Chapter 7

Lily sat at her cramped little desk in the Auror Department, fingers resting lightly on a stack of parchment she hadn't managed to read, let alone respond to. Her quill lay forgotten beside her, the ink slowly drying at its tip. She'd been staring at the same line for what felt like ages, the words blurring every time her eyes flicked back to them.

Her thoughts refused to settle. They kept circling, spiralling back to the morning she'd just shared with Harry—her sweet, earnest, endlessly inquisitive boy. It had been one of those rare, unexpected mornings where everything felt right. The kind of morning that slipped past too quickly but left its warmth behind like sunlight caught in your sleeves.

They'd walked side by side through the quiet streets, the cobblestones still damp from dawn. Harry had linked his arm with hers at one point—unprompted, unthinking—and she hadn't dared breathe too deeply in case the moment broke. He'd rambled about school and his friends, and she'd let herself laugh, properly laugh, not just the polite sort you use to fill the silence.

For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, she'd felt… alive. Not just existing, not just moving from one task to the next in a blur of grief and duty, but really here. Present. Breathing in air that didn't feel heavy.

Ever since James had died, she'd felt fractured. Not broken—she couldn't afford to break—but worn thin in places no one could see. Like an old jumper washed too many times. But this morning had reminded her: joy was still possible. Hope could still bloom in the cracks.

A soft knock on the frame pulled her out of her reverie.

Arthur's head appeared round the door, his usual crooked smile already in place. "So," he said, stepping into the office with a certain light-footedness only Arthur ever managed, "how was your morning with your boy?"

Lily blinked, then smiled—properly this time. "It was lovely, actually. We've never just… walked like that before. Not like that. I don't know how we let so much time pass without something so simple."

Arthur leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms across his slightly-too-worn cardigan, nodding thoughtfully. "Sounds like it did you both a world of good. You look lighter today. Less like you're carrying the whole department on your back."

He grinned, mischief lighting his eyes. "Excited for the Hogwarts assembly tonight? Got any last-minute gifts hidden away for your star pupil?"

Lily's smile faltered. A small crease formed between her brows. "Oh no… I didn't forget again, did I?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows in mock alarm. "Lily Evans, forgetting twice in a row? That might just tear a hole in the fabric of reality."

She groaned softly, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I definitely forgot yesterday. And today, I—well, I'm not sure. Everything's felt slightly off since I woke up. Like my brain's been wrapped in cotton wool."

Arthur stepped further into the room, the teasing edge in his voice softening. "You alright?"

She hesitated. "I don't know," she said honestly. "It's like I'm moving through the day, but I keep losing bits of it. Like my mind's racing ahead, but I'm standing still. There's this… buzzing. And it's all familiar, but not in a comforting way. More like… like I've already done this before."

Arthur tilted his head. "Déjà vu?"

"Sort of. But deeper. Like I dreamt it—and now I'm watching the dream unfold in real time." She paused. "Does that sound mad?"

Arthur considered. "Not mad. Unnerving, maybe. Dreams are strange things. You'd be surprised how often they know more than we give them credit for."

Lily studied him. "Are you wearing the same shirt as yesterday?"

Arthur looked down, mildly horrified. "Merlin's socks, I think I am. That's the third time this month." He gave a resigned little sigh. "Molly would have my head."

She laughed then—quiet, but real—and the sound helped. "Well, perhaps it's cosmic balance. If I keep forgetting time, someone has to forget laundry."

"I'll take one for the universe," Arthur said with a wink. "It's a service I provide."

But Lily's laughter faded as quickly as it had come. That buzzing feeling was still there. Just beneath the surface. Ticking like a clock with a gear knocked out of place.

"Arthur, can I ask you something?" She said, her voice lower now.

He straightened at once. "Of course."

"Have you ever had a dream that… followed you? Not just in memory, but in feeling. One that pressed up against the edges of your day, making everything feel… tilted?"

Arthur's expression turned serious. "Yes. A few, actually. And it's always the same—you wake, and you knowsomething's shifted. Like the dream let you peek round a corner you weren't meant to see."

