"Woe to the man whose heart has not learned while young to hope, to love - and to put its trust in life." -Joseph Conrad Prologue -- August 1981 Something was wrong. The breeze that drifted in through the sheer curtains carried with it a silence that seemed to alarm Lily rather than calm her. She sat up straight in her chair, her eyes darting over to her sleeping baby boy-- had he made that noise? No, he slept quietly in his crib, eyes shut tight beneath a mop of wild black hair, and Lily persuaded herself to ease back into her chair and carry on in her reading. Besides, James was downstairs-- he would have called her name if he'd needed anything. . . if he'd needed . . . help. But it was the absence of any noise altogether that prevented her nerves from easing down. That, and a powerful, sickening feeling befalling her, the like of which she'd only felt once before in her life-- the night that she'd looked directly into a pair of bright red, snake-like eyes and thought with absolute certainty shed taken her last breath. That same fear gripped her now as she sprang out of her chair, letting her novel fall to the ground, and scooped her child into her arms, close against her racing heart. There was no reason for her panic other than an innate sixth sense of sorts, which was screaming at her to get out of the house. "James?" She threw open the door and sprinted down the hallway and down the staircase to the ground floor. She ran into his study and found. . . "James!" At her feet lay a body limp and lifeless. He was facedown, but his hair, wild and free so much like his sons, made his identity unmistakable. A choked scream escaped from her that woke her son and, frightened at the noise, he began to cry. Still holding her baby, she used her free hand to turn James over. His face was white, blue eyes opened yet not aware of anything around them. He was dead. "James! No!" Lily's screams were now heaving gasps of desperation. She ran her fingers through his hair, and her tears fell onto his rigid, cold face. The baby was now hysterical. Barely able to see through her tears, she looked down at her sons' red face. "Harry," she whispered quietly, "I--" "You will stand aside." That voice! Slowly, shaking, she turned her head. Towering above her was the one figure whom she'd feared would one day appear. His thin face was barely visible from beneath his black robes and in his hand he held a wand, pointed threateningly at her. She held her son close, and his cries became muffled against her chest. "You've killed James." "Yes, but you needn't die tonight if you cooperate. Stand aside that I may take your son." "You may take my life, Voldemort. You will not touch my son." "Then you leave me no alternative than to take both of yours." Voldemort raised his wand. Lily placed her lips against her sons' tear-stained cheeks and then whispered into his ear something that Voldemort could not hear. It was in a strange, ancient tongue, and then in the same breath, she whispered the last words she was ever to say: "I'll always love you, Harry." * * *