So this is an idea I got after reading City of Glass recently for the first time. I wanted to know Clary's thoughts in the days after Valentine and far beyond, and began dotting some things down while I was bored at school. It began as a simple diary entry written by Clary, just to satisfy my curiosity. But then I got curious. A hundred years after Jace and Clary were long gone, would people still know them, or even remember? Who would read this diary after Clary was long gone? What would be someones thoughts, someone who was a distant relative of Clary maybe, while reading it? So the character Holm, Clary's direct, great-great-grandson, was born.

Holm's world is set a little over a hundred years after the end of CoG. He lives in Lightwood manor, the same home his family has lived in for centuries, since the time of Clary and Jace. A spoilt, selfish, lazy boy when it comes to anything other than demon hunting, Holm is hardly interested in anyone other than himself. But can the words of Clary, who lived over a hundred years before him, affect his heart when even his family has been unable to reach him?

All characters except for Holm, his mother, and his father belong to Cassandra Clare, as well as any settings (Alicante, Idris, ect.). Idea/Plot belongs to me.

"Holm!" His mother's shriek seemed to reverberate throughout the house. Holm Lightwood shot up in bed, his thin blond hair ruffled and his eyes bleary from sleep. "Holm! Wake up!!" He just sat and stared around the room in a daze. He was definitely not a morning person.


"Whaaat?" He groaned loudly at his door, in the direction he could hear his mother's footsteps as she undoubtedly stomped down the hall towards his room.

The door of his bedroom banged violently open. A woman, a little younger than middle-aged, strode into the room, a basket of clothes balanced on her hip. She paused and squinted into the darkness of the room. "God, it's like a cave in here Holm! Just because you're on break from the Academy doesn't mean you get to be lazy. Who ever heard of a lazy Shadowhunter?" She barked. She set the basket down and walked across the room while Holm sat, rubbing his face sleepily. Picking up dirty clothes from the floor, she tossed them behind her and into the basket with perfect aim as she walked. As she grabbed a dirty pair of jeans from the floor, she came to the large bay windows of Holms room and drew the curtains open wide, allowing sunlight to flood into the room.

Holm shouted and flopped back down onto the bed, pulling a pillow over his head. He heard his mother walk back across the room, undoubtedly picking more things up off the floor, he thought, when he heard the sound of random objects being tossed around. Suddenly, the pillow was ripped from his head and he shouted again, blinking blearily up at his mother who stood leaning over him. "Get up! I need your help today!"

She threw the pillow to the floor and tossed the blankets off him. He sat up again, this time more aware. "God! Mom! We have servants! Go get them to help!" He spat while she walked and picked up the basket of laundry. "Why are you doing laundry?" He asked with frustration.

"Because, unlike some people, I was raised in a poor household with no servants and all the work to myself and my family." His mother said sternly. "And you know what I learned from all of that?"

"I'd be delighted to know." He drawled scarcastically, jumping back as a clean t-shirt suddenly came flying across the room and hit him in the face.

"Character." His mother said firmly. "A person must have character. My son will not be some lazy asshole who relies on the servants to do everything."

He groaned loudly, but slid off the bed and pulled the shirt on. He walked grumpily to his dresser and pulled out a pair of jeans, pulling them on awkwardly. His mother stood watching him as he trudged over to stand before her. She rose an eyebrow and he sighed. "Well?" He asked grumpily.

His mother huffed. "What an ungrateful son I have. You practically come from heaven, with your background. You great-great-grandparents were famous Shadowhunters, you know, though most people have forgotten about them by now. You don't even know the history of the Lightwoods do you?"

He only grunted unhappily and scratched his head. He was hardly interested in the going-on's of some crusted old people who had died a hundred years ago. She took his silence as a no.

"It's hard to believe your top of your class." She pointed out.

He shrugged.

His mother sighed. "I want you to clean out the attic today."

His head snapped up. "What!? You've got to be kidding me."

His mother was shaking his head and digging through the basket of dirty clothes. She tossed him a dirty towl and pulled seemingly from nowhere (not for the first time, he was slightly frightened by his mother's ability to pull cleaning products from thin air) a bottle of dust spray. She shoved it into his hands. "Get to work." She said as she turned from him and walked out of the room. "And who knows? That stuff up there has been just sitting there for ages. You might find something interesting."