She nodded slowly. "That's exactly it. I keep getting this sense that something's about to change. Something important. And I'm not ready."

Arthur didn't speak right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. "I don't think anyone ever feels ready. But you've got good instincts, Lily. Always have. You don't need to understand everything straight away. Just trust yourself to listen."

She glanced at the clock and startled. "Oh no—I really am going to be late."

Arthur stepped aside with a dramatic sweep of his arm. "Then go, brave mother. The hour is upon you. Or at the very least, the speeches."

Lily grabbed her bag and notes, slinging them over one shoulder with practised ease. "Thanks, Arthur. For the advice. And the laugh. And… well, everything."

"Anytime," he said, giving her a reassuring nod. "And if another one of those dreams shows up—write it down. Might be something worth remembering."

She smiled, already halfway out the door, and didn't look back. But the unease trailed her like a shadow. That same sense of something coming—something true.

Lily's heart was pounding by the time she stepped into the meeting room, her folder clutched so tightly in one hand that the corners had curled. Her palms were damp. The walls felt too close, the ceiling too low. She glanced at the door—then the clock—then the door again. Tick. Tick. Each second landed like a blow to the ribs.

She tried to slow her breathing, count to five, then five again, but her thoughts had already slipped the leash. She wasn't here—not properly. Not in this moment.

Today matters, she reminded herself. The Chief Auror would be reviewing her findings. Weeks of research. Spellwork fine-tuned to a hair's breadth. Late nights with aching eyes and cold cups of tea she'd forgotten to drink. She should have felt ready. Prepared.

But instead, her gut twisted.

Something's wrong. Something's going to go wrong.

She swallowed against the rising panic, trying to silence that voice. Paranoia—that's all it was. But the last words she'd exchanged with Harry still echoed in her mind—sharp, raw, louder than either of them had intended. She hadn't meant to snap. He hadn't meant to storm off. But something had splintered between them, and now it throbbed like a bruise she couldn't stop pressing.

It had left a crack in her.

And now that crack felt wider than ever.

She took a seat at the far end of the long table, keeping her back straight and shoulders square. The Chief Auror was already there, flipping through a sheaf of parchment and speaking lowly to two others. One of the senior analysts glanced up and gave Lily a polite nod—but their gaze lingered a second too long, as though they could see the panic buzzing under her skin.

She managed a small, tight smile in return and lowered her eyes.

Sit still. Focus. You've done this before. Just another briefing.

She reached for the comfort of her folder, smoothing the creased edge, grounding herself in the familiar texture of parchment and ink. She could do this. She had to.

The door creaked open behind her.

Lily froze.

Her pulse surged so fast she felt light-headed. Her mouth moved before she could stop it—words spilling out, jagged and loud—

"I knew it! I knew you'd be here!"

Her voice cracked like a hex across the table.

She looked up.

It wasn't Harry.

Just a young Auror—fresh-faced, carrying a coffee cup and looking startled, as though he'd just wandered into a broom cupboard by mistake.

Silence.

The young man blinked. "Er—sorry, is this the seven o'clock?"

Someone coughed. The woman beside the Chief Auror cast a glance across the table, and the older wizard beside her raised one brow.

Lily could feel the heat blooming in her cheeks. Her stomach sank.

"Oh," she said quickly, voice catching. "Sorry—I… I thought you were someone else."

The Auror gave an awkward chuckle and ducked into a chair without another word.

Lily sat back down far too abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. She clutched the folder in both hands, willing her fingers to stop shaking.

Get it together. Just keep going. Just breathe.

The Chief Auror cleared his throat, as if brushing aside the disruption like lint from a robe. "Shall we begin?"

There were murmurs of agreement. Lily nodded. The folder opened with a soft rustle, but the words on the page blurred as she stared down at them.

She couldn't stop listening for footsteps in the corridor. Every creak of wood, every murmur of voices just outside, set her nerves alight.

