The first soft spill of sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting warm gold across Lily's cheek. It was gentle—almost tender—like a hand brushing against her skin. For one suspended moment, the world held its breath. The room, washed in a hush of early morning haze, felt still. Peaceful. Untouched.
She didn't move.
Wrapped in the bedclothes, she remained curled on her side, floating on the fragile edge between sleep and waking. For a heartbeat longer, she let herself rest there—in that quiet place where nothing had yet gone wrong. Where the ache hadn't returned.
Then the stillness broke.
A sharp chime rang from the bedside clock—clear and cutting, like a pebble dropped into deep water. Lily's eyes blinked open slowly. Her lashes clung together, her vision blurred with sleep and memory. A dull weight pressed down on her chest, heavy before the day had even begun.
Six o'clock. Far too early.
Her limbs felt like lead, each movement slow and unwilling. Even breathing took effort. She rolled away from the sunlight, drawing the blankets up over her shoulders, as if she could hide inside them. Just a few more minutes. A few more heartbeats of not remembering.
But it was already too late.
The memories returned in a rush, sharp and unkind. Hogsmeade. The scream of spells and panic. The sickening glint of a blade. Blood. Her own heartbeat thudding behind her ribs like a caged thing. The moment her world had tilted and snapped.
I can't do this again, she thought, gripping the sheets with white-knuckled fists. Not today. Not after that.
The clock ticked on, indifferent.
From the far corner came a hoot—loud, firm, and slightly impatient.
Hedwig.
Lily heard it but didn't truly register it. She stared at the ceiling, unmoving. Her body lay in the bed, but her mind was adrift somewhere far away. The room felt too large. The bed, too empty. Her heart, too tired.
And then—
"Shhh, Hedwig. One more hoot and I'm turning you into a toad."
The voice cut through the fog like a wand through smoke.
Lily froze.
Her breath hitched. Her stomach lurched. That voice. That voice.
Her pulse stilled.
No. No, it couldn't be—her eyes widened, and the covers suddenly felt suffocating, like they were pinning her down.
She turned her head, slowly, as though even the air around her might break if she moved too quickly.
There, standing in the early morning light, was a figure.
Her breath left her in a shattered gasp.
That hair—so dark and impossibly untidy. That face—half his father's, half her own. Pale skin. Worry stitched across his brow. And those eyes.
Green.
Her green.
"Harry?" she breathed. The name cracked on her lips. Fragile. Like saying it too loudly might tear a hole in the world. "H-Harry…?"
He blinked, just as startled as she was.
"Mum?" he said, tentative, stepping closer. "What's wrong? You look—are you alright?"
She could barely take him in. Her brain screamed that this was impossible. That it couldn't be real. He wasn't supposed to be here. Not anymore.
She'd let him go.
Let him go to protect her own heart. Let herself believe she'd never see him again.
But here he was. Standing there. Real. Solid. Alive.
"I—You're—" Her throat closed around the words. Her hands trembled beneath the blanket. Her knees drew in as though to hold herself together.
"You're here," she managed, voice thick with disbelief. "But… how?"
The edges of the room swam in and out of focus. Too bright. Too quiet. Her ears rang with silence. This had to be a dream. Or a trick. Or some cruel echo dredged from grief.
She stared at him, terrified to blink in case he vanished.
Harry didn't move too quickly. He raised a hand—gentle, reassuring. Just like James used to do when she startled in her sleep.
"It's me," he said softly. "I swear, Mum. It's really me."
And still, Lily didn't breathe.
He stepped closer, slowly, the way you might approach a frightened creature. Reaching out, his palm open. No magic. No explanation.
Just Harry.
She flinched.
The instinct to recoil—to shield herself from whatever fragile thing this was—gripped her like a reflex. Her body wanted to move, to run, to retreat into the safe numbness she'd grown used to. But she didn't. Her feet stayed where they were, planted on the edge of the bed. And her heart… her heart warred with itself—torn between disbelief and a hope so bright it hurt.
He looked just as he had yesterday.
And still… still her Harry.
