"You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it." —J.K. Rowling.

The night Lord Voldemort was defeated, the night a child prevailed against the impossible, the night two people's death was celebrated with joy and laughter, the night a man lost his best friend and his freedom to a traitor…

That night, a little girl and boy cried, the only two that got to mourn the loss of family.

Harry James Potter was a chubby boy with big cheeks and stubby legs. His startling green eyes shone brightly under every light, and his big heart showed love to all. But that night…

That night, a little boy lost his innocence and happiness for the betterment of Britain. That night, a little boy lost himself to his relatives.

But he wasn't alone. Not truly.

Lila Lilium Potter was a sharp girl. Even as a baby, her face was too defined and her gaze too all-knowing. She was unnerving to most and beautiful to all. That night, she lost her father to something she had no part in.

That night, the world showed her how much she truly didn't belong. Even if she was a little girl. The only one truly seeing her was her godfather, who himself preferred to ignore her sharpness.

She grew up loved, respected, and happy. She had everything she could need. She was everything that little Harry could have had, had things been different. Surely, they would've hated each other.

But how to hate something you don't even know of?

How to hate the family you always dreamed of?


Remus travels a lot. Lila never understood why.

She's five-years-old now. She doesn't go to school like the rest of the kids she sees, instead, she spends her time helping Remus pick out magical and medicinal plants.

He's a very good teacher. Not that she'd know, seeing as he's the only teacher she's ever had. He teaches her about magic animals and plants and maths, mostly. He even says that she's very good at it. Most of their days go that way: studying about a different plant or trying to solve more equations.

She doesn't have a room, per se, because of all the travelling they do. Whenever they stay somewhere, it's always a small rented studio apartment. They would both sleep on the floor of their living room with rolled out mattresses and eat food on their laps.

She had her purse, though, and to her, that was worth three big bedrooms.

It was a jute purse Remus bought her during their stay in Dubai. It was embroidered with flowers and butterflies on the hem, which easily made it the prettiest thing she owned. It had multiple extension charms on the inside, even! The purse easily held all of her maths, botany and herbology books easily, as well as her clothes and supplies!

She'd look at it time and time again, and say quietly, "I love magic."

It was, after all, the only real magic she knew other than Remus himself.


Harry hates gardening.

More than Dudley and his goons, more than Aunt Petunia's prickly rose bushes, and more than the bad cabbage smell Mrs. Figg from down the street smelled of.

He was already five, and while all the other kids his age played games and had tea parties, he was stuck in his Aunt's garden pulling out the weeds in the hot sun.

Pulling weeds was surprisingly calming, though, he'd give it that. There weren't a lot of ways to mess it up, which made it easy to just sit back and lapse into some fantasy of his making without having to focus much on reality.

"BOY!" A voice screeched from inside the house. It was reedy and high, like someone speaking with some sort of nasal problem. Immediately, he recognised it as his Aunt Petunia.

Ignoring the prick of annoyance at the way she called him that, Harry got up and wiped his hands on the baggy shirt he was wearing, a poorly done attempt to clean the dirt off his hands. He trudged up to the backdoor of No. 4 Privet Drive and got up on his tippy-toes to turn the handle.

Harry was rather short for his age—almost a foot shorter than most boys. And he wasn't very proud of the fact, for people loved to tease him over it. Even the girls that plucked flowers during recess instead of playing mocked his height.

Harry walked into the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia stood holding a dirty pan. He looked at her expectantly. She scowled so fierce at the sight of him that Harry had to consider running away.

"Good," she sniffed, even when she didn't look the least bit happy to see him. "You can reach the sink now, yes?"

Harry nodded, biting his tongue so as to not say something stupid.

"Yes, yes, clean the dishes then, I'll need to start preparing dinner soon."

"But, Aunt Petunia, I haven't—"

"No excuses, boy," his Aunt snapped, quickly ending the conversation and briskly moving towards the living room, where Dudley and his friend Piers were sniggering.

Harry swallowed his annoyance and picked up the dirty pan Aunt Petunia left on the counter.


Lila and Harry found out in two very different ways.

Lila had been eight. Harry was already eleven.

Lila was told by Remus, who had smiled kindly at her as the world crumbled. Harry did not have that.

Lila was shown pictures and memories, little scraps cherished by what was left. Harry had to watch it without ever knowing, looking at the grace in front of him, wondering whether he truly belonged.

Lila was smitten at the very thought of it. Harry burned at the idea.

And maybe that's why the two never truly got along. Such a shame.

Had they loved a little more, they might have been even better.

Even more happier.

Even more loved.

Even more cherished.

Even, a little more hopeful.

But, maybe, in a world so shallow… maybe it was meant to be.

Maybe everything happened exactly as it should.