What the Stars Remember
══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
Pam was five years old all over again.
This was a task she had been putting off for the last two months--since the day she’d noticed the object in the back of her trunk on her first day at Hogwarts. Then she had done what she usually did the best: she had avoided it until it stopped looking at her.
Until today.
She did not know why she was so reluctant. Perhaps because it was not merely a thing. It carried a whole lot of weight—of years, of silence, of something that used to feel safe.
Now she lay back against the pillows, eyes following the sparkling stars in the transparent dome. The diary lay on her stomach, the cover soft and worn out through time and usage. The spine had cracks and marks that came from being held by hands which were so small that they could not handle it without damage. It had been her first one. At the time she had stuffed its pages with a sort of faith that children alone had, writing to someone to whom no reply was ever to be received.
She hadn’t really understood what absence meant, back then; The sheer reality of it--of the finality of it--had come later on, like a bruise that deepened long after the impact.
Her fingers brushed the spine, lingering over the faint groove of an old name, probably hers? It was smaller than she remembered, but somehow heavier, as well. Pam opened the cover, and the first page stared back at her, the first letter she had ever written.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It was… surprisingly warm.Dear Mummy,
I don't rember you very much. You know, daddy says you was very nice and you like to sing. I also attempt to sing but I forget the words. Maybe you can hear me anyway?
I think your hair was soft. I think you hugged me a lot. I really wish I could remember that. Daddy says that I look like you, but I do not know what he means.
Do you miss me? I miss you even if I do not know why.
Love,
Pam
Pam still could not recall the face of her mother quite well. There were photos, of course — neat stacks of them in drawers, a few small ones between the pages of books, one in a frame and lying by her bed. She had actually brought some to Hogwarts, though she wasn’t sure why anymore. Maybe to feel like she hadn’t forgotten. But photos lied, in a way. Or perhaps they simply were incapable of telling the truth as memories did. A person never looked exactly the same in pictures, did they? Something was always missing, the voice, the warmth, the movement of the eyes.
Pam knew that she was like her father. Everyone said so. Same dimples, same shade of hair, same smile. Her only difference was her eyes, which were turquoise, gentle and bright, and her father had once told her, identical to yours mum.
However, she had nothing to compare that to. No real image, no living memory. The photos never caught her mother’s eyes quite right. It was too dark, or too pale, or the eyes were looking at some other person altogether. And perhaps that was the worst, not forgetting, exactly, but never really having anything to forget in the first place.
She flipped the page and continued to read.
Pam shook her head, a small twitch tugging at her lips as her eyes scanned the second page. It really did sound like something a five-year-old would write--plain, awkward, too earnest. And the pull of innocence that was growing as a kind of aching in her breast. She huffed out a quiet laugh. Had my grammar really been that bad?Dear Mummy,
I miss you. I made a drawing of a flower to-day. It is pink and yellow. I think you would like it.
Well, daddy says you is in the stars, but I cannot see you yet. Maybe you is hiding? It's okay. I can wait.
I was brave today. I didn't cry when I fell down. I think you would be proud.
I love you big big big. Bigger than the moon.
Love,
Pam
It had made her cheeks warm, but she could not tell whether it was the embarrassment, or the dim, aching memory that curled in her chest. The loops of her old handwriting were unsure, the black of the ink obscured in spots where her pencil must have slipped out of her fingers. Every one of these lines was like a reminder of the human being she had been-- of someone who had not yet lost faith in the fact that letters would find their way to the stars.
Pam’s smile dimmed as she reached the next page, the space between the two letters filled only by faint smudges of graphite and a tiny flower doodle in the corner. The handwriting was a little steadier in the next letter—less uneven, but still carrying that careful, unsure touch of a child trying to make sense of something she didn’t quite understand..Dear Mummy,
I drew a picture of us today! You are in the blue dress you liked, and I put a bunch of flowers around you because you always smelled like the flowers. It is very pretty, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy put it on the fridge. He smiles at seeing it, but his eyes are sad, you see?
I searched for you in the garden to-day. I imagined that you had been hiding, but there was only a cat. She was looking at me like she knew something. Do you miss her too? Dad says she was yours, and you liked her.
It’s been a long time since you tucked me in. I still keep your blanket near me—it smells a little different now, but it helps me sleep. Maybe when you come back, you can tell me if I drew your hair right.
