"Regular Speech."

"Other."

Multiple POV

Hogsmeade Village, August 1st, 1979

It was a quiet and sprightly night in Hogsmeade when a peculiar figure halted in front of Hog's Head pub. His greasy black hair fell to his shoulders, and his nose protruded awkwardly. He wore long black robes and had a white shirt with black trousers underneath. The clouds shrouding the sky above him foretold of heavy rain. The man hated rain. It was a soliloquy of his life, the sound of thunder. Lightning never strikes twice on the same spot, yet for him, it struck him unfailingly on every path he seemed to tread. He walked to the door and paused in an abated sigh as the wind passed through his fringes, giving him a fresh breeze to breathe in. He hated doing this to himself.

With the billow of his cloak, he went inside. The loud noises of the patrons in the bar overshadowed the small jingle from the doorbell as he entered and was greeted with the sickly taxidermy of a hog's head. Heads symbolize many things: spirituality, wisdom, and death when vacant of flesh. As most ignored him, he was able to travel to the bar and sat on a stool, blankly staring at the old man approaching him. There was a gallery of old bottles and barrels behind him, encompassing the walls of the… establishment.

"What'll it be, Snape?" The embittered old man asked. His long beard hung over his abdomen in coils.

"Firewhiskey," Severus Snape said, shoving his hands into his pockets for change. Severus and most of his peers knew the owner of the pub or inn—as some people liked to call it. Severus was not one of those people; he prided himself over that little tidbit because only in desperate times would he ever enter this place willingly. But alas, this was a desperate time. Not even a month had passed since Severus's closest confidant, Regulus Black, died, and for the cherry on top, Lily, his Lily, had finally gotten hitched to that belligerent sycophant, James Potter.

Aberforth Dumbledore obliged. Palming the closest glass bottle of Ogden's, the man poured the punitive amount of liquor into a glass. When Aberforth was done, he placed the drink before the skinny man and gave him a once-over, openly judging him. Not wanting to further risk the man's careful watch, Severus pulled his sleeve closer to his palm. "That'll be all, Aberforth," Severus said irritably, taking out and placing three sickles on the counter.

"Right then. No funny business," the old man said suspiciously before walking away. Much like his brother, the man looked weathered in his exterior. Most of the senior wizards of this epoch were like that, having seen a full-out war with not one but two Dark Lords, one of which was about to take over what was left of the weakening resistance. While Severus glanced at his drink, he heard loud guffaws and vulgar profanities behind and beside him. He closed himself off to all noises and calmly slid his thumb across the frosted glass in brooding reminiscence. Lily and he were so close, even seeing each other for the entirety of two months. Severus curses himself in the mirror every morning for calling the only woman he's ever loved a filthy term such as 'mudblood,' it was unsightly. Yet, the public humiliation and anger that flitted across James Potter's face when Lily didn't come running after him like he saved the day always made him remember that part of his life with a kind of smug fondness.

Severus gradually let the high-spirited taste drown his throat; the agony was delicious. The shallow drip of amber that was not eager to go down his throat made him feel something. Something real. He had joined the Death Eaters for a singular purpose; to fit in where he didn't belong. No matter who Severus associated himself with, nobody in his circle truly cared about him.

Seeing his now empty glass, Aberforth returned and placed another drink in front of him. "Ye look like shit," he said before turning to his other customers. Rowdy as they were, they provided enough ambiance for Severus to indulge in whatever was left of his brief escapism.

The naturally resin-tinted liquid looked back at him as Severus recollected his brooding thoughts. It got only worse in their seventh year, James Potter was chosen to be the head boy over him, and Lily had also become the head girl that year. She had separated herself from most of her friends except for the Marauders, the cusp of immaturity portrayed by actual human beings. It's like they lived to torture him. James Potter also had taken an interest in Regulus at the time, trying to befriend him constantly like he did when they were younger. Regulus always had a demented look in his eyes, Black Madness, they called it—but that wasn't it. The boys' eyes were like that from the fleeting glimpses others gave him. The pity, the scrutiny he faced under his parents' suffocating control over his life. Even with Severus, or his friend Barty, the boy was always unhappy with his life.

The passing glances between Potter and the younger of the two Blacks were strange. Lily took note of that and made a decision. After her bold declaration of love, Potter had never even glanced in Regulus's direction. Like a dagger thrown through his hopes, Regulus was never more miserable.