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, staring around the room.

"And clean your room when you're finished!" His mother added, shouting from somewhere in the house.

Holm groaned loudly.

The attic was dusty and dark. Dust motes flew through the stale air, dancing through the light of the little round window up near the ceiling, which for the moment was the only source of light. Mom was right, Holm thought as he peered around, waving a hand in front of his face. It doesn't look like anyone's been up here for decades.

He craned his neck and shouted back in the direction of the stairs. "Mom!! How am I supposed to see?!"

"You're a Shadowhunter, aren't you?!" He heard her faint shout from somewhere within the depths of the house. "Use a witchlight, for God-sakes!"

He sighed in frustration. Of course. He dug his witchlight out of his pocket and squeezed it tightly. It burst into life and its light suddenly lit up the room as well as the sun, though the bluish, white light made the atmosphere look somewhat creepy. He glared around the room and ran a hand through his fine, light blonde hair. With the light of the witchlight, the horrible state the attic was in was suddenly clear. He briefly debated whether he could make a run for it and spend the day in Alicante with is friends. But he shook his head. No, he decided. He was more afraid of his mother than he was of facing god-only-knows-what was hiding in this attic.

A half hour later, the air of the attic was clogged with dust as Holm ran around, scrubbing the many boxes, furniture, and other odds-and-ends free of dust and grime. He coughed and threw himself down on a clean spot on the floor, waving the rag he was using to dust in front of his face. It didn't help and seemed to only make the problem worse. Dust particles flew around threw the air, illuminated by the witchlight. He peered around at the disaster of the attic. Despite having worked for the past half-hour, he had barely made any progress. He growled angrily and, in frustration, kicked the box nearest to him; which, coincidentally, happened to be the base of a huge tower of boxes which came crashing down near him a second later.

He shouted and scrambled away as the tower of boxes came crashing down, their contents spilling out. He crouched away from the mess as books, lamps, figurines, anything you could imagine flew around. When everything had settled down, he coughed, and lowered his hands from his head, peering around. The attic was in even more of a mess than before and he shouted, shooting up, aiming to kick the nearest object…

And stopped. The object he was about to kick appeared to be a large, leather bound book. There was a small glass square on the cover where an old, yellowing picture was framed. A word sewn into the brown leather of the book below the picture read Clary and there was the Lightwood family symbol.

Clary. The name sounded strange, but was also familiar. His anger forgotten for the moment, he bent to pick up the book and looked at it. It looked old. He peered at the picture in the little square but couldn't make out what it was through the layer of dust and grime. Curiously, he flipped the book open. The pages protested loudly and he concluded that no one had touched the book in years. The edges of the pages were yellowed and crinkling and the pages themselves were stuck lightly together. He carefully pried some apart and peered at the first page he could. Printed on the page in a loopy, carefree handwriting, were paragraphs of words and at the top of the pages, his eyes caught two significant ones, standing alone. Dear Diary… So it was a diary?

He closed the book (or diary) again and then opened it and peered at the inside cover. The only thing printed there carefully was

'Diary of Clarissa "Clary" Graymark'

only the Graymark part had been crossed through carefully with a single line and written under it in the same careful tone, the same loopy handwriting, was "Lightwood".

So someone from my family? He thought. And okay, he admitted, he was curious. What his mother had said had been true. He didn't know much about his past other than immediate facts. He sat down, setting the book carefully in his lap, and delicately pried apart the first few pages. Curiously, he peered down at the second or third or so page and looked at the date.

May 12, 2007

Damn! He thought mentally. That was over a hundred years ago! Here was a diary written by his distant relative over a hundred years ago. His curiosity was only increased and he began to read…

"Dear Diary,

All the excitement seems to have finally ended. Simon left Alicante to return to Brooklyn with the rest of the Lightwoods and Magnus yesterday. He will be finishing his last few years in normal high school and then will go to college. Considering his newly acquired hotness and, in his words, "rockin bod", I pity the girls who will no doubt flock to him like flies to honey. Isabelle, after completing her last year of training, has gotten permission from Maryse and Robert to follow him. I'm not entirely sure how Simon feels about the idea yet. Magnus and Alec are discussing living arrangements. Now that Alec is considered an adult and has finished his training, Magnus is trying to convince him to move in with him. I have a feeling it won't take much convincing.

