The Marauders and the Hollow Hill

1. The Beginning

"Accio."

Through the window, she watched the mailbox rattle. A long silver thing, more decorative than most, perched precariously atop an iron rod bent strangely in different directions, like some kind of animal spent it's free time bashing it's head against it. She felt herself smile. True, her little boy spent most of his time zooming around on his toy broomstick, and, yes, most of the time, he found himself smashing into the rusting rod more than he would like.

She was proud, of course, very proud of her son. Her only child. For a very long time, she feared that she wouldn't be able to bear children, but, sooner than she expected, her and her husband's wishes came true.

She remembered the day he was born. A Thursday. A drizzly March evening. She didn't remember much, besides distant claps of thunder and a baby crying. Her baby.

Her husband had burst through the double doors leading to the bedroom, delayed by the gaggle of midwives attempting to hold him back. But she had dismissed them with a weak but thankful smile. Her husband had pushed his way forward anxiously. He was worried, frightened, even. She could tell. But she watched his gaze fall on the bundle wrapped tightly in her arms, and all the age and worry seemed to melt from his face. He had looked younger than he ever had.

She felt herself grin wider at the memory of passing the baby to her husband's arms. A tiny thing. Chubby arms, bright hazel eyes. Like his father's. She recalled gently stroking the baby's head. Delicate, thin hair grew there. Black. Like his mother's.

Her husband smiled with delight and excitement, watching the baby stare up at him, cooing softly. Then looked up at his wife, crying silent tears of joy.

She met his gaze, crying too. "We have a son, Fleamont," she remembered whispered. Then he had kissed her, whispering her name in her ear, "Euphemia darling, thank you, thank you, Euphemia..." She had returned the kiss, for she was equally grateful. For a moment, they just sat there, embracing, sobbing into each other's shoulders. The rain pattered lightly on the windowpanes, while the baby let out a cry, seeking some kind of attention.

Finally, Fleamont had pulled away, and glanced down at the child in his arms, who was waving his fat fists frantically. "He's an energetic little fellow, isn't he?" he had said.

She remembered smirking at him. "Just like his father," she replied fondly.

He looked up at her again, eyes sparkling with the tears that shone there. "You're so beautiful," he had murmured, reaching out to stroke her face. The baby wailed again, clawing at Fleamont's jacket, who glanced down at the baby in surprise. "You won't give us a moment's peace, will you?" The baby howled again.

Grinning slightly, Euphemia had eased the child back into her lap. "Not for a while, he won't." She watched affectionately as the baby yawned, stirring a bit in the blankets. "What shall we name him?" Her gaze had flickered up to her husbands. "After your father?"

"Henry? No," Fleamont had said immediately. Then he chuckled. "To be honest, I've never really liked the name." He paused for a moment, keeping his eyes fixed on the child in her lap. His son. "What about your father..."

"James?" She had been startled for a second, then relaxed. Almost relieved. "James," she had said again, in a light whisper. She reached out and grasped her husband's hand. James. Their son had a name.

James Potter.

She felt something warm and wet slipping down her cheek. A tear. She was crying.

Quickly, she wiped it away. Their son. It was a miracle, of course. They had almost given up hope on ever having children. They had been prepared to accept that the mansion Fleamont had inherited from his father would almost always be empty. No longer.