Unities

-part one
-of diaries and sadness

December 22, 1978

She was still. No movement. But we named her anyway.

Callie, as we had referred to her for years. Carolina Elizabeth Potter.

We had decided, when we were still young lovers, to name any first daughter Callie, and any first son Harry. But we never expected the first child to be stillborn. And it all came as a surprise.

They told us not to name her, because it would cause grief. Much grief. Too much grief.

And it had.

But everything that lead to the baby - the sharing in choosing the name, furnishing her room – we realize now it would be empty.

And still, we gave her a name.


October 30, 1981

It’s been two years since Callie’s soul went to heaven. But another was coming. And he came.

We named him Harry James, the name chosen long ago, and the second in tribute to his father.

But no matter how close we were to our son, in my mind I was closer to Callie. And what a sad thing for a mother to admit – that she loves one child much more than the other. And sadder, I think, is the part that our first born – the one I love most – is dead.

But will I be such a terrible mother to Harry? Or the new one, who is coming as well? We have chosen the child’s name – either Sirius or Marguerite. But though we are hiding, we are giving Harry a Halloween party. So I must go now.

*

January, 2001

He was walking through the ruined remains of the house he was born in. It was indeed ruined – ruined beyond repair. Accompanying him was the ever-so-pregnant Hermione, whose own husband was occupied with his work – otherwise he would be there as well.

Rummaging through the ruins beneath the only standing wall, he picked up an old, dust and rubble-covered leather book. The inscription on the front read ‘Lily Meredith Potter.’ Lily, Harry thought numbly. My mother.

And he stood in the pile of graffiti, and held the diary carefully in his hands. Trembling in the January cold, her turned the pages. So I had a sister, he thought dully. I wonder why no one mentioned her before?

And Hermione, who had only just noticed what Harry was holding from the rubbish she was carefully clearing away, came over. Harry had read the last entry – the place where the paged had opened naturally. She read it, then tried to comfort her old friend as they walked away.

*

She followed him home. Both walked, slowly, to the old, ramshackle house Harry shared with his wife, Nathalie, and three children. His children were triplets, two girls and a boy. Becca, Laura, and Aaron.

Harry found his key, and opened the door. Nathalie had been sitting in the living room with the children, who were only three months old. Nathalie then motioned for Hermione to have lunch, but she politely refused, and went home, thinking almost nothing of the short trip she had made to Godric’s Hollow.

*

Until she heard the news, that is.

Ron came home unusually early, but Hermione didn’t think much of it. Until a panic-stricken Nathalie arrived on the doorstep, her eyes brimming with tears. She was rapidly signing her terror, but neither Ron nor Hermione could understand her. Though their friend’s wife was mute, they had never learned much sign language, and had relied on Harry to translate. Luckily, though, Mrs. LeBoeuf, Nathalie’s mother, showed at the door next to her daughter, and announced that Valerie, Nathalie’s sister, was with the children.

Cradling her daughter in as much of a way that a woman can hold her grown daughter, she told Nathalie that if Nathalie would sign, her mother would translate. And then, the story began to unfold.

After Hermione had left, Harry painfully told his wife that he was not loved. And though she protested, that, yes, he was loved – he had a wife and three children who loved him, good friends who cared about him. But, it had not been enough. He had locked himself in the bathroom, and took his own life.

“Glory be!” Hermione screamed, as the labor pains began.