Mom and Luke have mentioned getting married. It's too soon to tell right now, but I think it's a pretty sure bet that I will be attending a spring wedding next year. Mom and Luke have even allowed me to call myself Graymark. Morgenstern is a hated name to us all. We are staying in Alicante for the mean time as they work out a few details with the council and will soon return to Brooklyn to meet back up with the Lightwoods.

Jace did not go back with his family. Instead, he decided to stay with me, which is good. I don't think I could stand to be apart from him. The pain that comes from even the thought is almost too much to bear. I think it's the same for him, too. He is always with me and it seems like he always has his arms wrapped around me in some way or is gripping my hand tightly in his. We are constantly together, even around Mom and Luke. Luke is already fond of Jace, so that's no trouble. I was at first worried for a moment about Mom liking him, but my worry was wasted, for which I am glad. Mom has come to adore him. I think Jace enjoys the attention. She has even offered to let him live with us back in Brooklyn, despite knowing that Jace and I will go live with the Lightwoods at the Institute where I will begin Shadowhunter training. Mom, not surprisingly, is being difficult about me moving out. I'm not sure whether this is because our whole lives she has kept me so close, or because she does not trust me living with Jace under anyone's supervision but her own. The Lightwood's values are somewhat different, after all. But I don't think she needs to worry. Now that we don't have to hide anything, things are moving slowly between me and Jace. I'm perfectly happy just spending time with him, as he is with me.

My mother is not the only one becoming attached to Jace. Amatis has said repeatedly that she will be sorry to see Jace go once we go back to Brooklyn. I think this is more due to Jace's resemblance to his birth-father Stephen Herondale than anything. I've looked at pictures and the similarity between them is incredible. It is through these similarities that Amatis and I have become close, too. Considering how alike Jace is to his birth-father, we both might have fallen in love with the same man. In any case, Amatis dotes on him as if he were her own son. Which, now that I think of it, had it not been for Valentine (I refuse to call him my Dad, he was never a father to me), he would have been.

As I write, sitting leaned up against Jace's leg's in the Penhallows garden, I keep glancing up to make sure he isn't sneaking peaks at what I'm writing. He isn't and is instead contenting himself with playing with my hair. He seems much lighter, like the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders. He is less hunched. The bags under his eyes have lightened. His expression isn't constantly set in a state of anger or bitterness. It makes me feel so lighthearted to see him this way. To be able to sit with him like this without it being a terrible crime. Until a few days ago, I had thought I would never get to be with him like this, and he thought the same of me. Now we know the truth, and let me tell you, the truth does set you free! His hair has grown out again. It's curly and falls into his eyes when he leans forward. His golden eyes are more relaxed and carefree than I have ever, ever seen before.

I am happy.

—Clary. "

Oh. Hell.

"Mom!" Holm shouted, jumping up and running down the stairs! "Mom!" He ran all the way through the house, shouting, and finally found her in the kitchen.

"Quiet! Your father is taking a nap!" His mother asked, peering up from her place stirring a big pot of something at the stove. "What is it?

"Loo—" He paused in his speaking. "Wait. Dad's home?"

"He came home about ten minutes ago. What is that?" She asked, banged the wooden spoon against the pot, set it aside, and covered the pot with its lid.

"I found it in the attic. Look! It's an old diary!" He said, thrusting it towards her.

She took it, an amused smile on her face. "I told you you'd find something you might think was interesting." She looked at the cover, tried to rub off the grime from the picture, and failed. Huffing, she carefully opened the book and read the words on the inside cover. "Clary Lightwood!" She exclaimed, her eyes widening. "That's your great-great grandmother!" She said, closing the book and handing it back to him. "She and her husband, Jace, your great-great-grandfather, were very famous Shadowhunters."

