Chapter 4

The soft chime of the bell above the door barely registered.

Another customer had stepped into Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, but inside the tiny table where Harry sat opposite his mother, it felt as though they were sealed off from the world. The air was thick—too warm, too sweet—and the cloying scent of tea and sugared scones seemed to press in on him, making the space feel smaller still.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. The chair creaked beneath him. He'd last been here with Cho—blushing, fumbling, holding her hand like it might vanish. That felt like someone else's memory now. Everything about the place, from the lacy curtains to the fluttering, floating teacups, seemed to mock the silence between him and his mother.

She was staring out the window, fingers tapping out some quiet rhythm on the edge of the table. Her eyes didn't follow the scene outside so much as rest upon it, distant and unfocused. Beyond the glass, Hogsmeade bustled with life—couples laughing, friends weaving between shops, steam rising from mugs clutched in cold hands. But Harry saw none of it.

All he could see was the space between them.

"Mum," he said at last, barely louder than the flickering candle on their table. The word came out thin and tentative, carrying far too much in just one syllable—guilt, shame, and the desperate hope for something to be mended.

She drew in a long breath, then turned to face him. Her expression didn't soften.

"The meeting was a disaster," she said coolly. "The Chief Auror's beside himself. Do you have any idea what you've done? This isn't just about you, Harry. It reflects on me. My post. My standing. The entire department had to answer for this. I can't protect you from it."

The words struck like a hex. Harry's stomach twisted. He could picture her that morning—folder tucked under her arm, face tight with worry. He should've seen it then. Should've stopped before it all went too far.

"I know I messed up," he said quietly, fingers tightening round the teacup he hadn't touched. "I didn't mean for it to get that far. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

But Lily didn't flinch. If anything, her jaw tensed further. When she spoke again, her voice was lower. Sharper.

"Do you even understand how humiliating this is for me?"

He looked away. That landed deeper than he'd expected. Her disappointment hurt more than any dressing-down from McGonagall or Snape ever had.

"I do," he murmured. "I regret it. All of it."

The words sat between them, fragile and jagged. He didn't know what else to say—what could be said. The silence between them stretched again, stifling, as though the very walls of the shop had leaned in to listen.

Still, she said nothing. Just stared back out the window.

Then, suddenly, her voice returned—lighter, forced. "So. What else have you been up to?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the change in tone. It sounded like small talk, like something scraped from the bottom of a polite conversation. He grasped at the first thing that came to mind.

"Ron's brothers opened a shop in Diagon Alley. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. I helped out a bit this morning."

She didn't react.

"They've made loads of clever stuff," he went on, faltering slightly. "There's this sweet that makes your voice squeak like a mouse—completely ridiculous. Had half the street laughing."

"Oh, how amusing," she said. Her tone was flat. Like she hadn't heard a word of it.

Harry's chest ached. He'd wanted to make her laugh—just a little. Something normal. Something human. Instead, his words seemed to vanish the moment they left his mouth.

"They're brilliant," he said again, quieter now. "Fred and George. They've really put everything into it."

Still nothing. Her gaze remained fixed outside, where a young couple passed, holding hands and smiling. The light from the street fell across her face, and for the first time, Harry noticed how tired she looked. Not just from work or worry—but something deeper. Worn down. Thinned out.

"It's great, Harry. Really," she murmured, her voice distant.

The words didn't reach him. Not properly. Not the way he needed them to. He looked down at the table, tracing one of the curls in the lace tablecloth with his thumb. It felt too delicate to touch, as though even that might tear under pressure.

He wanted to say something else—something that would break the fog between them. But nothing came. The words slipped away before they ever reached his lips.

He felt suspended—balanced on the narrow space between them, a thread of hope stretched too thin to hold. She was right there, across the table. But he'd never felt further from her.

And try as he might, he didn't know how to close the distance.

A soft melody drifted through the room, lilting and low, but it barely touched the space between them. It was music meant for someone else, Harry thought—someone whole. Someone happy.

Golden light spilt from the chandelier overhead, casting a warm glow across the polished floor and catching in the beads sewn into witches' robes and the shining buttons on wizards' dress cloaks. But Harry felt cold. The sort of cold that didn't come from wind or weather but from somewhere deeper—the kind that crept in when you stood too long in the shadow of someone you loved, only to realise they didn't quite know how to step into the light with you.

