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warning: descriptive panic attack. derealisation. chapter summary at the end.
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Maybe it's weird that you locked yourself in the loo for thirty minutes, but you can't bring yourself to care. You need the quiet, and people are always fucking talking. You need to think.
( Because there's only a year left. The time flies by, and you don't know what to do. )
You guess it's supposed that you see this coming from a mile away– but, like all ironic things, you don't. Living a bit further in delusion, being a bit further evasive, you try to bury all your foreknowledge in a tiny box kept away from everything.
Is it worth it? Knowing that you'll die either way with the war brewing in?
Maybe you wouldn't. Maybe you would.
Different sides of the same coin– because even if you did, your existence had only one purpose. ( A baby so cursed with a lightning mark– )
You don't think you can live with that.
( You can't be a mother–)
You don't think you can do anything. Planning relentlessly? Stopping the Dark Lord? It sounds good on paper– but it's a fantasy.
Let us be real for a second– you are a mere child. Before that, you were a musician. Not a politician, a strategist, someone who actually would know what they were doing.
Sure, knowing his moves beforehand was an advantage– but who were you trying to fool? If he, the Dark Lord, even had an inkling of suspicion that you were doing something– you'd be dead. ( The ground had ears and walls always listened. )
What could you do, though?
( "We could see the world, lovely!" Honey blond hair swaying in the wind– )
You closed your eyes.
( Lily Evans the talented, Lily Evans the brave, Lily Evans the sacrifice— )
