In the few milliseconds between the Resurrection Stone falling from Harry's fingers and hitting the forest floor, Lily and James Potter pondered.

How had they possibly created this wonderful, strong, brave boy? A boy who had been through so much, yet was still standing and continuing to fight?

He'd killed a Basilisk at twelve. He'd won the Triwizard Tournament at fourteen. The Potters' smiles were sad, loving, yet still unable to comprehend that they, a completely normal witch and wizard, had produced the last living hope to defeat the Darkest wizard humanity had ever seen.

How had they produced such a hero?

The pride that swelled within them was overwhelming. Lily wanted to cry, run to her warm, living son and envelop him in a hug. But she couldn't feel him, she couldn't touch him, and that broke her heart. Fate was cruel - cruel to tear her from her baby after one measly year, cruel to take away any chance of being a mother. She'd had to watch him grow up without being there for him - it ached. Seeing him facing Quirrell, running from that Basilisk, protecting Sirius from Dementors, duelling Voldemort in the graveyard, being possessed by the Dark Lord, watching Dumbledore fall from the Astronomy Tower and screaming in anguish - all Lily wanted was to be able to help, to clutch her son, to run her hands through his hair comfortingly and whisper into his ear, to whip out a wand and prevent her son from being killed.

James felt the same way. With a pang shooting through his chest, he remembered all the plans that had never been; to take Harry to his first Quidditch match, to buy him a state-of-the-art broom and teach him to fly as soon as he could run, to have duelling matches and shape his son into the best wizard Hogwarts had ever seen… but, of course, Harry hadn't needed him in those respects. He was by far the most skilled magical being that had ever lived. Who else could conjure a Patronus at thirteen years of age? A memory of the dazzling silver stag slid into his vision - James smiled. Harry's Patronus was a stag. A stag. His heart swelled with pride.

Seeing the hooded, snakelike form of Lord Voldemort chase after his son multiple times made James burn. He would have traded anything to materialise into real flesh and bone, to become an obstacle to the Dark Lord like he had all those years before, to stand alongside the teenager and protect him, to blast into oblivion those men and women who were so determined to harm his little boy. His son. His Harry. Every time, he had urged Harry to cast spells faster, to dodge faster, to run faster - to run for his life like he never had before, to escape just once more from Voldemort's clutches.

Each time, Lily and James had watched with gritted teeth, watching the only remnant of themselves they'd left behind, hoping he'd stay protected, safe, skillful.

And now he was going to die. They watched as their only child, Harry Potter, started the journey towards Voldemort, greeting death with open arms. Alone.

The Resurrection Stone hit the forest floor. Lily and James Potter disappeared.