He glanced at the couples on the dance floor, swaying gently to the rhythm, heads close, hands clasped like promises. They looked like they belonged. Like they'd found something Harry had only ever brushed against in dreams.

And then—without warning—a memory flared to life. Not a real one, not truly. But one he'd imagined so many times it might as well have been: his dad lifting Lily into the air at the edge of a sunlit park, both of them laughing, free and golden in the light. He'd pieced it together from old photographs and half-heard stories, filling in the rest with longing. In his head, her laugh had sounded like sunlight—bright, easy, and whole.

His chest tightened.

He turned to her. The words rose before he had the chance to weigh them.

"Would you like to dance with me?"

It was a small thing. Barely a question. A thread held out across the space between them.

Her eyes found his. For one fleeting second, he thought—perhaps.

But then she said, "When have you ever seen me dance?"

The words weren't cruel. They weren't even sharp. Just cool. Brisk. Like a window shut against a chill.

Harry's breath caught. It wasn't just no. It was a closing off. Another reminder that every time he reached out, there was nothing on the other side. The fragile hope he'd carried cracked, again.

He rocked slightly on his heels, the floor underfoot suddenly less steady. The music continued, soft and slow, but to Harry it may as well have stopped altogether.

He scrambled for something else, anything, to keep the moment from slipping away entirely.

"What did you do after the meeting?"

Lily didn't blink. "Walked the city," she said. "Thought about things."

There was no warmth in her voice. Just a firm, even coolness. The sound of a door closed gently but definitively.

"What were you thinking about?" he asked, careful, trying not to press too hard.

She paused. Then: "You."

The word struck like a small warmth in winter. Not enough to melt the frost between them, but enough to remind him there had once been sun.

"This morning was difficult," she said, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. "And the meeting didn't help. But in the lift, I ran into an old man. He said something about how we never really lose our connections. Not properly. Even when people drift. Even when things feel… strained."

She glanced down at her lap. Her fingers twisted together there.

"It made me think of you."

Harry watched her hands, unmoving. He wanted to reach for them but didn't.

"You're still important to me," she said. "Even when I don't say it the right way."

Still important. Not loved. Not needed. Just… important.

"I want us to keep trying," she went on. "I want to believe we can fix this obstacle."

He stared at her. Her words circled round and round in his mind. Fix this. Like their relationship was a faulty broomstick that needed mending. Something broken, not someone.

His voice, when it came, was thin. "What do you mean by 'obstacles'?"

Lily didn't answer straight away. Her silence stretched, louder than any reply.

And then, the question he'd never meant to ask. The one that had lived at the back of his mind for years, unspoken and aching.

"Am I one of them?" he asked, voice low. "An obstacle?"

She folded her arms across her chest. Her face tensed—not with anger, but with something wearier. Heavier.

"You have no idea how hard this has been," she said at last, her voice raw around the edges. "Trying to be both parents. Trying to raise you and still be myself. Do you think that's easy, Harry?"

He stared at her, something tearing quietly inside.

"Of course I know it's hard," he whispered. "But I've never tried to make it worse. I've never wanted to be a burden. I keep my head down. I do what you ask. I don't complain. I just… I just want to be enough."

His throat was burning now, every word scraping on the way out.

"I want to make you proud. I want to make Dad proud. Isn't that what you want too?"

Her face faltered—just for a moment. Something flickered there. Then it vanished again, like a match blown out before it could catch.

"Your father…" Her voice cracked slightly. "He would've known what to do. He always did."

Harry felt like he'd been slapped.

For years, he'd tried to become someone worthy of the stories. Of the photographs. Of the name. A boy raised on echoes of a man he couldn't even remember—told time and again how alike they were—was expected to carry the best parts of someone else like a torch. But now here it was. The truth, clear and bitter.

He wasn't James. And that would never be enough. Not for her.

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking slightly, though he tried to still them.

"Do you even see me?" he asked, voice rough. "Or do you just see what's missing?"

Lily's lips parted—but no sound came. She looked as though the words had caught somewhere deep, lodged behind too many unsaid things.

Harry's breath hitched. His heart was thudding so loudly it filled his ears.

"I wake up every day trying not to let you down," he said, his voice catching. "Trying to be someone you won't regret. I keep quiet, I stay out of the way, and I do everything I can to keep things… peaceful. Because I'm scared, Mum. I'm scared that if I don't, you'll go too. Maybe not walk out the door—but still leave. And some days…" He swallowed hard. "Some days I think you already have."

