Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter franchise, nor any aspect of Neil Gaiman's Stardust. Any external fantasy elements I have twisted and altered only for use in the story.
AN: I'm in the process of revamping this story; thanks for your patience!
Warnings: Rated M for coarse language & darker themes.
Summary: When Harry vows to retrieve a fallen star in order to win the heart of his beloved, Cho, he finds himself in the company of the mercurial Draco, venturing across foreign realms with witches, royalty, and hunters alike on their tail. He did not sign up for this. Stardust AU. H/D

Your Heart, in Exchange for Mine
by nightofowls

Are we human because we gaze at the stars,
or do we gaze at them because we are human?

― Neil Gaiman, Stardust

prologue.

Little Whinging was a quaint little town.

For centuries it stood in solitude, a dash of grey amidst dappling woodland. What lay north of Little Whinging was unknown, for it was sequestered to the mainland by a single stone wall.

An unimpressive structure, weathered by centuries of rain and shine, built from huge hunks of stone and running for miles and miles, so long that none had ever traversed its entire length and discovered where its ends lay.

Little Whinging was a very normal village, and its inhabitants were very proud to say this, thank you very much.

Said inhabitants were as grey as the wall that lined its upper borders, and equally as drab. Most were snobby, uppity, and self-righteous. A few others were kind, mild-mannered, and soft in the eyes.

The folk of Little Whinging were very normal indeed.

Seldom did intruders disturb the town's sanctity. There was only one road out of the village, a sun-baked, dusty winding path, only wide enough for one traveler's load. If one traversed it southward, one would eventually end up near London, after several days' journey.

To the north was only the wall.

On the outskirts of the village was a meadow, and what lay beyond the wall was another meadow, which on rare occasion bloomed with daisies on a hotter summer's night, and a copse of dense forest.

That was it.

That was all the townsfolk had ever known, and hence was all they ever accepted. Suffice to say, ignorance was bliss.

For the very normal people of Little Whinging, with their plain ways and extraordinarily ordinary lives, were blissfully unaware of what lay beyond the wall.

So it had been for years.

Only the sparse few privy to the truth, however, knew that on the other side, beyond the green, in fact lay another realm altogether.

If you ventured through the hole in the wall, past the vast green, you would venture into the realm of Grimmauld, which is an entirely separate world unto itself.

Essentially, a world of magic.

It was a realm of fae and other creature folk and fantasies of kinds unimaginable. Shadows came to life.

In Grimmauld, people rode dragons rather than fought them.

Hypothetically, if someone were to cross the wall, through the meadow on the other side, and wade through the dense undergrowth of forest, they would find themselves atop a hill overlooking Diagon Alley, a vibrant marketplace brimming with wonders unknown to our world and filled with anything you could ever dream of.

Even so, for centuries, barely a soul knew about the existence of Grimmauld.

After all, if you told anybody about a magical world just beyond your grasp, just past the plain meadow and the even plainer trees on the other side of the wall, who would believe you?

The only way to access Grimmauld from the plain mundane world was through a gap in the wall, which was guarded day and night by a taciturn old grouch named Argus Filch, who was made mostly of wrinkles and limp, stringy brown hair.

He was a mean old soul whose unwavering persistence in standing guard by the wall, lest some naughty youngsters made to trespass, kept him posted on his rickety stool with his disgustingly mangy cat Ms. Norris and his small triangular sandwiches through rain and shine.

His determination to keep to his duty was unparalleled: keep any and all people away from the gap in the wall, at all costs.

No exceptions.

So it had been for centuries.

Until, one day, everything changed.

At the ripe age of eighteen, James Potter, son of the esteemed Lord Fleamont and Lady Euphemia Potter, was in his prime.

He was a cheery, likable young man, surrounded by his friends and family. His keen brown eyes and easy smile turned heads as he entered adulthood, and, while he had yet to settle for one particular lover, he was as happy as could be, marauding all over with his ever-faithful pals. The Marauders, they were called.

Thus far, he'd shacked up a reputable lifetime of experience idling and wreaking havoc around town. Alongside this, his recent accomplishments in Quidditch had earned him widespread recognition and secured him a relatively lucrative position on a renowned Grimmauldian team.

Needless to say, life was swell for James Potter.

Except that it wasn't, for let it be said that James Potter was a frightfully curious soul with an eye for adventure and trouble.

Lately, he'd started feeling an ache in his bones.

His parents, for all their pride, had begun pestering him to settle down. More and more often he found himself trudging home well into the eve, mud tracking on the marble steps, to twin frowns over how he had skived off yet another meeting with some lord or count's available daughter.

Nowadays, as he crept ever closer to adulthood, even his usual routines found his mind wandering off.

Much to the consternation of his closest friends, Sirius and Remus and the Potters' faithful delivery boy Peter, James Potter felt unfulfilled.

He was restless. He craved something intangible, a daydream he could never fully grasp. He couldn't settle down just yet. The mere thought of suffering through the same routine daily for the rest of his life unerringly unsettled him.

He needed more.

He yearned for adventure, a challenge, a change. For once, he itched to do something so completely unthinkably wild that his life would be forever changed, if only once.

When night fell and all was quiet, James would clamber out his window onto the roof and watch the endless sea of stars unfurl before him, and he would dream of possibility.

Often, his eyes would stray to the remote silhouette of the wall he could make out on clearer eves, and swore he could see the faintest outline of something beyond the rolling hills.

The question plagued his mind. What could possibly lie beyond Grimmauld?

What possibly, indeed?

Another world, like his own? A civilization, isolated entirely? A lost people, perhaps? The possibilities were endless.

The further he was bogged down by meddlesome daily affairs, the more the thoughts beckoned to him, so much so that eventually he spent most days with a glazed look, feverish and wild, in his eyes.

