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James still finds it weird to be liked.
It doesn't make sense. He was the long-awaited child of a wealthy pureblood family—handsome, smart, charismatic. Most of the school worshiped the ground he walked on and his friends worshiped him too. James should be used to the fawning.
Still, there is this odd urge to flee whenever someone approaches. His shoulders instinctively tense, no matter how hard he tries to distract using witty quips and mischievous grins. And whenever he receives compliments there is a wave of confusion and then baffled amazement.
He learns to smile even when he doesn’t feel like doing so. Learns how to hide his tense shoulders with witty quips. Learns to be loud enough to be heard. And eventually, learns to be liked.
But that isn’t the strangest thing about James Potter.
The Hogwarts ghosts were either terrified or (in the case of Peeves) adored him. Onlookers noticed the fear in their dead eyes, always fixated on a messy-haired boy. His parents, bemusedly shaking their heads when baby James’ first bit of accidental magic was to exorcize a ghost, reasoned it must be latent Peverell family magic.
Maybe that was the reason everyone shied away. It wasn’t noticeable at first glance. But unless James actively sought you out, students instinctively avoided the prankster. They admired him from afar and never strayed from their unknowingly assigned places. Watching, gossiping, lusting after him. But none approaching. It was as if he was a god, and they were mere mortals.
(oh how right they are)
Sirius tried, of course. His brother in all but blood, James loved Sirius with everything in him. Two lonely boys met on the plane. One wanted to be free of his abusive family. The other is to be free from his abusive mind. A bond formed that day. Sirius looked up at James (who always remained just slightly taller than him. Sirius always had to tilt his head back to look him in the eyes. Maybe it was a sign), the first person to see past the Black name and the Black eyes and to offer a friendship. And in return, Sirius embraced all of his new friend’s strangeness. And then they met Remus, a tormented boy with a beast under his skin and shy eyes, and he was inducted into their little group.
Peter came later. James felt bad for their dorm mate, always huddling in the corner while they laughed. He felt a strange understanding. James didn't know why, but he felt like he knew how it was, being unvalued. And so Peter, with the squeaky voice and skittery eyes, was conscripted in the Marauders.
(greatest mistake of his life)
But the most baffling part about him was his obsession with Lily Evans.
Sure she was gorgeous; auburn hair, rosy cheeks, a bright smile, and the most vivid green eyes the world had ever seen. She was smart (top of her class, despite not having a magical upbringing), powerful (her charms work were masterpieces), fierce (James nearly fainted when she dueled Erwin Nott. It was a visual experience), but, above all, kind.
Still, that didn’t explain why 11-year-old James had taken one look at the redhead in a flower-printed sundress and declared he was in love. It wasn’t the words of a boy with a puppy crush. James would go to the ends of the earth for her. Would happily fall on a sword, if she asked.
His parents knew. They shared worried looks over their son’s head. They hoped this girl would be worthy of his affections.
They got off to a bad start.
He honestly didn’t mean to insult her friend (though he totally started it). Severus Snape just… got on his nerves. They were too similar, no matter how hard James tried to hide it. Looking at Snape felt like looking at the deepest parts of himself, the parts that didn't fit, that he couldn’t understand.
Oh, how the sorting hat cackled when it was put on his head.
“You will burn down the world for her.” Came the raspy voice. James didn’t know it, but the brim of the hat had twisted into a wide grin. “A very Hufflepuff trait, you know. But is that where you belong?”
James sat there, skin prickling as he felt the eyes of the hall on him. The urge to run away itched under his skin.
“You’re smart, you know. Pulling off all those tricks—Peeves will love you. Noble too, much better than the others. And you are loyal to her above all else… but what do you value most?”
James thought. He valued the love he received from his parents. He valued his rational mind. But, above all else, he valued Lily. And Lily, bold and brave, belonged in Gryffindor.
“GRYFFINDOR!”
Three days later, Lily hated him. It didn’t matter how many times he insisted he was only trying to prank Sirius’ mean cousin, Bellatrix, and Snape had gotten in the way, Lily still didn’t like him. She was stubborn. It was one of the things James loved about her.
He wouldn’t apologize to Snape though. The boy obviously had a crush on Lily, and simply not cursing him was taking all his restraint.
