Chapter 10

Lily stood in the doorway of Harry's room, moonlight spilling through the window like liquid silver across the floorboards. In her hands, she held a navy-blue lace dress—simple, yes, but elegant in its own quiet way. The fabric felt cool beneath her fingers, delicate, almost as though it might whisper secrets if she held it too tightly. It stirred something in her—a memory of younger days, of spinning in front of a mirror with her hair flying and laughter catching in her throat, dreaming of ballrooms and candlelight and music that never stopped.

She turned the dress over, as though it might answer her. Then she glanced across the room to Harry, trying to sound offhand.

"What do you think of this one?" she asked lightly. "Too plain?"

Harry looked up from the chaos of his packing, one sock on, the other lost somewhere amongst the scrolls and sweets and half-folded robes. He regarded her with that particular mixture of fondness and mild exasperation that only a son could manage.

"You look great in every dress, Mum," he said, with a shrug that couldn't hide the sincerity. Then, with a grin, "Even Mr Filch would say so."

Lily laughed—short, surprised, and honest. "Don't be ridiculous. That's not funny; that's horrifying."

Harry smirked and went back to fiddling with his half-knotted tie. Hedwig gave a soft hoot from her perch, ruffling her feathers as though she, too, agreed.

Lily left him to it and slipped back into her room, the dress still draped over one arm. As she fastened it, her fingers were steadier than she felt. It sat neatly across her shoulders, fitted like something remembered. In the mirror, she looked composed—tidy hair, calm face—but inside, her thoughts pulled in restless directions, her heart ticking faster than it ought to.

She returned to Harry's doorway and leant against the frame, smoothing the skirt unconsciously.

"Would you be all right going to Hogwarts without me?" She asked, gently. She tried for casual, breezy—like it didn't matter either way—but her eyes lingered on his face, watching him too closely.

Harry looked up at once. "What? Now?"

He glanced at the clock. Five o'clock.

Lily nodded, trying to keep her voice light. "You could stay with Ron tonight. I'll send a note to Arthur asking if he wouldn't mind collecting you. I won't be far behind. Just need to… check on something. I promise it won't take long."

Harry didn't say anything straight away. That familiar line appeared between his brows—the one James used to wear when something didn't sit right, but he didn't want to start a row. He studied her for a long moment, like he could hear what she wasn't saying.

She reached out and ruffled his hair—a useless effort, really, given how stubbornly it refused to lie flat—but it was instinctive and comforting. It made her throat catch unexpectedly. The gesture felt like a memory made real, something she wasn't ready to let go of.

"Mum, don't," he muttered, ducking away. Not harsh, but with that teenage tilt of embarrassment that made her chest ache with something she couldn't quite name. He was growing so quickly. Too quickly. Yet there was still a flicker of boyishness in his eyes. Still something soft.

"All right," she murmured, half-laughing. "I surrender."

She pulled him into a quick hug—tight, full of everything she didn't have time to say. He returned it, arms solid around her. And for the briefest moment, she felt it all collapse inward—years folding like pages, her baby boy in her arms again, warm and safe and small.

Then it passed. He stepped back. Time resumed its march.

"I'll see you at Hogwarts soon," she said, forcing brightness into her voice.

There was something tugging at her now. A heaviness. A pull. She didn't know what it meant yet—only that it had been building for days, humming at the edges of her dreams, echoing behind her ribs. A warning, perhaps. Or a memory she hadn't lived yet.

Harry turned back to his packing, muttering about a missing sock. Lily lingered in the doorway, longer than necessary, watching him with quiet intensity—the curve of his shoulders, the stubborn angle of his fringe, the way he hummed under his breath when he thought no one was listening.

She smiled faintly to herself.

"Don't forget to pack a jumper," she called.

"I'm wearing robes," he replied without looking up.

"Still," she said, just to hear him laugh.

And when he did, it was the loveliest sound in the world.

