Every parent leaves something behind for their children to remember them by. Lily Evans didn’t know, when she left her diary behind, that it would help her son into knowing her and himself...or did she?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I’m just borrowing for entertainment purposes, personal and non, and am making no money out of it. Don’t sue, all I own are professional designing markers and they only cost about ? 4.16 and they’re not worth because the ink runs out right away, and the chargers cost an arm and a leg. Just...don’t sue, it’s not worth it.

Warning: Dispite the fact that the prologue (and a good hefty chunk of this chapter) is rather comical, the fanfiction itself is made up of tortured, angst-filled romances (I’m not kidding), and we’ll start to see that at the end of this chapter. Don’t worry, though, I’m a professional when it comes to comic relief (that’s the whole purpose of the first years, even though in this chapter they don’t show up).

Anyway, I hope you enjoy as much as the prologue. I loved the reviews! Thank you all so very, very, much.

And now: on with the fic.

Harry Potter and the Knowledge of a Mother

Chapter 1: The Time Capsule

Since there were never any lessons the fist few days at Hogwarts—just to let everyone get used to the castle again—the first day after their arrival the seventh year Gryffindors, led by a very proud Head Girl by the name of Hermione Granger (could it have been anyone else?), were making their way to the courtyard just as they had been told the previous night by McGonagall—who was patiently waiting for them there.

Again, Harry felt his scar tingling the same way he’d felt the night before, and slowly, gingerly, he placed his fingers on it. It had never felt that way before…it felt…pleasant. And nothing that had ever concerned his scar had been pleasant.

Hermione was looking at him rather strangely—she was worried, he could tell—so he gave her a reassuring half smirk, dropped his hand, and turned his attention to the stern looking teacher. McGonagall, after making sure that they were all there, quickly said with a barely concealed smile of anticipation, “Very well, follow me!” She turned on her heels wordlessly and began to pace with long strides towards the lake.

The students followed.

The walk was long as they kept on siding on the lakeside. It felt like they had nearly made the round of the blasted far-too-big mass of water, knowing quite well that they had barely even begun to circle it, until finally McGonagall started to head a little off to the left into a clearing filled with very unusual looking stones. Some were the size of fists, others seemed boulders. They were all mostly covered in brownish moss, and far too regularly shaped to have been non magical. They were also placed at very regular intervals, telling that someone had placed them there.

The smell itself that was in the clearing told of misty magical memories and dreams, and the fact that the entire area was enveloped in a very light white fog only added to the atmosphere.

Then, interrupting everyone’s observations of the grounds, McGonagall spoke again. “Very well, Gryffindors,” and with this she pulled something out of her pockets. “Can anyone tell me what this is?” And she opened her palms to show a very tiny creature that seemed covered in the same moss as the stones. To Harry it looked like it had the body of a seal, but without the teeth, and the “limbs”—or whatever they were for they looked like oval paddles—were a lot larger and so thin that they seemed transparent. As he made these assertions the tiny creature spread large wings—when open the complete width was about the length of an outstretched arm—and lifted itself in the air. The wings were just as thin as the limbs, but with the sunlight streaming through them—for they were almost completely see-through as well—showed a rippling of very small muscles and vessels.

What a fascinating little creature that was. Harry smiled when the thing opened its mouth and let out a tiny, but very high-pitched, sound that to him seemed like the word “Dig!”

Hermione’s hand, of course, shot up.

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“It’s a Diggorinta,” Hermione replied. “It is a magical creature that can assert the character of a person, or group of people, and find the object—which is usually specified by the owner—that most would suit, and brings it to light by digging.”

“Very good, Miss Granger, ten points,” McGonagall complimented. “Now,” she began to explain the point to their excursion, “the Diggorinta is very powerful, albeit small, and it never fails its purpose. Its purpose today is to help us find the stone that would most suit you young Gryffindors,” and at this a lot of eyebrows shot up. Why would they need a stone?

“This place, as a matter of fact, is the Gryffindors’ Forever Remember Garden. Beneath each stone there are the history, actions, and thoughts of another already graduated Gryffindor class such as yours,” and with this she signaled the Diggorinta to do it’s work with a nod, to which the creature replied with another very happy “Dig!”

With a few flaps of moss colored wings and sounds of “Dig!” the Diggorinta flew swiftly around the students, pausing for a second before each one of them, and moving on. Ron, Hermione, and Harry were the last three left, and the creature went about them in the same ordered mentioned, pausing in front of Hermione longer than it had before Ron, and in front of Harry far longer than it had with anyone else put together.

Finally it let out a particularly loud and enthusiastic “Dig!” before turning around and floating to a particularly large boulder and sitting atop it. After a second it seemed that the moss from the stone and the Diggorinta’s skin had become one thing all together, and with a flap of its wings lifted itself and it’s perch in the air. It detached itself from the stone, leaving it hovering about two meters in the air, and flew beneath it.

