FicWad

They reached the edge of the park where the old Quidditch pitch stretched out before them, bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon. Lily paused, drawing in a slow breath as the breeze brushed warm across her cheeks. The sky above was streaked with soft orange, clouds tinged rose-gold, and laughter drifted through the air like wind chimes.

Children tore across the grass on toy broomsticks—clumsy, fearless, robes askew and flapping behind them like capes. One boy missed a Quaffle and spun wildly, shrieking with laughter as he clung to his broom by the tips of his fingers. The others whooped and shouted, entirely undeterred, their faces flushed and alight with joy. It was chaos—glorious, ridiculous chaos—and it reminded her so achingly of James.

He’d played like that too. Messy, loud, alive.

Harry stood beside her, watching the game in silence. His eyes followed the children’s movements, his shoulders relaxed, and a quiet smile played at his lips—real, unforced. It caught at something inside her. Something warm and painful all at once.

“You know,” she said gently, her gaze still on the sky, “you were zooming round the garden on your toy broom before you could even walk properly. Just this little blur in nappies, determined to take off.”

Harry looked round at her, grinning. “Was I?”

Lily smiled, heart lifting at the memory. “Your dad said you were born to fly. He was convinced you’d be a brilliant Chaser. Or a Seeker, maybe. He couldn’t decide. Either way, he was sure of it.”

Her voice wavered, just for a moment.

“If only he could see you now.”

Harry didn’t speak straight away. He looked out over the pitch again, thoughtful. “He’d be proud,” he said quietly, as though unsure whether to believe it.

“Oh, he would,” she said, and her voice was steadier this time. She nodded towards the far edge of the pitch. “He used to bring you here. You wouldn’t remember, of course—you were tiny. He’d hoist you under one arm and pretend to be a Bludger, chasing you round in circles until you both collapsed in the grass.”

Harry laughed—a proper laugh, full-bodied and bright. “That sounds… brilliant.”

“It was,” she said, eyes misting with the memory. “There was so much joy, even then. Even when everything outside was falling apart. These little moments… they saved us, I think.”

Harry was quiet again. The game on the pitch had slowed, the children beginning to drift towards the sidelines. The youngest were still shouting, reluctant to let it end. One of the older girls scooped up a fallen broom and slung it over her shoulder, her face flushed and shining with pride.

“I thought of him during my first match,” Harry said softly, his gaze distant. “I didn’t know much about him then. Hardly anything. But when I caught the Snitch… I don’t know. I felt something. Like he was there.”

Lily placed her hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm. “He was.” She met his eyes. “You carry him with you, Harry. You always have.”

“I wish he could’ve seen me,” Harry murmured, eyes lifting to the fading sky as a broom streaked past above them.

She gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “Every time you fly, he’s there. In your courage. In your determination. And—” she smiled “—in that terrible habit of ignoring rules when your heart tells you otherwise.”

That got a quiet chuckle, the sort that sat in the chest and lingered. But his gaze was far-off again, lost somewhere between memory and wish.

The children were heading off now, robes tangled around their knees, broomsticks dragging behind them. The sun had dipped lower, brushing the trees in soft pinks and purples. The shadows grew longer.

And Lily—Lily stood still, her hand still resting on her son’s shoulder, and for a heartbeat, the years folded.

She could almost see James there, just beyond the trees, broom in hand, hair windswept, laughing as he sprinted after their son.

The ache never left her, not fully. But standing here with Harry, watching the pitch fill with life again, she felt something else stir.

Something tender. Something whole.

“Do you remember the stories he used to tell about his Quidditch days?” Harry asked suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness.

Lily gave a soft laugh, though her throat tightened. “Merlin, yes. He had dozens. Told them like epic ballads, with all wild gestures and ridiculous sound effects. He could make a missed goal sound like a narrow escape from certain death.” Her smile softened. “He loved it—the speed, the wind, the crowd chanting his name. It was all magic to him, even before he picked up a wand.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on the pitch, where the last few children still circled in the fading light. “I used to picture it,” he said quietly. “Him darting through the sky, diving, dodging Bludgers… scoring impossible goals and grinning like mad. I don’t know why, but hearing you talk about it now… it makes it feel like it actually happened. Like I wasn’t imagining it.”

Lily’s heart ached in that way it so often did when Harry spoke of James—not with bitterness, but with longing. That quiet, endless wondering of what could’ve been. She wished she could pluck memories from her mind like petals and place them in his hands.

