Disclaimer: See first chapter.

"Then the door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew then disappeared
The curtains flew then he appeared,"

Don't Fear the Reaper, Blue Öyster Cult

October 31st 1981, Godric's Hollow.

Lily had grown tired of peering out of the window onto the dark and lively street. The trick-or-treating children draped in bedsheets or waddling in orange papier-mâché pumpkin cases, their sickly-green faces lit with delight, no longer made her smile. She lived with only a foot in her husband's world; the other was firmly rooted in this one. The source of her joy only an hour previously had become that of her despondency. Harry's lovely little face, round and full of wonder, should have been painted grotesquely as hers used to be. She hoped that on future Halloween evenings, her little boy might carry a bright orange plastic pumpkin and collect sweets with the other children, that perhaps he might take his siblings.

"Surely it can't go on forever," she said, her face resting in her upturned palms.

James glanced up from the puffs of pastel smoke with which he had been captivating their son. "Chin up. Not for much longer, I'm sure."

Too exhausted to play their where will we take him when this is over game, Lily only smiled softly. She wanted to believe they would camp in the Forest of Dean as she had done with her parents and Petunia, that they would take silly photographs at the park, that Harry would still be small enough to lift above the soft waves splashing against the shore at Hope Cove. She had believed, but as the weeks became months, became years, it had become increasingly difficult.

"Lily, look!"

Harry's pudgy hands grasped greedily at thin air as the smoke drifted past him. He clapped in either pleasure or a desperate bid to trap a pink puff. She couldn't help but beam down at him, her smile blooming with the familiar swoop of love and relief for her husband's enthusiasm, his sheer enjoyment of fatherhood.

"I think you might be exciting him a bit too much before bedtime, you know."

"Nonsense – no such thing as too much excitement before bedtime." Lily rolled her eyes, but this only amused him further. "All right, old man, the warden says it's time for bed." Throwing his wand into the crease of the sofa, James reached down and scooped up his son.

"The warden?"

"I've decided that's what we'll call you. I've given you a nickname."

"And you chose the warden?"

"Well, I happen to think you ought to count yourself lucky. Look at what Peter landed." James dropped a kiss to his son's temple and handed him to his mother. "Your turn. I'll feed the cat." He collapsed back onto the sofa, stretching his arms above his head and yawning loudly. Pushing his glasses up, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"Oh, don't, you'll start me off. I'm starting to think the only person who isn't ready for bed might be Harry."

James makes to laugh, but the sound catches in his throat at the front gate creaks slowly. It is late; too late for a social call from Peter. He has always imagined that fight or flight would be a bit like Quidditch; that time would speed up and his muscles would do the job before he was conscious of asking them to. But time passes achingly slowly. His heart pounds and it's a deep and low bass in his ear. There is a faintly metallic taste of blood coming from somewhere and he runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth, attempting to identify it. His right-hand fumbles for his wand, but time seems to have caught up with his mind and he is no longer on the sofa.

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off –"

She is halfway up the stairs when the green light engulfs their hallway and a sickening thud signals the full weight of her husband's crumpled body on the floor, but there is no time to grieve, no time to even register the enormity of what has happened. Lily lays her child in his crib and even as she throws her full weight into stacking furniture against the door, she hears Voldemort's footsteps, his sure and steady ascent.

"Harry, your mummy loves you very much," she whispers, hot tears burning her cheeks as she struggles for breath.

She thinks for a moment that perhaps she should not have taken the child upstairs, that she should not have trapped them. She is not sure of this magic and has not been studying it for more than a few months. She recalls a promise that she would not be reckless, that her interest was purely academic.

Summer. What a lovely thought to end on. Her blisteringly hot garden, strawberries dusted in sugar, a rare moment of laughter as James reached for her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, causing her to shriek in faux alarm. Harry's birthday, of course, though she would rather not think about sharing out slices of cake with Peter – and that bloody broom that Sirius had sent him.

And Remus – poor Remus who had poured out his heart at her kitchen table, the daylight streaming in behind him though it had been nine o'clock at night, his teeth chattering against the rim of a teacup.

"I physically repelled him – as though it wasn't enough that I repulsed him."

"Repelled him?"

"His hand was covered in blisters. He couldn't touch me. I had him run it under the tap, but I don't think it helped him much." He smiled grimly, his eyes dull. "I think he has scars. Couldn't have happened to a finer man."

She had approached Sirius days later, requesting hefty, dusty books which he acquired with surprising ease, courtesy, she was sure of their former Headmaster. Who else would have such volumes? This was blood magic, a form with which it was best not to trifle. It relied on having a choice to live or die and as she heard the almighty crash of the master bedroom door against the wall, she whimpered, unsure that she had one, that she had doomed her child to certain death. "Run," James had told her, had ultimately given his life in the hope that she would, and she had been foolish.

"Harry, I'm sorry." She sniffs quietly and gingerly gets to her feet, the lack of her wand dawning, slowly, painfully, on her. Harry stares up at her, alarmed, quiet with fear. She knows he is unfamiliar with this game and must be wondering where Daddy has got to. She manages to smile for him, though her face is still hot with tears. "You're going to be all right, Harry. I'm not going to let him hurt you."

She reaches for him, clutching him to her chest. The thud of footsteps comes to a sudden stop and just as Lily begins to think she has hidden herself too well, the door is blown from its hinges and she shields her face, burying Harry in a curtain of dark red hair.

Voldemort's presence has never before frightened her. She has had James at her side, responsible only for herself. She inhales deeply, placing Harry into the crib and shielding him from the terrible sight in the doorway.

"Stand aside," he hisses.

"Have mercy. Not Harry! Please, I'll do anything."

"This is my last warning –"

There is a moment, a sudden sweep of his arm, where Lily thinks he might push her away, but she is strong, and she grips the bars of the cot until she can hear them creak.

"Stand aside, you silly girl."

And she almost smiles. Good. Let him think her a silly girl. There will be no pain, at least not physically and there is no greater gift, she thinks, she could bestow upon Harry. And if it worked on Charles Mulciber, then it must work on her baby boy.

It has to, she thinks. It has to. It has to. It ha–