Beyond Hogwarts & More- Chapter 40

-= Beyond Hogwarts & More; Chapter Forty=-

In the middle of January, the wizarding world was thrown into an uproar; someone had anonymously given the Ministry a hint, and, as a result, the house of an unobtrusive—up until this point—wizard by the name of Samuel Walden was raided by a squad comprised of three Aurors and the usual seven Magical Law Enforcement wizards. After an extensively long search, a piece of classified information was found that linked Walden inescapably to the Death Eaters; his trial date was set, and he had been transported to Azkaban without delay to wait there for the trial. Needless to say, the Daily Prophet had made a large deal out of the arrest, and the first article about Walden’s capture had a headline so large that it took up half of the front page of the newspaper.
   From Lily’s point of view, however, this was about the worst thing that could have happened. James’ hopes had been buoyed up by Walden’s detention, and the words We’ll defeat Lord Voldemort before Christmas might as well have been tattooed across his forehead in flashing ink; he was exuding confidence of an almost sickening manner.
   However, he had also been prodded to a more alert watchfulness; in a moment in which her brain had been on holiday, Lily had signed a piece of parchment stating that she could not be treated at any hospital without her husband’s permission. This meant, of course, that she couldn’t very well break her promise and do something about the baby without James’ agreement. She had not intended to, really, though this irritated her to the point of exasperation, and she knew quite well that it was no one else’s fault but hers.
   Still, she thought, this means that I’ll just have to work that much harder on James.
   Her words seemed to roll off of him much more easily now, though; he seemed to have developed a sort of immunization towards anything that she said that concerned the baby. And, as far as she knew, she hadn’t been acting like a shrew—she just couldn’t get through to him; he wouldn’t listen to her.
   Well—true—he listened, yes; he made the right responses and didn’t just shut down completely, but nothing ever seemed to sink in. No matter what she did or said, he refused to be influenced. Which, she thought dully, would be all right in just about any other situation, but—blast it, she didn’t want a baby!
   Everyone in the Order of the Phoenix went to watch Walden’s trial; Albus Dumbledore, as the Chief Warlock, presided over the proceedings, and, although he remained carefully neutral and as fair as it was possible to be, Walden was convicted with a life sentence in Azkaban. His guilt of association with the Death Eaters was definitely proven by a list of instructions that had not been fully deciphered yet—this was the “classified” bit of information that had been uncovered—but it was slowly starting to become public knowledge that every Death Eater had a black mark in the shape of a skull with a snake issuing from its mouth burnt into his or her inner left forearm.
   After treating Walden for a small cut on the back of his shoulder, the Azkaban Healers had broken through several Covering Charms and disclosed the unmistakable Dark Mark on his arm. From then on, even Walden realised that his case was hopeless, and he refused to say a word in his defense, although he was informed that, would he give names of other Death Eaters to the Ministry, his sentence would be shortened. However, showing an admirable amount of loyalty, Walden refused to speak, and the thwarted Wizengamot sentenced him to an irrevocable life in Azkaban prison.
   A few appeals had been written to Minister Bagnold, insisting that mercy should be shown so that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would be moved to mercy in return, but Madam Bagnold, quite rightly, scoffed disbelievingly and chucked the letters into her office’s fireplace.
   Thankfully, Millicent Bagnold was proving to be a steadfast, loyal, reliable, and sensible Minister of Magic, and since she had been in office, the Daily Prophet was printing more and more articles about Death Eater attacks and the danger that England was facing. “No use to keep it from them, is it?” was her stern response to her advisors when they had urged her to keep quiet about the death of Midge Blakeney, sixty years old but a brilliant and highly competent Auror.
   She had been murdered when sent to arrest a man by the name of Dolohov for using the Cruciatus Curse on a single-parent family of Muggles; unwisely, the Ministry had only sent the seven required wizards from the Law Enforcement Squad with her, and they had not been able to prevent the flood of green light that was the precursor to a quick death. Grimly, the Minister had signed into effect a law requiring at least three Aurors and five Hit Wizards to arrest a Death Eater for known criminal practices, promised that this “lack of attention” would never occur again, and that was that. And, all in all, the wizarding world had come to respect her much more than they had Sikora, for all his public appearances and reassurances that everything would pan out all right in the end.
   By the middle of February, things calmed down a bit, as opposed to the weather, which was still nastily cold, though the snowdrifts had relaxed, giving way to vague rainstorms. Molly Weasley was expecting her baby any day; she and Arthur had finally decided on names: if it was a boy, which was quite likely, seeing that there had been no girls born into the Weasley family for several generations, he would be named Ronald Bilius Weasley.