Love,
Pam
It was strange, to see the quiet stretch between the letters. The way the drawings had changed—fewer flowers, more empty skies. The cheerfulness hadn’t vanished, not yet, but it had begun to waver.
Pam brushed her thumb against a small crayon sketch at the corner of the paper, and for a second, she could remember that part of herself sitting cross-legged on the floor, pressing the pencil too hard, hoping that the act of writing would make everything seem normal once again.
Dear Mummy,
I smashed one of the vases at home today. It was the one that was close by the window--the one that had blue flowers in it. I did not intend to do it, I just fell when I was running. Daddy didn't scold me, though. He just looked tired. He's been tired a lot lately.
When will you come back home? I asked Daddy but he didn't reply. He simply smiled, though not the real one, you know? I saw him crying last night when he thought I was asleep. I think he misses you. I miss you too.
I still have your scarf under my pillow, and as though you were there. It smells like you, a little.
Please come soon, okay? There are too many things that I have to tell you.
Love,
Pam
This one was quieter, heavier somehow—childish innocence stretching itself thin, trying to patch over something too large for her to comprehend. Pam remembered that scarf, she had left it back in her wardrobe at home —tucked behind a mess of sweaters she never wore… What did it smell like again? Did it smell like her mother? She had once known. It had smelled the same that she could recall. Something soft. Familiar. Perhaps likr rain or old books or that sweetness that her dad said belonged to her mum.
Another inhale, another page. The fourth letter was almost two months later than the third, and there was something in it which was not in the same style--less like a child's passing whim. The handwriting was neater this time, though the lines still wobbled and the letters were tilted to the right. It wasn’t the scrawl of a girl just playing pretend anymore; it looked like someone trying to be understood.
Even before reading a single word, Pam could feel the shift--as though the air had grown still between one letter and the next.
That is when the pain had started. At the time, she had been unable to give it a name: the strange ache that followed her everywhere, the quiet that used to feel safe turning sharp instead.Dear Mummy,
I think I understand now. Daddy said to me that you are not coming back. Before I did not believe him, but... I think I do now. I waited till you came on my birthday, and I continued to look at the door, but it was quiet all day. I believe we both left your absence even though dad bought me a cake and we went to the zoo. It's okay though. I'm not mad. I just miss you.
I still speak to you now and then even when you are not able to answer. I tell you what I do in classes and what I draw and how I assisted Daddy to make pancakes but they never taste your pancakes. I do not cry so much now, only sometimes, when it rains, because the rain sounds like when you used to hum.
I hope you are happy where you are. I hope you can see me. I am doing my best to be good so that you will be proud.
Love,
Pamela
Coping hadn't come easy. How do you fill in a space that you do not really remember, you just know you are missing, and even that is because you have been told so since you were a child? Would Pam have found it weird that she had only one parent for as long as she could remember, if she hadn't seen all other kids her age being picked up by two people they called their parents? Her father tried, in every manner possible to him, but there were still times when the house felt lopsided, as though something important had been slowly erased.
With a gentle thud, Pam closed the book and let her eyes close. She still had some more letters to read--four, if she remembered right, but she couldn't be sure--but the weight of the ones she’d already read pressed down heavier than she expected. Her chest felt tight, full in a way that wasn’t quite sadness but close enough.
It might wait, she decided, fingers still lying lightly on the cover. Just for tonght, this was enough.
══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
Last edited by Pamela Graham on 13 Jan 2026, 10:30, edited 1 time in total.
"I'd rather be heartless, than have my heart in pieces"
-Calming Presence- The Muggle Condition
iNPC: Hikari Fujimoto
What the Stars Remember
══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
Winter crept in quietly, tucking the world beneath its frozen hush.
The world slowed down. People walked softer, the castle spoke quieter, and the world felt muffled under the weight of snow piling up on the windowsills. Pam felt it too — the calm, the stillness, the… pause. Like something inside her had finally stopped running long enough to breathe.
Two whole months had passed since she had opened the diary that day.
It wasn't intentional. She hadn't shoved it away or tried to ignore it, unlike earlier. It had simply sat on her bedside table, untouched but not forgotten, gathering a thin film of dust and soft moonlight. And she? Well… life happened. Classes, homework, Quidditch practice, baking sprees, late-night conversations with her friends that spiraled into laughter.