Lily sat rigidly across from Professor Dumbledore in his warm, familiar office, though nothing about the moment felt comforting. The candlelight flickered in its sconces, casting long, swaying shadows across shelves lined with ancient tomes and strange, dust-covered artefacts. Ordinarily, the room gave her a sense of peace—sanctuary, even. But not tonight. Her cloak felt too heavy on her shoulders, her breath too shallow. She couldn't seem to keep her hands still; they twisted the frayed edge of her sleeve in her lap as her pulse beat in her ears.

"Good evening, Lily," Dumbledore said gently, his voice as calm as ever. It should have steadied her. Instead, it nearly undid her.

"You've arrived ahead of the Assembly. I wonder—might there be something on your mind?"

Of course he knew. Of course he saw it—read it on her face like a headline in the Daily Prophet. The fear must have been practically stitched into her skin.

She opened her mouth, but the words fluttered like startled birds and vanished. She tried again, quieter this time. "Yes, Headmaster. I… I needed to ask you something. It's strange. I know it is."

Dumbledore regarded her over his half-moon spectacles, his expression open and patient. "Strange questions are often the most worthwhile. What troubles you, my dear?"

She swallowed, hard. Her throat felt as though it had been lined with ash.

"Have you ever had déjà vu?" she began, fumbling the words into place. "But not the ordinary sort. Not the I've-seen-this-before sort. The other kind. Where you know something is coming. Where it's not just in your head. It's real. Like… a vision. But not from being a Seer."

There was a shift in his gaze—subtle, but unmistakable. A sharpening of interest. "You believe you've glimpsed the future?"

"I don't know," she said, almost too quickly. "I'm not a seer. I never have been. I've never had dreams or… flashes like this before. But now it's happening more often. And I can't shake the feeling that something awful is about to happen."

Dumbledore's features grew solemn. He folded his hands together, leaning ever so slightly forward. "Tell me everything, Lily."

She hesitated, sifting through her thoughts, which were tangled and knotted and far too many. "It started at home. Little things. Harry knocked over some papers—nothing important, just a clatter—but I felt it, like a ripple through me. Like it had already happened, and I was watching it for the second time."

Her fingers dug into her cloak as she pressed on. "Then he cut his finger. Just a nick. Slicing vegetables, of all things. And I couldn't breathe. My whole body—every part of me—reacted as though… as though it was a sign. A warning."

She paused, gathering herself. "Then it kept happening. A stranger spilt his drink. Arthur dropped an ink bottle. Meaningless moments. But I knew them. I'd seen them. As if I were remembering them instead of living them."

Her voice cracked, much to her frustration. "I sound mad, don't I?"

"You most certainly do not," Dumbledore said, and there was no amusement in his tone, only gravity. "You're describing something quite specific. A series of moments replaying in reality just as they have in your mind."

Lily nodded, tight-lipped, unable to speak for a moment.

"And then," she whispered, "the vision in Hogsmeade."

Dumbledore said nothing, but his stillness invited her to continue.

"I saw Death Eaters. It felt… wrong. Cold. Like the world had tilted." She took a shuddering breath. "But that wasn't the worst part. I saw Harry. He was stabbed. And I—" Her voice caught in her throat. "I felt it. I felt him leaving. The pain of it. The finality."

She looked down, blinking back the hot sting behind her eyes. "And then I woke up, and there he was—alive. Whole. Laughing like none of it had happened. But I know it did. Somewhere. Somehow."

Outside, thunder grumbled across the hills. Rain began to fall—soft and steady against the tall windows behind the desk—as though the storm had been waiting for her words to release it.

Dumbledore rose and crossed to a high bookshelf, his fingers brushing along the leather-bound spines, each one old enough to whisper secrets of its own. He chose none of them—just stood a moment longer, thoughtful.

When he turned back, his expression had changed. There was something ancient in it now. Something solemn.

"It is rare," he said at last, "but not unheard of, for witches or wizards without Seer ancestry to receive premonitions. Particularly when the magic involved is… deep-rooted. Intertwined with fate. Or when it concerns a trauma that has not yet unfolded."