   Charlie and Bill had several attacks of unrepressed snickers when they heard the middle name for the first time, but Arthur insisted upon it. His older brother’s name had been Bilius, and he had died several years ago as a result of a quarrel in a pub in southern Durham, and Arthur wanted to name one of his children for his brother, no matter how much Charlie and Bill laughed or Molly insisted that he would be teased beyond all recognition.
   If the baby was a girl (which Molly was hoping for), her name would be Ginevra Molly Weasley. Molly herself wanted a girl quite badly; she already had five boys and a husband, and though she did love them, a girl would be a nice change.
   Upon finding out that Molly and Arthur already had names planned for their child, the idea struck James as well, and he Apparated home a bit late one night, triumphantly waving a book of baby names.
   “Lily, I picked this up at Flourish and Blotts, look…”
   “Picked what up?” Lily asked tiredly, wiping sleep out of her eyes and setting her cup of coffee down on the table next to her. She had had about two and a half hours of sleep the past night, owing to Albus’ request that she watch Dilfast Mulciber’s house along with the Prewett brothers; they were relieved at three in the morning. Mulciber had not exactly done anything, but Mad-Eye had several suspicions concerning him, and the Ministry could not set a guard around his house without evidence. For the Order of the Phoenix, however, it was permissible to stay up until three o’clock in the morning, freezing one’s bum off and getting soaked in the off-and-on-again rain that was characteristic of England.
   “Names for Children of All Talents and Temperaments,” James read aloud. “Want to pick baby names?”
   Lily scowled at him. “We’re not even sure yet whether we’re having this baby or not!”
   “Yes,” James shrugged, “but let’s be prepared, in any case, right?”
   “Oh, I suppose,” she agreed grumpily, but moved her legs to make room for him on the living-room sofa. “Ow, James, that was my hand.”
   “Oy; sorry, that wasn’t on purpose. No, but look here, Lily; we could read through it…”
   “Oh, bother,” Lily grunted, not mollified at all, but conceding to lean over to look at the book. “Dear God in Heaven, what is that?” she asked a split second later, staring, horrified, at an earmarked page.
   “Don’t worry, I wasn’t thinking about naming him—or her—that. I was looking at the other page.” James hastened to explain. “I—“
   “That is revolting,” Lily observed. “Why any parents would want to name their child something with…with that meaning must be off their rockers.”
   “I know,” James nodded, flipping the page. “Oh, Merlin; look at this: ‘Revomus’ …that isn’t much better, is it?”
   “This might be more fun than I thought,” Lily grinned. “I do hope no one ever named their child ‘Revomus’; that would just be horrid. Summon the large Latin dictionary for me, will you? I believe that name has a different meaning.”
   “Accio,” James murmured, pointing his wand in the direction of the library. Gently, a large, fat, leather-bound, silver-enscribed volume soared towards him; he handed it to Lily, who flipped through the pages before coming to a halt.
   “Revomo,” she read aloud, “to vomit up, disgorge. I thought so.”
   “Moving on,” said James hastily. “Er…what about girls’ names?”
   “Carnificina,” Lily threw out in a bored monotone, closing the Latin dictionary.
   “Why?” James asked suspiciously. “What does it mean?”
   “It’s pretty,” Lily said coldly. “Don’t you like my taste?”
   “What does it mean?” he repeated, eyeing her as if she were slightly mad.
   Raising a competitive eyebrow, Lily dumped the dictionary onto his lap, effectively squishing the book of baby names. “It means ‘the work of a hangman; execution; torture’.”
   “Be serious,” James scowled, “and don’t throw heavy books at me.”
   “I thought it fit quite nicely,” Lily insisted in a haughty tone; “it should describe her life rather well, if it is a she.”
   “Come off it,” her husband sighed. “I’ll go get some dinner; have you had anything to eat?”
   “No,” Lily replied sardonically. “I’ve been sitting here, contemplating the utter uselessness of bearing and bringing into the world a child that will likely die with quite some pain after a month, dragging with it its father and leaving its mother alone to fret out the rest of her days in tweeds or something equally sordid. But that’s given me enough food for thought, so I’m not really all that hungry.”
   “Fine,” James said, unperturbed. “I’ll just get you a refill on coffee, then, shall I?”