Flying so low that it’s wings touched the ground, the Diggorinta drew a circle in the moss, of the same shape and size as the boulder, and lifted itself back up, all the while flapping its limbs frantically like a dog digging in the yard to hide his bone. As it did this, the wet ground seemed to split, and…something that was beneath began to push itself out.

And then, after the earth beneath their feet had stopped shaking, something that resembled an old battered trunk laid hovering only centimeters from their feet.

“Oh, how strange it would be this one,” McGonagall commented.

Harry wondered what she meant, but Hermione managed to answer that when she said, “Harry! Look!” while pointing flabbergasted at the lock of the trunk.

There, before his eyes, in rusty gold, was engraved an image of a wolf standing in front of a stag and a big dog, neck stretched toward the sky as if it were howling. Very small, at the wolf’s feet was a mouse, and behind the animals, a cloaked shadow, and an eye, which—as Harry had studied—represented a Seer.

This couldn’t have been…could it?

“Now, I don’t know what has been put into this trunk, but I do know that the class that left it here had some very creative students, and I’m sure everyone of you has heard of them at least once,” she announced, and then looked straight at Harry and his two friends. “The Marauders.”

Despite the fact that Harry had already guessed it, hearing the words had made it settle in a completely different way. In that trunk there were things that had to do with Wormtail, the blasted traitor, and Moony and Padfoot, that since his third year had been surrogate fathers to him, and then…of Prongs, his real father, and of his mother.

Hearing McGonagall say that was like having the wind knocked out of him. Thousands of thoughts ran through his mind. What did they leave? What’s it going to tell me? What if I find out more about my parents? His mind asked in trepidation. Could this possibly help him into knowing the mother and father that he was never permitted to have? Remus and Sirius never told him much about them or their years in Hogwarts, and he guessed that—even after sixteen years—the loss of two close friends, the betrayal of another, and far too many years of lies, deceit and pain were still too fresh in their minds. Harry had never pressed them.

But maybe here was their chance—for some reason Hermione and Ron were included—to find out about people that Harry had only seen in his dreams and in the mirror of Erised. But then again, was it? After all. in the trunk there were probably just a stack of moving pictures and a yearbook (at least, that’s what Muggles put in time capsules, and he guessed wizards weren’t very different), but then again, these were the Marauders.

Oh, boy, he was confused! As always, he looked to Hermione for help and reassurance. And it looked like her thoughts were running along the same track as his. Though she’d never come out and said it, he knew her—always-overactive—curiosity toward his parents. She was fascinated by the stories told of them, foggy as they were. Especially his mother, Lily, fascinated her. And that was understandable, for they had so many things in common. Beautiful, smart, capable witches born of Muggles, both Head Girls, that had found themselves trapped in friendships—which were probably more harm than good—with men who seemed unable to stay out of trouble, and caught in battles against the Dark Lord.

Actually, Harry had always been very interested in knowing about his mother very much as well. For some reason, he could imagine what his father had been like—maybe only because of the strong physical resemblance that he held to him—but his mother to him was a mystery. Each time he thought of her, he found himself imagining her quite like Hermione, but that was probably simply because of the fact that Hermione was, by far, the strongest girl he had ever—and would probably ever—meet and, of course, because of the strong feelings he had towards her. He liked the thought of the two women of his life being so alike…but were they?

He had to stop his train of thought because McGonagall had walked up to the trunk, pointed her wand at it, and called out “Alohomora!” and…nothing happened. A deep frown appeared between her eyebrows, and she began ticking off other unlocking spells, all to no avail. After about ten tries, she huffed loudly and openly gawked at the offending thing.

Whispers were spreading throughout the students.

“Well, these were the Marauders, they must have put a load full of charms and spells.”

“It’s going to take us days to get this thing open, if not more!”

“Do you think there’s anything dangerous in there?”

“Of course there is!”

Thoughts like these were spreading like a wildfire.

Harry looked at Ron, then at Hermione, and he found them wearing the same knowing smirk on their faces that he had. His own growing wider he raised his hand and called, “Professor?”

Surprised, McGonagall snapped her eyes away from the mad trunk to look at her student.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?”

“May I try?” Again, a deep furrow appeared between the teacher’s eyebrows. Not knowing what else to try, she gave him the clear. Harry pulled his wand out of his robes, pointed it at the case at his feet, and pronounced loud and clear the words. “I solemnly swear I’m up to no good!”

Laughter spread through the rest of the students and chuckled sentences along the lines of “Harry’s gone mad to say that in front of McGonagall” were whispered behind hands.

