The Survivors

Nothing would ever be the same.

Lily's suite in St Mungo's was huge, cold and quiet. She didn't mind. It had been five days since she'd had any peace. Her husband had finally agreed to sleep in another room, rather than the itchy improvised comforter beside Lily's hospital bed. Sometimes, James' gallantry was a little theatrical. She wouldn't have him any other way.

She slipped out of bed and shivered: the poor weather outside was permeating the walls of the room. She tiptoed over to the table and chairs by the window where her dressing gown was resting and quickly wrapped it around herself, ignoring the aches and pains in her arms and back. She looked to the window. The sound of pattering rain was pleasant, but there was an ominous undertone to the noises coming from outside. She sighed, and with a finger pulled the blinds back an inch.

Shouting, flashbulbs, quills. A ridiculous crowd of journalists from every newspaper in the wizarding world had congregated outside St Mungo's and were blocking the pavement, getting soaked by the rain and shouted at by frustrated pedestrians and released patients. All this, because they all wanted the first glimpse of the famous Potter Family. They wanted Lily's sob story. They wanted details of James' heroic fight with He Who Must Not Be Named. They wanted a picture of little Harry's scar.

"Merlin's sake!" she grumbled, shutting the blinds. At that moment, something in the room stirred. Lily immediately sought out the small person sitting in the crib at the back of the room, away from the window.

"Harry, Harry, Harry..." she cooed, picking him up. She bounced him on her hip, giggling to herself as her dozy son drifted in and out of consciousness.

"What are we going to do with you, eh?" she asked him as he blinked awake. He looked up at her and smiled lazily. She grinned back. "What a brave boy! What a strong boy!"

The door creaked open. James Potter took one look at his wife and son and his eyes began to water.

"You soppy git..." chuckled Lily, twisting Harry round so that he could see Daddy. "How was it?" she asked James. He frowned.

"I was too scared in the end. Sent a nurse instead," from under his arm, he produced a copy of The Daily Prophet. On the front was a picture of their house, smoke still rising from the gaping hole in their roof. The headline read: Dark Lord Defeated, Potters Survive. Seeing his wife's grimace, James draped the newspaper over the crib and walked over to his little family, swallowing them both in an embrace.

"You can't blame them, really," he whispered into her hair. "If it'd been anyone else, I'd want to know."

"I know. Me too," she said, pulling away and passing Harry over to James. "It's just... all the headlines, the photographers, the handshakes and the applause... they're reminders. We're never going to be allowed privacy. And poor Harry!" she looked down at her son, who was once again falling asleep in his father's arms. The unfortunate cut on his forehead had scabbed and would soon start to itch. It was a deep cut, and would mark him out as a miracle for the whole of the wizarding world to see.

"He'll never be normal..." she whispered to herself. James gave her a disapproving look.


"I mean it in a good way."

She took her son from him and placed him gently back in the cot, where he curled over and gave a little grunt of a snore. Lily smiled warmly down at him.

"Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived."

It was what all the headlines had said the day after her son had rebounded the curse straight back into Voldemort and killed him. Her son was not a murderer though. He was a saviour, a miracle and a hero.