Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any of its characters or plot.

Just Maybe

"Harry hated Family Day. It was the worst occasion of the year, for him. But maybe—just maybe—this year's Family Day wouldn't be so bad."

"Alright now, class, you know very well we'll be celebrating Family Day on Monday..."

Nine-year-old Harry Potter started fumbling with his bag (another wretched hand-me-down from Dudley) and looked down, trying to block his ears from the teacher's tiring speech; he'd heard it all before (almost every year, actually), and he hated it.

Harry hated Family Day—he always had, and he always would. It was the worst occasion of the year, for him, at least.

Family Day meant stumbling around the school all on his own watching the other children laughing with their loved ones. Family Day meant sitting alone on an abandoned bench while mothers and fathers spent the day with their kids.

Family Day reminded him of what he didn't have.

A family. Harry had no family. His only living relatives were the Dursleys—but they wouldn't be caught dead with me on occasions like these, Harry thought bitterly, they would always go with their dear little Duddykins.

This Family Day seemed like it was going to be particularly dreadful; aside from having to anticipate the annual most-miserable day of the year, they were also expected to present drawings of their families—that was the part Harry hated most.

Harry did not know what his parents looked like. He didn't even know their names. And he was no good at drawing anything. How on earth was he supposed to illustrate them?

He wasn't going to tell Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia about 'Family Day'; he didn't dare. Besides, they were bound to hear all about it from Dudley as soon as they were home, anyway, and they weren't going to be of any help to him—they never were. He'd tried. And he'd given up.

He kept quiet the whole ride home. He did not speak a work at dinner, where Dudley babbled on about the day's events—Harry was sure Family Day got thrown in at some point in the conversation, though he wasn't really paying much attention.

It wasn't until he was locked safely in his cupboard that he let the tears sting his eyes. What kind of son am I? he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. I don't even know who my real family is.

"Harry, sweetheart?"

Harry whirled around. In front of him was a very pretty woman, with long red hair and emerald green eyes... eyes just like his. Harry felt his throat constrict.

"Prongslet!"

Harry didn't even have time to turn around; he found himself engulfed in a very tight hug, and in the next moment he was looking up into a wide, grinning face, with warm hazel brown eyes and hair just as unruly as his.

"Mum?" Harry whispered hoarsely. "Dad?

They nodded, and Harry blinked back tears—tears of joy, of grief, of longing, he didn't know—all he knew was that he never wanted to leave—he didn't want to leave them, this place, their faces—

His mother hugged him again, tighter, as if she knew how he felt. And maybe she did know. Finally she pulled away, and Harry was shocked to find that his mother's eyes were bright with tears.

"Aw, quit blubbering, the two of you," his father said playfully, but even his voice quavered. "Harry," he said caringly, proudly, kneeling down beside his only son, grasping him by the shoulders.

Harry felt overwhelmed. Memories—memories that came from nowhere, memories that he did not remember before—came flooding into him, waking his mind and warming his heart:

His father. James, his father's name was James, James Potter—he remembered—he remembered his father raising him up into the air; he had barely been a year old, then, and he and Dad were laughing, his mother smiling—

And his mother. His mother's name was Lily, Lily Evans Potter—and he knew that she was the kindest mother on earth, the best mother on earth—he wished he could stay here, and never leave—

James—his father—Dad hugged him again, tighter than Mum had, but Harry didn't care, and he hugged his Dad back just as fiercely.

And soon his Mum joined in too, and they collapsed in a heap on the floor, laughing, laughing quietly, like they were supposed to, laughing like all families did.

When they broke apart again, Harry was still grinning, though his parents' faces looked more than a little sober. Harry's smile began to fade.

"Don't get discouraged, Fawn," James said quietly, ruffling Harry's hair. "We're here for you."

Lily kissed the top of his forehead, a small, sad smile on her face. "We love you, sweetheart," she said, softly.

"I—" Harry's voice shook. "I love you too."

Harry's eyes snapped open; he bolted up straight in his bed.

The disappointment hit him in the next second, wave after wave of longing weighing him down. He sighed heavily, defeated, and listened for any sound. There was none—good: that meant the Dursley's were still asleep. It was probably still night.

Still, he did not go back to sleep right away. He thought about his parents; this was the first time he met them, after that stupid, stupid car crash, and now it was all just a dream.

No, he thought. My dream—my dream wasn't just a dream.

Lily Evans and James Potter. He knew them now. He knew he had his mother's green eyes and his father's untameable hair, and he liked knowing that. It wasn't much, but it felt like the most important piece of information in the world.

And finally he smiled. He closed his eyes, picturing his parents in his mind's eye, cherishing them, content.

Maybe—just maybe—this year's Family Day wouldn't be so bad.

AN: My first fanfiction, at least on this site. I would very, very much like – no, love – it if you (whoever you are) reviewed. Really. Constructive criticism is well appreciated, and though I very much dislike flames, I don't really think it's my place to fully tell you not to. Freedom of speech and all.

(To Francis, who was the first to read my fanfictions and suggested I publish it.)