The day James asked the love of his life out was beautiful. A spring day, and the heady scent of flowers in the air. They were thirteen, and the entire common room went silent when he handed her a pomegranate blossom as he asked for her company to Hogsmeade. Lily looked stunned.
She leaned down and sniffed the blossom. When she looked up, their eyes met. Her lips parted as a lovely blush spread over her cheeks. It is one of the best moments of his life.
The moment is broken by Sirius’ snorting. “Evans? Really James?”
Lily’s eyes harden. “I see how it is,” she spat. “Another prank, hm? I’m not interested, Potter.”
James didn’t speak to Sirius for three weeks. It wasn’t until he suggested the perfect way to ask Lily out (rain lilies on her as she walked by), that James finally forgave him. From there on, Sirius was his biggest supporter.
By the fourth year, the entire school knew James was obsessed with Lily Evans. Everyone except her, that was.
“I know this is a game to you,” Lily said after another rejection. “I’m the only person who doesn’t fall to your feet, and you want a challenge.”
She wouldn’t budge on the stance, no matter how hard James tried to convince her otherwise.
It hurts to see her dole out her love so easily to others—even Snape, who never stuck up for her while his housemates taunt her heritage, not like he did. Can't she see how those pranks on the Slytherin are retribution, not instigation?
James knows he’s cruel. But he also knows he is a jealous being.
He curses people because he can. Because he wants to see how far he can push before they fight back. How far would their hero worship stretch? Where was the line in the sand? And also, because he frankly doesn’t care. His love is all-encompassing but hard to achieve. And if you don’t have it, he won’t lift a finger to help.
He had once loved easily. It had earned him betrayal.
Looking back on it, he doesn’t know why he saves Snape from Remus.
-
Lily Evans knows she’s different.
It’s never a conscious thought, simply a certainty as she grows. She doesn’t belong here.
Lily’s sister, Petunia knows it too.
("freak")
They can play nice in front of their parents, but when eyes are away, Petunia’s eyes grow colder and her words turn venomous. Maybe that would bother any other child. Not Lily.
Lily, who spends every winter nostalgic. Lily, with her flower crowns and bright smile. She was adored by everyone. At school, in the neighborhood, and even at home.
But Petunia knew that her sister was freakish. Not just freakish—dangerous. Lily moved so gracefully that she looked inhuman. And her smile was a bit too wide, her eyes a bit too green, and her teeth a bit too sharp. Maybe the other kids hadn’t gotten as close, but Petunia had, and she was unnerved by the lack of pores or blemishes on her sister’s skin.
And they hadn’t seen how flowers bloomed as she walked past. They tilted toward her as if she were their sun. That made sense though. Lily was everyone’s sun.
Petunia knew their parents liked her sister better. They’d never said it, but everyone did. Lily was too bright and colorful to be ignored or forgotten, which their parents often did to Petunia.
And to make matters worse, Petunia knew Lily didn’t love them in the way she did. Lily’s love was easily given, but finite. And as with everything, she felt passionately, her love all consuming and possessive.
But there were always these limits. And once you crossed them, her love would simply flicker out in a blink.
Lily was different from them. She knew that. She felt it.
It’s why she was so excited when she found out she was a witch.
Lily stared at Severus, watching the petals curl in her palm. She felt almost heedy. It was like the pieces were finally clicking. In this new world, she would be normal. Would blend in with the crowd. All her differences were because of the magic she could perform.
(wrong)
Severus was a small boy, with pale skin, bruises littering her arms, greasy hair, and a crooked nose. It looked like it had healed wrong. Dark, lonely eyes stared at her in tentative hope. It reminded her of someone.
The name was at the tip of her tongue, but the more she tried to remember, the harder it became. It was irritating, knowing she had forgotten things but forgetting what.
But it didn't matter. From there on out, Serevus was hers.
Professor McGonagall came three years later, a Hogwarts letter in one hand and a wand in the other. It was a crisp winter day as her parents' worldview shattered.
“But Mummy, Daddy, I need to learn magic!”
Begging stung her pride, but she would do so. If magic could explain all her differences, all of her abnormalities, then Lily would go to the ends of the Earth to know more.
