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To The Bitter End. by Siriusly3

Format: One-shot
Chapters: 1
Word Count: 1,329
Status: COMPLETED

Rating: 15+
Warnings: Mild Violence, Sensitive Topic/Issue/Theme, Contains Spoilers

Genres: Drama, Horror/Dark, Angst
Characters: Harry, Lily, James, Pettigrew, Voldemort
Pairings: James/Lily

First Published: 03/26/2012
Last Chapter: 03/28/2012
Last Updated: 03/28/2012

Summary:




You hate this war, you want to be free again.


These are your final moments of violence and sadness, infliarated with love for your husband, your baby and the last stab of regret in trusting that rat of a best friend.

Lily Evans is beautiful. Betrayal is ugly

(Gorgeous banner by Dora Winifred @ TDA)


Chapter 1: Halloween.
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 As usual everything is JK Rowling's. 

 

Review please, mwah!










Imagine it, if you can. The depression falling upon you, darker than it’s ever been before. The cold, black, heavy feeling in the pit of your stomach that weighs you down whatever you do. You’re caked in dread, icy dread. You can’t describe it, the dry clogging fear in your mouth that water will not quench, that Firewhiskey will not quench. Slowly, silently, meticulously reading the list of the missing, and the silent prayer that your loved ones aren’t on there. It’s only a matter of waiting. 

 

 Can you feel it? The gelatinous air that you hate breathing, the sticky, humid, caged warmth in a world so cold, so harsh. Autumn is here and with it brings spicy, steaming oranges, browns, blocky comforting colours, streaming sunlight and an Indian summer that isn’t leaving. Outside your window is raging alive with bright, primary colours like sweet wrappers, naive and spitefully loud. But to you, everything is faded, everything is grey.

 

The muggles know, your grandparents know. They had seen war, felt vindictive hate and death. Never to this magnitude, never so unstoppable, so boundless, desperate, but they had fought like you will today. You are a woman today.

 

 For all your joking, and all your laughter, the past years have injected bitterness into each and every one of your fragile, tenous veins. Your blood is His, spiked with fate and time. You will become another number. Your minutes are countable, but you don’t know this. All you know is that you will fight, you have no choice.

 

You hate this war. You hate fighting. You’re scared, like a helpless animal snatched in a ruthless, binding trap, gnawing your own leg off for your freedom. The war hurts, it physically cripples you as you write to your friends, from where you’re hidden, pretending that everything is fine. Can you imagine the dark undercurrent in your smile? Could you, can you live knowing they all yearn for you to die?

 

This time years ago, you were at the Halloween feast, can you imagine that? The rich food and the laughter, tinged with fear, tinged with blackness. The food is mouldy in your mind, the candles spent, the happiness dead.

 

Now, looking back it feels like the last supper but ‘no,’ you think firmly, against your will, ‘it was not the last supper, because there will be no Judas,’ You look around at your husband, the person you will always trust more than anyone in the world. You look around at the worn face and remember him as a child, as your worst enemy, your best friend.

 

Young, fresh faced and without a care, these memories flicker through your weary mind, shrouding you, hiding you. The images taste sweet and nostalgic, like twilight rain and feathers, soft and easy. You’re screaming the words arrogant pig at James Potter, as a fiery twelve-year-old, then your kissing that same boy only five years later by the lake in balmy, aching summer, you remember his proposal, under a blossoming tree in late spring. Pictures, tainted sepia, fly like butterflies and you never settle on one, letting them flow, like golden sand, through your brain. 

 

Something snaps and you see Severus’s mouth, twisted in bitterness, shooting the word mudblood from his mouth, it still hits you like a bullet, you still flail and fall, and drown in your own shock. You shake your thoughts free of him, but you can’t remove his face. Every time you think of him it is like dragging a bitter shard of glass over your skin, and feeing numb surprise at the beads of blood that appear, at the pain he causes. The smiles you shared crumble like flimsy coal in your hands, irreplaceable blackness never compressed into diamonds, never lingered on, or loved for long enough. 

 

You see your eyes in the mirror, tired and listless, your hair lank and lifeless. You see your weak, thin body, that had once swelled like a blooming flower with the child you cradle in your arms. You were so strong then, you had never been broken, and now you had him. You look at him, and breathe his name, Harry. His eyelashes barely flutter as he sleeps across you, faithful, loving and warm.

 

 You gently shake him awake from his slumber and he doesn’t cry. Your heart aches with bursting love, he is so easy, so kind. He won’t scream. He merely unfurls himself, blinks bewilderedly and settles to laugh at his father’s amusements, their little jokes, and you feel safe. How could you not? Your husband and your child protected by one of the people you trust most in the word. The man you have known since that trembling first day at school. How could you not feel the warmth of the fire in the room bathed in easy light? How could you not let yourself off guard, let yourself feel free? 

 

You hear a crash. A tremor. More than that, you feel yourself dying. You’re still breathing, your heart’s still pumping tirelessly, but you know it’s over, you know you can’t win. In a split second you feel more than you’ve ever felt before. Startling confusion, anger, fear and an instinct to throw yourself over your son, to cover him, to keep him safe. You see your husband run, and shout but time has slowed down and you can’t hear what he’s saying. You feel your lips moving, hear a high pitched scream. 

 

Peter, oh God, how could he do this? The twisted foul rat. Betrayal stuns you and you’re numb before passion rockets through you, rides your nerves, your heart strings, tugging them like Harry’s chubby fingers would tug at your hair, playful and firm. Passionate anger, passionate pain. You are not sad yet but you will be. 

 

You look wildly around for some way to escape, you shield your baby in you arms, praying that you can spare him. A sick painful love for him bubbles in you, twinging with ugly, reckless fear. There is no way out of this, you’d claw out your eyes, tear out your teeth, splinter your bones and rip out your hair to slow the enviable end. You’d destroy yourself to save him.

 

You simply stand there, shaking violently and wait for what feels like eternity, anxiety pushes you over the edge and you hear yourself scream again. And then you see thatface. That face, that has been looming in your nightmares, crushing you while you sleep, tearing you apart with the anticipation. 

 

It is the not knowing that tortures you. The not knowing if He will kill you now or make you watch your son die. The not knowing if James is dead or bound and tortured. You hear yourself plead, and everything speeds up. You’re not wading in time but you’re nimble and quick and it’s over before you know it. You’re given the chance of life, you’re told to step aside. Can you imagine it-choosing his life over yours? 

 

You set your unsettled child down in his cot, and hear him whinge a little, you’re hoping to your core once more that you don’t have to hear him die. You say a silent prayer, please God have mercy. You try to cherish your final moments with him, your baby. You shield him, fling yourself in front of his, as if your mere flesh could stop this. You feel the soundless tears trickle down your face and hear the fateful words screeched ruthlessly, 

 

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

 

 A flash of green light, piercing and blinding, your son howling. You do not feel yourself fall but you must, slump to the ground with a soft, muffled, indescribable noise. Then silence. The kind of whiteness that’s blinding is just behind your eyelids, your heart’s freezing in burning, burning cold. Then darkness, then numbness. Your last thought flickers like an aging, sacred candle and dies.  I love you, Harry. 




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