Mary Macdonald is not a forgetful person.
She is organised and precise. She never misplaces her car keys, never locks herself out of the house, always knows the last place she has left something. It is a known fact.
Mary Macdonald is not a forgetful person. She can't remember the last time she forgot something important.
Until now. Mary was sitting on the train, keeping to herself as she always does on the way to work, when a man sits next to her. A tall, lanky, brooding man, who she was sure she would be smitten with were she still a swooning teenager. Mary is certain that she recognises him and, when Mary is certain of something, it is always correct. Yet she can't quite place him.
The man has a very familiar face. His chestnut eyes were round and hardened, though she could see a lingering softness, something she knew he thought was gone, but she could still see stubbornly remain. He stared at her with such intensity that she didn't dare to say anything, for fear that he would look away. His lips curled downwards, grimacing. Even his growing moustache seemed to bristle at the sight of her. But, what was most noticeable about his face were the large, curving scars that decorated his skin.
They sloped downwards, the biggest one starting at the top of his right eye and finishing underneath his lower lip. They were the sort of scars that had stories. They held so many memories and emotions, Mary could tell just from looking at them. She is sure that she would remember someone with such distinct features, though, she just can't seem to.
"Mary," The man breathes out, sounding breathless and... scared? Mary blinks, startled. How does he know her name?
"I'm sorry," Mary forces a smile, quelling the growing feeling of unease that has settled itself in the pit of her stomach, "Do I know you?"
"It... It's me," The man's eyes are now wide and wild, as he stares at her, begging her to connect the dots. Mary stares back, blankly. Eventually, he continues, "R..."
Suddenly, Mary feels a shrill ringing in her ears. It takes her by surprise, overtaking all of her senses. She can't hear anything. She can still see the man, though his features begin to contort into something unrecognisable. With the noise, comes the fog. She can't think straight. Where is she? Who is she? Who is this man, sitting in front of her? He is still speaking, frantically now, as if he is desperate to get the words out. As if this is his last chance. It's pointless, though, because Mary can't hear him. The words don't reach her, like there's an invisible force field surrounding her that cannot be penetrated.
Seeing her sudden discomfort, the man stops. His mouth closes and he stares at her, his face falling. Just like that, the ringing quietens and the fog fades. Mary looks at the man differently now, eyebrows furrowed and lips sealed shut. Her feeling of discomfort only grows, until it is overwhelming. It rises up from her stomach, through her windpipe and sits on her tongue. It feels like bile.
Mary stands, abruptly, just as the train slows to a stop. "I have to go," she speaks, hurriedly. It is not her stop. She doesn't care.
She lingers on the platform, catching her breath. Mary casts one last look at the train. The man is staring back at her through the window.
Mary opens her wallet and reaches for her card. She pauses, as she does every time she opens her wallet.
There is one picture inside her wallet, one she doesn't recognise. It is of her and another girl, who she also doesn't recognise. In the photo, the girl is lying in Mary's lap and holding up the camera, grinning like she doesn't have a care in the world. Mary is combing her fingers through the girl's vibrant, ginger hair and smiling even wider, if that's even possible. They both look so happy.
Mary doesn't remember this girl. She doesn't remember taking this photo. Any rational person would throw the photo away, replace it with something of more sentimental value. But she doesn't. Mary doesn't remember when this photo was taken, but she recognises that it was taken during a time when she was truly happy and she wants to cling to that. Every time she opens her wallet, Mary pauses and stares at the photo, trying desperately to remember what seems like an easier time.
Sometimes, she'll hear the sound of faded laughter, feel the warmth of past touches, recognise the unforgettable feeling of teenage love. When she closes her eyes to sleep at night, the red-haired girl stares back at her.
It is said that Mary Macdonald is not a forgetful person. Everyone knows that she remembers everything. Only Mary knows that this isn't true.
It is a Tuesday in June, 1997, when she finally remembers.
Mary lay in bed, hair secured in a bonnet and face slathered with a green face mask she bought from Boots, as she flips lazily through a magazine. A song plays on the radio, one she doesn't know, but she recognises the voice to be that of David Bowie's. She turns the radio off. Mary doesn't like to listen to David Bowie. It gives her a strong feeling of deja vu, of nostalgia, as if he is connected to a memory she just can't seem to place. It unnerves her.