The boy she'd watched grow up, awkward and brilliant and endlessly kind. The boy who used to pad into the kitchen with socks that didn't match and hair sticking up in every direction. The boy who had laughed until he fell off chairs with Ron and Hermione. The boy she had dreamed of, night after night, ever since the day he slipped beyond her reach.
She hadn't let herself imagine this. Hadn't dared to wonder what it might be like—seeing him again.
And yet, here he was.
Her gaze flicked towards the door. Then to the window. As if the world might come rushing in to take him away. To correct this impossible moment. But nothing happened. The room stayed still.
Then—without a word—he stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.
His arms wrapped around her with all the warmth and certainty she hadn't known she'd been missing. At first, she froze. Her muscles locked tight, her mind screaming that none of this could be real.
But he was solid. Real. And his heartbeat—steady and familiar—beat against hers.
He smelt like something ordinary and comforting—wool, perhaps, and soap, and the faint coolness of morning air. It was that smell, more than anything, that undid her.
Her hands trembled as she lifted them. Slowly. Fearfully. As though she might crush the moment if she moved too quickly. And then—she held on. She clutched the back of his shirt with both hands, gripping it tight, as though he might vanish again if she let go.
"It's all right, Mum," he murmured into her hair, voice low and steady. "It's going to be all right."
Tears slipped down her cheeks—hot and quiet. She made no attempt to stop them. Her face buried in his shoulder, she cried—not out of sorrow, not really, but from the sheer impossible relief of it all.
She didn't know if she was dreaming. Didn't know if her mind had finally tipped over into grief-shaped madness.
But in that one breathtaking, impossible moment, none of it mattered.
Harry was here. And for the first time in years, she didn't feel alone.
When she finally drew back, his hands were still on her arms, grounding her. He looked into her eyes—her eyes—and she into his. That same familiar green, deep and unguarded.
"I'll miss you so much," he said, barely above a whisper.
Lily's breath caught in her throat. She reached for him, cupping his face with both hands, brushing her thumbs across his cheeks, as though to learn him by touch alone. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips. Solid. Human. Real.
"I'll miss you too, Harry," she whispered. "More than I can ever say."
The words broke around the edges. There was so much more she wanted to say—but it tangled inside her. Regret coiled heavy in her stomach, a weight she'd carried too long.
"I believe you," Harry said quickly, gently. His hands closed around hers, squeezing them tight. "But—listen. Why don't you come to the Burrow for my birthday? You'd love it. Everyone would… Everyone wants to meet you properly. You'd laugh so much. You always laugh at Fred and George."
Lily tried to smile. She really did. But it was twisted, sharp and wrong. Her heart pulled painfully at the sight of his face, bright with hope, so open and eager. She wanted to say yes. Of course she did. But something inside her coiled tight. Something wordless and cold. Her fingers slipped out of his.
Her chest ached.
The question felt… familiar, somehow. Too familiar.
"I can't," she said, voice cracking on the words. Her eyes dropped to the floor. Her breath hitched. "I—I'm sorry. I can't."
Harry's smile faltered.
And then—just like that—the light in his face dimmed.
"Of course you can't come," he said quietly, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. "You've got that big meeting."
Lily stared at him. The words landed like a spell. Cold. Familiar. Final.
And somewhere, deep inside her, something gave way.
A meeting?
Lily blinked. Her thoughts felt slow and sticky, like honey left too long in the cold. A meeting. Yes—she was meant to be somewhere. Something important. But what was it? And why did it feel so distant now, like something that had happened to someone else?
She sank down beside him, the mattress dipping beneath them both. "I… I had a meeting," she said faintly. "And you—" The words caught, crumbled, dissolved into silence. She didn't know how to speak of the pressure in her chest or explain the strange tilt to the world. Harry was here—alive, solid, warm—and that should have been enough. But the unease was still there, sharp as splinters beneath the skin. It pressed inward, refusing to let go.
Harry turned to her and gently cupped her face in his hands. His palms were warm. Grounding.
"Mum," he said quietly, "just breathe. It's alright. Everything's going to be fine."
Her eyes filled before she even realised. She looked at him properly then, really looked. He was so beautiful—so Harry. Older, yes. Wiser. But still her boy. The same one who used to look up at her with toothpaste on his chin and questions in his eyes. She felt like she was falling into him, into those green eyes—hers and James's both—like they were the only thing tethering her to this moment. Her fingers wrapped around his hands as though she might disappear without them.