Abruptly, the doorway opened with a clang, and the bell rang as Albus Dumbledore sauntered into the pub in a carefree stride, ignoring the commotion made by the regulars. A relatively youthful woman close to Severus's age walked in with the headmaster with an unassuming disposition. She had tawny brown hair and big annular glasses that augmented her enormous eyes.

Dumbledore came up to where Aberforth was standing and started chattering about. The Headmaster of Hogwarts was a big title, a prestige held exclusively by Dumbledore for over fifty years. The elites of wizarding Europe grovelled at his feet for recognition. "Abe, how are you, my brother?"

Aberforth gave the headmaster of Hogwarts a gilded expression of utter disapproval, "I ain't running a brothel, ya ingrate! Take that business elsewhere," the gravely old man said before turning to leave.

The patrons had stopped to gawk, and one of them even puked onto the floor. This caused a chain reaction which Severus was about to reciprocate. He shuddered, thinking about what the man was going to say. The woman flinched back when some of the bile reached her flat shoes.

"No, no, none of that, Aberforth," the headmaster said kindly, "we're only here to conduct an interview." An interview of what exactly? A job? Then would it have not been better for the man to conduct it in the security of the school overlooking the village they were in? Clearly, Albus Dumbledore was an idiot or willfully negligent of common sense.

Aberforth raised a rough brow, "what for? Ran outta' space in yer little ol' castle?"

"Not at all, Aberforth. I do believe a screening should be held before I allow a grown adult to enter a school full of children, wouldn't you agree?" Albus Dumbledore was the headmaster. He had direct apparating rights and the ability to maintain the wards surrounding the school. He should have been able to just apparate the woman to his office. He could have held this interview in many ways. Aberforth, after a long, incremental explanation that fried Severus's brain from Dumbledore, grudgingly—mind—led them up some stairs into a room.

Severus thought it an opening to serve his Lord and sat up straight unhurriedly. This was actually the perfect opportunity to get into his Lord's good graces. The Dark Lord would be proud, oh so proud. He may even invite Severus to the Inner Circle. Pulling out and twirling his wand in the air, he cast a wordless forgetfulness charm around the room and watched as the tip gleamed and cascaded the room with an opaque flash. Aberforth and the harbingers of the anti-consonant creaks drunk on alcohol, like vermin on rotting curd, were none the wiser.

Severus slid himself off the seat with a tired grunt and crept into the shadows with a muted disillusionment spell. The man made his way to the stairs, which Albus Dumbledore went up. Aberforth was back at his bar now, unaware of Severus's missing form from the other side of the counter. Severus climbed up the staircase with growing trepidation. Step by step, he made it up to a lengthy corridor with rooms presumably for guests like the Leaky Cauldron. All rooms were closed, but a small light shone under one. It was like the blink of a sun rising from behind the sea before dawn. He walked up to the room he was sure Dumbledore was in and knelt by the door to the temporary quarters. Severus put his wand against the keyhole and expanded it from his side so he could see better. The knob blew out like a balloon but opened outwards like a lotus. The onyx-haired man wanted to scoff at how bad the privacy was at the dingy pub but decided against it. May it fall upon the heads of his master's enemies.

Fearful of being heard, he churned his wand in a hexagonal shape, muttering the words for the silencing charm. He looked through the lotus-shaped doorknob to gaze at the woman Dumbledore brought in, he couldn't see the headmaster from his angle, but the woman was in perfect view. She looked toward the headmaster and spoke, "Thank you for having me, headmaster."

Dumbledore smiled from ear to ear, and as he did so, the wrinkles on his face stretched to adapt to the change. "No need to thank me, my dear girl. I should be the one thanking you for wanting to educate our youth."

She held out her hands for the headmaster to shake and said wistfully, "let me formally introduce myself; yes, I am Sybil Trelawney… my great-grandmother was the renowned Cassandra Trelawney, as you surely knew her?"

Dumbledore was jovial in his response as he clasped her hands, "of course," the man smiled pleasingly. "Cassandra and I go back quite a few years now, and I am mindful of her absence. My deepest condolences, dear."

"Yes. Quite tragic, but alas, my gran Cassie died in her dreams… and If you know her well, you know she loved her dreams. That is what matters, I believe…." Wistful, the woman pulled herself to a hush. At Dumbledore's lack of response, she embarked on a quest to explain herself. "I am more of a Palmistry girl myself,"

Trelawney exclaimed. As if that made any more sense. This was useless, Severus thought. And more concerning, why was this interview being held in a filthy tavern? Everything about this 'interview' made no sense. The man did not bother to ward against eavesdroppers, as Severus had no problem hearing and partially viewing their private conversation. Severus wasn't sure how this would help his Lord, but anything is better than nothing.