   He left the room, and Lily, frustrated beyond belief, picked up the dictionary and threw it across the room, hearing the crash as it splintered a crystal vase with a feeling of only slightly placated resentment.
   The rest of February was a cold, dreary, rainy month; it was not made much better for Lily as she began to realise that James was proving to be more hard-headed than she, and she had to do all she could to fight her temper into a subdued state; it was constantly brewing dangerously these days. She was now four months along and James as well as the doctor had forbidden her to wear corsets or stays, fearing for the baby. Lily had always found an old-fashioned delight in wearing a corset, and now this baby was keeping her from it. And, although she had never been vain about her figure, she left the house less and less as her stomach began to grow.
   Resentfully hating everything that the baby was and stood for, she could always be found, when not at work, curled up on a sofa in the library. Formerly, the position that she held on the couch was inspired by comfort; now it was an embarrassed attempt to cover herself. It did no good for Eva, Amanda, and Lora to try to convince her that this was one of the most natural processes of human life; she despised every step of it. She could not bring herself to take an example from Molly, who was still inviting people over to dinner though she was due any day; she was behaving exactly like a wounded cat, holeing herself up and trying to distance herself from everyone else.
   Lily had never been vain, exactly; she had known that she looked nice in the flowing dresses that she wore in the first few years of her marriage, but she had not spent ages in front of a mirror, alternately agonizing and primping. She did not consider herself beautiful, but she knew that she could make herself attractive if she tried. Now—now that had changed.
   She clung fast to any semblance of beauty that she had had, her self-esteem dropping lower and lower with each succeeding week. When she could no longer fasten a particular bracelet around her puffy wrists, she had a wild impulse to burst into tears. She felt useless, degraded, besmirched—and guilty, for with every day that dawned the fear and firm conviction that the baby that she was carrying would cause James’ death increased.
   And Lily was afraid—afraid of motherhood at twenty; she was still only nineteen! True—she had had to grow up faster than anyone else she was close to, because of her mother, her father, and Tom Riddle himself. She did not in the least regret marrying James at seventeen; she didn’t want to know what she could have done otherwise. Lily loved him as much as she was capable of, in all of the brave ways that she knew—she would have crossed an ocean of fire for him, would have sacrificed herself to Lord Voldemort to prevent him from pain, even harm that would not have ended in his death.
   She could not have borne life as someone else’s wife; if he had not asked her to marry him, she would have lived out the rest of her life on the memory of his smile and the unexpected happiness of a meeting at the Ministry or in the Alley maze. But, now and then, the horrible feeling of culpability rose to her consciousness; his sentence of an early death would never have been pronounced if it had not been for her. If she had never been born, he would have lived out his life without her dangerous, icy, sardonic, ominous interference; he would have married a good-natured, rather pretty girl who would welcome children and give him the family he dreamed of.
   What Lily did not know, however, was that, without her, he would have floundered long before now. He had been a comparatively naïve young boy at Hogwarts, one who, despite befriending a werewolf, had no idea what true pain was, what love was, and what loss was. He knew happiness, ease, comfort, mild disappointments, dislike, and the uncomfortable feelings of late-night homework sessions, but without her, he could not have survived once school was over. She had taught him to face the world squarely, to think on his feet in the most desparate of situations, to keep his temper in the presence of anything, and to hold fast to what he wanted. These qualities, combined with his boyish love of good, had made him into a generous, caring, steadfast, loving person with a depth that only true pain, loss, and love could have formed.
   Had he not met Lily, he never would have learned to love. He would have been attracted to another girl—or maybe several—and he would have liked them immensely, would have felt horrible stabbing pains if they had left him or died, would have believed he loved them to the fullest extent of his being. And, while around those girls—or women—he would have felt a fullness of heart, a contentedness and a happiness that he could not find elsewhere.
   Lily was different. When he fell in love with her, a depth opened inside him, and he felt for the first time how empty his life had been of true, far-reaching, wonderful emotion, and that depth was partly—even mostly—filled by her, but much of it remained for himself; he grew through her, developed his own unfathomable, inherent, entrenched, absorbing, resonant character, and rose to a level of maturity and life that most would never reach if they were to live for ten thousand years. He was constantly learning something new and re-realising something old about himself and about her, always building to fill the depth inside of him that would never be filled; it had been discovered and created to last forever, no matter how much was packed into it.
   One thing that James would likely never learn, though, was to delight in true danger. Life-or-death danger for herself was a stimulant and a thriller for Lily; she welcomed it, thrived on it, and lived for it. It was quite another matter if that danger threatened someone else, but, selfishly, without thinking about or caring what would happen to anyone else if she died, she longed to sail through hurricanes, leap onto the back of a frightened runaway horse, or spit inflaming taunts at the Dark Lord.