Lily said nothing, but her breath hitched slightly.

"These visions," he continued, "they may be drawing you towards something. A moment of decision. Or perhaps a warning—one your magic is trying to give you before your mind is ready."

"There may be forces at work now that we do not yet fully comprehend," Dumbledore said, his voice low and steady. "And it's possible you are more attuned to them than most. You said… In your vision, your son dies?"

Lily could only nod. The words refused to form again. Saying them once had taken everything.

"And despite your attempts," Dumbledore continued gently, "events continue to unfold in the same manner?"

"I've tried," she whispered, her voice brittle. "I kept him close all day. I wouldn't let him near the chopping board this morning. I tidied everything before anything could spill. I changed things." She looked down at her hands, knotted tightly in her lap. "But something else always happens instead. Something small. Or something worse. It's like the path's already laid out, and no matter what I do, it always leads back to that moment."

A lump rose in her throat, thick and choking. She couldn't meet Dumbledore's eyes. "I can't lose him," she said, barely above a whisper. "I won't."

Dumbledore moved back to his desk with slow, deliberate steps and sank into his chair. His gaze never left hers.

"Then we shall do all we can to ensure you don't," he said simply. "We'll examine these visions carefully. Look for patterns. Signs. And when the time comes, we'll stand between Harry and whatever darkness dares to reach for him."

But Lily wasn't sure that would be enough. The weight pressing down on her chest wouldn't lift. Something terrible was coming—she was certain of it.

Dumbledore's brow furrowed, his features carved with thought like the folds of ancient parchment. He stood again, quietly this time, and began to pace the room. His long grey robes whispered against the stone as he walked, soft and solemn.

"I've heard similar tales, though rarely from one so young," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "Death omens, they're called. Markers of events not yet written but dangerously close. Warnings of something approaching… something that must be faced."

Lily froze. "A death omen?" she echoed, the words strange and bitter on her tongue. The air in the room felt colder. "I thought those were just stories. Old wizarding tales to scare children into brushing their teeth and doing their homework."

Dumbledore turned to her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those clear, sharp blue eyes—gleamed with something far heavier than bedtime stories. "Have you ever heard the Tale of the Three Brothers?"

Lily blinked. "Of course," she said cautiously. "But what does that have to do with—?"

"They believed they had cheated Death," Dumbledore said, sitting back into the high-backed chair by the fire. "And perhaps they had… for a while. But Death is nothing if not patient. And clever. In the end, it claimed them all."

Lily's fists clenched, her nails biting into her palms. The sting grounded her—anchored her in something real, something solid. Her voice trembled in spite of herself.

"Are you saying we're up against Death itself?" she asked. "Not a person, not a curse—but Death?"

"I do not know," Dumbledore replied quietly, almost regretfully. "But I believe we may be contending with something old. Something unnatural. Something that has already touched Harry once—and must not be allowed to do so again."

He studied her closely now. "You said he was stabbed?"

Lily's throat constricted. She nodded. "Yes. I tried everything. Healing spells, charms—I used Vulnera Sanentur. Nothing worked. The wound wouldn't close. It was as though the blade was laced with something… wrong. I think it was cursed."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed slightly. He leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "A wound resistant to healing magic is no ordinary thing. I've read of such weapons but never seen one myself. Some families—old families—possessed dark artefacts bound by blood and forged in magic far older than our laws."

"The Lestranges," Lily said at once. The name fell from her lips before she had time to second-guess it. "In the vision… I think I saw Bellatrix holding the blade. Only for a moment. I couldn't be sure, but—"

"You might be right," Dumbledore said, not dismissing it. That alone made her stomach twist tighter. "The Lestranges were deep into the old ways—pure-blood rituals, dark objects passed down like heirlooms. If what you saw is true, then we must act swiftly. Your son must be protected."

He rose from his chair, and Lily followed suit, her limbs stiff with unease.