His thoughts were cut off as the friendly chatter ended. "One day, a Siren will sing," Trelawney's voice sounded off, as some would say, but it was still somewhat understandable to Severus, who recoiled at the noise as steady as a bag of rocks, muffled by the silencing spell, so it was more a bag of feathers.

Dumbledore gazed at the woman with a gratified expression on the other side of the door. Severus noted how her irises turned from a syrupy brown to a chalky white, almost pupil-less lustre—not dissimilar to a forest-dwelling Wendigo.

"You are doing great, Sybil dear," Dumbledore said in contempt, not caring if the woman heard him or not.

A deep, mellifluous clangour tailed the woman's voice, "From upon an edifice, the fitful one will sing, and the world will shatter..." Severus was jotting all of this down in his mind as it happened. He couldn't believe it, a prophecy. "Upon the tower, golden light will shine unto the lands beneath, and soil shall be set aflame in a pallid shimmer." Some dumb prophecy was useless to Severus, but if it was a hindrance to Dumbledore and his Order, Severus could take the chance.

Unlike Severus, Dumbledore seemed to have kept his wrinkled face calm and straightforward as Sybil Trelawney continued to speak. The greasy-haired man listened closer as the seer's voice cracked and uttered nonsense for a moment before continuing.

"In the last moments of Hallow's eve, a toll will chime, and the wrath of the fitful one will consume the fires and end the suffering but for the cost of three souls," Snape was processing the information with fast-growing interest. There was more to magic than just wand-waving and getting the right ingredient for a potion. There were forbidden branches of dark magic, and only those with a keen understanding of death and ceremonial magic ever bothered to think about the practice of manipulating souls.

Oblivious to the rest of the world, Trelawney continued speaking her augury, "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord...The one born to those who have thrice defied him, and one born as the seventh month dies…."

Seventh? Lily was due at the end of July. No, it can't be. This prophecy sounded like it was addressing her unborn child. But three souls? What could that mean for his Lord? Severus tried to rest his head on the door, but nothing was there. A stable whistle brayed through the open door as cardinal gusts rattled Severus on his way to the ground. Dumbledore had opened the door and now had his wand trained at the onyx-eyed man. Though some may believe muggle tactics beneath them, Severus wasn't beyond kicking the old man back into the room.

Dumbledore staggered back but drew his wand as fast as lightning—lightning that struck thousand times over. Severus stood up, hasty in his evasion, and shot a wordless depulso at the man in front of him but watched as it deflected right back at him, throwing him back into the corridor. He needed to escape, but the headmaster had different plans as he raised his wand again.

"Accio Severus Snape!" Severus could only watch as his legs moved on their own, sliding on the floor as he was dragged by what felt like invisible hands. A splinter or two ebbed at the edge of his fingernails as he clasped the wooden floor tightly, but it was useless. He was practically flung into the room.

"Silencio!" The door closed as Dumbledore's spell glimmered around the enclosed space. Snape struggled to stand up as he was harshly thrown against the back wall. A shabby strip of old paint stuck to his robes as he stood up, ripping the wallpaper.

"The Dark Lord will mark one as his equal, but they will all have power the Dark Lord knows not... and they all must die at the hands of the other for none can live while the others survive…." Trelawney continued, clueless about the commotion behind her.

Pulling out his ebony wand, Severus prepared to cast a wordless knock-back jinx to push back the headmaster, giving him enough time to escape. That would, however, be a theory, of course. The blue of the Expulso cast by the supreme warlock would be expected if he had more time to come to terms with the situation. But no one can genuinely expect anything while in the beast's maw, especially someone foolish such as Severus, who dug his own grave the second that knob opened outward, like a lamb to the slaughter.

"Obliviate!" Albus calmly strode to Snape's downed form. The white effervescent spell flew from the warlocks' wand into the skinny man's nostrils.

Albus realigned Severus's mind to make the man forget most of the prophecy and altered what he already knew. He might as well get the Dark Lord all hot and bothered about his death, and what better way to do so than with Snape's help reporting it all to his master like a good manservant. Seeing Snape's dilating eyes was enough for him to be satisfied with his work. With a flick of the Elder Wand, Albus alerted his brother. The headmaster of Hogwarts put away his wand with a gentle smile before pushing Snape out and closing the door.

