Meeting Death
Lily Potter was dead.
That much she was sure of. Her consciousness felt far removed as if she was simply floating. How exactly was it that she died? Well, that she was less sure of. She remembered she was doing something, something rather important.
The endless abyss in front of her carried on for miles. The blood-red sky bled into soft pink hues the higher it crawled. The whole scene was almost idyllic: the soft black sand beneath her hands stretched off into the horizon. Although, it was hard to see where the horizon was. She could almost see it if she squinted so hard her whole face scrunched.
An eerie whistling hung in the air.
She tilted her head as she tried to listen for where it came from. Lily scrunched her face up tight again. It looked as if the black sand on the horizon was shifting. She leaned back onto the heels of her palms and slowly stood on shaky legs. She still felt rather disconnected from her body.
She slowly took a few steps forward. When she felt confident that her legs wouldn’t give out on her as she walked, she began the trek forward, the eerie whistling ghosting through the air all the while.
Lily wasn’t sure how long she walked. It could have been days. The distance between the sand and the horizon grew as she walked forward. It felt pointless to keep walking forward. She didn’t even know why she was walking. She felt this magnetic pull in her body, urging her legs to keep moving.
The more she walked, the more she started to feel present in her body. The sky became soft pinks and soothing yellow rather than violent, deep reds. Her fingers began to throb as pins and needles moved into the tips of her fingers. The vague movement in the distance had become clearer.
She squinted, and it hit her: it wasn’t the sand moving–it was a cloaked figure. She stopped and took a step back. The whistling intensified.
She wanted to turn and run, but it felt like trying to run in a dream. Her body suddenly felt heavy–a stark contrast to the weightless floating–and she found her muscles weren’t responding.
The whistling stopped.
The cloaked figure was right in front of her. Her chest constricted as she tried hard to get air into her lungs, but all she could do was wheeze slightly as small gasps of air came in and out. The figure tilted its head to meet her eyes from beneath the cloak.
She was locking eyes, or, well, holes, with the figure. Lily was face to face with a cavernous, decrepit skull. The dark, empty, nothing where the eyes should’ve been bored right into her soul.
“Lily Potter,” a deep voice echoed all around, “follow me.” The cloaked figure tilted his head, turned, and then began to walk away.
Lily hurried to keep pace behind him. They walked until the sand became dark, ebony cobblestone.
“Where are we–” she began to ask until she saw him, “James,” she gasped softly.
A million things flashed before her.
The soft smiles just for her, the laughter on the train, holding hands in the halls, delicate kisses on her lips, her face, her jaw, her neck, their son’s laughter.
Their son.
Harry.
A less happy memory took hold.
“Run, Lily! It’s him. Take Harry and run!” James yelled.
Lily Potter was dead. Her husband was dead. Their son was dead.
Where was he? Where was her baby? Every part of her ached. It wasn’t fair. He was so young.
She had known, logically, that babies were tiny, but it hadn’t really hit her how small and defenseless they were until she held Harry for the first time. How could anyone hurt something so little?
James wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back into her current reality. She moved her head to fit into the crook of his neck. She always loved hugging James. He would wrap his long arms around her shoulders and mold her body right into his like they were always meant to be two halves of one whole body.
“Where’s Harry?” she whispered into his ear.
“I don’t know,” he whispered back, “We’ll find him.”
Lily believed him. James Potter was nothing if not a man of his word. They pulled apart, and he held her face delicately in his hands before leaning his forehead to rest against hers. Brown eyes met green, and Lily finally felt at peace.
She took a deep breath, enjoying the warmth in her husband’s eyes one last moment, before turning back to the cloaked figure, “Where are we going?” she asked.
“To your trial,” he stated simply before turning away and walking on once more.
Lily grabbed hold of James’ hand, and on they walked.
