Three syllables.
Inconsequential consequences, little nothings, they all lead to a something. It never occurred to Lily, that just three syllables, so unassuming in any other context, would be the last things she ever said to her son.
The last thing she ever said to anyone.
Two words.
Her lips had formed these words innumerable times, set apart only by the distinct lack of fear in them. She had not known fear until today, it seemed. What she felt when Harry zoomed around on his little broomstick, knocking over antique vases, when he swallowed a sneakoscope, and wouldn't stop crying. That was hardly fear. Nothing more than concern, or perhaps worry.
She was beyond worrying now.
One breath.
They say your life flashes across your eyes when you reach the end, a gracious recap of who you were, how you got here. But all she could see was him. His silken tufts of hair, unruly as the spirit of his father, eyes as bright as his mother's, made brighter by the flashes of light pulsing across them.
"Harry! No!" she cried, and the boy's soft emerald orbs grew bewildered at the shout. He stood up in his crib, lip wobbling at the now familiar reprimand, unable to comprehend why his mummy was angry at him yet again.
Why was she yelling? Why did she seem frightened of the green flames, but face them instead of hide? Why did she ignore his upset cries and crumple to the ground, unblinking, tranquil…
Three syllables.
Two words.
One breath.
She didn't even get to say goodbye.