Emerging from the cramped, swirling mess of the Ministry's infamous toilet network, Lily felt the cool Atrium air slap her face like a half-hearted Cheering Charm. She inhaled sharply—deep and steady—then wiped her clammy palms on the frayed hem of her robes. The lingering stench of old plumbing clung to her like a shameful secret.
"Blimey, looks like you've already battled half the Death Eaters," Arthur quipped, his flaming red hair haloed by the Atrium's artificial glow. His familiar grin landed like a Portkey back to sanity.
"I'd rather duel Bellatrix barefoot than go through that toilet again," Lily muttered, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face and trying not to look like she'd just come from the ninth circle of sewage. "Who even thought that was a dignified way to enter a government building?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow, amused. "Maybe they wanted to discourage casual visitors. Or ministry morale."
"Mission accomplished." She thrust a heavy stack of parchment into his arms before gravity finished the job for her. "Here—hold these before I chuck them into the nearest fountain."
He blinked, clearly startled by the weight. "Merlin's beard, what is this? The sequel to Hogwarts: A History?"
"It's the brief," she groaned. "And the backup brief. And the backup backup. And my breakfast notes. I accidentally spilt tea on one page and ended up rewriting the whole thing."
Arthur peeked at the mess of scribbles. "You know, this might actually be in Arithmantic. Are these equations or stress doodles?"
"Bit of both." She stretched her arms overhead until her shoulders cracked, the sound too close to splintering for comfort. "I can't afford to miss anything. This case could actually help turn the tide—if I don't pass out from sleep deprivation first."
They stood in silence, waiting for the lift. The corridor buzzed with that weird Ministry drone—half magic, half bad wiring. Fluorescent lights flickered above like they, too, were one memo away from giving up.
Arthur glanced at her, subtle as ever. "How's Harry doing?"
Lily hesitated. Her stomach twisted. "Not great," she said, voice lower now. "And I think I made it worse this morning."
Arthur's expression softened. "What happened?"
She sighed, the sound more exhale than answer. "I told him I had to leave work by eight tonight—some new case. I forgot about the Hogwarts assembly."
Arthur winced in sympathy. "Did he remind you?"
"Yeah," she said, eyes on the scuffed floor tiles. "But I was already halfway through listing what I needed to bring, so I brushed him off. He didn't even argue—just walked away… disappointed. Quietly. You know the look."
Arthur nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. "Yeah. The 'I'll-just-add-this-to-my-internal-monologue' look."
Lily gave a weak laugh. "Exactly. Like he's already rewriting it into a sad chapter of his future memoirs."
"I'll fix it," she said quickly, the words spilling out as the lift arrived with a wheezy clang. They stepped in, the doors closing with a shudder that felt a bit too judgemental.
Arthur glanced at her again. "Molly said the same thing to me last week. About the twins. She was halfway through reprimanding George and forgot which one was which. George was delighted."
Lily chuckled despite herself. "I'm just glad Harry doesn't have a twin. I'd be accidentally traumatising them."
"He knows you love him," Arthur said gently.
"Yeah," she murmured. "But I used to know everything about him. What he was reading, what spells he was practising, which Quidditch teams he was rooting for. Now it feels like I only catch the headlines."
Arthur smiled. "Still trying to get him a gift, though?"
She perked up a little. "I was thinking about that new Quidditch book. The one about the British and Irish teams? Thought it might cheer him up."
Arthur's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Didn't he already get that one? The one with the ugly hippogriff on the cover? He was reading it last week—walked straight into a wall and blamed it on an 'unexpected door.'"
Lily blinked. "He did? I must've… I must've missed that."
Arthur tilted his head, kindly but pointedly. "You were right next to him, Lily."
The pang of guilt returned, swift and sharp. She used to catch every detail and used to be tuned to Harry's world like a wireless set to one station. Now it felt like static.
"I'll be there tonight," she said quietly. "I won't miss it."