“I don't know, pumpkin…” her father trailed off, casting a meaningful glance at McGonagall (who politely turned away).
Lily hated nicknames, but she would let this time slide.
“But Daddy!” Lily protested. “This is magic! And if I don't learn it now, I'll never be able to learn it again!”
She begged. She bargained.
“Please,” Lily pleaded. Tears were starting to well up in her big green eyes. Part of it was manipulation, but part was also pure frustration. Her mother had always stifled her like she was a delicate flower that needed coddling. Now her parents were doing it too.
Couldn’t they see this was where she belonged?
Paul and Rose Evans, wrapped around Lily's little finger, melted. She smiled triumphantly over her mother’s shoulder as they hugged.
The Leaky Cauldron didn’t give Lily much confidence, she had to admit. She could tell her parents weren't too impressed either. Lily tried to stay positive, glaring at Professor McGonagall, and hoping that this wasn’t all the magical world had to offer.
Thankfully, Diagon Alley lived up to her expectations. It was everything she imagined and more. The quaint shops, the cobblestone streets, the owls fluttering through the air; it was simply magical.
McGonagall led them to Gringotts, a pillared, marble building with an ominous message on its door. The second they entered, a hush fell over the bank. Rows of goblins stared at Lily intently, something akin to fear in their beady little eyes.
Her gawking parents hadn’t noticed, but Professor Mcgonagall definitely had. She shot Lily an odd look.
Lily, in return, shrugged.
Twenty minutes later, Lily was glad to leave. The goblins had returned to doing their work, but the side glances and silence was starting to get on her nerves. Ignoring her irritated parents (“The conversion rate is completely ridiculous!”), Lily set out to explore.
She splurged on books, of all sorts. History, textbooks, fantasy, politics, and even wizarding myths. She also made sure to grab a children’s book called Tales of the Beedle and the Bard. She didn’t know why, but something in her made her hand reach out and grab it.
But then came what she was most excited about; a wand.
Olivanders was frankly unimpressive—dusty and dim. The man himself was rather creepy, slinking out of the darkness like a wraith.
“Hello, Miss. Evans.”
Wide, unblinking silver eyes stared right through her. Lily felt her skin prickle as his gaze continued. She swallowed.
Although she didn’t know it then, Olivander had stared the exact same way at another boy, a few hours before.
“Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”
It really wasn’t.
They got down to business.
“No, no,” Olivander muttered as he snatched another wand out of her hand. “Not alder then.” Lily could have told him that. She knew it was wrong the second he handed it to her. “Beech maybe?”
Olivander was looking more and more harried, and more and more excited.
But Beech was wrong too. So was cedar, and walnut. But willow—Lily felt a shiver travel up her spine as she touched a long, willow wand with a phoenix core.
“Go on,” Olivander urged. “Give it a swish.”
She did. It felt like her blood was humming. Golden sparks exploded from the tip and Lily let out a breathless laugh. Something clicked, deep within her.
“Swishy, good for charms.” The aged wandmaker mumbled. He was still staring right out at her, unblinking. “Phoenix core, the rarest of them all. Willow, for the greatest potential. He who has the furthest to travel will go fastest with willow. You have a very powerful wand there, Miss. Evans.”
Lily didn’t take her eyes off her wand. She cradled it in her fingers gently. “Thank you,” she breathed, deciding to ignore creepiness and his cryptic words because she had this wand in her hands and she was so grateful.
The wand didn’t leave her sight for the rest of the summer. When she boarded the Hogwarts train, with Serveus by her side and her parents crying behind her, her wand was clutched in her hand.
She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her steps as they searched for a compartment. Once they were seated, she turned Serveus and chattered excitedly. He gave her a slightly doopy smile in return.
“I heard the ceiling is enchanted to look like the night sky, oh—and there are ghosts and floating candles and talking portraits and I’m going to be learning magic—Sev, I’m so excited. And we’ll be in Slytherin together, so we’re going to make Slytherin win the house cup!”
“What?” A boy, James Potter (although Lily didn’t know at the time), turned towards her, eyebrows high. “What are you talking about? Slytherin’s are slimy snakes. It’s Gryffindor that’s gonna wi—” Their eyes met. He paused. Lily did too.
