A/N: Inspired by my own ficlet, Repercussions in the Wizarding World Wanderings collection (which makes an appearance herein), I have expanded on the whole "as the seventh month dies" idea that hit me at the end of it.

TAKE NOTE: Due to the nature of the how Trelawney's prophecy was told and how I show it coming about, the dates will be jumping about a bit, so pay attention to them.

x x x

Tons of Betatastic Appreciation to Katmom, my dear friend. I don't often ask her to do the beta thing for real, but the lady knows her stuff when I do. Any mistakes left are mine alone.

PROPHECY

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies …

-Sybil Trelawney

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ...

April, 1980

Dumbledore sat as if stunned as young Miss Trelawney went into her prophetic trance. He'd rather hoped it might happen, hence other arrangements he'd put into play, but to actually see it in front of him was a bit surprising.

Oh, he knew who the Dark Lord was. But it was often thought that only his followers and blood purists referred to the half-blood boy, Tom Riddle, in that manner.

He cast a wordless cooling charm over himself, as the summer evening was warmer than he preferred, what with all the requisite Headmaster Robes he had to wear for this job interview. Disappointment over Miss Trelawney's lack of Cassandra's gift fled. He was agog, now, to know that she could indeed produce an actual prophecy.

A prophecy that might indeed be coming true. For Frank and Alice Longbottom's child was due to be born at the end of July.

And July was the seventh month.

"I have to talk to the Longbottoms at the earliest opportunity."

June, 1980

Along the M61, heading north to Scotland, Doctor Daniel Granger and Doctor Emma Granger were driving on a much anticipated holiday. Their only child, Hermione, was firmly ensconced in a brand new infant safety seat. Emma sat in the rear seat of their car with their daughter, so she could keep the bright-eyed girl entertained. Hard to read to a baby from the front seat!

Though it was past Hermione's bedtime, the long twilight of the summer's day kept them able to drive safely to get to their hotel for the night. It had seemed imperative that they go; Daniel had said he'd just had it with London in the summer. All at once. "Oh, let's go to the Highlands," he'd said. "Just the thing this time of year. I can show you a place my grandfather told me about, once. It's an old castle."

"Are we there yet?" Emma asked tiredly. She had just finished reading Alice in Wonderland to their little girl. Hermione was playing with a cloth book, chewing on it now and again.

Daniel was feeling rather edgy. Emma had forgotten certain significant conversations, but he knew that they were going to be close to a place they couldn't see . . . but that he had heard about, once upon a time. Puffing out a breath, he reminded himself that they were on holiday, that was all. "Almost."

"Good."

July, 1980

"I can't believe you talked me into this," Lily Potter told her husband as she mounted her broom while her feet were firmly on the ground outside the Potter's summer home in Scotland.

"He's perfectly safe, look. See?" James pulled down the protective cloak he had over his son Harry as they prepared to fly—Notice-Me-Not charms all in place—toward Hogsmeade. "The baby carrier you created works, and Sirius enabled the Sticking charms to be a part of the actual design, so Harry'll stay in all right and tight. See? Totally safe."

"He's not even a year old!"

"So? I'm the one who's going to fly this thing. Look, you can see the Hogsmeade Station from here. It's not far. We'll be fine."

Lily growled. "No more than ten feet off the ground, Mister Potter."

"I promise."

Huffing audibly, Lily directed her broom to fly and she followed James and Harry all the way to Hogsmeade. They met Sirius and Remus at the Three Broomsticks and, eventually, Harry Potter fell asleep in his godfather's arms. There was a war on, a friend had died only the week before—which was one reason Lily and Harry had been relocated to Scotland for the time being—and it was time to remember their friend, to celebrate her life and to celebrate their own.

Tomorrow's dangers would come tomorrow.

…born to those who have thrice defied him…

1944, London Orphanage

Emma Draper, orphaned by the War, huddled quietly in a corner of the room she shared with ten other girls. "Tight quarters," the matron had said, albeit with some warmth in her eyes, "but it's better than it is with the boys."

Loss had drained Emma of all response save to nod and obey. She nodded when it was time to eat. Tried to eat when the girl next to her told her that the mutton was the only meat they'd get 'til Sunday. Followed two girls older than herself back up to the dormitory.

But then, she'd had to go to the loo.

So she'd left the long, cold dormitory. She didn't remember where the toilet was.