Arthur nodded. "And if you need to fake enthusiasm for a bunch of awkward student speeches, I've got years of practice."
Lily let out a real laugh this time. "I might take you up on that."
"Just don't let the twins anywhere near the refreshments. That's how we lost the Muggle Ambassador to a nose-biting teacup last spring."
The lift doors at the Auror Headquarters slid open with a soft whoosh. As Lily stepped onto the second level, she was met by a rush of noise and movement. The place buzzed with urgency. Aurors passed in every direction, their shoes tapping briskly against the shiny floor, papers fluttering like restless wings in their wake.
She adjusted her glasses, her heartbeat quickening. The excitement of being here never quite wore off—but today, it was mixed with something deeper. Nervous energy swirled in her chest as they moved further into the chaos. Desks overflowed with files and parchment, and though the mess looked accidental, it all served a higher purpose: protecting their world.
As she walked beside Arthur, weaving through the crowd, a quiet determination settled in her. She had to speak. Now. Her chance might not come again. Leaning a little closer to him, she dropped her voice, letting it cut through the noise with surprising sharpness.
"I want to talk about changing our destinies," she said, her tone steady despite the weight behind the words. "Lately I've been wondering if there's more to life than the path laid out for us. What if we're meant for more than just… following orders and keeping the peace? I want something bigger. I want to make my own path."
Arthur turned his head, one brow raised. He looked more intrigued than doubtful, but there was hesitation in his eyes. "You really think that's possible?"
Lily nodded, feeling the words press against her chest, begging to be spoken. "I do. I think we can change the narrative if we want to. Maybe not everything—but some things. It won't be easy, and I'm not naïve enough to think it's simple. But I believe we can at least try. And maybe, if we do, we'll inspire others to take control of their own lives too."
Arthur gave her a sideways glance, a teasing spark in his eye. "What are we talking about here? Something like time-turners?"
She couldn't help but smile. "Something like that, yeah. But I want to go beyond that. I want to understand what the future might look like—what's coming in the next fifty years."
"Fifty?" Arthur let out a soft laugh. "Even with fifty years, we can't outpace death. The only thing we ever control is our own choices." His voice softened, losing the edge of humour. "And getting a glimpse of the future—that's a gift, not a guarantee. Every day is already a chance we're lucky to have."
Lily bit her lip, his words sinking in more than she wanted them to. She hated how easily doubt crept in. "Maybe," she said quietly, then added, more firmly, "But I'm not here to argue about fate. That's not the point. What I care about is whether there's a deeper meaning to all this. Are we just going through the motions? Because if so, I don't want to waste time waiting around. I want to live—really live—and make it count."
Arthur didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted ahead, thoughtful. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. "So… You've been researching this?"
"I have," she said, meeting his gaze. "A lot, actually."
"That explains the late nights, then. The missed dinners. You look tired lately."
Lily blinked, caught off guard. "You noticed that?"
He shrugged, but his eyes were kind. "Of course I did. You think I wouldn't? I've seen you zoning out mid-conversation, scribbling notes when you think no one's watching. You've been chasing something… and it's starting to show."
Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She hadn't realised he'd been paying that much attention. And yet, a strange warmth bloomed in her chest at the thought.
"I guess I didn't hide it very well," she admitted.
"No," he said with a small smile. "But I get it."
Lily looked away, her thoughts racing. She hadn't expected anyone—especially Arthur—to understand. But now that the truth was out, she felt the weight of it and also the relief.
"I just want to do something meaningful," she said at last. "Something that matters. Something that helps people. I want to find a purpose that's bigger than just paperwork and patrols."
Arthur's expression changed—softened. The teasing vanished. "That's a good thing to want," he said gently. "Just don't forget to live in the now while you search for that bigger purpose. The future might be waiting for you, but life is happening now. Don't miss it."
His words hit something inside her. Not a blow—but a reminder. She'd been so caught up in searching for more, she'd started to lose sight of what she already had.