Finally, the stars above granted his wish.

By chance, as dusk fell and supper was cleared off the table one fine mid-autumn evening, James informed his mother that he was going out into town with his fellows and would not be back until late.

Without waiting for a reply, he winked cheekily, pressed a kiss to her softly perfumed cheek, and swept out of the dining hall, leaving poor Euphemia Potter blinking dazedly in his direction, alone with a table full of half-emptied porcelain dishes and an unfinished description of her and Fleamont's next choice for a prospective daughter-in-law.

"What on Earth has gotten into that boy lately?" she murmured to herself.

As worried as she was about her darling son, Euphemia knew she and Fleamont could only watch him do as he pleased. James was a fine lad, their pride and joy, and a wild spirit at heart. They could do little else.

With the tell-tale path through the woods lit by fireflies flitting idly in the grove, James paced his way towards the gap in the wall.

The further he trekked, the harder it became to conceal the exhilarated grin and the excited rushing of his blood. His shoes squelched in the mud, dampened from an earlier rain, and he quickened his pace, running and racing and whooping until the Potter estate was far out of sight through the trees, and the only sounds accompanying him were those of life in the forest.

By the time James burst through the trees and beheld the wall in plain sight, night had fallen. As he neared, he could make out the fields on the other side of the crumbling ashen stone, and the silhouette of the ever-grumpy Argus Filch blearily keeping vigil, perched on his rickety yellow stool.

The moonlight cast an ominous shadow over Filch's wrinkled features. James could make out the keeper's eyes glinting beadily at him.

"Oh," Filch groused, turning and squinting. From the corner behind him, Ms. Norris hissed. "You again, boy. Haven't seen you around in a while. Where did those ruffian friends of yours go?"

James cleared his throat, blinking innocently.

In truth, this was not the first time he had tried to venture to the other side of the wall. As children, he, Sirius, Remus, and Peter had laughingly tried to climb over countless times, much to the chagrin of Filch, who was forevermore befuddled as to why anybody would possibly want to climb to Little Whinging's side of the wall.

Though each of James' past efforts to cross was spectacularly thwarted, this time would be different.

He could feel it in his bones. It would be different.

"Filchy―" he began, wincing when Filch's eyes narrowed further.

He darted a glance at the grass on the other side.

Then, as endearingly as he could wheedle: "Filchy! Won't you be a good sport and let me cross for once?"

"Oh no, no, no," Filch grumbled, his voice scratchy and sly. "Definitely not, mister. Besides, what business would you have crossing over to Little Whinging? The only troubles I usually have are with pesky young things like you trying to cross over to your side."

"Come on, old chap. There isn't even anything over there! You know I'm a good kid."

Filch pursed his lips.

"If there's nothing over here, then how come you're so desperate to cross, eh? Mark my words, laddie. You aren't crossing, and that's final!"

James made a face very typical of a youngster denied a wish.

"My folks are trying to marry me off again! Merlin, Filch, can't you just let me through? Not even for a minute? Please? Just this once? If I turn back now, I won't ever have the chance to do this again, I know it!"

"That won't do you no good, Potter!" Filch bared his extra snaggletooth, derogatorily stabbing his index finger at James. "Learn to listen to your elders! I said no, and that's that! You won't be no exception, boy!"

But James Potter would not be denied this. Curiosity was calling to him.

He pouted, the epitome of utter defeat, and linked his hands together behind his back.

"So," he faked a jaunty whistle. "That's your final call?"

Filch nodded resolutely.

"The final word, laddie. Now you'd better scurry off home. Your parents'll be worried sick."

He grunted as he got up off his stool and shuffled over to James, shooing him away.

"Hurry off! Go, boy!"

For dramatic effect, James clutched his chest.

"Well," he admitted defeat, closing his eyes and sighing dramatically, "that does sound decisive. I suppose you're right, Filchy."

"Of course I am," the old man grumbled in irritation, huffing and settling back down on his trusty chair. He leaned back against the stone, his pipe emitting puffs of acrid smoke that cascaded heavenward. "Now go away, Potter. Or go find another rabbit hole."

"So be it!" James announced, crossing his arms and sauntering away slowly. "So long, Filch."

The old man only huffed and let his eyes fall shut, hoping to filter out any more annoyances.

James sauntered a few cautious steps away, before whipping around and making a sudden dash for the entrance. Filch's eyes popped open, his pipe smoke shooting out urgently and clouding around his face as he leaped up.

"Stop, boy!" he screeched, waving his fists, but all that could be heard was James' triumphant cry as he sprinted out of Filch's reach and through the crumbling gap in the stone wall, treading on bits of debris.

"See you, Filchy!" he whooped, dashing away ebulliently.

"Get back here, you insolent fool!" Filch raged, arms flailing as he crowded towards the exit, but to no avail.

James had already raced through the meadow and into the copse of trees on the other side of the wall, and had long since disappeared from sight.

"Oh, you've gone and done it now."

Filch's jaw jutted out as he exhaled a smoky breath. Despairingly, he retired to his post, growling at the meadow and at the trees.

What was done was done.

Perhaps if old Filch had known what would follow, he would have given chase. But alas, old age and his sense of duty constrained his movements and refused to grant him the gift of youthful agility.

Instead, Filch folded into himself. He wiped his pipe and continued smoking in his chair, scratching Ms. Norris behind the ears right where she liked it.

"Young 'uns these days. Brats, the lot of them."

What James Potter did not realize about crossing the wall was that he had just changed the course of Grimmauldian history.

Well, in a manner of speaking.

Had he known he was tampering with the fates of Little Whinging and Grimmauld both, chances are he wouldn't have dared step foot across the wall.

Then again, James Potter was a born rule-breaker.

Nothing deterred him as he set out to seek what lay beyond the unknown.

