Echoed Lives

“Oi Potter ! Want to come to the pub ?” 

James twisted his back to see one of his colleagues grinning and joking loudly with the group against the green wall of the corridor. He had never been invited before. 

Startled, he asked, “Where-where’re you guys going ?”

“The usual, man. Dragon Drink,” said Auror Bennets, he then turned towards his friends putting his arm around and screaming together : “Drinking games ! Drinking games !” 

After years of being bullied, James didn’t trust any of them and the proposition felt like another attempt at a prank. The long day had taken a toll on him, straining his muscles by staying at his desk all day filling paperwork. At the academy, the instructors didn't tell them how much paperwork they would actually be. 

Still he had no anger left and had long accepted that the easy camaraderie he imagined gaining in the squad wasn’t going to happen. People grew bored of bullying him mostly, but he just knew he wasn’t the first they thought of when giving promotions or a big mission. 

“Not tonight guys, ‘ve the kid waiting at home.” He waved swiftly, a forced grin on his face. 

As James turned back towards the floo, Bennets added, “Go be a good dad, Potter. Good on you, man. But you come whenever you want, ok ? No hard feelings for the pranks, huh ? It was all in good fun, you understand, don’t you ?” 

His walk stopped as he processed the words, James was happy they couldn’t see him snarling. Taking his jaw firmly in his hand as if trying to erase his expression and he exhaled.

Easygoing sentences passed through his mind, but he didn't want to say any of them. He didn’t want to say, No worries guys, the years of pranks already forgotten, let’s be bestfriends now ! So he nodded, hating himself for it, and resumed his walk to the floo of the Ministry. 

The last sentence though, the “you understand”, this one pierced his gut like not much did after Lily’s death. The thing was that he did understand, he had pranked so many before and thought it was funny. But after experiencing it for himself and without much retaliation possible, he had now understood the humiliation and helplessness of it. 

Knowing what he put people through, James hadn’t felt he deserved the confort Lily would give and hadn’t said much to her about the issue. Especially when the pranks were rarer and rarer. Now she was gone and he felt lost and distant from her. He hid insignificant things from her for stupid reasons and he hoped she would forgive him.

Shaking his head to free himself from his morose thoughts, James took a pinch of floo powder, ready to throw it when a hand blocked him. 

“Auror Potter, I’ve seen your reports. Thorough. I like that. You will be in charge of the Mudblood Murder Case 3, right up your alley, huh ?” Said his jeering mouse-lookalike chef, hitting James’s shoulder and squeezing it. 

Gritting his teeth, James nodded and said, “Potter Mansion”.

The familiar squeezing feeling permitted him a breathing moment, he hated his chef’s assumption but it was the least boring case he had in ages. His wife had been dead for two weeks and they were already treating him better. When he entered the office for the first time after her death, someone in the masses had congratulated him. For his wife’s passing. 

After the jokes, the pranks, the insults, James thought he couldn’t hate them more, but they proved him wrong. The hypocritical sad looks, the outward congratulations, the novel pattings in the back, the sudden friendliness, all these were awful, but what he hated more was the relief. His own relief, he was finally treated for his competency, there were no pranks and no slurs, he existed again. For himself. Not as the pureblood who married a mudblood and became a bloodtraitor. 

Teenage James hadn’t thought marrying his school sweetheart would declass him, he had fallen in love and felt invincible. They had had hardships, but they made it through. Their love even stronger. 

James had lost more to his love than he remembered, he didn’t regret the sacrifices he made. But being treated as he should have been after all those years tasted bitter and sour, with a guilty hint of sweet. 

His going back to work had been swift. Those two weeks had felt like seconds, like they just talked, like he just heard her call for help, like he just felt her last breath, like he just touched her cold body. 

Paperwork was spineless work but it needed focus, James had never been happier for his pariah position. And now, they wanted to reintegrate him. 

He closed his eyes, letting himself be submerged by the nauseating swirl characteristic of the floo. He preferred this nausea to the one caused by his thoughts, he had never imagined nausea could be tethering. Unfortunately, the floo is one of the fastest means of transportation. 