Her face had gone pale, the colour drained from her cheeks.

"I'm right here," he whispered. "I'm your son. But I feel like a shadow you're trying to outrun."

The silence that followed was heavy—not empty, but swollen. With grief. With all the things neither of them had found the words for. With love that had turned quiet, distant, tangled in the years.

Harry waited. Hoping. Dreading.

And then her voice came, cold and clipped. A cut, not a reply.

"Your father would be disappointed in the person you've become."

Harry reeled. The words struck harder than any curse.

"You're not strong enough," she went on, eyes shining not with tears, but steel. "Not focused. You need to do better. You're falling short."

His whole body stiffened. "That's not fair," he said, his voice low and tight. "I am trying. I've been pushing myself every single day—"

"Then push harder," she snapped. "Stop making excuses. Stop pretending the world owes you patience."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" he asked, the pain in his voice now unmistakable. "Pretending? You think I'm some spoilt kid looking for sympathy? Everything I've done—everything I've earned—that's me. Not Dad. Not luck. Me."

"Marks aren't the measure of who you are," Lily said sharply. "The world isn't about NEWTs and House Cups. It's about who you choose to be when no one's watching."

Harry's pulse hammered in his throat.

"You think I haven't tried to make the right choices?" he asked. "You think I don't lie awake every night wondering if I've done enough?"

Her voice rose, trembling. "Trying isn't enough anymore. People are dying, Harry. And you—you still spend too much time stuck in your own head, running from what matters."

"I know what's at stake!" he shouted, the words breaking from him. "You think I don't feel it? You think I don't carry that every second of every day? But I can't be everything to everyone—I'm not him!"

Her face froze.

"Don't you dare—"

"I'm not Dad," Harry said, quieter now. "And I never will be. But that doesn't mean I'm nothing."

Lily stared at him. Her mouth trembled slightly. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. And then her voice cracked—low, raw, and aching.

"Do you think I don't know that?" she asked. "That you're not him? Do you think I don't feel that difference every single morning I wake up and he's still gone?"

Her eyes were bright now, her expression more pain than anger. The fire had gone out of her tone—what remained was exhaustion.

"He died for you," she said. "He gave everything for you. And I… I don't know how to live in a world without him. I look at you, and I see pieces of what I lost. And sometimes, Harry… sometimes it's too much."

Harry's breath caught in his throat.

"I'm not trying to replace him," he said quietly. "I just want to matter to you."

Tears welled behind his eyes, hot and helpless. "Why can't you see that I'm doing my best? I'm not perfect—I'll never be him—but I've tried, every step of the way, to make you proud."

Lily's hands trembled where they rested on the table. She turned away, just for a second. Then she looked back at him, something in her face caught between apology and sorrow.

"I am proud," she said, voice shaking. "You're brave, Harry. Braver than I ever was. Smarter than you give yourself credit for. But it hurts. Every time I see you, it hurts. Because it reminds me of what I lost. And I know that's not fair. But grief… grief doesn't care about fairness."

Harry blinked, her words still echoing in the air between them. For a brief second, it felt like something fragile had cracked open—like maybe there was still room for something to grow. But then the silence returned, thick and uncertain, and with it, the ache settled in again.

"You forgot the assembly," he said quietly, eyes down. "You didn't even try to talk to my friends. It's like… you're not really here."

Lily flinched, as if the words had landed like a blow.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know I've been… distant." Her gaze dropped to the table. "Sometimes it's easier being Auror Lily than Mum. Because Mum still wakes up expecting to hear his voice. Still thinks she might find him in the next room."

"I miss him too," Harry said, voice rough with the weight of it. "But I'm still here. And I need you to see me."

She nodded slowly, a tear sliding down her cheek. "You're right. I've failed you in ways I didn't even realise."

Harry's own tears spilt over—quiet, unshowy things, slipping down as if they'd always been there.

"I don't want a perfect day," he said softly. "Just one. One day where we laugh. Where we talk. Where we remember who we are to each other."

Lily looked at him properly then. And something shifted in her expression—something gentler. Regret. Guilt. Love, yes, but worn thin by too many unspoken things.

"I want that too," she said.

Harry gave a small nod, pressing his sleeve to his cheek, and for a moment it felt like they might begin again. But then he frowned faintly, hesitant.

"I saw you earlier. At Quality Quidditch Supplies. What were you doing there?"