That was until, of course, the case started shaking wildly still in midair, while shooting sparks from the engraved golden seal. Loud gasps were heard all around, and everyone—but Harry, Ron, and Hermione—backed several paces away from the maddened object.

Whistles started to accompany the sparks, which were actually starting to resemble miniature butterfly fireworks. The students were backing up even more, and, finally, when the sparks had become blinding, the whistling a high pitched squeal that made everyone grind their teeth, and the trunk itself had started to spin faster and faster around until it had made a whirlwind around itself had the Diggorinta desperately trying to keep safe in midair until…

It stopped.

Everything.

Suddenly.

It stopped.

No more sparks, or whistling, or spinning, or shaking. It had gone back to the same position as it had before Harry had pronounced the words.

“Harry, what did you do?” He heard Seamus ask terrified, but the trio turned to give him a look of utter confidence before going back to study the object of their friends’ horrors.

And then, again, it began to shake, and finally, with a loud bursting sound the lid opened and fireworks began to shoot high into the air in a very stunning pyrotechnics performance, not unlike lava erupting from the Vesuvius when it wiped out Pompeii. None of them were harmful, for they shot very high into the air and burst into colorful magical shapes, especially of animals, that actually moved before fading out. Many represented a mouse doing various things, running, hitting the knot on the Whomping Willow, scurrying about and such, and Harry felt his hands clench until they drew blood as he thought of the person that had—obviously—charmed the candles.

He felt Hermione’s hand on his shoulders and he unconsciously relaxed his grip and his shoulders.

Then there was a wolf, howling at the moon, biting himself to keep from hurting others, sleeping, and simply walking in the streets of Hogsmeade. A dog, large and gruff, howling, barking, running. And finally, a big, wonderful deer stomping through the forest, drinking from the lake, and then, the last exploding candle represented the beautiful stag nuzzling into a girl’s neck. Lily’s neck, and in turn she kissed the spot above its nose with a soundless giggle, and smiled at the people that, mesmerized, had been watching the show from below.

And, just when everyone thought the show was over, another burst came from the trunk, and one last image showed in the sky. A sign that read, “Mischief is done!”

Harry smiled.

Everyone behind him now stood with his or her jaws touching the mossy ground.

“You can come closer now,” Hermione said as she bent over to look at the contained items of the trunk. Slowly, apprehensively, the students—along with McGonagall—did.

“This was definitely Potter’s idea,” the professor mumbled. Everyone heard.

“What?”

“Well, anything related to fireworks and Filibusters was always his doing. He would come up with the idea, and Pettigrew would brew the potions,” she answered. Strangely, some students thought, her tone was quite bitter when she spoke Wormtail’s name.

Cautiously, the rest of the group made its way to the trunk, only to be hit in full by a blue wrapped bundle of giggles that flew at all of their stomachs with the force of an atomic missile.

“Hey what—!”

“What the bloody hell?!” (This was Ron.)

“What IS that?”

And the bundle spoke.

“I’m Cicciobello!”

“What’s a bloody Chee-cho-bel-loh?” Ron asked with a skeptical eyebrow at the bundle.

“I’M Cicciobello!” the bundle repeated offended, and this time, everyone noticed how very childish and high-pitched the voice was. But…hey! This was a baby!

“No, not him!” McGonagall exclaimed.

“Hi-ya prof! It’s been a while!” The ‘Cicciobello’ cried, and, in salutation, went over, pulled down his pants, sitting on the woman’s hat, and—with a rather large ‘splat’—left a little scented gift there. Then, giggling madly, pulled its pants back up and flew high into the air. McGonagall was in fumes while the students were rolling on the ground laughing.

“It’s a doll,” Hermione said, as she looked up. And she was right. The bundle was, in truth a very likely imitation of a live baby, even in size. As she said this, the baby turned to look at her, and then to Ron and Harry. At the sight of the last, it gasped loudly and flew straight into Harry’s gut, knocking the wind out of him, all the while letting out loud cries of “Dada!”

“DADA?!” The class asked collectively.

“Dada?” Harry repeated as well.

“Dada!” The Cicciobello exclaimed again. It took Harry quite a while to extricate the deviled doll off of him, but when he finally did, it looked at him again in the face, and gasped. “You’re not daddy!”

“DADDY?” The class collectively screeched again.

“Uh…no. Sorry. I’m not daddy,” Harry replied nervously. The doll seemed to deflate.

“No Cicciobello, he’s not your daddy,” McGonagall told him.

“Then…who is he?”

“Your daddy’s son,” she replied in a completely matter-of-factly manner.

The doll—again—gasped. It seemed to do that a lot. “Dada had a son?” McGonagall nodded. Again Cicciobello looked at Harry, this time, seeming to decipher him. And then, suddenly, it shouted out, “Brother!” and, again, threw itself at his gut.

