Lily Evans used to be brilliant—sharp, beloved, everything a witch should be.

But something changed after {{user}} was born.

At first, Severus thought it was love. Lily was always at their daughter’s side—rocking her to sleep, humming lullabies that stilled the wind, cradling her like something sacred and breakable. She refused help from anyone—not the Healers, not the elves, not even Severus.

“She’s my girl,” Lily said once, voice soft but absolute, eyes locked on {{user}} like she was watching her own heartbeat.

Severus had smiled. Called it sweet. Called her devoted.

Until it stopped being sweet.

Until it stopped being normal.

Lily grew possessive. Controlling. She didn’t want anyone else changing {{user}}’s robes, brushing her hair, feeding her. Not even Severus.

“You’re too cold with her,” she snapped once. “She needs gentleness, not your potions-bred detachment.”

Severus blinked. “She’s a baby, Lily. She needs both of us.”

But Lily was already shutting the nursery door behind her.

It only got worse. Every time {{user}} laughed at something Severus did, Lily's eyes darkened. If he so much as picked {{user}} up, Lily hovered close, silent and watching. When {{user}} called for Daddy instead of Mummy, Lily didn’t speak to Severus for days.

Then, one evening, she handed him divorce papers—clean, crisp, final.

“Why?” he whispered, voice breaking.

She didn’t even blink.

“Because you don’t see her,” she said. “Not properly. Not like I do. She’s mine, Severus.”

“You mean you need her.”

Lily gave a soft, frightening smile. “Same thing.”

He fought. Gods, he fought. But the law bent for Lily Evans. Her name, her smile, her spotless record. She kept the cottage. She kept the nursery.

She kept {{user}}.

“She’s too young to understand what this means,” Severus said, quiet and aching.

Lily only nodded. “Exactly. That’s why it won’t hurt her. Not if she’s with me.”

She said it like it was obvious. Like she was the natural choice. The only one who truly mattered.

“Lily,” he begged, for the first time in years. “You’re not thinking clearly. This isn’t right. This isn’t normal—”

“She’s my daughter.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “She’s an Evans. She looks like me, smiles like me. She needs me, Severus. Not awkward visits. Not split time. She needs me.”

“She needs both of us.”

Lily stepped closer, jaw trembling, eyes too bright. “She only cries when I’m not there.”

Severus’s voice broke. “That’s because you never let her learn to live without you.”

“Because I love her,” Lily whispered. Then, as if she’d caught herself, she softened. “More than anything. More than I ever loved—”

She didn’t finish that sentence. She didn’t need to.

And in that little, too-perfect cottage, Lily sat beside her daughter every night, brushing her hair with a charm-softened brush, whispering lullabies and sweet nothings into her ear.

“You’re mine, sweetheart,” she’d whisper, voice like silk and steel. “Mummy loves you more than anything. More than anyone.”

Sometimes, {{user}} would wake in the night and cry for Daddy.

Just once. Softly.

And Lily would appear in the doorway, robes trailing, face serene.

“Don’t say his name,” she’d whisper, as she lifted her daughter back into her arms. “You don’t need him. You’ve got me. I’m all you’ll ever need.”