He took the book back and absently rubbed at the picture. "What were they famous for? And whose Valentine?"

His mother shook her head and returned to her pot on the stove. "I don't know. They lived a very long time ago. There's a statue of them at the Academy, in fact." His mother said absently. "In the west garden. The only thing I know is that they were said to have the blood of angels."

"All Shadowhunters have the blood of angels." Holm protested.

His mother shrugged. "I don't know anything else about it. I married into the Lightwood family. Ask your father."

"Okay!" he shouted and darted from the kitchen. His mother dropped the spoon she was stirring with suddenly and snapped around.

"Oh, wait, he sleep—" But he was already gone. She shrugged. "Oh, well."

"Dad!" He shouted, running into his parents room. His father grunted and started awake. "Dad! Wake up! Look at this!"

"If you're going to show me another one of your school trophies or the head of some recently slayed demon, get out." His father's muffled voice came through the pillow his face was buried in.

"It's not! Look! I was cleaning out the attic for Mom—"

"She probably forced you to do it."

"That's not the point! I was cleaning out the attic for Mom and I found this." He announced triumphantly, slapping the book down on the bed near his father's feet.

His father sat up and peered sleepily through his black bangs at the diary. "What's that?"

"Open it! Read the inside cover."

His father did as he was told, sighing. He pulled the diary towards him and is eyes widened in shock. "Clary Lightwood! Where did you find this?" His father asked, leaning over to the nightstand and grabbing his glasses, which he shoved onto his face.

"In the attic." Holm repeated impatiently. "Who were they?"

"Your great-great-grandparents. My great-grandparents."

"I know! But Mom says they were famous and that there's even a statue of them in the Academy. Why?"

His father carefully flipped through the pages of the aging diary. "Over a hundred years ago a man named Valentine, a Shadowhunter, thought that Downworlders were nothing less than scum and vowed to eradicate every single one of them, as well as any Shadowhunters who went against him. He betrayed the Clave and killed many innocent people, and even allied himself with demons to try and reach his goal, completely forgetting the reason the Nephilim exsisted in the first place. His wife was Jocelyn Morgenstern and his daughter was Clarissa, or Clary." His father explained, his eyes glued to the diary.

"Valentine… we learned about him in a little at the Academy." Holm mused. "He was killed by Raziel, or so the story goes."

"That is true." His father said. "Valentine used the Mortal Instruments, which up until that time had been lost for centuries, to summon Raziel for the second time and have his wish that all the current Nephilim be stripped of their powers. He thought the Clave of that time corrupt and it was true, in many ways they were. But they were mostly corrupt because of him. His daughter, who he had intended to use as a sacrifice to summon Raziel, foiled his plans and, along with her then-boyfriend of the time, your great-great-grandfather, Jace Lightwood, saved all the Downworlder's and Nephilim, ending Valentine's reign of terror."

"Is that it?" He asked almost desperately.

"Well, of course there's more to the story." His father said, pushing his glasses up farther on his nose. "But it's been a hundred years. And no one remembers Valentine anymore. Which is probably bad," His father added absently, "as the whole situation with him could happen again if no one bothers to remember. But in any case, because no one remembers Valentine, no one remembers Clary or Jace. So I don't know any more than that."

"But I've got to know!" Hold insisted. He didn't know why, but suddenly he was insatiably curious about these people, his great-great-grandmother and father, especially after hearing his father's brief story.

"Well, try reading the diary." His father replied. "It was written by your great-great-grandmother Clary Lightwood herself. If you want to find out, that's the best place to start." His father yawned and flopped back, pulling his glasses off and tossing them back onto the nightstand. "Now let me sleep. I just got back from the Moscow Institute and I'm exhausted. Tell your mother to wake me when dinner is ready."

Holm tucked the book carefully and turned to walk from the room. "Alright." He said, to everything his father had just said.


At this moment, I'm not sure whether or not I will keep this as a one-shot or continue the story, but I think the chances that I will continue are pretty good. ^^ I'm still not finished digging through Clary's head! Comments are better than cookies. O.o Also, I'm interested in beta readers. I've never used them before but I'd like some critique on what I could improve upon. Thank you!