"I'll have members of the Order placed nearby," Dumbledore continued, calm but firm. "Not obvious. Quiet watchers. We must avoid panic, but Harry is not to be left unguarded."

Her throat tightened. All of it—so sudden, so strange—it felt less like life and more like a dream she couldn't quite wake from. No, not a dream. A nightmare, unfolding one breath at a time.

She had lived through a war. She had faced Death Eaters, duelled in the thick of it, and seen friends fall. But this… this was something else entirely. It was colder. Quieter. As if something had slipped from the cracks of an old tale, ancient and watchful, and decided to linger in their world.

"I want to teach you a charm," said Dumbledore gently, breaking through the churn of her thoughts. "It is old—very old—but strong. Its strength lies not in the spell itself but in the one who casts it. You must use your love for Harry. Let that be your guide."

Lily gave a small nod, though her legs felt unsteady beneath her. Her stomach was a knot of nerves, but her resolve was iron. "I'll do anything," she said, her voice quiet but sure. "Anything to keep him safe."

Dumbledore moved to the centre of the room and raised his wand. The air shifted around him—charged and still. He moved with a graceful certainty, drawing long, intricate lines through the air, each motion deliberate and precise. Light gathered where his wand passed, threads of silver and gold coiling together like spun moonlight.

"Focus on him," he said. "On your son. On your love for him. That, Lily, is magic deeper than most ever understand."

Lily closed her eyes.

She saw Harry's face—grinning at breakfast, jam on his chin, hair sticking up in every direction. She saw him curled in a patch of sunlight by the window, chin in hand, lost in a book. She heard his laugh, bright and full of life, and felt that ache again—that fierce, aching tenderness only a mother could know.

Her wand lifted. Her hand didn't shake.

She mirrored Dumbledore's movements, her voice low and clear as she spoke the incantation. The magic rose to meet her—not wild, not violent, but steady. Certain. A glow spread around her like the warmth of a memory: soft, radiant, wholly hers. A shield, woven of love and desperation, pulsed gently at her sides.

For the first time in days, she felt something stir beneath the weight of dread.

Hope.

"Well done," said Dumbledore, his smile small but sincere.

Lily blinked back tears. She didn't want to cry—not here, not in front of him—but her voice came out hoarse all the same. "Thank you. I just… I couldn't bear it if something happened to him."

"You have a mother's love," Dumbledore said softly. "That is stronger than you realise. Stronger than most magic studied in classrooms. It baffles even the darkest hearts."

Lily stepped towards him, gratitude swelling beneath her ribs like a tide. But fear was there too, clinging to the edges.

"He's still just a boy," she said. "He doesn't know the world for what it is."

"Then let us keep it that way for as long as we can," said Dumbledore. "Let him laugh. Let him grow. We will face the dark when it comes—and we will keep it from him for as long as we are able."

Lily nodded. The truth of it settled deep inside her, like iron cooling.

She turned to leave, casting one last glance over her shoulder. Dumbledore stood by the fire, his face thoughtful, shadowed by the flickering light. Then she stepped out into the corridor, the great wooden door closing softly behind her.

The castle was quiet. Her footsteps echoed gently along the flagstone floor. The air was thick with the scent of old stone and the faint, comforting smell of wax and parchment.

But every shadow seemed to stretch longer than it ought to. Every gust of wind that stirred the torches set her heart skittering.

Something had been set in motion. She could feel it.

Lily quickened her pace. Her thoughts went straight to Harry—she needed to find him. To see him, to touch his hair, and to hear his voice. The ache in her chest grew stronger with every step.

Please, she thought, not knowing to whom she was pleading. Fate, perhaps. Or the castle itself. Please let it be enough. Let me be enough to protect him.

And with those silent words burning behind her ribs, Lily descended into the heart of Hogwarts, chasing the only thing in the world that still mattered.

Hogwarts.

Half past six.

The entrance hall was alive with noise.