 Being at the house is unsettling. It had been their home.

He could see Lily everywhere, hear her laugh in the kitchen, search her heat in their bed.

See her eyes in Harry’s. 

Walking towards the noise from the kitchen, James pictured Lily booping Harry’s nose with coloured cream from their surprise cupcakes. The cupcakes with an unknown flavour. The idea had come from Harry when he heard there wasn’t equivalent to Bertie Botts Beans in food. Lily always engages in his ideas, always pushing him to explore. She is a wonderful mother and an incredible wife. And he didn’t know in what direction he should go without her. 

He smelled paprika and cardamon, not spices Lily used. Opening the door, Remus and Harry were seated at their mahogany table chatting softly. 

“Hello dad ! How was your day ?” Asked his son who had taken to asking him all sorts of questions about his wellbeing these days. 

“Hello. The usual.” James sat at his place at the table in front of an empty chair, one he tried not to fixate on. “Um. It’s good Moony. Was invited by colleagues, but I couldn’t miss dinner with you.” 

At his answer, Remus’s eyebrows raised momentarily, then redirected his attention to Harry’s small pout. “You should say this to Harry, he is the chief tonight.” 

“Hmm. Remus helped, I suppose.” 

“Uncle Remus, Harry. He helped, huh ?”, said James maliciously, “You let him feel useful, that's my son.” 

“He showed me everything, I wouldn’t be here without Harry,” added Remus jokingly bowing his head to the chief. They ate in not an uncomfortable silence, but not a comfortable one either. Comfort was scarce and fleeting between them. 

Seeing as everyone had finished, Remus stood up to clear the table, a swish accompanied the moving tableware. 

“Good night, Harry. James,” said Remus exiting after the kitchen was spotless, the son and father were still at the table. Ever the compassionate one, he felt they needed time for themselves, as a family. 

Remus was gone and with no food between them, they stayed silent. The flickering ceiling light created moving shadows of the white lilies. Since the funeral they had a bouquet in every room, placed in delicate vases in the middle of tables.

James stared at the forms it created on the wood, their movement was hypnotising. Nothing could be heard in the house. The flowers were as fresh as the day he bought them. A preservation spell. 

Lily liked the white ones the most, but she was partial to orange and red lilies. Maybe he would buy some. 

Once she confided in him, lilies weren’t her favourite at first. But at each birthday, her family would give her a bouquet. They did the same for her sister. The memories made her love those flowers. 

Tap, tap . 

Tapping on the table shook James out of his thoughts, making him acknowledge Harry next to him. 

“Er. How was your day ?” 

Harry looked at him with his earnest eyes, so full they were unbearable to glance at. 

“Fine. I- We read about Medea, her history. How muggles saw her. It was interesting. You know she invited the spel-” 

Hunched on his chair, Harry was staring at his socks with his fingers fidgeting. 

“Good, good,” he said,”that’s good.” His mind was blank, his heart racing. 

James abruptly stood up and bid his son good night.

“I miss you Dad,” whispered a weak voice behind him, but he didn’t stop. 

****

“Harry dear, come here for a hug.” Molly opened her arms and delicately took him in. “How have you been, dear ? Stupid question I know, but humour me.” 

In her tight embrace, Harry felt crushed and loved at the same time. He hesitantly reached for her waist and squeezed as much as he could, burying his grief in her warmth. 

“We are here for you, dear. Why don’t you come here for a few days ? Huh ?”, she whispered on the top of his head. 

Harry let go and said, “I-I don’t know. And dad ?”, while readjusting his skewed glasses. 

“Don’t worry about your dad, Remus and Sirius are here for him. He won’t be alone.” Molly raised her wand to stop the fire under her special chicken marmite and shoved in the boy’s hands a basket of oranges. “Here, for you children. They are in the back garden, I think. Go see them, they’re waiting for you. I will talk to James.” 

With a nod, Harry carried on his forearms the basket out of the house. Through the door frame behind him, Molly stepped into the living room. Arthur’s arm was wrapped around James and Remus was half seated, awkward. She whispered a few words, then James nodded profusely. 

