Disclaimer: Harry Potter is, of course, not mine.
Note: Another one of my short Harry Potter onsehots here – this time a bit of angsty, bitter-sweet Lily x James. Not much else to say really, other than read it, tell me what you think aaaand... I hope you enjoy it! If 'enjoy's' the right word...
The Wife and the Widow
Harry read the words slowly as though he would have only one chance to take in their meaning, and he read the last of them aloud, "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death." – Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
It was a technicality, really. Something so small you could measure it in footsteps or in heartbeats, and both of those were running out anyway. For him, they already had – a deadly flash of green and the hiss of a curse in the hallway, and she heard herself scream, but didn't really feel it.
Because he wasn't dead. No. This was James. It was a physical impossibility. He was the most – often irritatingly – alive person she'd ever known.
Hadn't they been arguing only, what, two nights ago? About his bloody hair, of all things?
She remembered that she had forced him into an armchair and cut it. Merlin, she must've been bored.
"If you're that bored, do the crossword!"
"Done it. This is more fun."
"Not the hair, Lily. Come on."
"I just happen to think you should look more presentable, that's all."
"Presentable? For who? We're in hiding. There aren't exactly people popping in for tea every five minutes."
"Well. For Harry then. Set a good example."
"He's one. He barely has any hair."
"James, this'll be a lot quicker if you just give in now. We both know I'm going to win."
"Really? I'm the Marauder here."
"Of course. And I'm the one with a wand."
"Well, I've got a wand – oh – "
"Just remembered you left it on the kitchen table?"
"Yeah."
But the truth was Lily loved the mad explosion that was James Potter's hair. And she was secretly relieved to wake up the next morning and sleepily reach across warm rumpled sheets to find thick, unruly hair between her fingers. Somehow, through sheer defiance it had grown back in the night. Though she later berated him for it, the way her lips quirked at the edges told a different story.
Now she was in Harry's nursery, flinging things against the door to hold him off. The morning that was, in reality, so recent, now felt completely remote.
Seconds ago she had been stood in the living room talking to James, who was conjuring puffs of coloured smoke with his wand.
"Time for bed," she said, in the smiley voice reserved for Harry, "I'll take him up now, James."
They were words she'd said hundreds of times before. She assumed she would get the chance to say them hundreds more times, not just with Harry, but with other children. Lily screamed as the boxes and chairs she'd thrown at the door were pushed aside with ease.
It took all of her willpower to let go of Harry and place him in the cot behind her. Standing between him and the raised wand, that was easy. Dying would be easy, too. The thought of James, lifeless and alone in the dark hallway, flickered through her head. But not her baby, no –
"Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I'll do anything – "
A green flash lit up the nursery. Unknowing, she fell.
And while technically Lily Potter died a widow, really, and in all the ways that mattered, she died a wife.