“If I could give you even one moment with him,” she said softly, brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead, “I would. Just to let you hear how his voice changed when he talked about you. Just to see the way his whole face lit up.”

Harry’s reply was almost a whisper. “I’d give anything to hear him talk about one of his matches. Just one. I think I can hear it, sometimes. In my head, I mean. I know it’s not real, but… it helps.”

She stepped closer, her arm folding gently around him, and rested her head for a moment against his shoulder. “He’s part of you, Harry. Not just in the things you do, but in who you are. You’re his son. And he’d be so proud of the man you’ve become.”

The sun dipped lower, gilding Harry’s profile in soft gold. Across the pitch, the last of the children touched down, breathless and muddy-kneed, laughing as they raced each other to the edge of the field. One of them zoomed past, nearly clipping the treetops, and Harry’s eyes followed with a soft gleam. There was a smile at the corners of his mouth—subtle, familiar.

So like James.

He stood in silence, taking it all in, and Lily watched the shift in him. Something quiet. Something deep.

Then, he spoke. Carefully. Certain, but tentative.

“Mum…” A pause. “Can we go see our old house?”

Lily stopped mid-step. The words landed softly—but carried weight. Heavy, echoing.

She turned to look at him, her heart thudding faster. She had known—of course she had—that one day he would ask. That he would want to see it for himself. But not today. Not now. Not when everything had felt so light for a while.

That house was a locked room in her heart. Full of joy, yes—but also pain so deep it had once nearly swallowed her whole.

Still, when she looked at Harry—his eyes open, searching, unsure—she knew she couldn’t say no. He wasn’t asking out of curiosity. He was asking to understand. To connect the threads of a story that had begun in that very place.

She swallowed hard. “Of course,” she said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded.

They walked in silence through the old village square, past the church and the crooked lamppost, and down the lane that curved away from the world. With each step, Lily felt her breath grow thinner, her chest tighter, as though the years were pressing in around her.

And then—they turned the final corner.

There it was.

The cottage.

It rose out of the wild garden like a forgotten photograph—faded, cracked at the edges. The ivy had claimed most of the walls. The roof had caved in on one side. The windows stared out, hollow and dust-covered, like tired eyes that had seen too much.

Lily stopped at the rusted gate, her hand hovering just above the latch. She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

It looked smaller than she remembered.

And sadder.

She let her hand fall slowly to her side. Her throat ached with all the words she wasn’t ready to say.

Yet even through the ruin, she could feel it—the pulse of a life once lived. This was the house where James had twirled her in the kitchen, flour in her hair, laughter in his voice. Where he had sung off-key lullabies to a baby with wild black hair. Where she had danced barefoot in the hallway, holding Harry close, swaying to the rhythm of a quiet kind of joy.

Love still lived here, beneath the dust and the silence.

It had never really left.

“Mum…” Harry’s voice was soft, almost a breath on the wind.

Lily turned, catching the wonder in his eyes as he looked at the little house that time had forgotten. The roof sagged at the corners, ivy curled like fingers around the walls, and wildflowers had forced their way through the cracks in the path—defiant and lovely.

“Is this really where we used to live?” he asked, his voice low with something between awe and sorrow.

Lily nodded, her throat tight. “It was,” she murmured. “Once.”

A daisy quivered in the breeze, and her eyes followed it, her mind slipping back to sunlit afternoons. James laughing as he swung baby Harry up into the air, tiny arms flailing, giggles filling the garden. The clatter of pots from the kitchen, the scent of summer through the open windows. Life, before the world changed.

“Can we go in?” Harry asked. There was something fragile in his tone—hope wrapped in hesitation.

Lily’s stomach twisted. Go in?

“I’m not sure it’s safe,” she said gently. “It’s been empty a very long time.”

“Please?” He turned to face her fully now, his eyes searching hers. “I just want to see. I want to understand.”

And Lily, looking into that face—James’s nose, her eyes, and something all Harry’s own—felt her resistance crumble.

“All right,” she whispered. “But stay close.”

The gate groaned as they pushed it open, metal grinding against rust. The garden was untamed, but not unkind. Long grass brushed against their ankles as they made their way to the porch. The steps dipped beneath their weight, and the wood beneath them creaked like old bones stirring after sleep.