“Hi Harry,” Ginny said, making Harry jump out. He was so preoccupied by his dad’s reaction, he hadn’t look before him.

Her hair in a loose braid and a broom in her right hand, Ginny looked tired but exalted. 

“Hi Gin.”

“Mom gave you that ? Anyway, come. You have to see Ron’ face. He’s whining because Gred put a ball full of their new glittery slime in the Quidditch chest and… it-it exploded on him.” Her body bent in half, she quivered at the rhythm of her laughs. “When you touch it you can’t let go unless you -” 

Ginny blabbered as she walked towards the makeshift pitch glancing at Harry to see if he listened to her. In silence, he nodded while looking around. The garden hadn’t changed much except for the new flowers on the side of the house. 

On the pitch, Ron was flying towards them, his broom and clothes covered with a purple substance. His normally fluffy ginger hair was slicked on his brows looking greasy and a darker red. One glance at him and Harry and Ginny couldn’t stop laughing. Tears streamed on their cheeks as they held their stomachs, the basket of oranges knocked over and forgotten.

 “Harry ! Mate, look at my shirt. It’s ruined. You know I’m going to put goo in a letter and they’ll see…” Ron seemed to finally realise he was being laughed at. “You too ? Can’t you support your best mate ?”

Forming an angel in the grass, the only daughter of the wide family barely looked at her brother as she fake whispered to Harry : “He should keep the hairstyle, maybe it’ll distract the other team. Don’t you think he looks like a wet alpaca, Harry ?” 

At her words, Harry tried not to laugh outward, and after caressing his chin while wrinkling his nose with false concentration he added : “Hmm. Now that you say it. Even his angry face can be compared to a spitting alpaca. Do you think there are more similarities ?”

“Similarities ?”asked Ginny with a grimace. 

He paused to think of a good enough definition, momentarily still in all but his fingers pulling grass out one by one. 

“Things in common.”

“Huh, okay. I don’t know much about alpacas but I’m sure Ronnikins could disappear in a crowd of them.”

Every relative of the Weasleys had learned early on how easy it was to make the youngest boy turn red from frustration. “Well good, I’ll find better friends and family. You both suck anyway. I had prepared some-” 

The grass scratched his cheeks and arms and legs, but he welcomed the feeling. The chatter around him was overwhelming him in the best way. He couldn’t hear himself think, couldn’t hear the memories repeat themselves again and again. Harry took the time to analyse each speck of cloud his eyes could see without him having to move. One looked like a fish with three eyes. There was a flower losing her petals and at his left corner, a castle without any door or window with an enormous dragon around it. It looked like a Norwegian Ridgeback from the descriptions in From egg to Inferno, a book Sirius had gifted him a year ago. 

A hand waved impatiently above him as he became aware once again of the spinning world around him. The chatter had seized and with it, the peace. 

“-rlin, Ron you’re selfish. You haven’t even asked Harry anything. That’s why he’s bored,” said Ginny, giving an earful to her big brother with the seriousness of a 9 year-old wisdom.   

“Stop it, I know him better. You don’t know a thing about Harry.” Ron brushed off his sister and with a second broom invited Harry to play with them. “Mate, let’s play if you’re bored. I’m thinking of a race around the house, we turn left at the cherry tree and then …” 

They got up, the siblings arguing about the turns and how to make it more challenging and Harry followed, trying to regain his voice. 

Harry doesn’t want to part with them. He feels less alone, less empty with them around. Maybe he can stay for a week. But home awaits for him. 

****

A harsh wind blows through the trees, whipping them back and forth in front of the window and away from it. The stars shimmers when the shadow darkens, in sleepless nights Harry likes to count every shimmering star. Especially since his mom painted them for him, she said, “It is so you remember there is happiness in the darkest of times, if you remember to turn on the light.” And flippantly, she added, “and you won’t bump into any furniture if you feel like being a little rascal.” 

Merlin, he missed her. Every part of the house made him think of her. Harry kept reliving the moments, but the more he thought of it, the more the memories blurred. He shook his head. One. Two Stars. Three…Five stars shimmering at the same time. 