Her heart beat frantically. She didn’t know why, but this boy with the messy hair and the croaked glasses made her very soul sing. All she wanted to do was reach out and hold him, let her churning magic out, and watch as he laughed. She felt her magic buzzing under her skin, begging to be released, begging her to go to this boy. It was only years of training her accidental magic that prevented something embarrassing—like the entire compartment exploding.
Her fingers twitched. He looked just as transfixed at her, staring at her was something akin to awe in his eyes. She needed him.
She was halfway out of her seat when her mind caught up with the argument beside her.
“Slytherins are terrible,” said a rather cute black-haired boy with the fanciest clothes Lily had ever seen. “And if your mom was a Slytherin she must be terrible too!”
Severus glared. “She’s not,” he hissed, his voice shaking from rage. “And she told me all Gryffindors are cowardly idiots pretending to be brave.”
Now James had turned towards the fight too, a frown tugging on his handsome features. “Now wait—”
“All Gryfindors are just pretending to be chivalrous,” Severus continued. James and Sirius (although Lily hadn’t then known his name, either) were starting to look mad. Lily felt she better step in.
“Let’s go, Sev,” She grabbed his hand, shooting a dirty look at the boys. “Let’s find a different compartment.”
In another world, perhaps this disastrous first meeting wouldn’t have happened. Maybe they had bumped into each other alone, or Sirus had held his tongue, or Remus had joined and managed to diffuse the whole thing, or Lily was just a little late to the argument. Perhaps in those worlds, Lily and James became close almost immediately, realizing the truth about themselves much earlier. Maybe they even survived.
But this was not those worlds. In this world, Lily walked out of the compartment, ignoring the urge to look back at the strange boy. She decided, there and then, she didn’t like him. She didn’t like how her body was betraying her mind.
The opinion was reinforced when James and Sirus pranked Sev the first week in Hogwarts, making him a laughingstock in the school. It didn’t matter, how many times they tried to explain he wasn’t the intended target, Lily still glared every time they crossed paths. How dare they? Severus was hers, and they had messed with him. They overstepped. Over the years, with James becoming the ringleader of the dubbed Marauders, pranking (bullying) the student population, Lily learned to ignore how she was drawn to him. It became easier to do, the more she loathed him.
And then came the pomegranate.
It was third year, on a beautiful day. Lily was curled up in an armchair, reading a herbology book. She was a herobology prodigy, but that wasn’t her passion. Charms were her passion, potions a close second. Doing them felt like… magic.
Her red hair was tied up loosely in a bun, a few strands of it coming undone. Although she didn’t know it, James had taken one look at her; the sun making her hair glow, the contrasting light shadowing her freckled skin, her eyes a kaleidoscope of green. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He had impulsively gone up to, pomegranate blossom in hand, and asked for a date.
Lily said no.
Of course, she did. She was never going to say yes, she tried to reason as her heart pounded and her hands clutched the blossom. For a moment, as he asked, she looked up and saw someone different. A man with obsidian eyes, pale skin, and unruly, wispy hair, like smoke. He and James looked day and night. And yet Liy knew they were the same because she was drawn to him just as she was drawn to James.
She fell asleep dreaming of a jeweled castle and the most beautiful garden she had ever seen.
After that, it became both easier, and harder to hate him. Easier because he wouldn’t stop asking her out. Didn’t this boy know the meaning of no? She would have to hex it into him. Harder because after she had snapped at him for cursing Ramsey Nott (who had made terrible remarks about what Death Eaters would do to her), asking if he thought she couldn’t take care of herself, James looked at her like she was crazy.
“Lily-Flower, you are the most badass, terrifying witch I know. Of course, you can deal with him. But loving someone is always having their back. And I love you.”
She refused to let him see that she was touched.
(The next day, Lily challenged Rasmey to a duel. She was wild in her fury, cursing him to the point he had to go to Madam Promfrey. After they were separated, she bared her teeth, animalistic in her bloodlust. He didn’t know that her slender body had been the result of starvation, not genetics. He didn’t know that she was raised in a poor town a step away from the slums. He didn’t know how different she was. But he did now.
