The day Mary’s life fell apart she was at her parents’ house, hunched over the painting of Remus and Sirius that she had been working on.
It was Halloween 1981 and Remus was going to propose to his boyfriend on 3 November, Sirius’ birthday. Well, ‘propose’ really, the world wasn’t ready for anything else. Not the muggle world, and certainly not the wizarding world.
It was almost comforting for Mary, in her first term at Hogwarts all those years ago – going from the only Black girl in her muggle primary school to the only Black girl in Gryffindor – to discover that bigotry was bigotry everywhere, including among the wizards who considered themselves important enough to force an 11 year old to leave her family to live in a damp, old castle. Well, at the very least, the thought makes her chuckle now.
Regardless, Remus had bought a ring and planned a fancy dinner. He hoped he would be able to have a ceremony in front of their friends someday soon, legally binding or not. Harry would tottle down the aisle as ring bearer and everyone would laugh when he inevitably fell over, and the darkness of the war would fade, even if just for a moment.
The whole friend group knew about this plan, despite the fact Mary and Peter would be the only ones able to join for celebrations. The painting was Mary’s engagement gift to the couple – a slightly selfish gift from Mary, the artist, an excuse to practice the portrait animating spell – but she couldn’t make herself satisfied with her work. Sirius’ nose wasn’t right. And Mary knew that Professional Drama Queen Sirius Black would throw the biggest fit if his ravishing beauty wasn’t properly reflected on the canvas. Remus would become flustered at the thought of actually hanging a painting that depicted himself, but Mary knew the couple’s sparse flat needed a little art.
She worked away well into the night within the comforts of her mum’s art studio, sitting against the window, repeatedly holding the painting up to the moonlight, and frowning when she realized she needed to tweak it again.
Maybe it was for the best that this is where she was, and this is what she was doing when the phoenix-shaped patronus flew into the room with the news. At least when the ground crumbled beneath her, there wasn’t a far distance to fall. At least she had a version of Sirius that wasn’t a traitor preserved for all time in her painting.
At least with Remus away on a full moon, he gets to have the privilege of living one extra night unburdened by what has happened.
At least with Marlene, Dorcas, James, Lily, Peter, and Sirius now gone, Mary can cut her very last ties with the wizarding world. She can snap her wand in half and run away from it all. She can stop carrying around the term ‘mudblood’ like it's supposed to be a badge of shame.
At least Harry is still alive. At least she is his godmother and prepared to take care of him.
She feels the urge to take Harry and move to a remote farm in Wales, somewhere near Remus’ childhood home. Remus would help her raise Harry, of course. And her world would become small, only just big enough for Mary, Remus, Harry, and the local sheep. The world would be small enough to fit inside Mary’s hands.
And when Harry turns 11, she can burn his Hogwarts letter in a field, she can shield him from the wizarding world. Wizards exist only as war, death, and prejudice. Wizards have taken everything she’s ever loved.
They won’t take Harry though, of that Mary was sure.
Previously, if someone had asked, Mary would say that the worst day of her life was the day she found Marlene’s body mangled almost beyond recognition. Now, apparating to Godric’s Hollow, standing in front of what was left of James and Lily’s home, Mary knew she had been wrong.
This was the home James had been raised in but, in many ways, it was also where Mary had grown up.
Euphemia and Fleamont were the first adult, non-white wizards she had ever met. And she didn’t even meet them until she was 13, as silly as that sounds. Mary knew, in the broadest sense, that James was Indian, but he was a pureblood and he was a marauder, so he was loved by all. It wasn’t real until she was sitting at the Potters’ kitchen table with all of her friends, until Effie was shoving a cup of chai into her hands, and she watched as James and Monty playfully bickered in Hindi next to her. Before Mary had met Effie and Monty, and felt their warmth, she wasn’t sure it was even possible to grow up Black in the wizarding world and manage to be happy.
The Potter house was the setting of her first kiss (with Sirius, of course) and her first breakup (with Sirius 3 days after the aforementioned kiss). It was where the war became real for her; she was sitting on the Potters’ couch opening Christmas presents when her friends received the news that a Gryffindor in the year above them – a muggleborn boy – had been murdered, along with his entire family. At the Potter house, a few years later, she celebrated graduating from Hogwarts; she held her friends close and tried to forget her fear for the future, adulthood, the war. She sang at the top of her lungs and jumped up and down to her favorite songs and knew, in this home, nothing could hurt her.
Mary was inside when Effie and Monty passed away. She was there when newborn Harry came home from the hospital. She was there for Harry’s first Halloween, just a couple of days before James and Lily would go into hiding and make their house unplottable. She knew, on that day, that it might be the last time she ever stepped foot into the Potter house.
