I have never regretted my decision to give my life for my son‘s. If someone asked whether I thought I had done the right thing, I would have responded with the affirmative. There was nothing I would not do for him - there still isn’t. But then I ask myself the same question and I hesitate. Because, for me, it was the right thing to do. But for him, for my boy, well, there were times that I was not so sure.
When I first put myself in his place I thought of little else, except that he might live - if only for a few moments longer. I could not live with myself knowing I had stepped aside and allowed my son to die, nor could I live without them - my family. We would rest together instead, and though he might not know the warmth of my touch and I may never again hear the gentle cadence of his laugh - we might be together; wrapped up in each other and the comfort it would bring. I could never have anticipated that he might live.
My joy, unrestrained by flesh, burned so fiercely I was surprised those I left behind could not feel it. My son, my boy, he lived. I had been so sure - so frightened - that he would share his parents’ fate, that I did not pause to consider that he might survive. And survive he did - it seems he has spent more of his life surviving than simply living. Here is where the doubt comes.
Voldemort’s great mistake was always to think that there was nothing worse than death. To him, that was possibly true. A life free from love leaves little else to fear except for the cessation of your own existence. It is human nature to let our hearts overflow and drown those closest to us: our friends; our parents; our lovers; our children. But if you had disciples instead of friends; gravestones instead of parents; sycophants and the gullible instead of a wife and children - then what do you hold dear? It’s an easier way to be, but a dangerous one too. A person who cares for no one will do anything. I suppose, so will a person who loves - anything but step aside.
Because I loved - still do - I always thought him wrong; that death was not the worst thing to happen to a person. I discovered that the difficult way when my son survived. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy that he’s alive, of course I am. I was so overcome with my happiness that I didn’t think - I didn’t even stop to consider what would come after. Because, yes, I had a very real - very alive - little boy: only, I didn’t. Don’t. Because I was gone, along with my husband. And that boy - my son - he was alone. And I had done that.
I tried to assure myself that he had people who would care for him - his godfather, hopefully. But he was my husband’s best friend for a reason and the desire to avenge us came first. It tore at me when I watched helplessly as he suffered for something he did not do - would never do - not to my husband; not to my son; not to me. I watched helplessly as he languished behind cold iron with seas between him and my son - my son who needed him - who needed us.
When it was decided for him that he would live with my sister, I wanted to scream in protest and stamp my feet - if only I had the body and voice for it. I understood why - but I understood better than anyone why not as well. She would hate him. Not because of anything he would do or say - but because of who he was. My son. My beautiful, brave, powerful, magical son. She would hate him for something he had no control over, as she hated me, and I had no power to do a single thing about it. Except watch. For years.
I watched as he was treated like an unwanted house-guest - something stray and dirty and corrupted that they had taken in out of some sense of obligation and no sense of sympathy. Any hopes that they might treat him as theirs were dashed by his second birthday, which they didn’t acknowledge. I watched as they treated him, the most important, precious, fantastic thing I’ve ever done, like he was encroaching on their ‘perfect’ family and sullying it with his every breath.
I watched as bullying went ignored - encouraged, even - and his achievements were undermined; his few possessions taken from him by their oaf of a son and his cries went uncomforted. His questions went unanswered and his punishments were disproportionate. He was treated as a House-Elf to people who would blanch if he even uttered such a word. He wasn’t a surrogate son - he was a slave. They gave him shelter, but for that I can scarcely summon gratitude. My capacity for gratitude to that woman has diminished greatly over the years.
Time and time again I thought I might explode - the shards of my soul scattering across the ether - as I watched the cruelty with which my son was treated. I could feel a roar rip from a throat long lost - a scream that asked: Why? Why, sister? Did you not love me once? He is just a child - a little boy like yours! Have you not the heart to care for him too? I received my answers with every sneer; every insult; every slap and every act of cruelty. No, she did not have the heart at all.