Laughter, footsteps, voices calling across the marble. That familiar hum of excitement that always came with gatherings at the castle. It was the sort of sound that might've made someone feel safe—if they didn't know better.

Lily stood just inside the great oak doors, her back to the wind, eyes scanning the crowded hall. Her breath was caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. The air felt too thick, too close. She tugged at the hem of her robes, trying to settle the tension that had lodged itself between her shoulder blades.

Everyone looked so happy.

Parents greeting one another with fond smiles. Students glowing with anticipation. Faces lit with joy. The Assembly was supposed to be a celebration—a moment to mark beginnings and futures. But to Lily, it all seemed just a little too bright. The floors were too polished. The walls were too well-lit. As though someone had papered over something cracked and expected no one to notice.

She searched the shifting sea of people, her gaze flitting from one familiar face to another, not truly seeing them. She was looking for one in particular—untidy black hair, spectacles slightly askew, and green eyes too old for his age.

Where was Harry?

Don't be ridiculous, she told herself. He's just late. Or he's already inside. Still, the unease curled tighter in her belly, the same gnawing dread that had haunted her ever since the dream.

That awful dream. Too vivid. Too real.

She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat.

And then—a familiar head bobbing through the crowd. Bushy brown hair. Bright eyes.

"Hermione!" Lily called, her voice a shade too loud. It startled a few nearby witches, but she didn't care.

Hermione turned, her face lighting up. "Mrs Potter!" she said, stepping forward eagerly. Her parents trailed behind her, looking politely curious and just a little overwhelmed by the castle's grandeur.

"Lovely to see you, dear," Lily said warmly, forcing her features into a smile. She shook hands with the Grangers—charming, soft-spoken Muggles with good manners and the wide-eyed awe of people trying to memorise every stone of the castle.

"You look beautiful, Mrs Potter," Hermione said brightly.

Lily chuckled, brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear. "Thank you, love. You look lovely yourself."

But her eyes were already drifting again, scanning the edges of the crowd.

"Have you seen Harry?" she asked as casually as she could manage.

Hermione opened her mouth to answer but didn't have the chance.

The massive doors behind Lily creaked open with that unmistakable sound of ancient hinges. The entire hall seemed to pause as heads turned.

Lily's heart stilled—and then soared.

There he was.

Harry. Flanked by the Weasleys, a grin spreading across his face as he spotted her. That wild hair. Those glasses. His walk—quick, purposeful. Every inch her boy.

She didn't wait. She hurried towards him, relief crashing through her like a wave. When he reached her, she pulled him into her arms, holding him tight. Too tight. But she couldn't help it.

"You're here," she murmured into his hair.

Harry laughed, breathless. "'Course I am, Mum. Did you finish what you had to do?"

She drew back, startled by the question. He was watching her, that sharpness in his gaze that reminded her far too much of James.

He knew something was wrong.

"Yes," she said with a soft smile. "All done. I came early—I didn't want to miss the assembly. Or you."

Harry grinned, and her heart ached. That smile. That innocence.

Arthur stepped forward, offering a warm nod. His presence steadied her, as it always had.

"Arthur," she said, grateful for him.

He leaned in slightly, his voice pitched low. "We had an owl from Dumbledore just before the Portkey. Everything all right?"

Lily's blood ran cold. She cast a quick glance at Harry—he and Ron were already off to one side, laughing with Hermione, utterly unaware.

She turned back to Arthur, her voice barely a whisper. "The dream," she said. "It's not just a dream. It's starting. I can feel it."

Arthur's face shifted. Not fear, exactly—but a kind of sharpened focus. He straightened, scanning the room with quiet urgency.

"Is that why the Order's meeting after the Assembly?" he asked.

She nodded once, swallowing hard.

"There's something in the air," she murmured. "A wrongness. Like the world's tilted and no one else has noticed. Something is… watching. Waiting."

She stopped. Even speaking the words made it feel more real. Around them, the noise of the hall swelled—laughter, footsteps, the distant chime of enchanted bells.