“BROTHER?!” when was the class going to stop screeching like that?

“Oh, brother!” Harry sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

Cicciobello giggled.

“Very well Gryffindors, let’s see…what else these students placed in this,” McGonagall said, her voice losing enthusiasm with every word that she got out.

And they did just that. Although the rest of the contents of the trunk weren’t as exciting as the fireworks, or the possessed Cicciobello, they found them all rather interesting. There were, as expected, loads of moving pictures—most of them representing interesting pranks that the Marauders had pulled on Slytherins (Snape’s younger face was quite reoccurring)—and a yearbook, telling of each of the Gryffindors that had graduated that year. In addition, though, there were loads of different—seemingly—non-hazardous things (such as cards, and handkerchiefs, and nail polish--?--), all attached to a little instruction handbook. Marauders’ inventions obviously.

They spent the good part of three hours all sitting, laughing, and enjoying the creativity of students that had attended the school far before they were even born, and, when it finally seemed there were no more interesting objects in the trunk, Lavender looked into it and saw something that almost everyone had written off as of no importance. Picking it up she asked Professor McGonagall what it was about.

Piqued by the girl’s question, the teacher walked over, and took in her hands the thick leather bound book that was held out to her. At first her eyes went wide, and then she opened to the front page, as though to check out something that she knew was true but couldn’t quite have been possible. “This can’t be,” she mumbled.

But it was.

She stared at whatever must have been written on that front page for quite a long time. The only thing that had managed to keep her from drowning into the thick book was the voice of Lavender Brown asking, “What is it, Professor?” At this the addressed woman took in a sharp breath and looked up from the mesmerizing page, and looked at the girl before her, although not seeing her.

Another second went by, and finally she spoke.

“Mr. Potter, come here,” she ordered, not a note of expression in her voice. Harry, who was, at that moment, reading the instructions, which had come with the nail polish along with Ron, looked up confused, and shrugging, went over to see what his teacher wanted. Again, McGonagall stared at him for a second. She seemed to be sizing him, trying to decide if he was ready for whatever it was that she was about to present him with.

This only served to make the young man even more confused.

“Yes, professor?” He asked as an encouragement.

Finally the teacher came to her decision, and extended her hand out to him, holding the book for him to take. Even more confused, Harry took the professed book, and held it, keeping his boggled gaze onto the woman. “Open to the first page,” she instructed. Looking down, he did just that. He opened the hard front cover to the first page which had only three words scribbled onto it in a pretty, orderly, legible handwriting, which had obviously belonged to a young girl.

At first, he stared. The words were there, ink on paper, black on white, but they just weren’t registering. And then, when they did, the book slipped from his numb fingers, and hit the ground with a muted ‘thump’.

Hermione, which had walked over in curiosity, knit her eyebrows before kneeling and picking up the fallen item. She opened to the same page that had caused so much staring, and, reading the words, finally understood why they had been so overwhelmed by those three simple words.

Actually, they weren’t even words.

They were a name.

There, clear as day, stood the name: Lily Marianne Evans.

Her mouth open, and her eyes clouded, she, too, looked at McGonagall. “This isn’t…is it?” She asked.

“Yes, Miss Granger,” the professor confirmed. “It’s Mrs. Potter’s Hogwarts diary,” she explained, and, turning to look at Harry, told him, even cleared, “This is your mother’s diary.”

And silence fell between them.

“Uhm…professor?” Again, Lavender snapped everyone out of their thoughts.

“Yes, Miss Brown?”

“I think it’s time to head back to the castle,” she ventured uncertainly.

This seemed to bring McGonagall to her usual self. “Yes, quite right,” and saying that she turned toward the rest of her Gryffindors. “Very well everyone, put everything you found back into the trunk. Don’t worry, it will be kept in your Head Girl’s room, so ask her, and you will access it all you want with her permission. You may discuss what to put in your own memory case amongst yourselves. Your case will be buried within the last week of school. Now, we will make our return to the castle for lunch,” she explained, and then turned back to Harry. “You will not be required to put the book back in the case, Mr. Potter,” she told him with a barely concealed smile. “If that diary has a place, it is in your hands,” she finished, and began to head back to Hogwarts with the rest of the Gryffindors following close behind.

On the walk back, Harry, walking at the very end of the line, found himself clutching the book to his heart with one arm, and Hermione’s fingers (she was walking very closely on his right) with his hand.

°*°

At lunch, the seventh years (of all houses) had secluded themselves from their younger counterparts to plan well what to put in their own time capsules. Hermione, as Head Girl, along with the two seventh year prefects, had the assignment of writing everything down, keeping record, and basically organizing the whole thing. As her peers shot off all kinds of different ideas, she diligently reported everything onto a fresh piece of parchment, completely ignoring her lunch, although, Harry could tell, her mind wasn’t with it.