What if he does come? What if he barges in, like last time—like nothing ever happened? What if he says something in front of them all?

She hadn't told anyone about the argument. Hadn't had the words. Hadn't wanted to see the pity in their eyes—or worse, the judgement. Because even though Harry was fifteen, tall now, sharp around the edges in a way James never had been, he was still her boy.

Her boy, who'd looked at her last night like he didn't recognise her at all.

"Ms Evans?"

Lily blinked. The Chief Auror was looking at her expectantly. So were half a dozen others.

"Your assessment on the spell-tracking anomalies?" he prompted.

"Oh—yes," she said quickly, flipping the page as her voice tripped over itself. "Yes. So—the layered detection charm we placed along the regional border was designed to flag any cross-jurisdictional magic. The sudden spike in false positives last week wasn't a malfunction—it actually indicated a masking charm layered into the existing wards. Meaning someone tampered with the perimeter deliberately. It was disguised, but not undetectable."

There was a beat of silence. Then, murmurs of agreement. A few heads nodded. One of the analysts jotted something down.

Lily allowed herself a breath.

That part, at least, was done.

She kept her head down and kept her voice steady when she had to speak again. But with each passing moment, her body remained braced for something she couldn't name. Every tick of the clock sounded louder than it should. Every shuffle of parchment felt like a warning.

And still, her eyes flicked toward the door.

He didn't come.

The meeting wound on, minutes dragging like hours. Her responses grew shorter, more clipped. She could hear herself, distant and dull, like she was underwater. The longer Harry stayed away, the more relief she felt—but the guilt rose just as quickly.

Was she imagining it all? Being unfair? Misreading her son—her brilliant, sensitive, infuriating son?

But no. Her instincts were rarely wrong.

So why, even now—especially now—did she still feel like something awful was coming?

Something real.

Something she couldn't stop.

Lily stared at the cluttered sprawl of parchment across her desk, eyes unfocused. Her breath came shallow, her chest tight with the memory of the meeting. The words she'd said. The words she hadn't. Her voice, lifting in panic before she'd even realised it was happening.

Everything had unravelled far too quickly.

She was normally steady—measured. If there was one thing she'd carried from war and motherhood alike, it was the ability to keep herself in check. But today… something had cracked open. Something inside her that wouldn't stop humming.

A knock at the door broke through her thoughts.

Arthur poked his head round the frame, that familiar hopeful grin softening the room. "Did you get the approval, then?"

Lily blinked, as though surfacing from somewhere far away. "Yes," she said faintly. And then, quite suddenly, a giggle burst from her throat.

She slapped a hand over her mouth.

It wasn't joy. Not really. It felt more like steam escaping a kettle that had been on the hob too long—sharp and unstoppable. Her whole body felt jittery, like it had been running flat out, only to realise it was still sitting still.

Arthur stepped inside, eyebrows lifting. "What's so funny?"

She shook her head. She couldn't have explained it even if she'd tried. It wasn't funny. It was pressure. Tension. Something far stranger than either.

Arthur tilted his head, coaxing. "Go on. What is it?"

Lily sighed, giving in. "Remember that dream I told you about? From last night—the one I couldn't quite explain?"

Arthur nodded slowly.

She dropped her voice. "Today… it felt like that. The whole day. As though I'd already lived it once."

Arthur's brow creased. "You mean like—what? Time travel?"

"No Time-Turner involved," Lily replied with a short, sharp laugh. "Just… everything felt too familiar. Every word. Every glance. Even the fear." She rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. "Like the present was being stitched together out of half-remembered memories."

Arthur frowned. "No wonder you were going on about dreams earlier."

She opened her mouth to reply—but the image hit her again.

Harry.

Bloodied.

In her arms.

She gasped so softly it was almost inaudible, but Arthur's eyes sharpened at once.

She swallowed against the nausea curling in her throat. The vision had come and gone in less than a second, but it left a sickening weight behind, like something foul just out of sight.

"I couldn't stop thinking about it," she whispered. "Harry said he felt it too. Déjà vu."