But it all felt so thin. So fragile. As if the entire evening might crack like ice beneath their feet.

Her eyes found Harry again.

He was nudging Ron about forgetting something, Hermione sighing fondly.

So normal. So safe.

But it wasn't.

Lily forced a smile and edged closer to her son, pretending—just for a moment—that everything was fine. Pretending she wasn't gripping her wand tightly beneath her robes. Pretending she couldn't feel the shadows gathering at the edges of her vision.

Please, she thought, her heart repeating the silent prayer. Let this be nothing. Let me be wrong.

But in her bones, she knew she wasn't.

As the towering doors of the Great Hall creaked open, a rush of warmth and sound spilt out to meet them. Voices tumbled over one another—murmurs of excitement, bursts of laughter, the rustle of robes—as the crowd began to press forward. Lily stepped inside with Harry at her side, breath catching at the sight.

The enchanted ceiling shimmered with a soft twilight glow, stars winking gently between the floating candles. It was beautiful—exactly as she remembered—and yet… different. Quieter somehow. As though the castle itself was holding its breath.

She reached out instinctively, brushing her fingers against Harry's sleeve. He stood taller than he used to but still leaned towards her ever so slightly, as if some part of him remembered being small and clinging to her hand.

Her heart clenched.

Around them, students and families filtered into the hall, weaving through the round tables set for the evening's celebration. The usual long House tables had been replaced—likely a gesture to unity—and Lily noted the warm flicker of golden light reflecting off goblets and cutlery, polished to an almost unnatural gleam.

Too perfect, she thought. Too still.

Harry's shoulders shifted beside her, and she followed his gaze to the high table, where Professor Dumbledore stood waiting. His expression was composed, serene—but his eyes found hers across the room, and something passed between them. Something wordless. Heavy.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"Here," Harry said quietly, steering her towards a table where familiar faces were already gathering.

The Weasleys waved them over, and the Grangers smiled politely, still a touch overwhelmed by the surroundings. Lily returned the gestures, grateful beyond measure for the comfort of friends.

Ron dropped into a seat with a dramatic sigh, leaving a rather obvious gap between himself and his parents. Lily caught the sideways glance he gave them and fought a smile. Teenagers.

She sat beside Harry, smoothing the folds of her robes, keeping her movements calm. Measured. But her mind was racing, darting between thoughts she couldn't pin down.

Harry looked tired. Too pale under the warm light. His eyes flicked about the room, alert even in moments of peace. Just like James had. Always watching.

Professor Dumbledore rose at last, and the hall quietened with that peculiar, reverent stillness he always seemed to summon.

"I welcome you all," he said, his voice warm but steady, "to this evening's recognition assembly. Tonight, we honour students not only for academic merit but for perseverance, kindness, and courage. But before we begin—let us eat."

Ron made a noise of unrestrained relief, and several others chuckled as the golden platters shimmered into existence with a familiar rush of warm, savoury scents. Roast chicken, honey-glazed carrots, steaming greens, mashed potatoes whipped to perfection—it was enough to make Lily's stomach rumble despite herself.

She reached across Harry's plate before he could protest, piling on generous helpings with the brisk efficiency of a mother who knows her son won't do it properly.

"Mum," Harry muttered, flushing, "I can serve myself."

"You won't," she replied lightly. "You eat like a bird unless someone's watching."

Arthur chuckled. "Keep this up and he'll be rolling back to school, not walking."

Lily smiled, passing the gravy boat. "That might not be the worst thing. A bit of insulation wouldn't hurt."

Harry sighed but didn't argue. He picked up his fork and began eating with quiet focus, cheeks still a touch pink. But she saw it—the slight easing of his shoulders, the way he let himself lean into the noise and the light and the food.

Across the table, Hermione had unrolled a parchment that had appeared in front of her. Her eyes scanned the list as though expecting it to scold her. Her brow knit, lips tightening in quiet dissatisfaction, though she said nothing.