She had her doll, a china doll with curly red hair and bright blue eyes that wore a blue silk dress, in one hand. Its little hand had been singed in the fire that had taken her parents from her, but someone had rescued her doll. She took it everywhere.

"Oi, little girl."

She froze at the sound of an older boy's voice that came from a corner where no light fell. Blackout conditions still applied, she supposed, but this was an interior corridor and—

"I told you to stop," the boy said. "Come here."

Emma clutched her doll—Kathleen—to her chest like a shield. "What do you want?" she asked dully. The rules of the orphanage were written somewhere, but people made their own rules. A look at London could tell anyone that.

"Just want you to do something for me," the boy said. He crouched down and, because she could sort of see him at last, she saw a thin smile on a face that she did not trust.

"No." She shook her head. "I just want to, want to go find a toilet."

"I can help you. What's your name?"

"Emma Draper," she said without thinking. Her heart was pounding and her mind was flying and she really, really had to find the toilet. "What's yours?"

"I'm Tom Riddle, Emma. And I don't want much. I just wanted something to eat. I didn't get my dinner, you see, and I'm rather hungry. Can you help me?"

"No! I just have to, have to go to the toilet," she demanded, beyond embarrassment. She felt a need to get far from this boy and to find the water closet and she was feeling frightened.

He lunged for her and she shrieked but he only took her doll. She was left unharmed and that made her get quiet. "Give me back Kathleen."

"Not until you get me something to eat. You go down there. Someone is there and they'll listen to you, since you're tiny and new here. Go on. Kathleen and I will wait for you." He smiled and stood up, towering over her, her doll hanging negligently in his hand. "I'll keep her right here. No one will hurt her."

The way he said it, though, made Emma think someone might hurt her, so she reminded herself of every step to get back to the dormitory and all the beds. "No. I won't. Give me back my doll!"

"No!"

Emma had lost enough. With a fierce burst of courage, she grabbed Kathleen's singed hand and pulled, running in the next beat of her heart. Running fast. She was very fast. Very, very fast. And she remembered every step.

"Emma! You will regret this!"

She got back to the dormitory and slammed the door behind her, breathing hard and letting Kathleen absorb her sudden tears.

She may have wet the bed, but it was her first night and no one mentioned it.

1959, Dover

Tom Riddle hated his name.

He hated that it was a Muggle name. He hated anyone that knew it was a Muggle name. He hated Muggles in general, but was usually able to control them. To make them do what he wanted. To make them. This proved he was superior; it always had.

He was working on flying over water. This eluded him, for some reason, so he was going to have to take a trip on a Muggle boat. Infuriating.

"You, there," he said, extending a finger to the young man on the dock. "I need passage to France." He focused, trying to slide into the Muggle's mind so that he could simply twist his thoughts to accommodate.

Simple. Easy. He'd been defied once by a mere little girl and he had worked, since, not to let it happen again.

"You have to pay for passage, same as everyone," the young man said.

Tom felt the familiar flare of rage all but burst from his fingers. Before doing violence—he had learnt some self-control over the years—he dove into the man's mind, determined to change it, make the Muggle do his will.

He couldn't!

"What the bleeding hell?" he whispered, stepping closer to the fellow. Incarcerous! he cast silently. The man's hazel eyes went wide as he sought to move. "You. You're a . . ." Tom cast a quick spell and was disgusted but also a bit in awe of what it revealed. "You're a Squib! A Squib who was . . . taught? But how . . .?" He freed the man from the binding spell. "Your name. I must have it."

The Squib shook himself, fear and caution clear in his gaze. He did not falter, though. "Granger. D— Er, that's all you need to know."

Tom gripped the man's limp collar. "Granger? As in Dagworth-Granger?"

"Great-grandfather, he was."

"I must think on this."

Tom could not let the defiance go unpunished, so he cast the Cruciatus Curse on the Squib for a few seconds, relishing his screams.

1978, London

James Potter was sweating fit to flood the Great Hall, but he couldn't move. He had Lily! You-Know-Who had Lily!

It was supposed to be a basic seek-and-find mission for the Order, but someone ratted them out. Merlin's bollocks!

"This is the second time I've asked you to join me, Potter. You're strong, even your Mudblood is strong. I can make allowances."

"No!" Lily said, her voice raw but strong.

James felt his own courage renewed in her defiance. "No."

"Crucio!"

James heard her scream, but could do nothing, bound as he was. The pain was worse for him, he was sure, but he'd never tell her that.

Popping sounds surrounded them and then he heard a welcome voice. "Bella!"