Arthur stepped closer, his voice quiet and careful. "Lily? What's wrong?"

She gave him the same smile she'd worn through the worst nights of the war. The same one she'd used in hospital corridors and over Harry's crib when the world had felt impossibly sharp. "Nothing," she lied smoothly. "Why are you here anyway?"

Arthur, thankfully, let it go. "It's about the silver dagger—"

"The one covered in runes that kills in a single stab?" she cut in with a forced laugh. "Lovely bedtime reading."

Arthur grinned, missing the tremor in her voice. "That's the one. Guess someone's been catching up on her files."

She looked down at the parchment again. The words swam. She could still hear the ticking of the wall clock from the meeting room—every second like a drop of water on stone.

"I just…" She trailed off.

Arthur's tone softened. "Lily?"

She straightened too quickly. "Yes! I did my assignment. Gold star for me." Her voice came out too bright. False. But Arthur, ever gracious, didn't mention it.

She glanced towards the corridor, then back again. "Before the Hogwarts assembly tonight—I want to speak with Dumbledore. About the dagger. About all of it."

Arthur looked sceptical. "You think he knows something?"

"I think," she said slowly, "that if there is something bigger going on, something none of us are seeing—he'll be the one who's already halfway to the answer."

Arthur leaned forward again, his expression lighting up. "Well then—you might want to look here." He reached for a quill on her desk, knocking over a small pile of parchment as he did.

Lily's stomach clenched.

He was always clumsy, but today, even the smallest jolt felt like a warning.

He snatched up an ink bottle.

"It's empty!" Lily said sharply, grabbing it from his hand. The urgency in her voice startled them both.

She shoved the bottle into a drawer and handed him another, managing a wobbly smile. Her hand was shaking slightly as she set it down.

"I prefer self-inking quills," she said, voice light. "Much less risk of… mess."

Arthur, cheerfully oblivious, dipped the quill.

Too fast.

The bottle tipped.

Ink poured across the desk like a flood—thick and dark, spreading over notes and parchment like it had a mind of its own.

"Blimey!" Arthur jumped back.

Lily stared. The black liquid slid between stacks of paper, soaking through letters, pooling like oil.

Like blood.

Her chest tightened. She couldn't breathe for a second.

Arthur began apologising, reaching instinctively to help, but Lily hardly heard him.

The ink looked wrong. Not like a spill at all. It curled and crept along the grain of the desk like it was moving toward something. A warning, she thought. A sign.

She muttered a charm and syphoned it off, but the unease stayed behind.

What if they were already too late?

What if the dream wasn't just a dream?

She reached for her glasses—slipping them off, then back on—frowning.

They had to be connected. She'd felt it for days now. The disorientation. The dreams. The shifting lines of reality.

Everything centred on those lenses. On the way, the world changed when she wore them.

Her fingers tightened on her wand.

"I need to see Harry," she said quietly.

Arthur glanced up, but Lily was already moving, parchment forgotten, the ghost of her son's blood in her mind.

The future was pressing in.

And she was done waiting for it to break through.

Lily jabbed the button for the ground floor, her fingers trembling. The lift gave a judder, doors creaking shut with a groan that grated against her nerves. The descent began, slow and stuttering, as though time itself had taken offence at her urgency.

Her heart pounded against her ribs like it meant to break them.

Come on. Hurry. Please.

She kept her eyes on the flickering light above the doors, counting the floors like a child might count the seconds to midnight. Each dimming flicker felt like a held breath. The air in the lift was stifling—too still, too thin. Like it had forgotten how to be air at all.

This wasn't how the day was meant to end. Then again, nothing was going the way it should. Not today. Not yesterday. If it was yesterday. She wasn't sure anymore. Time felt unpinned.

All she knew was the dagger.

That bloody dagger—silver, cruel, ancient—had crept into her life like a whisper behind the curtains. And now it wouldn't let go. It curled around her thoughts, threading poison through her focus. She couldn't think. Could barely breathe. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Harry. Bleeding. Gasping. Her arms around him, red soaking into her robes while her screams vanished into the void.