With Sirius’s help, they spelled the carved stars so they glided on the ceiling to match the actual sky. His dogfather had given him weird gifts, but with some he had hit the mark. 

In the corridor, a door creaked as it swung open.

The sharp creaking immersed him on the day he woke up at St Mungo’s. 

His dad had the door’s handle in hand. He hesitated at the door, a wary expression Harry had never seen on his face before. And he had burned half the garden down once. 

Instead of words, a heavy cough escaped. Harry’s throat was raspy from the days of hospitalisation. He coughed while his dad entered with his shoulders and back hunched in defeat. 

“Harry, I-I have something to tell you.” 

When he crossed eyes with his dad, they were full of tears, on the verge of washing his unkempt face.  

“What dad ? What is –cough !” Said Harry as he sat, his fingers fidgeting on the cover. 

“Lily is…,” he paused like he couldn’t bear to speak more, a look of desperation in his eyes and his lips trembling. 

Realising his mom wasn’t there, Harry darted his head around to check each corner. There was no way his dad meant that. 

“Where is mom ? Dad ? Is mommy working ? Is-is that why she can’t be here ? It’s alright, I don’t mind, we’ll just go home and wait for her, right ? Right ?” 

Slowly tears descended on his cheeks as he clutched harder and harder the cover until it hurt. 

“There is no home. She won’t … come back,” his dad whispered before bawling on his knees. 

The funeral was days after, Harry can only clearly remember lilies and tight arms around him from the Weasleys and Remus. The ceremony was full of wixen he has never seen or talked to. His dad followed Sirius and Remus during the funeral and for the rituals, waiting for their aval. 

Each wixen came to his dad and him at the entrance, nodding to them darkly. Harry had felt the accusations in their eyes. Everyone knew he was the reason, they couldn’t be with his mom. Their eyes full of hate followed him, whispers and pointing fingers too. But he deserves that because they are right to hate him. He killed her. He killed his loving mom, his mom who’s joyful and nags him about weird things but makes his favourite desserts. He is the reason why his dad is destroyed, why their family is broken, why his dad can’t look at him.  

And after, after is bizarre. 

Dad still goes back to work with Sirius, Remus still lives here teaching Harry in the afternoon and Barty still frets over nothing. 

Nothing really changed, but Harry feels miles away from this world. Like he traveled to another universe and everyone keeps telling him he dreamed those memories. He feels like this adventurer in The magical desert , certain of the existence of the treasure but defamed by everyone. His mom is the oasis to him and the mirage of madperson to everyone else. Sometimes it’s like she was never there to begin with. Other times, she’s in every corner, suffocating him. 

No one says it, they don’t say the word. Her name. They evade or tear up at ‘how sad it is’. What is ? SAY IT.

But there are lilies at each table, tokens from his dad to his mom. And Weasleys or Remus insist on him speaking if he wants. Speak ? Harry doesn’t know what they want from him. Speaking of what ? Of it ? 

****

The parquet of the living room is full of mushy cushions, laughs and the clinkering of the game pieces filled Harry’s aching heart with the warmth only family has given him. His godfather came for a ‘Boys’ night’, a new tradition they started when the house became too big for the three of them. They eat greasy food and drink sugary drinks while playing every board game they have. Harry loves those nights the most. With Remus and Sirius here there is no shadow present, just easy joy. 

Rolling the seven faces dice with frowning eyebrows, James says: “You see Harry, you have to really think of what you want and…”, he throws the dice, and it stops on the fifth, after screaming victory continues, “… you get what you wanted.”

“You used magic, it’s not in the rules, is it?” Asked Harry pouting, it didn’t seem fair, he couldn’t use magic like that, “Aren’t you cheating?”

James advanced his piece on the board by telling it the number of jumps, the piece was a humanoid with legs stuck together always on the verge of falling when it landed.