"You're right," she murmured. His honesty grounded her. The fire in her heart flickered, not dying, but steadying—burning more clearly now.
"Also," Arthur began gently, choosing his words with care, "my kids are close to yours. With Ron being Harry's best friend… I've heard things. About Harry's home life. Things I probably wasn't meant to know." He looked at her, his eyes kind but heavy with concern. "I hope I'm not overstepping, but you deserve to hear this. Especially now, when Harry seems… different."
A cold pressure settled in Lily's chest. "Harry talks to Ron about me?" she asked, her voice sharper than intended. The sting of it caught even her by surprise. "That doesn't feel fair. After everything I've done—after everything I've tried to do for him."
Arthur's expression softened. "No offence meant," he said quietly, leaning forward, fingers woven tight. "It's just… From what Ron tells me, Harry's trying to make sense of it all. And when it comes to you, he's looking for answers. For comfort. For support."
Lily blinked, once. The words landed like stones. Her son—the boy she gave everything for—was turning to someone else for comfort. To Ron. Why not her? Was she that unreachable?
"He cares about you," Arthur continued, gently but firmly. "Deeply. Ron showed me some letters… I shouldn't have read them, but I did. And what I saw—it's clear Harry loves you. But he's afraid. Like he's walking on glass around you. He needs to know that your love is safe. That it won't crack under pressure."
Her breath caught, then released in a quiet, shaky exhale. "Of course I love him," she said quickly, defensively. "But what happens between us is ours. Private. He shouldn't have to whisper his feelings to Ron like I'm the enemy."
She hated how her voice trembled at the end. Hated that it sounded like pain.
Arthur's tone was soft but urgent. "Lily… we're worried. Don't raise your voice at him. He's terrified of upsetting you."
Her fingers went to her temples, pressing against the dull ache rising there. "I don't yell," she muttered. "I just… I want him to be strong. James gave his life for him. Harry should know what that means. Should live up to it."
She glanced at her watch, almost compulsively, like the ticking seconds could pull her away from the storm brewing inside her. "He needs to take responsibility. He's not a child anymore."
"He is, Lily," Arthur said quietly. "A child carrying far too much. None of this is his fault."
She turned away from him, eyes falling on the chaos of her desk. Papers spread out in a disarray that matched her thoughts. Ink smudged from where her hand had pressed too hard. She stared at it, trying to ground herself in the mundane.
"I've got to run," she said, her voice strained. She gathered the papers, but her hands weren't steady. "We'll talk later."
Arthur stood, watching her. "Good luck," he said softly. "And don't forget tonight. Hogwarts."
Lily nodded, barely hearing him. Her eyes scanned the desk for her glasses. Gone—again. She sighed, frustration rising as she patted the surface, then reached along the edge. Her fingers found something cold and smooth—finally.
But just as she tugged them free, her hand smacked against the wall.
A sharp crack.
She froze.
No. Please, no.
She looked down slowly, heart sinking. The glasses rested in her palm, their once-clear lens now split with a jagged crack. The morning light caught the break, throwing it into sharp relief.
Her shoulders slumped. "Of course," she whispered. The words barely made it past her lips. "Of course this would happen."
Everything was breaking lately—plans, peace, her son's trust. And now even this.
Harry sat alone at the kitchen table, morning sunlight spilling through the window and painting golden streaks across the floor. He nibbled on his toast, barely tasting it. The food felt dry, like cardboard, no matter how much butter he used. Across from him, the chair where his mother usually sat stayed empty—again. He tried not to look at it, but his eyes drifted back every few minutes, like some part of him still expected her to walk in and smile.
She was an Auror—brave, fierce, always chasing danger. He admired her for it, truly. But admiration didn't fill the quiet. It didn't help when he set the table for two out of habit and had to clear away her untouched plate hours later. It felt like he was always cooking for a ghost. He stabbed at his eggs, then gave up, pushing the plate aside as silence wrapped around him like fog creeping into the room.