Harry slipped his hand into hers. She squeezed it, grounding herself in the warmth of his touch. He didn’t know everything—not yet—but he could feel it. The weight of memory in the air. The house remembered, too.

They stopped at the front door.

The paint had faded to a tired grey-blue, flaking at the edges. Lily stared at it for a long moment, her heart a slow, heavy thud in her chest. She remembered James, barefoot and grinning, insisting that this particular shade was “sky after a storm”. He’d been so proud of it.

Harry reached out and pushed gently. The door opened with a long, low sigh, like the house itself had been holding its breath.

They stepped inside.

Dust hung in the air like mist, catching the light that filtered through the cracked blinds. The room stood still, untouched by time yet altered by it. The fireplace loomed in the centre, dark and cobwebbed. An old armchair slumped in the corner. The faded edge of a rug peeked out beneath a thick layer of dust.

“Wow,” Harry breathed.

Lily didn’t speak. Her eyes had drifted to the far wall, where the outlines of picture frames still lingered faintly on the wallpaper. She could see them, even now—James with his messy hair and that wicked grin, baby Harry with mashed peas on his chin, and her own smile, soft and full of quiet joy.

She closed her eyes. The memories rushed in, fierce and full.

This house was stitched together with love and loss. It echoed with laughter and goodbyes. And now here was Harry, standing at its heart, not a memory but real. Her boy. Her miracle.

“This is where you took your first steps,” she said, her voice barely steady. “Right there, near the rug. You wobbled straight into that chair and collapsed giggling.”

He turned to her, eyes wide. “Seriously?”

She nodded, smiling through the burn in her eyes. “And that fireplace—your dad burnt three dinners in a row trying to impress me. Nearly set his sleeve alight one time.”

Harry laughed, and the sound—so bright, so him—cut through the heaviness.

Lily stood just behind him, watching as his gaze turned upwards to the stairs. His smile faded slowly. He didn’t look at her when he spoke again.

“That’s where Dad…”

His voice caught, cracking under the weight of it.

Lily felt her breath leave her. The ache in her chest spread, deep and sharp. She had imagined this moment—rehearsed it in grief, relived it in dreams—but nothing could have prepared her for standing here, beside him, where it had ended… and where something else might begin.

“Yes,” she said, her voice catching. “That’s where he… where it happened.” She blinked hard. “He stood there, Harry. And he chose you. Without a second’s thought.”

The words slipped out more delicately than Lily had intended, her voice trembling despite her effort to hold herself together. But she couldn’t—she didn’t want to pretend anymore.

“I didn’t see it happen,” she said, her eyes fixed on that terrible spot where time had once seemed to freeze. “I refused to move. I wouldn’t step aside. He—he cast a spell. Something meant to knock me out. And it worked. I never saw James fall. I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t save him.”

Silence followed—deep and unflinching. It made the house feel louder than before. The groan of the floorboards beneath them, the soft patter of wind against glass, even the sound of their breathing—all of it seemed heightened.

Lily brought a hand to her chest, pressing hard, as if to calm the ache rising there—raw and unrelenting.

“I blamed you,” she said quietly. The words scraped as they came. “Not properly, not truly—but somewhere in me, in that dark corner where grief doesn’t listen to reason… I did. I knew it wasn’t fair. You were just a baby. But I’d look at you and see the life James gave up. And it hurt so much, Harry; I didn’t know how to live with it.”

Her voice cracked. The tears came, silent and uninvited, slipping down her cheeks without pause. Years of guilt, of silence, of hardened sorrow—cracking wide open.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely audible. “I should’ve been stronger for you. I should’ve held you closer, sooner. I should’ve loved you better.”

Her knees weakened, and she leaned against the wall, as though the weight of it all had finally worn through. And then—Harry’s hand found hers.

His grip was warm, sure, and unshaken. Lily blinked through her tears and saw him standing in front of her, his eyes bright and glassy, his mouth set in a line of quiet resolve.

For a moment, neither of them said a word.

She thought of all the things she had missed. His first day at school. His first fall. The nights he must’ve cried into his pillow, wondering why she wasn’t there. The birthdays passed with no candles, the quiet holidays spent with people who meant well but didn’t know him. And still, here he was.

With her.

“Mum,” he said at last, his voice soft—barely a whisper. “It’s all right. I understand.”

Those words—so simple, so utterly undeserved—settled deep in her chest.