Even with the wind screaming through the trees and the daylight fading fast on his heels, his ambitions did not stir.

The chilly evening breeze nipped at his skin through his threadbare overcoat and the forest mist wrapped low around his ankles, but still he kept walking, stumbling to and fro but doggedly making his way onward.

The trees were alive, even in the dark, amidst the murky light through the grove, full of chirping and cricket screeches.

By the time late evening had fallen, he was tired, hungry, and weary. When he had finally had enough and made to turn around, however, James caught a glimpse of a warm, dancing light in his periphery.

He defiantly trekked forward, through the trees, batting through the sharp branches, until he burst out of the woods.

He found himself standing atop a light slope dotted with foliage, and below the hillock sprawled house beyond house, grey and homely, humming cozily with warm lights and the aroma of rich broth.

Beyond the village lay a single winding road, twisting and turning through the trees in the distance like an idle serpent.

As he skidded through the damp grass, James felt the rich yellows of candlelight from each house buoying his spirits.

Suddenly he was filled with a strange, unfamiliar sense of wonderment. While he was cold and wet and shivering, this bucolic, quiet sight was everything he had ever wanted.

He had done it.

He had finally reached―Little Whinging, was it? What a fascinatingly odd name that was.

The live thrumming in his veins did not cease.

Cautiously, he made his way through the grey cobbled streets, running his fingertips across the stone walls and stopping at street lamps to stare at the beating of tiny moth wings, lit golden in the shadow. There were few people milling about on the roads, each hastily walking his or her own way.

How intriguing! In Grimmauld, oftentimes people stopped to chat you up, stranger or not, and bid you a good day. These muggles, these very human humans, however, did no such thing.

The rowdy sounds of festivity caught his attention, and he turned a few corners towards the sound until he reached the village center: a rounded plaza with a mosaic of stones, most of which were crumbling from wear and old age, and a sturdy fountain in the center.

Tonight must have been a special night, James mused.

There were twinkling lights strung up around the fountainhead, which bore a worn stone lady holding a jug, and a few colorfully-striped tents and stalls selling pots and pans of delicacies, and people bustling to and fro, laughing and talking and dancing with one another. Quaint, jovial music hovered in the air, played by a few people with wooden stringed instruments.

Awestruck by the sheer simplicity and crackling air emanating from the square, James found himself jostled to and fro, nudged by passersby.

Everything was so simple. Nothing like the bizarre and disconcerting ways of Grimmauld.

These people lived without magic, and yet here they were, indulging in the simplest things and deriving the purest pleasure from it.

In all his confusion, James found himself wandering near the edge of the fountain, and peered indelicately at the water.

A number of rusted copper pennies and washed-out blue-tiled mosaics, shimmering beneath the surface. As he pondered the nature of sunken currency, he made out above the din a voice above him.

"Lost?"

James glanced up, gaze darting to and fro with a jerk of his head, and found the face that would come to haunt his dreams for the rest of his days.

A girl around his age―she looked ageless, ethereal―gazed down at him from where she was balanced, on her toes, on the fountain ledge.

James slowly inched forward as she leaned alluringly closer, watchful eyes bemused.

A wave of deep red locks cascaded over her shoulders. Her face bathed in moon and candlelight, James could make out a spattering of dainty freckles across the elegant curve of her nose as she leaned forward, drawing him into her in an endless spiral.

With the swaying of her hair and her amaranthine green eyes, James suddenly felt as if he were shrouded in a flowery mist, his senses clouded.

The world roared around him. Candle flames stopped flickering, the din of shouts and footsteps faded, and dancers and passersby slowed dramatically. Everything screeched to a blinding stop. Even the music, once so vivacious, lightened to a mere trickle.

All he could see was her.

A slow, mirthful grin spread onto the girl's face as she noticed James' dazed expression.

She cocked her head. James had to blink twice in order to stop fixating on the smooth slope of her neck.

The girl coyly placed her hands on her hips. "See something you like?"

James stifled a cough, cleared his throat, and broke into the charismatic grin he had used on multiple occasions to charm free drinks from local bar owners, and bowed low, much to the girl's amusement.

"Milady."

Gallantly, he offered his hand, and she took it, stepping down from the ledge daintily.

Both glanced at their linked fingers, and neither let go.

She looked up at him now, her gaze clear and unwavering.

"You're new here, aren't you?"

James' brows rose into his hairline.

"Was it that obvious?"

The girl threw her head back and laughed, and oh, how it sounded like bells.

"Oh, you foolish thing," she said. "Only a newcomer has eyes like yours in Little Whinging. They glow with something else entirely."

"Well, miss, why don't you show me around?"

James raised a brow, and as if he had issued a challenge, the girl raised hers right back, a smile at the corner of her lips. She glanced around, and shrugged.

"Oh, hell, why not? Marlene's left me all alone anyway."

She tugged gently at his hand, and James felt a shiver run up his spine. "Come, then."

She pulled him through the crowd towards the stalls, purveying the contents.

When James idly picked up a container filled with what looked like yellow slime, she sighed wordlessly and pried it away, replacing it with a triangular slice of brownish pastry wrapped in a gingham cloth.

"Eat," she nudged it towards him, curling his fingers around it. "I made it myself. We're all expected to help a bit with the fair."

Staring fixedly at her all the while, still partially dazed, James frowned and hesitantly bit into the slice.

His eyes widened when a crumbly sweetness exploded in his mouth and filled him with an unexpectedly cloudy, rich warmth.

"What is this?" he goggled, eyes impossibly wide.

"Treacle tart."

"By Jove, this is one of the most marvelous desserts I have ever tasted!" James exclaimed.

The girl's answering smile almost sent him hurtling off into the sky from pure joy alone.

Then a thought struck him.

"How much for it?"