Padfoot!

In moments, James was released from the Immobulus that had held him and he gathered Lily into his arms. Her eyes were bloodshot, and indeed blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. "Love, I'm so sorry," he whispered repeatedly. "Let's get you to Headquarters, yeah? Pads?"

"Go, Prongs. We've got this."

1979, Oxfordshire

Emma Granger smoothed her hand over the rounded bump in her middle. The baby bump. The one that showed her that she and Dan had succeeded at last in conceiving. Five months along, she was, and she enjoyed the knowing smiles from the other mothers at Hyde Park that afternoon. She had at least a decade on them, but she smiled a bit shyly nonetheless.

Me, too! the smile communicated.

Her husband Dan wore the same grin, though his was more of the masculine See what I did? variety. The other dads they saw looked much the same.

After spending some time in the fresh air—overcast though the spring Sunday was, the air did feel clean—Dan helped her to her feet. She had scoffed at such overplayed gallantry before, but he'd persisted and she'd let him. They would do nothing to endanger their miracle baby. Her physician had called this a "geriatric pregnancy" as she would be forty when their baby was born, and Emma was taking no chances.

"Let's go home, love."

"Your turn to cook," she reminded him.

He made a whinging sort of sound. "Can't we do takeaway?"

"Not curry again. Baby hates it."

Daniel laughed and stepped in front of her, caressing her bump with discretion and love. "Never want to do anything to upset the princess."

"Sure it's not a prince?"

"Picky as she is about food? Definitely a princess."

They laughed, discussing names and such on the walk home, forgetting about takeaway entirely in favor of sex. And it was when she had managed to get him totally bare and ready for a bit of "playing doctor" that the trouble started.

Lights! Laughter!

"Granger!"

"Lookie, my lord. The Squib dared to breed!"

Emma, still dressed, albeit in a lab coat, immediately stood in front of Daniel, who was naked. Heart racing, she placed one hand over her middle. "Who are you? Go away!"

A tall, thin man with dark hair and flat gaze came into the room. Daniel swore behind her, moving to cover her with his body rather than the other way around. "You," her husband said, his voice hard. "I remember you."

The woman who spoke first giggled. "The Squib has a brain!"

"I remember you," the man said, mocking Daniel. He had a stick out, Emma saw. It was rough and bent and looked . . . wicked. It struck actual fear into Emma herself even before he whispered something that caused her husband to scream in pain.

Tears sprang to her eyes to hear Daniel but she couldn't move. "What. Do you. Want?"

The stick-bearing man ceased looking at her husband and, waving the giggling woman to silence, approached Emma herself. "Oh, she's powerful, she is. You're having a daughter. A witch. Did you know? Did you know your husband is from wizard-kind?"

"What? No, now look, I don't know who you are, but you just take yourself—"

"Silence!" Emma felt her jaw lock tight and she very nearly wet herself. But she didn't. Somehow. There was . . . something about the man that reminded her of, of someone. "We've met before," he said on a whisper. "I am going to ask you again, Emma Draper, to help me. Bring this little witch of yours to me and—"

"My lord!"

"Bella!" The dark-haired woman dropped to her knees, but still Emma couldn't move. He knew her name!? Shouts and sirens started to grow loud, not too far away, and the man hissed in anger. "I will come for her one day. You will pay for your intransigence!"

It would be a full five minutes before Emma could say a word, no matter what Daniel did to try to comfort her.

…born as the seventh month dies…

19 September 1979, Oxfordshire

Emma was still blinking. In between contractions. "He's not here, is he?"

Daniel blushed, looking around. "No. I've not seen him nor anyone else. Look, we'll move house. I've spoken with our solicitor and there's that new building nearly Crawley we looked at, remember?"

"We should sign for it," Emma said, inhaling deeply as she'd been told she should. "I'll feel better."

"Anything you want," he assured her, holding her hand even though she was gripping his fingers tight enough to grind his knuckles together.

"Doctor Granger? Doctor Granger?"

Both expectant parents—oral surgeons, the pair of them—answered, "Yes, sister?"

The sister—a mature woman who wore her whites with pride and a definite sense of authority—nodded. "Your room is ready. Can your . . . discussion . . . wait? We don't want to upset our mother, do we?"

"No, ma'am," Daniel assured her, reprieve lighting his brown gaze.

A brief examination gave proof that the coming child of Daniel and Emma Granger was going to be precocious. After merely four hours, their baby daughter entered the world.

