It is when we are at our lowest point that we are open to the greatest change.
Days had passed since the burial of Lily's parents.
Grief had countless little rabbit-holes for one to crawl through, and reach the end, only to acquire some new method of wallowing in their crushing loss. And Lily had crawled, and crawled, and crawled.
Then she curled up into a ball one night, face resting on a drenched pillowcase, allowed herself to fill up with every single reason to stay this way forever, covered in blankets that none of the atrocities could breach, and when she was done, she uncurled, and stood.
That was her first step. Every act of overcoming required it, and it would always, always be the most difficult. But difficult was something Lily was used to facing head on and rising above. Difficult had been every day since that first Hogwarts letter.
She watched from her window as the sun rose on the last day of Easter break, and closed her eyes against its rays. She was smiling. Lily was used to smiling in the presence of others. She'd always had to, whether the reaction was genuine or not. It had been rare that a smile was just for herself, but now she found the deed much easier.
She was a mudblood, quite true. Most of her world hated her, while the rest would die because of her. Severus was gone, and her parents much more so.
But it was time for Lily to smile.
Breakfast came and Vernon Dursley's bacon would skitter about on his plate every time he would try to stab it with his fork. It was almost like it had a life of its own. It essentially did, of course. Lily's wand waved under the table, and the bacon jumped to the side again, and Vernon's expression grew in its dumbfoundedness. Again he stabbed, again the bacon flopped away, and the fork clanged against the plate uselessly.
"I say," he muttered.
Lily put a hand over her mouth, fighting back the urge to giggle.
A prank, juvenile and childish. Like this, it was as though James Potter were right beside her, making sure her head was held high and her lips curved upwards.
For she had James Potter. She had Marlene, and Alice, and Frank. With James, whether she liked it or not, came Sirius Black. Remus, and Peter, too. She seldom indulged in braggadocio, but she was quite popular among many of the students. She knew this. Top of her year, and surrounded by friends.
"Petunia, darling, come look at this, would you?"
Her sister walked over to the table, eyebrows raised.
Vernon looked at his plate, then stabbed the bacon cleanly, in one motion. He paused. Stared at the bacon, lifted it with his fork, took a hesitant bite of it. Then he looked at Petunia with something akin to amazement on his red face.
"Well done, dear," she said, patting his shoulder and walking back to the kitchen.
Lily again had to hold back a snigger.
She had let things get bad. Very bad. She could see that now, having emerged on the other side of it all. It was time for her to indulge in her own self far more than she ever had before. Chasing her own happiness must be just as important as that of those around her.
Brightness for once was on the horizon, and she was already happy at the prospect.
Be that as it may, she felt an impatient pang in her chest, completely independent of the past week's developments. Lily could now freely admit that there was another half to her soul, and she would be able to see him again very soon.
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Two boys stood by the graves of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter. As the sun rose, they stood still and silent. As it began to set, they turned, and walked away.
When they arrived back at Potter Manor, Sirius put a hand on James' shoulder. "If you need me for anything…"
"I'll manage by myself," said James. His lip twitched in the makings of a smile that didn't have the strength to form.
"Well, you know where to find me."
Sirius headed off for his room, and James moved on. There were many studies throughout the enormous house that his father had used. The biggest, and James' favourite, was where he had to be. The room had clear floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the grounds of the Manor. The garden was bathed beautifully in the red melancholia of afternoon sun.
Assembled in the room already were a handful of witches and wizards with many rolls of parchment, waiting for him.
"Let's get on with it," James said quietly, closing the door behind him.
The witches and wizards burst into chatter, pressing James with noises and words. He was now the proprietor of the entire estate, as well as a number of other smaller residences in the Potter name around the world; three vaults in Gringotts, and all their contents and term deposits, belonged to him; he owned every House-elf in the Manor, and a few House-elves loaned out to some middle class families. There were many payments going out to a variety of accounts for a variety of reasons, all out of generosity. The Potters had owed no one.
"Keep the donations to the Auror Department going," James said. "My father cared deeply about the department. He spent so long making it what it is today."
He walked behind the desk, stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looked out across the grounds with his back facing the others.
