Maternal Instinct

"The one with the power to vanquish the- Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..."

From the moment I heard those words, I couldn't stop thinking about them. Dumbledore had told James and me about the prophecy, as well as Frank and Alice Longbottom. Alice and I were the only members of the Order who were expecting a baby in July, and we were the only ones who had escaped from Voldemort three times.

I didn't want to believe it.

At night I'd lie awake in bed and think about it. I never believed in Divination – I always thought it was a very woolly discipline and not worth wasting time on – but when someone makes a prophecy like this about your own flesh and blood, you start wondering if it isn't as worthless a subject as you've always thought? So I'd lie in bed, wide awake, and think about how we could get around this.

When we first learned about the prophecy, my first thought was to wonder whether it would be better for my baby to even be born at all. What would be worse for him – never to be born, or to be born with the chance of being forced to murder or be murdered? Had we found out about the prophecy earlier, I know what I would have done. I've heard about the places in the farthest corners of Knockturn Alley where the wealthy pureblood girls go when they find themselves in a bit of a jam.

I would have done it. To protect him from this fate, I would have done it.

But the day Dumbledore sat the four of us – Alice, Frank, James, and I – down at Alice's kitchen table and told us about the prophecy was the day I'd felt Harry kick for the first time. That morning I had woken up early, and didn't realise why until I felt an unfamiliar flutter in my belly.

It was like he was waving hello, from inside me.

"Hi, baby," I whispered, pressing my hand over the spot where I'd felt him move. A moment later, I felt it again. It was a sensation I still can't put into words. James was still asleep beside me, and I took his hand, splaying his fingers across my stomach in just the spot where I'd felt the baby move. It took James a minute to wake up, then; when he did, and realised what he felt against his hand, he sat straight up, grinning like an idiot.

There was a real, live person in there. A person that we'd created together, a brand new little person unlike any other in the world. Ours. And that was the first time I began to feel like someone's mother.

So, that night when we learned about the prophecy, I considered Knockturn Alley for about five seconds and never thought of it again. This new knowledge didn't change the fact that James and I wanted this baby very much, and part of the responsibility that came with being a parent would be the responsibility of guiding him to grow up under the shadow of this prophecy and not to let it weigh it down or change him.

It was hard to keep that mindset as the months wore on and July grew closer. I never said this out loud, but there were many times I hoped to myself that if the prophecy really was true, that it meant Frank and Alice's baby and not ours. It was a horrible thought, and the guilt I felt for thinking it grew right along with my belly. I didn't want this for my child. I didn't want it for anyone's child, but if it had to be, then I would rather it be someone else's – anyone else's but mine. James never said it either, but sometimes I would catch him looking at me with an expression on his face that made me think he could be feeling the same way.

There came a point in late June when I realised that it would be my child and not Alice's. I don't know how I knew... but I knew. It was a sort of fatalistic feeling I had, I suppose. And it made me question whether or not I had made the right decision. Should I have made the decision to continue this pregnancy, knowing what I knew? My mind kept going back to the question of if it was better for this baby to be born with the prophecy hanging over him or never to be born at all. Part of me felt selfish for wanting this baby at all costs. What sort of life would he have, having this tainting his life? Sometimes I wondered what it would be like if he grew up to be the one that would have the power to defeat Voldemort – and live to tell about it. He would be a hero, the saviour of the wizarding world. What if he did succeed, and it wasn't as horrible as I imagined? It could only be a good thing, right?

As my 28 July due date grew closer, I began to dread it. There were some days I didn't want to get out of bed, especially near the end. I would stay in bed curled up on my side, my arms protectively wrapped around my belly, long after James was up and about. Here inside of me, I could keep this baby safe from everything, including Voldemort. Outside of me, I wouldn't be able to protect him anymore. At some point I began talking to the baby regularly, trying to convince him to stay put until the first of August. If he wasn't born in July, the prophecy couldn't apply to him. I read lots of books about how to speed up and encourage labour, and I tried to do exactly the opposite of everything they said. Long walks were supposed to get baby in position and encourage muscles to get ready for labour, so I laid around a lot and didn't get up unless it was absolutely necessary, even though it was terribly uncomfortable. Certain herbs and foods were said to help bring on labour, and so I avoided them like the plague; but if a potions book or herbal suggested a particular ingredient known to help prevent early labour, I took it in quantities that were probably quite unhealthy. Sex was often mentioned as something that would bring on labour, and so I would barely let James touch me even though I needed him more then than I ever had before.