"Why, don't worry about it."

Even with her quiet, soothing voice and the rush around them, James could hear her clear as day, only her.

"I insist."

He fumbled for his pockets with his free hand. The girl's lashes fluttered, cheekily, as she laid a hand on his to stay his efforts.

"A kiss from you, then," she decided with a smile, and gently tapped her cheek, turning her head so James could see her profile. "Right here."

Eyes half-lidded, James gave her a wry smirk. That he could do.

He leaned in, closing his eyes, basking in the enchanting smell of spring that followed her, when the girl turned her face.

Instead of smooth skin he was greeted with lips on his own.

Startled though he was, James broke into a blissful smile.

The kiss was something James never expected to ever experience in a lifetime. The girl reminded him of wildberries, of moonlight strewn in the fields, of the phantasmagorical color between dreaming and waking.

His hand unconsciously reached to tuck a strand of her silky red hair behind her ear. It felt like they had escaped to a boundless world of their own.

As his hands ran up her arms, he felt like he had finally come home.

It felt right.

It was over far too quickly. As they broke apart, James snapped out of his stupor.

"Your name?" he asked breathlessly.

He could feel her laugh like the trickle of a brook brush lightly over his nose.

"Lily. My name is Lily."

"James," he replied with a choked whisper, still reeling from the kiss.

Lily giggled and pecked him on the nose before pulling away. She ran her hand down his arm, fingertips ghosting daintily across his skin, and entwined their fingers.

"Come with me, James," she murmured so only he could hear. Dazed, he could only follow, grinning and starry-eyed and heart beating so fast he thought it would explode from his chest. "There are too many people here, after all."

As James made to follow her, he suddenly paused, hesitating.

Lily turned to eye him with an impish grin, reaching her hand out expectantly.

"Well, are you coming?"

Qualms forgotten, James returned her look with a mischievous smirk of his own, enveloped her hand in his, and followed her without looking back.

They ran from the plaza, laughing like children, her silken dress brushing between their ankles in the breeze.

As music from the market filtered through the still air, and the cobblestoned path sloped upwards unevenly, they found themselves alone on the streets.

Together they stood in the middle of the road, and without a second thought James took her into his arms and kissed her with all he was worth, uncaring that they were in the open.

"James," Lily murmured, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, her eyes bright.

For all his nightly wanderings, James realized all the stars in the sky could ever compare to the glint of her eyes.

"James, follow me."

And so it was that under the watchful gaze of the stars above, Lily took him by the hand once more, and the two immersed themselves in the throes of youthful ardor for but a single, blissful night.

Before dawn the next morning, James wearily trudged his way through the forest, hardened in his resolve not to look back upon the wondrous world he had left behind.

The rest of the world was still asleep as he sighed and returned through the hole in the wall, back to the now dreadfully plain Grimmauld.

His heart was hollow, and it was all for the better.

Awed as he was, he decided to forget that that had ever happened, to return to the mundane life he had known before trespassing into Little Whinging.

After returning home, James finally gave in to his parents' wishes in finding a suitable match, causing quite a stir among his inner circle. He took to his responsibilities and business ventures, but with more subdued than before.

And if, he lay awake recounting the aroma of heather and hair the color of autumn at night, or daydreamed before a Quidditch match about freckles like constellations and jade green eyes, he told no one.

He was dead set on returning to normal, and that was that.

All was well.

Of course, the stars above did not condone this.

For three months James suffered from a loss of both rest and appetite and the dreamy, lackadaisical manner commonly associated with lovesickness.

His parents and friends were all at a loss, for the once vivacious James Potter had been reduced to but a shadow of his former self seemingly overnight.

Even poor James himself, stumbling through his days in heady nostalgia of that one fateful night, found he could not think of anything else.

Enough was enough. He yearned to see Lily again, if only once more.

Once more, on a chilly winter's eve, James stole into his father's office as his parents were resting.

Bundled in an ornate chest was a nondescript cloak with golden engravings and inscriptions weaving like vines over its rich, velvety red surface. It was an Invisibility Cloak, a precious heirloom passed down supposedly from the Potter line's founding forefather.

He slung it on and made off out the window. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of this, half-mad with longing as he had been.

Shrouded by the folds of the cloak, James trekked through the familiar paths of dead leaves and through the gap in the wall without so much a hitch. Ms. Norris hissed at his passing halfway, causing Filch to uncannily stare in his direction as he ran.

Before long, he found himself scaling that picturesque backyard fence, wading into bushels of rosemary and lavender―planted for good luck―and collecting a handful of tiny blue pebbles.

His heart tripped over itself as it beat faster, and faster, and faster, and he tossed one straight at the upstairs window.

A rustle of the curtains, and then there she was.

James' heart rose into his throat at her gasp.

Cockily, he grinned at her. Inside, however, he was trembling with excitement.

Not a moment later did the back door open. Lily's silhouette emerged, haloed in the lamplight. She ran to him.

James caught her around the waist and pulled her close, breathing in the scent of flowers and odd serendipitous things that trailed in her wake, and realized that he never wanted to be parted from her ever again.

This he told her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"I'm unbelievably in love with you," he began, but Lily put a hand to his mouth to stop him.

"You're late. I'm to be married soon, to the butcher's boy down the street."

James felt his heart drop. He kissed her palm, nuzzled their noses together, and she did not stop him.

"A butcher's boy? Do you love him?"

Even her sigh was lovely.

"My parents thought it best, considering. Can't you tell, James?"

She gently wrapped her hands around his and placed them over her stomach. Beneath his palm he felt a stirring so startling he almost jolted away.

No, it was impossible. Could it be?

"You're―?" he said disbelievingly, voice cracking, barely a whisper.

Lily's cloudy eyes and watery laugh were the only indicator. She was with child.