Her Apgar scores, at birth, five, and ten minute intervals were all perfect "10"s.

30 July 1980

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

Frank and Alice Longbottom were both panting and sweaty as they presented the heir of the House of Longbottom to his grandmother, Lady Augusta Longbottom.

The infant screwed up his face in displeasure at the stiff fingers his grandmother presented to him, but he didn't cry.

"He will do nicely, Frank. Alice, he's a fine-looking lad."

"Thank you, Mum."

For the next two weeks, they were able to enjoy their newborn son. No shadow would darken their world . . .

Yet.

Dumbledore, who came to pay his respects, began to plot in earnest.

. . . and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal . . .

31 October 1981

Longbottom Manor

Kingsley Shacklebolt and Alastor Moody were on watch on the night that You-Know-Who finally made his move. Kingsley felt rather awful for the relief that swept over him when the wards at Longbottom Manor were brought down with a visible flare of magic.

Augusta Longbottom—a champion duelist in her own right—swore with a growl as she left Moody's side to hurry to the nursery. "Alice! Alice! It's time!" Kingsley knew that there was a plan to get the lad away via Floo. Augusta would be guarding that, wand out, to make sure her grandson got safely away.

It took barely three minutes from the time the wards went down to the time the dust settled in the main drawing room where the Floo access had been. Three minutes. And when Kingsley was able to take a breath, he bit back a cry. Augusta Longbottom was dead, her chest blasted from her body. Frank was missing an eye and his wand hand. Alice was unconscious. Moody sported a new set of dark curse wounds on his torso, as even his body armor hadn't been able to withstand Voldemort's power.

And baby Neville was crying, screaming actually, patting his mother's motionless arms, a strange, bleeding wound dripping onto Alice's robes.

Moody coughed and hobbled to the toddler. "That's gonna leave a mark."

"Where's his body?" Kingsley shouted, pushing the ragged corpse of a Death Eater out of his way. "I saw the curse backfire to that dark bastard. Where is his body?"

Frank moaned but managed to say, "I saw him sort of get vaporized when he hit Nev. Dumbledore had put some sort of runic ward on him and Alice and I made sure our family magics were involved with it. Do you think," he groaned as a motion brought fresh pain to his head. "Merlin. I need to go to St. Mungo's. Shite. Do you think he's dead?"

"Well, he's not here right now," Kingsley would only say, caution heavy in his deep voice. "We'll keep an eye out. Let's get your family out of here, Frank."

Alice woke up and she, too, moaned in pain. But she also cried in thankfulness that their Neville had survived.

29 May 1993

Chamber of Secrets, Hogwarts

Hermione blew out a breath as she and her best friend, Harry Potter, saw Ginny Weasley in the dank, subterranean cave below the school. She passed over one of her hand mirrors to Harry. "Here," she whispered. "Don't look at the basilisk!"

They'd tried to get Lockhart to come with them, but he'd pissed himself when he heard Harry speak in Parseltongue up in the girls' bathroom. Then, their Defense Professor had gone sheet white and fainted when the children had prodded him to lead the way down the noisome passage. Ron had knocked himself unconscious on the descent, so that left just the two children who had the same birthdays.

It was how they became friends, sharing their birthdays on the train when they were trying to see who in their compartment was oldest. Hermione had been shocked to find out she shared that honor with the bespectacled boy whose mum had sent him on the train with a packet of chocolate biscuits.

"Got it," Harry said, his voice barely reaching her ear. "Look! There she is, by the statue!"

Hermione nodded. "I'll try to wake her up. Cover me! You're better at that kind of thing."

"Well, my dad was an Auror, you know . . ."

Though her heart beat in fear and worry, she kept her words light to stave off dread. "Sure, rub your magical parents in my face again . . ."

"She won't wake, you stupid girl." The voice was not Harry's and it seemed to come from just behind her.

Mouth dry, she didn't dare look at the speaker, in case it was the basilisk somehow—magic was tricky!—and instead set herself to dragging Ginny away from the statue and closer to Harry or the entrance. Whichever seemed safest.

"Harry! Help me! We've got to get her out!"

"Harry. Potter. Potter. You are not whom I expected."

"What? Come on, it's dangerous in here. Let's go!" Harry sounded baffled and Hermione would have, in any other circumstance, tried to make sense of things for them both but she was still dragging Ginny and it wasn't easy. Nor quiet.

"You may not go! I am Lord Voldemort and you will serve me as she serves me!"

