Chapter Text
Lily Evans Potter had never cared much for divination. The weight of fate had never appealed to her; it was far too passive, too accepting of inevitability. She believed in choices, in action, in shaping the world with one’s own hands, so when Albus Dumbledore arrived one evening to tell her and James that her son, Harry Potter, was the potential boy of prophecy whose fate would be to defeat a Dark Lord.
Lily was more than surprised. She was furious. Fate had no right to touch her child.
Lily’s perception of Albus Dumbledore was tarnished from that moment forward.
When she asked what they should do to prepare, she caught the shadow in his eyes—quiet sorrow, heavy, and resigned.
He asked if she had her affairs in order, should the worst come. Lily Evans Potter rose from her chair so abruptly it scraped against the floor. Her magic flared, sharp and bright, and she ushered him out with a fury that left no room for debate. The audacity of it...to think of her as nothing more than a chess piece to be sacrificed in Albus Dumbledore's grand war.
She wanted nothing more to do with him. If he wasn’t going to protect her family, then she would.
Lily’s search for protection led her beyond the usual channels of magic. She pored over dusty, forgotten manuscripts in the restricted sections of the library, deciphering archaic runes and rituals that hadn’t been practiced in centuries. Every night she lingered over texts whose margins were scrawled with warnings and dire predictions, learning to read the language of blood, of binding, of life exchanged for life.
Even the brightest charms of contemporary magic fell short of what she needed. Protection required cunning, precision, and a price she was willing to pay, but only if she understood it fully.
That was why she sought out Bathilda Bagshot. The historian had long since retired from the public eye, living in quiet solitude in Godric’s Hollow, but she carried knowledge few others remembered. Lily approached her cautiously, aware that such questions about forgotten spells, ancestral rites, and protective covenants could raise eyebrows.
Bathilda, frail but sharp eyed, studied her with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
“You’re meddling with things that are… dangerous,” she warned, her voice thin but firm. “Magic that touches life and death so directly is rarely forgiving.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Lily said evenly, her eyes steady. “I will not let them die. Not James, not Harry. I will do this myself if I must.”
Bathilda considered her, eyes flicking to the small dagger Lily carried for ritual purposes, the careful way she traced the glyphs in her notebook. Finally, she nodded. “Very well. There are methods that are… older than Hogwarts. Ones that rely on balance, on binding one life to another. But understand this once you step down this path, there is no turning back.”
Lily Evans Potter worked in quiet cycles of devotion, each movement precise, each act deliberate. Every full moon, she soaked the runestones in her own blood, planting them carefully beneath the petunias in their garden. The ritual was exhausting, physically and emotionally, but necessary; each drop of blood pulsed with intent, anchoring her magic to the life she vowed to protect.
The bones, however, were not so easily obtained. She had traveled in secret to a crumbling family vault, the resting place of Ignotus Peverell, whose cleverness had once outwitted Death itself. The air had been thick with dust and age, the silence broken only by her careful breathing. She had whispered apologies as she lifted a fragment of the ancestor’s bone, the weight of desecration pressing on her conscience, but the urgency of her purpose left no room for hesitation. Returning home, she handled it as tenderly as she could, wrapping it in a cloth and hiding it in her study, promising it would not be desecrated further than necessity demanded.
In her study, she crushed the bone into fine, pale dust, letting it drift like ghostly snow into a simmering cauldron. The brew shimmered silver, catching the flicker of candlelight as she added two petals of asphodel. She stirred three times clockwise, feeling the pulse of ancient magic climb her fingers and settle behind her heart. Every motion was measured, every gesture a vow: protection, preservation, and balance.
Beyond the physical preparations, she drew sigils of binding on parchment, traced runes around the perimeter of the cauldron, and murmured fragments of incantation that had not been spoken in centuries. The air in the room felt alive, thick with the weight of lives intertwined—her own, James’s, and Harry’s—each one a thread she could feel tangibly, a fragile lattice of magic that demanded perfection.
She wove the ancient magics of protection into James’s bloodline, calling upon his ancestors to shield him and Harry in exchange for her own life, praying that she would never need to invoke the failsafe that the three of them would escape their fate, and that Harry would grow up happy and loved.
But every motion, every syllable, was a covenant with powers older than memory, a bargain struck with forces that listened, measured, and waited. And somehow, deep in the marrow of her bones, Lily knew that this moment of preparation: the blood, the bones, the whispered incantations would one day demand everything of her.
She did not flinch. She did not hesitate. She only worked, steady and unbroken, building the fragile lattice of magic that would hold her family’s lives in her own hands.
Lily Potter had been on edge all Halloween, nerves frayed and senses sharpened to every whisper and shift around her. Every creak in the house, every shadow flickering in the candlelight, made her heart race as if it were trying to warn her of something she already feared.
Her unease deepened when Peter stopped answering her Floo calls. James noticed the strain etched on her face. “He’s probably avoiding the network to stay safe. You know him,” he said, his voice meant to soothe.
That was the problem with James Potter. He never could find fault in his friends.
