FicWad

Lily gathered the empty mugs, fingers curling round the smooth handles. “Another butterbeer?” she asked lightly, though her voice caught just a little on the last word.

Harry let out a small laugh, stretching his arms above his head. “If I have any more, I’ll explode.”

His grin was boyish, crooked—pure James, for half a second—and the sound of his laughter warmed something deep in her chest. But the warmth didn’t last. That laugh, so full of life, so unguarded, echoed through her like something precious already fading. She wanted to capture it, to freeze this exact moment and tuck it somewhere safe. But she couldn’t. Time didn’t work like that. It pulled and tugged and slipped through her fingers, even now.

Don’t go there, she told herself. Not while he’s still smiling.

She managed a soft chuckle, but her gaze drifted, drawn again to the window. Outside, shadows moved—cloaked figures patrolling under the moonlight, their outlines blurred by the breeze. Their presence ought to have comforted her. They were friends. Allies. The Order. But her stomach twisted all the same.

It’s not enough. It’s never been enough.

“Mum?”

Harry’s voice drew her back. He was watching her now, the concern plain in his expression.

“Are you alright?”

She turned quickly, painting calm over the worry on her face. “Yes, darling,” she said, smoothing her tone. “Just… thinking.”

He hesitated but nodded, returning to the fiddly clasp of his cloak. She watched his hands move, remembering how small they used to be—how tightly they’d gripped hers crossing the street and how soft they’d felt curled around a toy wand at bedtime.

And now he was grown. Still her boy, still hers, but standing taller, straighter. A man already, though he shouldn’t have had to be.

She looked back out at the moon. It had risen higher now, pale and sharp in the sky, like a light trained on them from far above. It didn’t feel comforting anymore. It felt exposing. Like someone—or something—was watching. Waiting.

Her heart beat faster, loud in her ears.

It’s coming. Whatever it is, it won’t wait much longer.

She turned back to him again. He was humming under his breath, fiddling with his sleeve, lost in some private thought.

He doesn’t know. Or maybe he did. But not in the way she did. Not in the way that settled in the bones. That told her to move. To speak.

“I love you,” she said, the words almost catching on the way out.

Harry glanced up, smiling gently. “Love you too, Mum.”

He said it so easily, so naturally, but he didn’t look her in the eye.

Not enough. He doesn’t understand yet.

“I want to tell you why I love you,” she said, more firmly now. This time, he paused. The change in her voice reached him. He looked up, more fully, the smile fading into something still and open.

“You need to hear this,” she said.

He gave a small nod, waiting.

Lily drew a breath. Her hands were cold now, trembling slightly where they rested in her lap. But she didn’t look away.

“From the moment you were born, I loved you. That kind of love—it’s… it doesn’t go anywhere. It just is. And when your father died, I held onto it like a lifeline. But I think I locked some of it away too. Out of fear. I told myself I was keeping you safe, but really… I was protecting myself. From losing more. From feeling too much.”

She stopped, biting the inside of her cheek hard, holding the tears at bay.

“I made choices I thought were necessary. I lived every day as though it might be the last. And in doing that, I forgot how to simply be with you. I was always bracing. Preparing.”

Harry didn’t speak. His eyes hadn’t left hers.

“But today,” she went on, quieter now, “something shifted. Watching you. Listening. I saw… You live differently than I ever did. You’re not just brave because you fight—you’re brave because you feel. You let yourself love, even when it’s hard.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She let it fall.

“I didn’t teach you that. You taught me. You made me remember what it feels like. And because of you, I stopped running. Just for today. I let myself feel it all. Even the frightening bits.”

She reached forward, brushing the hair from his forehead, tenderly. “If this is the end… if this is all we get… I need you to know—you gave me back my life, Harry. You gave me a second chance at living.”

His mouth parted slightly, but no words came. His throat moved as he swallowed, hard.

“Mum…”

She leant in and kissed his forehead, slow and steady and full of all the things she hadn’t said for too many years. Her lips lingered there a moment.

“You don’t have to say anything, sweetheart,” she murmured. “I just wanted you to know.”

Harry took her hand in both of his, holding it tightly.

“Thank you, Mum,” he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. “For everything. For… not giving up.”

Silence fell, but it wasn’t hollow. It was full—brimming with all the things that didn’t need words.

Outside, the night still loomed. The world hadn’t changed. But for now, in this warm corner of the pub, with candlelight flickering low and love wrapped tight between them, there was peace.