Hermione saw, then, that the tall older boy who claimed to be the most terrifying wizard in a century was pointing a wand at her. She dropped Ginny, wincing when the ginger girl's head thunked on the stone floor, and drew her own wand. "I will not serve you, you great git! Pretending to be him? Really? Just because you found your way down here?" She shot him with a Stunner that Harry's dad had shown her during the summer holiday.

It went right through the boy and Hermione squeaked in renewed terror. "Harry!"

"How dare you! I am Lord Voldemort!" And he did something that should not have been possible, seeing as how he was more like a phantom than a person. He whispered something—also in Parseltongue, like Harry!—and Hermione instinctively jerked away from what she thought was a spell. She felt a flare of pain along her head and then passed out.

She woke up in the Hospital Wing hours later, surrounded by her parents, Ron's parents, Harry and his parents, and Headmaster Dumbledore. Her mother was crying, tears dripping on Hermione's hand. Harry held her other one.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," he whispered. "I was too slow." He winced as her mother brushed hair back from what felt like a bandage. "That's . . . that's gonna leave a mark."

She choked on a laugh that was almost a sob and tried to smile bravely. "Did we get Ginny?"

The parents all took one huge breath as if on cue and Hermione was bombarded with a flurry of details about how Harry fought the damned basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor and then pierced Ginny's diary with the sword right after that, which made the diary bleed black and destroy the arrogant older boy who was with them.

"He said he was Voldemort," Hermione whispered to her friend.

"Well, he was."

Hermione could only blink in shock.

24 June 1995, Little Hangleton

"Kill that one. Leave Potter alone! By Salazar's beard, boy, you have been a hard one to get to."

Harry, still reeling from the disorientation caused by the Portkey, gasped when one of the Death Eaters aimed the deadly green Killing Curse at Cedric Diggory. Harry himself had only been forced into the thrice-damned Triwizard because the Death Eaters apparently had a hard-on for getting back at him after all the publicity with the Chamber of Secrets two years before. His parents came near to whisking him right out of Britain but, for some reason, didn't. "He's not the one," he'd heard them whisper. "Not him."

Well, Harry was the one here, and Cedric might not have been The One either, whatever that meant, but he'd paid for it with his life.

He mustered up whatever courage he still had and straightened his shoulders to confront the masked man. "Why even bother, then? Why not just go off and play with your friends?"

"Silence!" The Death Eater cast something silently and Harry knew nothing more.

Until he was revived, bound somehow to a headstone in that creepy, dark graveyard.

There was a gruesome ritual of some sort going on; a blood ritual that would have made his father furious. Where was his dad? His mum? They should be here any second, right?

"Blood from the enemy, forcibly taken," one of the Death Eaters proclaimed. Harry knew he was going to die right then, and he wished so hard for his mum as the robed man sliced into his arm with a blade that burned. His arm felt as if it were on fire. Blood flowed quite freely from a vein onto the blade and covering it, and the man darted back to the steaming cauldron, flicking Harry's own blood into whatever horror was inside.

And as the sickly pale man rose from the cauldron, the air was filled with shouts and the bright, fierce colors of spells on the fly.

His parents had found him at last, Hermione by their side, along with about fifty Aurors.

Mum and Dad fought the Death Eaters, though the pale one got away and Hermione reached Harry, doing her level best to free him from his binding on the gravestone.

"Oh, Harry!" she whispered. She cast a spell that siphoned the blood from his arm and then another one to close the wound. "What was it you said to me second year?"

Tears of relief in his eyes as his best friend wrapped her arms around him to keep him on his feet, Harry sighed. "That's going to leave a mark." He tipped his head so that his forehead touched the dark curse scar she still bore that had brought a white streak to her hair and a dark pink line—a bit like a lightning bolt—down her left temple to her cheek and jaw. "Sorry, Hermione."

Then Mum and Dad were there and Hermione stepped away, her own smile wet with tears.

. . . but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not . . .

July, 1995, Crawley

"Mum. Dad. It'd be famous! No one our age knows how to do this!" Harry was practically bouncing. He needed something positive to bring him back from the horror of seeing Cedric killed and Voldemort—also known as Tom Riddle—resurrected after the Triwizard Tournament.

Hermione clasped her hands together and met her father's eye, for both sets of parents were grilling in a very Muggle sort of meal at the Granger home in Crawley. It seemed sensible, after years of friendship had suddenly become something more, for the families to get better acquainted, Emma had decided.