“Spronglet is upset because of you Jamie, deal with it,” Said Sirius, laughing with surrendering hands, then looking at Remus eating a piece of beef pizza, he joked, “Wow Moony, you have ravenous hunger, don’t bite us if we start looking delectable. Especially Harry, he looks tender, but all that sugar can’t be good for anyone.”

Remus’s smile subdued, his jaw clenching for a brief moment, then he was relaxed again. He was used to those remarks, the annoyance barely tingling him. He regretted the easy friendship of their younger years. Though even those memories are tainted by his new clarity. He inhaled, counted to five, his hand rubbing his forearm in rhythm. Following the exercise, Remus blocked his breathing, counted to four while rubbing his forearm. Finally, he exhaled at 7, the rubbing and his hand stilled, his mind with it. 

“Anyone would be super happy to eat me.” Said Harry, clearly having been offended, and out for blood, “But you, you smell like a wet dog !”

Laughing erupted from all the adults, sometimes they forgot how adorable and funny Harry could be. The resentment flushed out of Remus’s system, he closed his eyes to the jokes, once more. A smug smile adorned Harry’s face. 

They had needed this night after the grimness of grief had taken residence in them, to remember what life could be. 

“Roll the dice, Spronglet.” Taunted Sirius, “Even if there's nothing you can do to win.”

James hit Sirius on the shoulder with his fist jokingly but a warning not to antagonise Harry more, but Sirius never read warnings well.

“You’ll see, I’ll beat all of you.” Promised Harry, a fist clenched, his other hand throwing the dice.

A carved golden two appeared. Harry needed at least a four to keep up in the race. Tears streamed freely on his face, not looking at anyone, ashamed.

“No need to cry,” Said his godfather, caressing his hair, “even if it was more, I would have won.”

As he said the last sentence he threw the dice, a seven. His piece jumped from case to case arriving on the last one, it bounced enough to make every other piece fall, ending the game.

“See?” Taunted Sirius meanly.

Remus rolled his eyes and took Harry in his arms, exasperated by the immaturity of the man before him, “Is he crying enough for you ?”. He turned to Harry, who was sobbing into his shirt—no doubt because of Sirius’s callousness, but Lily’s death was still fresh, a wound barely beginning to scar.

Remus needed to keep an eye on the child. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a bad winner, and a worse loser.”

“Yes, your dogfather can’t be nice in a competition for the life of him.” James pushed Sirius from his cushion playfully. “Don’t follow his example, he’s the worst player.”

“I’m not the worst player, I just want him to learn the frustration of losing.” Sirius was defending himself poorly from the looks of James and Remus.

“Excuses, excuses Padfoot.”

****

Wiggling to repositionate himself against the corner, his hand touched cobwebs and retracted swiftly at the realisation. Harry searched for lines he was reading before moving, browsing with his finger glossing on the paper. He liked History, myths especially of great Wixen like Hecate or Merlin. When he knew more magic he would build a house in a large tree, the bark would be the walls and the branches the perches for him, his owls and snakes. A dog at the entrance, or three. 

A draught weakened the flame of the candle, Harry squinted to read. His glasses didn’t help when they couldn’t stay put on his nose. 

“-ry, Harry. Where are you ?” 

Harry was so focused on the book, he hadn’t heard Remus calling him. He blew the candle, carefully placed his bookmark and opened the door of the cupboard. 

“Yes, I’m coming.” 

Walking towards the living room, Harry cleaned himself of the cobwebs on his legs. Remus was organising the papers on the coffee table, when he entered. The man raised his head and scanned Harry from head to toe. 

“Where were you ? I was looking for you everywhere.” He asked, frowning. 

“Well, evidently not everywhere. What are we doing today ?” 

Remus pointedly looked at Harry, waiting for his answer. Harry avoided his gaze by shuffling the books and making an effort to look like he was searching for something. 

“Harry.” 

He huffed, but answered, “ The cupboard under the stairs.” 

Harry looked at Remus' expression, and it clearly wasn’t the thing to say. 

“I like it... it’s- it’s nice, warm.” 

Remus didn't say a thing, but Remus’ glances always said more than his words anyway. Harry could see in his uncle’s eyes the debate of what to do next, fortunately for him, Remus decided on pausing the questioning for now. 

