The Twin Who Died: Harry Potter

Love of a Son

Lily Potter.

That was her name, now.

When she was younger, she'd imagined being Lily Evans all her life. But now she was proud to be Lily 'Potter'. Of course she was.

Because her son was a Potter. And her son was the Boy-Who-Lived. Her Boy-Who-Lived.

She'd never been prouder.

In fact, she had become so obsessed with this fact that when people asked- "does he have any siblings?"

She'd answer. "No- oh, wait..."

Because Harry was far less impressive.

She considered herself a good person, but good people like other good people, and really, Harry was not nearly as 'good' as his brother. At anything, she thought.

That night she prepared dinner. There were three plates out. One for herself, one for James Potter, and one for her Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry poked his head in the door to find himself unwelcomed, and, saddened, he slouched back up to his room. And he remained in his room the rest of the night.

James Potter.

He shared the name 'Potter' with someone so famous it could make Merlin shiver in the ground. Father of The Chosen One. His son was very deserving of the caps. He had conquered the Dark Lord, saved humanity as they knew it! James puffed out like a peacock when reminded of so.

He boasted about it on and on with the other purebloods. Whenever they insulted Lily, he'd briskly retort, "Well your wives didn't give birth to a hero, did they?"

Which of course implied he was the father of a hero, and he liked this, too.

Once he'd had important guests over. The Minister himself and his wife, Neimh Fudge, with their daughter, Claire. He was giving them a tour of the house when Claire had peaked into one room James thought empty.

"Whose room is this?" Claire asked.

James also looked in. The room had some baby toys, a couple of books, two shelves, and one ruckety bed. It looked old and unoccupied, except for the opened book beside the bed and clothing on the floor.

To James' horror a figure sat up in the bed. A bony, scrawny lad with scruffy dark hair. His green eyes burned into James' with the power of a dozen Killing Curses.

James, as politely as he could, shooed his guests away from the room. Who was that? An intruder?

Then one name came to mind.

Harry. His other son.

He looked back at the closed door, once. Considering. His hand rested on the knob, but he pulled it back.

He never touched that knob again.

Sirius Black.

Godfather to THE vanquisher of THE Dark Lord. He couldn't of been more pleased. The Boy was modest (for a famous star with the press houding him. On normal standards- no). Smart (for a kid. Not for a kid prophesized to end Voldemort). Kind (for a man-eating slug). And most of all, brave (for a walrus).

Everyone knew him. He acted the boy's BFF. He was so proud.

But he also loved Harry. Harry, the misunderstood, lonely, and neglected child. Harry, who played quidditch with him in the rain, when the Boy-Who-Lived didn't want to use his many brooms. Harry, who called him Siri, when the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't there to call the name stupid. Harry, who only really wanted his parents' love.