’s a small, golden ball with wings. It looks funny. Why would a ball need wings? I hope he’s not going to make it fly around. I don’t like things flying around, and he always used to make so many flashy lights. Like the ones he didn’t mean to make when I disappeared. I know he didn’t mean to. I want to tell him it’s okay. He’s picking up the ring now and I wonder if he’s going to try to bring me back again, but – no! Don’t cry! I stretch out to reach for his silver hair, but I don’t think he knows. Tears are dripping down on his desk, leaving wet marks. Please don’t cry.

Imprint, not foot

I found him in the gloomiest corner of the house, crouched in an armchair beside the fireplace. Oh, surely not. Why on earth would he return here tonight, here of all places, the place where I least want to be? Has he lost his mind completely? Maybe he just had nowhere else to go. He is sobbing openly, his face buried in one hand, a bottle of my finest, disgusting house brew in his other hand – not a great idea, given that he’s never been able to hold his liquor. I have never seen him like this. It’s downright animalistic, and so not like him. He can’t lose it now. What about Harry?

Harry is with Dumbledore. I know he is safe, but I’d rather not have him shipped off and locked up again. Someone has to do something about that. Oh, come on. There is nothing to cry about. This isn’t like James and Lily. I am free now. Funnily enough, he chooses to go back to my prison. Or is he crying because he’s the one who’s alone in this house now?

He wipes his face on his torn sleeve, taking big gulps of air. Then, he leans back and stares into the fire. And stares. And stares. His expression is blank now, and I haven’t a clue what he’s thinking. No one is coming to find him. I wouldn’t have expected them to. He shouldn’t be here, hiding as he hides from the moon and sitting like a statue. He should get out and fight, make a plan, take a stance, go to a bar and pick up a random girl, all these things he could do. He is the last one left.

Fire, not flame

I found him at night, as usual, lying in his crib. He is not asleep, but staring up at a mobile of multicoloured broomsticks, Harry’s first gift. His blue eyes are wide and he is sucking on his fist while kicking his legs. Can he sense my presence? He will not remember me. He will not know me. Harry will tell him, one day, always tell him. I know he’ll be good with him.

In front of my eyes, his hair suddenly changes colours from turquoise to a flaming red. I can’t believe it. It has never done that before. Dora and I used to watch him to catch him at it, but it always seemed to change while he was alone, unobserved. He isn’t now, or perhaps he is. But he will never be alone. I want to pick him up and hold him again, but I can’t. Still, the longing is bearable, and there isn’t really a concept of time or pain anymore, just presence.

I blow against the mobile and I imagine, perhaps, that it is this that makes it move again. The broomsticks revolve slowly above his head. He sucks his fist, content for the moment.

Memory, not mind

I found him in the graveyard, moving between the headstones with young Miss Granger, who is an extraordinarily bright witch. She will put the pieces together sooner or later. I knew the time always had to come for them to be here - to learn the truth, yes, but also to grow. I knew he would not be able to stay away for long. Now that he is here, however, I am plagued by doubt. Both of them are in a miserable state, I know, although their appearance is altered tonight to protect them. It is a feeble protection, and I can already sense his presence here. They are not alone. My only hope is that he hesitates for too long, that they somehow manage to escape from this dark place. This is not where it ends for him; it was never meant to end for him here.

They look so lost, wandering between the headstones with nothing to guide them. It is my instinct, of course, to protect them as a teacher should, as I vowed I would do for him for as long as possible. Yet my presence here can offer no guidance or comfort and that is, perhaps, the biggest challenge. I cannot protect him now. I must trust in their own abilities, which I know to be great, greater than Voldemort could ever know, in their strength of character, aptitude and unwavering hearts, but I can see that they are tired. They are stuck in their progress, bereft at the absence of those they love, and utterly alone.
Hopelessness is a powerful force, a greater danger than curses and the only real destructive aspect of the prophecy.

I hear the bitterness in his voice as he states that I never mentioned my family. Will he comprehend why I could not have done so? There is so much betrayal yet to come that he cannot fathom right now, that he would never imagine because his respect and trust are too great. As he stands at his parents’ graves, it is as though all the warmth in the world has been swallowed by the ice and snow that surrounds them. He has never looked more like a lost boy. The words I once chose for the headstone are empty to him by now, too used, as he is, to the finality of death. I quite understand.

But where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

Love, not heart

I found him. I found him as he has found me many times in moments of terror or grief, at the most crucial junction of his life. How I have suffered with him, loved with him, laughed with him, lost with him, and he never knew. How I loathe what is going to happen now. But it’s all right now, my brave, wonderful boy. Not long now. I will be with him. We will all be with him. There will be no more suffering. For once, I can be a mother to him. I can already feel myself becoming more tangible, the words to be spoken out loud welling up inside me.

As he presses the snitch to his lips, I look around for those three men, who look so content to be reunited. James smiles, and all I can feel is golden warmth. I am.
It is time.

I cannot return
I never left