She pressed her back against the wall, fingers tightening around the rail. Her breathing came in shudders. She tried to focus—on the research, on the symbols, on the timelines—but the only images her mind would offer were crimson and screaming.

The lift shuddered to a halt.

And the doors opened.

And there he was.

Him.

The same man. The same old black suit. Same fedora, dusty with age. Same heavy-lidded eyes that looked like they'd watched the world be born and hadn't been impressed.

Her stomach turned to stone.

"No," she breathed. "No, no, no…"

Her voice was barely audible. She clutched the railing tighter, white-knuckled, trying to root herself in reality.

The man gave a slight nod. "Pardon?"

Lily's throat tightened. "You were here. Yesterday. We spoke. You—" she swallowed, the panic building fast, "—you knew things. You said things."

He smiled, faint and unfathomable. "That's possible. At my age, I know many things."

Exactly the same. Word for word.

She stepped forward, nearly stumbling. "No. You said that too. This—this isn't right. This isn't happening."

Her chest felt like it might split open.

"If you're here again—if this is repeating—then that means—" Her voice caught. The rest of the sentence lodged behind her teeth, too jagged to speak.

Then he's going to die again.

Her knees wobbled. She gripped the railing with both hands now, fighting to stay upright. "Harry walks out. Turns the corner. There's a scream. Blood. So much blood. And then—" She broke off. The words wouldn't come. The memory—real or not—was a fist inside her chest.

She stared at the old man, wild-eyed. "Is it a loop? Is this a loop? Am I stuck? Are we stuck?"

He didn't answer.

Of course he didn't.

Just watched her. Calm. Impassive. As though watching a storm cross a distant field.

Her mind was spinning, thoughts flashing like sparks.

What if I don't let him leave the house?

What if we run? Hide?

What if the dagger only finds him in Hogsmeade? What if this day only ends in blood if I let it?

She muttered, "I'll keep him in. I'll never let him out of my sight again." She looked up, voice cracking. "I'll lock every door. I'll take him somewhere no one can find us. I'll burn the damn dagger if I have to—"

Then louder—raw, desperate: "Tell me what to do!"

She whirled on the man, fury and fear spilling over. "Tell me! I'll break time. I'll shatter the laws of magic. I'll trade my wand, my blood—anything. Just—tell me how to stop it!"

The lift gave a low clang and slowed. The floor light blinked. The man adjusted his coat and tipped his hat, unhurried.

"This is my stop," he said mildly.

Lily's hands twitched with the urge to grab him, shake him, and make him speak.

He stepped out.

Then paused.

And turned.

His eyes met hers—no smile this time. Just something solemn. Final.

"Cherish him," he said softly. "Just love him."

The doors closed before she could answer. Before she could scream.

Lily stood frozen, hands trembling, her pulse thudding like thunder in her ears.

Just love him.

What kind of advice was that?

What good was love against time—against prophecy and steel and blood on cobblestones?

She pressed her palms to her chest, as if trying to hold her heart in place.

Tears slipped free before she could stop them.

"I am," she whispered. "I do."

The lift jolted and began its descent once more.

Downward.

Always downward.

She didn't know where it would end—if it ever did. But she would fight. She would scream at the heavens if she had to. She would tear the world apart with her bare hands before she let that vision become real.

Whatever this was—whatever was coming—she would stop it.

Even if it broke her.

Lily's heart thudded in her chest as the lift doors slid open. She shot out like a spell from a wand, barely aware of the blur of figures moving through the Ministry's Atrium. Laughter, footsteps, voices—all of it blurred into meaningless noise. The world could have been burning for all she cared.

Only one thought pulsed through her:

Please be home. Please be safe. Please, Harry.

She had no memory of stepping into the Floo, nor of calling out her destination. The green flames roared, and then the flat was in front of her, and her hand was fumbling with the wand, the door creaking open too slowly for her shaking fingers.

The silence inside struck like a curse.

