Lily's Eyes

Lily's Eyes


It must be the 31st July again. I'm back. I depise coming back here.

For some dodgy reason, I have no idea what, on this day each year something -- again, I have no idea what -- draws me back down here, to this - this place -- my home in Godric's Hollow, in the UK, on earth.

The rest of the year I'm in paradise, with my husband, James, and for the past fifteen years, with our good old friend, Sirius Black.

As much as James and I knew it pained and grieved Harry to lose Sirius, James was more than delighted to have his old schoolmate back. I think they are more inseparable now than they were when they were at Hogwart's. Just my luck, right?

James is never driven down here. Sirius is never driven down here. I wish I knew why I had to come back and relive that horrible day every year -- the day James and I died -- were murdered. The day my little ickle Harry lost us forever.

It's been a year since I've been dumped onto this front walk again for the umpteenth time. Some years I've been tempted not to go into the house, just to turn tail and wander down the street, into town to see how things have changed, and to bide my time until I'm snatched back up again.

But, every bloody time something drives me forward and I just have to go in. I suppose it's to check on the house elves, check that the house is in good working order.

Harry's going to come and claim this house someday. Maybe that's what keeps me going -- keeps me coming down here -- Harry. So, here I am again. Guess I'd better go in.

But, wait! Hold on a minute! There's a light on in the lounge! As I go through the door I see that all of the white linens that once draped the furniture are gone. In fact, blimey! This isn't even my old furniture!

As I walk through the entrance foyer and into the kitchen, nothing looks the same. Nothing looks familiar. The dishes in the sideboard are different. The kitchen trestle table is different. There are plates and saucers in the sink.

Someone lives here now. It's been thirty years, and finally, someone besides the house elves lives here.

What did Harry do? Did he sell this place? Oh, I'll kill that boy if he did!

But, no. There's a drawing on the refrigerator. Oh, it's so ickle cute! What's the name on this?

Jimmy Potter.

That's my grandson! He'd be three and a half right about now. I can't help but smile. If I still had my body I know I'd be crying like a blithering idiot. I stare at the rudimentary painting, and realize....

It's a woman. A stick figure, but a woman nonetheless. She has... oh, Merlin! Red hair, long and full. And bright green eyes. It's a painting of... me.

I look closer at the painting, in Harry's thick, scrawly handwriting at the bottom, it says, "Portrait of My Gran, by Jimmy"

I let my head fall into my hands. I feel like I want to sob uncontrollably.

I keep looking around the kitchen, and make my way into the lounge. Even the lounge has been rearranged, redecorated. My white walls are now a tawny beige, there's wainscotting on the bottom half of the walls. The heavy, oak mantlepiece I once had has been replaced by a lighter piece of wood. The trinkets on the mantle are different. The paintings on the walls are different.

There are photographs all around -- on the walls, on the tables. Photos of Harry's schoolfriends, his Quidditch team, Sirius, James and myself, Harry's wedding day, and... oh!

Jimmy. I crouch down to the photo on the table and take a closer look.

James Sirius Potter.

Oh, but he has the look of an Evans, he does. Red hair, a bit on the bushy side, though, and green eyes.

But, he has that strong, Potter chin and nose, and that haughty look about him that I've been told Harry always tried to repress. He truly is my grandson. I feel a wave of affection and love toward this little boy whom I've never met, never seen, never known.

Until now, perhaps. I think to myself.

I make my way upstairs. Oh, for the first time in 30 years I'm actually happy to be here -- happy to make my yearly visit. I only wish James could be here to see this with me.

There's a chink of light in the master bedroom -- the bedroom James and I shared after we were married, the very bedroom where Harry was both conceived and born. Happier times. I make my way through the door.

There he is. Fast asleep, lying on his stomach as he always did when he was a baby.

My son, Harry James Potter. My love. The very thing I gave my life for. He is sprawled on the bed in a mass tangle of sheets and coverlets, his hair the typical sticking-up draggly mess of black that it was when he was a baby. He looks so peaceful.

I can hear Harry's breathing -- steady, solid. His sleep appears dreamless -- for once in his life. His wife is laying next to him. I know this woman as Hermione Granger. Sirius told me all about her.