He respected what she did—of course he did. But he couldn't help feeling a dull ache of frustration beneath all that pride. Was it wrong to want her to come home before dinner turned cold? To want her to sit, just once, and eat with him—not as a hero, but as a mum?
His gaze flicked to her chair again. Did she even eat last night? Or had the dinner he made just joined the leftovers in the fridge, untouched like always? He sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. She was out there saving lives. He wasn't supposed to complain. Still… would it really be so hard for her to take care of herself, just a little?
Outside, the sky brightened, but inside, Harry felt heavier. Today was the recognition assembly. He'd been both looking forward to it and dreading it. Soon he'd be back at Hogwarts, but before that, there were things to do. Personal things.
He inhaled deeply and stood, scraping his chair back with a soft screech. Time to move. He cleared the table, rinsed the dishes, and dried them one by one. There was a rhythm to it—a kind of quiet control. Cleaning the kitchen, sweeping the floor, wiping the counters—he went through each motion with care, making the little house feel less empty. Or maybe trying to fool himself that it wasn't.
The place felt like it was haunted—not by ghosts, but by memories. Laughter that used to echo down the hallways, warmth that used to live in the walls. He remembered it all. And missed it more than he liked to admit.
When everything downstairs looked just right, Harry headed up to his room. The familiar sight of Quidditch posters and magical creature drawings greeted him—pieces of his childhood frozen in time. He ran his fingers along his desk, feeling the little nicks in the wood, then crossed over to Hedwig's cage.
She stirred as he approached, blinking up at him with sharp, intelligent eyes. That look always made him feel seen—like she knew exactly what he was thinking. Unlocking the cage gently, he let her out. She spread her wings and soared around the room, graceful and free.
He watched her fly, a small smile pulling at his lips. She was free. He envied her sometimes—for that freedom, that lightness. For not having to carry silence and expectations around like luggage.
He reached for the stack of letters, folding them neatly, fingers moving on instinct. He tied them to her leg with practised care, pausing for a second to stroke her soft feathers.
"Stay safe out there," he murmured.
She gave a soft hoot and, with a strong beat of her wings, soared out the open window, vanishing into the sky.
Harry stood there for a moment, the wind brushing against his skin. The house felt a little quieter without her, even though she'd barely made a sound. That old ache stirred in his chest again—familiar, sharp, but not unbearable.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the window for a few seconds longer before reaching for the drawer beside him. It creaked open slowly. Inside, everything was neatly arranged—parchment, quills, old Chocolate Frog cards. And tucked among them was the notebook.
Leather-bound, the edges worn and the spine cracked from years of use. It held pieces of him—his thoughts, his doubts, the stuff he couldn't say out loud. Lifting it out gently, he rested it in his lap, letting the weight of it settle there.
This was his ritual. His way of making sense of things when the world outside felt like too much. And right now, it really did.
Flipping through the pages, Harry paused on verses stained with doubt—inkblots smudged like spilt feelings, lines angrily scratched out when words had failed him. This wasn't just a notebook. It was a quiet archive of everything he hadn't said out loud—his confusion, his loneliness, and the ache of growing up without all the answers. His gaze drifted to a blank page, and his chest tightened. He remembered all those afternoons spent just staring, hoping a good poem would come. Hoping something would feel right.
He sat on the edge of his bed, eyes on the empty space in front of him. The quill felt strange in his fingers, but also familiar. He took a slow breath, trying to push away the emotions gathering at the edges. This moment was his. This space, this silence. He dipped the quill in ink and touched it to the paper.
"With stream in my eyes, I kneeled and looked above," he wrote, the words slow but sure. Each stroke let out a little of the pressure building inside him. There was comfort in the gentle scrape of the quill against the parchment. The rhythm of writing helped him find his footing again. Line by line, he pieced together memories, fragile hopes, and the quiet ache of love that never really left. He wasn't just writing—he was letting go. Letting the boy who missed his mother, who missed a past he never really had, speak at last.