He guessed it was with his mother’s diary, much like his own was. As much as he tried to bring himself to participate, he simply couldn’t. So instead, he listened to Ron tick off all kinds of absurdities, demonstrating to the world that he was, in fact, Fred and George Weasley’s little brother. Nearly everything that the redhead had suggested had been enthusiastically approved and placed on the list, which, outside of his creative implications, held the same usual things, such as yearbooks, and pictures, reports of major events and a hall of fame (which, everyone was sure, would mostly be composed of Ronald Weasley, Hermione Lynn Granger, and Harry James Potter).

As Ron was ranting about placing carnivorous frogs into the case to come out in much the same manner that the fireworks had, McGonagall tapped her goblet with her spoon, getting the attention of the entire school. Dumbledore, it seemed, had to make an announcement.

The hall went mostly quiet, so the aged wizard spoke.

“It has been brought to my attention that our Quidditch field, is, unfortunately, not going to be available for the next several months. We have a, rather growing and annoying, infestation of carnivourous beetlesquash. Now, thankfully, they have limited themselves to our Quidditch field, and we’ve been able to prevent them from expanding their territory, but, since we do not wish to have our Quidditch teams and spectators eaten alive, we will have to postpone any games until after Christmas, and possibly more,” at this he stopped, waiting for the outraged mass of students to calm down.

Ron could be heard throughout the castle with his shouts of “What? But you can’t! I mean it’s Quidditch! What’s school without Quidditch?” Only Hermione’s strong slap to the back of his head managed to stop his ranting, making him, instead, yelp in pain.

“Yes, Mr. Weasley. School would be a much less interesting place without Quidditch, which is why I said postponed. The games won’t be canceled, but will, once they start, be performed all in a much shorter period of time, and later in the year. You will still hold your practices like you regularly would, just not inside the Quidditch field. The head of your house will tell you where your team will practice, and I would advice you, Mr. Weasley, to take this as an advantage, for, now, you have all the time you want on your own training ground, which, you won’t be sharing with other teams. That’ll be all,” Dumbledore explained, and with this sat back down in a manner that told that there wouldn’t be any more arguing over the topic.

Ron, who had been Gryffindor Keeper since fifth, and Caftain since sixth, and was, all around the most Quidditch obsessed person left in the wake of Oliver Wood, was, still, outraged. “Who cares if we can train all you want? They’ll probably put us in the courtyard where everybody can see us and study our moves! What would be the point of practice then?” He began to spew forth all questions of the sort, and continued, and continued, not even realizing that Professor McGonagall was behind him when he moved on to speak of her. “And how could McGonagall allow this!? I mean, wasn’t she supposed to be the biggest Quidditch supporting teacher of the school? I can’t believe she’d let this happen! How—?” He was finally interrupted by said teacher’s very, very, stern voice.

“Mr. Weasley!”

Suddenly, Ron stopped, paled, gulped, and slowly turned at the sound of the higher-than-usual-pitch that McGonagall had used pronouncing his name. “Y--?” He began, but, realizing that his voice was far too squeaky, cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes?”

“I just came over to inform you of which grounds you will be allowed to use as practice fields,” she said sternly. Of course, Ron should have expected this, as he was Captain, and therefore, the one that should have been informed. Still rather peeved looking, McGonagall stood so that she was eyelevel with the redhead and whispered so that only he, Harry, and Hermione could hear. “The Gryffindor Forever Remeber Garden,” she revealed in a very secretive manner.

Hermione gasped. “But wasn’t that supposed to stay secret until seventh year for everybody? Outside of Ron and Harry, all the others are sixth year and below,” she protested.

“Yes, but they don’t need to know what its name is or what it’s for until they reach seventh, do they?” She asked mischieviously, and they all could guess the teacher liked to keep secrets. “However, it is a perfect location, for it can’t be seen from any part of the castle, since it is hidden by several charms, and it’s secluded and hard to find. There, you will be able to practice all you want with no interruptions, and very little possibility of being spied on,” she explained, and, deciding she’d said enough, stood back up straight, and marched back to her place at the faculty’s table.

Ron was extatic and couldn’t shut up about it for the rest of the evening.

Harry and Hermione were both quiet, not listening to their blabbering friend, completely absorbed in thoughts of Lily Evans’ diary, and whatever it could possible bare to them.

°*°

It was late, and, as Hermione made the last round of the school, checking if everything was alright, she couldn’t manage to keep her thoughts from wandering to the thick, still in exceptional state diary that had been found not even 24 hours before.

