“Saturnine?” Harry cautiously asked as he entered the living room. “Can I ask you something?”

The dark-haired witch was busy reviewing his latest summer essay, and she paused in her note-taking to peer up at him. “Of course. What is it, Harry?”

“I—I’ve been wondering—” he started, then faltered, unsure of the best course of action. “Well, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I thought that maybe—”

Setting her quill down on the coffee table, Saturnine sat up straighter with an amused smile. “Ask away, lad. I’m not going to eat you.”

Harry gathered his courage before speaking. “Well, it just struck me that you—er—you went to Hogwarts with Remus, right?” She nodded, and he pushed forward. “Did you know my parents then?”

Saturnine’s smile faltered at his words. “Ah.”

She heaved in a deep breath and let it out slowly as she seemed to contemplate her answer. “For a few years, I attended Hogwarts at the same time as they did, yes. But like I told you, I was in Ravenclaw, and they were in Gryffindor. We didn’t hang out much, even back then.”

“I know,” Harry said, coming closer and perching himself on the edge of the armchair. Then, looking up at Saturnine, he willed her to understand that he wasn’t asking because he wanted to pry into her life. He was simply desperate for any new nugget of information regarding his parents. “It’s just—I know so little about them. If there’s anything you could tell me, I’d be really thankful.”

“I don’t think I’d ever spoken to James Potter,” she admitted after a pause so long that Harry thought the discussion was over. “But I did know Lily Evans.”

“Really?” Harry beamed at her, hunching forward in excitement. “Remus and Sirius only ever talked about my dad, they told me so little about her. What was she like?”

“She was very kind and intelligent, and she had a wicked sense of humour that she tried hard to keep in check,” Saturnine replied, smiling as she reminisced about something. “But sometimes, it crept out.”

Harry couldn’t believe her words. No one had ever told him anything about his mom’s sense of humour—let alone that it was wicked.

“How do you mean, wicked?” he asked, eagerness written all over his face.

“A bit on the sarcastic side,” she explained. “And not always that respectful. She also had an uncanny ability to come up with corny nicknames.”

“Really?” No one had ever painted his mother in anything other than a glorious light, as if she was perfection personified. It felt incredible to learn that she was human after all. She’d had flaws like everyone else.

“Yes, but it was a side of her that not everyone got to see,” Saturnine went on, seemingly still lost in the memory that replayed behind her eyes. “Especially not the staff. Lily knew full well when to be on her best behaviour—and when she could let her teasing personality out for a stroll.”

“So, you knew her well, then,” Harry guessed, his gaze disarmingly hopeful.

The memory Saturnine had been reliving died at his words. “Harry—” she said in warning, her face closing up.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to pry,” he hurried to say. “Please, Saturnine. It’s just—I have these pictures of them, so, I know what they looked like. But I don’t know what they were like. Am I anything like them? Do we have anything in common?

“I know my dad was good on a broom, so, I think I got that from him. But I don’t know if I got anything from my mom, other than her eyes. I don’t know what her favourite colour was or her favourite dessert. I don’t know if she liked listening to music or if she had any hobbies.” Despite himself, Harry felt his eyes tear up, and he brought a hand up to brush them away in annoyance. “Sometimes, it’s like they never existed.”

“Forest-green, treacle tart,” Saturnine recited in a broken tone. “I don’t know about her musical tastes, but she liked to play Gobstones—even if she often lost.”

“I like treacle tart, too,” he said, a smile breaking through his sorrow.

“Yes, I noticed,” she said fondly, before falling silent again.

“Saturnine?” Harry asked, voice cautious when the dark-haired witch failed to add more to their discussion. He felt like sitting up to move closer to her but reined in the impulse.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she said, seemingly torn. She had a hard time meeting his gaze. “You know I can’t.”

Of course, he thought bitterly, standing up. Adults know better, don’t they? What should it matter what his parents had been like? There was a war going on—and more important things to consider. Never mind that his unanswered questions were killing him inside. “It’s okay,” he said, straightening his back like the good little soldier he was supposed to be. “I won’t ask again. I just—I wanted to know something about them.”

Saturnine was out of her seat in an instant, and her lean fingers curled around his wrist before he had time to leave the room. She pulled him back and forced him down on the sofa before sitting next to him.

“I feel bad having to do this to you, Harry. I really do. Please believe me when I say that I take no pleasure withholding information from you on such an important matter.” She sighed. “I didn’t realise you knew so little about your parents, and—well, like I said, I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to your father. But I did know your mother. We were friends, and of course I could tell you things about her, but I have to be careful.”

“I’m tired of having other people deciding for me what I can and cannot know,” he said, frustration slipping out. “I’m not a little child anymore.”

“I can understand that, Harry. But it’s not just about you,” Saturnine explained, removing her hand from Harry’s wrist to cover his fingers instead. “A lot of things are intertwined together, and it’s not just your life that hangs in the balance. Mine’s in there as well—and someone else’s.” She gripped Harry’s hand tighter. “I have never lied to you, Harry. And I promise I will tell you as much as I can now, and the rest, as soon as possible. But you have to give me a little bit of time to collect my thoughts and decide what I can safely share with you. Okay?”

