Mel90



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    Lily remembered her sister, how there had been a time she was curious and delighted about magic, before it slowly sank in that she could look and not touch.

    The last thing Petunia had said to Lily before she died was a chilly goodbye, ending a holiday dinner where they'd had a shrieking row in the entryway. Petunia had said 'freak' and Lily had hissed 'better than this, better than this being my whole fucking world, Tune, do you even see yourself, are you happy--'

    And now here was Dudley Vernon Dursley fussing himself to sleep as Lily walked the halls of the Godric's Hollow house. His tiny soft hands with their tiny soft fingernails curled under her chin, the same way Harry's always had.

    She passed James, who was gently bouncing his way up the hall the opposite way. "I think he's asleep," James mouthed over Harry's tousled head. His hair was the same mess, his head bent down as he peered at his sleeping son.

    Lily stopped where she stood, her nephew heavy on her chest, her husband smiling, her sister buried. "James," she said. "How are we going to do this?"

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    14 Apr 2019

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    In another life, Lily Evans Potter stood on these very floorboards and defied a wizard who scorned every fiber of her being. She was told to step aside—like a puppy or plaything, a prize for a loyal servant who had pleaded for her life—and she refused. She died for love, for a future she would never live to see.

    In this room, there was only Sirius Black, blood traitor, a wizard in whom Voldemort saw willful ignorance, betrayal, an unblemished pedigree, wasted potential. He was told to step aside—the Dark Lord believed that blood would out, that he could be won, a prize for a loyal servant who had pleaded for his life—and he refused. He died for love, for honor, for true friends who became his family when his flesh and blood disowned him.

    In a time of war, there are always men and women willing to die for love. There are few who look death in the eye, take the balance of their lives, and make the choice. There are few who are given the choice at all.

    The story of the Boy Who Lived does not begin on the night he did not die. His story begins decades earlier, in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

    Inspired by dirgewithoutmusic's fic "the family potter" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/10566861)

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    14 Apr 2019

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    14 Jul 2016