"And it's―" A nod.

"You're certain?" Another nod.

Finally Lily spoke.

"I believe―" Her voice was tiny. James felt weak. "It's a boy."

James could only gape in wonder at his hands over hers, over the bump so small he hadn't noticed it prior. His heart swelled at the thought of another life belonging purely to her and himself, stirring and budding within that minuscule space.

"My son," he breathed out, breath coming out in puffs in the cold air and catching in his throat, eyes stinging.

He unconsciously broke into an earsplitting grin and reached a hand up to cup Lily's cheek, and suddenly an idea, wild beyond relief, grasped at him. He gazed at her.

"Run away with me."

"James―"

"Lily, please."

He dropped to his knees and clasped her hands.

"Darling, hear me out. I fell in love with you the moment I met you. I've spent the past three months sleepless because I feared I'd never see you again."

He gently pressed his forehead to the bump. Around them, the crisp autumn breeze grazed the grasses.

"And now this? Isn't this a sign that the two of us are destined to be together?"

Lily's eyes welled with unshed tears.

"James," she whispered again, voice so quiet and broken he could barely hear her above the sounds of night.

Upon seeing her distraught expression, he hurriedly stood, uncaring of the muck on his knees, and pulled her so close he could feel their heartbeats as one, accelerating together.

"I'll take care of you."

Ever so lightly, he kissed her, voice low and wistful.

"I'll dedicate the rest of my life to making you happy, if only it means we'll never be parted again, I promise you."

Perhaps it was the longing that had settled in Lily's bones since that thrilling night she met the strange young man James Potter. Perhaps it was her inborn restlessness.

Perhaps it was the earnestness in his eyes.

Whatever it was, something of his words struck her deep down. Against all rhyme and reason, she knew that James meant it, that he wasn't a listless fluke like all the Little Whinging folk.

That night, Lily made the brashest decision of her life.

Whispering diabolically, the two sneaked into her bedroom. As James waited patiently by the open window, fiddling with the gossamer curtains, Lily threw her favorite outfits and books in a raggedy, lopsided case, and delicately penned a farewell note to her parents, speaking of how sorry she was to leave them, that she loved them beyond compare, that she was safe and they needn't worry about her.

Once her regrets were laid out in ink, James linked their hands together, and together they ran, giggling like children under the safety of the Invisibility Cloak, hastily past Filch and the gap in the wall and back to Grimmauld.

Morning in Little Whinging came with a few surprises.

Instead of finding Lily in her fluttering yellow sundress, burying her fingers in the newly-dampened loam of the yard's rosemary soil, the elderly Evans awoke to find their beloved daughter's room empty and windows splayed wide open, and a crisp note with her looping hand upon it.

While their hearts cracked, they could not help but feel a shred of relief. They knew instinctively their beloved Lily was finally pursuing adventure, something they knew she'd been seeking all her life ever since they noticed how she stood out in sharp contrast to the other dull children of Little Whinging.

They trusted her, wistfully wishing her the best―as is all parents can do when their children leave the nest―and prayed that wherever she was, she was happy.

For the many days following, James and Lily were inseparable.

The elder Potters were absolutely taken with Lily's vivacious, uncommonly kind nature, and found her to be a charming―albeit unusual―match for James, who often fawned over her like a lovesick puppy.

Together they spent the approaching winter wrapped around one another by the fire, taking spirited walks around town, lying together in the snow, wreaking Yuletide havoc with James' friends―all of whom adored the newest addition to their group―and discovering one another.

As the days passed, James discovered Lily had the most unusual penchant for small magics, something never before expected beyond Grimmauld.

Where she walked, the grass instantly turned vernal. Whenever she passed through in town, the lilac bushes perked up like sunflowers in the sunlight. Whenever she baked, breads and pastries seemed to spring to life under her careful coaxing, like they had imbued within them the rich aroma of first love, causing an uproar among townspeople.

Whenever she kissed James, he fell further in love with her.

Lily, to her utmost delight, found that James always unfailingly made her laugh, held her close in a way that she felt she could never be lonely ever again, and was at once talented and endearing and completely, insanely lovable.

Finally, on a fine day with the softest breezes wafting in the air and the earliest of spring flowers sprouting from cracked cobblestones in the streets, James took Lily by the hand and proposed to her atop the uppermost branches of a nearby tree, where they laughed together, hidden from the prying gazes of passersby.

He gently clasped her hand in his, resting his chin on her shoulder, and whispered the fateful question.

"Lily, my love, will you marry me?"

Her eyes shone even more, and he resisted the urge to kiss her as she smirked at him, one of her hands lovingly resting on her rounded stomach, the other brushing the hair out of his eyes.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Under the watchful eyes of only their closest friends and family, the two were married in secret.

That sunny afternoon in the forest meadow, Lily's bright red hair was woven with apple flowers that bloomed even more in her braids than they did in the soil, and her dress swept to her ankles in comforting white lace, and James' suit was a brilliant white, his hair just as untamed and wild as ever.

They kissed beneath the setting sun, dancing and drinking wine bubbled from Grimmauld's finest vineyards, and furtively whispered amongst one another of joyous things to come as the sun vanished beyond the trees.

By the week's end, the happy newlyweds were gone from the old Potter residence.

For a while the young Potters lived in unending bliss, free to do and love as they pleased away from watchful eyes.

They had picnics in the front garden whenever they felt like it, with Lily's lilacs and lavenders in full bloom around them, and stayed up all night.

On slow days they took walks together in town, where passersby would marvel at how the lovely Potter missus, with her hair as fine and red as flame, seemed to glow when she walked―from the pregnancy or some other preternatural matter, they weren't certain. Nighttime found them wandering the rustling forest paths or dining with Remus and Sirius and Peter, laughing and joking until the crack of dawn.