She couldn't lose him again.
She wouldn't survive it.
He pulled her close. She melted into his arms and held on tightly, her head against his chest. For a few breaths, there was only quiet. Steady. Safe.
"You're ready," he whispered into her hair. "You're going to do brilliantly today."
And then—he let go.
He stood up and crossed the room towards the door.
No. A jolt of panic lanced through her, sudden and sharp.
"Wait—please don't go," she said, her voice cracking as she surged to her feet. Her whole body felt wrong, tight with dread. "What's happening?" she asked, though the words barely kept pace with her thoughts. Her mind was fogged, thoughts swimming out of reach. Something was wrong. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn't grasp why.
Harry paused and turned, offering her a small, gentle smile. "I'm only making breakfast," he said lightly. "I won't be long."
But it didn't soothe her. The calm in his voice clashed with the storm inside her. She couldn't explain it—but he needed to stay. He mustn't leave the room.
"No—let me do it," she said quickly, stepping forward, reaching for him. Her hands closed around his wrists. Her fingers trembled. "You stay here."
He looked at her, puzzled but not unkind. "Mum," he said softly, "really—it's fine. I'll be right back. Just focus on your work, alright? Don't worry about me."
Focus?
She blinked. "I… I can't focus." She shook her head slowly. "I don't… I can't think properly." The words felt like sand, slipping through her fingers. Nothing made sense. The edges of everything were too soft, too quiet. Like the last few seconds of a dream you didn't want to wake from.
Harry reached for her again, gently squeezing her hands. "I'll be fine. I promise."
She stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Something in her heart recoiled. Final. That was the word. This moment felt final.
She gave a small, reluctant nod. Every inch of her wanted to cry out, Don't go, but the words stayed stuck behind her teeth.
"All right…" she whispered, barely.
And then she stood in silence, watching him walk away.
The door didn't close loudly—but it still sounded like goodbye.
And as the hush settled round her once more, her chest ached with the weight of something she couldn't name. She stood frozen, her heartbeat drumming in her ears, trying to remember what she'd forgotten… and why the knowing left her feeling so terribly, unbearably hollow.
Lily stood in the quiet hush of her bedroom, wrapped in a silence that felt altogether too loud. The first grey light of dawn slipped through the curtains, soft and hesitant, painting faint stripes across the floorboards and walls. Her eyes followed them, unfocused, as if they might somehow offer answers.
But nothing looked quite right.
The air was too still. The edges of the room were too soft, as though it had been drawn in charcoal and left unfinished.
Yesterday—was it yesterday? The hours blurred. Time felt like water, running through her hands no matter how tightly she tried to hold it. She reached back for the shape of events, but the memories were slippery, smeared like ink on damp parchment. There had been fear—something sharp, a sound stretched far too thin. And then… silence. A stillness that felt like the end of something. Or the beginning of something else.
Her temples throbbed with the effort of trying to place it. Everything was familiar—her walls, her window, even the faint smell of old wood and dust—but she felt like an intruder in her own life. Displaced. Slightly to the left of where she ought to be.
Her gaze drifted to the open door across the hallway. Harry's room.
There he was.
Stroking Hedwig's feathers peacefully, his chest rising and falling in that steady, untroubled way children had. As if none of it had touched him. As if everything were fine. He left his room and went down to the kitchen.
Lily's breath caught. She didn't move. She couldn't. Her body had gone quiet, her hands limp at her sides. She stared as though looking at something precious, breakable. Real—and yet too good to be true.
She needed to touch him. To be sure. But her limbs wouldn't respond, heavy with the fog that clung to her chest.
She turned instead, walking to the chair by the wardrobe. She picked up her robe without thinking, slipping it on while her mind wandered elsewhere. When she glanced down, she blinked. It was inside out—deep blue, seams showing, loose threads tickling her wrist. She frowned.
Hadn't she worn this yesterday? Or was it the night before?
She couldn't remember.
A quiet unease curled low in her stomach. Cold and tight.