"Harry?" Her voice came out high and strained, cracking at the edges.

No answer.

Her stomach clenched. Something in the stillness was wrong—off. The air was too quiet, like the house was holding its breath.

She darted through the hall, her eyes flicking wildly, hope draining with every empty room.

The sitting room—empty. The kitchen—untouched. No crumbs on the counter, no mug in the sink.

No Harry.

She took the stairs two at a time, the old wood groaning beneath her as if warning her with each step. Every creak felt like time slipping through her fingers.

His room smelt like him—books and ink and that odd scent of peppermint toothpaste he'd insisted on since he was small. For the briefest moment, her chest twisted with something that might've been tenderness.

Then she saw the note.

It was lying open on the desk, careless, like it had been tossed there without thought. She snatched it up, her fingers trembling.

Ron's handwriting.

Slanted, messy, unmistakable.

Her eyes flew across the page.

A joke shop.

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

Of course. That mad, brilliant place. Harry had talked about it ever since Ron and the twins first mentioned it—couldn't stop going on about trick wands and puking pastilles and the Peruvian darkness powder he was notallowed to bring home.

She didn't stop to think. Didn't stop at all.

The letter dropped from her fingers as she turned on the spot.

CRACK.

And she was gone.

The noise of Diagon Alley struck her like a spell to the chest.

Owls hooted overhead. Children squealed in delight. A cauldron somewhere exploded with a sound like a cannon blast. None of it mattered.

Lily's eyes swept the street, fast and searching, her breathing short and shallow.

Focus. Find him. Find your son.

She moved quickly—half-walking, half-running—pushing through knots of chatting witches, sidestepping wayward broomsticks and the erratic swirl of paper birds trailing from Gambol and Japes. She barely noticed the comforting scent of roasted pumpkin or the shimmer of new spellwork in shop windows.

Don't get distracted. Don't lose him again.

She passed Ollivanders, and her chest tightened. She could still see Harry there, aged eleven, wand in hand, staring at it like it had chosen him out of a thousand others. Her baby. Wide-eyed. Hopeful.

Her own first wand had come from that same shop—willow and unicorn hair, twelve inches, swishy—but the memory felt like it belonged to another person. A girl untouched by war. Before fear had nested in the hollow of her chest and refused to leave.

Now it was back.

The dream—or whatever it had been—had left her with the unsettling sense that time was splintering. Like something vital had been knocked loose. And Harry—

No. Don't think like that.

She turned the corner.

There. There he was.

That mop of hair, forever untameable. That familiar way of walking, long-limbed and impatient. Her heart leapt, almost painfully, as she saw him vanish into the shop ahead.

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

A surge of relief hit her, wild and hot—and then, just as quickly, it curdled.

She shoved open the door. Bells jingled overhead.

Inside, the shop exploded in colour and chaos—walls lined with potions glowing like stained glass, fireworks erupting in controlled bursts from the rafters. Laughter echoed all around. A girl squealed as a fake wand turned into a flock of pigeons.

It should've felt joyful.

But it didn't.

Not to her.

Today, it felt like a maze. Too bright. Too loud. A place built to mislead. A trap.

She stepped inside carefully, heart thudding, ears ringing. Every sound grated. Every burst of laughter struck like a warning. Her eyes darted from face to face.

Where are you, Harry?

She moved deeper into the shop, weaving between shelves and signs. A charmed top hat hopped past her. A barrel of Dungbombs rattled ominously.

The tension twisted tight in her chest. The world around her spun faster, noisier, and stranger.

Something's not right.

It wasn't just anxiety—it was something colder. Heavier. Like walking into a room seconds after a spell had been fired. The energy was still charged. The air was wrong.

Her head snapped left at the sound of giggling—two young witches crowded round the Love Potion counter, nudging each other and whispering. The smell of sugar and perfume clung to the air.

Lily's hands were trembling now.

Just let me find him. Please.

Then—finally—she spotted him.