Now, exactly one year later, she discovered she had been right. All that was left was the rubble of a home that, upon crashing down, reduced a family to ash. Reduced history to nothing. Mary felt that the entire house should be cordoned off, preserved in its misery. And no one would ever be allowed to step foot onto the property again. And no one could change what was lost. And, everyday, wizards would walk past and know their war did this, that they are responsible.
But all she saw was a betrayal of that burden, because there Dumbledore stood before the wreckage, casual as ever.
And Mary knew this was the worst day of her life.
“Ah, Miss Macdonald, I had hoped you wouldn’t want to see this for yourself.”
“Where is Harry?” She spat back, practically shouting, ignoring Dumbledore’s greeting.
“Safe.”
Dumbledore was an infuriating man, his every emotion fake, his smile plastic and his eyes twinkling by some artificial magic. He would make whichever decision fit his agenda, regardless of the consequence. As part of the Order, Mary watched as he sent dozens of groups of teenagers, young people with their whole lives in front of them, out into the frontlines of the war and asked them to die for him. And they did, because they believed they could make the world a better place. But they died, and he lived, and nothing changed.
Mary watched children turn into soldiers. Harry would not meet the same fate.
“Give him to me. I am his godmother!” Now Mary was shouting.
She remembered the day Marlene died with such clarity. She remembered the way Dorcas’ already dark eyes seemingly turned black at the sight of her girlfriend’s dead body. And she remembered the way Dorcas pulled herself up, determined, and tied her locs into a ponytail behind her head. She remembered what it felt like to watch, helpless and unable to stop her, as Dorcas left to face down Voldemort all on her own.
But Mary knew if Dorcas had the strength to do that just after losing the love of her life, she could certainly go toe-to-toe with Dumbledore. Fight him, kill him, whatever needs to be done.
“Harry is already with his aunt and uncle. His family,” Dumbledore responded.
A deep stab in an already rough, open, gangrenous wound.
“With Petunia? Those people are not his family. Lily’s sister always hated her. And Petunia married a truly awful man. There’s no life for Harry in that house.”
“And what life could you offer him, Miss Macdonald? If memory serves, you moved back in with your parents after Missus McKinnon and Meadows died. You abandoned the flat the three of you shared. Where, exactly, do you plan to raise the boy?”
Mary’s face grew hot. Two of her best friends were killed violently, it was natural, human that she was no longer able to bear walking past their bedroom every day, sitting at the dining table they laughed and shared meals at, opening her closet to see the clothes she’d borrowed from them, so sure she’d get to give them back one day. Mostly, though, she couldn’t bear to be alone. She couldn’t bear the silence. So, Mary went somewhere she wouldn’t have to be alone. The only place that still radiated any warmth.
Mary knew that the only thing waiting for Harry in the Dursley house was the freezing, blistering feeling of being entirely alone. And Mary couldn’t let a 15 month old baby grow up that way.
“I can give him love,” Mary eventually said, in a whisper.
Dumbledore smiled at her with his calculating, plastic smile. She could see a chess game being played in his mind. And she had a sinking feeling that she was the pawn he was about to sacrifice on his way to checkmate.
Mary felt the urge to raise her wand at him, but she didn’t. Maybe she should have.
“And how will you protect him from the dark wizards who will think he’s responsible for the death of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” asked Dumbledore.
“They’ll never find him. Harry’s never going to Hogwarts.”
Mary could tell by the look in his eyes that this is the answer Dumbledore was hoping for, the excuse he’d been waiting for. She could practically hear him calling ‘check’.
But she didn’t care.
She turned her back towards Dumbledore and began to walk away, shouting “I’m going to take him home now,” over her shoulder.
And gravity was pulled out from under her in a way that was entirely new. And Mary watched in third person as she fell to the ground.
“Obliviate.”
Checkmate.
Maybe, if she’d known what was happening, it would have been a relief. To forget. Without her memories, no one she loves has ever died. She’s never killed the enemy to stay alive. She’s never taken physical abuse because of her blood. She’s never played a losing game for the hope of a new world that still wouldn’t protect her.
She’s also never created a family out of the friends who fought for her with their dying breath. Never laughed until she cried. Never been hugged so hard she couldn’t breathe. Never loved so deeply she thought her heart might shatter.
When Mary woke up she was alone. Still in Godric’s Hollow, still in front of the Potter house. But alone. And she could no longer remember the people who lived there and loved her. She could no longer remember the events that happened there, good and bad, that shaped her. All she saw was a pile of rubble.
Mary wondered about the family that lived there. What happened? Did any of them survive? Does anyone miss them?
Though, these were questions she couldn’t answer. Space in her mind she couldn’t fill.
Somehow, eventually, she found her way back to her parents’ house.
Mary wandered into the art studio and held the painting of Remus and Sirius in her hands. She saw bright, golden eyes and scars and flowing black hair but she didn’t know who they were or what it meant.
It no longer mattered that she never got Sirius’ nose right; she wasn’t able to recognize him at all.