Sirius had always predicted that Harry and Hermione would marry. Funny, but he said the exact same thing about James and myself.

Sirius even told me that he saw quite a bit of myself in Hermione -- incredibly clever, muggle-born, incessantly curious, and a bit high-and-mighty. Yes, she's just like me.

Ach, Poor girl.

I sit at the foot of the bed, just watching the two of them sleep, listening to the sounds of their breath in peaceful sleep.

But wait, what is that between them? There's a small mass of something under Harry's left arm. Oh, my. That must be Jimmy.

Jimmy is curled up facing Hermione, his back spooned tightly against Harry's bare chest, as if they fit together. Harry's sinewy arm is flung over Jimmy's tiny waist.

I move off the end of the bed, and stand over Harry, staring, just staring at Jimmy in the small bit of light hitting his baby face. He is the sweetest, most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire -- uh, life. I feel another unexplainable wave of love and emotion.

I lean over to get a closer look at Jimmy. Harry stirs, moving his hand off of Jimmy and turning over, almost as if to face me.

I could swear I saw his eyes open and look right at me. But, no, that's impossible. He can't see me.

Harry seems to be sleeping again. I crouch down to eye level with him. He has changed so much, grown up to be quite an incredible person -- an Auror, even. Again, I swell with love and pride.

I reach out for him. If only I could touch him. If only I could really run my hands through his mass of hair like I did when he was a baby, or cup his now stubble-strewn face and stare into his eyes -- my eyes.

I reach out further, trying to just touch his shoulder. My hand, ethereal that it is, goes right through him. I pull my hand back, and trace the perimeter of his shoulder and arm, down to his hand, feigning to take it in mine, all the time wishing that I really could.

Harry stirs again. He opens his eyes again. He reaches out -- right for me.

Does he see me? Did he feel that? I recoil back, almost going back through the wall, wondering what I have just done.

"It's okay, mum. I know you're there," Harry mumbles. "Don't wake Hermione, though. She'll be in a right state if you do."

Is he talking to me? I try to speak. "Harry?" It comes out a croaky whisper.

"Yes, mum," Harry whispers back. "I was wondering when you'd come." He continues to lay there so as not to disturb Hermione or Jimmy.

"I've told Jimmy here all about you and he's been really dying -- er, I mean, wishing to see you." Harry smiled. "So have I." He reaches for his glasses from the bedside table and puts them on.

"But, how do you see me? How do you..."

"Sirius told me, and I just expected you," Harry says, matter of factly. "He told me you come back here every year on my birthday. I saw him last year when I visited Department of Mysteries -- I visit Sirius behind the Veil quite frequently now that I work for the Ministry. I can sneak down there whenever I want." Harry smile glitters in the wan moonlight that I see trickling in through the window. "I only wish you and dad were behind there, too."

"Nevertheless," Harry continues, "That's why I convinced Hermione to move back here, to this place. We sold our place in Surrey -- good riddance, that, and told Gringott's that we wanted to claim my inheritance, and well, here we are."

He can see me. He can hear me. I still don't believe it. I don't know how this is happening, or why. I'm not a ghost. Never have been, never will be. Not like Nearly Headless Nick or the Bloody Baron, but here I am nonetheless.

"Are you going to stay, then, mum?" Harry asks me. "I can wake Jimmy if you like."

"I know I can't, Harry," I tell him. "My stay here every year lasts only for a few minutes." I feel another smile creep across my face. "But now, I have something to come back to, Harry. Will you...will you be here, next year?"

"Yes," Harry whispers, checking on Hermione. "and the next and the next and the next if I can help it. I found you again, Mum, and I won't let that go now. Just," Harry continues, "try to come during the day next time so Jimmy can meet his gran! He's fascinated with the picture of you and dad that Hagrid gave me. Wants to know all about the heroes you were."

Even at a whisper and in this darkness, I can hear the pride in Harry's voice. For all my difficulties with Harry's upbringing with the Dursleys -- someone, somewhere did something right.

I feel a pulling sensation in my shoulders. I know that feeling well. It's time for me to go back to James.

Without missing a beat, Harry lays back down on his pillow, "bye, mum. See you next year."

"Bye, Harry," I smile again. "And happy birthday, darling."