Moving slowly, she stepped to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. Her hand hovered for a moment, then settled on the thick velvet robe—burgundy, with worn trim and sleeves slightly too long. The one she kept for winter mornings. Heavier than it used to be, she thought. Or perhaps she was.
She slipped it on, slow and clumsy, her fingers struggling with the sleeves. The fabric clung to her arms like memory. Too soft. Too familiar. Her throat tightened.
"Maybe this'll help," she murmured, voice rough, barely audible. "Maybe if I look normal, I'll feel it."
But the moment she said it, she knew it was a lie.
Nothing was normal. Not the room. Not the air. Not the quiet, which pressed in on her like a weight. Even her own heartbeat sounded wrong—too loud, too fast, echoing in the hollow space behind her ribs.
Still, she drew the robe close around her and tied it firmly at the waist. A small act. A tiny piece of control. A refusal to give in to whatever strange fog had crept into her bones.
Maybe if she just kept moving.
One step. Then another.
Maybe things would start to make sense again.
Maybe.
Half an hour later, Lily wandered into the kitchen, arms full of parchment and scribbled notes that had entirely consumed her thoughts. She was still only half present, her mind tangled up in meeting agendas and things she was meant to have finished days ago. Her feet carried her forward out of habit more than intent.
The scent of something warm— buttery and comforting— lingered in the air, but she hardly noticed it.
Then she saw him.
Harry stood at the cooker, brow furrowed in concentration, completely absorbed in whatever he was making. His back was to her, sleeves pushed up, wand resting on the worktop beside him. He hadn't heard her come in.
Something in Lily's chest tightened, uninvited.
He looked so at ease. So capable. Older.
It was a strange thing, seeing him like this—unaware, unguarded. For a heartbeat, she felt like a stranger in her own kitchen, watching him from some far-off place. When had he stopped needing her?
She stepped closer, voice quiet with curiosity. "What's for breakf—"
But he turned too quickly. His elbow clipped her arm, and the parchment slipped from her hands, scattering across the tiled floor like startled birds. The sound of them hitting the ground was soft, but it struck Lily like a spell to the chest.
She froze.
Her breath caught, sharp and shallow, as though the world had blinked out and snapped back in again. Such a small thing—just paper. Just a knock. But her heart was racing, and her throat felt too tight.
Harry spun round, eyes wide with alarm. "Mum—I'm so sorry! I didn't see you—I didn't mean to—"
He dropped to the floor, scrambling after the pages. His hands were clumsy with panic, the corners of the parchment folding awkwardly beneath his fingers. He looked terribly young all of a sudden—flustered, apologetic, like a boy who thought he'd broken something he couldn't put right.
Lily's arms hung limp at her sides.
There were a hundred things she could've said. It's fine. Don't worry. I'm not cross. But the words caught somewhere behind her ribs.
She didn't know what she felt. Not quite anger. Not embarrassment, either. Just a strange, hollow ache, like something she'd forgotten how to name.
At last, she crouched beside him, her voice quiet. "It's alright," she said and meant it. "Truly. I'll sort it."
Their hands brushed as they reached for the same sheet, and something sharp flickered behind her eyes. A memory, maybe. Something old and half-buried. She pushed it away before it could surface.
Harry looked up, his brow furrowed. "You're sure?"
She nodded, managing a faint smile. "Absolutely."
Back at the table, she gathered the pages into her lap, stacking them carefully. They looked the same as they had ten minutes ago—bullet points, diagrams, tidy handwriting—but somehow they meant nothing now.
Her eyes drifted to the clock. 6:45.
Far too early to feel this tired.
Across the kitchen, Harry flipped a pancake with surprising ease. She watched him for a moment—confident, methodical—and the words slipped out before she could stop them.
"Harry," she said, "let's go out today. Just us. Forget the meeting."
He looked over, startled. "What? But… what about your meeting?"
Lily glanced down at the parchment in her lap. The words stared back at her, neat and purposeful. She'd spent weeks putting it all together. All those notes, those careful plans. They'd felt important once.
Now they just felt… noisy.
She drew in a breath. "It doesn't matter."
Harry hesitated. "But you've been planning it for ages."