Harry drew a breath, steady now. “Let’s go home.”

Home.

The word landed like a stone in Lily’s chest, heavier than it should have been. Home. There wasn’t one, not really—not in the way it had once been. But she nodded anyway, blinking hard.

“Yes,” she said, rising slowly. But her legs felt weighted, her feet reluctant to obey.

Harry had already turned towards the door, but when he didn’t hear her behind him, he paused. “Mum?” he asked, glancing back. There was worry in his voice now. “Are you coming?”

She hesitated.

The room around her—dim, warm, and full of flickering candlelight—seemed to hold its breath. Shadows swayed just outside the window, half-glimpsed robes brushing past in moonlight. Her eyes lingered on Harry. He was silhouetted against the doorway, tall and still. Whole. Breathing. Hers.

This might be the last time I see him like this.

She drew in a quiet breath and gave a smile that felt like it was stitched together by will alone. “Yes, darling. I’m coming.”

She reached for his hand—not because she needed to be led, but because she needed to feel the heat of his skin, just for a little longer. His fingers curled round hers without hesitation.

The night met them like a sharp intake of breath—cold and bracing. Wind slid through the trees in long, low sighs, brushing against her face like something unseen. Branches creaked overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a fox barked—a high, mournful sound that made her fingers tighten around her wand.

She already had it in hand. Of course she did.

They moved carefully, silently, through the undergrowth. Each step cracked twigs and disturbed leaves that felt far too loud. Even the air seemed to carry the weight of something looming. Every movement, every sound, felt perilous.

The rendezvous point lay ahead. Just a little further. Just past the line of trees.

Beside her, Harry was quiet—alert, focused. He walked with the solid stillness of someone who had done this before. Too many times. Too young.

He shouldn’t have had to become this. He shouldn’t know what this feels like.

She wanted to shield him, to turn back time, to offer him something—anything—that didn’t involve creeping through forests with danger at their heels. But there was nowhere left to run. Not tonight.

And maybe not ever again.

At last, the tree line broke. A small group waited at the edge of the clearing, half in shadow, half lit by the thin white wash of moonlight. Relief prickled in her chest, but it vanished the moment she saw their expressions—drawn, tense, ready.

No words were exchanged. There was no need.

Lily reached for Harry’s hand again and gripped it tightly.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she murmured, barely audible over the rustling wind, “remember this: love is the one thing they can’t take from us.”

Harry looked at her, startled by the suddenness of it. He opened his mouth to reply, but he never had the chance.

The air turned.

A coldness rolled in—not the natural sort, but something wrong. Heavy. Unclean. The kind that made your blood remember fear. Lily’s skin prickled. Her wand hand twitched.

Then came movement. From every side, they emerged—Death Eaters, faceless behind their masks, silent and swift. They swept forward like a tide of shadow, their robes fluttering as they encircled the clearing.

Lily’s heart kicked hard.

Her first instinct was to shield Harry, to pull him behind her, to cast the first hex and never stop. But there was no time. They were already too close.

Then—crackling light. A shock of red from behind the enemy line. One of the Death Eaters was flung backwards, crashing through the window of a nearby building with a sharp shatter of glass.

Spells lit the sky a heartbeat later—streaks of blue and red and sickly green. The clearing erupted in fire and fury.

“ORDER! MOVE!” came a cry—Kingsley, unmistakable.

And then they were there—Arthur, Tonks, Hestia, Dedalus, all of them charging forward, wands alight and eyes fierce.

The Death Eaters hesitated. Just long enough.

“Come on!” Lily gasped, grabbing Harry’s sleeve and yanking him backwards, away from the fray. “This way!”

A flash of green sizzled past, exploding against the stone just behind them. The blast flung shards into the air. Lily dragged Harry towards a narrow alley just off the main lane, heart thudding wildly.

Behind them, battle raged. Spells collided mid-air, sending showers of light across the night like some terrible storm. Screams rang out—spells shouted, stone cracking, glass breaking.

“Get to safety!” Arthur bellowed, ducking beneath a hex and sending one back in return. “We’ve got this, Lily! Go!”

But Lily knew they didn’t have it—not really. Not fully. Not yet.

Her mind screamed, Apparate! But she could feel the magic in the air, humming with interference. A jinx—thick and humming, thrown over the town like a net. They were trapped. Cut off.

The only way out now was forward.

Lily kept her wand high, chest heaving. She glanced sideways at Harry—his jaw was clenched, eyes scanning for openings. He was braced for anything. Ready for everything.