And then winter had crept in, cold and careful, and suddenly every quiet thing in her life felt louder.
Maybe that's why she noticed the diary again tonight.
The Astronomy Tower was colder than the rest of the castle; her breath puffed faintly in the open air as she settled on the stone floor, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Snow drifted down from the sky above, each flake catching bits of moonlight before dissolving into the darkness below.
Pam's gaze drifted to the diary lying where she’d last left it.
She hesitated.
A familiar pinch pressed under her ribs, but it didn't scare her this time. It felt… gentler. Like the ache had settled into something she could hold without shaking.
She could do this.
Slowly, she reached out and pulled the diary into her lap. The cover was cool to the touch now, the leather stiff from the winter chill. She rubbed her thumb along the spine until the warmth returned.
The moment she opened it, a soft smell of old paper rose up — comforting, almost nostalgic. She flipped past the letters she'd already read, the pages worn where her fingers had lingered two months ago.
Her old handwriting waved up at her like an old friend.
Then, finally, she reached a page she didn't recognize — a letter she hadn't seen yet, tucked almost shyly between two drawings.
The handwriting was different again.
A little sharper. A little more practiced. Still childish, but older… steadier.
Pam exhaled through her nose, pulling her cloak tighter around herself as the snow continued drifting lazily past the open arches of the Tower.
"Alright then," she murmured, bracing herself. "Round two."
She smoothed the page.
And then she started to read.
Pam slid her thumb under the edge of the next page, the paper soft from age and handling.Dear Mummy,
Daddy moved the living room around today. He said it was because the sunlight falls better on the sofa this way, but I think it’s because the old corner was too quiet. Your chair is still there, though. Daddy dusts it himself, very carefully, like he’s afraid it'll disappear if he doesn't.
I asked him today if you had a favorite song. He said he couldn't remember. I think he does, but maybe remembering hurts. I don't ask again when he gets that sad shape in his mouth.
School is fine. My teacher says I’m "imaginative," which I think is her polite way of telling me to stop daydreaming. I'm learning to bake. Daddy said the cookies tasted like happiness, but I know he was lying because they were burnt on the bottom and kind of crunchy in a bad way.
Sometimes, when I come home, I still stand in the doorway for a little bit. Not because I think you'll come back—I know you’re in the stars—I just like pretending the house might feel full again.
I hope it’s warm where you are.
Love,
Pam
The handwriting on the previous letter — rounded, hopeful, young — faded as she turned it, replaced by something a little smaller, a little tighter.
It was still her, still a child… but something had changed. The loops of the letters weren't as wide. The sentences didn't breathe as freely.
It felt like watching a candle gutter just slightly, not out — but dimmer.
Pam let out a slow breath and continued reading.
The end of the letter carried a weight in the way the quill had pressed into the paper, leaving tiny indents Pam could feel under her fingertips.Dear Mummy,
I don't write as much anymore. It's not because I forgot. I don't think I ever will. But sometimes I feel silly writing to someone who can't answer. I hope that doesn’t make me a bad daughter.
Daddy found one of your earrings today. It was stuck under the bookshelf. He stared at it for a long time, like he was scared that picking it up would break something fragile inside him. I just sat with him quietly until his face went normal again.
He said he’ll put it away “later.” I don’t think he’s ready for “later.”
Everyone keeps saying time heals things. I don’t think time is doing anything. It just makes the shape of where you’re supposed to be more obvious.
I wish I knew your voice. I wish I knew if you laughed loudly, or if you hummed when you cooked. I keep dreaming about someone humming, and I don't know if it's you or just my imagination.
I hope I'm still someone you'd love.
Love,
Pam
She brushed her thumb gently across them, almost instinctively trying to soothe the younger version of herself who had written them.
When she turned the page, her breath froze painfully in her chest. The handwriting leaned harder, angrier. The ink strokes were sharper, uneven in places — like the writer couldn't decide whether she was furious or just scared.
Pam could almost see her eight-year-old self hunched over a desk, jaw set, eyes burning with tears she refused to let fall.
That moment where pain, finally, finally gave way to anger.
Pam paused, letting her eyes rest on the last line of the angry letter.Dear Mummy,
I feel angry sometimes.