Her fingers traced the edge of the top sheet. It felt sharper than it ought to.
"I know," she said. "I've changed my mind."
Harry turned the hob down, his expression gentling. "Mum… Are you alright?"
Lily didn't answer at once. She wasn't sure she could. What did alright even mean, really? The question felt too large for the morning.
He placed a plate in front of her—eggs, sausage, pancakes, neatly arranged—and her chest gave a little twist. It should've made her smile. It should've reminded her of all the things that were still good.
Instead, it made her want to cry.
She picked up her fork. The metal was cold between her fingers. The first bite stuck in her throat, but she swallowed it anyway.
Across the table, Harry smiled.
Properly. Bright and untroubled.
And for just a moment, something inside her steadied—just enough to breathe.
She kept eating. One bite after another, though the food tasted of nothing. Her eyes flicked to Harry again. He was chopping something now, moving with the ease of someone who had done it many times before.
So grown up.
So sure of himself.
She blinked, and the thought returned with quiet force.
Fear flared in Lily's chest like a match striking dry kindling.
She stood sharply and hurried to Harry's side. "Oh, Harry! Please be careful—you might hurt yourself!"
He turned to her, brow slightly furrowed. "Mum?"
His calm tone only unsettled her more. Her eyes darted to his hands—no blood, no scrapes—but the unease didn't budge. It sat low in her belly, twisting. That old, dreadful fear. That knowledge of how quickly everything could vanish.
She reached out, fingers slipping through his hair in an old, familiar gesture. She hadn't even meant to—it had simply happened. Like muscle memory. Something safe. Then, as if realising how tight her chest had grown, she pulled back and returned to her chair, her breath thin and tremulous.
She tried to smile. She needed to. But her heart wouldn't settle.
He's fine, she told herself. He's right here.
But the truth was, she didn't feel fine. Not even close.
Even seated again, she kept stealing glances at him. There was a faint crease on his forehead now—new, uncertain.
"Are you sure you're alright, Mum?" he asked quietly.
Lily gave a small nod, her hands curling round the warm mug on the table. The coffee radiated gentle heat, and she clung to it, letting it seep into her fingers, willing it to calm her. To slow her thoughts. It helped. Briefly.
Then—
"Ouch!"
Harry's voice sliced through the kitchen, and Lily jolted. Her hand jerked, coffee splashing over the rim and onto the table in a dark, careless streak.
She was already up. "Harry!"
He stood by the sink, hand clenched. Red was dripping between his fingers.
"You've cut yourself," she said, panic quickening her words. "I told you to be careful—"
She reached him in an instant, her grip too firm as she caught his wrist, searching for the wound, already breathless.
"It's fine," Harry said quickly. "Honestly, it's nothing—just nicked it."
But she saw the flicker in his face—the way his mouth twitched, the way he winced despite himself.
So much like James, she thought. Always trying to be brave, especially when he didn't need to be.
And yet, as she looked at Harry now—older than she ever expected to see him—there was something else. He was watching her carefully. Not just his usual sort of concern. No. This was sharper. He was reading her.
Those green eyes—her own, reflected back—searched her face as though they might uncover something hidden there.
"Mum," he said gently, "what's going on?"
The words hit her harder than she expected. Not his tone, not the concern—but the question. Because she didn't know how to answer it.
She looked away, pressing her lips together.
The dream still clung to her skin, cloying and thick. She could feel it even now—that awful, frozen moment. His body in her arms. The silence after. That sense of something being ripped away.
She shut her eyes and forced it back.
Not now.
She reached for her wand, grounding herself in its familiar weight. The wood fit neatly in her fingers, as it always had.
"It's just a scratch," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. But it wavered at the edges, and she knew he heard it.
She muttered the healing charm, and a soft glow spilt over his skin. The blood faded. The cut sealed. Only a faint mark remained, like a bruise beneath the surface.
Still, the quiet didn't return.
The kitchen felt charged, full of everything she wasn't saying.
Harry was still watching her.
He knows, she thought. Not the dream, not the images—but something. He knew something was off. Children always did, in the end. Especially this one.
A silence settled between them, not cold, but heavy. Familiar.
