One meandering ray of moonlight causes Lily to behave in a distinctly un-Lilyish fashion. Bugger.

She knows that the final storm that’s been looming on the horizon for three years now is about to break loose. And she’s standing in the Room of Requirement, wondering who they’re going to lose.

That’s it; it was settled. His friends were all mental, and there was absolutely no hope for them, so he was just going to check them into St. Mungo’s right then and there. Because, seriously? No hope. Not a single one.

The routine isn’t hard. By now, she’s perfected it to the point that she no longer has to even think about her actions; her tasks are accomplished without any real mental input on her part.

As a war brews and Lily completes her final year at Hogwarts, she starts noticing differences in herself and...certain other people who shall, for the sake of her sanity, remain nameless. A story of friendship, love, and holding on to what you've got.

During the winter, he can almost forget.

"D'you ever wonder," he asked suddenly as she turned away, "what it would be like if you weren't you and I wasn't me and we weren't caught up in all of this?"

"Let us dance in the sun, wearing wild flowers in our hair." -Susan Polis Shutz

And she thinks that maybe she's crying for Ron, but she's also crying for herself and her world and all the lives so needlessly torn apart; for the way things were and will never be again and for the little boy that Harry used to be she misses him so desperately, because they used to be hers, him and Ron .

He realizes, as he sinks to the ground beside her, that he is probably the first person to ever see her utterly desperate and pleading and broken. Dimly, he hopes he'll be the last.

She's always so tired nowadays.

She's probably the only Weasley in the history of ever to be born without the kisses of the warm brown sun-spots on her skin, and somehow she always feels naked at a family reunion.

…Because he knows that's why she gets so angry; why she acts the way she does. Why when the rest of them are making amends and saying farewell and coming to peace, she doesn't bother with what she calls needless goodbyes.

This was where she spent her childhood: here, among the soft colors and sweet scents and friends she crafted for herself from the ivory gentleness of fairy tales and climactic adventures.

He didn’t even know if she realized she did it. But it was the recognition, perhaps, that brightened things. Silver shines when you polish it, after all.

They sat there, each lost to their own thoughts, each wanting to speak but knowing it would be at once too much and not nearly enough.

When she figured out who had been doing this, she was going to hex them into painful oblivion. And it was quite possible that she would enjoy it immensely.

Perhaps it’s the fact that she’s just so different. He’s never met anyone like her before, and he doubts anyone else at Hogwarts has either.

Sirius marvels, like so many others, over just how closely Harry Potter's eyes resemble his mothers'.

She makes cup after cup, hoping the steaming liquid will calm her, clear her head, warm her, as it’s always been able to in the past. And cup after cup, she can’t bring herself to lift the vessel to her lips and pour the scalding liquid down her throat.