Ron. Red-faced, hair sticking up worse than usual, surrounded by boxes and customers and a very overexcited Pygmy Puff trying to climb into his pocket.

"Ron!" Her voice rang out, sharper than intended.

He turned, blinking.

"Mrs Potter!" he said, grinning. "Didn't expect—blimey, are you all right?"

"Have you seen Harry?" she asked quickly. Her eyes scanned past him, barely focusing. "Is he—?"

Ron looked startled, then pointed over his shoulder. "He's just there—by the back shelf!"

"Thank you," she breathed, already brushing past him.

The world blurred again. The clatter of trick sweets and chattering customers faded into white noise. All she could hear now was the dull rush of blood in her ears and the quiet, terrible thought: What if he disappears again?

And then—he was there.

Harry. Her Harry.

He was crouched near a display of Skiving Snackboxes, inspecting a box with a faint frown of concentration. The sight of him—solid, present—hit her so hard she almost stopped moving.

She reached out. Tapped his shoulder gently.

He turned.

Surprise flashed in his eyes—then recognition, warmth, something that looked almost sheepish.

"Mum?"

And that smile—lopsided, utterly James's—undid her.

"Harry," she whispered, pulling him into a hug before he could blink.

He stiffened for half a second, then hugged her back, confused but willing. He was warm. Real. Breathing.

She didn't care who saw.

He was here. He was safe.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, drawing back just enough to see her properly. His voice was light, almost casual—but she heard the edge beneath it. The question in it. The worry.

Before she could reply, Ron reappeared behind them, arms piled high with teetering boxes of what looked suspiciously like Canary Creams and Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.

"Er—everything all right?" he asked, trying to shift one box that had begun to slip under his chin. He was clearly picking up on the sudden change in atmosphere.

Lily straightened at once. Her mind snapped back into focus, as though something icy had clicked into place.

No time. No explanations. Just move.

"Ron, I need to take Harry. Right now."

Ron blinked, trying not to drop anything. "Er—sure, Mrs Potter." He gave Harry a slightly helpless glance, then back at her. She knew what he saw: something in her expression that brooked no argument.

"Mum?" Harry said, frowning. "What's going on?"

She cast a quick glance behind her, as if expecting someone—or something—to be watching. No one. Just the usual din. But it didn't feel usual. Not anymore.

She leaned in close, lowering her voice. "It's happening again. Yesterday, today—it's all bleeding together. I don't know how or why, but something's wrong. We need to go. London isn't safe."

Harry's brow furrowed. "Leave London? What are you on about?"

Her hands tightened gently around his arms, grounding him—grounding herself. "I don't have time to explain. Not here. Not with all this noise. But I feel it, Harry. Something's coming. We need somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Just for a little while—until I can work out what's happening."

He looked at her like she'd gone mad. Then at Ron, as if hoping his best mate might laugh and shake his head and say, Don't worry, mate; your mum's just having one of her moments.

But Ron didn't laugh. He gave a small shrug, awkwardly balancing the boxes again.

"She's serious, mate," he said, with a lopsided wince. "Might want to listen to her."

Harry turned back to her, still frowning. "But I've got the assembly tonight—"

"I'll get you back in time. I promise," she said, steady but urgent. "Just come with me, Harry."

He hesitated.

And for a horrible second, her heart seemed to stop. She could see it—him shaking his head, brushing her off, walking away. The crowd swallowing him whole. The day folding itself in half and repeating. Again. And again.

But then—he nodded.

She reached for his hand at once, clutching it tight. He let her.

They began moving quickly towards the shop entrance. She didn't speak. She didn't trust her voice.

Around them, the shop buzzed and flashed and shouted with its usual chaos—but it no longer sounded like fun. The colours were too bright. The jokes were too loud. The walls were too close.

Everything felt off—a few beats behind itself, like a clock whose tick didn't quite match its tock.

Lily didn't look back.

Something's wrong.

And whatever it was—however strange and impossible—it was circling closer.

She could feel it in her bones.

And she would protect her son.

Even if it tore time apart to do it.