When he finally stopped, he sat back, breathing a little unsteadily. "Satisfied," he murmured, setting the quill down with a small sigh. It felt like laying down a burden he hadn't realised he was still carrying. He titled it A Mother's Love, and the moment he did, it felt finished. Or at least close enough. He'd return later and look at it again—maybe tweak it—but for now, the words could breathe.
Gently, he placed the notebook in the drawer of his desk, fingers lingering on the cover for a second longer than necessary. It felt precious—fragile, yet strong. Like a part of himself he didn't always know how to show. Afterwards, he began tidying his room. It was a small ritual, but one that gave him control, even if just a little. Putting things back in their places felt like stitching the world together again.
By the time he finished, the room looked neater, and something in him felt calmer. The soft chime of the clock echoed through the quiet. Half past eight.
He glanced up and felt a small jolt of urgency. Mum's room. The chores. He quickly ran over the list they'd talked about earlier, trying to stay focused. Their house wasn't big, but it demanded attention, and she relied on him to help keep it running smoothly. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady his thoughts, then walked down the narrow hallway.
His hand hovered briefly over the doorknob before he turned it.
The room inside was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a bedside lamp. Its warm light spilt softly over the familiar shapes and shadows. The walls were lined with framed photographs, a quiet museum of their life together. His eyes landed on one picture that always pulled at him: his mum, Lily, holding him in her arms, smiling down at him like he was the most important thing in the world. Behind them, James—his father—was caught mid-laugh, making silly faces, trying to get baby Harry to giggle.
A small smile tugged at Harry's mouth. The image warmed him, but not without its ache. James Potter. His dad. A legend to others, but to Harry, just a dream. Just a wish. He imagined the sound of his voice, the stories he might have told, and the way it might've felt to walk beside him, hand in hand, through the world. The ache sharpened. That space—where a father should've been—was always there, just beneath everything else.
But Harry had learnt not to linger too long in the past. That kind of weight could snuff out even the smallest bit of light. He shook his head, gently, as if to clear the fog. "Not now," he whispered, stepping further into the room.
Harry scanned the room again, slower this time. Everything was too perfect—books aligned, surfaces gleaming, not a speck of dust in sight. But the calm felt fake, like a silence just before something loud. His eyes darted to the corners, the shelves, the windows—until he saw it.
A dark blue folder.
It lay at the foot of the bed, alone on the polished wooden floor.
He froze.
It shouldn't be there.
He walked toward it, every step quieter than the last. A tight feeling coiled in his chest. He crouched and picked it up, fingers brushing its smooth cover. It was heavy. Important.
How did she miss this?
He flipped it open.
The title stared back at him: Ministry Report—Drafts.
His stomach dropped.
Reports like this always came with headaches—policy changes, paperwork, decisions that never really reached him. But something about this one felt different. Wrong.
He turned a page. Then another.
Halfway through, he stopped breathing.
Stamped across the top in bold, red ink: URGENT.
His heart thudded. Louder. Faster.
His mum had forgotten it.
She's in a meeting. Right now. She doesn't even know.
Panic surged through him. He didn't bother changing. No time. He sprinted out of the room, folder in hand, his mind already ahead of his body.
He reached the fireplace. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the Floo powder.
He hated this. The spinning. The disorientation. The sickening lurch of it all.
But he didn't hesitate.
"Ministry of Magic!"
Green fire swallowed him whole.
The Ministry atrium rushed up at him, and Harry stumbled out, breath shallow, knees unsteady.
He looked around, eyes wide.
Witches and wizards bustled past, their robes a blur. Gold statues gleamed in the light. Enchanted memos zipped overhead. Everything moved like normal.
But nothing felt normal.
His hand clenched the folder so tightly it hurt.
Find her. Now.
His mum's name echoed in his head. She needed to see this. She needed to have it. Whatever it was, it couldn't wait.