Lily clenched her hands at her sides, her pulse pounding as the evening darkened. The world beyond their wards felt suddenly sharper, crueler, and the shadows of fate seemed to stretch just a little too close to the walls of their home. Every passing hour felt like a countdown, every wind through the eaves a whisper of what might come.
She moved through the house with careful, deliberate steps, checking wards and runes, feeling the weight of every protective charm she had painstakingly set in place. The ritual, the preparation, the blood and bone every sacrifice she had made now pressed against her like a living thing.
She found Harry playing quietly on the rug, a small smile on his face, unaware of the danger looming just beyond the walls. She knelt beside him, brushing the fine hair from his forehead and holding him a little longer than usual. Her fingers lingered on his cheek, memorizing the curve of his small jaw, the warmth of his skin against hers
“ Harry, you are so loved, so loved. Harry, Mama loves you. Dada loves you. Harry, be safe, be strong." she whispered, letting the words linger in the room like a fragile promise, knowing they might be the last he ever heard from her.
James’s gaze fell on her then, sharp and searching, sensing the tremor in her voice, the tension coiled behind her eyes. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as though he could shield her from the knowledge of what was coming. She rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the weight of love and grief pressing against her own.
"It's going to be ok Lilly, everything is going to be ok." He said kissing her. She savored the taste of his lips against hers. The last kiss they would ever share.
In that embrace, words were unnecessary. In that quiet, ordinary domestic moment, Lily carried everything she needed, but would never be able to say. She carried everything she knew she would soon leave behind. Everything would be okay, she told herself, her mind clinging to the hope of safety for James and Harry.
But beneath that hope, a gnawing ache settled in her chest. How could she know how her boys would go on without her? How could she measure the gap her absence would carve into their lives? She pressed herself a little closer to James, inhaling the scent of home, the warmth of Harry’s small body against her, and tried to etch the memory into her very bones, a talisman against the darkness to come. For now, all she could do was hold them a little tighter, love them a little deeper, and steel herself. The night she had dreaded was here.
Outside, the quiet of the countryside shattered. A cold, unnatural stillness settled over the grounds, as if the night itself recoiled in fear. And then he arrived. Voldemort.
A chill rolled through the house, the wards flaring faintly under her fingertips. The Dark Lord’s presence was immediate and suffocating, carrying the weight of decades of cruelty and obsession. She could feel it before she saw him: the way the air shivered, the way the shadows pooled unnaturally near the edges of the garden, the sense of a predator circling.
She glanced at James, who was now holding Harry protectively, unaware of the full extent of the danger. Lily’s breath caught in her throat. There was no time for hesitation, no room for error. Every charm, every rune, every whispered preparation was about to be tested in the harshest way imaginable. She slid her wand over the palm of her hand, a silent cutting charm and let her blood soak into the wood of her willow and phoenix feather wand.
She stepped betweeen James and the door. Magic coiling beneath her skin. Every fiber of her being screamed, protect them.
The door rattled violently, then blew off its hinges, splintering into the room. A cold, sibilant hiss filled the air as Voldemort stepped through, his pale face twisted in cruel amusement. His wand was raised, dark intent glittering in his red eyes.
“Step aside, silly girl,” he said, voice smooth and mocking. “you cannot hope to stop me.”
Lily’s hand tightened around her wand. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw set with absolute determination. “I will not step aside,” she said, voice steady and unyielding. “Not now. Not ever.”
The duel began in a storm of light and shadow. She unleashed a shower of spells, each one precise, fierce, and desperate, forcing Voldemort back, if only slightly. Incantations hissed from her lips, silver and blue sparks tearing through the air. She moved as fast as she could, blocking curses, redirecting them, buying moments she knew were precious.
“James!” she shouted over the roar of magic. “Take Harry and run!”
She caught sight of them. James clutching Harry to his chest, the boy’s small body pressed against him, eyes wide with terror. Lily’s heart clenched. She had only moments, but she allowed herself a final, fleeting image: Harry safe, laughing one day, unaware of the storm that had nearly claimed him. James alive, carrying on, never knowing the full weight of what she had done.
She took a shuddering breath, feeling the coil of magic thrumming beneath her skin, ready to unleash everything she was. Her hands tightened on her wand, on the runes, on the threads of life she had woven into the spell. She felt the pulse of James’s bloodline, Harry’s life tethered to it A single, sharp thought cut through the chaos: I will protect them. No matter the cost.
Voldemort raised his wand, the unforgivable curse streaking toward her in a jagged line of red. She let herself go still, letting the covenant she had forged with ancient, patient forces take over. Her wand lifted as if moved by her very soul, and from its tip erupted a blinding, white light that swirled and coiled, impossibly bright, impossibly alive.
In that final heartbeat, as she felt herself at the center of the storm she had summoned, her eyes caught Voldemort’s. Fear, pure, raw, unshielded flickered there for the briefest instant. And that, above everything, was what she held onto.
“Mischief managed,” she whispered, her voice steady and calm, the words carrying across the void like a final, unbreakable promise.