The headmaster wandered back just in time to behold the last sentence of the prophecy as he sat back down.

"The ones with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as a Siren sings…." Trelawney's eyes returned to their bright brown selves as she took a sharp breath.

"So, what—ah—what were your questions, headmaster?" She asked, ignorant of the past five minutes.

"No, that won't be necessary, Sybil, my girl. I can see the skill and the outstanding work ethic you already possess." Noticing her bewildered expression, he regarded her with well-marked wrinkles.

"I am hiring you, my dear." He said with a good-natured smile.

Godric's Hollow, May 14th, 1988

Eight years, Severus recounted. Since the death of his Lord, the man had lost his touch. Once a lowly Death Eater climbing the social hierarchy, now an embittered potions professor. To feel what he did before, Severus often traced the mark on his arm. To see regret, but it faded with time. Severus Snape was the winner of a game no one was playing.

His prize? The death of his favourite person. Once his lover, Lily Evans Potter. Now with a bouquet of Lily of the Valleys, he strode across the long roads of Godric's Hollow. His black cloak whirled against the breeze as dawn grew closer.

It loomed over his tense form, a cottage that looked more like a small manor, with great walls and cylindrical white pipes running down the sheathing and shingles of the indistinct orange and brown exterior around the roof, stowing up the sides. Severus looked on. On the side, next to the front of the dwelling, was a modest grave and a statuette. An effigy of a couple holding their young child. The ashen face of Lily Potter remained stagnant no matter how much Severus willed her to look at him; she had been beaming at her boy for the last eight years.

The engraving in front of them stated, 'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.'

Was that not satirical, considering that she greeted death with open arms? But Severus knew. He knew it had been his gaffe that she had died. Lily's cold grace mocked him as he arranged the bouquet on top of his wilted friend's feet. Just like his Lord. He, too, was wilted, and that a mere child—Lily's child was the one behind it, languished him more.

Severus snapped his neck to the boy in Lily's arm with innate reflex. Harry Potter, the boy who lived. Where was he? Where had Dumbledore taken Lily's child? A glimmer caught his eyes. Written on a plaque above the Potters' grave, just a modicum smaller than the lithograph, was a eulogy.

'This property belongs to The Great Britain Ministry of Magic and is a national landmark under the Minister Cornelius Fudge War Effort Bill of 1982. Section. 3B.'

Severus should have known. Scoffing, he patted down his robes to liberate himself from dust and stood facing the house. The windows were barred with a criss-cross of black alloy pikes. He remembers the nursery. The blood, the red that covered the plaster and the floor, disappeared into the air as he clutched the remains of her bloodstained clothes. This was a travesty … a blight on Lily Potter's name. Severus needed to exact this newfound urge—this craving to see that her name would no longer be besmirched by these, as Aberforth called them, ingrates.

"I'll take care of your boy, Lily..." Severus brought his mental shields together as sentiments threatened to leak from his person. "No matter, the deterrent," the man spat out at the plaque that was tarnishing what's left of Lily's memory.

A flutter and brouhaha of wings drew the dark-haired man's attention. An eagle-owl latched on his shoulder elegantly and lifted a scrolled letter secured to its thorny feet. Severus plucked out the note and read it over. It was from Lucius Malfoy, a fellow former Death Eater. Of course, Lucius had been under the Dark Lord's influence. At least that's what the man testified in court and what he disbursed Fudge to agree with. The Imperious Curse was a spell that bonded the caster to their victim. Undoubtedly, if the Dark Lord were still alive, Lucius would assume the full wrath of another, more gruesome curse.

'Dear Severus, I am sorry to inform you that our dear friend Antonin has been incarcerated for allegedly being a Death Eater. I will testify in his trial if it goes awry. You are because of this Draco's godfather now. Peace upon you,'

And on the bottom was the man's classy signature.

'M. Anc. & Nob. Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, Lord Malfoy'

Second choice, as always. What does a man who is only half worthy compare to a man full of flowing, red, noble blood? Severus silently rasped as he furrowed the parchment away. He'd need the letter for any overdue evidence needed as collateral if things didn't go smoothly in the adoption procedure if anything were to happen to Lucius or Narcissa.