But mostly, when the roads were quiet and folks were at home, Lily and James found themselves lying together in bed, intertwined, breathing as one as they listened to the tiny heartbeat of their child.

And not a moment too soon.

On a day like any other at summer's close, there was a sudden clamor in the Potter household. James had been out in town with Sirius and Remus, buying ingredients to sate Lily's desire to pick up baking again, when suddenly they ran into Peter on the road.

The lumpy-looking lad was sweating, as he breathlessly informed the trio that the baby was coming, the baby was coming!

The three had raced back to the house, where they could hear through the open windows the old nursemaid and midwife's cries amidst the chaos.

When James raced into the bedroom, where Lily lay with her hair fanned out on the pillow and her breaths coming in quick, he knelt by her side and kissed her brow, and grasped her hand tightly within his in both mind-numbing anxiety and excited terror.

That evening, as moths fluttered by the lone lamp outside and cats prowled in the grove, people swore they saw a sheen of blinding light emerge from the topmost window of the young Potters' cottage, followed by a keening wail.

From then on it was the talk of the town.

The Potters had given birth to an adorable little rascal with rosy round cheeks, his mother's large, vibrant green eyes, and his father's unruly black hair.

They named him Harry.

When James first held the tiny little creature in his arms, the baby had cried out shrilly in delight upon seeing him and reached out a chubby hand to grab at his glasses. The young father's heart had swelled in adoration at the sight.

He fell in love for the second time in his life.

The following year or so, the household was a whirlwind.

Lily and James steadied one another as they tripped and stumbled through the perils of parenthood, as Harry laughed and cried and made messes.

Family and friends came and went often, and soon the doors were open so frequently that Lily took to simply leaving it open so guests could welcome themselves in directly. James found himself buying fresh produce so frequently he could amble to the market, blindfolded, on muscle memory alone.

Everybody especially adored Harry.

The child was a little miracle. He had a knack for crawling into nooks and crannies and stirring up trouble, and an eye for the daily magics that occurred beyond the house. Some, when they passed the family by on the street, swore they noticed a strangely insightful gleam in the baby's eyes, only to laugh it off. After all, what could an infant possibly know?

Yet he was special. He was a child raised in the most loving household, beloved by all those who came across him and all those who had yet to meet him. Everything was blissful, and everybody was happy.

But it was not to last.

As Harry's first birthday approached, times began changing.

Rumors of attacks and strange activity in the dark forests of the country began circulating. People who had previously been fine began suddenly acting strange. People suddenly disappeared overnight. Homes and pets were abandoned without notice.

From all around, news of inexplicable murders and terrors began cropping up; news of monsters had people quivering in their beds and boarding up their doors at night. Soon, as dusk settled every day, Diagon was oddly bereft of life.

Something unknown had begun plaguing people and creatures alike.

And save for the thinnest of whispers in dark corners and alleyways, nobody knew what.

James too began acting oddly. There was a frantic haze to his every move. When he walked, he did so with haste; when he talked, he did so with caution creeping into his every word.

At night, when they huddled together, he would pull Lily close and hold her like he was to lose her the next morning.

She worried.

Finally, a short while after Harry's first birthday―a hushed event with little fanfare, and only their friends for company―James finally revealed the source of his worries.

First it had been a rushed visit to his parents' residence, where they had told him troubling news.

Purebloods―Grimmauldian folk with magic flowing full through their veins―Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had once kept in close contact with had abruptly stopped correspondence in the past few weeks. They had overheard talk of children being snatched in the night by an unknown force.

What little they knew, they explained, they had heard straight from the horse's mouth. Perhaps it would be best if they delayed visiting for a while.

Then it had been an increasing number of missives.

They had begun receiving, from a contact of import, letters increasingly fraught with warning. As time passed, they grew more desperate, urging the couple to go into hiding for both their and baby Harry's safety, that it was possible the child would be targeted.

Finally, on the final night of August, the final missive came in a nondescript piece of torn parchment, with letters scrawled in dried blood.

The Dark Lord is coming. Run.

Unwilling to risk Harry's safety, James and Lily bid their loved ones a tender farewell and fled to the nondescript village of Godric's Hollow, far west and removed from the fearful flurry that was the Diagon district.

There they lay, deep in wait in a cottage of two stories and cobblestone. Waiting in tentative happiness, they placed a spell that shielded them from the rest of the world save for from the faithful Peter, who continued bringing them news from the outside world from time to time.

Temporarily, all was well.

As long as they were together, they were fine.

Until one night, everything changed.

When the clock struck eleven on Hallow's Eve, James and Lily were huddled together over Harry's cot as he lay sleeping, murmuring with their heads bent lovingly together, as if the world wasn't falling apart.

Had they not been preoccupied, they might have heard the telltale creaking of the gate as it was pried open, or the sound of heavy footsteps crunching on the flowers above the crisp autumn breeze.

Unfortunately for the Potters, only when they heard the baying of wolves that they finally realized something was amiss, for wolves on the open rural plain mean only ill fortune.

The room fell silent.

The ominous scratching on the front door sent shivers up their spines. The single panicked look Lily and James exchanged held miles of emotions they knew they had no time to express.

"They're here," Lily whispered hopelessly, voice tremulous.

Tenderly she reached down into the cot and carded her fingers through baby Harry's wispy hair.

"How did they find us?"

James, leaning against the railing, gazed at her longingly.

How he wished they had all the time in the world, when in reality there was a chance he would not last the night.

As he took in the sight of his wife and his son for what he feared was the last time, he felt a fierce, protective determination burgeon within him.

He had vowed once upon a time, when everything was uncolored and untroubled by the plagues of their world, he would take care of them, till his last dying breath.

Outside, the scratching and howling grew nearer. He could hear the monsters descending, circling.