Lily swallowed.
"I… I had a nightmare," she said at last, trying to make it sound casual. As though it hadn't been clinging to her since dawn. She turned her gaze to the window, where thin sunlight fought its way through the grey.
"And I can't quite seem to shake it."
She didn't say how real it had been. How waking up hadn't felt like waking up at all.
Harry didn't move. He leaned lightly against the counter, hand relaxed now. But his eyes didn't leave her.
"What was it about?" he asked softly.
Lily closed her eyes, just for a moment.
She wanted to tell him. She did. She wanted to lay it all out—the fear, the ache, the unbearable stillness of it. But she couldn't. Not because she didn't trust him. But because she was his mother. And part of her, even now, couldn't bear to hand him that weight.
When she opened her eyes again, she smiled. Not a real one. But one that would do.
"Just old worries," she said quietly. "Silly things."
He didn't press. He never did, not when she sounded like this. And that, somehow, made it worse.
She turned away before the swell of feeling could rise too high.
Her steps up the stairs were quiet, deliberate. But inside, everything felt thick and slow, like wading through fog. That awful, lingering fog that dreams sometimes left behind.
And in the kitchen, the silence remained. Holding what she hadn't said.
What she still couldn't.
A little while later, Lily came down the stairs, her cloak drawn tightly round her, bag slung over one shoulder. Her fingers fumbled at the clasp—twice she missed the latch before it finally caught. She exhaled through her nose, steadying herself, trying to press the rising tightness in her chest back into place.
"I've got to go," she said softly, adjusting the strap across her shoulder. "The meeting time changed—it's now at half past seven."
Harry looked up from where he was wiping down the counter. "I'll see you later at the assembly."
Lily paused on the bottom step, blinking. "Assembly? What assembly?" For a flicker of a second, her stomach lurched—had she forgotten? But then she caught herself, and a smile crept across her face, sly and familiar.
"I'm teasing. Just seeing if you're paying attention. I'll see you tonight."
Harry huffed a laugh, his grin a little crooked. "Good luck at the meeting. Not that you'll need it."
He stepped forward and wrapped her in a brief hug. She clutched him just a little too tightly, arms circling his back, fingers gripping his jumper as if to anchor herself. He didn't pull away. Whether he noticed or not, he didn't say.
The front door creaked open, and sunlight spilt onto the floorboards—early gold, soft and slow, like honey across stone. Lily stepped into it, letting the warmth brush her cheeks. For a fleeting second, the morning felt almost innocent again. The scent of dew on the grass, the faint song of birds echoing from somewhere unseen… it should have been a comfort.
But then her eyes caught a figure across the street.
Still.
Hooded.
A takeaway cup curled in one hand. Motionless.
There was nothing inherently strange about him—no wand, no stance, no overt threat. But something about the way he stood sent a cold ripple through her spine.
Something was off.
Her body moved before her mind had fully caught up. She stepped forward sharply, instinct overtaking thought.
"Harry!"
Her voice cracked—sharper than intended. She closed the distance between them with brisk strides and placed herself squarely between him and the street. Her hand clamped onto his shoulder, firm, too firm. Protective.
He stared at her, startled. "Mum? What's going on?"
She didn't answer straight away. Her eyes remained locked on the figure. Still unmoving. Still not looking at them. Had he ever been?
"I thought—" she began, then stopped. She blinked, searching for the thread of reason. "I thought he was walking too quickly. I just—I didn't want you getting bumped into. That's all."
But even as she said it, the words felt thin.
Her hand stayed on Harry's arm, reluctant to let go. His gaze didn't waver, calm but questioning. She could feel it—the quiet analysis, the slow drawing of conclusions behind those green eyes.
"Oh. Okay," he said at last. The words were neutral, but his tone had shifted—more careful now.
She forced a shallow breath and smiled, or tried to. Don't frighten him, she reminded herself. He doesn't need to carry your ghosts.
But just as the world seemed to right itself again, it tilted.
A blur rushed past them. A sharp sound cracked against the pavement—a cup, upended. Lily barely had time to react before the scalding splash hit.
Harry gasped, staggering slightly.