Moslty, when everyone heard of what it was, they all said, “Great! This way you’ll find out more ways to fend off You-Know-Who!” But she knew very well that Harry, as much as she, was more concered with what the woman might have been like, what she thought, what she said, how she lived at Hogwarts and how she lived at all.

Hermione had always been fascinated by the idea of her.

She, having been raised by wonderful loving parents all her life, had no idea what it might have been like without them at all, not even knowing what they were like, what they smelt like, how it would feel to come down to breakfast in the morning and hearing “Goodmorning, Harry,” or something of the sort. She knew very well that his aunt Petunia had probably never wished him a ‘goodmorning’ in his entire life.

How can Harry be so wonderful when he’s been raised by those self centered barbarians? She asked herself as she whispered the password to the Fat Lady. Maybe, if she could read that diary, she could find out what his parents had been like. Find out if just being related to them made him what he was, or if he was just like that of his own nature.

Even though she was Head Girl she’d asked to be able to stay in the Gryffidor tower, so she had been showed a portrait that would have led her, from the girl’s dorm, directly to her rooms, and she much preferred to use those. She felt at home there, and the Head Girl-Boy tower was so desolate.

As she was about to reach the stairs that would bring her to the Gryffindor dormitories she stopped upon noticing that someone had been sitting at the foot of the overstuffed couch in front of the hearth. She didn’t need to closer inspect the person, for nobody else in Gryffindor could have such unruly pitchblack hair, and those broad shoulders and lanky figure.

“Harry,” she whispered as to not jolt him out of his thoughts while making her way around the couch. “What are you still doing here?” She asked as her hands found her hips, but dispite the fact that she stood in her lecturing pose, her voice held absolutely no reprimand.

She just watched him as he turned his head slowly to look up at her, noticing how he was slumping, more than sitting, on the carpet covering the cold surface of the floor. His mother’s diary lay unopened on his lap. Dropping her arms at her sides with a heavy sigh, she sat on the couch next to him, her calves brushing his arm, putting a hand on his mess of hair, gently scraping his scalp in a reassuring manner. “What are you still doing here?” She reapeated softly, worry and uncertainty clear, now, in her voice.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled expressionlessly, but she saw clearly how his hands clutched even tighter the book between his hands.

“Are you scared of it?” She asked, still quietly, for breaking the comfortable, conspirative silence seemed like a crime to her.

Harry seemed to contemplate the question for a second. “Would it be stupid?” He asked finally.

Hermione shook her head. “No, I could understand it if you were,” she reassured him. “You’ve never truly known her, Harry. Even if you wanted to, you never had a chance to find out what she was like, and, in a way, that always gave you a chance to make up your own mind about her,” Hermione explained.

“Would it be bad if I said I was afraid that she didn’t live up to my expactations?” He asked again. He looked like a small child which was afraid to say that he liked to fantasize because scared of adults reactions.

“No,” she replied, fully meaning it. “I’d be scared, too,” she continued, “I’ve somewhat an idea of her, too, but Harry, this is your mother. No matter what, I don’t think you could ever bring yourself to be disappointed in her, even when she’d different from what you expect,” she finished.

“Would you--?” He began, but stopped himself. He looked to be debating in his own head whether or not asking the next question was appropriate. Oh, come on, Harry! This is Hermione! The worst thing she could do is say ‘No’. And she he asked. “Would you mind...reading it out loud for me?” He asked nervously, and then, almost as though he had to justify his question, added, “Maybe, with a girl’s voice I’d get more of an idea.”

He was so vulnerable at that moment, afraid that she would say ‘no’ and leave him alone in a journey in which her company was absolutely necessary (at least she hoped), that she felt the tell-tale stinging behind her eyes. “I’d love to,” she replied quietly, and extended her hand out to take the diary, and slowly, apprehensively, Harry gave it to her.

He didn’t move to get closer or change position to hear better. For some reason, he preferred to stay as he was, the flames in the fireplace reflected in his spectacles and warming away the anxiety that he’d worked up during the day. All he did, was lean his head over slightly so that it rested against her knee. He’d always wished that he could touch Hermione the same way Ron did, like the way he’d laid back to back with her at lunch, but for some reason, to Harry, the small touches like this were already so overwhelming, that anything more would be dangerous to their platonic relationship. He felt her hands scrape his scalp soothingly again in a comforting manner, and closed his eyes at the touch.

They’d laid like that for a while before Hermione stopped stalling and opened to the first page of the diary. She realized that her hands were trembling. She was nervous. Over the years she’d, in some way, come to idolize this woman, for the way that she’d stayed close to James throughout the tough times, kept the Marauders’ secrets, and sacrificed her life for that of the boy—man—that sat there with his head resting on her knee! How could she not see this woman as a goddess, for—had it not been for her—Harry might not even be here, and she would have been hopelessly alone. Even her friendship with Ron had come about because of him. She owed him so much, and loved him so much, that, even the image of his mother had become holy to her.