Her son.

Her heart ached with pride. And terror.

“Stay close,” she whispered.

And together, they ran.

“Mum!”

Harry’s voice sliced through the chaos, sharp and panicked. It cracked at the edges, thin with fear. He was fifteen—just fifteen. Too young for this. Too brave for his own good. No matter what he’d seen. No matter what anyone said.

Lily turned at once, instinct taking over. Her arm wrapped round him, shielding and guiding. “I know, baby—I know. Just hold on to me. We keep moving. We find cover. We wait for the jinx to lift—”

A scream tore the air.

Then—BOOM. A building behind them erupted in fire and shrapnel, a great tongue of flame licking across the cobbled street. Glass and rubble hurled outward with a roar. The blast caught them both, lifting Lily off her feet and sending her skidding hard across the pavement, Harry tumbling down with her.

Her skull rang. Her mouth filled with dust. She coughed, blinking smoke from her eyes. The air stank of scorched timber, blood, and magic gone wrong.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Slow. Intentional.

Lily forced herself upright, lungs burning, wand already raised. Her fingers trembled.

Three of them. Hooded and masked. Wands drawn. Advancing.

She stepped in front of Harry without hesitation. Her voice came hoarse but steady. “You want him? You’ll have to go through me.”

One of them laughed—a low, dry rasp—and lifted his wand.

“Stupefy!” Lily shouted. The red jet of light burst from her wand, slamming into the Death Eater’s chest. He flew backwards with a sickening crunch, collapsing against a stone wall and sliding out of sight.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry cried beside her. The second wizard’s wand soared into the air. Lily caught it mid-flight, spun, and cast before he had a chance to run.

“Petrificus Totalus!” she snapped. The man stiffened mid-step and fell like a felled tree, rigid and unblinking.

The third turned at once and vanished into the shadows, cloak whipping behind him.

Lily stood panting, wand still raised, heart thudding like mad. Her legs trembled, but she didn’t let it show.

“We need to find Arthur,” she said, low and urgent. “I saw him cut round the corner—come on, stay with me.”

They ran again, dodging collapsed carts and scorched stone. The street was unrecognisable—flames climbing the sides of once-familiar buildings, spells flashing like lightning in every direction. Somewhere to the left, Hestia Jones was duelling with grim precision, her wand slicing the air like a whip. On the right, Kingsley’s voice thundered over the din as he held the line against two Death Eaters at once.

Then—

“Arthur!” Lily shouted. She saw him through the smoke, cloak torn, wand blazing. He was duelling furiously, fending off a masked witch who hurled hex after hex like a machine.

But before Lily and Harry could reach him, a second explosion rocked the street. Somewhere behind them, a rooftop gave way with a grinding crack and a deafening crash. Debris rained down.

“DOWN!” Lily bellowed, shoving Harry behind a half-toppled wall just as glass and rubble smashed down where they’d stood seconds before.

Her ears rang again. Her vision swam.

“Mum!” Harry tugged at her sleeve, pointing through the haze. “He’s still out there—we can’t leave him!”

She looked. Arthur was still fighting, alone now, a grim silhouette against the blaze.

The mother in her screamed to get Harry out. To find a way, any way. But the friend—the fighter—couldn’t walk away.

Another curse zipped past, searing through the wall and exploding on the far side.

Lily surged to her feet.

“Protego Maxima!” she cried, her wand creating a shimmering shield that crackled as it caught two more blasts.

They tore round the corner, boots skidding on shattered cobblestone. Harry stumbled—she caught his shoulder, steadying them both.

They’d entered a wide boulevard—empty.

Too empty.

The street stretched ahead, eerily quiet. Dim gaslamps flickered above, casting shadows that twisted strangely. The air was thick, cloying. The ground beneath them was slick and stained.

Lily slowed.

Something was wrong.

This place… isn’t right.

She felt it in her gut. In the stillness. In the way even the smoke seemed to hesitate here.

Then came the sound.

A laugh.

Soft. Drawn-out. Cruel.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It slithered through the air, curdling her blood, clinging to her skin. It was the laugh of someone who enjoyed this. Someone who fed on fear.

Lily froze.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“No,” she whispered.

Her wand hand shook.

“No—no, it can’t be—”

But it was.

She knew that voice.

She’d know it anywhere.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Her name was poison. Her magic was worse.

