Finding Lily
Upon landing, Hermione opened her eyes and was met with the tranquil, almost ethereal charm of the small village of Godric’s Hollow. Memories of her last visit rippled through her mind like a haunting echo—the chill of winter, the devastation of war, and the grave that marked the end of so much. She forced herself to breathe, focusing instead on the village as it stood now.
The cobbled lanes glistened faintly in the moonlight, as if freshly washed by a morning rain. The cottages, each framed by climbing ivy and flower-laden gardens, exuded warmth and life. A bell from the village church tolled softly in the distance, its notes carrying on the gentle breeze. It was so different from the Godric’s Hollow she remembered.
Hermione’s eyes traced the path ahead, lined with budding trees adorned with the delicate blooms of late spring. The vibrant greens of their leaves suggested the season was in full swing. She knelt briefly to touch the grass beneath her feet—it felt alive, fresh, as if untouched by the sorrow she carried in her heart.
She swallowed back the lump in her throat. Here she was, standing in a place where life had both begun and ended for Harry. But this was not the Godric’s Hollow of 1998. This was the past. Her past, yet to come. The thought made her dizzy, her logical mind briefly at odds with the reality before her.
Straightening up, she adjusted her bag, still feeling the weight of its precious contents against her side. She knew what she needed to do, yet her heart hesitated. Somewhere in this village, Lily and James Potter were alive. Somewhere, they were living the lives they believed they had years ahead of them to enjoy. And Hermione, an outsider, an intruder in this timeline, was about to alter everything.
Taking a deep breath, she began walking toward the heart of the village, tracing the steps that she and Harry had taken months before.
Before she knew it, the familiar cottage came into view, and a lump formed in Hermione’s throat. The difference between this reality and the shattered vision she remembered with Harry was like night and day. The once gaping hole in the roof, a stark reminder of the devastation, had been replaced with neat red slate tiles. The windows, which had once been destroyed by the raw power of magic, were now framed with beautiful little plant boxes and delicate, patterned curtains fluttering slightly in the breeze.
Warm golden light spilled from the windows, casting a soft, inviting glow over the front garden. The little flowers that lined the stone path swayed gently in the spring breeze, the scene serene, almost idyllic. Hermione’s heart pounded as she stood there, transfixed by the peacefulness that seemed to embrace the cottage, unaware of her presence. It was as though time had held its breath in this place, and she was now part of a moment that could never have been, a world where the Potters were safe.
For several long moments, she stood rooted to the spot, simply watching, drinking in the sight of the home that had once been filled with so much joy and love. The small details of the house—the flowering vines creeping along the stone walls, the smell of fresh bread that seemed to drift out from the kitchen window—felt like a gentle reminder of the normal life Harry should have had.
She swallowed hard, her mind racing with a thousand possibilities and fears. How could she possibly approach this moment without altering everything? What if they didn’t trust her? What if she did something that caused them to doubt her intentions? Hermione couldn’t help but feel the weight of the uncertainty pressing down on her.
Just then, a voice echoed through her mind, so vivid it almost sounded as though Harry were standing beside her. “Are you a Gryffindor or not?”
A sharp breath escaped Hermione, and she rolled her eyes. Of course I am! She had no time for hesitation now. She was here for a reason, and if she was going to succeed, she needed to face this moment with the courage she always had. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, preparing herself to move forward.
A voice cut through the stillness, stopping her in her tracks.
“Can we help you with something, love?”
It was hauntingly familiar. Even before she turned, Hermione knew who it belonged to. She pivoted on the spot, her eyes locking first on the boyish face of a young Sirius Black. The photographs Harry had shown her didn’t quite capture the roguish confidence that radiated from him. His angular features, framed by dark waves, were striking, but it was his smirk—equal parts charm and defiance—that truly defined him. It reminded her, uncomfortably, of Draco Malfoy. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
Beside him stood a tall figure with straw-coloured hair: Remus Lupin. His face carried the faintest trace of weariness, but his amber eyes brimmed with kindness and quiet intelligence, just as they had in her own time. Yet there was a youthfulness about him here, unmarred by years of hardship and war. To his left, Peter Pettigrew lingered, smaller and less self-assured. Hermione’s breath hitched as her gaze fell on him. She had braced herself for hate at the sight of the man who had betrayed Harry’s parents, but all she felt was a complicated tangle of pity and hope. Could she save him?
The trio stared at her with varying degrees of suspicion. Sirius’s smirk faded, and his grey eyes hardened, scanning her like a predator sizing up its prey. Remus’s expression, though calm, was far from trusting. Peter, true to form, hovered nervously behind the other two.
Hermione realized how suspicious she must appear—a stranger loitering in front of their friend’s home. She forced a small, unthreatening smile. “You could help me, actually,” she said quietly, her voice trembling just enough to sound vulnerable without seeming weak. “I’m looking for Lily Evans. I believe she lives here with her husband?”
