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Lily Evans Potter was, yes, as Petunia Evans, her older sister, never tired of saying: freakish. She was a freak. No normal person would die as many times as she had died; that’s for sure. It would have bothered her later, had she survived her last death, but not even cats have nine lives. If you asked her, then, how she died, Lily would answer:
THE FIRST TIME I DIED was during my first year at Hogwarts, sometime after September 1st, 1971. Where and when, specifically, I cannot say. I wasn't aware of my situation; it actually took me a few years to notice I had died. Perhaps it is fair to say I became a ghost, though that doesn't seem much better, to be honest.
I was still present in life back then, but the Lily Evans I had been — the dear sibling of my sister, Petunia —, dead. That Lily boarded the Hogwarts Express, leaving parents and sister at London’s King's Cross Station, and never returned to the world after that. I wish so much I could know the exact moment she died; I wanted to enjoy her a little longer before she went away. It hurt to lose her, I think. Both for Tuney and for me. One good thing came from that experience: it was how I learned that death hurt.
THE SECOND TIME I DIED happened in my fifth year at Hogwarts, the stressful year of the OWLs. June 1976. I could never remember the specific date, or even the time, but I remember everything else. I used to recall the moment for hours upon hours in the early morning, lying in the bed of the room that had been mine for nearly half a decade. It had been so fast, so easy, to die... a matter of less than a full minute. And it hurt, but I also knew I could move on.
Perhaps you didn’t understand why I said knowing that death hurts was a good thing. It’s precisely because I discovered it before that my second death was faster and easier. I cannot, however, give all the credit to an experience so distant from the second. Part of the reason was the efficiency of Snape, who killed that Lily. The other was.. just her, her existence. This Lily was the last piece of the first Lily — and Severus, Sev, was the last shadow of that "Me" I let die.
I was strong because I wanted to be this Lily; I didn't want to die. Not again! I held onto this Lily Evans with everything I had, regardless of how much she wanted to go. Despite my reluctance, I had to leave her.
It was a good decision — a great one, even.
I wouldn't change it for anything. Perhaps — and I believe this firmly — it was here I realized death wasn’t the end.
THE THIRD TIME I DIED was after my graduation from Hogwarts. A lot happened in the years following the OWLs. I was no longer a student, but part of the Order of the Phoenix, and my life was far from ideal or whatever I had dreamed for my future to become.
Children are naive, and war has no place for them.
I had already buried some of those dreams, but not the one that our fight would end. I never gave up on the happy ending.
Honestly, I needed the hope of better days to live.
None of that prevented my third death, unfortunately. We had left Hogwarts perhaps two years prior, maybe less, when I found out I was pregnant.
Don't get me wrong, but it wasn't good news.
Finding out about my pregnancy didn't kill James, but it killed me. I wanted to run away, to abandon everyone—my dreams, values, everything.
I never wanted to die. I joined the Order because I believed in what we were doing. I hoped we could change the course of the war and improve the future.
I no longer wished for those, neither rage nor power. And I didn't lack courage, but I never wanted to be an Auror or a Curse-Breaker. I accepted the fight because it was something someone needed to do.
I hadn't even considered the idea of being a mother; James and I had never talked seriously about it. It wasn't the time. There is a difference between surviving and having to live... for a future I hadn't chosen.
It was a nightmare. The Lily I was did not survive, so I had to change. Something in me truly died, though, but I can't quite say what. It took a long time until I felt better about the idea of being a mother, but I did love my son.
THE FOURTH TIME I DIED was… a different “death’’. One I would never mention in normal circumstances, given its insignificance.
A year after Harry was born, already in 1981, not long after summer had passed, my nightmares started becoming reality.
Thinking about it now, perhaps they were signs — warnings from something or someone who knew better and wanted to change the future. Perhaps, if destiny exists and the universe has a sense of humor, it was a coincidence. Or else they were just jokes that, by chance, would mark my story forever.
It all began at Christmas. 1980’s was my last.
I woke up three times in the night for seven days, pursued by my nightmares. I saw countless friends and familiar faces die — sometimes burned, sometimes cursed.
Sometimes I only saw the bloody bodies, eyes glazed with something I suffered wanting never to know.
With a newborn only months old, hidden and isolated in Godric's Hollow with my husband for company, it was no mystery why I was so stressed. I could say it got better, and it would be true, but not for long. It worsened at times, too, like in March, April, and August of '81.
A week before my fifth death, I had one of those nightmares. One that left me cold and feverish, sick after experiencing more horrors in one night than in my entire life.
In my dreams, Death found me and my family.
First Petunia, her husband, and the little baby my nephew was, dressed in the clothes they wore in the Christmas card I received. They were found because Death Eaters were looking for me. It was my fault, but it didn't end there.
Petunia knew where I was and she told them about it, trying to protect her son, begging for his life.
Even so, they all died. And we were next.
James asked me to try to run and ran to the first floor, where a masked Death Eater waited for him. He didn't have a wand. I ran to help and could do nothing but watch as his body burned. Nothing happened to me then.
The dream skipped to another moment: me on the floor and Voldemort with my baby in his hands. I was hurt, a desperate will to move falling to combate the unbearable weight heavy on my heart.
I heard every sob, scream, and cry coming from Harry while the Cruciatus Curse filled the air. In the end, he threw Harry's body toward me and I simply... blacked out.
I woke up to Harry's crying, and when I went to the nursery, a calm James was rocking him. I don't know how I stopped shaking after the nightmare, but at some point, in James's embrace, I went back to sleep.
THE FIFTH TIME I DIED was the last. And because it wasn't a nightmare, it was the worst of all.
Nothing about that day could have told me I was going to die.
I was upset at spending another celebration trapped at home, and James was too. We hadn't received news from Peter, Sirius, or Remus — though the latter was suspect to Sirius, I didn't think it fair to disregard him out of the picture — for a month, and from Mrs. Bagshot for almost a week. It wasn't uncommon, but in the absence of anything else to think or do, it was making us restless.
Unfortunately for us, sneaking out was also out of the question now that Dumbledore had possession of James's Invisibility Cloak.
I spent the day trying to distract myself with some sweets and practicing duelling with James, which left an adorable Harry impressed. I believe he had much more contact with magic than a normal wizard baby, since we didn't do much around without a flick of the wand.
After getting him comfortable in his crib, we should have taken a bath and gone to rest.
My fifth death, the last, was the worst.
Nothing in the world could make me forget the feeling of panic I felt when he arrived. Voldemort made no effort to hide that he was there.
My nightmare began to play out and never stopped. James ran down the stairs; I still had Harry in my arms. I was almost paralyzed right there when I heard his body fall.
It didn't hurt. It didn't hurt to die. I would die again if I could have stopped James. I would die every time to save Harry, my baby. Nothing would have been the same if I could change it. What hurt was not being able to do anything more.
But time never existed. It was always an illusion.