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Summary
Lily would lose herself in thought experiments, or drag her friends into the fray with questions about extreme hypothetical situations. She was always grateful they indulged her. She spent so long theorizing about what it means to pick a certain path. About what fate and prophecy then mean in the context of everything else.
She never came to a finite conclusion. Not until her life became the extreme hypothetical.
Not until her son—her baby—became the subject of prophecy.
After that, she decided that the concept of fate and destiny and prophecy was bullshit.
Complete and utter fucking bullshit.
OR
Lily isn’t going to let Voldemort make her son an orphan. Fuck. That.