Their reaction was immediate. Sirius’s relaxed stance stiffened, and his hand twitched toward his wand. His voice turned sharp. “Who’s asking?”
Remus placed a steadying hand on Sirius’s shoulder, though his own eyes were assessing her with quiet intensity. Peter took another step back, his gaze darting between her and the house, as if preparing to flee.
Hermione’s stomach churned. She knew she couldn’t tell them the truth; they’d never believe her. But she couldn’t afford for them to turn her away. She swallowed hard, tightening her grip on the frayed edges of her courage.
“Lily is my cousin,” she began, her voice stronger than she felt. “Her mother and my mother were sisters, though I’ve never met her. My mother moved to the United States before I was born. I... I didn’t even know I had family here until recently.” She hesitated, letting her gaze drop to the ground as though overcome by emotion. “My mother died a few months ago. She told me about Lily before she passed, and I—I wanted to find her. I thought she might want to meet me.”
The three exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Sirius’s brow furrowed; his suspicion still palpable.
“You’re family?” he echoed. His tone wasn’t rude, but it carried a sharp edge. “Funny, you don’t exactly look like you’ve just come for a family reunion.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She must have looked a sight—her clothes were torn, her hair unkempt, and her skin marred with bruises and scratches.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, though she already knew.
“Not to mention,” Remus added, his voice calm but laced with sharp concern, “you’ve clearly been through something. Your clothes, your injuries…” He gestured toward her battered arms. “Have you been attacked?”
The question pierced her like a blade. Hermione’s throat tightened, her pulse quickening. Memories flooded her mind: the suffocating terror of running through dark forests, spells cracking like thunder behind her; the choking fear of capture; Bellatrix’s cruel laughter as the knife carved into her flesh.
She drew a breath, steadying herself as she met their gazes. This wasn’t a lie—it was her truth, just displaced. She could use it. She had to.
“Yes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She lowered her gaze, letting her exhaustion and buried fear seep into her words. “I was attacked.” Her hands trembled as she wrapped her arms around herself, a gesture as much for comfort as for effect. “I’ve been traveling alone for months now, trying to find Lily. My mother… she died a little over a year ago. Before she passed, she told me about Lily, about family I’d never known. When I saw a clipping in the Daily Prophet about Lily’s wedding, I thought—I thought maybe I could find her. But…” She swallowed hard, the next words catching in her throat. “But they found me first.”
Sirius’s expression hardened, his suspicion turning into something colder, sharper. “Who? Who attacked you?”
Hermione hesitated, the memories clawing at her chest. “I—I don’t know who they were,” she lied, letting her voice crack just enough to sound convincing. “They were wearing dark cloaks and masks. Death Eaters, maybe. They surrounded me, took my wand… and then…” She trailed off, shaking her head as if trying to push the memory away.
“They called me a Mudblood,” she said, her voice barely audible. The word felt like venom on her tongue. Her hand moved to her sleeve before she could stop herself, and with a deep, steadying breath, she pushed it up to reveal the still-healing scar carved into her arm. The ugly letters—Mudblood—were a grotesque testament to her suffering, the skin pink and raw, a cruel brand of hatred.
The silence was heavy, suffocating. Sirius’s smirk had long vanished, replaced by a dangerous glint in his eyes, his jaw tightening. Remus’s face was pale, his lips pressed into a grim line, while Peter took a shaky step back, his wide eyes fixed on the scar.
Hermione forced herself to continue, drawing on the raw, unfiltered emotion of the past year. “They told me I was worthless, that I didn’t belong,” she said, her voice trembling. “They left me for dead. I barely got away. I’ve been running ever since.”
She raised her eyes to meet theirs, tears threatening to spill but held back by sheer willpower. “I just want to find her,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I thought—if I could just find Lily, maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone anymore.”
For a moment, none of them spoke. Sirius looked away, his fists clenched at his sides, while Remus studied her, his golden eyes soft with understanding but shadowed by worry. It was Peter who finally broke the silence, his voice shaky.
“That scar…” he said, his words faltering. “It—it’s real.”
Remus nodded, his gaze lingering on Hermione’s arm before he shifted it to Sirius. “She’s telling the truth,” he said quietly.
Sirius didn’t respond immediately, his expression stormy, but after a tense moment, he gave a curt nod. “We’ll take you to Lily,” he said, his voice rough. “But if this is some kind of trick…” He let the threat hang in the air, unspoken but clear.
Hermione swallowed hard, her heart pounding. “It’s not,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. “I promise you—it’s not.”
“Thank you,” Hermione whispered, relief washing over her. She knew she wasn’t safe yet, but it was a start.