Once her thighs ached and her feet began to feel heavier than bricks, they reached a tall building that stretched high into the soft pink sky. She tilted her head to try to see the top, but it appeared to continue forever. An elegant, onyx staircase lay before them. The steps wrapped all around the edges of the cylindrical tower, twisting up into the sky. The figure kept gliding forward, even as she and James faltered. Lily turned to look at James, who simply shrugged before carefully stepping onto the first step. She held her breath as he slowly leaned his weight into his foot on the stair.
He blew out a heavy breath and puffed out his cheeks, laughing softly at himself as his foot held his weight. He reached back and tugged lightly on her hand. She gripped his hand tightly and took a step up. Despite watching James take steady steps before her, she couldn’t help the nauseating twisting in her stomach that the stairs would crumble beneath her.
If Lily weren’t already sure she was dead, the burning in her lungs and thighs would be what did her in. The ground was gone at this point. She glanced off the edge, and all she saw was the dark brick of the building and the neverending swirling stairs. Lily was not a fan of heights, so this was a less-than-enjoyable experience currently. She would do anything to see her son, though.
Despite every moment of this day being entirely bizarre, the inside of the tower was even more off-putting. The vaulted ceilings had intricate paintings of various battles. Soldiers of all eras–from the ancient Sumerians slaughtering the Elamites to the Germanic Nazis of World War II shooting at the British–covered in startling red. The golden figures coated in red amongst the black marble were a gruesome sight. However, it was the most beautiful artwork she had ever seen. The glittering gold glistened brightly.
Her neck aching, Lily tilted her head back down. Against the far wall was a large onyx statue of the cloaked figure holding a golden scale in each hand. In front of the statue was a black marble judge’s table. It had a golden name plaque, which said in stark, blocky letters, ‘DEATH.’ The cloaked figure continued walking all the way up to the table, where he sat beside his scythe and leaned back into the golden throne. He put his chin in his hand as if bored.
The most surprising part of the room was the person sat at the defendant’s desk, looking up at…Death–she presumed–in his throne. At the defendant's table sat Albus Dumbledore.
Her old headmaster looked much older than she last saw him. The elderly man had managed to age considerably. His face was wrinkled and weary, and she couldn’t see the tell-tale spark in his eyes. He donned gray, flowy robes and his half-moon spectacles. His hands rested, steepled, on the table in front of him, one considerably blackened.
This was not the man she had known as a girl.
“Professor?” Lily called to him.
Dumbledore turned in his chair but did not meet her eyes.
“Sit,” Death commanded.
Lily walked forward to sit beside Dumbledore, with James following behind her.
“We’ve been dead a long time, haven’t we,” Lily said quietly.
Dumbledore sighed before slowly glancing up to meet her eyes. Lily startled at his solemn guilt, suddenly directed at her, “Yes. It has been a while.”
“Harry, did he suffer? When,” James took a shaky breath, “When Voldemort killed him?” He leaned forward onto his elbow on the table to be able to see Dumbledore around her.
“Harry has been at Hogwarts for a few years,” Dumbledore said.
James gasped. Lily felt her heart constrict. Her son was a teenager–the little baby she had been holding mere hours ago.
She remembered tucking his tiny head into her shoulder and rocking him back and forth as she sang the lullaby her mother used to sing to her as a little girl to get him to sleep. James had leaned against the doorframe and simply smiled as he watched her hold him. She met his eyes and smiled back before looking down at their son.
Their little Harry. The tiny, little baby in her arms was the most important thing she had ever had. She would hide forever if it meant he would be safe.
Had he gone to a muggle primary school? James and her had talked about it several times while she was pregnant. They were going to send him to the school in the Muggle village near their home. Once they went into hiding, James tried to assure her that by the time he was old enough for school, they would still be able to send him. If, for some reason, they were still in hiding, she and James were going to teach him. Lily wanted him to know maths and science.
And reading.
James had been so excited for him to learn to read.
James was excited to be a parent, really. Reading was just one of the many areas he expressed that excitement. He had pulled all of his old storybooks from his parent’s home when they were going into hiding. She had found him in his father’s study; arms piled high with books and two floating stacks as tall as he was behind him. He looked at her, very concerned, and asked if she thought it would be enough books for the first few years. It had taken everything in Lily not to laugh.