James looked at her with dark eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.)
A few months passed. Lily stayed in Hogwarts during winter break, absentmindedly tracing the letter she had just received from Petunia. It said, in no uncertain terms, that Lily was a freak, a monster living in human skin, and not her sister. It threatened her if she thought about going home for the holidays.
Lily stared out the window, watching the snowfall. She hated winter, hated the cold, hated the loneliness, hated the mushy snow. And yet she loved it so much. She always felt nostalgic during the winter.
Alright then, she decided. We’re not sisters. With that internal declaration, Lily Evans felt the love she had for Petunia sniff out like a flame.
She got up and threw the letter in the trash.
If there was one thing Lily did well, it was holding a grudge. Severus learned this later on when he called Lily a mudblood. She stood there, still grasping his jacket, and felt any affection slipping away.
Just like that.
Her eyes, full of warmth only moments ago, hardened. Her mouth tightened. She dropped him, turned, and walked away.
James and his gang were laughing behind her. Let them have Severus. She didn’t care anymore.
She didn't care about his tears. She didn't care about his smiles. She just... didn't care. When James announced they were dating, Severus stared at her from across the hall, betrayal watering in his dark eyes. He looked like he was about to cry, features tightening. She met his eyes, then let her gaze pass over. She didn't do it to be cruel. But he was another faceless nameless student. Replaceable. Forgettable.
Severus begged to speak to her outside the Gryffindor common room, sounding like he was about to cry. There was no answer. Lily was curled up on the armchair with James.
It was indescribable, finally giving in to the urge that had plagued her since the first year. Her fingers clutched his robes and she thought, mine.
They had their arguments like all couples did. But they had fun too, and Lily had never felt so happy.
“You’re like an old, married couple,” Rems had joked after watching an exchange between the two of them. James beamed. Lily only gave a sly smile.
Lily was the one who proposed. Fuck propriety. Fuck the rules. All she wanted was James.
“Let’s get married,” she whispered in the dead of night. James was curled up beside her. He had his own flat with the marauders, but he had more of his things at Lily’s place than his own, and he slept over more often than not.
“What?” James rolled over to face her.
Lily turned too, to meet his eyes.
“I want to get married. Life is too short.”
Every day, her heart grew heavier and her fury grew at the rising death count - strangers, friends, family. Her parents had been killed after Lily defied Voldemort by defending herself—and winning—in a duel with some death eaters. She couldn’t let James be another body. She couldn’t let their love be untold. James made her feel human.
“Ok,” James replied, lacing their palms together. “Let’s do it.”
They celebrated their new engagement until the sun rose. The two had always had excellent stamina.
The ceremony was simple, yet beautiful. Flowers decorated every available space. No lilies though. Lily didn’t like them.
“How could you not like lilies,” James gasped. “That's sacrilege!”
“I don't mind them,” Lily shrugged. “But I prefer sunflowers.”
James made sure there was a sunflower bouquet on every table.
Lily walked down the aisle in a simple white, satin gown. No embroidery, no embellishments, no beads. It didn’t really look like a wedding dress at all. Just white, form-fitting fabric and simple jewelry.
James couldn’t breathe. He wanted to cry, but couldn’t let himself. He wanted to remember this perfectly.
Lily handed her pomegranate bouquet to her bridesmaids and took James’ hand. Her smile made her look radiant.
“Dearly beloved,” their officiant began. Lily didn’t hear the rest. The whole world had faded, and there was just James. Just the two of them. She recited her vows—vows she had practiced for hours until she was mumbling them in her sleep, vows she spoke without hearing.
James recited his then, and he couldn’t keep back the tears. Lily couldn’t either, and together they laughed wetly.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may—”
Lily was kissing James before the officiant finished speaking. It was a thorough, sound kiss that James melted into. Sirius whooped behind them. Dorcas laughed. Lily smiled against his lips.
Mine.
They thoroughly enjoyed themselves that night. It was really no surprise that five months later, they were discussing baby names. Lily was caressing her stomach.
“Iris for a girl,” Lily said. “Or Jasmine. Or Blossom. Some sort of flower name.”
“Gotta keep up the Evans family tradition,” James said.
“Any Potter traditions?” Lily asked.
