The Memories She Never Told
After the picnic day, where the young ones had enjoyed themselves and even the adults had shared long conversations, Wanda found herself surprised to be talking about part of her past. Speaking of it—even if only a little—felt strange to her… as if a part of her heart, sealed away for years, had yielded to the warmth of that day. Even she was surprised to realize she could do it.
But come nightfall, her usual habit returned: sending Harry off to bed.
She smiled at the sight of him yawning, rubbing his eyes clumsily while Red followed him faithfully. That simple, everyday image was a balm that kept her standing.
When she finally lay down, the memories of the day began to weigh on her more than expected. She had spoken too much, opened doors she usually kept shut.
She remembered her parents, the losses, the war. It had been a long time since she had thought about them. She used to think of them constantly—every day, every night. But her new life as Harry's mother, her work in the Wizengamot, the management of the Potter company… all of it had kept her so busy that she had almost managed to silence those voices from the past.
And yet, now that they had returned, she couldn't push them away. She sighed, wishing they wouldn't haunt her. Without realizing it, fine red threads unfurled from her, slipping like a whisper toward Harry's room, into the corners of the house, as if her emotions were trying to escape.
She turned off the light, hoping that by morning those memories would have faded.
…
Harry opened his eyes, confused. He felt as though he were floating on water and sat up abruptly.
The place was strange: a shallow river held him, and above it stretched a reddish sky with clouds drifting like soft brushstrokes. It looked like an eternal sunset—beautiful, but empty.
"I was supposed to go to sleep in my room…" he murmured, looking around uneasily.
Not far away, he spotted a mound of red scales. He hurried over.
"Red, wake up," he said, giving him a small nudge.
The dragon opened his eyes, happy to see him, but instantly went rigid. He shot upright, turning his head in every direction, on guard.
"It's fine, there's no one else here… I think," Harry said, trying to calm him, though he was still confused himself. "This is like when I practiced mental barriers with Mom… but if this is my mind, you shouldn't be here."
He crouched down, playfully squeezing Red's nose. The dragon sneezed, releasing a red spark, and shook his head.
Harry put a hand to his chin. "Then… where are we?"
As if the place itself answered his question, the water began to ripple in several spots.
Harry and Red tensed, but Harry quickly noticed something terrifying—he couldn't feel his magic. Neither his normal magic nor the Chaos magic.
The ripples shaped themselves into floating spheres, like red soap bubbles. Inside each one, images began to appear.
Harry stepped closer to the nearest one, and his heart skipped a beat. He saw Wanda, his mother, just the previous night, lying in bed and thinking silently.
"Mom…" he murmured, slowly understanding.
He walked among the bubbles, watching more memories: fragments of Wanda's life, private scenes, forgotten moments. "I'm in her mind… in her memories."
Red followed in silence, but they both froze at the sight of one image unlike the rest.
In it, a young Wanda was trapped under rubble, clutching tightly to a silver-haired boy trembling beside her. Her eyes were fixed on a missile resting in front of them, aimed at them like an inevitable sentence.
Harry trembled. His throat tightened. He walked toward the bubble, and Red, uneasy, gave him a gentle push with his snout. The contact made Harry touch the surface. Instantly, they were both pulled inside.
…
When he opened his eyes again, he was amid ruins—dust, bricks, debris. And there, before him, was Wanda as a small child, clinging desperately to her brother.
She didn't take her eyes off the missile, as if each second might be the last. The fear in her gaze was so intense it felt almost alive, as though it filled the air itself.
Red growled. Seeing her like this ignited fury in him. Little Wanda couldn't see him, but he could see her. And deep inside, something roared—he had to destroy what terrified her.
With a leap, he launched himself at the missile, biting and clawing with all his strength.
"Red, wait!" Harry shouted, but Red's claws passed right through. The missile wasn't real—it couldn't be destroyed.
Red landed, turned, and charged again and again in desperation. Each time, he went straight through it, unable to touch it, unable to tear it away.
Until Harry grabbed him from behind, pressing his face into the dragon's scales to calm him.
"Red… we can't do anything. It's a memory… something that's already happened. This happened to Mom," he said in a trembling voice.
Red kept growling, unwilling to give up. His eyes burned with the need to protect.
Harry hugged him tightly, as if holding him back also held back his own pain.
"It's okay… it's okay. Mom's fine now. She's fine… she's fine…" he whispered again and again, like a mantra, as if trying to convince not just Red, but himself—and even the little girl who couldn't hear him.
