Lily Potter.

That was her name, now.

When she was younger, she'd imagined being Lily Evans all her life. But now she was proud to be Lily 'Potter'. Of course she was.

Because her son was a Potter. And her son was the Boy-Who-Lived. Her Boy-Who-Lived.

She'd never been prouder.

In fact, she had become so obsessed with this fact that when people asked- "does he have any siblings?"

She'd answer. "No- oh, wait..."

Because Harry was far less impressive.

She considered herself a good person, but good people like other good people, and really, Harry was not nearly as 'good' as his brother. At anything, she thought.

That night she prepared dinner. There were three plates out. One for herself, one for James Potter, and one for her Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry poked his head in the door to find himself unwelcomed, and, saddened, he slouched back up to his room. And he remained in his room the rest of the night.

James Potter.

He shared the name 'Potter' with someone so famous it could make Merlin shiver in the ground. Father of The Chosen One. His son was very deserving of the caps. He had conquered the Dark Lord, saved humanity as they knew it! James puffed out like a peacock when reminded of so.

He boasted about it on and on with the other purebloods. Whenever they insulted Lily, he'd sneer "Well your wives didn't give brith to a hero, did they?"

Which of course implied he was the father of a hero, and he liked this, too.

Once he'd had important guests over. The Minister himself and his wife, Neimh Fudge, with their daughter, Claire. He was giving them a tour of the house when Claire had peaked into one room James thought empty.

"Whose room is this?" Claire asked.

James also looked in. The room had some baby toys, a couple of books, two shelves, and one ruckety bed. It looked old and unoccupied, except for the opened book beside the bed and clothing on the floor.

To James' horror a figure sat up in the bed. A bony, scrawny lad with scruffy dark hair. His green eyes burned into James' with the power of a dozen Killing Curses.

James, as politely as he could, shooed his guests away from the room. Who was that? An intruder?

Then one name came to mind.

Harry. His other son.

He looked back at the closed door, once. Considering. His hand rested on the knob, but he pulled it back.

He never touched that knob again.

Sirius Black.

Godfather to THE vanquisher of THE Dark Lord. He couldn't of been more pleased. The Boy was modest (for a famous star with the press houding him. On normal standards- no). Smart (for a kid. Not for a kid prophesized to end Voldemort). Kind (for a man-eating slug). And most of all, brave (for a walrus).

Everyone knew him. He acted the boy's BFF. He was so proud.

But he also loved Harry. Harry, the misunderstood, lonely, and neglected child. Harry, who played quidditch with him in the rain, when the Boy-Who-Lived didn't want to use his many brooms. Harry, who called him Siri, when the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't there to call the name stupid. Harry, who only really wanted his parents' love.

He pitied the kid. He understood what it was like to have a brother your parents preferred over you. How it felt to be excluded in the family. Thank Merlin James hadn't disowned Harry, like Sirius' mother had done him.

But he couldn't imagine what it was like for your world to know your brother's name. For you to be forever in the shadows. For people to refer to you as 'His-Brother'. His. Like Harry couldn't be his own.

One day, the press were swarming the Potter Household. The newspapers had all said that The-Boy-Who-Lived was severely ill.

When Sirius had arrived to see Harry, as he had Owled Sirius about having something to show his Godfather, James and Lily were cooing over there favored son. He was down with the common-cold.

"I was just here to say 'hey' to Harry," Sirius tried to explain, wary.

"But my boy's ill, Sirius!" Lily had cried.

"I'm the Boy-Who-Lived," the sick child said, like that made him far superior.

But, in some sick way, it did.

And, because of that, Sirius stayed with the more famous Potter child. In fact, he got so caught up in the fame that he couldn't escape it.

So when Harry tugged on his robes, begging for attention, Sirius had distractedly said, "now, Harry, Your brother's sick."

Of course, no one knew that Harry was also sick. They'd never spared him a glance. So none of them saw what they should have.

A glistening tear, leaving a translucent blue trail down Harry's cheek.

Remus Lupin.

A DADA master. And that's why Lily and James had begged him to train their beloved pup.

"And what of Harry?"

His friends' faces were blank, then James said confused. "But he isn't the Boy-Who-Lived."

Remus had blinked. "Is that all that matters?"

"Of course not," Lily said. "We love our son."

Remus relaxed a bit.

"I mean, he did save us from the Dark Lord!" She laughed.

"But what of your other son, Harry?" Remus asked, concerned.

"He isn't the Boy-Who-Lived." James repeated. "So our little hero's our main priority."

Remus hated it, but he saw sense in this theory. He relented. "Oh, alright."

Lily had squealed and hugged, and James had gratefully given his thanks.

He didn't see Harry, mumbling,

"But what of me?"

Harry Potter.

Always the 'Boy-Who-Lived's brother'. Never just Harry.

In fact, why not just make it:

Harry Potter.

... Because no one paid attention to his first name, his own name, anyhow.

That night he was hungry. As per-usual. He stumbled into the kitchen, but couldn't reach the high cupboards. Looking at the food in the oven, his brother's food no doubt, he reached out.

Fortunately, Lily had only just put the oven on, or he would have burned his hand very badly. He cried out. Nobody came to his aid.

Tired, hungry, and weak, he dragged himself back to his room.

He never came out.

"I'm going to check on Harry," Sirius said, unexpectedly.

"Why? He hasn't been out all day." James said, confused.

"Exactly," Remus agreed with Sirius.

"Alright," Lily sighed. Then, out of paranoia, she added, "but let me get my hero."

So the five made their way up to Harry's room, led by Sirius and Remus, for they were the only ones who knew where it was.

"Harry?" Sirius tried.

No sound came from the room.

"Harry, can we come in?"

Nothing.

He slowly turned the dusty knob.

Lily gasped. "This is where he's been living?"

The place looked terrible. Empty, lifeless. Like a dementor had sweeped through the room. A book lay on the ground, clearly it had fallen from the bed. Slowly, the five walked over to the bed.

Lily screamed.

Harry lay there, eyes closed. Like he was sleeping.

But Sirius knew that was just an illusion his mind had conjured, to hide him from the horrible truth.

The boy was unmoving. His body, tiny, from malnutrition and lack of feeding. He was pale. Remus didn't know how long he had been like this.

The Boy-Who-Lived's lip was quivering. "Hawwy?"

But the figure did not answer.

James let out a gasp when he edged forward. "Harry?"

Lily started crying, openly. Her 'hero' son followed. Then Sirius, and Remus. And, finally, James.

"What did I do?" James choked.

"What did we do?" Lily ammended, her hand over her fast-beating heart.

Harry James Potter

Born, 31st of July, 1980

Died, 12th May, 1988

"The Boy-Who-Died, for the greater good"

Lily hated the quote. Her son had died because of her. She sniffed, again. People usually left lillies at graves around here, but she thought it too obnoxious. Someone before her had left a Hyssop. 'Sacrifice'. Another tear dropped. She left a blue Salvia. 'I think of you'.

It was awful, she knew, to think about your child more in death, than in life.