James knew what I was doing, of course. I don't think he had any faith that it would work, but he didn't try to discourage me. He brought Sirius and Remus and Peter around more often than usual. If James wasn't here, one of them usually was, and it was a sort of unspoken pact between them that I was to be spoiled as much as possible. There wasn't much else to do but sit and wait until the baby decided to make his appearance, whenever that would be, and that waiting was the hardest thing I'd ever done.

My due date came and went. It fell on the full moon, which made me nervous as the midwife we'd chosen had told us that lots of babies were born around the full moon, but all seemed calm and quiet inside and the baby seemed content to hang around a little longer. The house was quiet, as Sirius and Peter were away with Remus for the night, and so it was just the two of us.

"You mustn't get your hopes up, Lily," said James that night as we lay in bed. It was rare that he called me Lily, and he only did so when he was extremely serious or troubled. It was too hot for blankets or even pyjamas, and James didn't curl up to me as was his usual habit because of the heat, so it was easy for me to pretend that I was asleep and hadn't heard his comment. It was the first time James had acknowledged aloud that what I was doing was likely useless. I didn't want to discuss it with him, because a discussion would be an acknowledgement that so many things about my life and the life I carried were now out of my control.

The evening of 29 July, Frank Longbottom sent word through Peter that Alice had gone into labour. To my horror, I felt a sense of relief that it was her and not me – perhaps my child would be able to escape the prophecy, if hers had not? I knew it was wrong of me to feel that way, but I couldn't help it. My maternal instinct had gone into overdrive and could not be stopped. I didn't have much time to dwell on it though, because I began having contractions before midnight.

I tried to ignore them at first. They were light, brief, and far apart, and I tried to tell myself that they weren't real contractions, but were probably false ones caused by a combination of dehydration from the heat and lack of rest. I drank water, lay down with my feet up, and waited for them to go away. By the time we learned that Alice had given birth early on Wednesday morning, 30 July to a healthy eight-pound three-ounce boy they'd decided to name Neville, my contractions had gone away again.

I spent a lot of time lying around that day half-asleep, rubbing my belly and counting the hours left until July would be safely over and I could stop dreading my baby's birth. The baby was restless and active, and my belly was constantly pummelled from the inside by tiny knees and elbows. Sometimes he pressed so hard I could briefly see the outline of a hand or foot against my belly before it receded. I wanted so badly to be able to touch those tiny hands for real and hold my baby in my arms, and that desire conflicted violently with the hope that he would hold out just a little longer and make it into the safe haven of August. Our house felt like a prison. James hovered, Sirius made bad jokes that no one laughed at besides himself, Remus made endless pots of tea that no one drank besides me, and Peter made dinner that no one felt like eating more than a few bites of even though it was delicious. Finally Sirius declared he was going outside to smoke on the back step, and I made him take James with him, because if James hovered over me for one more minute, wringing his hands and pushing his glasses up on his nose I thought I would go mad. I went upstairs to try to sleep.

Around three in the morning on the last day of July, I woke up with what felt like a stomach-ache. James had not come up to bed. Blaming Peter's cooking, I went to the loo, which didn't help my stomach at all, and then downstairs. Remus and Peter were asleep on the floor, but James and Sirius were still awake, sitting on the sofa talking in low voices.

"I can't take the waiting, Padfoot," said James. "If he'll just hang in there one more day..."

"I dunno much about sprogs, Prongs, but if yours is as stubborn as you and Evans are, he might just set up camp in there forever, you know?" Sirius's tone was light, but his face was as grave as I'd ever seen it.

"I ought to be able to do something, you know? I'm his father, for Merlin's sake." James leaned over and put his head on his knees, and the futility of his voice instead of his normal cocky arrogance broke my heart. The spirit I loved about him seemed to be sucked right out of him by worry and fear. I leaned against the wall, listening as he continued to talk. "Evans is brilliant – she's probably read every book there is about babies. Wizard books and Muggle books both. She probably knows more than the midwife does about how to birth a baby, as many books as she's read. She's going to be a brilliant mum. She ought to be able to be a brilliant mum to a normal kid, not one that might have to be a killer. And there isn't really anything I can do to help her."

I didn't hear what Sirius said in reply, because just then my belly tightened, hard, with what felt like an enormous tug from my lower spine down through my pelvis. It didn't hurt, exactly, but the intensity of it made me gasp out loud, and Sirius and James turned to look, seeing me there for the first time.

"Evans?" James sprang to his feet, with Sirius on his heels.

I couldn't answer him until the feeling had subsided; I didn't have enough breath to speak. James and Sirius stared at me with wide eyes.

"I think that may have been a contraction," I said softly when it passed, staring down at my belly. I didn't want it to be true – it was too early, still July and still within the prophecy.