Daniel Granger frowned as his daughter earnestly gave an obviously rehearsed rationale for why she and her brand-new boyfriend should try the very difficult and advanced Animagus transformation. "Is it dangerous?" he asked when she let him get a word in.

Harry sent his dad a look that was clearly meant to say, You've got to get him to agree!

James Potter smiled. He was beginning to think that the prophecy that had been made ages ago—Frank and Alice Longbottom had confided to them quite carefully what had been said when they'd basically gone into hiding when Neville had been born.

"By the time I was your age," James finally drawled, "Prongs had already made an appearance. So had Padfoot." They never mentioned Wormtail, who had gone to the enemy years before. "And no, Dan," he continued, meeting Daniel Granger's steady look. "It's not inherently dangerous to become an Animagus. The dangers lie in controlling oneself whilst learning to shift in and out of one's form."

"And don't you sound like you've done Eton," Lily said in an aside.

He shrugged and beckoned to Harry and Hermione. "You need to take it carefully, if you do. I think it best that we keep in touch and you don't try anything foolish at school."

Emma, predictably, protested. "No! Hermione, this isn't a requirement for school, is it? And you've faced enough danger already."

That last statement made James pause for a moment. He knew that Hermione and Harry shared a birthday. What if . . .? He shook it off. "It's really not dangerous. Her form could be, well, an otter, right? How much trouble could that be?"

Harry and Hermione, after much cajoling, got their parents to agree and they began to learn how to make the difficult transformation. It would take them quite a long time.

And when they were done, it was decided that her form—a fierce but agile brown bear—could take care of herself. Harry's stag had weapons of his own, as well.

The Doctors Granger, impressed, had nevertheless implored them not to tell anyone they could do this. "Hunting season!" Emma had fretted. "It'd be so dangerous!"

"We'll be careful, Mum," Hermione promised.

. . . and either must die at the hand of the other . . .

18 June 1996

Atrium, Ministry of Magic

Hermione was weeping. Loud, horrible sobs wracked her frame. "You can't be dead! It's not fair!"

But so it was. The curse from the Death Eater—Antonin Dolohov, she'd find later—had hit Neville full force and he'd dropped dead. She hadn't been able to revive him. Harry hadn't been able to revive him. Even Dumbledore had failed.

The Longbottoms would be there shortly, and Hermione steeled herself internally. She'd been with Neville in his final moments and she'd do her best to share those moments with his family.

"Hermione . . . sorry it took me so long to get to you. Dad needed to tell me something."

Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she looked up at her boyfriend. "What?"

"Well, apparently there's this prophecy . . ."

19 June 1996, Hogwarts

Dumbledore sat with a glass of firewhisky, staring into the subdued flames of his fire.

Where had he gone wrong? If Neville was the Chosen One, he'd lost and now no one could stop Tom. His old heart chilled with the thought that there would be no hope for the Light. No hope. No hope.

But what if he, Dumbledore had grossly misinterpreted the prophecy? What if there was a Chosen One out there . . . and no one knew who it was?

"Merlin help us all," the headmaster muttered, tossing back the rest of his firewhisky and pouring himself a bit more.

. . . for neither can live if the other survives.

30 June 1996

Malfoy Manor

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be able to live now. Live beyond reckoning. Live beyond life itself.

So why did he feel so . . . dissatisfied? The Boy Who Lived, Neville Longbottom, had died . . .

But he had died at Dolohov's hand. Well, Dolohov would pay for that. Perhaps that was the problem.

He summoned Antonin for a private conference. It would be their last.

. . . The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord . . .

22 March 1997

Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade

Madame Rosmerta smiled indulgently when the Gryffindor Prefects asked for the room the Potters had taken for the weekend. She had the idea that all of this was building up to the Potter Scion taking the Muggleborn witch into the family. There were steps, after all, and though Harry Potter was not a pure-blood, his father was. So she watched the young couple go up the stairs to the Potters' room.

After the niceties had been observed, tea served and scones tasted, Lily eyed the teens with a certain amount of caution. "All right. What was it you wanted to talk about so urgently that you're sacrificing your Hogsmeade weekend?"

She did not expect to hear about a complete plan orchestrated around two Animagi taking down the darkest wizard in who knew how long.

"Your parents would have kittens," James declared. "There's no way."

"No, please. Don't tell them," Hermione begged James and Lily. "I know, we've had this whole transparency thing with them, and they've appreciated it. But if they hear that prophecy, they'll probably take me out of England entirely."

