My father told me he wouldn't blame me if I came home with low scores on my end of the year exams. My mother told me she would murder me. I just shrugged and told them I will try my best. My best on what? Whatever my best is. Then I kissed them each on the cheek twice and boarded the train that has not changed since their time and probably the time before them.
I still dread returning to school where I am forced to lay in bed at night and listen to Isabella chatter on into the night. I still dread sitting in the Great Hall, alone, with people that look at me, but stay away. They're afraid I'm going to break – the same way my father did so many years ago. How are they supposed to remember the events that are marked for the generation before them? These things I wonder, but I suppose it's one of those things that take time to learn.
For two hours, only a cough or two broke the silence of the cold classroom. Professor Greengrass occasionally looked up at her students working diligently on the last and final test of their first year. Her eyes rested on the daughter of a man everyone in the wizarding world knew. Lillian Potter was perhaps the best student in any of her classes solely on the fact that she rarely associated herself with the others.
Professor Greengrass frowned. She had yet to decide if it was due to arrogance for being Harry Potter's daughter or shyness. Many times, the staff had found themselves discussing her oddly rhythmic patterns. Every Monday and Thursday she would slowly make her way down the winding path to Hagrid, the old yet still effective gamekeeper, and stay for an hour doing who knows what. Hagrid remained strangely closed lip about her weekly visits. Every Tuesday, she would go to the owlery and send a letter to her parents using the snowy owl her father had purchased her the week before school. On Wednesdays and Fridays, she would be found in the Quidditch pitch, simply looking at the goal posts or studying for a class. Saturdays and Sundays were reserved for wandering around the Hogwart's grounds, sometimes accompanied by Hagrid, sometimes alone, sometimes with her owl perched on her shoulder.
Throughout the year, many have noticed her strange behavior, but most chose not to comment on it. Professor Greengrass found it surprising that Lillian had not been quite as successful in finding a companion as her parents were. Of course, Kenneth Weasley was out of the picture. His father was a staunch supporter of Voldemort and died in Azkaban not two days after Harry Potter disappeared.
A flash of red on her desk caught Professor Greengrass's attention. There was five minutes left of the exam. She stood and cleared her throat, startling many students.
"You have five minutes to wrap up whatever you are writing on the exam," she announced. She watched as the students hurriedly scribbled on their parchment. The bell resounded through the halls signaling the end.
It's a Saturday and I have every inch of the grounds memorized, including the Whomping Willow and the edge of the Forbidden Forest. I know some people wonder why I do what I do, but I really have little else to do. Kenneth Weasley is there at every turn, mocking me, sneering. My father said Percy, Kenneth's father, was a decent wizard until the death of Barty Crouch, his former boss.
The Weasleys had predicted his turn to the dark side, but none of them predicted a massacre on their home led by their own blood. My father never forgave him and my mother told me he was almost obsessive about finding Percy Weasley and sending him to Azkaban. She had told me through an owl, so I don't know if the memories made her cry.
When I tell her about the boy two years ahead of me with white blonde hair and storms in his eyes, I know she cries. The letters sent back have smudges on them, which makes me wonder who this boy is. The more I wonder, the more I watch him, and the more I watch him, the more I wish to go to him and run my hands over his face which is so familiar. I know it is not acceptable, though. He does not know who I am and I'm foolish to think he would tolerate a child acting so intimately towards him.
I am still a child, no matter what I wish. I can only wish to grow into this body of mine – to think the age I am supposed to.
The train departed from Hogsmeade as the students wave their hands outside to the town and the castle looming in the background. Some teachers stood with the Headmaster on the platform, waving back. The Headmaster, however, remained still, unlike the Headmaster of his time. He watched as the train slowly left and marked the end of another year.
Lillian sat quietly in a compartment with Isabella and two other Gryffindor girls, Christina and May. They chattered amicably, sometimes asking Lillian for her opinion on the latest fashion shown in Witch Weekly or some other mindless topic. She would smile and reply, giving her honest opinion. The girls, having lived with her for almost a year, knew she was shy and tried adding her into the conversation as much as possible.
My mother remains silent throughout our two week stay in England while my father attempts to tie lose ends without attracting too much press. She only speaks when spoken to. I don't think she likes England very much, and I get angry with her for it. My father tries everything he can to make her feel better, but I can tell he's giving up. I grind my teeth and stare at my mother at times, wondering how she could treat my father in such a way.
But then I remember the tears I saw in her eyes the last time we came to England – just the two of us, alone. My father had told her he wasn't ready to return, but I wonder now if that was really his reason. There is something here – I can sense it. There are memories buried in the ground that are far too deep for me to penetrate. I am still too young, inexperienced, to understand.
Lillian bounded into her father's arms, completely unaware of the long stares trained on the pair. Children just barely old enough to talk tugged on their parent's arms and asked them if it was really true - If that man with the emerald eyes really was Harry Potter and if that girl was his daughter. The parents nodded, some in awe at the simple paternal act. Those were the ones who had not met Harry Potter in person, but knew the tales of his courage and strength.
Harry took his daughter's hand and hefted her trunk onto its wheels.
"Your mother is waiting on the car. She didn't want to come into King's Cross," Harry told her. She bit her lip and nodded.
"Lillian!" Isabella called after her, circled by her large family. "I'll owl you over the summer, okay?" Lillian smiled and nodded. Isabella couldn't care less about her father – the only one. Their first year was over, but Lillian wondered how she would survive the next six.
Harry squeezed his daughter's hand and together they left the train station, eyes trailing behind them. He wasn't scared anymore. No, the numerous reports Professor Snape had sent to him gave him strength to ignore the whispering crowd because his daughter could. Together, they could do anything.
Sometimes I would retire to my room and take out the clipping of the boy with white blonde hair and storms in his eyes – a rip out from the school newspaper proclaiming his victory in Quidditch. I keep it hidden from my mother, knowing her eyes would tear had she seen it. And I do not want that. I also keep it hidden from everyone else because he is untouchable, even for the older kids.
He is also beautiful – waving at the crowd with a large smile on his face. I don't doubt that other girls have the very same picture posted on their walls, but I like to think I am the only one.
A hand clamped onto Lillian's shoulder before she ducked into her father's car. She heard her mother's intake in breath and instinctively knew it was him. She cautiously looked up, almost afraid to see him.
"Lillian, right?" he asked. His voice was velvety soft and liquid. She barely nodded. "I think you dropped this on your way out." He held out his hand, an old unmoving figure of former Bulgarian Seeker Viktor Krum rested on his palm. Even her father stopped moving, but for a different reason. The seemingly insignificant figure was one of his most treasured possessions, given to him by his late best friend Ron Weasley.
"Thanks," she whispered. She felt like a child, with her thumping heart and trembling hands.
"He was an awesome player." The boy shifted on his feet. He turned and looked around for his mother before sending a smile towards Lillian. "I hope to see you on the field next year. I've seen you fly." She bit her lip harder.
"Thanks," she whispered again.
"Well, see you." He made to leave. "Nice to meet you Mr. Potter, Mrs. Potter." He bowed a little and left, leaving the family in his wake. Lillian turned to her mother to see silent tears rolling down her cheeks.
"What a nice boy," Harry commented, handing his wife a handkerchief. "Much more well-mannered than his father." Lillian heard a choking sound come from her mother.
"Yes," said Mrs. Potter. "Much better."
The first few updates of this story are probably going to be more common, but as the story progresses, they'll be less. I get bored easily, but hopefully I won't with this one. The Draco/Hermione stuff is coming along, though probably not for a few more chapters. Right now it's the background of Lillian and "the boy".