She gets that feeling with a lot of things.
As Mary lies in bed, minding her business, somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, an old man falls from a tower. Mary feels it. She hears the thud of his body hitting the floor, feels his heart stop beating, as if it were in her very own chest. She stares into his lifeless eyes and, somehow, she knows who he is.
This is Albus Dumbledore. People will call him a hero, a martyr, but Mary knows what he really is. He is a thief. One who will never be brought to justice. Mary's lips tip down, her face taking on a sour expression, as it all comes flooding back to her.
A flash of red hair, a sweet laughter, a picnic by a lake, under their favourite tree. Lily. Her Lily. The love of her life, her one and only, taken from her twice. Both times too soon.
Blonde dye staining their bathroom sink, an untuned electric guitar, running down the hallways, bright with laughter, hands intertwined. Marlene. Her best friend, the bravest person she knew.
Mary takes in a sharp breath, the magazine slipping helplessly from her grasp. It's all coming back to her. She remembers sitting across the dining table from James, only half-listening as he and Marlene discussed Quidditch strategies. She remembers finding his body, glasses cracked and lips still twisted in a bittersweet smile.
She remembers combing through Sirius' hair, teaching him how to style it like she does. She remembers how he took great pride in his hair. She remembers how raggedy it looked as he was dragged away, releasing guttural screams of pure grief as he went.
She remembers Remus' cheeks pinkening as she told him how Sirius loved him, winking and tapping her nose when he asked her how she knew. She remembers holding him as he sobbed for what he lost, trying so desperately to stop his broken pieces from falling apart. She remembers forgiving him when he was unable to do the same for her.
She remembers laughing with Peter and Marlene, dancing together in the Common Room, gossiping like bored, old women. She remembers holding Peter's severed finger in her hand one last time, tracing his fingerprint and crying like there was no tomorrow. For some, there wasn't.
She remembers arriving at Marlene's house, grinning excitedly. She remembers falling to her knees in front of the bodies, howling with distress that was so raw, she still feels it heavy in her chest today. It had been her birthday. Mary had been picking Marlene up for her 21st birthday party. She remembers how she kept her present for Marlene in her wardrobe, wrapped and untouched, as if she would somehow come back for it.
And, most of all, she remembers Lily. She remembers sitting against their tree, fingers in Lily's hair, head tipping towards the sun. She remembers the stolen touches, brushes of their fingers underneath tables. The forbidden kisses in empty hallways, smiling against each other's lips. She remembers how Lily laughed through tears, when James told them he'd be happy to father their child. She remembers her fear when Lily and James were taken to Godric's Hollow, her son with them. The rushed promises to come back for each other. She remembers how she never did.
And Mary sobs. Mary takes her face in her hands and lets the tears fall. These memories were stolen from her and now she doesn't know what to do. What is there to do, but sob? She cries for the friends she lost. She cries for her first and last love, her heart which will never be returned. Lily still holds it, even now, gripping it in her cold, wretched hands, unwilling to return it. Mary doesn't ask her to.
She cries for herself, the young girl who died along with her friends. Mary is simply her coffin, devoid of life. She cries for everything she once had, and everything she could've had.
It took a week for Mary to finally find the courage to pick up her phone.
Her hand shook as she dialled the number, standing in her kitchen apprehensively. This didn't feel like something she should sit down for. She brought the phone to her ear, timing the rings with her heavy breathing.
He picked up after three rings.
"Hello?" The boy says and Mary nearly cries again. He is only a child. He was only ever a child. "Who is this?"
Mary lets out a shaky breath, composing herself before speaking, "Is.. is this Harry?" She quickly adds, "Potter, I mean."
"Speaking," He sounds uncertain, like someone dipping their toes in the water, but not fully jumping in to swim. He repeats, "Who is this?"
"My name is Mary," She says, through an incredulous laugh. She can't seem to believe he is really here, she is really speaking to him.
"I knew your parents."