James shook his head. “Really, the only requirements are old, stuffy names. British too. The name has to be obnoxiously British or my ancestors will haunt me.”
“Great,” Lily sighed. “God help me, James, I’m not naming my child Fleamont.”
“It’s my father’s name,” James pointed out.
“And you’re father is a lovely man with a terrible name,” Lily said. She was very insistent on this. To tell the truth, James hated the name too. But he annoying her was fun.
“It’s a fine name.” James pouted.
“For Merlin’s sake, it has flea in it! Naming a kid that is practically asking for trouble! No.”
They had this argument a few more times before Lily snarled; “You will name our child when you squeeze a seven-pound baby out of a hole!” and that was that.
Finally, at the end of nine, long months, Harry Potter was born. He was three weeks past his due date too, which severely annoyed Lily. The pregnancy had been terrible for her. The one time James had tried to complain about her severe mood swings, Lily had screamed herself horse—how would you like growing a human being and squeeze it out of your fucking vagina?! How would you like the mood swings and the kicks and always peeing and throwing up left and right and DO YOU WANT TO SWITCH?!
Needless to say, the young couple were very glad their son had finally arrived.
Harry was absolutely perfect: five pounds, four ounces, the tiniest bit of black fuzz on his hair, and a healthy wail.
“He’s got your hair,” Lily choked. Tears were dripping down her face as her son was placed in her arms. Merlin help him.”
“He looks just like me,” James gloated. “Gonna be a ladies' man when he grows up!”
Lily frowned. “He does, doesn’t he,” she said. Her husband and son shared the same nose, hair, and lips. She was filing a dispute with genetics.
And then Harry opened his eyes—blue because all babies started of with blue eyes and Lily felt her heart melt.
She was a mom.
She was a mother.
She created this small, perfect being.
She was responsible for protecting him.
And she would. Lily knew then and there, she would burn down the world to see him safe. Throw herself in front of a bus in a heartbeat. Kill someone to keep that gummy smile on his little face.
And she was perfectly happy with discovering Harry inheriting her bright green eyes. It was her favorite feature.
“Oh, you little heartbreaker,” James marveled once he saw his wife’s bright, emerald-green eyes on his son. “The ladies are gonna be falling all over you.”
And then he lifted Harry up and blew a raspberry into his tiny stomach. Harry laughed—such a happy baby—and Lily did too. She wrapped her arms around James’ waist, her heart feeling as if it was about to burst. War raged around them, but nothing could break the bubble of bliss that surrounded the little family.
That would soon change.
“What do you mean, you-know-who’s after my son?!” Lily asked. Every word was laced with horror and mounting fury. “Why?!”
Her voice shook.
“There is a prophecy,” the aging Professor Dumbledore spoke carefully, well aware of a mother’s temper. “A prophecy that says—”
“Divination?” Lily interrupted. She was not exactly a patron of the mystical arts.
Albus looked at her with solemn eyes. “I place my full in this. It is a true prophecy, of that I am certain.”
Lily snarls like a monster made man, eyes glowing a terrible green.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
True or not, she would not take any chances.
It’s not to say that James cared or loved any less, or that he was any less enraged at the news of Voldemort coming after his son. On the contrary, it made him all the more shaper. (There was little love left in his heart. Enough for his family, enough for his friends, but not enough for the order to take a sip. With each death toll, he only felt relief it wasn’t them.)
But it was Lily who tore herself apart for her son. Lily, who made Sirus carefully turn the page of every book in the Black library that her mudblood hands couldn’t touch, Lily, who contacted the centaur and the goldins, Lily who planted her feet and snarled and made them listen, Lily who created dozens of new charms in a month, Lily who sacrificed her sanity and trapped herself inside with her newborn. James had offered— “You’re better at hexes than I am,” but Lily had refused.
She would protect her son because he was hers. There was nothing gentle about her love. It was the love of the earth—and, contrary to everyone’s opinions, the earth was everchanging. Moving beneath her feet, seismic beats echoed with her footsteps. The plants she carefully harvested could scream at a pitch only she could understand, the history hidden underneath the dirt, the trees that refused to bend—or, worse, the plants that learned to bend, that evolved to sway and survive. Once upon a time, muggles and wizards alike once prayed when disasters raged because they were helpless.