The hedges, the sculptures, the elves… it was all his. A sense of inescapable duty came over James. Responsibility, and an obligation to accept and manifest some dependable authority.
For how much longer could he be who he'd always been? The prankster, the jokester. The marauder. He was struck by overwhelming déjà vu. When he had learned that his father was terminally ill, all those months ago, he had faced much the same dilemma.
"Padfoot?"
"Mhmm?"
"We need to do better. Be better."
Of course he had changed over the course of the past year, he knew that well enough, but was that sufficient? The last Potter, heir to his father's legacy, and his mother's philanthropic and humanitarian endeavours.
He thought he'd have more time to continue changing, and growing. He could never have guessed how suddenly the necessity to change would be thrust upon him. His only consolation in that regard was that his father's death hadn't been dragged out over the years like they had all expected. As violent and awful as it had been, his father had been in pain for only seconds.
Behind him, the others were still talking. He didn't register their words.
Had his changes been sufficient? Had he grown enough as a person to take on all the duty that now lay before him? He couldn't answer the question. These strangers certainly couldn't. He doubted even Sirius would be able to.
There was one person, above all others, whose council he sought. More than that, that one person's very presence would help lift the immense burden dropped onto his shoulders. There was a void in his life, a tangible, caustic void, when she wasn't there. But the Easter break was almost over. He wouldn't have to wait much longer.
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The busy Muggle street throbbed with the pulse of every day life. On a bench, independent of the constant flow of bodies, sat Harold Minchum. He wore a blue dress robe, and a black hat. A few glances would be cast his way from the passers-by, but only fleeting, before they moved on to their safe and blissfuly ignorant lives.
Harold became aware of someone sitting beside him in the very same instant that it happened.
"Good evening, Minister."
He looked quickly, and then tipped his hat to Albus Dumbledore, who wore a rippling purple dress robe in his usual magnificient style. "Evening, Dumbledore. I didn't get a chance to talk to you at the Cremley family's funeral."
Dumbledore hummed. "I expect we'll have an abundance of similar opportunities, my friend. The week is only beginning."
"Caradoc and Sawyer's services were both lively affairs. I'm sure that's what they would have wanted," said Harold.
"I am sure."
Harold let out a breath. "It seems we have a new funeral every day."
"Such is war, dear Minister."
"Minister," said Harold quietly. "I could never have forseen my appointment a mere week ago."
"Much has happened. Has the magnitude of your role sunk in yet?"
"Not quite. Although I have been doing some thinking." He looked at the old man with a grimace. "Have you realized the full extent to which Anton Windstrum played us yet?"
"It dawns on me a little more each day. To what in particular do you refer?"
"He wanted to be the Minister. Not me, not Sawyer. Not Fawley, or Bulstrode, or Eugenia. Him."
Dumbledore looked at him with a frown. "Anton Windstrum wanted nothing to do with the Ministry of Magic."
"That's what he told us, yes. All the while, he convinced us that Blithe was in the Ministry. No, he wanted the job. He just played the long game. I've realized how perfectly he'd positioned himself. Don't you remember, we essentially made him third in line to the throne? Sawyer was our first choice for the job, and then myself. After me, most reluctantly, Anton accepted being the back up to the back up."
"And then," said Dumbledore slowly, "he orchestrated a raid in which Caradoc and the rest of you would infiltrate the Death Eater headquarters, and walk into a trap. You were supposed to be slaughtered with Caradoc and Sawyer."
"And no one was supposed to realize he'd double crossed us," Harold finished. "He would have been made the Minister in a heartbeat."
After a few seconds, Dumbledore looked up at the evening sky. It was getting dark. "He played a masterful game."
"And we payed dearly for it," said Harold heavily. "The loss of the Potters was especially disheartening. Fleamont had just retired."
"It-" Dumbledore's voice caught, the first time Harold had ever heard it do so. "It was most unfortunate."
"The boy, their son, how is he doing?"
Dumbledore tilted his head, and his eyes disappeared behind the white sheen of his half-moon spectacles. "As well as can be expected of him. He is strong."
"Fleamont was a good friend of mine. I don't know the boy myself, though if he's anything like his father then I'm sure he'll be okay."
Dumbledore inclined his head. "Oh, he will. I have no doubt of that. Together, we all will."