Love Must Not Be Forgotten

A/N- Based on the story by Zhang Jie. I read the original, with the same title, in English class this past year and fell in love with it. The general basis of the plot (the daughter having to get rid of the diary, but reads it, learns about her mother's true love and discovers something about her own love life) belong to Zhang Jie. So I DON'T OWN IT! Everything else, except for the HP characters (those belong to JK), belong to me (the mother being a painter, the daughter discovering her mother's final painting, etc).



Love Must Not Be Forgotten

My relationship is in shambles.

But it never started out that way.

People in my community chide me for not deciding to marry yet, even though I have a suitable prospect. I find it strange that even in today’s modern wizarding society a pre-conceived marriage or marrying at a rather young age is prominent amongst those of the purest blood; people like my mother’s family.

My suitor is according to a vast majority “quite a catch”. It’s hard to describe him, but if anything, he looks so much like his father, Blaise Zabini, that it’s frightening. Unfortunately, that’s where the similarities end. Blaise is intelligent, eloquent and courteous, whereas his son is nothing of the sort.

Everyone around me tells me to marry now. To the pureblooded families of England, twenty-nine is too old to still be single, even though I am technically a half-blood. According to them, my biological clock is ticking and I was lucky to even have a proper suitor. To them, twenty-nine is the beginning of crow’s feet, laugh lines and grey hairs. To me, twenty-nine is nearing proper maturity; where you get out of a transitional phase from childhood to adulthood.

If I were the good daughter of a now respected pureblooded household, I would have married straight out of Hogwarts; much like my mother’s generation did. I would have married as soon as I found out that someone such as Alessandro had an interest in me.

But every time I speak to Alessandro, I can’t compel myself to love him; to want to be with him for the rest of my life.

“Alessandro, why do you love me?” His face becomes contorted with deep thought; trying to analyze my simple question.

“Why, because you’re good, Elizabeth!” he exclaimed with pride.

I knew that with his answer that we could never work, but I continue on anyway.

What would Mother have to say about my situation?

In her lifetime she was never one for great matters of love.

She had, in her mind much later on in life, regrettably married the Boy-Who-Lived right out of school and about nine months later, I was conceived.

I never knew much about my hero of a dad, nor had I ever cared. He and Mother had divorced not too long after I was born. I guess Harry Potter wasn’t my mother’s true love after all.

I did actually ask about my father on one occasion after I saw an article about him and Mother’s childhood friend, Hermione Granger, when I was about eleven.

Mother wasn’t exactly livid when I had asked, more like surprised that I had waited so long to give a damn.

“Don’t trouble yourself with such things, Elizabeth. You’re about to go off to your first year at Hogwarts; why worry about something as trivial as this? Besides, your father and I had a very good reason for separating. I just hope that when you turn eighteen that you don’t make the same mistake that I made, dear. I want you to wait before you take your first walk to the altar.”

She never did answer when I asked what that reason was, but with age I realized what the answer was: my mother was never in love with Harry.

I thought that I knew who my mother’s true love was once.

Mother was a painter by trade, but she wrote every now and then, more for personal enjoyment than professional endeavour. Her writings were never published, but stayed as blurbs and musings in her diary.

When I was growing up, my mother had loved the works of Monet. She fawned over each pastel floralscape she could get her hands on. Her collection of prints, postcards and actual pieces were legendary amongst friends and family. She was entirely obsessive when it came to her collection of Monet paraphernalia and if one thing was out of place or missing from our flat, she would go on a war path. Her obsession with Monet led me to believe that she was in fact in love with the painter. But of course seeing as I made that judgement at nine, I was wrong.

My mother had never asked for much out of me besides the usual things, except when she was on her death bed.

Her voice was a harsh whisper and seemed corporeal when she summoned me. Her once copper and honey coloured hair was streaked with grey and white; the result of pre-mature aging and stress. It pained me to see her die so young, at only forty-seven, but I know that her heart had lost the will to live. When she had called me over in her last moments on earth, she mumbled her last request before breathing her final breath.

“Burn…diary…‘Love Must Not…Be…Forgotten…’”

Her diary? Her writings? “Love Must Not Be Forgotten”? But my mother was never in love. How can her diary be titled “Love Must Not Be Forgotten”; the complete antithesis of what she preached to me?

I am ashamed to admit that I never did burn “Love Must Not Be Forgotten”. My curiosity got the best of me and I proceeded to read through my mother’s diary; I was even tempted to publish what she may have thought were random musings.

I also learned something very important from that diary: my mother did love.

She never wrote about him much, but when she did, it was nothing like the previous entry. Her first one regarding him goes as such:

“What have you done, my love? We are separated once again. I understand your feelings, your guilt, but ignore what social aspects our kind have taken to heart and trust yourself to do what is right; to be with me. My heart aches every time I see you, every time I’m near you. I know that you probably don’t feel the same way, which is why I thank the gods for dreaming. I hope that in your decision you are happy.”

After reading that entry I discovered what Mother was referring to. Apparently, her love had been in a fight of sorts with a couple of old Death Eater friends of his. He had refused to take part in some Dark activity and in a fit of rage, someone cast the Killing Curse and a friend of his stepped in front of it. The friend had left behind a wife as well as a daughter. In an act of guilt and to honour the dead, my mother’s love had married the daughter, Violet.

It turns out that I had met my mother’s love quite a few years ago.