For a moment, his heart stopped, for he could feel the charms around the house dissipate.

The next, there came a deafening explosion that shook the house.

They were flung across the room. Loose cobble in the wall rained down. Debris began collected around their ankles. The lights in the nursery flickered, and went out.

Instantly, footfalls and the clicking of claws began pounding through the house, scrabbling up the stairs and through the landing in a thumping, howling frenzy. The floors trembled.

Lily grabbed Harry, who whimpered in terror. Outside the rain began pelting down through the cracks, drenching everything.

Hastily, James clambered up from where he had fallen and slammed the nursery door shut, and shoved the cot, now slick from the rain, in front of the frame in a meager attempt to stall the intruders. Smoke began billowing in thick plumes through the doorway and the windows. Thunder roared through the clouds above them, and everything was pitch black, save for the occasional flashes of lightning now striking overhead.

Suddenly, there came a crash, and something large barreled against the nursery door.

Lily screamed, and cradled Harry closer. As lightning once again briefly lit up the room, James stumbled over to where she was crouched in the corner.

Grief billowed within him at the thought of what he was to do next.

He took her face in his rain-slicked hands, and gazed at her, engraving her image in the back of his heart, refusing to look away even as rainwater trickled into his eyes and the malodorous fumes from the explosion stung his nose.

"Lily, take Harry and run!" he yelled over the pouring rain. "I'll hold him off―"

She looked at him like he was mad.

"I'm not leaving without you!"

Above the din they could both make out the insistent crashing of something outside, cracking the frame and gradually carving out gouges on the door. The thumping at the door grew more erratic, heavier. The cot was sliding away.

They were running out of time.

"You must! It's him! Go! Please!"

Frantically he kissed her, before pushing himself up and readjusting his glasses. Lily grabbed at his sleeve as he stood, distraught.

"James, please―"

The door rattled once more, the frame cracking, and he knew there was no more time to spare.

James fell into a crouch beside her, and hugged her, hard and fast. His voice, a hoarse rasp from the smoke, was the only thing she could hear above the din as he pulled a nondescript cloak from where it lay innocuously on the edge of the crib and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"Lily, my love, please do this. If not for me, then for Harry."

He could not tell if the tracks down her cheeks were from the storm or tears as she kissed him urgently, with all the desperation that comes with tragedy.

"Return to England, my heart. The wall's close by, you'll be safe there."

"Don't make me do this," she sobbed.

Nestled between them, baby Harry obliviously reached out and pawed at his glasses, and James felt tears well in his eyes, knowing he would never see them again.

He would never get to see his parents, or Sirius and Remus, or any of his loved ones. He would never hold Lily in his arms again, or kiss her like they had the rest of their lives ahead of them.

He would never get to raise Harry, or watch him grow.

This, though, he could do.

"I'll find you, I promise. I promised, didn't I? I will always find you."

"James―"

He pulled her up with all the gentleness of a lover, before opening the window, and urged Lily out onto the shingled sill.

"Now run!"

"James!"

He slammed the window shut with a resigned smile as the door flew off its hinges, sending a shower of splinters throughout the room, and the cot hurtled against the wall with a tremendous bang.

Lily screamed, banging against the glass with amidst the storm, as she watched flames suddenly engulf the room and lick their way up the walls, and a gust of black robes and grey fur sweep into the room. James was flung against the wall, bleeding―

The curtain rod tore from its spot above the window and fell, obscuring her view of the room.

Only the maelstrom above bore witness to Lily's heartbreak as she threw her head back and wailed.

There she was, barely dangling from the ledge of a soiled window with a baby in her arms, lying in the ruin of her life as pillars of flame and columns of rain began to tear her house apart.

However, the grief, so intense it made her dizzy and unable to breathe, could not last.

Inside, she heard a cruel voice, grating like claws on a chalkboard, chilling her to the core.

"The girl can't have gotten far. Find her, find the child, and bring it to me. Alive."

Lily ran.

She slid off the roof, landing awkwardly, and jumped through the gaping wounds in the backyard fence, where the fires had already consumed her dahlias and had her lilacs drooping, and ran towards the forest.

Behind her, she could hear the creatures bursting through the back door and following heatedly on her tail. With each step, she could hear the bone-chilling howls of wolves and lupes bounding closer and closer.

She could feel her breaths coming in ragged gasps, like the air around her was compressed, stabbing like tiny blades into her throat and lungs. Her legs trembled with every other step. Mud caked her bare feet, and branches scratched at her arms and cheeks as she protectively hunched over the whimpering baby in her arms.

Night had fallen. There was not a light in the forest, and the trails were so swollen with mud and rainwater that there was no clear path she could take.

Instead, she simply ran.

She could almost feel the rancid, wet hot breaths snapping at her heels, and deadly talons grazing against her calf, but she would not stop. She could not stop.

She fled for what felt like a decade, each step harder and more painful than the last. Even as she twisted her ankle in the mud and brambles caught in her hair and arms, Lily ran.

She had always been a wild, free spirit, bounding across the roads and fields back in Little Whinging, untamed, but even with death in her wake and memories of running long ago, she could not go further.

Winded, with blistering feet and bleeding limbs and the last thing her husband had given her dangling haphazardly around her shoulders, Lily finally collapsed amidst the trees. She did not know for how long she had run, only that each step was slowly killing her, and that she would not make it.

The wolves were closing in.

With a cry, she lay sprawled in the mud, bleeding sluggishly, with Harry still securely wrapped in her grip, snuffling.

She was going to die.

Lily looked up at the stars, a sob tearing through her. She had failed.

She did not even know where she was going, or what she was doing, and everything she had ever known had been destroyed in the matter of hours. She would never see James again―nor Harry, nor Sirius and Remus, nor the dear lovely Potter elders, and not even her family, for that matter.