Classes didn't start for another four hours. Severus could spend that time reaping more knowledge of where Harry Potter could be. That was the issue; he could be... It was not the best word to describe the situation, but Severus hardly cared. Wherever the boy was, he couldn't be in that much danger; Albus Dumbledore was his magical guardian, and that should have been enough reason for Severus not to be concerned. The boy was probably living an imperial lifestyle with food, warmth, and shelter fitted for royalty. It was all a possibility, but it was also an improbability. Severus did not know where to begin. All he knew was that Albus Dumbledore was aware of Harry Potter's location, and Severus needed to know no matter whether the boy was safe or hidden away in a cellar.

Twisting on his feet, Severus apparated from Godric's Hallow back to the Hogsmeade apparition point. The feeling of being pulled through a tube whelmed his senses, and he let it take over.

The village was bright and annoying, as usual, but Severus knew the darkness behind it. And the sadness in the locals who've lived through the trauma of war. In the evenings, Hogs' Head Inn would be booming in business from the residents flocking to it at night to tell tales of brutality over mead. Severus resisted the need to drown himself in the sound and scent of alcohol and pushed onwards to the castle, hoping that perhaps he could find out more about Harry Potter's location from the headmaster.

Bounding through the streets, Severus was greeted by many discomforted faces. The locals knew him as Hogwarts's overly cruel potions professor with perhaps too little experience. It was constantly like that when he began his career. Seven years ago, it was ultimately the event that brought him out of his grieving period. Lily's hopes for Severus had died with her. In a blackening memory, he was reminded of Lily as she spoke to him, telling him how proud she was of Severus. How proud she was that he wanted to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts—how Severus wished to follow his dreams.

But those dreams were always blanket truths for the reality behind his growing ire. Severus was a damned man from the very beginning. From his unwanted inception. He's heard the rumours—the solace the students feel, having asserted Severus to be a creature of the twilight that he sleeps in a coffin. The verity that these students did not understand the harshness of their lies was perpetually amusing to Severus. The students call him a blood-sucker, knowing not the total weight behind the term. It evoked feelings he couldn't rattle off. Severus can not withstand their words because he sucked blood. He has done it so many times that he can not, from the top of his head, recall how many times he had to lick clean the bruises on his lips in the troughs of the night. His only way to not succumb to hunger was to drink the pain as the dry husks of blood dissolved on his tongue.

Severus reclaimed his senses and looked past the large galley of shops to the castle that laid the foreground of this land. The entrance to Hogwarts for professors was easy enough; standing in the apparition safe zone, Severus swirled into the sky again. This time, landing gently inside his quarters in the dungeons, Severus was parched. The Slytherin students were still asleep, and the prefects were readying to begin their morning rounds. The sheet-white kettle on his burner heated up when Severus lit it with a flick of his wrist. Severus watched as the kettle started boiling the water inside.

It was old water—water he conjured in the middle of the night. When dusk was his only companion, Severus often searched for it when lost. Not in thought but in memory.

The professor could never make practical tea; it was his scourge as a potions master. Regardless of how gifted he was at the art, his mastery did not translate well into cooking. The man didn't know why tea was so hard for him to brew, and if he was being honest, he didn't understand why Severus was brewing it in the first place, the man should have been drinking a glass of water, but with the steam wafting off the kettle, he was distracted in his musings. It was hard. Living like he knew everything… pretending that he didn't care… that he did not have emotions. But those were all relative, not to his mindset, but to his thought process. Yes, there was a difference—there was a vast distinction. A disparity between conceptions in his head; significance in his pessimism. Lily was not here… not with him. He should have been like a glass of water, cold, fluid, emotionless… but his mind, the way it staggered, bubbled up with emotions, uncontrollable—boiling. Steam left the tip of the kettle's muzzle, and Severus waited. He stuck around for something to happen, something condemning, for Lily to knock on his door at Spinner's End and tell him it was all a joke.

Severus turned off the burner and poured the hot liquid into two small tea cups. One for him, one for Lily… hoping that day would be today, that today would be the day from his dreams. Trelawney was right… all those years ago when she told of her great-grandmother dying in her sleep. He snorted over the tea. Maybe he was more of a palmistry girl himself, maybe not. He didn't know when the rain fell over his cup, but when it did, Severus didn't like that it dripped down from his face.

He was ready now. Severus was prepared to confront Dumbledore… ready to know about Lily's child and learn of her son. A son that in a different life would have called him father.

