The Duty Of A Godparent

I have only ever known three people to take the role of godparent to the extremes of love, life and death. Two of those people are dead.

My godfather, Sirius Black, is the first of those two, and he gave up his role as a protector to save my parents, spent twelve years in prison that nearly stole his soul, then spent two years hiding, still keeping in contact with me and helping me through as my parents would've had they been there. In my fifth year at Hogwarts, I pulled a stunt of which I thought was daring heroism and now realise was daring idiocy, and he was killed as part of the group that entered to save me and my group. If I could see Sirius now and apologise for the pain I put him through, I would. But I can't.

Hermione Granger was one of my best friends in this world- and still is. When I first met her, she was determined. If there was something she wanted to do it got done, no matter how hard it was. I never knew it would come to this, but somehow I should've expected it. Hermione died at the hands of a Dementor, for she also fell foul of the law on my family's behalf. I do not know the story, but my heart told me, on that last day in court, that she lied about her guilt as a repayment to my daughter and to stop the pain my in-laws and I were facing. She was such a brave, selfless, stupid girl. She gave everything to stop the pain we were in and I still thank god for her prescence, as I know she is looking over her ward now and smiling.

Her ward, however, has her own things to tend to. At the age of sixteen, she sits in front of the fire, playing with a three-year-old who is respectively her daughter. Molly Weasley was Hermione's daughter, and even though I resented the choice at the time, I know that Hermione made the right choice in nominating Lily for this duty.

"Molly Weasley, don't you dare tear my books!" I yelped, noticing my old schoolbooks lay in the hands of the happy three year old.

"She's Molly Granger, Dad. She doesn't deserve to have to take that bastard's name."

I glared at my daughter, but could say no more. She was right. Ronald Weasley, my trusted friend of all those years, was a bastard. And no three year old deserved to have to take his name. He nearly killed my daughter and he did kill Hermione. Of a sort. I sighed and settled back in my armchair, studying the face of my daughter with contempt. She was as beautiful as her mother, with a long dark scar worse than my own stretching from above her left eye to curve under her right ear.

I watched her giggle with the baby, pull her onto her lap and begin to read with her, and my heart is filled with an emotion I cannot describe. Someone so young has been a mother, as such, since they were thirteen years old, and she's a damn sight better parent than any I've ever known. She devotes her whole life to that baby.

When she first returned from St Mungos, she could barely see, she couldn't talk, and she walked with a limp. She was covered in bandages in all sorts of places and had stitches all over her face, yet she refused to let anyone tend to the baby but herself.

"Lily, honey. Go to sleep. You look exhausted!" sighed Ginny, pulling her green dressing gown closer around her. Lily just looked from her mother to the baby and shook her head violently. She pulled out her wand and spelled out so it hovered in the air in golden letters,

"can't. molly needs me."

With that, she turned away from her mother and continued rocking the wailing baby. Ginny could see her wincing as her arms brushed against her bandaged stomach and winced herself. Part of her just wanted to snatch the baby from Lily's arms and order her daughter to bed; tend to the baby herself, but she knew she couldn't. Lily would scream and cry and just make herself worse. Ginny sighed and switched the light back off, although the dawn was filtering through the window.

"Goodnight, Darling. I hope she settles soon," she said softly, before adding silently, "For all of our sakes."

Lily and Ginny never did tell me what happened on that night, that night everything went wrong. All I know is Lily ended up in hospital and Ron ended up dead. Hermione stood at the tribunal with a black eye, but nothing more. I don't trust myself with loyalty anymore, for I had believed myself to be friends with Hermione and Ron equally. However, when I heard Ron was dead, Lily was in a coma and Hermione was suspected, I didn't once believe her pleadings of 'not guilty'. I watched her like I'd first watched Sirius - with resentment and anger: She'd tried to kill my only family. Now I realise my instincts are always wrong, and this has worn me down, some degrees.

When Hermione died in Azkaban, no-one can say they didn't expect it. Hermione was and still is a pure soul, a beautiful soul, an innocent soul. None of those people are meant for the confinements of Azkaban walls. At the funeral, Lily had an odd lightness to her face, which was odd.

The few days before the funeral, Lily had locked herself in her room with the baby Molly and refused to leave. She'd conjured up food only left in the dead of the night to use the bathroom. It tore Ginny and I's hearts apart.

At the funeral, however, the baby giggled, and Lily devoted all her attention to the baby. It was almost as if Hermione didn't matter anymore. I was angry at her lack of respect for poor Hermione who'd sacrificed everything, until Ginny reminded me this was probably her way of coping.

These days, she still locks herself in the room with that baby, for hours on end. I don't know how Lily will cope when Molly goes to school; she's never left her side for more than an instant.

Lily occasionally visits Hermione's grave. When she's there, she leave huge white lilies. This has always confused me, as Hermione's favourite flower was always lavender. She despised lilies. There is only one person to my recollection who ever favoured lilies, and he disappeared months before Hermione's death, no-one saw him after the trial.

"Come on Mollybun, time for bed," she whispers to the sleeping three-year old cradled in her arms.

"Night dad," she said softly to me, smiling, before carrying the baby up the stairs slowly. Sometimes I wonder why she bothers. But something I've been told by many people, including my own: "It's All In The Duty Of A Godparent."