“You’d actually done most of the work yourself,” Sirius said, gesturing toward the quaint, ivy-clad cottage just beyond them. His voice carried a casual air, but his gray eyes lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, as if still weighing her intentions. “This is Lily’s home… well, James’ home… theirs together,” he added, stumbling over the phrasing.
Hermione caught the subtle roll of Remus’s eyes at Sirius’s awkward correction, a flicker of exasperated fondness passing over his face. The tension in the air seemed to break, and Hermione felt she could breathe again.
“Oh?” she replied, feigning ignorance as she turned to study the house. Her breath caught. “It’s beautiful,” she said, and for a moment, her words were entirely genuine.
The house seemed to radiate warmth and life, even from the outside. Moonlight glinted off its slightly crooked windows, and the garden was a cheerful burst of colour despite the season. Hermione felt a strange ache in her chest. This was where Lily and James were building their lives, where they had dreamed of raising Harry. For a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine what it must have been like before tragedy shattered it all.
The three men sidled closer, their presence closing in around her. Instinctively, she flinched, stepping back in an unguarded moment of weakness. The movement was subtle, but it didn’t escape their notice.
Sirius tensed, his sharp features hardening slightly as his hand once again hovered near his wand. Remus, however, tilted his head, his expression softening with quiet understanding.
“It’s Lily’s influence,” Remus said gently, his voice breaking the tension. He gestured toward the garden path leading to the front door. His amber eyes, kind yet discerning, locked onto hers. “Please, allow us to introduce you to them.”
Hermione hesitated, forcing a weak smile as she nodded. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice quieter than she intended.
As she followed them down the path, her nerves began to unravel, her carefully constructed facade crumbling bit by bit. The weight of what she was about to face pressed down on her with every step. Her stomach churned, and the sharp sting of fear clawed at her throat. She knew she had to maintain her composure, but doubt crept in, whispering all the ways this could go wrong.
She focused on the sound of their footsteps crunching against the gravel, grounding herself as best she could. Ahead of her, Sirius moved with his characteristic swagger, though his gaze flicked back toward her now and then, sharp and watchful. Remus walked more deliberately, his posture calm but alert. Peter trailed slightly behind; his nervous energy palpable.
The cottage door seemed to loom closer with every step, and Hermione’s heart raced as her nerves battled her resolve. This was Lily’s home, the start of so much she wanted to protect. But as much as she tried to steel herself, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking into the unknown, her lies balanced precariously on a knife’s edge.
The door shimmered faintly as Sirius grasped the handle, a gentle hum of protective enchantments dissipating under his touch. With a confident push, he swung the door open and stepped inside with the ease of someone who felt completely at home. Peter scurried in behind him, his movements quick and furtive, while Remus paused in the doorway to gesture for Hermione to enter.
“After you,” he said kindly, his tone soft but watchful.
Hermione swallowed hard, taking a tentative step into the warm entryway. The immediate sensation of stepping into the Potters’ home was one of comfort and care. The air smelled faintly of fresh bread and something floral, like lilies, and a cozy warmth radiated from somewhere deeper within the house.
Her gaze was drawn to the walls, lined with frames that caught the light just enough to make her pause. The photographs—non-magical, Hermione noticed with a twinge of surprise—depicted a vibrant tapestry of Lily’s life. In one, a freckled, red-haired girl grinned toothily at the camera, her arms slung around a slightly older girl with dark hair. Another showed a seaside holiday, with Lily laughing as a wave soaked the hem of her dress. Hermione’s breath hitched when she saw one of Lily in her Hogwarts uniform, her green eyes shining with excitement.
“Prongs! Evans!” Sirius’s voice bellowed, shattering her reverie as he shrugged off his leather jacket and hung it casually on the wooden coat stand at the end of the hallway.
“Must you always shout the house down?” Remus muttered, sighing with long-suffering exasperation.
Sirius grinned, a boyish charm lighting up his face. “It’s tradition,” he said with a shrug.
Remus rolled his eyes but said nothing, stepping aside to let Hermione continue down the hall.
“Padfoot, you’ve been calling her Evans for years,” Remus added as Sirius made his way toward the living room. “You do realize she’s been Potter for over a year now?”
Sirius glanced over his shoulder with a sheepish grin. “Force of habit.”
Before anyone could reply, a loud crash echoed from somewhere deeper in the house, followed by a high-pitched squeal. The sound pierced through Hermione like a bolt of lightning, and her chest constricted painfully. She froze, her hands trembling slightly as the implication hit her all at once. That was his voice. Harry.
Her vision blurred with unshed tears as she fought to steady her breathing. Pull it together, Hermione, she urged herself.
As she tried to compose herself, her attention was drawn to the kitchen doorway, where a tall man with messy black hair stepped out. He was adjusting his glasses, his expression one of mild irritation as he raked a hand through his perpetually untidy hair.