Harry nodded over the lump that had grown in his throat. “It’s just—I don’t know them. It’s an awful feeling, Saturnine.” He sniffed, fighting back tears. “Do you know anyone else I could ask? I know who my dad’s best friends were. But did my mom have any?”

“If I’m not mistaken, her best friends were Alice Longbottom and Marlene McKinnon. Marlene died during the war, and—well, you already know about Alice.” A veil of sadness settled itself over Saturnine’s features, and Harry held her hand tightly in his.

He’d never thought about it, but Saturnine had lived through the first war, and she’d probably lost friends, too. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“It’s okay.” She tried to force a smile on her face, but it fell flat. “I hadn’t thought about those days in a long time, Harry. And it’s not all happy memories.” She paused. “I need you to give me a little bit of time to sort through it all, please.”

“Of course—I understand. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

She nodded at him before letting go of his hand. Harry was about to return to his room when another thought struck him.

“Can I ask you one last thing?” he said, feeling queasy.

“Of course,” she nodded in agreement. “Though I may not be able to answer.”

“Oh, it’s not about you,” he said. “I was just wondering if—maybe if you knew or could find out—if you don’t mind, that is. I’d like to know where my parents are buried.”

All traces of sadness in Saturnine’s face gave way to utter surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve never been, and—well…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence.

“Oh, Harry,” Saturnine said brokenly. “Of course I know where they are. Why didn’t you ask? Remus or Sirius could have taken you—or the headmaster for that matter. I thought, and I’m sure they did, too, that the Dursleys would have already taken you.”

Harry shook his head. “They never told me the truth about my parents. They told horrible lies.”

Saturnine’s hands were back on him, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly. “I’ll take you, Harry—whenever you want. We can even go now if you’d like?”

“Can I get changed first?” Harry asked. “And maybe pick up some flowers from the bushes outside?”

***

Godric’s Hollow Cemetery was as Saturnine remembered it: a large square plot of land surrounded by a medium-height stone wall. Several tall oak trees extended their branches over the rows of tombstones that lined its flanks. She had no trouble making her way to where the Potters’ grave stood, the memory of their location still fresh in her mind despite the years. She slowed as the familiar headstone came into view. It was a single rectangular, light-grey slab inscribed with both of the deceased’s names—James’ on the left, and Lily’s, on the right. Unlike some of the other tombs, which had flowers and other gifts at their feet, the Potters’ was bare and looked like they hadn’t seen any visitors in years.

Harry was as quiet as a mouse by her side. He’d not only changed his shirt before coming, but he’d also taken the trouble to try and tame his tousled hair. In his right hand, he clutched at a thick bouquet of colourful wildflowers with so much strength that his knuckles had turned white.

Saturnine hadn’t lied to him. She had never once spoken to James Potter, though she knew him by sight. She knew them all—The Marauders, as the infamous quartet liked to call themselves back in the days. She’d been taught early on to be wary of them. So, she had always kept an eye out for them in the hallways to avoid attracting their attention. Sirius Black and James Potter had been natural-born pranksters—the whole school knew it—and she’d had no will to become their next victim.

Lily Evans, though, had been a faithful friend, and seeing her final resting place again tore at her heart. Saturnine hadn’t been back here since the funeral, and the sight unleashed a wave of melancholia within her. Feeling her eyes mist over, she fought hard to maintain her self-control. She needed to be strong for Harry. She could feel tiny tremors course through the boy, and she tightened her grasp on his shoulder. Looking sideways at him, she saw that he stood rooted to the spot where he’d stopped—mere inches from his parents’ grave.

“It’s all right, Harry,” she consoled, voice barely more than a whisper. “Why don’t you go give her the flowers?”

Her words were enough to bring life back to his limbs, and Harry took the three steps he needed to reach the headstone. Crouching on his haunches, he placed the flowers before it with shaking fingers. She heard him sniff once, and when he turned back to face her, the pain on his face tore at Saturnine’s heart fiercer than the flood of memories had.

“Should I say something?” the boy asked, his voice a tentative murmur.

“You’re free to do whatever feels right, Harry. No one will judge you,” Saturnine said, clenching her teeth a little to stop the tears from overflowing. Then, turning on her side, she indicated a forlorn oak tree a couple of yards away. There was a weathered bench beneath it. “I’ll wait for you right there. You take your time, okay?”

For an instant, it felt as if Harry was going to ask her to stay. But then resolve settled on his features, and he nodded at her before returning his attention to his parents’ grave.

Saturnine did good on her promise, and she moved to the small bench by the tree. She was glad for the chance to abscond. The memories had become too much, and the wetness had breached her eyelashes. “Oh, Lily,” she muttered as she sat down on the worn-out wood. “You would be so proud of him.”

Keeping an eye out for Harry’s prostrated form, she let her mind pull forth memory after memory of younger days. Recollections of children playing in the park and learning their first spells, of swings swinging impossibly high, of her younger self letting go at the peak before slowly flying down—properly flying instead of falling—for a few precious seconds. Echoes of Lily’s laughter, high-pitched and overflowing with mirth. Flashes of a pair of obsidian eyes glinting with boundless joy. And the phantom feeling of her own belly shaking with laughter.

