But even if she could convince herself they were safe, that James was safe, that her baby was safe - she couldn't not know that everyone else was in danger, too. James" best friend Sirius was in a great deal more danger than they were, actually, and that fact, she couldn't even pretend not to know, not with all the acting skills in the world. Not when James paced and cursed and threw things. Not when he scribbled Transfiguration notes all over the newspaper - all battle spells - and then scribbled it all out and set it aflame. Not when he hovered over that mirror of his, thrumming with tension, waiting to hear a voice that was sharp and sardonic and infinitely reassuring ("Chill your shit, Prongs, I'm not dead yet"), never quite relaxing even to sleep. She could pretend they were safe here, but she could not pretend that a war did not rage outside their little cottage. It was impossible; Lily knew.