Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas.

She did not beg.

She did not plead.

Years later in the story told by people who wanted to turn them into nothing more than pretty hero's for a children's fairy tale, she would be beside the cot, begging on her knees, pleading with tears rolling down her soft cheeks at the feet of a dark and merciless man.

That was not my Lilly.

I knew she was frightened, I could see it in her eyes but over riding the primal fear of a mother about to loose a child was the rage. It was beautiful, it was terrible to see. It over came the fear, the grief - she knew already that James was dead - even the worst, guilt and regret.

"Harry." She whispered it as soon as she was told what the Dark Lord was coming for. Her voice croaky and low, the rage building up quicker than either of us would have admitted. She'd always been strong, since long before Hogwarts, I believe it was the rage that I saw then, rage against the unfairness in the world, against injustice and simply against stupid, little-minded people.

Her face didn't contort as I had expected it too. She was too busy doing lightening fast calculations - the kind that had got her the very best of grades back at Hogwarts. There were no weapons in that child's room, nothing pointed with an edge, nothing even heavy, nothing she could use. So she flew forward instead, hands outstretched and clawed, a look of terrible determination on her face backed by that rage.

She did scream.

"HARRY!"

It was not of fear.

It was a battle cry.

I can understand why Harry fainted in front of the dementors, hearing that cry. Even now it makes the hairs on my arms raise up and that's just thinking about it. Imagine what it was like to be there.

The Dark Lords wand was not already in his hand. He rarely did his own dirty work, like most gangsters and terrorists throughout history. He was surrounded by Death Eaters, his protective pack, I'm sad to say I was one of them, but she went straight for him. It frightened him so much that he fumbled in his robes, backing up several steps before finding it.

"Avada Kedavra." The flash of green leaves an imprint, not much unlike the flash on a muggle camera and for a moment, Lillys figure was burned onto the inside of my eyes, forever a lioness protecting her cub. She fell, still reaching for him. She was remarkable.

Voldemort, much as he tried to spread the propaganda of a fearsome over-Lord subduing a frightened woman, never forgot it. It shook him to the core and added a real sense of desperation to his hunting of Harry James Potter. Maybe he though perhaps if he killed the boy, the memory of the screaming warrior woman would be erased? Who knows... I believe he was afraid of her for the rest of his miserable life, however. Of that I have no doubt.

Why am I telling you this? Because I admire her. Because I am tired of having her reduced to some footnote in the story when she...she gave everything, she fought for everything, she didn't passively stand there only to be shot down in fear and hate, she actively tried to change things. But mostly, I am telling you because the memory of her battle cry would demand nothing less.

Lilly Evans is a hero.

Her son deserves to know the truth

N.B - In memory of my mom, who died fighting.