Chapter 10: 1 November 1981

(A/N: CAUTION: This chapter describes a dead cat in some detail, so for those of you with delicate constitutions, keep your eyes open. Probably the weirdest chapter I've ever written because of that little bit right there. Anyway, thanks for your continued support. For some reason, this story is reaching a lot of people, and whether it's through you guys spreading it, or just plain old luck, I want to thank everyone who reads it. Reviews are super appreciated!)

The harsh BRRRRING of the old alarm clock woke Lily Evans Potter with a start. She wiped the sleep from her eyes blearily, and was confused for a moment. She was surrounded by all of her own furniture and décor, but the walls were not the egg shell blue she had painted them (by hand) three years earlier, when she and her husband James had first moved into the little cottage on Chrysanthemum Lane. They were, instead, the dull grey concrete walls of her basement. It all came back to her suddenly – Dumbledore's plan, the hurried preparations, the fear she nightly slept with like a security blanket…and the prophecy that caused it. Reaching out to her bedside table, she grabbed the battered alarm clock, still ringing, and brought it closer for inspection. The display caught her eye. It read 1 NOVEMBER 1981, and the time was 8:05 a.m. The first day of Dumbledore's plan. I hope all is going smoothly up there, she thought to herself with a sigh. Here we go.

She left James, who required more than one alarm in order to wake up before 11, dead asleep in bed, and took a quick shower in the converted laundry room. There were some perks of living in a converted basement, and pre-existing plumbing was one of them. She ran a brush through her hair, avoiding looking in the mirror. She knew she would see the same thing she had seen for the last few years: a beautiful red-headed woman in her early twenties, now with bags under her eyes and a couple early grey hairs, thanks to the war and, of course, her year-old son, Harry.

Speaking of which, after finishing her morning routine, Lily went to check on her young son. His room was oddly quiet, which made Lily feel uneasy. Harry was a very good, yet colicky, baby, often waking his parents up in the middle of the night with his cries and coughs. She carefully tipped his door open so as not to wake him. Upon entering the room, however, Lily was met with and strange and slightly gruesome sight. Harry was laying stock still, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. However, the strangest part was that the small baby seemed to be flickering in and out of focus, like a television with a bad connection. However, Lily doubted whatever was wrong with her son could be fixed by messing with the rabbit ears.

Panic setting in, she called for her husband in a voice that came out more like a shrill cry. Here was her baby boy, her only child, fading away before her very eyes. She screamed and tears fell fast as she watched his tiny prostrate body disappear for longer and longer periods of time – several seconds at least by the time her rumpled and wide-eyed husband got to the doorway were she stood frozen, staring at the petrified body of her son in his crib. Then, the cries were multiplied, screams of what is happening, oh god my baby, I thought he couldn't hurt us anymore what can we do oh god why us why him NOT MY BOY, MY BABY, TAKE ME, NOT HIM, NOT MY HARRY, PLEASE was soon mixed with WHERE ARE YOU, YOU BASTARD LILY RUN I'LL TAKE HIM GRAB HARRY and frantic scrambling, trying to find the source of their son's pain. All of their searching came up empty, however, and all they could do was watch in horror as their miracle boy, their source of hope and ray of light…faded and twisted, morphed and transformed into…a mangled, smelly, rotten carcass. A dead tabby cat. Both sat on the ground next to crib in shock.

"Tibbles?" questioned Lily shakily. And indeed, it was Tibbles. They had adopted the cat when they had bought the house, a stray that had somehow managed to wriggle his way in through the window in the downstairs bathroom, and into their hearts. Friends had joked he was good training for having a child because he was so needy. Their first communal pet now lay dead in their child's crib, wearing his onesie and matching hat. The gruesome sight sobered the couple quickly.

"What the fuck is this?" whispered James, leaning in closer, only to be repulsed by the smell. "What's happened?"

"It's…but…how?" Lily hiccupped through her renewed tears.

"Wait, when did Tibbles die?" James sat there bewildered.

"Where's Harry?" Lily stumbled to her feet, bumping the crib into the wall. She felt no pain, however, only the adrenaline rush of a mother trying to find her son.

"Wait, wait, Lil, I remember this. Remember, Dumbledore turned Tibbles into Harry? So that Voldemort couldn't get him?"

"I know, I know all of that, James! If that's the replacement Harry then where is my baby?" she demanded fiercely, quaking with fear.

James glanced around the room, now on full alert. "I – Lily, maybe he's somewhere else in the basement. Let's go look, I'm sure he's fine." But Lily was already out the door, into the cramped living/dining room. She overturned pillows, looked under the makeshift couch, the card table and folding chairs that served as a dinner table, and in each of the supply pantries. The truth was painfully clear to her as she slumped against the last one and began sobbing listlessly: Harry was not in the basement. Her baby, the only reason they had decided to go through with this stupid plan, wasn't even being protected. He was out there in the world, with no protection or help. He was probably already…but Lily couldn't allow herself to go there. As James finally came to the same conclusion, she ran up the stairs to the slanted cellar doors, pounding on them, begging to be let out. She screamed and wailed, banged and kicked, but they did not open. On the other side, even the animals didn't react, used to the noise.

An hour later, she gave up, completely drained. She turned to see James sitting on the floor behind her, watching. Tears streamed down his face.

"There's no way out, Lily, you know that."

"There has to be," she croaked hoarsely, "He's out there. I need him."

"There's no way. You heard Dumbledore, the bubble will pop only once Voldemort is dead for good. Who knows how long that could take?"

"THERE HAS TO BE A WAY!" she shouted, oblivious.

"Lily, I'm doing this for your own good." James carefully raised his wand as Lilly rounded on him. "Stupefy."

Lily woke, hours later, to her alarm clock once more. She wiped the sleep from her eyes blearily, and was confused for a moment. She was surrounded by all of her own furniture and décor, but the walls were not the egg shell blue she had painted them (by hand) three years earlier, when she and her husband James had first moved into the little cottage on Chrysanthemum Lane. They were, instead, the dull grey concrete walls of her basement. It all came back to her suddenly – Dumbledore's plan, the hurried preparations, the fear she nightly slept with like a security blanket…and the prophecy that caused it. Reaching out to her bedside table, she grabbed the battered alarm clock, still ringing, and brought it closer for inspection. The display caught her eye. It read 1 NOVEMBER 1981, and the time was 8:05 a.m. The first day of Dumbledore's plan. I hope all is going smoothly up there, she thought to herself with a sigh. Here we go.

(A/N: Reviews are immensely appreciated!)