A lot went through Lily Potter's mind in the second that it took for her to die. She mourned. Not for the loss of her life, because it had been full and she was proud of everything she had done. She was proud of her accomplishments, the husband she had chosen, and the son they had created together. She mourned for those she left behind. For Dumbledore, who would find a way to blame himself for their deaths. For Sirius, who, she realized with horror, really would be blamed for their deaths. But mostly for Harry, whose life would be snatched away before he had barely been given the chance to live it. Even if by some miracle he survived, who would take care of him? All four of his grandparents who would have loved and cherished him were dead, and the fate of his godfather seemed grim. No one would love him as well as she could.
James's light, teasing voice called her, and there was a gentle pressure on her and, and she knew that she had to leave.