Foreword
Over the course of his lifetime, Harry James Potter was known by several names: The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, The Triwizard Champion, Undesirable #1, The Heir of Slytherin, etc. Yet, to me, he was always just...dad. There is no doubt my father lived an extraordinary life. He survived the killing curse twice, defeated the darkest wizard of the age, became the youngest department head the auror office had ever seen, and was renowned as an esteemed Hogwarts professor in his later years. Yet, when I reflect on his life, I believe the most important thing my father ever did was love. He loved my mum and by extension the entirety of the Weasley family. He loved me and my brothers, as well as our children. And he loved his many friends: Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom (to name a few). All this love poured out from one man who had every reason to hate the world.
My father, for being so famous, kept his personal life very private. When I was a little girl, I'd beg him for stories of his adventures and his childhood. He would recount his tales and then remind me that they should stay our little secret. I could never understand why he didn't want to share these tales with the world. They were exciting and heroic. They showed his bravery and his kindness. Why wouldn't he want the world to know? I pondered these questions for years. That was until I grew old enough to recognize the stares from strangers, the screaming admirers, and the endless attention that followed my parents wherever they went. I was maybe eight years old when I realized it wasn't normal for your parents to be on the front page of The Prophet on a regular basis. I was fifteen when a false article about an illicit affair between my mum and some bloke nearly broke my mother (who is the strongest woman I know). As I grew, I began to understand why my dad wanted to keep these stories our little secret. They were kept precious that way; they were kept true. If he was the only one telling them, they could remain just as they were and not be exaggerated, underexaggerated, criticized, or exalted.
When I was in my thirties, I asked my dad if I could write the stories down. Now, I am by no means an author or a journalist. I am biased, and my own comments, opinions, and perspectives are scattered throughout this book. My grammar is shite, and my vocabulary is about as verbose as a hippogriff. Believe me, my editor was not too pleased with the first copy of this book, but I knew it would be important to my dad for these stories to be recorded by someone he loved and someone who loved him.
In preparation for writing this, I sat with my dad for hours on end listening, taking notes, asking questions, crying, laughing, and fuming as he recounted his past. When he spoke of his adventures, he was humble. He took as little credit as possible, and always made sure to mention those that contributed to his success. I could see the love in his eyes whenever he mentioned an old friend or a helpful stranger. I promised him I would do my best to honor his legacy in this book. I also promised him I would wait until he was gone to reveal it to the world. It could remain our little secret, for as long as anything could be ours.
I finished this book nearly fifteen years ago, and up until now, my dad possessed the sole copy. When he first read it, I don't think it is what he was expecting. I also don't think it's what you're expecting. This book is not a narrative account of the adventures of my father. Forgive me for wanting to keep that between my dad and me. Instead, this book is an account of how the people my dad spoke so fondly of affected him. As you read, I encourage you to remember that my father was by no means a perfect person, and I am likely biased in my accounts of some of the lower moments of his life, but I tell these stories with the intention that you will read them and see Harry Potter for who he truly was: the boy who loved.
-Lily Luna Potter Cooper