A Mother's Love

A Mother's Love-

He has his mother's eyes.

I'm very sure that by now, Harry is tired of hearing that. That he has his mother's eyes, that he looks just like his father, that he embodies the both of them. This survivor, this hero, this boy who looks like the parents he can't even remember…

He may have his mother's eyes.

But I gave him a mother's love.

*

I remember the first time I saw Harry Potter. He was the small boy at the station, all alone with his trunk and his owl and looking very much frightened to death by the fact that there didn't seem to be a platform 9 ¾. He was dressed in clothes that were obviously not his, sleeves falling over his little hands and his laces trailing; his glasses were held together by tape. A fine looking young boy, even if he looked a little peaky, painfully excited, hopelessly lost, the relief on his face obvious when I told him how to get through the barrier.

At that moment, I had no idea who he was. I hardly knew James or Lily, staying away from the Order after Gideon and Fabian died, so I never recognised their son.

I'm thankful for that.

I remember thinking that this boy was probably Muggle born. Or else, his parents simply didn't care. I had already decided that I would find out who they were, and hopefully, if I knew them, I'd give them a tongue lashing they'd never forget. Imagine, leaving an eleven year old boy all alone on a train platform, with no idea where he was going or what to do… that was totally irresponsible, not to mention downright mean of them! It didn't matter if they were Muggle or Magic… how could any parent in their right mind stand to leave their child so alone, and that on his very first day of school? Oh, yes, I was in a temper, indeed. But there were other things to take care of, my own children to look after… I pushed the thoughts about his parents to the back of my mind, telling myself I would find out later, once I had settled the boys on the train and sent them on their way.

Of course, it never came to that. The rumours were enough. This was indeed the famous Harry Potter…

This was indeed, the orphaned child whom we owed our lives to, and yet, I couldn't help but think how nobody seemed to care about him at all.

*

Ron wrote back many times in his first year, letters which I still keep. I've tucked them away with the letters all my children sent me when they were at Hogwarts.

There is only one he wrote during that year which I haven't put aside. I placed that letter in a kitchen drawer, where I could summon it when I wanted to read it. It wasn't his best, and it wasn't anything special.

But it was about Harry.

He's got absolutely no-one, Mum. Those Muggles he lives with, his aunt and uncle and that idiotic excuse of a cousin… they're horrible! They locked him up in a cupboard! It's so unfair. Would you believe, he's never even gotten a Christmas present, not even once in his life…

That was it.

Unfair… Ron was absolutely right; it was unfair. That any child should be so ignored and mistreated, and by the only relatives he had…

In my mind, I could see the Christmases we had shared, first just me and Arthur, and then with the children. I remembered Bill's first Christmas, where he was more interested in the wrapping paper than the presents; Charlie's eyes shining as he cuddled the stuffed dragon Arthur had managed to get for him; Percy beaming as I handed him a book and a mug of hot chocolate as he huddled by the tree; Fred and George promptly exchanging the hats and scarves they had unwrapped, getting themselves tangled up in the process; Ron and Ginny being lifted by Bill and Charlie so they could both place the star on the top of the tree.

Our children had always had wonderful Christmases. Harry… Harry had never had a single present since he lost his parents.

Of course… that didn't necessarily mean he couldn't have this particular one.

It was only after I sent the owl to Hogwarts that I breathed a sigh of relief. Watching it fly out of sight, carrying an extra parcel with Harry's name on it bumping against the rest of the presents, I could only hope it was enough.

*

He saved my Ginny. He saved her when no-one else could, going down there and battling so bravely that I could barely believe he was still alive.

But he was. He was battered and bruised, tired beyond belief, but he was alive . Again.

That was not what troubled me, though. As I stared at Ginny, I wondered why he did it. Why did he rush in after her, why did he think it was so important to save her? He might have lost his life, and yet…

And yet, he still went ahead to kill the monster who might have wrecked so many people; he destroyed the memory of Tom Riddle and brought my little girl back to me. Only those who have lost a child, only those mothers who know the pain of staring at an empty bed and knowing that it could never be filled, the pain of losing a part of themselves to death… only those mothers could understand what I was going through when I had heard that Ginny had been taken down into the chamber.

And only those mothers who have watched their children blossom before their eyes could understand my joy when she was returned to me.

What I am sure no one could understand was the joy of seeing him alive. It was at that moment I realised that the tears I had shed were not simply for Ginny and Ron. My tears had been for Harry too.

That my children had returned from the chamber, alive and safe, was a blessing; that Harry had come back was a miracle.

*

When Harry was chosen as a school champion, I don't believe anyone was as proud as I was. He had come such a long way from the little boy on the platform at the station.

But I was still scared, especially because of how Harry had been chosen. It didn't seem right. After the task with the dragon, I simply couldn't sit back and let Harry handle this on his own. I read every article on the tournament.

Even if Rita Skeeter had lied about Harry, I couldn't help it. I read and re-read the articles, feeling my own tears welling up once again.

He cries over his parents…

Oh, what it must have felt like, to look in the mirror and see that face of one's dead father, to see the eyes of one's dead mother, staring right back. More than anything, I wanted to reach out to him then, to hold him tightly and promise that he would never feel that loss.

He would never find himself lacking a mother's love, I vowed. Not while I could give it to him.

*

Cedric Diggory was a fine boy. He never deserved to die.