…
And so they remained, trapped in that memory. Two whole days, watching as Wanda barely allowed herself to close her eyes for moments at a time, exhausted, only to open them again and fix her gaze on the missile that could end everything at any second.
Every second was a sentence. Every breath, a miracle.
And Harry understood, more than ever, the weight of the memories his mother carried in silence.
The rescuers finally arrived, pulling debris away with trembling hands and improvised tools. Amid dust and shouts, they managed to get Wanda and Pietro out—covered in cuts and dirt, but alive.
It was then that Harry and Red felt the memory push them out, dragging them back toward that red lake filled with bubbles suspended in the air.
Harry appeared standing, a serious expression on his face, while the calm waters reflected a sky perpetually stained with sunset.
Red approached and rested his head against Harry's leg, eyes downcast, as if sharing the same silent weight. Harry stroked his scales gently, forcing a smile.
"It's okay… I told you. Mom's always fine."
The dragon let out a low snort, as if he wanted to believe it too.
Harry lifted his gaze toward the bubble he had just left and, after a moment's hesitation, shifted it to another. Curiosity burned in him. It was hard to stop now… especially because his mother never spoke about her past. And here it was, revealing itself before his eyes.
He reached out, touched the surface, and at once he and Red were pulled inside again.
…
They appeared in a dark, dirty street, where a young Wanda—around eleven years old—was running desperately alongside Pietro.
Behind them, a group of adults chased them with sticks and stones, shouting insults. In their arms, a meager piece of bread.
They took shelter in an alley, panting. Wanda glared at him furiously.
"I told you we didn't have to steal, Pietro! You're an idiot!"
He, disheveled and with scraped knees, puffed out his chest with childish pride.
"I didn't steal it! That man dropped it on the ground. I just picked it up… but he still tried to hit me. At least now you won't be hungry."
A mischievous smile lit up his face as he held out the bread.
Wanda frowned, ready to snap back, but at that moment her stomach growled loudly. She could only look at him with exasperated resignation before breaking the bread in half and handing him one piece.
"You're welcome," Pietro added with a triumphant little smirk.
"One day… we won't be fast enough to get away," Wanda murmured, letting sadness slip into her voice.
"That doesn't matter. I'm here to protect you. I'm the older one, after all."
"You're the older idiot," she retorted, but with a soft glimmer in her eyes.
Harry watched it all in silence, his chest tight. They had nothing… except each other. And yet, in the middle of misery, they could still laugh.
For the first time, he was meeting his uncle—his mother's brother—the one who had always been absent from her stories.
"He seems fun…" Harry whispered with a bittersweet smile, watching Pietro try to cheer Wanda up even in the middle of hunger.
…
The memory pushed them out again, sending them back to the lake.
But they didn't stop. One after another, they explored new bubbles, watching Wanda and Pietro's steps through the years.
They grew together, inseparable, protecting each other. Pietro became increasingly impulsive, getting into fights out of pride, and Wanda, with patience and fear, would tend to his wounds, worrying more for him than for herself.
In their teenage years, the misery had changed only slightly. They were now part of a group of refugees. They worked at whatever they could: carrying boxes, cleaning, guarding, surviving.
Harry saw them exhausted, night after night, collapsing together in a corner—and still smiling the next day.
Until one memory hit him hard. Wanda, still young, stood on an improvised battlefield, surrounded by smoke and screams.
Pietro fought at her side, moving like lightning to shield her from enemy attacks. Sokovian guerrilla fighters—barely adults—risking their lives against local rebel forces.
Harry clutched his chest, terrified. Seeing his mother like that… so fragile, so exposed, with weapons aimed at her, tore him apart inside.
Red roared, leaping at the enemies as if he could reach them, his body passing through them without effect. He wanted to protect her, to place himself between Wanda and the bullets, but it was useless. Just a memory.
And in the midst of that horror, Pietro was always there. He appeared again and again to shield her, save her, pull her from death at the last second.
With each scene, Harry felt that this uncle he had never met was earning a deep place in his heart.
Until, in another memory—now older, twenty years old—they saw soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms, bearing unknown insignias, surround them.
It didn't look like an invitation. It was forced recruitment.
Wanda and Pietro looked at each other, and in that shared silence, they accepted the inevitable.
Harry closed his eyes, a lump in his throat.
He didn't know what came next.
But he felt it wouldn't be anything good.