I could not muster anger after a while - just bitter disappointment. How did a once much-loved sister now have such capacity for hate? Had my magic changed so much? I knew the answers and they only piled disappointment on disappointment. I didn’t even recognise her anymore. I only prayed for mercy. And after ten painful years, it came - in the form of a letter.
Miraculously, in spite of the complete absence of affection throughout his sad life, he had grown up to be a remarkably strong and kind boy. I honestly don’t know how - even now. So early on, you could see that ability to endure that he carried with him throughout the war. His war. The war I wish he’d never had to see; to go through.
I was so relieved for him to be away from my sister and in the care of those I trusted and knew were capable of protecting and nurturing him, that I almost forgot about what was waiting for him. Voldemort. I knew he would return - just not when or how. But he had time - time to live as his true self - without fear, or judgment, or oppression. He had time. But not enough.
He is my son - but he is my husband’s as well. My wonderful husband with his recklessness that I adored - adore - but also feared. Because it could get him hurt - a wrong step in a duel; a determined dive in a game of Quidditch; a wild punch in a fight; a wandless lunge at a merciless force of nature. My son was my husband - and his godfather - loyal and brave to the point of foolishness. But he had some reason too. I like to think that this is from me.
Trouble shrouded him at Hogwarts and I do not know how, so young, it did not overwhelm him, drown him and swallow him up. How he did not just see the trouble and decide to leave it for someone else - someone more experienced - to handle. Here, my husband and his best friend truly showed themselves in him. He saw the trouble and the danger and he chased it - oh, and how he suffered for it. More times than I can count, I braced myself for him to join me - but each time he evaded death’s capture. He was just a boy and he had faced both Voldemort and his monstrous pet and lived - he had lived, where others would have died or not even tried at all.
My heart left with my body, but I have not lost my capacity to love; my body has perished but I still feel everything. Joy; anger; anxiety; sorrow; pain - the last I thought might kill me all over again sometimes. First, when he was reunited with his godfather. They say that great sorrow stems from the raising of hopes and then dashing of them. It is true, even in death. Being with his godfather - a man so loved by my husband and myself - was something I wanted nearly as much as being with my son myself. He was the closest our son would come to us - to love. But a false friend and cruel fate deprived them of that comfort - of each other. And fate was not done yet.
Voldemort returned, as I knew he would, and the whole world did not feel big enough to contain my grief as I watched my son fight for his life - cradling that poor boy in his arms. His first death - the first he could remember, anyway. I thought then how it wasn’t supposed to be like this. That we were supposed to be gone, but that he was supposed to have as happy and normal life as he could; that it wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t. Isn’t.
All that came after just fuelled my anger - an anger that should have dissipated with the years. I could feel my son’s frustration with everyone and I wanted to tell him that I understood and that they would believe him in time. But no one wants to believe the unbelievable; the horrifying; the life-changing. No one wants to be told that the very worst thing they could think; the thing they’ve had nightmares about; the thing they thought they’d never see again, is back.
But soon my anger didn’t matter. Because he died. One of my best friends - my husband’s best friend and my son’s godfather. Pain unlike any I’d felt in years tore through me so acutely it almost made me feel alive again. But then I could feel him with me - with us - and for a moment, one selfish moment, joy crept through. But then I looked back and saw a son with his heart streaming out grief and a friend - another best friend - holding him, even through his own crippling agony, and sorrow crashed over me in fresh waves.
But he is our son, and our best friend’s godson - and he has the strength of us combined. Enough to channel his grief into power and to fight off Voldemort once more. Enough to, when the next year came and took with it another treasured mentor, survive that too. I felt such sorrow for him then - I could feel his every tear as if I were wiping them with my own fingers. I wondered when it would stop for him - but then, the one he mourned, who orchestrated his own demise, answered that himself.
He would die soon - when the time was right. I had brought him into this world; cared for him in life; watched over him death and loved him through both, just so he could die at the right time. Even my old friend expressed his disgust, and he did not much care for my son, though greatly for me, it seemed. I did not know. Sadly, it would not have made much difference if I had.