She reached for Harry's hand and held it. He gave her his full support, as he always did. James grimaced. "I hate to break their trust."

"But you've heard the plan. And it will work," Hermione insisted. "Even Auror Moody said it was our best chance."

"Bait and switch?" Lily asked in a wry tone. "Hermione, sweetheart, that's one of the oldest tricks in the book."

"The Muggle book," Hermione reminded her. "And he's abandoned the Muggle half of his heritage."

Harry ran a hand through his hair and studied his parents. "We just need you to get him to the Forbidden Forest during the spring holiday. You don't have to meet him when you're there, I don't want you in danger in any possible way—"

"Oh, but you'll put yourselves in danger?" Lily demanded, rising to her feet and gesturing wildly. "There are no guarantees with that damned stupid prophecy!"

"I am not a fan of prophecies, either, Missus Potter, but if he believes it—"

"And he certainly seems to," James interjected.

Hermione nodded and continued. "If he believes it, then he'll be there. And Harry and I will be ready."

28 March 1997, Forbidden Forest

"Stupid prophecies," Hermione whispered.

Harry, his heart pounding, held her in his arms and willed her to calm down. "Cold feet, love?"

"No! Just scared. I'm allowed to be scared, you know."

Hogwarts

Albus Dumbledore was astonished to get a Floo call from Lily Potter. "Get to the Forest, Albus. Just in case!"

"In case what, dear girl? There hasn't been a sign of anything amiss happening outside the Ministry." He sighed, for their entire world was surely on the brink of a dreadful change.

"In case that prophecy doesn't mean who we think it does!"

Shock stiffened the older wizard's limbs for a moment. "What? Who?"

"Long story. I'll explain later. Just go. Go now!"

Forbidden Forest

"So, the prophecy!" Voldemort called into the forest. He had reinforcements, of course, nearby but he was making the thing look proper. "Potter! Do tell. How have I had it wrong?"

He saw a tall man with wild dark hair and glasses emerge from the shadows, wand in hand. "Riddle."

Fury flared. "I hate that name!" He flicked his own wand into his hand. "Cru—"

A full-throated, bestial roar shook the leaves on the trees as an enormous creature bounded towards him, startling him so that his wand shook and fell out of suddenly nerveless hands.

A silent curse must have hit him, for he went down as a shaggy brown bear swiped at him with a paw full of claws. Then a huge stag made an appearance, voluminous rack of wicked points bearing down on him.

Tom Riddle raged within himself. He was the greatest wizard of the world had ever known! How could he be taken down by beasts!

Beasts!

The bear scooped him up in the air and the stag caught him on its horns, piercing him with nothing magical at all. No shield worked.

As pain lanced through him and his minions swarmed to their location, Albus Dumbledore appeared with a solid crack of air.

And the bear and the stag became—a woman and a man. Joined by another woman and another man.

And then Tom Riddle, half-blood, died.

…will be born as the seventh month dies.

1 January 1979

Lily's Flat, Diagon Alley

Her heart was racing, pounding, and she felt sick. Yes, sick. Definitely sick. That kind of queasy feeling that she got when she was sure she'd earned a T on her Ancient Runes N.E.W.T. The kind of feeling she had when her alarm clock decided to die on the morning of her first day as Head Girl and she was sure she was late . . . only to find out it was an entirely different day.

Even though both of those fears had proven unfounded, Lily Evans couldn't slow the panic that was overtaking her entire body.

"What the bloody hell did I do?" she muttered, still staring at her knees. They were bare, her knees. Bare and a bit red, truth to tell, as if she'd been kneeling for a while the night before.

Or had it been this morning?

And her mouth tasted . . . like arse.

"Accio Pain Relief," she called softly. A small bottle floated to her from her vanity and she willed her hands to stop shaking. She took three swallows and sighed, hoping that the squirrelly feeling in her stomach would go away. For a moment, she calmed and her fingers stopped trembling and her heart slowed a bit.

"That was wandless!"

And there it was, the panic again. "Potter."

She didn't want to look. She couldn't look. She didn't look. She resolutely refused to look at the man in her bed. Her breath came fast and scared.

He chuckled. "Well. I'm glad you know it's me. Wasn't sure, last night."

"Oh, I know it's you. Your . . . blatant arrogance is a dead giveaway."