It wasn’t just forgiveness. It was grace. A gift. A bridge between them, spanning years of silence and sorrow.

She reached up, gently brushing back a lock of his untidy hair, her fingers trembling.

“You look so much like him,” she murmured, wonder threaded through her grief. “But your heart… your heart is all your own. And it’s beautiful.”

They stood like that for a long while. No need for words. Just the stillness between them, filled with everything they hadn’t yet said but somehow now understood.

When they finally turned from the stairs, the house felt quieter—less haunted, somehow. The ghosts hadn’t left, but they no longer pressed quite so heavily against the walls.

Outside, the breeze stirred the trees, lifting the edge of Lily’s robe. The sky had turned dusky grey, tinged with pink. As they walked, side by side, the wind carried the faintest echoes—of laughter, of lullabies, of time long gone.

They passed beneath the old willow trees, the path narrowing as the small graveyard came into view.

“I still remember how James used to hold you,” Lily said, her voice steadier now, but thick with memory. “He’d lift you up and spin you round until we were both dizzy from laughing. You’d squeal, clutching at his robes. He loved you more than anything in the world, Harry. And in the end… he gave everything for you.”

Harry didn’t speak, but she could feel his closeness. The way his shoulders curled inward, the heaviness in his step. She glanced sideways and saw the quiet weight in his eyes.

“I wish I remembered him,” he said finally. “I wish I knew what his voice sounded like. Or what it felt like… to be in his arms.”

She reached for his hand again—and this time, he held on.

“He was warm,” she said softly. “And loud. He had the most infectious laugh. Brave, too, though not always in the sensible way.” A small smile ghosted across her lips. “He had this way of making everything feel all right. Even when it wasn’t. Even when the world was falling apart.”

Her voice caught as they reached the edge of the graveyard. The headstone stood just ahead—simple and unassuming—and yet it seemed to hold the weight of the world.

They passed beneath the old kissing gate, its hinges groaning gently with age. Lily paused beneath it for a breath, her fingers brushing the weathered wood. How many people had passed this way before them, she wondered—parents, lovers, children—whispering goodbyes they didn’t know would be their last? The gate, with its rusted iron and timeworn charm, felt almost sacred. She touched it softly, a quiet thank you passing through her fingers.

Harry walked ahead, shoulders drawn inwards, carrying a silence that made Lily’s chest ache. She knew that posture, that way he moved when he was holding something in. He’d done it since he was small, whenever he’d tried to hide how badly something hurt. Silent. Brave. So much like James.

The cemetery stretched out before them in gentle rows, stones softened by moss and time. The sunlight fell gently between the trees, and in the hush of the afternoon a bird sang a solitary note, clear and far away. Lily closed her eyes for a moment and listened. Even here, the world kept turning.

Harry stopped.

She didn’t need to ask.

There it was.

James’s grave.

A white marble headstone, smooth and clean. Someone had looked after it—maybe Remus, in the years when he still had the strength. Or Sirius, before everything broke. Her throat tightened.

So many names gone. So many stories were unfinished.

She read the inscription again, though she didn’t need to.

James Potter.

Beloved husband. Cherished father. Loyal friend.

It never failed to hit her. No matter how many times. The words cut deep, like a wound that had never truly closed.

Harry knelt slowly, one hand reaching out to trace the carved letters with careful fingers, as if he could conjure his father from the stone.

“I miss you, Dad,” he whispered.

Lily felt the breath catch in her throat. Just four words, so soft in the stillness—but they hung heavy in the air, pressing at her ribs.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She let him be, kneeling there with the grief that had lived in him for so long and which no spell could ever undo.

After a moment, she lifted her wand. It trembled faintly in her hand.

“Floreus.”

A bouquet appeared in a quiet shimmer of light—crimson roses edged with gold. James’s favourites. She remembered planting them once, long ago, his hands muddy and his smile smug because he was certain they’d grow faster than hers.

She stepped forward and laid them gently at the base of the grave. The petals caught the sunlight as if they were holding it, each one glowing with a quiet magic of its own.

Harry looked up at her, his eyes rimmed red, a soft smile trying to push through the tears. Lily reached down and swept back a strand of hair from his forehead, just like she had when he was small and restless with dreams.

That simple touch held everything she couldn’t say.

He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and the scent of roses lingered in the air between them—warm and familiar, like home.