Lily hesitated. Then: "Work."

Harry froze.

It was just a word. One syllable. But it landed like a wall slamming shut between them.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came. Then he stood, slow and quiet.

"I should go," he said. Not in anger. Just… worn.

"Harry—" she started, rising half out of her seat.

He shook his head. "I just—"

He stopped. There was no more to say.

He turned, heart dragging behind him, and walked out. The little bell above the door chimed gently as it closed.

Lily didn't move.

She sat frozen, staring at the space where he'd been moments before. Her hands, still resting on the edge of the table, felt cold. She hadn't realised they were trembling.

The murmur of conversation rose again around her—the clink of cutlery, the rustle of napkins—as if the world had already moved on. As if her son hadn't just walked away with tears in his eyes.

What have I done?

She inhaled slowly, pressing her fingertips to her temples, trying to quiet the throbbing behind her eyes. The argument played over in her head again—his voice, too old for someone so young; the hurt layered behind every sentence; the way he looked at her, like he was trying to be seen.

"I just want to matter to you."

Lily closed her eyes.

You do, she thought. You always have.

But she hadn't said it. Not when it counted.

Instead, she'd shut him out. Let her pain speak louder than her love. Hurled grief like a shield, as if the sharp edge of her sorrow could excuse the distance.

She remembered how he'd looked just before leaving—shoulders slumped, hands trembling. How he'd searched her face for something. Anything. And found nothing.

She could've reached across the table. Could've told him how proud she was. How much he reminded her of James—not in how he looked, but in who he was. In his courage. His kindness. The way he still showed up, even when everything inside him told him not to.

But she hadn't. And now he was gone.

Lily swallowed, her throat tight. All those years she'd told herself she was doing the right thing—staying strong, burying herself in the work, keeping busy. She thought she was protecting him. Thought resilience would prepare him for the world.

But maybe… all he'd needed was his mother.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, barely a breath. "I'm so sorry."

A waitress passed by, offered a polite glance, then turned away again—giving Lily the small kindness of not staring. She didn't bother wiping the tears that now streaked silently down her cheeks.

She hadn't failed in some grand, obvious way. It was in the small things. The missed assemblies. The words she never said. The comfort she didn't offer when it mattered most.

And now… now she didn't know how to fix it.

The gentle murmur of the café shattered in an instant.

The music stuttered and died, cutting off so sharply it was as though the room itself had held its breath. Conversations froze. Chairs scraped. A fork clattered to the floor, unnoticed. All around, people turned their heads towards the window, expressions shifting from confusion to fear.

Lily followed their gaze, and something cold curled in her stomach.

Outside, the world had tilted into nightmare. Shouting. Running. Flashes of light. Chaos blooming just beyond the glass. Shadows moved with too much purpose, too much speed. The sharp, unmistakable cracks of spellfire echoed through the air—staccato and brutal. Screams followed. The sort that lodged deep in your bones.

For a moment, no one moved.

Stay inside, something whispered in her mind. Stay down. It's safer here.

But her body betrayed her.

She was on her feet before the thought had finished forming, wand already drawn, heart thudding against her ribs. Another scream—this one closer, raw and human—rang out, and Lily flinched.

The door slammed open.

A man stumbled in, pale and wide-eyed, his robes torn and smouldering at the hem.

"There's been an attack!" He gasped, voice catching. "They're everywhere—Death Eaters—"

His words struck the room like a spell. Panic rose in the air.

Lily barely registered it. Her hand was already on the door.

She didn't think. She didn't stop. She stepped straight into the storm.

The street had become a war zone. Spells flashed and sparked, painting the cobblestones in flickering red and green. Smoke rolled through the air in curling plumes. People ducked behind bins, carts, and anything solid. Some lay still.

And then she saw them—figures in black sweeping through the chaos, faces hidden, wands raised. No need to see their eyes. The chill in the air told her who they were.

Death Eaters.

Her stomach twisted, but she gripped her wand tighter, jaw clenched.

You trained for this. You've done this before. Now go.

And then—she saw her.

A swirl of a black cloak. A flash of wild, gleaming eyes. Bellatrix Lestrange.

That same shriek of laughter—high, delighted, utterly mad—ripped through the street. Lily's heart turned to ice. Bellatrix vanished into the smoke, slipping from view like a snake in water.

Don't stop. Don't you dare.