“What can you tell me about the practice of magic in the 1600s ?” 

Back on safe grounds, Harry released all the pressure with an exhalation and explained his understanding of the chapters they studied. 

Remus never liked conflict, however he worried for Harry after Lily’s death, especially after the bizarre circumstances. When James had explained to him the bloody scene. He kept saying things didn’t add up. He had felt Lily breathing, but the mediwitch had confirmed her body was soulless before they ever put a foot in the house. Remus is kind and supports his friends, but he isn’t irrational enough not to grant too much clout to the words of a grieving husband. But still, James was right : things didn’t add up. No one could explain the phenomenon, countless specialists or curious academics had examined Harry’s body and magic but the only thing they could agree on was the type of magic, a blood ritual. A human one specifically. Their prejudice made even some speculate Lily had nothing to do with the process. 

Remus was crushed, but the weirdness of the scene intrigued him. Harry on the verge of death coming good as new was bizarre to say the least. Lily had done something, unfortunately rituals and runes, he was almost sure she had used some - it was her specialism -, weren’t his forte. He needed to research, but James had closed the office and refused to let anyone else in. The hospital had put her death on a botched ritual and Harry’s state as collateral, which made no sense if one knew Lily.  

The horrible situation had put a strain on the relationship between James and Harry, and Remus was unsure of the course of action he could take. Maybe time will help, he could wait before talking to James about his behaviour towards Harry, and substantially their fleeting interactions. He would let James grieve.

****

The heavy robe rustled against the uneven dark gneiss paving the corridors of the ivory castle. The smallest noise can be heard tenfold louder, ricocheting on the metal bars. Any liveliness is drained from the place, not even colors resist. Dumbledore always wears his brightness on his clothes, but even he is washed out in the harsh cold light of the blue fire. 

“Albus, it has been a while,” said a hoarse voice, dragging the words out laboriously, but never missing their mocking tone. “Having doubts, do you need my counsel ?” 

“Gellert, you are right. It has. You know me, when don’t I have doubts ?” Said Dumbledore, chuckling softly. 

Seated against the cold stone on a thin squared fabric, Grindelwald glanced at the shiny badge above Dumbledore’s heart, “ French Ambassador, huh ? And here, I thought I was the expansionist between the both of us.” 

“I missed your humour, old friend.” 

A minute or two passed as they stared in each other’s eyes through the bars. When Dumbledore accepted he wouldn’t have an answer, he sighted and continued the conversation. 

“Another Dark Lord has seized power.” 

“I may be imprisoned, but I did get the news, years ago,” said the ex-Dark Lord annoyed, “Are you going to play hero again ? When are you going to be tired of this role ? When will you have atone ?”  

“No need to bring the past here, Gellert.” The years of fighting weighed on the now french citizen and ambassador for the ICW. Allowing himself a moment of weakness, he leaned on the bars, with his hand clutching them. “All fights are tiring, even more when they are necessary.” 

“Spare me your drivel of goodwill and hope. If you came here for this, let’s not waste time and be on your way.” 

When Dumbledore didn’t answer, Gellert gazed at the traits of the man he once thought would be with him in every step of the way. Albus had become pathetic, a clown with his variegated robes and shiny eyes but no actions. 

“Voldemort is a pathetic Englishman, but with resources not to neglect. I know my way in those businesses, you can’t just take your wand and fire spells here, Albus.” 

As the conversation progressed, Gellert’s voice regained its confidence, its smoothness. When he leaned forward, Albus could feel the softness on the cutting edges of his words. Gellert, really, was a dangerously persuasive man. 

 “We can dismantle his organisation, with time and a good team. We won’t need too many people involved with the both of us. No victims, no collateral damage. Just the end of a dark wizard’s reign.” 

With each word, Grindelwald got closer and closer, until his body was at a breath away from Dumbledore's. So close, they felt the radiating warmth of the other. 

