Lament of the Angels:
Amy Abbott

I remember that when my Hannah came home from school that year, she seemed so – so different.

So frightened.

So hardened.

So angry.

I remember that I tried for weeks, for months to get her to tell me why, and she wouldn't. She looked almost afraid every time she refused, and I remember being so angry when I saw her fear – could she honestly think that I would hurt her? How could she think that of me?

But that wasn't it at all.

And now, I've learned. I watched as those two children – Luna and Neville – looked hopefully at their coins every day. I watched as Hannah and Susan and Ernie and Justin sat around wondering when you would call another meeting. I watched as my little girl lost all her fire – then hardened again.

The attack on the school hardened her once more, made her stronger, angrier and more afraid all at once. I saw her, after Dumbledore died. She went to her dormitory and picked up that gold coin – the one she'd left in her trunk months before, when she had given up on you – and put it in her pocket. And I'm watching her now, still waiting – with all the others – for you to call on her.

You. Harry Potter, the teenage boy who taught her how to defend herself. You, the one who gave her the tools to survive in this world more than any other. You, who put others first in a year when everyone was attacking you.

Yes, time works in an odd way here – it's not linear. I can see your past here, and you are a survivor through and through.

And you taught my Hannah to be a survivor.

I used to think you were the Boy Who Lived.

But you're not, are you?

You're just Harry.

And I thank you, Harry, from the bottom of my heart, for giving my little girl a chance.

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