how large the teeth

Chapter 14: xiv.

Godric's Hollow is a village in the West Country, history marking it for greatness. This is where Godric Gryffindor was born. This is where the Peverells' bones lie. It is an old place, ancient foundations settled deep, and at its center is a great stone. The ward stone. Just outside of the village proper, a quaint place full of cottages, is the Exalt Grounds, where Meditats have been held for decades, on every full moon, on every new one too.

There is never a day that one cannot hear the laughter of children. There is never a night where the scent of fresh bread is in the air. The pub is always busy and the Sunday markets are always merry.

The word is still out here and it is all because Albus Dumbledore

(Lily Evans-Potter, long may Chaos reign)

made it so.

The Order of the Phoenix guards their pridelands, takes to heart the message of courage and bravery and Gryffindor, even if none of them have ever seen Hogwarts, even if Hogwarts had escaped their touch just by the tiniest sliver of years. The Order plays their roles, led by their general, their lieutenant, Alastor Moody, their third, Minerva McGonagall. Everyone is so eager to do what they must.

Everyone is biting for a fight, feral for it.

Everyone was.

Because a boy had been born.

A strange, enchanting boy. A boy with song and power and green eyes the color of the Killing Curse. A boy burdened by a Curse and struck with a Blessing. This boy would be their savior, they said. This boy would be their deliverer.

This boy would mean their freedom.

(This boy only need become a man was what she thought.

That's all she'd asked of Magick—let my boy grow to be a man. Let him live.)

This boy meant a performance. The performance of war.

And everyone, young and old, would play their parts. Because they believe in it all. Because they believe in the purity and innate goodness of this ancient place in the West Country, seat of the Order, marked for greatness.

Lily Evans-Potter believes what she's always believed, what she's always taught her son. This place is a paradise, deep in the center of hell.

She is only a few weeks late.

She is only nineteen and she's a few weeks late.

Lily is never late. She's been regular since she first got her period, when she was thirteen years old and bled all over herself in the middle of brewing a pain-staking, time-sensitive Potion. She hadn't even noticed. She'd thought the cramps were just body stiffness from standing for six hours. Severus had to point it out. Eileen had helped her clean up and explained.

But, Lily Evans is only nineteen and she's a few weeks late.

It's Yule. She's late.

She's pregnant.

Lily looks across the fire and finds him.

James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter are joking around, making more noise than they're worth, laughing and grinning. In the firelight, James' eyes are bright like topaz, and it's almost like he feels her staring, mid-joke. He looks up, a wildness in his gaze that has always matched her own. He doesn't soften the jagged edges of his smile for her, and she'd never ask him to do it either.

"Chicken?"

Lily looks up at the skinny young man. Severus quirks an eyebrow as he looks down at her. It's her favorite kind of chicken too, seasoned to perfection. Molly Weasley is a lot of things, but one can't call her a bad cook. Lily reaches up for the chicken and pokes at it.