They didn’t know how long they would be hidden, and James wanted Harry to know all the stories his mother read him as a boy.
Lily could feel herself spiraling. How she longed to be back in Potter Manor now. Maybe if she had told James no, that he hadn’t packed enough books. Maybe they would’ve stayed there. Sirius had tried to talk them into staying in the old family home, claiming the house’s unplottability and ancient wards would be enough protection. She could barely breathe. How had they made all the wrong choices?
“Is he happy?” Lily asked, struggling to breathe properly.
Dumbledore hesitated.
“Is he not happy?” Lily asked again, standing up harshly, her chair scraping loudly on the ground.
James reached out and grabbed her hand in his, stroking her hand with his thumb.
“I must admit, I did not protect Harry like I should have.”
“What do you mean?” James asked surly, moving to stand beside her, his arms crossed, “What did you do?”
“You must know...it was a difficult time after your deaths. Voldemort had vanished, and the presumed death eaters went on trial,” Dumbledore said.
Lily forgot how much she hated when he talked in circles around the point, “What does that have to do with our son?”
“We were not aware you switched your secret keeper,” Dumbledore said.
Lily’s blood boiled. Peter . The stupid rat.
“That was the point,” James said, vitriol in every word, “no one was supposed to know.”
“Yes, and it worked rather well. No one suspected that it would have been anyone other than Sirius Black,” Dumbledore said.
Lily realized what he was getting at now. The ache began to take hold in her whole body, rather than only her chest.
She continued to spiral, lost in her head, while Dumbledore apologized relentlessly to James for leaving Sirius in Azkaban. He never even tried to get the boy a trial. In fact, he had given the Ministry evidence of the contrary–he told the Ministry that there was no one closer to James than Sirius, and there was no one else James would have chosen to protect his life.
Sirius in Azkaban.
She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t imagine the charming, insecure boy she knew in tattered Azkaban robes. Sirius was always so well put together. Before her and James got married, when she would go stay with the two boys at their flat, she and Sirius would stand at the bathroom counter–hair pulled back into matching buns–and do their skincare routines together. James would stand in the doorway and laugh at them, but Sirius would always push him and make some quip about how when they were fifty, they’d see who was laughing.
As a young girl, Sirius Black annoyed her to no end. It especially bothered her how he would speak to Severus. Somewhere through the years, the boy she refused to acknowledge other than when obligated to, typically with an upturn of her nose and a hissed address of ‘Black,’ mellowed into strong hugs, laughter, and ‘Sirius.’
In their sixth year, he had sat with her in the common room late one night, long past when everyone else had gone to bed, as she cried over a letter from Petunia. Initially, he had stood up suddenly and jogged up the stairs, and she thought he was fleeing from her. She felt like an idiot for confiding in Sirius Black, of all people.
Flee, he had not. He came back into the common room with a stack of his own letters. All scathing, cruel letters signed ‘R.A.B.’ They sat and read the awful letters to each other in mocking voices. They would find more and more ridiculous ways to say the cruel prose until they had to sit with their hands over each other’s mouths to stop the laughter from disturbing their slumbering classmates.
After that, whenever they would see each other, he would run over and give her a fist bump. Mary Macdonald had taught him, he had excitedly explained the first time.
She had already been friends with Remus. Lily always liked Remus; he was kind, he liked to read, and he actually tried in classes.
She had two Marauders as friends under her belt by the end of sixth year, so when she and James became Head Boy and Head Girl in seventh year, it was easy for him to worm his way straight into her heart as well.
Sirius in Azkaban was unimaginable. He must’ve been so scared and so hurt. The thought of him, sitting on that street, watching Peter cut off his own finger and scamper off as a rat. He must’ve known his fate to come as the plump form of one of his most trusted friends scurried off into the sewer.