Lily had heard that laugh before—more than once, though never with her eyes open. It crawled out of her dreams, twisted into memory, and curdled in her bones. Even now, it echoed. Even now, it stained Harry’s life like soot that refused to wash clean.

She tightened her hold on his hand. He glanced up—only for a second—but she saw it in his eyes, too. The knowing. The dread. He didn’t say her name. He didn’t have to.

Lily’s lips moved before thought had time to catch her. Dumbledore’s voice rang in her mind—calm, steady, gentle in its insistence. The enchantment he’d taught her. The one she’d sworn to remember. To protect him. Always.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Praesidium Fidelis!” she whispered, the spell catching on the shake in her throat.

Blue light bloomed around them, soft and bright. A dome shimmered into place, delicate as mist, firm as steel. It pulsed once—twice—then settled. A heartbeat wrapped in magic. A spell rooted in love.

But it didn’t ease the tension coiled in her gut.

Her hand didn’t loosen.

“Stay close,” she murmured, eyes darting across the street, muscles tight. “Don’t let go of me.”

They were standing here. Here. This street. This cursed corner of memory. Where it had happened. Where Harry had fallen. Where the world had torn, and something inside her had never quite sewn itself back together.

She hadn’t meant to return. She thought she could bear it—that she was ready. That if she looked it in the face, the fear might shrink. That maybe this time, she could take something back from it.

She’d been wrong.

It was still here. The weight. The grief. The wrongness.

It clung to the cobblestones like blood.

Then—movement.

The corner of her vision caught it. A glint. A flicker. Metal, turning slowly beneath the streetlamp’s twitching glow.

Her stomach dropped.

No.

The dagger.

It hovered, same as before, impossibly still. Suspended in the air, swaying ever so slightly, as if listening. Its blade warped in the light, sharp one moment, curved the next—twisting, stretching, unnatural. Magic dripped from it—dark, slow, alive.

Lily’s breath caught. Her wand faltered.

“Not again,” she said, barely more than a breath. Her voice cracked on the last word.

The dome pulsed—once—then flickered.

“Behind me,” she hissed, dragging Harry close. “Get behind—”

Too late.

The dome shuddered.

A crack. High and thin, like glass straining. Then another. The barrier trembled, light leaking from its seams.

The knife moved.

“DOWN!” Lily screamed.

She dove, grabbing Harry and pulling him hard against her. The blade sliced through empty air where his chest had been a second earlier, the hiss of it splitting the silence.

They hit the ground. Her elbow slammed into stone—she barely felt it. She curled round Harry’s body, arms locked, breath coming shallow and fast.

And then—

Silence.

No blade. No laugh.

Just the blood in her ears and the dull echo of fear bouncing off the walls of her chest.

Harry stirred beneath her. “Mum?” he said, voice paper-thin. “Are they gone?”

Lily didn’t answer straight away. Her throat burnt. Her eyes stung. “I… I think so,” she said at last.

A lie. But she couldn’t give him the truth. Not here.

She shifted, trying to sit up. Her limbs felt sluggish. Her back screamed. Everything hurt.

And then—

Pain.

White-hot, sudden, vicious.

It stabbed low, tore sharp, and stole her breath. She gasped, a choked sound, and crumpled.

“Mum?!”

Her fingers dug into his arm, knuckles white. Warmth flooded down her side. Not warmth. Heat. Thick. Sticky.

“Mum, what is it?” Harry’s voice cracked with panic. “You’re bleeding—there’s—Mum, there’s a knife—!”

He was white as a sheet. His hands trembled as he reached for her, gently easing her onto her side.

A cry escaped her throat—sharp, unbidden. Pain lanced through her like fire, but even through the haze, she saw it: the look on his face when he caught sight of the blade.

Still lodged in her back.

Silver. Cold. Slick with blood.

Her blood ran dark across the handle, staining it like ink on parchment.

Harry hovered, helpless, eyes wide. “I—I don’t know what to do—I don’t know—Mum—!”

She clenched her jaw, swallowed the pain, and forced her voice into the space between his panic.

“Don’t… pull it out,” she rasped. “Not yet. Dark magic… it’s laced. If you move it… it’ll spread—” Her breath hitched, the words splintering on her tongue.

He nodded, too quickly, eyes swimming, blinking hard.

She saw the fear in him and saw it rising fast. And it broke her heart. He had already died once, and he had come back. She could not—would not—let him lose her now. Not like this. Not after everything.

“I’m all right,” she lied gently, lifting a trembling hand to brush back his fringe, like she had when he was small. “You’re so strong, Harry. You always have been.”

