They were at the Burrow for Christmas, as was tradition. Harry sat in the living room with Ginny curled up against his side, Ron explaining in great detail how Rose had already managed to beat Scorpius Malfoy in Potions. Hermione rolled her eyes and Harry smiled; neither she nor Rose seemed as excited by this as Ron did.

James sidled up to his father and tapped him on the shoulder. Harry turned his head and smiled, noticing that James looked almost nervous. "What is it?" he asked.

"Dad, I need to ask you something."

Harry waited, but when it became clear James didn't want to talk about it here, he kissed Ginny on the head before getting up. She looked between them, but turned back to the conversation with Ron quickly, apparently deciding that Harry could handle it.

Harry followed James outside, a little way from the house. It was chilly out, but they were both wearing jumpers—and James didn't seem to be thinking about the weather.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"Dad, you said you'd always tell us the truth about the war, right?"

"Right."

"What about Bellatrix Lestrange?"

The name hit Harry like a punch to the gut. Bellatrix… He hadn't thought about her in a long time; had avoided thinking about her, he supposed. "What about her?" Harry said, glad his voice was still even.

"She killed Sirius, didn't she?" James said. He looked up and Harry saw a fury in his eyes that he recognised, something similar to the feelings he'd had at James' age. His son was in his third year—the same year that Harry had met Sirius for the first time. Harry didn't reach out. He put his hands in his pockets and sighed.

"She did," he said. James didn't move except to stubbornly cross his arms over his chest. Harry continued, "James, you have to understand that Bellatrix isn't somebody we like to talk about. She— Voldemort was evil, but Bellatrix was something else. She didn't care about ruling the wizarding world or power or anything like that, not really. She just liked to hurt people and she was very good at that."

James looked a little abashed now, but not afraid, and Harry realised that he was still scared of Bellatrix, in his own way. She'd destroyed the little family he had and had laughed at it—she'd pushed him into doing the worst of things to get back at her. James knew none of that and Harry knew that he never wanted his son to.

"Grandma killed her, didn't she?" James asked next. He already knew and Harry wondered if Scorpius had been regaling the Slytherins with his chequered family history.

"Yes, she did," Harry said. James looked back up at the Burrow, its warm lights spilling out onto the snow.

"I—I'm sorry, dad," James said.

Harry looked up sharply and smiled, though he knew it was strained. He reached for James now, finally, and pulled him into a hug. "You don't have to be sorry for wanting to know," he said. "I'd rather not talk much about her right now, though."

"It's fine. I just wanted to know. Some of the kids in Gryffindor were picking on Scorpius about it and said that his family was rotten. They wanted me to join in, but it didn't seem fair."

Harry's smile wasn't forced at that; he was glad that his and Draco's rivalry hadn't passed onto their sons. "Is that so?" he said. "Well, you're right, it's not fair. Scorpius being related to her doesn't mean a thing. You know Sirius was, don't you? He was one of the best men I ever knew."

"I know, dad."

"Dinner!" Molly stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. Harry could see the light beyond her; the whole extended family squeezed into one room. James turned, but glanced back over his shoulder at Harry.

"You coming, dad?"

"I'll be in in a minute."

James nodded and ran up to the house, giving Molly a hug as he passed her by. She remained for a moment, looking out at Harry—but then seemed to decide to leave him be, retreating back into the house. Harry turned his back on the light and the noise, staring up at the cold, distant stars.

Footsteps rustled on the grass behind him and Harry didn't turn as Hermione linked her arm through his, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Rose asked me about it two years ago, you know," she said conversationally, though Harry could feel the tension in her small frame. "She must have seen—at some point. She went and found some books and researched her thoroughly—" Hermione laughed, faintly. "But she came to me with the same look on her face that James just wore. They know, Harry. They know we don't talk about her for a reason."

"I think I'm still afraid of her," Harry said softly, still staring up at the stars.

"I know I am," Hermione said. "But she's dead. There is nothing she can do to us anymore; there is nothing she has, apart from this power. If we keep it from the children, then we give her more power. Her name will have power."

Harry smiled and kissed her temple. "You're right, of course. But I'll hold off from the conversation with James until after Christmas. Albus, too. Lily doesn't need to know until she starts school, not really."

Hermione hummed and Harry wondered if she'd told Hugo yet. Probably not; probably Ron didn't know about her conversation with Rose. He was still so much more sensitive of her scar than Hermione was.

"Let's go back in," Hermione said, finally. "I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."

"Alright," Harry said, and followed her back into the house.

Author's Note: Written for the hp_girls_100 comm on LiveJournal, for the prompt: years.

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