He always tried his best to distance himself from the reputation of his family, but there were always people who used that to judge his character, even in school. Lily herself was guilty of letting that reputation color her opinion of her friend in the early years of school.
The anger she had fought with her whole life was burning in her veins.
“At least Harry still had Remus,” James said, pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes, “I’m sure Moony took good care of him.”
“James, Mister Lupin did not raise Harry after your deaths,” Dumbledore said calmly.
“What?” James asked, balling his fists as he paced back and forth in front of the headmaster, gesturing angrily, “We were clear in our wills. Sirius was his godfather in the eyes of the law, but they were married. If something were to happen to Sirius and Remus was still alive, Harry was to go to him,” James face slipped from fury to panic in an instant, “Remus is still alive, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Mister Lupin is still alive,” Dumbledore said.
“Why didn’t he have Harry then?” Lily asked, crossing her arms.
“Mister Lupin did come to me and ask for the boy many times, but I would not tell him where I had taken him,” Dumbledore said.
“Why the hell not?” James demanded.
“James, see reason, he could not care for the boy properly. With his condition, he would be a great danger to your son,” Dumbledore said, exasperated and standing up himself.
Lily scoffed, taking a step forward to stab a finger at Dumbledore’s chest, “That’s bullshit. Remus loves Harry.”
“I am not denying that, Lily. I am simply saying he has no control. He could seriously have hurt Harry. Or, as you said yourself, James, he was married to Sirius. I, along with everyone else, was of the belief that Sirius was the traitor. How could I be certain that he meant no harm to the boy?” Dumbledore said imploringly, pleading with his hands in front of him as he spoke.
“Fine,” Lily seethed, “Remus was off the table, Sirius was in prison, Peter was on the run. Who the hell raised my son?”
Dumbledore hesitated once more, “Your sister, Lily.”
Lily could no longer contain the fire within, “What?” She seethed as a crack echoed through the chamber, and a lengthy fissure erupted from where she stood all the way up the wall to the ornate, golden ceiling.
“She was the best option I had,” Dumbledore said quickly, trying to contain her ire.
“The best option?” Lily scoffed, disbelief clear in her voice, “She never should’ve been an option!”
James squeezed her shoulder tightly, “Professor, you can’t have seriously believed that was a good choice. We have both expressed to you, many times, the cruelty of Lily’s sister. You had to have known that they would not treat him well.”
Dumbledore looked every bit his elder at that moment. Lily noted that his eyes seemed wary with age and more downtrodden than she thought the man was capable of. She had always perceived the headmaster as wise and protective, but he only looked old and sad right now. His life was over, and he was full of regrets.
Lily didn’t have any sympathy for him, for her life was also over, and she was also full of regrets.
Dumbledore spoke slowly and quietly, “I have made mistakes, but I did what needed to be done to stop Voldemort. He must be stopped.”
“At the expense of my son!” Lily snapped.
“Lily, you must see reason–”
She interrupted him, her voice thick with anguish, “None of what you have done is reasonable! Harry is just a boy! He needed to be loved and protected.”
James placed a hand on her back, a silent movement of support. She knew if she were to turn around, his face would mirror the anger on hers.
“I wish I could have given him that. I really do,” Dumbledore said, still looking at her.
“You could have,” James said lowly.
Dumbledore removed his strong gaze from hers to look at her husband.
After a moment, he sighed softly and wiped a shaking, blackened hand across his wrinkled face, “I could have, yes,” he said, almost in a whisper.
They all sat there in silence after that. The weight of all that had been unveiled sat between them like an ugly, wretched monster threatening to swallow them all whole. They had all failed Harry.
Her son was all alone.
“You said that we were on trial,” Lily said, turning to face the cloaked figure once more.
“That is correct,” the figure confirms, perking up at finally being addressed, that deep voice ringing, “Death is usually straightforward. You die, and that is the end of the road. Death is eternal. Death is the end for all.”
“Usually straightforward?” James questioned.
“Yes,” the figure states, “Unless an outside force attempts to interfere.”