His jaw tensed. “I’m not… strong enough. I should’ve protected you—”

“No,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

He looked as though he wanted to protest, lips pressed tight, trembling.

Her strength was fading. Vision blurring at the edges. Cold crept into her limbs, unfamiliar and numbing. But she clung to his face—his eyes. Her boy.

Her body ached everywhere—not just from the wound, not just from the fire licking through her nerves—but in the deep, terrible place where a mother’s pain lives. Watching her child unravel. Seeing him cry. Seeing him frightened.

No. Not Harry. Not my baby.

Through the growing blur, she saw it: the anguish in his eyes, the tears spilling freely now as he fumbled with his wand, as if sheer magic and will might undo fate.

He was still just a boy. Still her son. Still so young.

She tried to lift her hand again. To hold him. To comfort him. But her arm wouldn’t respond. Her fingers felt far away. The pain dulled now—not in a way that promised healing, but in the way that foretold the end.

“Harry—” she whispered, barely more than a breath.

He jerked his head towards her, his voice rushing out like floodwater breaking a dam.

“I need to get you to Hogwarts,” he said, desperate, his hands cupping her face. “You’ll be all right. Madam Pomfrey will fix it—she can fix anything—just hold on—”

Hold on.

She almost smiled.

She had said that to him so many times—when he was ill, when nightmares woke him screaming, and when he had grazed his knee or broken a toy. Hold on, darling. Just a little longer.

And in that moment, her mind drifted.

To Godric’s Hollow. To the old rocking chair by the nursery window. To Harry curled up in her arms, warm and sleepy, his tiny fists tugging at her necklace, his breath soft against her collarbone. The world had been still then. Safe.

“I’ll protect you,” she had whispered into his hair, once upon a time. “Always.”

The memory slipped, delicate as spun glass, and re-formed into another.

Harry at five, standing barefoot in the garden with dirt smudged across his nose and a half-wilted dandelion clutched in his small hand. “For you, Mummy,” he’d said, beaming, as though the crumpled weed were a crown. She’d cried then, too—over something so small, so perfect. Because it mattered. Because it was his.

And now he was here again. Still trying to save her.

“Harry, sweetheart…” She breathed, and it took every scrap of strength she had to lift her hand. Her fingers brushed his cheek—trembling, bloodied. “It’s all right.”

He flinched, as though she’d struck him. “No, it’s not!” he cried. “It’s not all right! Don’t—don’t say that—you can’t go—please—”

His voice cracked. The sound of it—raw, guttural—hurt more than any curse ever could. She had never heard him like that. Not even when he was little, waking from nightmares in a tangle of blankets, sobbing into her collarbone as she rocked him, murmuring lullabies into the dark.

She wanted that now. To hold him. To make it better.

But this time, she was the one fading.

I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.

His fingers gripped hers. His tears pattered against her skin—hot, frantic, heart-breaking. He shouldn’t have had to carry this weight. Not again. Not after everything. James. Sirius. Remus. All of them were gone. And now—her.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “My son.”

The world was softening now. Colours dimmed. Sounds blurred. Her own heartbeat felt far away, muffled, slowing to a hush. The ground beneath her didn’t seem to exist anymore. There was only the warmth of Harry’s hands. The salt of his tears.

She was drifting.

And just as the dark began to pull at her, gentle but final, another memory rose—unbidden and clear.

A field in summer. Warmth on her face. Endless sky overhead. She was lying on her back, surrounded by tall grass, sun-dappled and gold. Beside her, a small voice, babbling cheerfully.

“Do you think clouds ever fall down?” Harry had asked, squinting up at the sky, a daisy crown askew in his wild hair.

She turned her head, smiling. “I think maybe they just float forever,” she said softly. “Like dreams you can’t quite catch.”

He giggled, wriggling closer. “Then I want to ride one.”

She laughed. “You would.”

He pressed himself against her side, resting his head on her shoulder. “I like it when it’s just us.”

Her heart had swelled, aching and full. “Me too,” she whispered, brushing a kiss to the top of his head. “Me too, my love.”

The sun warmed her face, even now. Even as her breath slowed.

And for one brief, weightless heartbeat, she wasn’t dying. She wasn’t in a bloodstained street. She was simply a mother in a field with her son—safe, laughing, dreaming of clouds.

That was the memory she chose.

Not pain. Not fear.

Just light. Just love.

Just her Harry, smiling in the sun.

And then—

Silence.