Harry Potter One Shots

All That Was Left

All rights belong to the author, sick-atxxheart

"Daddy?"

The little girl's voice broke the comfortable silence in the room, and Harry looked up from his book to see his small daughter standing in front of him. Her dress was dirty and rumpled, and her hair tousled from playing with her brothers; all the same, she looked adorable. She was and always would be, Harry knew, Daddy's little princess.

"What is it, Lily?" He stretched out his hands, and in a flash she was on his lap, bouncing up and down happily. Harry put his arms around her small frame, quieting her down. After a moment, she answered his question in her small little voice.

"Daddy, why do you have all these marks on your skin?" Lily was pointing, with a quiet innocence, to the scar on his forehead and those that covered his arms. She waited quietly, her small hands stroking the lines on his arms that represented so many years.

Harry closed his eyes slowly, his head leaning back. Ginny had taken care of explaining to his sons, when they were old enough, about Daddy's scars- but never in a million years would he have expected Lily, small, sweet Lily, to ask him herself. He had been undeniably thankful when he hadn't had to address the hard question once again, to Albus and James; but now with his youngest child, he felt it was his responsibility. He couldn't just send her away, without answering the question.

But how could he explain what the jagged line on his forehead meant? How could he tell a five-year-old that when he was a baby, someone had tried to kill him but hadn't succeeded? A question following that would be why Daddy so often rubbed the scar- and Harry couldn't very well tell her that he did it because for some reason, when he was upset, he could still feel a connection- he knew it was all in his head, Voldemort was gone, but he still felt it.

And how could he tell her that during the war, in secret, he had made a mark on his arm for every personal death he had experienced? How could he say that he had used his wand to cut his arm, and then healed the cut up just as quickly as it had appeared? During the war, no one had ever questioned him about the marks on his arms, until after it was all over. The media had been all over it after- "Mr. Potter, please- what are all the scars on your arms from? Torture?" – "Mr. Potter, did you cut yourself?" He hadn't been able to say that he had done it himself, that he was too weak to withstand the pressure. But he had been, and it showed.

There were seventy-four marks on his arm, and Harry had never forgotten the names of all those his skin bore the memory of. His parents, Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore, and Tonks bore the marks closest to his wrists, the most visible. As you went up his arm, they became more and more faded- by that point, Harry had been so desolate that it took all his energy even to utter a simple spell.

He didn't particularly like to remember.

It took a long time for Harry to stop wearing long-sleeved shirts. After the war, his friends and mentors had been the only ones who were truly given the full story- and every single one of them had cried with him, counting the marks on his arms and saying the names. Those had been both the worst and the best moments of Harry's life. They had understood, and even though those scars came from moments of weakness they saw them as bits of strength. Those marks stood for lives, lives that had been lost in a bloody war. Lives that deserved to be lived, but couldn't. Those marks carried on the memory.

Ginny kissed them every night before she went to sleep, along with the one on Harry's forehead; every night, she kissed them and said, "Each scar is a memory, a story retold on flesh, Harry. Don't regret them. Just remember, and keep living."

He truly did take those words to heart, but still- because of his scars, he couldn't forget, no matter how hard he tried. But when Harry thought about it, maybe that was the whole point of why he had consciously, purposely, made all the marks. So he wouldn't forget. He had sacrificed so much in his own life- he knew that himself- but others had gone so far as to give up their lives, their being, and that debt couldn't be repaid, ever.

He hated those scars, more than anything in the world. But they were memories. He hated them, but he couldn't bring himself to regret.

"Daddy?" Lily's voice once again broke through his thoughts, and Harry smiled down at his little red-haired beauty. She looked just like her mother, and her grandmother before her.

"Lily," he began softly, stroking her hair, "These are scars that Daddy has, and they represent lives."

Her face looked confused, and Harry waited until realization dawned on her. "Like a memory, Daddy?"

"Yes, dear. A memory, every single one."

She was silent for a moment, and Harry waited quietly, not allowing himself to return to his own thoughts. Lily deserved to know- even if she was young, it would do no good to smooth over the truth when she herself had asked.

"Why?" Her next question didn't faze Harry at all, because in truth he was expecting it.

"A long time ago," Harry began, "Daddy and Mommy were in a war." Lily began to look worried, but Harry just smiled and continued. "It was a war between light and dark-"

Lily interrupted quickly. "Were you and Mommy good?"

Harry laughed softly, his eyes sparkling. "Yes, Mommy and I were good." Lily nodded, her fear suppressed. "The war was against a very bad man-"

"A monster?!" Her shocked voice caused Harry to laugh again and pull her hair affectionately, but he in himself couldn't deny the truth of her shocked statement. Voldemort was a monster, and he had ruined even more lives than the seventy-four marked on his arm.

"He was a monster." Harry's voice was low and quiet when he responded, and Lily quieted down too at his statement. "He was a monster, Lily, and he killed a lot of people. I have marks on my arm to remember all the people he killed."

Lily was quiet, and then she poked his arm with one finger. "How many?" Her voice was small, and Harry was frankly surprised that someone so little could offer so much compassion for something they didn't understand.

Harry took a deep breath and evened out his voice before replying, "Seventy-four."

"That's a lot of people, Daddy." Lily's simple statement shook Harry, and once again he was lost in his thoughts. It was a lot of people. It was a lot of lives. A lot of lives that he couldn't get back, no matter how much he wanted to or how hard he tried. They were gone. It was a lot of people, a lot of lives. A lot of death. Too much death for one person, Harry decided.

When Harry didn't respond, Lily turned around on his lap and wrapped her small arms around his chest, settling her head just under her chin. He wrapped his arms similarly around her, and against his skin he could hear- and feel- her murmur, "I'm sorry, Daddy."

Harry stroked her hair and said softly, "It's okay, Lily. My scars are the only thing left from the war. It's over."

And it was, and for the first time, Harry admitted that to someone besides Ginny, Hermione, and Ron. It truly was over.

And all that was left was scars.