Sins of the Mother
“How is young Charles?” Albus Dumbledore asked the mother in front of him.
Lily Potter fidgeted in her seat. It was almost fondly reminiscent of when she was a student, but he had a more important task than revisiting memories from, well, a decade ago. The woman in front of him was no longer the Head Girl of Gryffindor, no longer the best student in all of Hogwarts, no longer the Esteemed Lily Evans, beautiful and adored and someone who knew many ways to hurt people. Not that she wanted to hurt people, no, she truly was an exceptional witch who stood out for what a Muggleborn could accomplish (preciously why it made so much sense for her to be the mother of the Boy-Who-Lived! Albus so did love a good, neat ending!), but he was well-aware of her... situation. Many times in her youth had he guided her, and he was aware of who Lily Evans was and could be.
This was not Lily Evans, whatever resemblance was made. This was Lily Potter.
She was a mother. Mother of the most important little boy in the country... and his brother.
“He’s good,” she said, croaky. There was a scar beneath her cheek — surgical. “We're already planning his second birthday. He's very sweet, very excitable. He could burst into giggles or tears inexplicably. He gets scared easily when I — I do things. James loves him. He's safe. He's safe here.”
She breathed like it was truly remarkable, like it would never be certain except in the moment.
Headmaster Dumbledore let himself smile for the moment. He took in her joy, knowing just how much he'd raised her from the little red-haired girl who'd entered the Wizarding World headstrong and untamable. She became a very impressive, important figure, indeed. Just as he'd planned.
Now came a more… fragile topic. In all their meetings, it was never raised, even as Lily talked on and on about Charles’ developments. She could get very upset very, very quickly, he knew, and the years of being around Ariana (however far away those years were) trained him into being still. Being gentle.
Albus’ hands entwined. He raised his shoulders, put on a slow, careful tone. “And the other child? Young Harry?”
Lily’s lips pursed together very tightly.
“What about… him,” she murmured in a small, biting whisper. Her head bowed; strands of blood-red hair fell in her face, obscuring his view.
Obligation seized his heart. Vice.
“He has your eyes.”
Her eyelashes fluttered several times, as though she wished nothing more for that not to be true. She was always a hard read, though, with her… uncertain nature, so perhaps Albus read her wrong.
Perhaps, perhaps, one letter away from p-l-e-a-s-e. Gellert would have scoffed at his pleading. Liebling, he would have said, low, do not think to be so pathetic to ask. Do. Demand. However, Gellert, even in his prime, would not have understood that such times like these required a delicate hand. He would have done something like—take over the world. Summon blue flames from the ground. Jeer, intimidate, be a show.
If Gellert was at Hogwarts during when Albus…
No. He was getting off-track. There was a new Dark Lord, and he was destroyed just as soon as he’d risen by one Charles Potter. The Potters were drawn into the glowing game of fame, the papers had cameras popping outside their every move. Merlin only knew how many letters Albus had to answer on the daily from that squawk of a Minister…
“Lily,” he tried again, thoughts worn and heavy. Leaden. “ Please think of him.”
(You've done it, Gellert would have crowed, in Prussian blues and slicked-back blond hair. You've begged. What have you become, Albus Dumbledore?)
“Mrs. Potter—no, Miss Evans. I understand what you've been through. I understand what I've left you to clean. But do not forget about your duty, about the mysterious powers, about the attention your family has taken… would it not be equally important to learn about the touch that Voldemort may have left… Lily, look at me…”
(A hero, he would have said in response. I've become a hero, Gellert. You would have never imagined how tiring it is.)
“Headmaster, he belongs with Petunia,” she said at once, her tone strident. She looked up suddenly, and the dead glimmer in her eyes was steely-cold. Animal prowl. She spoke without interruption. “By the end of this week, we'll have him settled where he belongs.”
Albus choked on his own surprise.
“Lily,” he cautioned. “We could always raise him in your household… if he's Magical, then… it would be better if…”
“He's Petunia's child,” she insisted.
“He's yours. Look at him—he’s James' image, with your eyes. Doesn't, doesn't that mean something?”
“Not mine,” she whispered. “Not mine.”
“Your sister raising him… I… it’ll be better for us, for the Order, for the press. Perhaps Charles could use a friend growing—”
Lily stood up suddenly. The chair fell behind her.
“He will not contaminate Charlie!” That fire raged in every part of her being, static lifting the ends of her red hair up into the air. Her wand hand flipped, and said wand snapped from her purse laying on the ground to her tight fist. One would have thought she'd perform an offensive spell, and she'd used many dangerous ones in her youth, often against her now-husband and her friends whenever they'd disappoint her, but she did not. He would not think she even truly thought of hurting him.
He did not move. He was well-used to this. “Lily, sit down.”
Her screaming went on, even when it became torn and tearful. The words would merge together, blur, become one with another, split, screech, and break. She could yell until the goats came to do dances; fire, Lily had. It burned all.
Albus could only listen.
“You want to hurt him! You want him hurt! Harry will hurt him! He'll be jealous! He'll hate him! He'll—he’ll hurt him and you won't like what I’ll do because I'm not letting Charlie get hurt like—”
“Lily,” he started again. He put more force into it, more direction. A wordless spell brought the chair back into a right position. “Sit down.”
She did not. Her shoulders shook.
“Albus, Albus, please. You can't make me raise Petunia’s child.” Green eyes went glossy. Her voice broke. “Headmaster Dumbledore, please.”
“But he is your child, Lily.”
Lily stared ahead. An odd calmness gave over her.
“No,” she whispered, speaking with only a breath. She shook her head over and over. He could have sworn a huff of laughter came from her, the kind that superstitious people give when someone, an ignorant, unknowing someone, doubts a great conspiracy that is so very close to heart. “No. No. I will not—I will not, Albus. He's going to hurt Charlie a–and Charles is the Boy-Who-Lived, is he not? You can't… you can't make me hurt him by letting that child stay.”
“This is about Petunia,” Albus said, gentle, kind, caring.
She raised her chin almost haughtily. “Petunia’s child,” she started to murmur, the mantra overlapping. Her hand came to her chest and it squeezed the heart’s place. It reached upwards to her neck, feeling the pulse within the skin. She didn't speak.
She sat down finally.
“James agreed with me,” Lily said, unblinking, deathly quiet. “He’s the one who came up with the idea. He–he knows.” A glint entered her eye, conniving, self-assured, almost proud. “He knows, and he knows I'm not crazy."
We'll see about that, Albus Dumbledore thought with an affected pace of his being. Something stuck in his throat. Gellert would have called it guilt; Aberforth would have named it his innate hatred for disobedience.
He looked around his office, his most prized knickknacks. We'll see what I can do.