A surfeit, rather than a lack, of love brings Lily Potter to stand in the fragile, costly safety of Harry's midnight-shrouded nursery, her hand over her mouth and horror in her heart. It is a heart overfilled, straining at its sinews, that brings her to look down at her innocent baby son and wonder, aghast, God help us, what were we thinking?
Love helps her turn a blind eye to their arrogance by day, but here in the gentle, delicate dark, without the distracting glare of light and color, she cannot help but see the truth written in silver-blue and black.
She wishes her love could do wonders, repair the world where it has cracked along its fault lines, but she doubts, here in this refuge someone else has bought for them, that her love is even enough to save this one tiny life. And, bent-backed over her son's cot, she cries.