“Padfoot, do you have to yell the second you walk in?” he asked, his tone half-annoyed, half-amused. “I was just failing miserably at feeding Harry when you distracted—” He stopped abruptly, his hazel eyes narrowing as he noticed Hermione for the first time. His voice grew sharper.
“—Who’s this?”
James Potter’s presence filled the hallway, his confident stance subtly protective as he glanced between Sirius, Remus, and Peter, then back to Hermione. For a moment, Hermione felt like an intruder, as if she didn’t belong in this sacred space.
"According to her, she’s Lily’s cousin," Sirius said, his tone almost dismissive, though there was a flicker of doubt in his voice.
James raised a sceptical brow, his sharp hazel eyes now fixed on Hermione. “Lily doesn’t have any cousins,” he said firmly. “She has a sister. Petunia. What’s your name?”
His question hung in the air, unanswered, as Sirius and Remus exchanged quick glances. James groaned and threw his hands up in exasperation.
“You mean to tell me you let a complete stranger into my house without even asking her name?” he said, his incredulous tone rising.
Sirius scoffed and leaned casually against the wall, clearly unfazed by James’s irritation. “Oh, come on, Prongs. She’s obviously not dangerous. Moony would’ve sniffed that out straight away,” he said, nodding toward Remus, who remained silent but watchful. Sirius gestured toward Hermione, his voice softening. “Look at her. The girl’s been through hell. We thought Lily should see her, figure out if she’s family or not. If she’s lying, we’ll Obliviate her and drop her off at St. Mungo’s.”
“That’s your plan?” James shot back, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. “Obliviate her and dump her at St. Mungo’s? Merlin’s beard, Padfoot, you’ve got all the subtlety of a Graphorn in a glass shop!”
Before Sirius could respond, a new voice cut through the tension—warm, measured, and distinctly unimpressed.
“Gentlemen, don’t you think you should let the poor girl speak for herself?”
The words sent a wave of relief and dread washing over Hermione. She turned toward the doorway from which James had appeared moments earlier and froze. There, standing with effortless grace, was Lily Potter.
Hermione felt a lump rise in her throat as she took in the sight of the woman she had read about, seen in photographs, and heard described in countless stories. Lily’s red hair was as vivid as flame, cascading in loose waves over her shoulders. Her green eyes—those unmistakable eyes that Harry had inherited—gleamed with intelligence and quiet strength as they swept over the scene before her.
But Hermione’s gaze didn’t linger on Lily for long. Her heart clenched painfully as her eyes fell on the tiny figure in her arms. A baby, though not as tiny as she had imagined. The child was sitting up slightly in Lily’s embrace, his round, chubby face framed by a tuft of dark, unruly hair that seemed to defy all attempts at taming. His bright green eyes, so unmistakably Lily’s, locked onto Hermione with an almost unnerving curiosity. As if sensing the weight of her attention, the nine-month-old let out a small, babbling sound, one chubby fist reaching out from beneath the soft, cream-colored blanket wrapped snugly around him.
It was Harry.
Hermione’s breath caught, and her vision blurred with tears she refused to shed. She had known, intellectually, that she would see him, but nothing could have prepared her for this moment. The sight of him—small, vulnerable, and so full of life—was almost too much to bear.
“Hello,” Lily said gently, her voice drawing Hermione’s attention back. She was watching her carefully, her expression open but guarded, as though trying to piece together a puzzle. “You’ve caused quite a stir already,” she added with a faint smile.
Hermione swallowed hard; her mouth suddenly dry. “I—I didn’t mean to intrude,” she stammered, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to stay composed.
Lily tilted her head slightly, her curiosity evident. “It’s not every day someone turns up claiming to be family. Why don’t you tell me your name?”
For a moment, Hermione hesitated, the weight of her story pressing down on her. She could feel all their eyes on her—James’s suspicion, Sirius’s scepticism, Remus’s quiet contemplation, and Lily’s cautious interest.
“Hermione,” she finally managed, her voice steadying slightly. “Hermione Granger. My mother… my mother was your aunt. She moved to America before I was born. I—” Her voice faltered as she glanced down at her hands, twisting nervously. “She passed away recently, and before she did, she told me about you. About family. I wanted to find you.”
Lily’s green eyes softened, though the suspicion in James’s expression didn’t waver. She glanced at the men, then back at Hermione.
“You’ve had a long journey,” Lily said softly, shifting the baby in her arms as she stepped closer. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen? We’ll sort this out properly.”
Hermione nodded; her throat too tight to speak. As Lily turned and led the way, James followed close behind, his hand hovering near his wand. Sirius and Remus exchanged looks but said nothing as they trailed after her.
Hermione lingered for a moment, stealing one last glance at the baby in Lily’s arms. Harry. Her Harry. She inhaled deeply, steeling herself for whatever came next, and followed them into the heart of the Potter household.