There had been few moments of joy in her childhood—and more than a slight pain for her brother and herself. But their time spent outside, playing in the park with Lily, had been like a collection of precious gemstones. Lily had been a shining beacon of hope in the dreary darkness of their lives; sparkling, vibrant, carefree, and oh so alive.

Gone too soon, Saturnine couldn’t help but think bitterly, and her heart wept for the future and possibilities that never were. They were casualties of the war, James and Lily. And they had been forced to leave behind their most precious gift: a diamond in the rough with a heart as iridescent as his mother’s—their son, Harry.

***

“Do you mind if we make another stop before returning to Cove Cottage?” Saturnine asked as they readied to Apparate outside of Godric’s Hollow.

Harry nodded, gazing up at the dark-haired witch intently as he tried to decipher the stony expression on her face, but too many feelings seemed to be at war with each other within her.

He wasn’t feeling much better. A part of him was happy to have come, at long last, while another hurt from an unhealed scar that had been sharply reopened. If pressed to tell anyone what he’d said to his parents mere moments ago, he wouldn’t have been able to comply. He knew it had started with, “It’s me, Harry.” But the rest was a blur. He was sure he’d apologised for not coming sooner, but that was the only thing that had made an impression. His words didn’t matter so much as the gesture of coming here did. It was all about the act in itself: facing their headstone, with its clean, sharp lines and reading their names, carved with severe capital letters. It was a tangible reminder of their absence—one made of dirt and stone.

When Saturnine’s hand settled itself on his shoulder again, he leaned in just a little, wanting to absorb all he could of the warmth that ebbed through the thin layer of his shirt. She was very much alive, and Harry drew strength from that thought.

An instant later, they Apparated just outside another cemetery. This one was smaller than Godric’s Hollow Cemetery had been—and more sinister. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, and the weather was several degrees colder. Harry didn’t need a map to know they were a long way north of the West Country. Looking around, he couldn’t make out any familiar landmarks. In the distance, he could glimpse a river snaking away amidst the tall grass, and further ahead, a small town of brick, terraced houses.

“Where are we?” he asked, rubbing his arms against his sides to fight off the chill.

“The Midlands,” Saturnine replied, and Harry understood that her reply, vague as it was, was all he would get.

“Come,” she said a moment later as she led them into the small cemetery through a worn-out, rusty metallic gate. Saturnine had no trouble navigating among the various plots, only stopping at the last row before the black fences. After a moment’s pause, she crouched down by a tomb adorned by a simple rectangular slab of stone so dark it was almost black.

It was smaller than the Potters’ had been, less imposing and much thinner. Harry moved closer until he could make out the name written on its surface in an elegant cursive—Eileen Prince, 1930–1983. There was no quote on the slab. But an intricate coat of arms had been carved below the name and dates. A soldier’s helmet, topped with two large pairs of wings, surmounted a horizontally striped blazon surrounded by swirling leaves.

“Your mother?” Harry asked, remembering who Saturnine had inherited her middle name from.

She nodded, the sharp movement the only disturbing action on her otherwise frozen body.

Harry couldn’t see her face from where he stood, but he did not doubt that the dark-haired witch was in pain. He could relate. Harry fleetingly wondered if he should offer her the same solitude she’d given him earlier. Then he thought better of it. If Saturnine wanted to be alone, she wouldn’t have taken him along. She could have come to visit her mother’s grave any time she wanted, and he wouldn’t even have known about it. But for some reason, she had chosen to take him with her.

“Your last name’s Prince, then?” he asked, trying to offer her a distraction from the pain.

“No, Prince was my mother’s maiden name.” She reached out a hand to trace the name with the tip of her fingers. “This was the last act of kindness of a loving son. And a gesture I wholeheartedly agreed with.”

Thinking back on a passing comment Saturnine had made about her father, Harry shuddered, wondering what the man must have been like; his children wouldn’t let their mother be buried under her married name.

Then, looking at the date, Harry did the math. “You were in France when it happened, weren’t you?”

She nodded, and he saw her fingers curl into a tight fist. “I didn’t even know that she was sick, so, I never got to say goodbye. When I heard about it, it was too late.”

“Could you at least go to her funeral?”

Saturnine nodded again but offered no comment on the matter.

Then, a small eternity later, she uncurled her fist before bringing the tips of her fingers to her lips. She pressed them to the inert stone an instant later. Saturnine said nothing more, but her eyes were wet when she stood back up, and Harry finally caught her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step closer to the dark-haired witch. He finally understood why she had taken him along. While there might be many things she couldn’t tell him, she could share her pain with him.

That she would trust him with her feelings in such a direct manner shook him to the core, and Harry was quick to close the gap between them. In two quick strides, he was by her side, sneaking an arm around her back as he leaned in for a hug that was as much for himself as it was for her.

“I hadn’t been back since she passed,” Saturnine admitted a moment later. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Don’t mention it,” Harry said, tightening his hold on her before adding softly, “I won’t ask anything, Saturnine. But—well, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here, you know.”