I could feel myself fading with my despair - the only thing holding me to this world was my fury. I did not then know the Headmaster’s plan. All I knew was that my son had lost all those who would protect him unconditionally and that the last had betrayed him cruelly. All I knew was that my son was wandering the land - homeless and scared; shouldering a man’s burden. He may have been of age - my boy - but he had not experienced childhood - not like his peers had. He had been thrust into adulthood prematurely and, though he handled it admirably, I was always waiting for him to fall apart. He never did.
What he did have, was the strength of his father and godfather - it got him so far. Then when that wasn’t enough, that was when love stepped in. His devotion to those around him led him to stand before Voldemort unarmed and alone. And I was so scared for him then - because he was a child making a man’s choice - a choice no man should make. And it was then that I asked myself the question, the question I feared; sometimes still fear: did I do the right thing by saving him?
Perhaps, more appropriately: did I really save him? Because yes - he was alive, but had he lived? He spent the first ten years enduring constant mental, emotional and, at times, physical abuse. Then he went to Hogwarts, and it was supposed to be a reprieve, but every year his life was put in danger; every year he had to fight to keep it - his little life that people he didn’t know and hadn’t done anything to more offensive than exist, wanted to snatch from him. But it wasn’t theirs and they did not deserve something so pure and beautiful.
I watched as people were introduced into his life; weaved their ways into his heart, seemingly for the soul purpose of it hurting more when they were ripped away. It tore at me and I wasn’t even the one experiencing it - just watching - helpless; useless and loathing myself for it. And as he approached his own death - marched to it - I thought: would it have been kinder to have stepped aside? To have undone all the hurt?
I immediately hated myself for it. Because it would not have just been the hurt I would have undone, but every smile; every laugh bubbling up inside him and bursting from him, robbing him of air. It would take every shared glance with a loved one; every warm embrace; every tender moment. It would have stopped him ever knowing his godfather - that wild, beautiful liability that both infuriates me and makes me so full of joy, I feel like the paradox might pull me apart. He would never have known my best friend - his gentleness and compassion in opposition with the creature inside of him. He might never have known my oldest friend - that man as severe as his name but with a heart to love that I wish I’d known. I will never forget what he did for my son - for me
It would have taken that girl from him - that spitfire that reminds me of an old friend, one I can scarcely remember anymore. It would have stolen from him those friends - that brilliant girl with a mind unlike any I came across in life and the boy with a heart that bursts with loyalty and love for my son. He needed them and loved them as I loved my husband and as we loved our friends. If I could choose to relive my life as a Muggle - ignorant of the wizarding world, but safe and whole and with a full life ahead of me, I would refuse. Because I would always feel as if there was something missing - I would know, without knowing why, that something wasn’t right. Because not knowing them: my friends, my husband, my son, would leave such an ache in me, I could not bear it. I would die again in a heartbeat if it meant I got those years with them.
So how dare I deny my son the same? How dare I say that he would have been better off dead? Because although he suffered more than I ever wanted or could have expected him to endure - he loved and he lived with as much fervour - more so, even - than his parents and his wilful godfather. If I had stepped aside he would not have what he has now - a wife and children and a life. Even when it looked like he might join us, he did not - he survived, because he was meant to have what we were not: a full life.
And so I ask myself again: did I do the right thing? I look at him now, cradling his new child - Lily - in his arms and the answer is so simple; so abundantly clear; so dazzling. I can’t believe I never saw it before.
The Question by Alice Mac
Story Notes:
This story is written from Lily's POV in the 'afterlife' as she watches over Harry's life and attempts to answer the question that haunts her. It's loosely inspired by one interpretation of the wonderful poem by Robert Frost.
I do not own any of the characters - they belong to the unbelievably talented JKR, I'm just playing with them.
Chapter Endnotes:
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