The stony stairwell gargoyle sitting in front of Dumbledore's office was ugly, unlike Lily's statue. A mucking about of a bird—perhaps an eagle was sitting in his way. Severus did not take any detours on his path here. Only Bill Weasley stopped him en route to the headmaster and asked Severus to relay the boy's academic performance.

Severus was openly disdainful of Gryffindors, but their courage and tenacity were unnerving. Learning of his Outstanding grade in potions, the older of the two Weasleys yipped in joy before running off somewhere. Severus couldn't care less now. All he wanted to do was confront the venerable farce of a once-lauded war hero, Albus Dumbledore… Severus thought back to the day he listened to Dumbledore's conversation. It was preternaturally clouded in his brain, but he never forgets it. The one with the power to defeat the dark lord approaches… Harry Potter, the boy who lived, against all odds—the killing curse.

Soul magic.

"Lemon Drops," Severus spoke, and the gargoyle parted way.

Then why did his mother die in a pool of blood? Why was it that Lily Potter was gone? Severus believed in his Lord, but the man deceived him and forsook his trust, reverence, and fickle allegiance. Severus regarded the man behind the desk. Books lined on shelves greeted him on each side, the artery up the sides paved with portraits of erstwhile headmasters drawing up to the red upper surface of the room... Red like everything in that nursery.

Severus frowned. "Headmaster?"

Albus Dumbledore, hair as white as doves, eyes twinkling with a flurry of constellations, caromed up. "Severus, I wasn't expecting a visit… what can I do to help?"

Severus Snape. An abused child. A woeful lover. A miserable adult, imprisoned by the restlessness rearing its jaw down on his larynx. "Where is he?"

"I don't quite know who you're referring to, my dear boy," Dumbledore said, his eyes glinting between the vividly coloured bird on its perch and Severus's miffed demeanour; the onyx-eyed professor was sure he was exhibiting.

"Lily's son..." He said.

The onyx-eyed man with nothing to gain.

"Ah. Yes, young Harry." Albus said.

"I need to know, Albus," said Severus, anything but detached from the words yet to leave the headmaster's mouth.

The onyx-eyed man with nothing to lose.

The man's face wrinkled as he smiled. "Have a seat, my boy. I believe I will require a couple of lemon drops for this conversation… yes," the headmaster said.

He was sure that Lily's tea was still warm.

Godric's Hollow, October 31st, 1981

He was here. The dreaded Dark Lord was at Lily's doorstep; the thrashing between him and her husband was silent. Right now—the present was the only chance she had. Her thoughts loomed over her like sleet on mountainsides, and she turned to face her only child: her progeny and the only one who could complete her work. Her purpose. The runes written in blood were darker than when she started in January. But there they were, elegant syntax and all. The blood had never lost its colour as it decorated the crib's edges. This was it—Lily's last chance to accomplish what no other witch has done before. Conquer death —maybe not her own cessation but her sons'. With a quick jab of her wand, blood runs freely down the length of her arm. She painted the rune 'Sowilo' on the left side of Harry's forehead and prepared to fight Voldemort.

Anticipation was a sound to Lily. Footsteps, the shrill screams of wind through a nearly shut window. Rain. Fire. Smoke. Blood. As Lily asserted her resolution, the dripping cold blood fell to the floor in a rhythmic cadence.

Soon, her eyes will gleam a deathly red.

"Lily Potter, a woman of cultivated taste." The Dark Lord, Voldemort said as he walked into the nursery. Lily could feel the atmosphere change around them as he spoke. "At least," he said, his thin lips etched into a grin, "that's what I got from your husband's mangled face."

Lily didn't have time to register her husband's death as Voldemort stepped over the sigils painted on the floorboards, triggering the first half of the ritual. The man was so narrowly focused on his goal that he readily ignored the signs that would give away her plan. Lily was so sure that the Dark Lord knew of the Miserable Art, blood magic… he was the one to offer people like her shelter from the wrath of the Ministry. But in doing so, he alerted them of the very real danger magic like that posed.

Lily kept her composure as the man walked up to her. "What's this? Injured, are we?" Lily braved through the pale finger and pointed to her bleeding arm. The so-called Dark Lord was too conniving for his own good. Harry in his crib cried, and under his hood, Voldemort's smile grew manic. Drawing her wand, the woman strategically placed herself between her son and Voldemort.

Just a little longer.

But it gave her room to maneuver blood flow into the runes that painted the crib. Just a little longer… and she could let them take her… take her to the place between life and death. She hadn't noticed that Harry's crib was no longer a baby blue—it was now a menacing shade of crimson.