“Ah my old friend, you are mistaken I am not alone. I know my limits and fighting you at the time was a perilous endeavour, but a manageable one.” Dumbledore turned towards the arrow slit letting a fraction of the moon’s light inside, the embroidery glistening as he moved. “I fear Voldemort is more dangerous than you were. Yes, he is a charismatic man, but if he dies he leaves a system of injustices behind him. One, too many will profit from, to let it go.” 

“He is an uninspired man, an opportunist choosing to thrive under someone else’s rules. My ideas sparked a new time, a new way. We can’t be compared.” 

Slowly, Grindelwald’s hand slid on the cold metal, almost reaching for Dumbledore’s. With a step backward and a turn, Albus rearranged his beard and said, “Thank you, I forgot myself for a moment. Well, old friend until we meet again.” 

****

Hooting at the window woke Hermione up, which was unusual as she seldom wasn’t the first to awaken. 

“Arrg. Yes, I will open the window. Stop this noise.” 

Untangling herself from the blankets with a sigh, she freed each of her limbs and finally crawled out of the bed. Other children were already muttering for the owl to shut up. 

“Yes, I am coming,” she said as she reached for the handle and let the noisy bran owl enter. 

When Hermione approached the owl abruptly, still groggy from the sudden wake-up, the owl  hooted as it viciously scratched her. Barely restraining herself from shrieking, she glared heavily at the owl willing it to submit. Her hand, in full view of the owl, slowly got closer to its claws where a letter was attached. 

The letter everyone here dreamed of receiving. Feared they never would and what would become of them if they didn’t. 

If she hadn’t been living in this awful orphanage for years now, Hermione would have teared up at the object resembling her chance at salvation, at revenge. For her parents. 

The staff at the orphanage always said the same words. You are here because you are magic. Your parents couldn’t raise you well, couldn’t love you. They would have resented you and hurt you like muggles do to wixen. So they don’t hurt you, their memory was erased, they’ll never hurt you anymore. 

Hermione was the smartest in every class since kindergarten, and wouldn’t be fooled by those lies. She remembered her gentle parents, how they reconforted her when she had a fight with a friend, when she fell. How they so rarely yelled at her she couldn’t remember a time they did. They would have accepted her. They would have loved her, she was sure. 

She could hear the threat behind those sugary reassurances. Don’t try to search for them, they don’t remember you. 

Thinking of her parents grew the mass pressuring her chest, pressing on her lungs. Hermione couldn’t control her breathing, she was short on breaths. No air came in, never enough.

“Put the fucking owl away.” 

While she spiralled, the owl had restarted hooting, waking others up.  

“Thank this fucking owl Collin, now you can put your shoe where your mouth is and finally train out of this pathetic shell,” said Hermione, her callousness hadn’t been appreciated before, but here it thrived. 

Laughs resonated from all angles, and more people pleaded for silence while others resigned themselves with their pillow on their head. 

“I received my letter for Hogwarts,” she announced, her tone triumphant. 

“Quit bragging. Like you didn’t know you would get it,” answered a voice muffled under covers and a sturdy pillow. 

“Of course I knew, I just like to make you remember.” 

Hermione delicately scratched the red wax bearing the Hogwarts insignia to free the heavy parchments. Reading thoroughly each line to make sure she knew everything there was to know. 

“Everyone’s getting it, we’re all wixen here. I don’t understand all the excitement around it,” said a dirty blond boy on the higher bed of the bunk bed at her left, one of the rare non mudbloods of the orphanage. His parents had died during the swift war.  

From the back of the room, whispers rose but a high-pitched voice replied conspiratorially : “You didn’t hear of Jackson ? On his eleventh birthday, there wasn’t a letter. Everybody’s here screaming it, shoving it in the faces of everyone, and … When he didn’t … Well, the matrons asked questions. And…” “-Stop with the long ass suspens, Queenie !” “Shut up. Anyway, he disappeared the next day.” 

“Better say you have it and make a run for it then.” 

“Run where Gill ? You wouldn’t survive two days in the muggle world, you can’t even dry your socks properly.” Laughs followed with noises of thumbling children and sheets. 

“The Dark Lord would find you before you even think of crossing the walls, dumbass.”