Coffee had sloshed across his front—hot, dark liquid already spreading over the white of his shirt like spilt ink.
"Watch where you're going!" snapped a gruff voice, all venom and indifference.
The man stormed off without another glance, already disappearing into the foot traffic as if they hadn't existed at all.
Lily's breath caught. She reached for Harry without thinking, hands trembling as she brushed at his shirt uselessly. The heat still lingered in the fabric.
"Are you burnt? Let me see—Harry, are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he said quickly, though his jaw was tight and his shirt clung to him awkwardly. "Just—just startled."
But Lily couldn't look away. Not from the stain, not from the direction the man had gone.
Something was wrong.
She could feel it again, that chill in her chest—something cold, ancient, and familiar.
Not a vision. Not magic.
Just the unmistakable sense that someone was watching, and that whatever this morning had been meant to be… it had changed.
And not by accident.
It was just like the dream.
Her breath caught—sharp and sudden—as though something had knocked the wind from her lungs. The coffee. The rush. That awful lurch of motion, too fast to react to, too familiar to ignore. Not exact. But close enough.
Every hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
Her stomach dropped. Nausea rose fast and bitter. She closed her eyes to keep the ground steady beneath her feet.
"It wasn't just a dream," she murmured, barely above a whisper. Her voice wavered, thin as parchment.
Harry looked down at the stain spreading across his shirt, then up at her, brow furrowed. "Mum…?"
But she couldn't speak. She was already moving—pacing across the small front step, one hand pressed to her mouth. Her breath came shallow and fast, her chest tight. Panic chased itself round and round inside her, crashing in waves that left no room for sense or thought.
She'd seen this. Not all of it, no, but the feeling—the tension, the dread, the shiver beneath her skin—had all been there. Hours ago she'd woken from it, heart racing, certain she'd glimpsed something she wasn't meant to. She'd told herself it was nothing. Just a dream.
But it was happening now.
"Mum," Harry said again, more gently this time, "what are you trying to tell me?"
She stopped. Stared at him for a second, dazed—as if she'd only just remembered he was there.
His face. So open. So still young.
It made the fear twist sharper.
"I had a vision," she said slowly, the words thick in her mouth, foreign. "A dream. Maybe a warning. I'm not sure. But I saw today. Pieces of it. This moment—close enough."
She hesitated, her voice faltering. "The drink, the cut, my papers all over the floor—it didn't make sense at the time. I thought I was imagining things. But it's here. It's real."
Her hand came up to wipe at her face before the tears could fall.
Harry's gaze softened. "It could just be coincidence," he said carefully. "You know—like déjà vu. A trick of the brain. Happens to everyone."
Lily shook her head. "No. This wasn't a flicker of memory. It wasn't faint or fleeting. I felt it. The fear. The certainty that something was wrong. And I feel it again now."
Harry was quiet. Listening, really listening, even if he didn't fully understand. There was no doubt in his eyes—just concern.
"Can you tell me more?" he asked. "About what you saw?"
Lily hesitated.
The dream hadn't ended with coffee. Or papers. It had gone darker. He'd been walking away—she remembered that now—turning at the end of a street, just out of reach. And then something… took him. No sound. No light. Only silence. That horrible, irreversible silence.
But how could she say that out loud? How could she plant that fear in him when it was already tearing her apart?
Still, she forced herself to speak.
"After the spill," she said quietly, "I cleaned your shirt with a charm. I left for the meeting. And then… my glasses cracked. They didn't fall. They broke. Clean across the lens. Like something pressed in—too hard."
Harry absorbed it all without flinching. He looked at her steadily, then gave a small nod.
"Alright," he said. "Then we'll walk to the Ministry together. If your glasses crack again, we'll know it's more than a coincidence. But you're not going through this on your own."
His voice was calm, measured. Not false, not forced. Just solid.
And Lily stared at him—her son—this boy who had once clung to her fingers in crowds, who had once fallen asleep against her shoulder without a care in the world. Now he stood before her, steadying her, the shift subtle but undeniable.
Pride rose alongside the ache.
She gave a small nod, unable to speak just yet. But she drew in a breath. Then another.