   James held more consideration for his fellow men, and, although he enjoyed smaller thrills as well, such as diving two hundred feet on his broomstick at one hundred and ten miles an hour, the fascination that had bound Lily to Tom never rang true for him. The idea of becoming Animagi and accompanying a werewolf on rounds about the school held Lily’s touch, though she had never suggested it.
   Unconsciously, Lily exercised an influence of recklessness on those around her that held an inclination towards danger in their hearts—meaning that people like Eva: steadfast and brave only upon necessity, were never troubled by that trait. This was the explanation of Eva’s long-lasting friendship with Lily; she simply was not affected by the character quirks that would have made her shy away if she had been fully aware of them.
   The only thing that Lily wanted desperately to have James learn was a tolerance for all; he had a very Gryffindor-ish dislike of all former Slytherins and families of Slytherins, a feeling that was increased dramatically by the knowledge that the same people that he regretfully shared the planet with had banded together to kill Muggles and so-called traitorous wizards and witches, ones that sympathised with the Muggles.
   In all fairness, he had never only disliked the Slytherins because they were Slytherins; he had hated what they stood for: a conniving, sneaky, determined type of people for whom honesty, loyalty, and kindness rated lower than brilliance, family bloodlines, and self-preservation. Anyone, he felt, that could hold his or her own skin in such value that he or she could refuse to save someone else from death or injury was not worthy of being named a human being. James had incredibly high ideals of humankind, and he refused courtesy to anyone that did not hold true to his expectations.
   Lily knew only parts of this, and some things she knew but did not realise. Taken up with her own worries, she had, selfishly, not looked too deeply into most other people. It was almost a fatal failing of hers; she could tell quite easily that something was wrong with one of her friends, but what was the matter—no, that was beyond her. She did not know what Sirius Black thought of her, and likely never would, although Severus had managed to spot it way back at Hogwarts.
   But, although Sirius constantly managed to deny it to himself, he did love her. She fascinated him; drew him into a world where everything was possible and nothing was too dangerous to be attempted; where death could be a dramatic work of art and knowledge was the tool with which to conquer the earth. He never intended to do anything at all about it, because James was and always would be his best and most devoted friend, and because Lily was happy with him.
   But still—some nights, he would throw himself onto his bed without bothering to get undressed, stare out of the badly shuttered window, and wonder, for a few seconds, what life would be like if James were to die. He had dreamed up an entire alternate world that he would slip into, sometimes, when he was too horribly lonely, and it helped him. However, he could only live in that dream-world for a few split seconds before something closely akin to a battering ram would start drumming thoughts of that persuasion out of his head as violently as it thought necessary, which was a lot more painful than a small part of Sirius’ mind believed to be essential.
   And then he would force himself to go to sleep; force himself not to dream about her, not allow himself to even think about a Dreamless Sleep Potion, because then he would have to admit to himself that he didn’t want to dream. It was quite a good thing that James had not been in this position, for James lacked the strength and control to completely force his mind to do something other than what it wanted to. He behaved just as he thought: impulsively, boyishly, at times responsibly, kindly, sometimes a bit snarkily—but he would never, ever be able to come face to face with Severus and not want to rub dung in his face. Sirius, on the other hand, had managed to make himself know that he would not, neither in this life or the next, even think about harming Severus Snape, in words or in actions, while Lily was present.
   …Possibly, of course, that was why a rather evil grin sometimes surfaced at a certain memory of their sixth year at Hogwarts.
   Not, of course, to look back on it, that he had seriously intended to kill him. He had just wanted him to undergo a very scarring and quite definitely dangerously terrifying experience, and making Severus’ inkwell go up in flames in Potions hadn’t been nearly satisfying enough. It hadn’t even caught the boy’s hair on fire.
   Oh, yes, all right; fine, Sirius would mutter to himself, it had been an outrageously stupid thing to do. Utterly and completely idiotic and homicidal. As well as suicidal. And he was only lucky that Dumbledore possessed as much mercy as he did; otherwise Sirius would most certainly have found himself expelled from Hogwarts and living as a grumpy old wart in a Muggle village, on the dole, and, treasuring the bits of his snapped wand with never-ending caresses and shutting them up in a wall-safe at night.