Lily glared sideways at Dumbledore, or should she say, ‘the outside force’, once more.
“It has been many centuries since I have found myself in this position. I have half a mind to torture all of you for eternity, ripping you from cell to cell, on principle alone, for committing such an egregious act against the natural order of the universe,” the figure stated, placing his hands on the table to bend down to look at all of them menacingly.
Lily’s burgeoning arguments on why they had no part in this died on the tip of her tongue as the figure raised his hand placatingly, “However, Albus Dumbledore has convinced me to try a rather unorthodox approach. This has never been done before, but these are unprecedented circumstances, so I will allow it.”
The contempt Lily currently held for Dumbledore abated somewhat.
“James Fleamont Potter,” the cloaked figure said, “Your life ended by answering the door to protect your family–no wand or other weapon in sight. Some may say that was brave; some may say that was stupid. But all can agree, it was, ultimately, good.”
Lily held back a smile. Of course, it was. James Potter was reckless and annoying and loud, but he was a good man–the best man.
“Lily Jane Potter. You had the opportunity to step aside and live while your son died. You chose to die protecting your family. This action was good,” the figure continued.
“What does that mean?” James asked warily.
“As I said, this is an unprecedented situation. You died many years ago. At the time of your death, the protection of your sacrifices acted in accordance with the blood magic wards of your home. This allowed your son to live. Albus Dumbledore warded Petunia Dursley’s home with complicated, ancient blood magic to protect him in the aftermath of your death. It tapped into the strong magic from the sacrifice. However, this ritual has many consequences,” the figure stated.
“Wait,” Lily said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Blood wards on our house? No, we didn’t use those. We used the Fidelius charm, that was all.”
Dumbledore looked guilty once more, “I added them.”
James interjected, “That’s dark magic! It corrupts the soul! We asked you about it, but you said it wasn’t worth the cost.”
“Precisely the point, Mister Potter,” the cloaked figure stated, drawing the attention back to him, “Albus Dumbledore delved into magic he did not have the capacity to comprehend, and now we are here. Due to the nature of the ritual, two of the four of you shall remain alive. As you may have noticed, three of you are dead, and that is the problem. Which two deserve to live?”
“I’m sorry, the four of us?” James asked.
“Yes, four humans’ blood was used for the ritual. Albus Dumbledore, James Potter, Lily Potter, and Petunia Dursley.”
“Petunia?” Lily asked, shocked, “What for?”
“It was necessary for a blood relative to be used in the ritual to activate the protection on her home,” Dumbledore spoke up again.
Lily chose not to address the man, for she feared if she gave him one more moment of her attention, they would quickly find out if it was possible to die twice.
“Wait a moment,” James said, running his hand through his hair, “Why did you take blood from all four of us?”
Dumbledore sighed, “It was hard to be sure that night,” He wiped a shaky, blackened hand along his face, “It could’ve been any number of possibilities. James died to give Lily a chance to run with Harry. Was it that protection that saved Harry? On the other hand, Lily refused to step aside. Was that what saved the boy? Or was it some combination of both?”
“So, you took blood from all of us,” James said.
“I wanted to be absolutely positive that Harry would be protected, that your sacrifice would be honored,” Dumbledore said confidently.
“That worked out exactly as you planned, hmm?” James gibed.
“Do we pick then, or do you? Which of us lives, I mean,” Lily asked the figure, ready to be done with all of this.
“Both of you will live,” he said simply.
“But you just said only two of us can remain alive, and Petunia is alive right now?” Lily asked, confused. This conversation was making her head hurt.
“I have looked at the overall moral value of all of your lives. James and Lily Potter, you have lived good lives. Albus Dumbledore and Petunia Dursley have not.”
“But Petunia’s alive,” Lily insisted.
The figure looked at her. He propped his chin on his bony, skeleton fingers and simply looked at her as if waiting for her to catch up.
“No,” Lily whispered.
“There will be a death eater attack on her home on the seventeenth of July,” he states.
Her sister was going to die.