She was going to die.

As she curled her fingers in the mud, listening to the sounds of paws spraying through the dirt behind and around her in exhilarated, dogged pursuit, on the verge of surrendering to the elements, she noticed a faint light wavering in the distance.

Later, Lily would not know what compelled her to struggle up once more.

Perhaps she thought it was the slimmest possibility of a better ending, or the tiniest embers of hope.

But at the sight of the boundless stars and a light beyond the trees, a boldness she had never before known surged within her.

She tugged at a nearby tree trunk to pull herself up and out of the mud. Even as the freezing wet leaves plastered themselves to her skirt and thorns snagged on her toes, she forged forward agonizingly slowly against the icy wind, towards the source of the glow.

After what seemed like an eternity, Lily, half numbed from the biting breeze, burst from the trees into a field, whereupon lay a sight she instantly found familiar.

Here, once upon a time, she had lain in a field of heather underneath a blanket of stars with James, that very night the infant in her arms was conceived.

She had reached the wall.

If only she could cross over, perhaps not all was lost―

With a tremendous rush, the pack of wolves erupted from the foliage with snarls and snapping teeth, and she felt her heart hammer in her throat as they surrounded her, tearing at her dress. They circled around her, each larger and more grotesque than the next, some barely wolf and more human.

There was no escape.

Snuffling against her chest, Harry cried, and in horror Lily saw a number of ears prick up and tongues slobber at the sound.

"Hand over the child, red," one howled.

The others chorused in agreement, ghoulishly jeering and chiming in.

"No harm for you if you give up the child, red!"

"Fresh! Fresh!"

The baby whimpered, and Lily pulled him closer, tighter.

Anger and fear simmered in her veins. She was so close; this could not possibly be it, this could not possibly be how things ended―

From the other side of the gap Filch poked his head through, having heard the commotion.

In his hands he carried a pitchfork, which he wielded with surprising steadiness, and his eyes glinted knowingly.

"What's going on?" he barked.

All he saw was a crowd of mangy canines screeching and making a racket while everybody was supposed to be asleep.

All movement stopped, and the wolves parted somewhat in alarm, but he did not care.

"Get out of here, all of you! Scram!"

A single creature broke from the pack.

He was larger than life, the size of a wagon. As he stepped closer he rose up on his heels so he walked, chillingly, like a human.

With each step, his features began to morph, becoming more man-like. His snout shortened to an ugly, lumpy nose, and his fangs shortened, save for his incisors, to misshapen yellow blades, and his jaw squared. He was bleeding profusely from a gash torn over one eye.

One moment, he was all werewolf. The next, he was almost man, barely human.

"Run along now, little man," he growled, voice a hair-raising rumble. The other wolves snarled, slobbering, and prowled forward. "This ain't none of your business."

As the wolf-man strode over towards Filch, Lily reached up and swiftly unraveled the cloak hanging from her arm. It cascaded softly towards the ground, wrapping around her form, and suddenly, it was as if she had never been there at all.

In the distraction, not a soul noticed.

"You've better business than to hang around here," Filch sneered, undeterred, repulsed by the man's hideous physique and breath.

"You'd rather that business involve you, would you now?"

"You can come for me all you want. Cross over, I dare you. We've plenty of people willing to pay for pelts these days."

He indicated the stones of the wall.

"I have a weapon, an empty belly, and a taste for mongrel meat. What do you say?"

For a moment the wolf-man leered in bitter silence, the expression on his face growing more hateful by the second.

"This ain't over, old coot," he snarled at Filch, backing away warily from the stones, as if they were cursed.

The old man shrugged, and planted the hilt of the pitchfork on the ground proudly.

"You're welcome back anytime. I've faced much worse than you, after all. Now begone!"

The wolf-man turned back, only to find the others huddled around nothing. Each looked more clueless and resentful as the next.

Fury clouded his face, and for a second his head seemed to shift back to that of a wolf's. His eye bulged. From the socket, blood began seeping through anew as he roared furiously.

"Where are they? Where are they?"

What none of them noticed was the slight figure of Lily Potter, hidden discreetly under the Invisibility Cloak, sneaking her way across the field and through the gap in the wall.

Sides splitting, she half ran, half tumbled down the hill slopes towards the only remaining place she could call home. Something in her broke as she saw the warm, yellow glow of serene streetlamps bathing the calm streets of Little Whinging in light.

She had done it. But at what cost?

That night, as the local flower vendor Marlene―an old friend who occasionally visited the elder Evanses up in the cottage across the street for old times' sake―opened the door on her way to head home after delivering pie and fresh flowers, she was greeted with a crisp autumn breeze and the sight of a ragged figure sprawled out on the front step.

Eyes wide, she crouched down and lifted the person's chin up slightly, only to come face to face with a bruised and battered Lily Potter, wrapped in only a dull cloak and holding a bundle tightly to her chest, ages of grief and regrets buried in her reddened eyes.

For a second, they were both frozen, before Marlene crouched down and pulled her close. Lily broke down into a fresh bout of tears and collapsed against Marlene's shoulder.

A sob welled up in Marlene's throat, soured by how long they hadn't seen one another. They clung to each other.

"God, darling, you're freezing," she muttered.

She did not remark on how Lily was wearing no shoes, how she had multiple cuts and bruises on her arms and legs, how she was holding a now wailing baby.

These secrets Lily would keep for herself until she was ready. And she likely would never be.

Marlene wrapped an arm around her friend's shoulder, ushered her in, and closed the door.

High above in the sky, the stars winked, for they knew this was the beginning of a tale unprecedented.

One that would change the fates of both Little Whinging and Grimmauld forevermore.

final note: Don't forget to leave a review if you enjoyed it! Editing and writing thrive off constructive criticism.