Harry pushed forward, ignoring the stares. People were whispering. Watching. He knew he looked out of place—hair a mess, jumper creased, eyes wide and frantic.
Let them stare.
The ministry felt like a maze. High ceilings. Endless corridors. The portraits on the walls watched him like they knew something he didn't.
He barely noticed the lift until it opened in front of him.
"Harry?"
He turned.
Tonks.
Bright hair. Familiar face. Her voice cut through the fog in his head like a lifeline.
"You alright?" she asked, stepping beside him.
He shook his head. "No—well, I'm not hurt. But—my mum. She left this behind. She's in that meeting, right?"
Tonks raised an eyebrow, glancing at the folder. Recognition flickered in her eyes.
"Yeah," she said. "Department heads. It's happening now."
Harry's heart kicked harder.
"Come on," she added quickly. "We'll get you there."
The lift chimed.
"Level Two," the calm voice announced, "Department of Magical Law Enforcement…"
The doors opened.
Harry stepped out, trying to pull himself together. The corridor ahead was sharp and sterile. Witches and wizards in tailored robes rushed past, serious voices murmuring things he couldn't hear.
His legs moved, but his mind kept racing.
What if it's already too late?
"Thanks," he muttered to Tonks, eyes scanning the corridor.
Where is she? Which room?
He was just a kid in a ministry full of power and secrets. But right now, he might be the only one who knew this folder mattered.
Tonks touched his arm gently. "I'll help you find her," she said.
Her voice was steady, and somehow that helped.
He nodded once and followed.
Each step felt heavier. But he couldn't stop now. Not until she had it.
They moved through the ministry's chaos like two fish swimming upstream, dodging employees who were too busy or too important to care. Every so often, Tonks would throw someone a cheeky wink or a mock salute. Harry just nodded awkwardly, clutching the folder like it was a life vest in a storm. The sharp tap of their shoes on the polished stone echoed around them, quickening with his heartbeat.
At last, Tonks stopped outside a sleek glass door labelled Auror Headquarters. Inside, a grumpy-looking man sat like a gargoyle, buried in a newspaper, face set in a scowl that said, "Talk to me and I'll bite."
Tonks gave Harry a crooked grin. "This is your stop, Harry. Good luck." Her hair flashed from bright pink to electric blue as she turned and strolled off, completely unbothered.
Harry barely noticed. Through the glass, he spotted his mum—Lily Potter—standing in a room filled with stiff, no-nonsense Ministry officials. She looked like she belonged, standing tall, her eyes sharp and focused. The fluorescent lights washed everyone out, but she still glowed. She was his mum—and she looked powerful.
He adjusted the folder under his arm. Important documents. Very important. Potentially career-saving. No pressure or anything.
He took a breath and approached the newspaper gargoyle. "Good morning, sir."
The man lowered the paper just enough to reveal a pair of flat, disinterested eyes. "'Morning, Mr. Potter," he said, like Harry had already wasted too much of his time.
Harry swallowed. "I need to get this to the conference room. My mum—Lily Potter—is inside. It's urgent."
He held the folder out like it might solve world hunger.
The man blinked. "That's against policy."
Harry blinked back. "But it's really urgent. She might lose her job."
"That's unfortunate," the man said, turning a page.
Harry stared. Was this guy serious? "Sir… she's missing something. This is the something."
"I see," the man said, which was definitely a lie. "Still can't let you through."
There was a pause. A long, awkward, soul-crushing pause. Then the newspaper rose like a drawbridge slamming shut.
Harry's mouth went dry. He looked through the glass again.
Lily was rifling through her case, frustration creeping into her face. Her hands moved faster. She was missing something.
Harry's brain lit up. This is it. This is my moment. A proper save-the-day moment.
So, naturally, he did something stupid.
He yanked the door open. It let out a long, creaky groan—like the universe itself was judging him. The room turned toward him in unison. Every Auror. Every official. Everyone who definitely didn't want to see a random teenager crash their very important meeting.