They still were.
Humanity had only learned to prevent, not to withstand.
And there was no preventing Lily Potter.
On a cool Halloween night, in 1981, Voldemort arrived.
Both were expecting him because they had never felt true safety. These bodies were too weak to truly feel safe, though they would never know the other felt the same.
James still didn’t have his wand because old arrogance died hard. But he had his fists and his horns and the bloodthirst raging in his veins. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was bloody when he managed to kill James Potter. He limped when he came up the stairs.
Lily was even tricker.
In every life, Lily and James were afraid of death. Moreso in this life, because the idea was so foreign. But they did not fear dying. Dying, they knew very well.
“Be brave, Harry. Mama loves you. Dada loves you. Always be brave.” She kissed her son on the forehead, placed him in his crib, and let the glass rain down as Voldemort blasted off the door. Her nicked hands were empty.
“Stand aside,” Voldemort said. Lily felt confusion spark—what? Her plants hadn’t included that.
“No,” she said. She was okay with herself dying. But her son would not.
“Step aside you foolish woman,” Voldemort spit. “I’m here for the boy.”
And here was where Lily’s plans shifted. Where her respiratory of charms and endless wandless magic drills and memory of the large arteries fell to the wayside.
Because there was another magic. Deep and pure. Voldemort had no knowledge of it. No one should—it was nearly as old as magic itself.
But Lily did. She didn’t know how, but she did.
“No,” she snarled. She did not beg, because there was no begging with that thing.
“I will spare you if you step aside.”
Lily knew he meant it. Knew she would either live or die tonight and it was her choice. But she also knew her magic was reaching and so was his, that the air was heavy and three was a very powerful number.
“No,” Lily refused for the third time.
She had survived him three times. He had offered to spare her three times. She had refused three times.
Nine was even more powerful.
Voldemort lifted a scaly hand and killed the brightest witch of her age.
Lily Potter (no)— Lily Evans (no)— Lily (no)— crumpled to the floor with a smile on her lips as her hair darkened with blood. (The killing curse left no blood. But, grieving and distraught, no one would remember that).
Sacrificial magic, Dumbledore had thought. It was the only thing that made sense. A mother’s love so strong, it translated to accidental magic. A shield for her baby boy.
He was only half right.
The brightest witch of her age had evoked powers so ancient it did not have names. One could call it sacrificial magic, but it wasn’t. It was a contract.
And deals were her husband’s domain.
Voldemort had actually wanted Lily to live. His three offers were made in sincerity.
Lily Potter actually wanted to live. But her wish for her son to live was greater. Her three refusals were sincere.
An agreement. A cause. A contract.
In the ancient days, before magic was called such, before wands and quills were invented, magic was fueled by intent.
Both wished for her to live. Rather simple, was it not?
Their magic thought so.
Before the rites and wands, before the potions and rituals, one could enter a verbal contract fueled by their sincerity, their intent, and their beliefs. All it would need was to be said three by each and for both of their intent to be the same.
Lily died as Harry wailed above. She died as Voldemort lifted his hands to kill her son. She died as Harry survived.
Maybe that wouldn’t have been enough if Lily wasn’t who she is. But there was no accidental magic released upon her death. Only her true form, much too powerful for Tom Riddle to withstand. A mother’s love—Dumbledore was right. But also a mother’s grief. And power. And intent.
Voldemort—no, Tom’s—magic turned against him. He had violated the agreement he never meant to create. His magic rebounded back on him.
And then Lily Potter was truly dead.
But she was not.
Because she wasn’t Lily Potter, was she?
“My love.”
She looked up to see her husband standing beside her. But he wasn’t James Potter.
“Hades,” she said, stroking his ashen with red-tinted hands. During her reign in the underworld, they always got stained. That made sense through. Lilies could be both white and red.
“Persephone,” he responded. Her true name.
She reached forward to kiss her husband. It had been far too long.
Harry Potter grew up with ghosts as guardians and flowers as protectors. He grew up thinking love is death and sacrifice. He grew up with his mother’s voice for six months out of twelve and his father’s none. He grew up with the sinking in the shadows because they felt like a hug. He grew up longing for death because he knew didn’t belong.