James Potter shifted on the bed and stared at her. The glorious woman he'd been in love with for years. It was dawning on him that their New Year's Eve celebration, privately welcoming in 1979, had perhaps not been the best idea. But hell, he'd been trying to get a date with her for years and when she'd invited their entire Gryffindor graduating class to her flat for the party, she'd included him, hadn't she?

With the war on, there was little enough to celebrate these days, as it was. And her flat was well warded.

Shite, she performed wandless magic!

To summon Pain Potion. Shite. "You all right there, Lily?" He wouldn't call her Evans. Not in her bed. Not when she looked so pale and vulnerable.

She took a deep breath and shifted about, her hair falling in a glorious curtain of shining red around her bare shoulders as she tugged the lavender bedsheet to cover herself. Such a graceful movement. So beautiful. He smiled and sighed. Then, she spoke.

"I'm fine. I made choices last night that I shouldn't have made, but I'm fine."

"You were not drunk, Evans," he stated, forgetting his notion not to address her by her surname. "I wouldn't have gone to bed with you if you were. You have to know that."

She cocked one brow at him. "I was not drunk. No. You're honorable, Potter. You wouldn't have taken advantage. I'm just a bit sore." She sighed and tugged at a length of her hair and James didn't even try to suppress his smile at the sight. "I just never considered myself the kind of girl who would do this, you know? We're not even dating."

"But I want to!" he reminded her eagerly.

"I know." She met his eyes at last, though hers were tired and wary. "And I had fun. I did."

He smirked. "I know. I was there."

"Just . . . go, okay? I'm not ready for this. For you. I'm not mad. Not hurt, not wounded. I would just like to pretend this didn't happen."

James gasped in sudden, unexpected pain. "Really, Lily?" He reached for her hair, smoothing it over her head, remembering how it had looked spread out on her pillows hours before. His voice broke a little and he didn't even care. "Just Obliviate myself about it? It was . . . amazing. You, you were amazing."

And there, at last, she smiled a little. "Thank you. You weren't so bad yourself, James. But, I'm . . . not wanting a repeat just now, all right? So go. I'll, er, owl you."

True to her word, she had sent him notes. He had written to her as well. Nothing as effusive as he might have done as a schoolboy, but they were older, now, and he was fighting in a war and so was she. They met at Order of the Phoenix gatherings, went on missions together with Frank Longbottom or Sirius.

And he dared to think they might maybe be friends, at last. After years of pursuing her.

And then, one morning in March, an owl delivered a note to him just as he was about to Floo in to work.

James,

I need to see you. As soon as possible.

Lily

He immediately Apparated himself to Flourish and Blotts, where she was working whilst studying for her Mastery in Charms. Lily was waiting for him, her expression intent but pale, leaning on the counter, one hand placed lightly over her middle.

And he knew, all at once. He knew why she'd written.

Perhaps she saw that knowledge in his expression for she smiled. "Well, I never figured you were thick. So. Well spotted."

His heart soared before crashing as he stepped cautiously toward her. He glanced at her hand again. "Really?"

"Yeah. So, er, I was wondering . . ."

"Marry me. Marry me, Lily Evans." He hardly knew how he dared to ask, given their history, but he did. She smiled at him and he realized that there, there was the smile he'd been waiting his entire life to see. His stomach flipped and he knew that before, before he had only dreamed he had loved her.

But now? Now he knew he really did. "I love you," he whispered in awe. "I really do. Lily. Please. Marry me."

She stepped next to his body and ran her hands up his arms. He remembered that she was a lioness. "I will. As a matter of fact, I was kind of thinking of asking you."

He threw back his head in joyful relief before swinging her up into his arms. "You won't regret it. At least not too often. I swear it. Lily Potter. It sounds grand."

. . . .

30 September 1979

Lily cooed over their baby, nuzzling the thatch of black hair and marveling that someone so perfect, so lovable, had been conceived with a man she hadn't loved, then.

She did now, though. James was rather like a force of nature in terms of loving. He loved her with everything he had and she had opened her arms to take him all into herself. Her heart. Her life.

Their lives, really. There were three Potters, now.

"What are you writing?" she asked her husband as he put his quill away.

"Adding his name and birthdate to the family records. Harry James Potter, born 19 September 1979. I guess that means he won't be going to Hogwarts until 1991."

"Twenty years after we did," Lily supplied.

Her husband crossed the room to her and wrapped long, strong arms around her and their son. "We'll make it safe for him, Lily. I swear it."

She nodded. "We will."