You knew. You knew the moment he was born, and each day since has magnified the feeling. You would walk through fire for him.
And the moment has come to suit up.
You can hear the commotion downstairs. You know your husband is without his wand, his one sure means of protection. Armed, he would live. Unarmed…
You look down at your baby in his crib, frightened and confused. You watch, fascinated, almost in slow motion, as a droplet of water lands on his sweet face. You look up, expecting to see a leak in the ceiling above you, when it dawns on you that you are crying.
You wipe the tears from your face and lean over to kiss your son.
There is no time. You can't escape. You know this.
You hear a thud and stifle your scream by biting your tongue. You know what that thud means-if you live through this night, you are a widow.
You hear rustling, footsteps, and you know before the doorknob turns that the clock has run out. The fire is here and it's time to suit up.
You turn to face the door, and watch as the hooded figure, wand outstretched, moves into the room.
"Give me the boy," the figure rasps. You shudder. Even the voice has lost its human quality.
"Please," you beg, "take me instead." You know the argument is futile, but you have to try. You promised…
It's the promise all loving mothers make the day their child is laid in their arms for the first time-'I will do anything to protect you,' is the silent promise spoken between mother and child in those first moments. The very act of labor and birth is a promise to see the child through the traumatic process.
It's a promise you intend to keep.
You watch, as if frozen, as the wand points to you. You hear the words, you hear your own cry of despair, your baby's frightened scream, and then…nothing.
It is done. You stand on the other side, watching as the years go by.
You made a promise.
It's a promise kept.