Harry Potter was different.
He knew it when the roots tripped up Ripper, Aunt Marge’s who was chasing him around the yard. When Dudley accidentally ingested poisonous berries even though he swore they were ripe. When Mr. Dursely did a double take because he could have sworn that man resembled his departed father…
Accidental magic, Arabella Figgs dismissed, but it wasn’t.
Harry Potter grew up with a god’s hands guiding him. And as gentle as they were, a god’s hands were not mortal. He was pushed too quickly when facing Cerbuses. Pulled back when saving Sirius. For they were gods and Harry was not, but Harry never did like Mrs. Weasleys mortal love quite so much.
He grew up with eyes always on him but no one to comfort him. He grew up alone but still felt too overprotected. It was a very interesting enigma, but wasn’t he one too? Wasn’t he different?
Harry grew. He made friends that pulled him back to earth, just a little. Bound him in a way he loathed and loved. He fought every year for his survival but didn’t find it odd. Hadn’t his parents done the same?
Harry Potter went out to the Forbidden Forest. When he twisted the stone, his parents didn’t appear but Sirius, Remus, Fred, and Tonks did.
When Harry walked to his death, he didn’t do it knowing his parents were with him. He did it know he was coming.
When Harry died, he wore the same smile his mother did.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Kings Landing, only in ghostly, misty white. It looked the same—until he saw the great, grim castle on the horizon. Not Hogwarts, they didn’t look anything alike, but something that felt like home all the same.
“You wonderful boy. You brave, brave man. Let us walk,” Dumbledore said, but there was an edge of wariness now. His spine was too stiff to pull off the grandfather act. In death, he knew what Harry was.
“You are the true master of death,” Dumbledore said. But he didn’t elaborate. Yes, Harry never ran from death. Ye, he accepted death. But death was his birthright the same way magic flowed through his veins. Harry already understood that there are far, far worse things in the living world than dying.
Voldemort never did. Not even Dumbledore did, truly.
“You are the one who is truly in possession of the Hallows, Harry. He was afraid of death, so he did not want to face it.”
“But you want me to go back?”
“I think,” said Dumbledore, “that if you choose to return, there is a chance that he may be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that you have less to fear from returning here than he does.”
Harry looked up at the castle. His whole body felt drawn to it. He didn’t want to leave. “I meant to let him kill me,” he confessed.
“And that,” said Dumbledore, “will, I think, have made all the difference. All the difference in the world. You are the seventh Horcrux, Harry, the Horcrux he never meant to make. But you can choose to go back. If you choose to return, there is a good chance that you will be able to continue where you left off. You will be able to finish what you started.”
You can return, Harry. You can return and fight.”
Maybe that would have been encouraging to another world, another Harry. But this Harry hated the fighting. He even hated death, just a little, though he didn’t hate the beyond.
This Harry had grown up with love.
A strange, twisted kind.
They looked at each other, and Harry suddenly realized that the thick white mist of King's Cross was ebbing away, and in the opposite direction, a train was approaching. It was a steam train; very old, very white, and it was coming down the tracks towards them.
"The time is coming," Dumbledore said, "when you will have to decide."
"Whether to stay or to go?”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore.
Harry stared at the approaching train.
“Do I have a choice?”
"Oh yes," said Dumbledore, smiling still more broadly. "We are in King's Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to… let’s say… board a train."
“And where would it take me?” But he knew where. It would take him home. To his family.
"On," said Dumbledore simply.
Silence again.
His family, versus his friends? Who was he more loyal to? What did he want more?
The bright mist was descending again, obscuring Dumbledore’s figure. The train pulled into the station.
It was only when it stopped when Dumbledore disappeared. His gray eyebrows had furrowed, but before he could say another word, the mist had obscured him from sight. It was angry, angry at a soul trying to convince their prince to leave and it was not gentle.
Harry looked at the old train. He looked at the castle.
He remembered Hermoine’s voice and Ron’s laughter. Ginny’s gloats and Luna’s creatures.
He remembered how loved he felt in winter, how sweet the shadows were in his cupboard, how the flowers would always perk up when they saw him.
He made his choice.