Clearing her voice she began out loud with the date.

August 23^rd,

Hello, my name is Lily Evans, I’m going to be eleven soon, and have recently found out that...I’m a Witch! Well, I always knew I was different, but a WITCH! I have to admit that was pretty exciting. Finding out I mean. Just two days ago, a pretty, big, brown owl swooped in the window, dropped a letter on top of the milk jug, and flew right out. My sister Petunia began to scream her head off, but I’d already known that something would have happened that morning. You see, well, not many people besides my parents know about this, but, ever since I was little, I would get this feelings sometimes. Even visions once in a while. Of the future, the present happening somewhere else, or the past.

I never told anyone, because, well...it’s not normal to feel these things, and, even if my parents were actually proud of it (they said it made me even more special) almost everyone else, especially Petunia, thinks it’s scary.

Anyway, that morning I felt like something wonderful would happen, something that would change my life forever, bring me to a place where I truly belonged. And while I said this to my mom as she put the bacon on my breakfast place, I had no idea how true that was. When mom read out loud the letter that had been sent to me, telling me that I’d been excepted to the ‘Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’ I thought my heart was going to burst.

I really WAS going to find a place in which I belonged.

Of course, I have friends here, but they always seemed detached. I think they’re afraid of some of the things that I made happen a couple of times when mad. Once, when I was eight, at my birthday party, Kiana Jenkins, from down the street, started making fun of my red hair saying that I looked like a carrot, and that my eyes looked like the color that swimming pools turn to when people don’t clean them right. Well, usually I don’t care when people make fun of my hair, but she was always real mean to me, ever since I was a kid (probably the reason for why she gets along so magnificently with Petunia, I’ll bet they just sit together all day talking about how awful I am, and how they can’t stand me), so I lost my temper with her, and, as if by magic (and now I know it really WAS magic) she turned puple and an endless stream of EGGS started to come out of her mouth.

Since then, I really didn’t make anything so big happen, but still, nobody forgot. I’m sure that at Hogwarts there are lots of people who can do these things, and I won’t feel so weird anymore. Mom and Dad were real proud, and promised to take me to Diagon Alley (it was suggested in the letter) for school shopping, and that’s what we did today.

It was SO neat! I admit, it took us a real long time to figure out how to get there. We wondered around London for about three hours before stumbling onto a bar called ‘The Leaky Couldron’. For some reason, it seemed just like the place to go for information on how to reach a place where they sold Magic stuff. The people in there were dressed rather strangely, but they all seemed to enjoy themselves much. They seemed nice. Well...maybe not at first, when they all went quiet when seeing us, whispering something like “Muggles”, but when dad asked how to get to Diagon Alley, the man behind the counter (his name was Tom) asked if I was to attend Hogwarts. Dad said yes, and then everybody congratuled me and wished me good luck.

Petunia didn’t seem to like it much when he brought us out back in front of a dead end. All there was in front of us was a brick wall, and, well...it did seem much like a joke, but then Tom tapped a couple of bricks, and they all started MOVING! Yes, moving! And they made a passageway that we crossed.

And then it was like being inside a fairy tale. The street was small, and crooked, and some of the buildings looked like they were make of cards. Everything was magic! People went around with WANDS! There were candy shops with the strangest things, like Every-flavor+1 Beans and Chocolate FROGS, books with pictures that moved, strange creatures walking around, and so much more that it would take me years to write about.

The things that I liked the most were Ollivanders, where I got my first wand (who would have every thought that I would one day have a magic WAND! He told me all the descriptions about it, but all I remeber is that inside there’s a unicorn’s hair, and supposedly unicorns have seer’s powers), a store that sold everything for a sport called Quidditch, which is played on BROOMSTICKS! And then there was the animal shop. In there, all the animals could do something magical! Mom and Dad, bought an owl to keep at home (the clerk in the store told us that people in the magical world communicate long distance with owl post), I don’t need one because the school has a lot to let the students borrow, and for me, they bought a beautiful cat. She’s red with green colored eyes (like me!), and a fluffy tail and puffy whiskers, she looks half persian. Petunia said she looks like her legs are crooked and the fur is mangy, but I think she’s beautiful. But maybe that’s because she’s magical. Anyway, I named her Rajah (because she always looks everyone from down her nose, like an exotic queen), and I’m already in love with her.

Anyway, it was in Diagon Alley that I bought this diary. The salesclerk said that it was best if I waited a couple of years before writing in it, because it’s magical and hard to control, but I liked it too much, and decided to write in it anyway. You see, I’m afraid that if I don’t write all the unusually wonderful things that I’m sure are going to happen to me, I’ll forget them, and I’ll miss out on beautiful memories that could have been with me but that wouldn’t be. And I hate that thought.

