Most of your life, you've been running.
You were one of those people- gifted with a boundless energy, enthusiasm and zest for life that has you laughing your way through each day like it's a holiday. You were never one for going slowly, you did everything fast. You ran. You sprinted. You soared.
Lily doesn't run. You used to think on it sometimes as you lay in your four poster back in the dormitory that had provided a backdrop for seven years of ridiculous exploits. Lily never ran. Lily was simply a walker, a contemplator. You ran constantly, and everywhere, doing everything. Lily walked behind you, thinking of over what she saw, or heard, or felt. And you waited for her, because she balanced you out.
You think that you started running faster the day Dumbledore told you of the prophecy. Your pace, normally a nice, brisk run, quickened into something nearing a sprint. You weren't just running now, you were running away, and the difference shocked you. With every death, every attack, every creak of the door, you ran faster, until you were pelting along until the landscape blurred around you. And now Lily ran too.
But now, stood here, in front of him, you're not running. You're hands, usually fiddling with something, are still. Your eyes are steady. Your breathing is as even as your son's when he sleeps. You will not run from him. You will not run now no-one could catch up.
As the green crack of light fires towards you, you think it's almost nice, this stillness.
And then there is nothing, and you wake up running towards an eerily white room that resembles the foyer of the old Potter Mansion. Standing there, you realise as you sprint forwards, is your Lily.
You run past her, and she grabs your hand. And then you both run, but not for your lives this time. You run for the hell of it, because you can, because your son lived. Your son is still running. You pray that he will always be running, but he will never be running away.
(But in your heart of hearts you no he will never run away, he will run forwards)