"Should I call for the midwife?" James asked.

"Not yet," I said. My mind was whirling with everything I'd read – a labouring mother should remain as upright as possible, and walking will increase the productivity of the contractions. "I think I'll go upstairs and lie down for a bit," I said. "Just in case."

"Evans..." James began, but I ignored him and headed upstairs. Halfway up the stairs, another contraction hit, this one even stronger than the first and far more uncomfortable, and there was no mistaking that these contractions were the real thing.

I wanted to cry. Not yet! This should have been a joyous time, one we could all celebrate instead of whispering and tiptoeing around like someone had received a death sentence. I should have been looking forward to my baby's birth instead of mourning it.

James helped me upstairs. He stripped the bed and covered it with old blankets, and I lay down with a sick feeling in my heart. Nothing I had done had made any difference; we were all bound up in a prophecy we hadn't asked to be a part of and there was no way to escape it. Sirius must have gone to summon the midwife, Helen, as she showed up a short while later.

"You should be up and about, dearie, not lying about like an invalid," she said, making a disapproving clucking noise that made her seem very much like a fat mother hen. She had no idea about the prophecy, of course, and I wasn't about to tell her. I ignored her clucking and remained curled up on my side, arms around my swollen stomach.

Part of me knew that I was only making things worse by resisting. Lying down was extremely uncomfortable during or between contractions, and it was far more difficult to breathe as well. But the more desperate part of my mind desperately clung to the belief that if we could drag this out just a little longer, then our baby would be free of the prophecy. I was willing to put up with twenty hours of labour if it would just keep him safe. I didn't even give up on this slim hope when my water broke, making the contractions downright painful without that cushion of amniotic fluid. Everything I'd learned about breathing through the contractions went completely out the window in my misery.

James knelt on the bed beside me, smoothing back my hair and speaking softly so that Helen wouldn't hear. "Evans, you've got to pull yourself together now. You've let this need to beat the prophecy take you over, and it's all you've been able to think about. Love, this baby is more than a prediction, he's a part of us – you've forgotten that, somehow. Don't you want to be able to hold our baby, finally?"

Another harsh contraction took me then, so hard that I felt my pelvis would crack with the force of it, and it was a while before I could answer him. "I do," I whispered. "But it's not safe for him, not yet. I can't do it."

"We'll make it safe, I promise," said James. "You and I and our friends, and the Order, we'll make it safe. We'll do whatever we have to do to make it safe."

I wanted to believe him then, but I couldn't. And I couldn't make him see that I was too scared for our baby to let him be born. All I could think of was ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... I had to do whatever I could to keep this prophecy from applying to our baby.

By noon I was so tired and the contractions were so strong I could barely remember why I was fighting it in the first place. The contractions had changed, now, becoming harder and stronger and totally irresistible. My body was telling me it wanted the baby out, but my mind kept fighting it in spite of myself. I felt the strongest urge to push, to bear down with each contraction now, and no matter how much I didn't want to do it, I had to.

I couldn't keep my baby inside me any longer. It was time to let go and let him live, even if that life would always be touched with death.

It hurt to push. It hurt more not to push, so I went with it. Even if I had still wanted to resist, to try to stop it, I couldn't have. I had never felt so strong and yet so helpless in my entire life – strong for the massive amount of work my body was doing, all on its own, and helpless for the fact that I had no control over it whatsoever.

"That's it, there you go," said Helen, who had reached between my thighs to check the baby's progress. "He's right there, all you need is a few more good pushes and he'll be out. Come on now, sit up a bit more, that's it..."

"Come on, Evans," said James, rubbing my back. "You can do this, I promise."

On the next contraction, I took a deep breath and pushed as hard as I possibly could. It hurt so much that I thought my body would split in two, but I couldn't stop pushing. I was filled with the burning need to have him out, and so I kept pushing, even past the point I thought I couldn't and then – with a hot, slippery slide that felt like all of my insides were coming out along with him, my baby was born.

"He's here," said James, his voice cracking with tears, and he took him from Helen and handed him to me. He was still covered in smears of blood and amniotic fluid, and he was bright red and squalling fiercely, but he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, from his spiky black hair to his pudgy, flailing fists. He was alive, he was totally perfect, and he was ours.

And all I could do was cry. I cried because I was so happy to finally be able to hold him, and I cried because all my efforts at beating the prophecy had been worthless. I felt like I had failed him even before he'd been born, and I swore to him then that I would do whatever I had to do to make it a good life for him, no matter what any prophecy or fortune had to say.

I would keep him safe.