Lily pushed forward. Her legs carried her into the thick of it, shoes slapping the ground, smoke stinging her eyes. Her thoughts narrowed into instinct.

Then—she stumbled.

Someone was on the ground.

Her feet faltered.

No—

She dropped to her knees before her brain caught up. Everything else fell away. The battle, the shouting, the spells—it all faded as she looked down.

Messy black hair.

A smear of blood.

Green eyes, wide and glassy with pain.

"Harry…" she breathed.

It wasn't possible. It couldn't be. But he looked up, and those eyes met hers, and the world cracked.

"Mum?"

It was the smallest sound. Barely a whisper. But it shattered her.

"No," Lily choked. "No—no—Harry—Merlin, please—"

She cradled his face, her fingers slick with blood. His skin was damp with sweat, clammy beneath her touch. His chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling gasps.

She swallowed hard, blinking back the hot sting of tears. "I'm here," she whispered, steadying her voice by sheer will. "I've got you, sweetheart. I've got you."

He cried out, body jerking, and his hand flew to his side.

That's when she saw it.

A dagger.

The hilt gleamed silver. The blade was sunk deep into his ribs, runes etched along its length. They shimmered green—sickly, pulsing with a light that wasn't light at all. Magic clung to it like oil, thick and wrong.

Her breath caught.

This wasn't just a cursed object. It was the curse.

Old, coiled, vicious.

She could feel it—how it was tangled in him, anchoring itself inside his magic like a parasite. Feeding. Poisoning.

Lily's hand hovered above the wound, her wand raised but unmoving.

"I know what this is," she whispered, more to herself than him. "I know how this works."

And still—her hands trembled.

Harry whimpered, his face twisting with pain. "Mum…"

She leaned close, forehead against his. "Hold on. Just hold on. I won't let this take you."

Even as her voice shook, her grip on her wand firmed.

There wasn't time for fear.

"Mum!"

Harry's scream rang out again, jagged with pain, his back arching as if every nerve had caught fire. His fingers clawed at the pavement, boots scrabbling against the ground. Lily tightened her grip on his hand. She would not let him go—not for a single second.

"I know it hurts," she said, voice thick with grief. She brushed damp strands of hair from his forehead, her hand lingering on his cheek as if to memorise the shape of it. "But I've got to get it out, Harry. The knife. I've no choice. It's going to hurt, but then we can fight the curse. Do you hear me? We can fight it. I promise."

The dagger pulsed beneath them—its dark magic humming through the stone like a heartbeat. The runes etched along the blade shifted, twisting and reforming into symbols Lily didn't recognise. Not ancient, not from any spellbook she'd studied at the Auror Office—something worse. Something deliberate.

She clenched her jaw. Of course it was.

"I can't," Harry whispered, eyes wide and wild. His voice broke as he gasped, chest hitching. "I can't breathe—"

"Yes, you can," Lily snapped, not unkindly. "You've stared down worse than this, haven't you? Just look at me, love. Focus on me."

She took her wand in her right hand, its tip glowing softly, and shifted to lean over him. Her hand was already slick with blood.

"I'm going to pull it out on three, alright?" she murmured, brushing his fringe back again. "Then I'll start healing. Just stay with me. Please, Harry. Just hold on."

He gave the faintest nod. It was all he could manage.

"One…"

The runes flared—brilliant and unnatural.

"Two…"

"Three."

She wrenched the dagger free.

Harry's scream tore through the night like a curse, something feral and raw. Magic surged outward in a wave, exploding from the wound in a sickly burst of force that knocked Lily back. Her breath left her in a rush, her arms flailing briefly before she hit the ground.

The dagger hit the cobbles beside them with a metallic clang. Its runes glowed violently once more—then died.

"Harry!"

Lily scrambled forward, wand alight, blood pounding in her ears. She pressed both hands to the wound, trying to hold the warmth of him, to stem the bleeding, to feel that he was still here.

"Vulnera Sanentur," she breathed, over and over, her wand hand shaking as golden light poured from the tip.

It spilt into the wound—but the curse recoiled, slithering away from the light like oil in water. The magic was moving—alive, resisting, twisting itself deeper into him.

She gritted her teeth and tried again. "Vulnera Sanentur… Vulnera Sanentur…"

Harry's blood was everywhere now, and though the light slowed it, it would not stop. His body convulsed again, a cough ripping through him—wet, thick. She saw the flecks of red at the corner of his mouth, and her heart gave a wrench.