"Oh, look!" Ron suddenly exclaimed, jabbing a finger at the parchment. "Harry's got top marks!"

Hermione didn't lift her head. Her mouth curved, just barely, into something meant to be a smile—but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

Lily leaned over slightly, peering at the scroll. Her breath caught at the sight of her son's name, printed clearly at the top of the list. A warm jolt of pride surged through her chest, swift and fierce.

"Well done, sweetheart," she said softly, reaching to squeeze his hand. He startled—just slightly—but didn't pull away. "I'm so proud of you."

He gave her a small, lopsided smile. Brief, fleeting—but it was there. And it was enough. Enough to tell her that, if only for a heartbeat, he felt seen. Grounded. Safe.

"I don't see your name listed, Ron," said Molly lightly, leaning over Hermione's shoulder to inspect the parchment. Her tone was teasing, but Lily caught the faint, sharp undertone beneath it.

Ron shrank a little behind Harry, muttering something into his bread roll. "Probably a mistake," he mumbled, cheeks pinking.

A ripple of laughter passed around the table—easy, comfortable. Lily joined in, but her eyes slid back to Harry. He was smiling, yes. Laughing, even. But the hollows beneath his eyes hadn't disappeared with dinner and compliments. The tiredness was something deeper. Something rooted.

Something she couldn't touch.

And that gnawed at her.

Still, tonight wasn't the night to press. There'd be time enough for questions and worry—tomorrow, perhaps. Tonight, she'd pile his plate high and hold his hand and pretend, just for a little while, that everything was exactly as it should be.

Forks clinked against plates. Someone at the next table let out a loud whoop. Conversation bubbled and spilt, overlapping in the kind of joyful chaos that made Lily's heart ache in the gentlest way.

She glanced sideways. Harry was half-listening to Ron and Hermione bicker, his attention drifting. His hair was its usual mess—stubborn, defiant, impossible. His collar was askew. His expression was thoughtful.

He looked older. Not just taller—but older. Like something had been taken, bit by bit, while no one had been looking.

She leaned in a little, her voice low and conspiratorial.

"I still remember when you couldn't get through supper without flinging mashed potato at the wall."

He blinked, turning to her with a horrified sort of grin. "Mum—no—don't."

"You were three," she said, nudging him gently with her shoulder. "You insisted the potatoes were alive."

"I don't remember that."

"Oh, I do. Took me a week to scrub them off the wallpaper. You had a very determined throwing arm."

He let out a laugh then—a proper one. Not polite. Not filtered. It tumbled out, soft and real. It warmed her more than the roast dinner ever could.

"Thanks for coming," he said suddenly, almost under his breath. His eyes flicked to hers and then away, uncertain. Like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

Lily's heart gave a sharp, helpless twist. She reached for his hand again and held it—firm this time. Grounding.

"There's nowhere else I'd be," she said, quiet and sure. "You know that, don't you?"

He nodded. Barely. His fingers curled around hers for a beat—just long enough for her to feel it—then slipped away again, as if embarrassed by his own need.

Always holding back. Always bracing for something.

It made her want to scream. Or cry. Or wrap him up and never let go.

But instead, she smiled and reached for the breadbasket.

"Here. Eat this. I know you skipped breakfast."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You don't know that."

"I do. I'm your mother. I always know."

He gave her a look, half defeated, half amused. "You've got stalker instincts."

She raised an eyebrow, passing him the butter. "Call it what you like. Eat."

He obeyed—grumbling, but eating nonetheless. She took it as a small victory.

All around them, the hall buzzed with laughter and chatter. Neville was eagerly explaining something about Devil's Snare to the Grangers. Ginny was laughing so hard she nearly spilt pumpkin juice across the table. A group of younger students had started a chorus of off-key singing at the far end, and nobody seemed inclined to stop them.

It was noisy. Unruly. Full of life.

And Lily sat among it all, holding the moment close as if by doing so she could keep the world at bay for just a little longer.