I know I shouldn't. I know you didn't choose to go. But I still get angry. Mostly because I don't know anything about you. Not the real things. Not the small things. I don't know if you liked tea more than coffee, or if you had a favorite color, or if you snored. People say I look like you, but I don't know what that means, and it makes me feel… wrong.
Daddy tries very hard. I can see it now. But he's tired all the time, and sometimes I feel like I'm tired too. Like missing you is something heavy we carry on the same side.
I don’t want to be angry at you. I want to remember you. But remembering nothing at all hurts in a way I don't know how to explain.
I hope you understand.
Love,
Pam
The words felt raw, almost loud on the page. But when she flipped to the next one…
Quiet.
The handwriting softened again — not cheerful, not exactly — but calmer, as if the storm had passed and left behind a tired kind of clarity. There were fewer corrections, fewer pressed-in ink spots. Just a child trying to make peace with something far too big for her small hands to hold.
Pam felt her throat tighten. She turned the page carefully, like she might wake the girl who wrote it.
When she reached the end of the last childhood letter, Pam didn't move for a moment. The final word — her full name, written with a seriousness she no longer used, a heaviness that had been softened over the last two years — sat on the page like a soft goodbye.Dear Mummy,
I think this might be my last letter. At least for now.
I'm not stopping because I don't love you. I do. But writing to someone who lives in the stars is hard. And I think I'm starting to understand that letters won’t make the empty place go away.
Daddy smiled today, a real one, not the tired kind. I made brownies (they weren't burnt this time!), and he said you would've laughed at how much chocolate I used. I liked that thought. It made me feel like maybe I know you a little bit, even if it's just pretend.
I found one of your pictures in Daddy’s desk. It's a black-and-white one where you look like you know a secret. Daddy let me take it. I keep it under my pillow sometimes. It helps.
I'm not sure when I'll write again. Maybe when I’m older. Maybe when it doesn't hurt in the same way. But I'll keep the picture close. That feels like enough for now.
I hope the stars are bright where you are.
And I hope you’re watching.
Love,
Pamela
After that letter, the diary changed.
The next page was blank.
And the next.
And the next.
An entire stretch of empty space — years she hadn't written, years she'd lived instead.
She ran her fingertips over the blankness, the paper smooth and untouched, and felt something ache and ease all at once.
The empty expanse was inviting, demanding all at once.
A fresh sheet.
Waiting.
Unmarked.
Pam drew in a breath, the cold Tower air slipping into her lungs, crisp and sharp.
The snow kept falling outside — slow, steady, endless.
She carried her father's pen with her almost everywhere. That habit had finally proven useful.
She began to write.
Pam set the pen down before the ink could pool at the corner of the page. Her hand ached a little — not in a painful way, more in the way muscles complained after holding something tender for too long. She flexed her fingers once, twice, then let them drift away from the diary entirely.Dear Mum,
It's been about four years, I think. I can't be sure, since the letters aren't dated. I'll remember to date this one though. I'm writing this from the Astronomy Tower —don't roll your eyes. I know I'm probably breaking some school rules I can't quite remember (are we allowed to be here after classes?) but I haven't gotten caught yet, so we'll just pretend it's fine. Besides, it's quiet up here. And honestly, it's the only place where my brain shuts up for five seconds. The snow's falling in these soft little beads, like the sky's dandruff. (Okay, that sounded way better in my head.)
Hogwarts is truly a lot of fun, once you get used to it. Magic... is actually pretty amazing if you were to ask me.
Ruth is still Ruth—annoyingly intuitive (being a Marvel fan always pays off, I'm telling you), dramatic as ever, and somehow always right. It's infuriating. And comforting. Both. She keeps acting like she knows exactly what I'm thinking before I even think it. And it's not even acting since she does in fact kinda read my mind. I don't know how she does that, but she does. And she's always chattering. Which I guess is friendship.
Then there's Amelia, who could probably talk the moon into changing its orbit if she wanted to. She’s loud in the best way — the kind that drags you out of your own head before you sink too deep. She makes everything feel less heavy. She does punch me in the arm sometimes. I don't think she knows her own strength so it hurts sometimes. It's fine though. We don't meet as often as I would've liked us to. Is that what happens when you make friends from different houses? Because we have different schedules and lives? She seems to like the stuff I bake. Then again, most of my friends do, I think. It's nice. My owl seems to like her a lot too.... does that mean anything? Lumi's seriously scary sometimes. I wonder if she would've liked you. You would've liked her though.
