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Lily could hear James moving around downstairs. Cupboards opening. Closing. The kettle. Footsteps. Normal sounds.
She sat on the edge of the bathtub with Harry in her lap and stared at the water.
Harry splashed his hand against the surface and laughed. Lily smiled automatically. Her whole body hurt. Not physically. Though there was that too. Lack of sleep. Stress. There has been constant pressure on her shoulders for months now.
No, this hurt deeper than that. James thought they were safe here. That was the worst part. He really believed they had escaped it.
Escaped Dumbledore. Escaped the prophecy. Escaped Voldemort.
As if changing houses changed fate.
Harry reached for the water again.
Lily caught his wrist before he could splash himself in the face. “You hate baths,” she whispered to him softly.
He blinked at her.
James was downstairs talking earlier about wards again. Reinforcing them. Making plans. Always making plans.
Lily couldn’t do it anymore. Every plan failed. Every protection failed.
The Order was collapsing. People were dying faster than they could grieve them.
And Harry— Harry was marked before he could even understand his own name.
Lily looked at the bathroom door. James trusted her completely. That realization nearly made her sick. Because James still believed there was a future where Harry lived through this. Lily knew better.
The prophecy had already taken him. Whether it happened tonight or in ten years did not matter. Harry made another happy noise.
Lily started crying so suddenly it startled her. Quietly. Soundlessly.
Harry reached toward her face. “Mama.”
Lily pressed a kiss to his wet hair. “No one is going to touch you,” she whispered.
Downstairs, James laughed softly at something. The sound broke something in her. Because he still sounded hopeful. Even now. Even after all of it.
Lily looked back at the water. Then at Harry. Then at the locked bathroom door. And for the first time since they fled Godric’s Hollow, Lily stopped thinking about survival. And started thinking about mercy.
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Harry stopped moving. Lily stared at him.
The bathroom was silent apart from the water dripping over the side of the tub onto the floor.
No. No, no, no.
Lily grabbed him immediately, pulling him against her chest. Water soaked through her clothes. His head lolled against her shoulder.
“Harry?” Her voice cracked so sharply she barely recognized it.
She pressed shaking hands against his face, his chest, anywhere. Trying to find movement. Warmth. Something. “Harry.”
Downstairs, she could hear James moving around the kitchen.
The sound hit her like a curse. James was here. James was downstairs.
Lily made a horrible sound in the back of her throat and clutched Harry tighter. Water and tears soaked into his pajamas. What had she done? What had she done?
Just seconds ago, it had felt so certain. So obvious. Voldemort would never touch him. Voldemort would never ruin him. Harry would never grow into a weapon for someone else to wield.
And now— Now Harry was limp in her arms.
Dead because of her.
Lily looked toward the bathroom door. James trusted her. James loved her. James was downstairs, believing their son was safe.
Lily started hyperventilating. There was no fixing this. No explanation. No forgiveness. No surviving it.
James would look at her and know. Not Voldemort. Not the prophecy.
Her. She killed Harry.
Lily pressed her hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. The room felt wrong suddenly. Too bright. Too small. James called something from downstairs.
She couldn’t understand the words. Lily looked down at Harry again and felt something inside herself split open completely.
There was no future anymore.
Not for Harry. Not for James. Not for her.
Her eyes landed on the razor beside the sink. And for the first time all night, Lily stopped shaking.