Lily sank down beside him. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t hollow. It was full—of love, and sorrow, and all the things they carried but didn’t need to explain.

“I wish I’d had more time with him,” Harry said at last. His voice was quiet, thick with feeling. “I don’t really remember anything. Just… stories.”

Lily’s heart ached, sharp and unrelenting. She took his hand in both of hers and held it tight.

“I know, sweetheart,” she said gently. “But he knew you. From the moment he saw you, he was yours. He loved you more than anything. He was so proud—absolutely bursting with it.”

She paused, swallowing hard.

“He used to sit beside your cot at night, just talking to you. For hours. He’d tell you about Quidditch, about Hogwarts, about how you were going to be a Chaser like him—but better. He’d make up stories about enchanted Snitches and secret broomsticks, and he was always convinced you understood every word.”

Harry let out a small, shaky laugh. “He sounds like he was kind of a dork.”

Lily smiled. “The biggest. Completely ridiculous. But he was ours.”

They sat in silence again, the kind that didn’t press or prod but simply was. Lily’s thoughts drifted back—sunlit days in the meadow behind the house, James chasing butterflies with Harry on his shoulders, that impossible laugh echoing through their tiny kitchen. A home that had been full of love, even in a world teetering on the edge of war. She held the memory close, clutching it like a charm against the ache in her chest.

“He’d be so proud of you,” she said at last, her voice barely more than a breath. Her thumb brushed gently across Harry’s knuckles. “The man you’ve become… The courage in you—that’s his too.”

Harry turned his head, eyes wet but steady. “Do you really think he knows?”

Lily nodded, slow and sure. “Love like his doesn’t just vanish. It echoes. You carry him with you, even if you don’t always realise it. In the way you smile. The way you fight for what’s right, even when it costs you. He’s there, Harry. Love doesn’t end—it just… changes shape.”

They didn’t speak for a while after that. There was nothing more that needed saying. Being here—side by side, in the quiet—was enough.

Eventually, Harry stood and reached down, helping her to her feet. Lily took his hand, steadying herself, and the rusted groan of the old iron gate behind them pulled her gently back to the present. She turned for one last look at James’s name carved in marble, letting the sight settle over her again, fresh and familiar all at once.

Then they walked on.

The path out of the graveyard was uneven, scattered with patches of moss and broken stone. Lily kept her eyes low, picking her way carefully, but her mind wandered. Ghosts of memory flickered behind her eyes—James pushing Harry on a swing, late-night whispers beneath tangled sheets, the smell of baby powder and cinnamon toast. Her heart drifted somewhere between then and now.

And then—her toe caught on something.

A small stone, half-hidden beneath a knot of roots.

She had just enough time to gasp before she stumbled forward. Her arm flailed, caught the edge of a headstone, and pain bloomed sharp and sudden in her side. She hit the ground hard, breath knocked from her lungs.

“Mum!” Harry’s voice cut through the spinning haze.

“I’m all right,” she wheezed, waving a trembling hand, though her ribs throbbed and her elbow was already smarting. She sat up slowly, brushing soil and brittle leaves from her robe, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. It was nothing serious, she told herself. No bones broken. Just bruised pride and a sharp reminder that the past had sharp edges.

She reached into her bag with shaking fingers, unzipping the front pocket to retrieve her glasses.

And froze.

A thin crack ran along the edge of the frame, spidering towards the lens.

Something inside her stilled. It was such a small thing—a bit of fractured glass—but it felt like a line splitting right through her.

She stood at the edge of the graveyard, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The world felt tilted. Off-centre. As though something fragile had shifted beneath her feet.

“Mum?”

Harry’s voice was soft now, but close. Of course he’d noticed. He always did. He had James’s eyes but her instincts—always alert to the unspoken.

She didn’t meet his gaze. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground, on the churned earth and the quiet stillness of the graves around them. She rubbed her arms, though the chill wasn’t from the air.

“Can I ask you something?” she said quietly.

Harry stepped nearer. “Of course you can.”

There was a pause. The kind where your heart is trying to speak but your mouth hasn’t caught up yet.

“If you thought…” she began, then stopped, her voice catching. “If you knew you didn’t have much time left… What would you do? Just one last day.”

Harry blinked, frowning slightly. “You mean—today?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean—really. If it were the end.”

He looked at her then, properly, brows drawn together in that way she’d seen since he was little. Like he was trying to figure out a puzzle without all the pieces.