   On the whole, Sirius did indeed thank his own private lucky star, which Lily had always been amused by. According to Fortune, Influences, and History of the 100 Most Prominent Stars, the Sirius star was: possessed of the good and redeeming qualities of charity and a faithful heart, though it will, when provoked, retaliate with unknown violent and dangerous passions.
   “Passions, Sirius,” James had teased him; they had nicked the library book from Lily for an essay in the first quarter of their sixth year. “Violent and Dangerous Passions, you know, mate. I’d better warn Remus about that; wouldn’t want those Passions to explode one night. Werewolves are rather dog-like, don’t you know…”
   Sirius had generously responded with a swat on the side of his head, received a heartwarming yelp as a reward, and flipped to the page James had been staring at to see for himself.
   “I wonder,” he had thought, “if that’s true. I’ve never exactly felt anything particulary dangerous…though I think the rest of it really does apply to me. Weird. I’m the generous idiot that always leaves the oversized tips when we get to Hogsmeade, and if the four of us aren’t loyal to each other, I don’t know who is; we’ve bloody well become illegal Animagi for Remus.”
   And, a few months later, the second part of the definition of his namesake star came true, bringing with it an entirely new level to their rivalry with Severus Snape. Nothing had quite been the same since; there was always the underlying knowledge that Sirius was capable of something dangerous. James, out of a distant feeling of respect, never mentioned that book again. He also never mentioned a phrase describing the Sirius star that he had found in that same book—an excerpt from an older volume.
"The rampant Lyon hunts he fast with dogge of noisome breath,
   Whose baleful barking brings in bast pyne, plagues and dreerye death"...
   Yes, James had definitely chosen to forget that. After all, the Divination branch of astronomy was mostly twaddle anyhow, and he knew Sirius too well to believe that his best friend would start killing…well, Gryffindors, as the “Lyon” part of the verse seemed to imply. He’d joined the Order of the Phoenix, after all, and was doing just the opposite: fighting to keep the “Lyons” from harm.
   Actually, James had completely forgotten that one late-night studying session and the few antsy days that he spent after the Whomping Willow event, thinking that Sirius might actually start killing people; he had far too many things on his mind, and by March first of 1980, his uncharted list of matters to keep track of was increased by one more point: Molly had her baby.
   Arthur didn’t come in to work that day; he sent in an owl around nine to say that he would be staying home for the day, and not to call him in under any circumstances. Of course, everyone immediately leaped to the obvious conclusion, and, despite the disheartening news of an entire Muggle family being attacked and killed in Devonshire during the past night, plans for a small party were already circulating among about thirty of the close friends of the Weasley family. However little money the Weasleys might have, they were by no means deprived of a hearty number of good friends, all of whom were making up lists of presents and working out who would buy what where and in what amount.
   James was working overtime, visiting the Muggle home and standing guard around it and the neighboring houses along with seven other Aurors, so, by the time Eva and Frank dropped by on their way to see Molly, Arthur, and the new baby, Lily was the only one home. However, she gladly pushed aside her new project of re-cataloguing her library to gather up the presents she and James had picked out for Molly: a new pair of knitting needles, a book of intricate patterns for the dedicated knitter, and a never-expiring bundle of maroon yarn.
   Molly was an almost compulsive knitter; whenever she wasn’t busy with housework or her five sons, she had busily clicking needles in her hands. Formerly, she had knitted without magic, but, as Bill grew older and by degrees more mischievous, she had to give up that habit, and only stopped using magic to knit during the half-hour just before she went to bed. The results were that her house was covered in comfortable afghans, pillows, blankets, potholders, and towels, and that her boys were furnished heavily with sweaters of all colors and styles. The gift, therefore, was rather more appropriate than any present of baby clothes or bedspread might have been.
   When they arrived at the Burrow, they were greeted by an onslaught of Weasleys: Fred, George, Percy, Charlie, and Bill all raced towards the visitors, chattering excitedly and all at once; consequently also not making an intelligible word of sense. However, Fred’s excited, lisping yelps that rose above the rest of the clamor (“Fwank! Fwank! We’ff got anoffer broffer!”) gave the answer to the boy-girl question away, and, laughing, Eva and Lily both exchanged a glance of mock sympathy; Molly would both be submitting to the name “Bilius” and surviving the assault of yet another boy in the house. There would be seven, then, including Arthur, who really couldn’t quite be counted as an adult once one had seen him playing with his children; he acted more like one of them than their father.
   “Ouf!” Eva heaved, lifting up Fred and settling him on her hip. “So, you’ve got a brother, have you?”