Eonaria's a Gryffindor. We meet even less, but she's nice so I like her. We, Nari, Amelia and I, did go out together to Hogsmeade last year in December. Was it December? I wonder if we could make that a yearly get together sorta thing. I think I'd like that. Hogsmeade is nice.
And then there's Joseph.
He's kinda weird. We seem to always bump into each other in the Astronomy Tower— not on purpose, it just sort of happens. We're not very close, but we've spoken more often than I have with the other people I've met. We got off to a seriously awkward start, but we're alright now...I think. He says he's anti-social, but I have my doubts, considering the random, obviously-demanding-attention, outfits he picks out for the balls. If he really is anti-social, then he's very brave. He does say he doesn't have a lot of friends... but who knows with him. Well, he's nice, so that's all that matters I suppose. Talking about balls, they're a lot of fun. I even danced in the recent one, can you imagine?
I think… I think I'm learning how friends are supposed to work. How they're not just people who talk to you, but people who stick around even when you're being odd or prickly or too tired to pretend you’re fine. I didn’t expect to have that so soon. Or at all.
It's been snowing harder while I've been writing this. The flakes look like tiny sparks when they fall past the torches below. I'll return to my dorm soon, before I freeze.
I just wanted you to know that I'm okay. And that I'm not alone. Dad's doing better too, I thought you'd like to know. He laughs more now. Real ones, not the stretch-thin kind he used to use when everything hurt too much. He really likes my cakes. We bake together a lot, specially during the holidays. He still has your picture on the mantle, but he dusts it without that faraway look. I think you'd be proud of him.
I don't know if I'll write again after this.
I'm not promising I won't, but I'm not promising I will either.
Maybe letters aren't the only way to keep you with me anymore.
But tonight, with snow drifting past the tower windows and the whole world holding its breath…
It felt right to say hello.
Love,
Pam
For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel the urge to close it immediately.
The letter sat open on her lap, the fresh ink catching the faint silver light from the snowy sky outside. The words looked… steady. Not perfect, not untouched, but whole. Older. Truer. The kind of things she would have been too afraid to write even a year ago.
The Tower was quiet in that old, ancient way only Hogwarts managed — the stones humming softly under her, the wind sighing around the arches like the castle itself was listening. Snow tumbled past in slow spirals, each flake glowing before it vanished into the dark. The next morning would be pretty. Perhaps Pam could get out for a walk before classes.
She breathed out, long and warm, fogging the cold air for a heartbeat.
Something inside her — the same thing that had been pressed tight and aching since she was little — loosened. Not completely. Not magically fixed. Just… eased. Like a knot pulled a little looser by careful fingers.
She traced the edge of her new letter with her thumb.
It didn’t feel like an ending. More like a small doorway quietly opening.
She closed the diary carefully, pressing the cover shut with both hands as though sealing something delicate between its pages. When she tucked it back into her cloak, the weight of it felt different now — less like a stone, more like a lantern she’d learned how to carry.
Pam stood slowly. Her legs had gone a bit numb from sitting so long on the cold floor, and she winced, rubbing warmth back into her knees. Below, the torches along the courtyard glowed dim gold, turning the snow into soft drifting embers.
For a moment she simply stood there at the edge of the Tower, breathing in winter. Then she gathered her cloak tighter around herself, turned from the railing, and headed toward the winding staircase. The snow kept falling steadily behind her, blanketing the world in hush and silver, but inside her chest something glowed softly — a quiet warmth pushing back against the winter chill.
As she stepped into the shadows of the stairs, the Tower gave one final, gentle whisper of cold wind.
It felt like a goodnight. Pam smiled and whispered one back.
Then she disappeared down into the castle, the diary pressed close to her heart, leaving a trail of melted snowflakes behind her.
@Ruth Fairchild @Amelia Garnett @Eonaria Kabukimono @Joseph Sims
══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
"I'd rather be heartless, than have my heart in pieces"
-Calming Presence- The Muggle Condition
iNPC: Hikari Fujimoto