“That’s a weird question,” he said quietly. But he didn’t brush it off. Instead, he glanced out across the gravestones, his eyes distant, thoughtful. His face softened.

After a long moment, he spoke.

“I’d spend it with you.”

Lily’s breath caught. The simplicity of it, the certainty in his voice—it cut through her like sunlight through shadow.

“Really?” she whispered.

Harry met her eyes, and his smile was sad and sweet and full of everything unsaid. “Yeah. Just us. Talking. Doing nothing. That’s enough.”

A lump rose in Lily’s throat, catching her words before they could form. The honesty in Harry’s voice—the gentle, unflinching way he’d said it—cracked something open in her, something she’d been holding shut for far too long.

She stepped forward without thinking and wrapped her arms tightly around him. Not like she had when he was small, shielding him from scraped knees or bad dreams—but fiercely, with both arms, like if she only held on hard enough, she might stop time in its tracks.

To her surprise, he didn’t hesitate. He hugged her back with the same strength. Solid. Real. Warm.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his shoulder, her tears slipping down without shame.

Harry rested his chin lightly against her temple. “What for?”

“For saying that,” she murmured, voice thick with emotion. “For meaning it.”

They stood like that in silence—wrapped not just in each other’s arms but in something fragile and rare. A peace made of understanding, not words.

“For the perfect day,” he added quietly.

Her heart gave a twist at that. Just four words, and yet they hit her harder than any grand speech could have. She pulled back slightly, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead with trembling fingers, and met his gaze.

“Me too,” she said softly, managing the faintest smile through her tears. “More than anything.”

For a little while longer, they simply stood—just a mother and her son, surrounded by shadows and starlight and the hush of something sacred. No need to speak. The bond between them had already done all the talking.

Then Harry shifted, glancing down at his feet, a crease forming between his brows.

“I kind of wish we didn’t have to go back,” he said at last. “To London. And the Assembly.”

Lily nodded slowly. She understood. The thought of stepping back into that world—the noise, the expectations, the endless questions—it felt suddenly too heavy. The magic of the day, the quiet healing between them, would be swallowed up the moment they returned.

Her heart surged with a sudden, wild hope. “Then let’s not,” she said, surprising even herself. “Let’s take the Knight Bus. Go somewhere no one knows our names. Or stay here. Just for a little while longer.”

Harry gave her a small smile—soft, wry. A little like James used to, when he was trying not to let her see how much he cared.

“We could,” he said. “But we don’t have to run. We can come back to this place whenever we want. Or go somewhere new. But tonight…” He lifted his gaze to the stars. “Tonight, I want to make you proud.”

She stared at him, taken aback by the quiet certainty in his voice. He was still her Harry—but there was something else there now. A steadiness. A weight to his words that hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t the boy she remembered. He was something more.

Pride bloomed in her chest, tangled with love, and a little fear too.

She hesitated. The thought of returning to the shadows of the day—of everything they’d confronted—made her want to curl up and disappear. But Harry needed her. And she wouldn’t leave him. Not now. Not ever.

“Mum?”

His voice reached her again, soft but steady.

She looked up and found him watching her, that same quiet concern in his eyes. And something else, too. Something deeper. A knowing.

“Are you coming?”

She took a breath, deeper than before, and let the cool air fill her chest. There was something strange on the breeze. Not fear. Not quite. But something that stirred her blood. A whisper of change, pressing in at the edges like fog on the moor.

She reached for his hand. He took it without hesitation. His grip was warm and grounding, an anchor in the uncertain dark.

“Yes,” she said at last. Her voice no longer wavered. “I’m coming.”

They stood for a moment longer beneath the quiet trees. Somewhere overhead, the wind rustled the leaves, and for the briefest instant, Lily felt it—a presence, soft and familiar, standing just over her shoulder. A warmth that didn’t belong to the night.

She turned her head.

There was nothing there but moonlight and shadows.

Harry didn’t notice. He was already turning, ready to take her home.

Lily followed, something stirring in her chest. She didn’t know if it was hope or magic—or something else entirely—but it rose within her like a promise.

She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

The grief, the weight of years, still clung to her bones.

But as they vanished into the night with a soft crack, Lily held fast to one simple truth:

Whatever was coming—whatever whispered at the edges of her soul—she would face it.

With him.

And somehow, she knew…

They would not face it alone.