Summary: James and Lily don't get married. Harry Potter is born under strange circumstances. The Boy Who Lived becomes the Boy Who Was Born. WIP.


James was always watching her. His friends often snarked whenever he would, and James could never make a fool of himself.

"Alright there, Evans? Not having any problem with your blemish potion? I 'spect you'd need it for our date Saturday!"

She'd always roll her eyes like the ceiling was her godsend, and would go whispering furiously to Tandy Johnson, the pretty black witch who bore the consequences of Lily's refusals.

"He's such a sleaze, Tandy, I can't stand the way he bloody looks at me! It's like, sort of, like he wants to eat me, or something. Like I'm a big juicy steak, and he's—"

"Goyle after famine?" Tandy had replied, and Lily had laughed.

"Yes, that exactly."

"He likes you, Lil. That's called lust." Tandy said with a knowing grin on her face. And James would always hear, from anyone:

"I could never fancy James Potter. He's a despicable, bastardly prick."

And it would hurt more than anything else she'd ever say.

Later James would lie awake, hearing Peter snore more than Remus hummed, wondering what she had meant by saying such things.

By never, did she mean not within the next month? And despicable, he was hardly despicable. Sprightly, hyper, even a little annoying, but he wasn't despicable. And bastardly was hardly fair. He could trace his ancestors to the very beginnings of his Pureblood, even farther than the Peverells. Prick was definitely not applicable, he decided. He did have a rather large one (if he did say so himself), but not so much that it was him. He was black hair and hazel eyes and muscles, too. Not just lovely prick.

James Potter was so arrogant that even in Fifth Year he knew Lily had to have wanted him. How could she not? Everyone wanted Quidditch-playing Potter.

Everyone but Evans.

-- --

Lily wasn't above letting him touch her. Poor Severus, always assuming Potter was the only force he had reckoning with. It was difficult to keep this from him, Severus just always knew, but she did.

It was more than frightening that she'd managed to let Andrew Nott get this close. He called her his little toy, his little virgin, and she let him. She just wanted to feel, wanted someone with enough experience to set her soul alight. Andrew Nott with his long fingers and smooth smiles was just the person to.

"Fucking Mudblood." He breathed as he palmed her breasts in his large, thin hands.


"But my dear—what else are you?" He'd smirk and his hand would travel lower, Lily writhing as he reached her underwear.

"Fucking Mudblood." He repeated, and moved for the buttons on his trousers.


"Fucking, Mudblood,virgin—"


-- --

Dark, dark, dark.

Red, red, red.

Soft, soft, soft.

Safe, safe, safe.




Full, full, full.

Still dark, still dark, still dark.






-- --

Snape was crying.

Dumbledore looked on dispassionately, past the tears sliding down Snape's sallow, hollow cheeks into his brain.

Intricate whorls floated around nervously before Snape looked up, and BLOCK, Dumbledore left.

"Dead—dead—dead…all my fault, killing, just killed her."

"You must fetch her for me, Snape. It is of the utmost important that you fetch her. And you also fetch James Potter."

"Potter? He's not, of consequence, haven't seen him in years—"

Dumbledore blinked and looked on.

"James is of the utmost importance."

"But why?"

"Get him. Get him, and you shall know. But do it now Severus. Do it now."

Snape looks up, and his eyes narrow.

But he will do it. Because he loves Lily.

And he will do anything this man says.

-- --

a/n—Another new story. I'm just spitting these out, aren't I? Rather confusing, but it does have a point. And short. Oh yes, short. New chapter up soon. R&R.