"Hi," Harry said. Then immediately regretted it. "Sorry—I mean—excuse me. Sorry."
His voice squeaked. Of course it did.
Lily turned, her expression flipping from confusion to mild horror. "Harry?" she said, and that single word somehow carried the energy of a Howler.
"I thought you might need this," Harry blurted, holding up the folder like it was the sword of Gryffindor. "You forgot it."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Lily slowly raised the identical folder already in her hand.
Harry's brain short-circuited. "Oh," he said. "Right. Already have. Great. That's… great."
He heard someone cough to cover a laugh. Definitely a cough. Probably.
"I, uh… sorry about that. Just thought…" He pointed vaguely at the folder. "You know. Important. Career. And I thought, 'Hey, let's be a hero today!'"
Lily's expression could have frozen fire. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes narrowed. Harry had seen that look before—usually followed by grounded-for-life declarations.
"I'll just—go now," he said quickly. "Sorry again. Very sorry. Don't fire her."
And with that, he turned and bolted out, the back of his neck burning with humiliation. He didn't stop until he was in the corridor, slumping against the nearest wall like someone who had just barely survived a duel.
I was wandering the corridor like a ghost with no destination, just thoughts and dread trailing behind me, when—bam—I collided with someone so hard I nearly saw stars.
"Merlin's pants!" I gasped, stumbling. "Hermione?"
A snort of laughter answered me.
"Close, but not her brains," came the reply. I blinked up to find Tonks beaming, her hair an unruly mane of brown curls—until it shimmered and flipped to hot pink like someone flipped a switch.
Oh. Of course.
I exhaled a breath that sounded more like a deflating balloon. "Tonks. Right. Sorry."
"Don't apologise," she chirped, tossing her pink locks over her shoulder. "I get mistaken for Hermione all the time. Probably the tragic brilliance and fashion sense."
I cracked a smile. "Yeah, you've got that whole 'bookish chaos' vibe down."
"But with more tripping over furniture," she added, grinning.
The smile I tried didn't last. It slipped off too fast, like it had never belonged on my face in the first place. She noticed. Of course she did.
Tonks tilted her head. "Hey. What's going on in that stormy little head of yours?"
Without a word, I held up the folder I'd been carrying like it was cursed. My fingers had crumpled the edges. She looked at it, and her face softened.
"Oh," she said gently.
I nodded, voice tight. "My mum already has this. I don't ever want to look at it again."
The silence that followed was heavier than the folder. It wrapped around us. I stood there, heart racing and mind buzzing with every awful moment of that meeting, and then—because the silence was going to suffocate me—I tried to joke.
"I think the meeting went really well," I said, deadpan.
Tonks raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh yeah? Five-star family reunion?"
I groaned and dragged a hand through my hair. "There was glaring. Tension. My mum looked at me like I'd just confessed to setting the house on fire."
She stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder. Her touch was steady. Grounding. I almost melted into it.
"That's alright. You got through it."
"Barely," I muttered. "I said too much. Or not enough. Or the wrong things in the wrong order with the wrong tone and—" I sighed. "Let's just say I made a memorable impression."
"Explosions? Screaming? Dramatic exits?" she asked, clearly enjoying this.
"No explosions," I admitted. "But there was a moment I considered climbing out the window."
Tonks chuckled. "Classic coping strategy."
I looked away, cheeks burning. The words I'd thrown out back there—they weren't even angry, really. They were… desperate. I hated how much I still wanted my mum to understand me, to approve of something, anything.
"Do you ever say something and immediately wish you could cast a memory charm on yourself?" I asked.
Tonks winked. "Daily. It's called being human."
I let out a laugh, this time louder, and the tightness in my chest loosened a bit.
"Thanks," I said. "For not running away while I emotionally unravel in a hallway."
She grinned. "Please. This is the most excitement I've had all day."