"No—no, no, no—" Her voice cracked. "Pulmo Purus!"

A pulse of blue-white light shot from her wand to his chest. His lungs cleared—briefly—but the curse surged back with a vengeance, undoing her work before it had time to settle.

She was losing him.

Not again.

Tears blurred her vision. She forced them back.

"Sanguis Claudatur!" she cried, digging deep into training she hadn't used since her first year in the field. Red light flared at the tip of her wand and shot into his wound, sealing a single rupture. Only one. But it was something.

Harry's eyes fluttered open.

"I'm… sorry," he breathed, so faint it barely stirred the air between them.

Lily's heart twisted.

"Don't be," she whispered, fiercely now, fiercely because anything less would break her. She cupped his face, her hands slick with blood and shaking. "You've nothing to be sorry for. You hear me? You just hold on. You don't let go. You're not leaving me."

He coughed again—violently—and Lily held him close as though her arms alone could shield him.

"Please, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice trembling with the force of her grief. "Just breathe. Stay with me. Please."

She stared down at him—at the child she had once rocked to sleep with lullabies and silly Muggle songs, the boy who had learnt to fly before he could ride a bike, and the young man with James' hair and her eyes, who laughed too loud and loved too deeply.

Now he lay still, broken, and far too pale. And his eyes—those same green eyes—were full of pain. And worse—apology.

"I'm… sorry," he whispered again, his voice threadbare, cracking apart.

"No, my love," she said, pulling his hand into hers and pressing it against her chest, against her heart. "No more of that. You fight. You hold on. You come back to me."

But even as she said it, she knew she was lying.

She knew the curse was still there, deep and cruel, coiled like a serpent inside him.

Harry's body shuddered with another wave of pain, his limbs twitching, struggling against it. His eyelids fluttered weakly, caught between waking and darkness.

"Harry," Lily whispered, brushing back the soaked fringe clinging to his brow. Her hand trembled as she touched him, careful, as though he might break further beneath her fingers. "Stay with me, love. Keep your eyes open. Please…"

She cast another healing charm, but her wand faltered. The light blinked once, then flickered out entirely. Just like the last spell. Just like all the others.

None of them worked.

They never had.

She had practised. She had prepared. She had promised herself she would be ready—if it ever came to this.

But it wasn't enough.

Nothing was.

"I'm here," she breathed, lowering herself until she was beside him, her arms curving round his broken form as though she could shelter him from the world by sheer will alone. "I've got you. I've got you."

His head lolled slightly. His eyes opened—barely. "Mum…" he whispered, voice dry, thin, like paper crumpling in the wind. His gaze sought hers, unfocused and distant, but still clinging to her. "I… I'm not… strong enough…"

"No." Her reply came out hoarse, almost a sob. "No, Harry. Don't say that. Don't you dare."

She cupped his cheek. "You are strong. You've always been. Braver than you know. Braver than I ever was."

Her voice cracked then, raw and aching. She didn't know whether she was speaking to him or to herself. It didn't matter.

He was fading.

She saw it. Felt it, deep in her bones.

His chest barely rose. A whisper tried to form on his lips, but no sound came. The pain—whatever dark magic still clung to him—was pulling him under, dragging him somewhere she couldn't follow.

And she—Lily Evans Potter, who had stared down death for her son once before—was powerless now.

"Stay with me," she begged, her voice breaking entirely. Tears slipped down her face, unchecked, falling onto his skin. "Please, Harry. Please. You can't go. You can't…"

She rocked him gently, her hands supporting his head, just as she had when he'd been small—frightened by thunder or fevered with some childhood illness.

But this storm was different.

This storm didn't pass.

Through the blur of her tears, she saw his eyes open one last time. Only a sliver—but enough.

Enough to find hers.

"I love you, Mum," he whispered. The words came out cracked, fragile—but real.

They wrapped round her heart like a vine, curling tighter until she could barely breathe.

"I love you too," she gasped, pressing her forehead to his. Her hands framed his face, desperate to memorise it. "More than anything. More than life itself."

She kissed every part of him she could reach—his cheeks, his brow, his bloodied knuckles, and his cold fingers. "You're my whole world, Harry. Always have been. Always…"

And then—he smiled.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And he was gone.

"No…" Lily's voice was barely a whisper. A breath. "No. No, no, please. Harry…"

She shook him lightly at first, then more urgently. Her hands trembled as she gripped his shoulders.