   “Yeff!” Fred nodded emphatically, almost falling down with his animated efforts to keep bouncing up and down even while off of the ground. “He’ff big, he iff,” he described, opening his arms to show the length of the baby. Still, it was probably a good thing that his portrayal was not quite accurate; Molly’s stomach hadn’t looked nearly large enough to hold a three-and-a-half-foot-long baby.
   It was the custom in the wizarding world to give birth at home, and to have a doctor come to the house. Of course, Muggle hospitals were always available, but most chose not to make use of them. Hospitals, from the wizard’s point of view, were for ailments that one couldn’t cure oneself, and women had been having children ever since there had been humans at all, and certainly long before there had been hospitals. So, Molly was lying in her own bed, having just fallen asleep, with Arthur sitting in a heavily cushioned rocking chair beside her, the new baby in his arms.
   “Hullo!” Frank whispered, sticking his head inside the door. “Arthur! Is Molly sleeping?”
   “Yeah,” Arthur beamed, standing up with difficulty, as using his arms was not an option. Expertly shutting the door behind him with his foot, he held up the baby for admiration. “Isn’t he something?” he demanded, unshadowed pride written blatantly all over him. “Oh, all right, fine, you hold him,” he conceded, transferring Ronald Bilius Weasley to Eva’s arms, “but don’t drop him!”
   “I know how to handle babies!” Eva protested with a mock air of offence. “I was a baby-sitter for an entire summer once, thank you!”
   “He’s got to learn to have a hard head, anyhow; he’s got Bill and Fred and George for brothers, doesn’t he,” Lily laughed, presenting the elaborately wrapped gifts to the glowing and nearly strutting father. “Here; these are for Molly.”
   “Ooh, Lily, isn’t he cute?” Eva practically squealed, gently shaking the baby’s fist. “What’re you calling him again, Arthur?”
   “Ronald,” Arthur repeated, for at least the twenty-seven hundredth time. “But Ron for short.”
   “Ron,” Eva repeated. “Oh, Arthur, he’s got the most gorgeous little nose…yes…ooh, yes, you are darling...Frank, look at his fingers; they’re so tiny!”
   The adoration moment was cut short, however, at a sudden attack from a five-pointed battering ram, which slammed itself into the three pairs of adult legs, encircling them and hopping up and down, trying to see the baby.
   “Dad! Dad! Dad! Let’s see Ronnie, let’s see him!”
   “You’ve already seen him,” Arthur grinned, pretending to protest. “I don’t think it’s quite healthy for him to see you quite yet; he might think that people are supposed to go around with Jelly Slugs hanging out of their ears!”
   This was quite an interesting observation, as acid-green slugs were indeed drooping out of Percy’s ears, though Percy didn’t seem to mind in the least; on the contrary, he seemed to regard his ears as a supreme nesting place for candy.
   “Percy Ignatius Weasley,” Arthur sighed, “get those things out of your ears. Bill, who put him up to that? No, look at me, sir! You…”
   It was quite a refreshingly rowdy scene; the boys were trampling over everyone in order to get a look at little Ron, who suddenly woke up and began squalling to wake the double-jinxed. Lily, standing off to the side, was trying to imagine herself in the middle of a picture like this, with children of her own. A brief mental image slipped underneath her eyelids of miniatures and mixtures of herself and James stampeding around their large house, and, suddenly, she smiled. Quite spontaneously, she had pictured herself sitting in front of a fire, with her arm around a dark-haired little girl with her own green eyes, teaching her to read.
   A sudden and severe smile crossed her face, to disappear just an instant after the thought wandered across her mind—but the smile had been there; the expectant thought had existed, if only for a moment. For Lily had, instinctively, thanks to her pessimistic streak, thought of Lord Voldemort, and of his promise. And, there and then, because she had smiled, because she had thought of a daughter in a kindly way, the murderous thought of that child’s future sprang to mind—of the child’s and of James’.
   She couldn’t raise a child and love it only to see it die!—and not only it, but James as well. She couldn’t—she couldn’t. It was double murder, she hissed to herself, clenching her teeth; double slaughter, if not triple. For she knew that, if she had any choice in the matter, she would do whatever was in her power to help her husband if Lord Voldemort ever came to fulfil his word. She loved him, and was not above melodramatic save-yourself-for-I-die-for-you rescues, not if they pertained to James. Never if they pertained to him. At least, not subliminally; openly, she would have scoffed heartily at overdone and cliché romanticism.