Anticipation was a sound to Lily, and it horrified her.

"In that way, you are like your husband. The fool ran into his own front door," Voldemort said, amused.

Lily needed more time, but the thing about Lily was that she could stay calm under pressure. She would not let this man do as he pleases. "Voldemort," she proclaimed. "Leave my home!" She jumped onto the surprised man, putting all her weight on her left knee as it collided with him, bringing them both to the ground. Lily held her wand like a killer holds a blade and started gutting Voldemort in the abdomen with her wand.

The leader of the Death Eaters howled as she pricked her willow wand far into his solar plexus. "You filthy muggle!" He cried. A sudden hitch halted Lily's nebulous sense of triumph, but it wasn't. It was gravity withdrawing from her body as the man levitated her off him and flung her into one of the cherry-shaded walls. Lily struggled to get up, but she did just in time to catch a stunner to the face. She allowed herself to smile on the floor as Voldemort hyperventilated while he stood up.

Lily had done it—there was now a bloody rune drawn on the man's stomach, spreading like Lichtenberg figures on skin struck by thunder.

But her work was not done. It never was for those who wandered the path she did.

As Voldemort faced the crib of the child of prophecy, he stifled a gasp and forcefully obstructed his impending asphyxiation. Whatever the mudblood did was corroding his innards. There she was in all her bloody glory, Lily Potter. Standing tall with a mother lion's ferocity, she used the crib as a balance as their eyes clashed. There was brown blooming into her verdant irises.

"Move," Voldemort said. He wanted her to go, to leave before he lost control again.

The woman did not budge.

"I said, move, you foolish woman." His voice grew strained. He could not afford to lose himself.

Lily Potter looked like she wanted to respond; she really did. With the way, her mouth opened and closed like she was speaking. Chanting. But the blood in her system seemed to have all but run out. Voldemort, the Flight of Death, was now solely focused on this redhead with a bit too much snark for someone so close to death. Yes, Voldemort the Dark Lord was not afraid of death, he was the being himself, and those who rejected him and his adoration were worthy of his disdain. They did not deserve death's kiss.

But the Dark Lord did not notice his state of disarray, that the room was all painted red, from the floor tiles to the ceiling. Everything was red, red, red.

"I said fucking move, woman!" He shot a wordless Crucio at the woman from his bone-coloured wand and observed her squirm under the spell.

His servant, Snape's words, rang in his head. His pleas and cries, begging for him to not severely wound this woman and better yet kill her. But he never agreed. And besides, she's done more than that to herself. Lily Potter looked like an Inferi now.

Voldemort paused. When had this woman's eyes changed from that rumoured emerald green to this inhuman red? A Hemomancer?! In the Order of the Phoenix?! Absurd, unfounded… unnatural.

"You must not have known, Voldemort..." Lily Potter spoke out of her gaunt mouth, rasping for air.

"Nothing comes from nothing."

It burned.

Every part of Voldemort burned as Lily Potter melted into a puddle of blood. Her eyes were the last to go; glowing red would haunt him for the rest of his immortal life. Worse was that he knew, he knew exactly was she was saying—what she said. The rage in him grew exponentially.

Voldemort let go of it. He had a job to finish. Now to extort his prime purpose, his end goal. To kill this child of prophecy. The boy had ceased his tantrum, but now something horrifying stood in Voldemort's path.

Those same damning blood-red eyes.

The wretched child looked up at him with a red gaze close to his natural dark brown curiously. A red that was so distinctly reminiscent of blood. Voldemort could tell. He could tell that this was what the Matron, Mrs. Cole, thought of him.

Devil incarnate.

Raising his wand. He aimed for the boy, who giggled at his movement. Giggled. As if it was toying with him, him the most prominent Dark Lord the world has ever seen. People were scared to breathe the same air as him. And yet here. The Dark Lord was terrified of the sheer darkness that stemmed from this toddler.

"Avada Kedavra!" He bellowed in agonizing, unadulterated horror.

Then there was nothing. Lily Potter was right.

Nothing comes from nothing.

Author's Note: Hey there... for those who followed this story on AO3, why? But thanks, I love and cherish you for simply existing. Um. So... I hope you kind, amazing, non-psychotic guys here at Fanfiction enjoyed this. I wanted to add that this fic is still being edited. I recommend checking out my profile for the correct reading order of the series. Love you.