His mother was beside herself when she found out. I watched her retreat into herself, not saying a word, a statue of a woman with cold and hollow eyes. To watch as one's only son was carried away, to be there to hear the awful words of he's dead, he's dead…

It was my own nightmare. Ever since Ginny's first year, ever since the whole incident with the Chamber of Secrets, I had suddenly become aware of how easy it was for a life to be taken, for a child to simply be brushed aside by those selfishly intent on gaining power for themselves. I dreamt of my children dying, of watching as their bodies were carted away.

After Cedric's death, I dreamt of them falling to the ground, turn by turn, in flashes of green light.

I dreamt of Harry staring at them every time, broken. I never… I'm sorry… it's my fault! It's my fault! he cried every time. Sometimes he fell too, and in those moments I could feel my heart stop as I heard the dull thud of his body hitting the ground. Even in my dreams, I would scream for them, but his screams were louder.

I would watch the eyes turn to me in despair, green eyes that suddenly did spill over with tears.

And every time, I held out my arms to him, and he cried into them just as he had done in the hospital wing. He clung to me like a frightened child, and I could feel the anguish in his shaking fingers, the heaving sobs that he had been ashamed of, the feel of his heartbeat, going faster and faster as he watched them fall but was never able to stop them.

I cried over him in my dreams, and when I woke up with my pillow wet and my lips tasting of salt, I only wished that he was here so I could have really comforted him.

*

I don't want him to get hurt. I don't want him to get hurt. I don't want him to get hurt.

Riddikulus!

No, not my children, please, not my children…

Riddikulus!

No, no, no… not Harry …

Ron told me once that Harry could hear his mother screaming when a Dementor got too close to him. He said that Harry could hear her pleading, could hear her efforts to save his life. Seeing his body lying there, it's almost as if I can hear the screams of Lily Potter in my own ears; I can feel her pain, and I can hear her sobbing, so scared because her child might die…

I realise that these sobs are my own sobs, that the scream I hear is my own. I raise my wand, try to say the spell. It's not working. I tell myself that no, they are not dead, they are not dead, they are not dead… yet...

I cannot do this. If it were real… if they were dead, what would I do? Merlin, please, no …

Riddikulus!

The body vanishes, Remus coming up to me, trying to shield me from the spot where the Boggart had been just a few seconds ago, pretending to be my dead children. But I still see it. I see the bodies all the time now, haunting me, reminding me that this war will leave me grieving, once again, and this time, I might just lose those whom I love the most, those who are a part of me. I might lose my children, and I don't know if I could take that.

Even after Remus has gone, after all of them have left, I see all their bodies before me. Alone, I have nothing to do but think. I creep up to the rooms; I peer in at my sleeping children. They are all my children, even after they are of age, even after they think they are old enough to fight in the war and to know what exactly it is we worry about.

What kind of mother would I be if I let them die? If I sent them to fight in this battle willingly?

And what kind of mother would I be to selfishly want them to stay, to keep them to myself? I have lost Percy, but I believe he will return… he is my boy after all. If I lost him, I would grieve just as I would grieve for all the others.

And Harry…

I feel almost as if I have failed. I have failed to keep him safe, to give him the protection and the security a mother should give her children. He knows what is happening now, he knows. He is just a child, but I am unable to save him from everything he has to face. If I lost him, I don't know what I would do.

And what would happen if I died? If Arthur died?

Remus's words come back to me, my own foolish fears and his answer. And as for who's going to look after Ron and Ginny if you and Arthur died, what do you think we'd do, let them starve?

I wonder what Lily thought, even as she heard the words of the curse, even as she saw the green light coming. Did she know her child would make it? Did she worry about him? Or did she believe that something might happen, that if her child survived there would always be someone to take care of him?

But why should I care? I am not Lily Potter.

But why should I care? Because I can . Because if she is not there, that does not mean that Harry is alone.

I can't help but care for Harry, even if he looks nothing like Arthur or me. I have watched him grow, just as I have watched my own children. I have watched him come into his own, living through trials that no child should face.

I barely knew Lily. I now realise I knew her more than I thought I did; I knew this woman very well. She was a mother. Even as she left her child to the mercy of a madman, as she spent her dying breath on trying to save him, she knew . She knew that he would never know his mother's love, but it was exactly that which would save him. She knew that there would be those who would care for her child.

She was a mother.

And so am I. I am a mother. I can be Harry's mother. He may have not fared well before, and I know that life will only bring more suffering his way. He lives with that woman who shares his mother's blood… she doesn't care for him.

But she hasn't thrown him out yet. His uncle tried to, but she did stop him, under threat or otherwise. I don't like her, but I can only think that perhaps she does have a heart, that perhaps she might not care for him but she will not abandon him completely.

She is a mother.

And so am I.

Yes.

He has his mother's eyes .

Watching Harry sleep tonight, I do not see those eyes that everyone talks about, the green eyes that show he is Lily Potter's son. Instead, I see a boy who has grown up before me, whose name is as natural to me as if I had kept it myself, who drapes the sweater I had knitted for him over himself in place of a blanket. Even as I watch, the sweater slips, and in his sleep he grasps a sleeve, tucks it away under him, pressing his face to the wool.

I am crying now, once again. But now, I am crying because I have understood why I care for him so much.

Harry is one of my boys. Mine.

No, I may have not given birth to him, but he will always be my son.