PROTECTED?

He was trapped inside his own body. The terror was too supreme, too hot, and his mind screamed for release, but there was nothing he could do. He was impotent, helpless… he knew something was wrong, horribly wrong. Something terrible was about to happen. But he couldn't move, couldn't even breathe, over the horror pulsing in his veins.

He was coming for them. His boy, his baby… and her. Oh Lord, he couldn't afford to lose Lily. How was he supposed to live without his life?

He looked on, screaming mutely in his frenzied head, as the black-clad figure appeared. His heart beat a tattoo against his rib-cage. But he still couldn't move. The chalky white face was revealed as the hood flew back, the red eyes flashing with menace and a horrible kind of anticipatory glee.

The monster walked to the crib, pointed his wand, and spoke the words that would alter the poor spectator's world forever. "Avavda Kedavra."

James sat up in bed, shivering and sweating uncontrollably. The scream of horror never left him, as he put his own fist in his mouth to muffle the sound. He peered at his wife, his Lily, and felt his breath return. She was sleeping peacefully, safe in his bed. Her heavy, dark red hair was falling over that siren face as she slept on her side, those startling green eyes closed peacefully.

Harry.

James scrambled out of bed, hating himself for being so irrationally troubled by a dream, and telling himself that he would have known if his son were in any trouble. They were protected, and protected well.

But oh Merlin, he just had to with his own two eyes.

He stumbled a little, overly anxious, and almost fell into Harry's crib. The bright colours of the nursery looked horrific in the night-light, shadowy sentinels ready to strike out at a moment's command.

But his son was sleeping peacefully on his stomach, blissfully aware of his loving father's dark thoughts. The little imp was smiling in his sleep, content and safe. He was safe. The book James had read to him that night was still sprawled on the floor, and his favourite stuff toy—the big shaggy black dog—was gracing the door of the kid bathroom Harry loved.

James turned to go, feeling foolish now that his heartbeat was steady again.

"Fafa?"

He turned to see his son standing in the crib, holding the bars for support, shaking back the shock of untidy jet-black hair to better see his father through them.

"Go to sleep, Harry. Papa was just being silly," James told him as he moved back to pat Harry to sleep. But his son had other ideas.

"Fafa, bubba!"

James groaned. At three in the bleeding morning? Harry had a wicked sense of humour. But he was too twisted inside to argue. He sat down on the rocking chair with Harry in his arms. Then he blew a series of emerald green bubbles from the tip of his wand, chuckling as Harry played with them. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in his small fist...

They were safe, protected. For now.