đȘ for what my muse would say to your museâs child about them.
She pads briskly down the dark lane, the pavement the onlyseemingly steady thing in her life. She hadnât let herself feel it. All day shehad been hoping that she would wait and wait and that Albus would not show up.That he wouldnât confirm the rumors. That somehow it had been some otherfamily- someone that she didnât know. That the end of the war, a long-soughtcelebration, would be marred by the gaping hole that had once been James andLily Potter.
She stops just as the garden wall ends and stares up at thesign before her. The marking where Privet Drive turned onto Wisteria Walk. Sheglances back, into the quiet street, knowing that to linger would not be wise.Turn and leave, just as Albus had intended. Just as he had done.
The streetlamps glowed, illuminating the tidy gardens, thesleepy houses. All was quiet. It seemed safe. There was not a sight or soundout of place. The world, in comparison to itself not 48 hours ago, was muchsafer because of the events surrounding the child now asleep on the doorstepfour houses down. But not for him.
Albus was right. In their world, he would never be allowedto be a normal boy. Guarded vigorously, placed upon a pedestal, and taught thathe was different from the beginning. She owes it to them to give their childone more night where he will be known and loved for who he is.
She is before the house again, before a plan is fully formedin her mind. To leave him alone, would be such an injustice to the memory ofthe Potters; James who befriended the misfortunate, Lily who protected theweak.
He is still sleeping quietly where they left him and shepads gently over to the blankets. The night is chilly, the first of November,and she places herself as close to him as possible. He is still so little- justover a year in July. Her eyes wander over his peaceful face, and thanks anyonewho is listening that the nightmares of war are not with him tonight. A sharptang pulls her attention and she recognizes the smell of blood. Itâs dried intohis hair. She looks away.
Sheâs thankful that her emotions are somewhat diluted inthis body- grief is still felt, but it is not as deep as it will be by themorning, when she sheds this form and walks into her classroom.
âThey would not havewanted this for you.â She settles down next to him, presses her side intohis. âBeing alone in the world changesyou.â
The tiny susurrus of breath ruffles her whiskers as shegazes across him to the darkened street. She glances back down to his sleepingface and watches his eyelids flutter.
âTheir bravery is whatyou will hear aboutâ she presses herself closer to his side, allowing herwarmth to sink into him. âYouâll be expectedto be the same way. To stubbornly move forward when the whole world is againstyou.â
She can smell theash in his hair- itâs nearly overpowering this close.
Theyâll tell you that your parents did a great thing. That theirsacrifice saved us all. Theyâll say it in a way that makes you feel guilty forselfishly wishing that it hadnât happened. Youâll hear that you look like yourfather. People will expect you to be someone that youâve never had aconversation with. Theyâll have stories to share and pictures to reminisceover. Youâll want to join in, because it connects you to them, but at the endof the day they will still be strangers to you.
She sighs and allows the grief to wash over her in waves. âI know that what I can offer is notâwill neverbe good enough. But when you come to me with questions, I will tell you aboutyour parents. Not the heroes that saved us all- I will tell you about the twopeople who loved you the most in the world. Because they deserve to beremembered as they truly were.â
In silence they rest and wait for the dawn to break. Sheleaves alone.
