A Distant Day In December

A Distant Day in December

Thou unrelenting Past!

Strong are the barriers round they dark domain,

And fetters, sure and fast,

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

December 26, 1997...

Instead of going down to the unusually raucous gathering in the Gryffindor common room, Harry Potter sat upstairs on his bed with the curtains drawn, an event that wasn't in the least bit unusual as of late. This time, he had some new information to mull over, and it was from a very reliable source. During a restless wander through a particularly cold corridor, Harry had bumped into the headmaster, causing folders to go flying.

"You are compared to your father with frequency, Harry, but you are more like your mother than you can even imagine," he had said with a joviality Harry had thought to be lost.

"Huh?"

"She had a case of melancholy herself during her last Hogwarts Christmas and I ran into her in the halls. Unfortunately the Ministry is no longer offering the career festival that snapped her out of her little rut. I imagine things will change for you, though, too."

"What about my mum? Why was she sad? What happened?"

Dumbledore smile serenely, "She was spending her first Christmas alone. Now why don't you run up to the tower and try some of that delicious apple punch?"

The headmaster strolled away, leaving Harry to stare at the wall.

He had decided their knack for being around the bend in everyone's memories was just their way for being there for him. Harry had heard so much about his father; James had been good at Quidditch, James had been Head Boy, James had been quite the prankster, James had been excellent in classes, James had been a true Gryffindor, James had been great friends with Sirius Black, James had been a great prat, James had saved Snape's life, James had somehow persuaded Lily Evans to give him a chance even though she hated him, James had been an animagus, James had been brilliant.

It was fascinating to hear about his father, the one he was compared to all the time, but it was similar to living in a great shadow he could never overcome. Nearly everyone had loved his father even though he had been a number one jerk during the majority of his academic career.

But no one ever talked about Lily. Sirius and Remus and even Peter had been pals with his father and consequently his mother, but they never spoke of her other than her eyes. Nobody ever said 'oh Harry, your laugh is just like your mother's' or 'she was great at arithmancy'.

And maybe, even worse, nobody talked about them as a couple or with him. He wished someone would tell him why they got married so soon and how much they loved him. He wanted Baby Harry stories where he threw up all over his mum's favorite jumper that his father had bought her for a Valentine's Day gift.

There wasn't anyone left to tell him those personal stories. Nobody who really knew and would talk. Presumably Remus knew, but he clammed up quickly.

Apparently some nutty French Healer knew something about his parents, but Harry couldn't decipher enough of the bloke's English to catch what he was saying.

But when he was in Transfiguration and McGonagall changed into a cat, Harry imagined James and Sirius transforming in the blink of the eye. He could nearly see them in the back row, so he began sitting there. Harry could see him expertly flicking his wand to change anything.

In charms, Harry imagined his mother because Flitwick had mentioned that she had been an excellent charmer. Somehow, though, he had a harder time imagining her. He didn't know who her friends were, and he couldn't see her just sitting in a corner by herself. There was no way that some sort of long-lost broken bird could catch his father's eye as completely as reputed.

But no matter how hard he tried, his mother's image couldn't be dredged up like his dad's. James was even in Harry's late-night wanderings. Being by himself under the Invisibility Cloak was sort of like being with his father.

Maybe, though, Lily was like Harry. They had both grown up with Petunia, and that had to indicate some sort of a shared mental state. They grew up with Muggles. They both had green eyes. And that was it.

Harry wanted to know what his parents were like. What his life should have been like.

Ron came up again and started up his usual rounds of questions, none of which Harry answered. Instead, he interrupted Ron in mid-sentence to ask, "Do you know anything about my mum?"

"Huh?" Ron asked stupidly.

"My mother. Has your parents ever mentioned her?"

"They said your dad was a-."

"My mother, Ron, Lily Evans. I want to know about her."

"I, well, I know nothing."

"That's what I thought."

"If it's bothering you, go ask Dumbledore."

And at that moment, Harry had to wonder how in the world Ron had survived in a world he knew nothing about. "I think Dumbledore is a little too busy trying to keep Voldemort from murdering the masses to tell me fairy tales about my mum."

*~*~*

The Next Morning...

As Harry began drifting back to consciousness after a short night of sleeping, he smelled something peculiar near him. He fumbled for his glasses and watched as a brown spot shaped into a book as the world came into focus. On the cover, in a spell-written script, The Journal of Lily A. Evans.

"What the-?" he asked and trailed off as he cautiously opened the book. It was a bit odd to receive his mother's journal out of nowhere only a day after questioning about her. Inside were pages and pages of slanted handwriting that seemed to go forever. He caught brief glimpses of Millie and James and Christmas. He flipped through them, and a note fell out.

Harry, it said,

This was left in a vault given to me by your mother. There is a companion piece there also. If you would be interested in it, owl me and I'll send it to you. From what I can remember, Lily was an excellent lady and the best of mother's, I am sorry you didn't have the chance to know her better.

Happy Hols,

Celestina M. Warbeck

Harry began reading, grunting when Ron called to him. It was amazing to read his mother's thoughts, starting in the beginning her first year. The entries varied from short ones to longer, more detailed depictions of the day's events. On occasions it appeared as if she were just bouncing ideas off the paper, writing short, meaningless phrases that he didn't understand.

Until her sixth year, James Potter was not even mentioned. Harry saw this as a relief; apparently James wasn't so terrible that he didn't take up huge amounts of her mental processes.

He continued reading for two more days. Towards the end of the book, just a few months into her seventh year, Hermione spied him reading it. She read over his shoulder a few lines, and then began to smile. "She's crazy in love with him."

"What makes you say that?"

"She's pretending he doesn't exist. You can tell she's actually working at it; she starts and stops sentences out of nowhere if she thinks they're leading toward him. Whose is this, anyway? Did you swipe Pansy's diary?"

"It's my Mum's. Someone left it for me."

"What? Honestly? You're mistaken Harry! By all accounts, your house was nearly destroyed; nobody could get a journal out of it...nobody would have tried."

"I don't think it was there. It was with Celestina Warbeck."

"Why?"

"Dunno."

"I'll find out. I'll be in the library when you get done. Happy reading." Hermione was off in her usual flurry of motion.

I think tomorrow will be better; it always is, isn't it?

Harry read and reread the last words in the journal, written on December 26, 1973. He liked that, tomorrow would be better. His next move would be to write Celestina Warbeck and ask why she had his mother's journals. He received an answer quckly, along with another book. This one looked more professional. Along with it were two notes, the first on yellowing parchment.

My dearest Celeste,

I leave this with you to read when you're old enough. I hope it will rekindle my memory in your hear; yours will never die in mine.

With all my love to my only daughter,

Lily Potter

Harry's mouth dropped open and he make some sort of choking noise that made Neville look over.

Harry,

You'll find out all about me in this book.

Lots of luck and Kneazles,

Celestina M. Warbeck

Apparently one never knew what could happen with just a few days in December.

They have not perished-no!

Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet

Smiles, radiant long ago,

And features, the great soul's apparent seat

...

And then shall I behold

Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,

And her, who, still and cold,

Fills the next grave-the beautiful and young

-William Bryant...Past