The fear was still there. Still real. Still waiting. But with Harry beside her, it loosened its grip. Just slightly.
"Right," she whispered at last. "Together."
The city streets bustled around them—a blur of robes and morning chatter, owl feathers drifting lazily in the breeze—but to Lily, it all felt muted. Distant. Like she was walking through mist, thick and clinging, impossible to shake off. Her cloak tugged slightly in the breeze, but the real weight pressed from within.
Harry walked beside her, chatting about school with easy enthusiasm. He laughed softly as he mentioned the Recognition Assembly and some mishap involving a runaway cauldron that had ended with Professor Snape covered in orange foam.
He was trying. She could feel it in every word. Every smile was a rope thrown in her direction, keeping her from drifting too far into her own head. She clung to them quietly, letting his voice fill the gaps left by the silence inside her.
But with each step closer to the Ministry, the tightness in her chest grew. Her instincts were humming again, sharp and insistent.
Something was coming.
And no matter how calm she tried to appear, the question echoed louder with every heartbeat: Can I keep him safe?
"Mum?" Harry's voice cut clean through the spiral of her thoughts. "Are you alright?"
She blinked, caught off guard. His brow was creased, green eyes watchful. So like hers.
"Just… thinking," she said quickly, forcing a smile. It wobbled, but she held it. "That's all."
Soon, the towering archway of the Ministry of Magic came into view, its enchanted glass catching the morning light in long ribbons of gold. They stepped through the revolving doors into the great atrium, and the familiar rush of sound and movement surrounded them.
The chandeliers sparkled high above, casting shifting pools of light across the obsidian floor. Witches and wizards moved with purpose, boots clicking, robes sweeping. The air shimmered faintly with magic—trace spells and old enchantments humming just below the surface.
"Lily! Harry!"
Arthur's voice carried over the din, warm and familiar. He wove through the crowd with his usual easy manner, his tie only slightly askew.
"What brings you two to the madhouse this early?" he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Harry looked slightly sheepish but proud all the same. "I just wanted to walk Mum in. Thought it might help."
Arthur chuckled, clearly pleased. "Now that's something. My lot wouldn't dream of it—too busy raiding the tea cupboard or hexing one another. I'll be having words."
That drew a proper laugh from Lily and a grin from Harry. And just like that, for a moment, the heaviness lifted. The lift arrived with a soft chime, and the three of them stepped inside.
As the doors slid shut, the whir of gears beneath them hummed like a heartbeat.
"Here we are, Mum," Harry said as the lift halted with a gentle shudder.
Lily nodded, but her hands trembled as she reached into her bag. She fumbled slightly before her fingers closed around the case—her glasses. Still whole. Still intact.
You're alright, she told herself. Everything's fine.
But she didn't quite believe it.
Harry must have seen it—of course he had. He laid a hand on her shoulder, warm and grounding.
"You're just nervous. That's all. It's going to go well. Just breathe, okay?"
She looked at him, and for a moment, her breath did settle. His calmness held her steady, a quiet strength in the midst of everything unravelling.
"You're right," she murmured. "I trust you."
He smiled, and she pulled him into a hug—tighter than necessary, longer than was strictly proper. But she needed it. Needed him.
When she finally stepped back, she looked into those impossibly green eyes and saw something steady. Not innocence—not anymore—but hope. Something brave. Something unbreakable.
"You've got this, Mum," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. "Just remember why you're doing it."
She exhaled, a proper breath this time, her smile firmer now. "For the greater good."
"Exactly."
She turned then, the weight on her shoulders a little easier to carry. She walked down the corridor, the stone echoing beneath her boots. Aurors passed her with brisk nods—some in uniform, others in plain robes, all sharp-eyed and purposeful. The kind of people who faced the darkness every day and didn't flinch.
She paused before the tall brass doors of Auror Headquarters. The engraved plaque caught the lantern light, shining with a cold gleam.
Her hand hovered over the handle, her breath catching once more.
"Good luck, Mum!"
Harry's voice rang out behind her like a charm—clear, sure, and bright.
She turned, her smile blooming fully now. "Thanks, love."
He gave a small wave, then turned and walked away, disappearing down the corridor, his steps quick but unhurried.