But it’s late now, the day has been long (and wonderful), and it’s time for me to go to bed. But since I know for certain that after all this excitement I won’t get a wink of sleep, I’m going to pull out one of the books that Dad bought me for fun (he’s always spoiling me) and read that until I actually do fall asleep. This book’s called “Hogwarts: A History” and we got it because, maybe, if I read it, I’ll understand a little more of the place that I’m about to go into and spend a whole of SEVEN years in.

The idea’s scary, but exciting, and I can’t wait.

Goodnight.

Lily

At that Hermione stopped reading. For a second it was quiet. She’d stopped because she’d felt that, for both herself and Harry, this night shouldn’t have gone any further. Even though Lily hadn’t said anything particularly different from what any other muggle born Hogwarts student might have after having been to Diagon Alley, it was, in a sense, overwhelming.

This was what Lily had been like at eleven (almost eleven, she corrected herself). A young girl, full of expactation and anxiety. And power, Hermione added in her mind. To do that thing with the eggs at the age of eleven was something, and, in addition, Lily has some sort of seer’s power. Now, it was a widely known fact that Hermione didn’t believe Trelawny’s codswallop and would have gladly shoved it in her face, but Lily was different. She was eleven when she wrote this, and didn’t know anything of Inner Eyes and Divination. But she did have visions.

Hermione believed that there were people capable of sensing things around them. She didn’t believe that they could be taught however (at least she’d come to believe that during her third year), especially by a fake like Trelawny. Even if, apparantly, even that charlatan made a couple of real prophesies every once in a while.

But that wasn’t the matter at hand.

Finally, she spoke the question.

“Are you disappointed?”

Harry was quiet for a second, and she scraped her nails across his scalp again. She liked doing that. It almost seemed to her that the affection that she placed in the little gesture seeped right thruogh to him and warmed him out of his dark thoughts. Besides, she thought to herself bitterly, this is probably as close as I’ll ever get to him. Anyhow, that small sign of incouraged him, and quietly, almost as though it was a sigh, he whispered the word. “No.”

She smiled down at him, and he turned to grin at her.

“She kind of sounds like you,” he went on, and she raised her eyebrows at him. “You know, a red cat with crooked legs, ‘Hogwarts: A History,” he jested, and she threw a pillow at his head, which was still, by the way, comfortably resting on her knee. She had to push the little voice in her head back as it pointed out how natural it felt to be like that with him.

“Why you—!” She gasped as he pulled the pillow out of her hands and hit her with it (although very gently).

They didn’t persue the pillow fight. They just looked at each other for a second. Hermione wanted to tell him what she knew about Lily’s power, as, for certain, Harry had paid as little attention to that as possible, and only cared about the girl’s opinions of Diagon Alley, and life itself, but, then again, it was best like this. Let him enjoy his mother for what she was. A witch, certainly, and a powerful one, but a girl above all, and a woman later in life.

“Let’s continue tomorrow,” she decided. Maybe letting him digest what the brief introduction revealed would be better than hitting him with everything all at once. “Now it’s late,” she explained, and he nodded.

“Okay,” he agreed, and, before he even realized it and could stop himself, he turned to face her, stood on his knees so that he was eyelevel with her, and dropped a soft kiss on her forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered. He had to force himself not to look at her as he stood. Looking at her would ruin everything. Whispering a soft goodnight he made his way to the stair that led to the dormitory, closely followed by Hermione (who was trying desperately to keep her blushing and her hopes down).

They had both been so absorbed in their thought that neither had noticed how a certain redheaded male had been listening to the whole exchange from the beginning and had run to his dorm room scowling before the two would see him.

That night, Harry laid wide awake, thousands of thoughts in his troubled mind as he remembered his mother, and thought of Hermione. Had he looked over to his best friend’s bed, he would have seen Ron still awake, and scowling more than he ever had in his entire life.

 

To be continued.

Author’s note: Ah, finally, I’m getting into the plot. Oh, and the mob of crazy stalkers, along with Kevin Creevy didn’t show in this chapter because I didn’t think they were necessary (and because, for most of the day Harry had kept to himself trying to decide whether or not to actaully OPEN Lily’s diary), and besides, for now, the crazed Cicciobello was enough. By the way, after the time capsule, he ran off to get reacquainted with the castle, and therefore we won’t know what he’s been up to til next chapter (hehehe, I’m so evil).

Anyway, you know the drill, if you’ve read, review, or mail me at [email protected] for any comments, criticisms or flames (go ahead and I’ll have a BBQ).

Ja

Pearl