I was fourteen at the time, my mother thirty-four and it had been at the opening of one of her galleries in London. It was during the summer and I had been genuinely excited to attend the soiree held in my mother’s honour.

I’m thankful for going; I had never seen my mother happier. She had finally been critically recognized by those in the industry and she made sure that she looked amazing for her big night.

Her hair had been done up in a small twist with a few loose tendrils falling out of said twist. The dress was emerald green silk with a fitted bodice that emphasized her chest and a curve-hugging skirt. The silver accessories made her glow more so than she already was. Unbeknownst to me, she had chosen my house's colours for a reason.

About an hour into the festivities, he found her.

He had white-blond, shoulder length hair with a piece falling in front of his high-sculpted, slightly pointed face. He walked with a small swagger and wore an all-black suit; the only colour being a forest green tie.
He snuck up to my mother’s side as she was looking at her tribute to Monet; myself in front of her.

“That’s a beautiful landscape,” he murmured.

I could hear my mother’s breath hitch in her throat.

“Do you recognize it?”

“How could I forget Hogwarts? You’ve done a great job capturing it.”

“Thank you. How are you and your family faring these days, Mr. Malfoy?”

He let out a long sigh. “My wife, Violet, and I are fine. She still refuses to produce an heir for me, but one can only hope.” He attempted a chuckle, but stopped once he saw the look on my mother’s face.

Seeing me, he tried to strike up conversation with Mother again.

“Is she yours?” he asked, motioning to me.

Mother smiled down at me before finally turning to him. A small smile quirked his lips.

“Yes, Elizabeth is the child I had with Harry. She’s fourteen and will be entering her fifth year at Hogwarts next year.”

He looked down at me again with my jet black hair, brown eyes and smattering of freckles in my cream-coloured skirt and crimson lace top; assessing my very being with his piercing grey eyes.
“Elizabeth,” he rolled my name off of his tongue. “She looks just like you, Ginevra; except for Potter’s hair. It suits her though. What house is she in at Hogwarts?”

“Slytherin,” Mother said with a smirk.

I could tell he was shocked; everyone was when they found out what house I was sorted in. How could the daughter of Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley be sorted into Slytherin when they were two famous Gryffindors?
I was used to the reaction.

“Really?”

“Yes, Draco. But you’d be surprised how much the Slytherin house has changed since we graduated. In -” My mother stopped for reasons I shall never know. She looked down at me once more before addressing the man she called “Draco”. “I’m terribly sorry, Draco, but we must be moving on,” she said with a sad smile.

“Oh, yes. Well, good night then. It was a pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth.”

I murmured a soft “You as well” before trailing behind my mother.

Mother lost her glow once we left him.

The last I ever heard about my mother’s love was from the Daily Prophet.

I was seventeen, nearing graduation and was sitting in the Slytherin Common Room when my friend, Kristin, ran in with the paper, waving it in front of my face.

I glanced at the headline, the proclamation being this “Draco Malfoy’s” death. And suddenly, that one evening three years ago flashed before my eyes; the tall, blond man, his piercing silver eyes, the sorrow behind his smile.

I had to go home.

I knew my mother would at least have an idea of what happened, but what worried me the most was how she would react to all of it.

Focusing back on the article, I read on to learn that he was murdered by an unknown wizard. He was only thirty-six. The article went on to state that his family was devastated, but others were rejoicing over the death of a suspected Death Eater. But my mother knew the truth. She always did.

“Some say your death is what the world has been waiting for. But I remember what you promised me all those years ago. And through your promise, I alone know the truth.”

When I returned home that summer, I found my mother sitting on the sofa in the living room, her diary next to her, open, with a quill lying across a blank page.

She looked at me for a few minutes before breaking down in tears.

I had never seen my mother look so lost; like a child without a parent. She had a sense of longing and misery to her sobs, each one more heart-wrenching than the next.

For the next week, she cloistered herself in her studio; only coming out for food and sneaking into her room for various items.

I never found out what she was working on. Well, not in that time period, at least.

The week following her death, I began to go through our old house; her studio one of the first places I went through. It was there under a white sheet that I found what my mother had been working on in the week following Draco’s death.

It was her final painting, a portrait of the two of them, in their school robes, sitting under a large oak tree at Hogwarts. Draco’s back was against the tree, with my mother in his lap, his chin resting on top of her head, looking down at her. Their hands were intertwined. Both were smiling. They looked so happy together, so in love. Lying next to the painting was the original black and white photograph the painting was based off of.

It was a wizarding photograph, only when I looked at it, instead of smiling, my mother was laughing in his arms.

Seeing both the painting and the photo made me wonder as to why they were never together as well as to evaluate my current relationship.

If anything, my mother’s somewhat vague, but nonetheless intriguing diary entries have only taught me about the value of love. Inadvertently, she had taught me all about it, even though what she preached to me while living was the complete opposite.

Thanks to her, I have come to peace with the idea of being single or not engaged at twenty-eight. Because of her, I want to wait for my love. I don’t want to be forced into something with Alessandro, only to find out that I love someone else.

So for now, I shall see where my relationship with Alessandro goes and try to discover if he is in fact the one for me.

I just hope that my mother is proud of me, but most of all, I hope she is happy now.

Because through death, I know she can finally be with the one she loves.



A/N- Thanks to Angel for the beta. She rocks out loud.