"Wake up, baby. Please wake up. Come back to me. You can't—you can't leave me, not like this—"

But he didn't stir.

He was still.

Too still.

Time fractured around her. The world no longer made sense. The silence that followed was total—so loud it seemed to ring in her ears.

She stared down at him—her son, her little boy.

Gone.

The gentle rise and fall of his chest… no more.

His eyes, once so bright with life and mischief, closed forever.

And with that, the light went out of her world.

Lily bent over him, pressing his lifeless hand to her lips, to her cheeks, and to her heart. Desperately. Desperately. As if love could reverse death. As if the sheer force of her grief might call him back.

But the silence held.

And it gave nothing back.

"I can bring him back," Lily whispered, though she barely heard the words over the thunder of her own heartbeat. The thought had bloomed like a fragile fire in her chest—impossible, perhaps, but burning all the same. She had to believe it. She had to try.

Her hand curled around her wand, fingers slick with sweat, shaking. She clutched it tightly, the familiar weight of it grounding her, just for a moment.

Tears blurred her vision as she began to chant every healing spell she knew. Her voice was unsteady, her words spilling out in gasps, thick with magic and grief and desperation. They weren't incantations anymore—they were prayers. She poured herself into them, every last ounce of strength, of love, of aching, frantic hope.

Her magic sparked against him, golden and bright, but it slipped across his skin like water over stone. There was no spark in return. No pull. No tether.

Still she went on, as though sheer persistence might bend the laws of life and death.

Then—

A hand touched her shoulder.

Light. Solid. Steady.

Lily flinched and turned, her wand raised.

An old man stood behind her—tall, robed, his face etched with time and sorrow. His presence was quiet and solemn but certain. His eyes, dark with knowing, met hers gently.

"There's nothing more you can do," he said, his voice like falling leaves.

Lily shook her head at once, furious. "No."

It wasn't just defiance—it was the truth, her truth, rising like fire in her throat.

"I can heal him," she said, her voice sharp with determination, broken with grief. "He just needs more time—one more spell—he's strong—please—"

But the stillness around them said otherwise.

She could feel it now. In the air. In the silence. That terrible hush that came after.

Her breath caught. She blinked, eyes flicking back to Harry's face—so pale. Too pale.

"No," she said again, her voice splintering. "I can fix this. He's my son. He's strong. He always comes back to me."

The man's hand remained on her shoulder. Steadying. Real. "It's too late."

Those words cut deeper than any blade. They echoed through her bones like a death knell.

"No!" Her cry ripped through the quiet, jagged and fierce. "Don't you dare say that! I can save him—I have to—he's still here—he has to be—"

She jerked forward, wrenching herself away from the man's grip, wand still raised, her whole body trembling with raw magic and fury. She looked down at Harry again, praying for anything—a breath, a twitch, a miracle.

She would give anything.

Anything.

One more spell. One more heartbeat. One more chance.

But the silence didn't lie.

The old man said nothing more. He simply stood, his eyes dim with the weight of shared sorrow, and slowly shook his head.

"He's gone," he said again, quietly, as if the words hurt to speak.

Lily stared at him.

Then at Harry.

And something inside her broke.

A scream burst from her, raw and rending. Her wand slipped from her fingers, hitting the ground with a dull clatter. Her knees buckled, folding beneath her as her body collapsed beside her son's.

She cradled him, desperate and lost, her tears spilling freely now, soaking into his unmoving chest, the ground, and her robes. The pain poured out of her in sobs that shook her from the inside out.

Each tear felt like something tearing loose from her soul.

Her fingers found his—cold, slack—and she gripped them tightly, clinging to them as though they might anchor him here, as though if she held on long enough, he might come back.

He had been smiling.

He had lived.

"Please," she whispered, barely able to form the word. "Please come back."

But the world gave nothing in return.

The silence only deepened, wrapping round her, thick and unyielding. Her chest ached with every breath, hollow and sharp, as though her ribs were trying to close in on her heart to protect it from shattering entirely.

She didn't know how to be in a world without him.

Didn't know how to stand, or breathe, or speak when her son—her Harry—wasn't in it.

So she stayed there, curled beside him in the dust and broken quiet, her tears falling for the boy she had loved more than life itself, for the future he had been robbed of, and for every dream that would never be.

And in the stillness that followed, Lily held her son's hand—and wept for a world that had dared to let him go.