As much as I desperately wish that I was, in fact, J.K. Rowling and owned the HP universe, I am not and do not.
You never think that your child is not going to have forever.
Your own death is very inevitable. You see that, though it's blurry, somewhere off in the distance, that you approach gradually, at a steady rate, throughout your life. Certain things can speed up your brisk trot: war, danger, sickness.
But there's nothing half that clear for your child.
You always think that your child is going to have the world and never see the clear face of death that you know is surely going to come for you one day. It's because you never plan to see your child's death, because you hope to be gone by then.
Now it seems like all of my assumptions about this subject have been turned over, for now I see Harry's death approaching rapidly, with every word that James speaks that I hardly hear. Since I can barely understand what he's saying, I watch him sacrifice himself for us, and as soon as I realize it it's too late to stop him.
Outside it's all dark, and I wonder if that's what death will be like, just an extinguishing of light and then nothing. I need to believe that there's something, especially for Harry. My parents believe in Heaven, and although I've been unsure over the past few years, now I realize that I do too, that I have to. I hope that they'll pray for me, James, and Harry when I'm gone. My parents – I realize that they, too, will have to face the utter impossibility of hearing about their child's death before their own.
I see the blast of green light off in the distance, and I know what's happened, but there's no time for tears or anything. I know it's hopeless, but I have to try. Almost before I can take Harry from his crib, he's there, all black robes and cruel glory, with the triumph of killing my husband ringing in his blood-red eyes and laughter streaming from his mouth like a fountain. I meet them, unafraid for myself but full of terror for my child.
He tells me to move; I can hear his words in my head, ricocheting and pounding their meaning into my head until I comprehend them. I wish I could be proud, defiant now, and I would be if not for Harry. "Not Harry," I find myself saying, repeating, shrieking, trying to resonate my pleas, hoping futilely that somewhere inside this man there lurks a shred of humanity.
But there's nothing, as I knew even before, and he again gives me the chance to leave. I don't consider it for a moment; it isn't even an option for me as I hold my child in my arms. Abandonment is out of the question, and if this man knew anything about parenthood he would know that.
For a moment I almost wonder why he offers me the chance to leave; it's so utterly unlike him that for an instant it seems like some impossible puzzle, with a piece in front of me that I can't quite reach. But then I return to the present, and I put the mystery aside for now, accepting that I'll never know.
Still, though I can't say why, my pleading continues, until I finally say "have mercy" and then when I hear his laugh I know that I'm finished. His laughter is cold, with no warmth whatsoever that is usually associated with the sound.
He raises his wand and begins to speak the words, and I immediately, instinctively, place Harry behind me, give him a few more seconds to breathe in the air and live, if nothing else, as I step forward to meet the light.
