Summary: When Lily Evans finds herself unexpectedly pregnant during World War II, her father, a reverend, sends her off to the country to marry a farmer in order to avoid social scandal.
I do not own Harry Potter nor The Magic of Ordinary Days. That said, this is based off the book The Magic of Ordinary Days by Ann Howard Creel.
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Prolouge
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It's not very often I think back to the last year of the war - the days that passed and the decisions that were made - not unless I'm out walking the dawn of a quiet morning, when the glow of the newly risen sun has captivated the lands around me into silence. On those mornings of golden perfection, when most living creatures are still asleep in their own homes, I pull on a pair of thin sandals and set out to mark my existence through the soft dirt and let the early morning know that I am still alive and loving every last moment in her dewy morning light.
Then, I remember.
My tale starts on the day of my sister's wedding, just a few months after of the day that marked the nineteenth anniversary from when I came onto earth's slippery soil.
It was June 1944. The Allied forces had been preparing to invade France and put an end to the worst war in history, while at home, some of us managed to go on with what might have been considered normal lives. On a Saturday, a beautiful summer day in the fields outside of London, my older sister Petunia was marrying a newly instated manager of a firm that made the Royal Air Force's planes, leaving me the only other Evans daughter not yet married. There were only two of us, but it was not as if I were a child. It was, in frankness, not to go unnoticed as there were plenty of Army men looking for a wife, especially not by my aunts. As we waited in the receiving line, Aunt Aileen commented on the quality catch made by my sister.
"If only you hadn't always been compared to that sister of yours," Aunt Aileen said.
Aunt Ruby added, "You might considered quite attractive by yourself."
My aunts were not cruel, you understand. They absolutely adored to talk, and whenever the opportunity presented itself they gave away the neatly wrapped packages of their mind, confident no one would want to refuse them. Although, sometimes I ached to talk back to them, Mother and Father had taught me well to respect my elders.
Instead of pursuing marriage like most girls my age, at summer's end I would go back to school at the local university and attend classes to get a master's in biology. My love for science began in primary school, when my teacher taught us our first lesson about the cycle of butterflies. As my teacher described the way the small creatures molded their tiny bodies into cocoons in order to become beautiful insects, I could very easily imagine myself a caterpillar wrapping myself up in order to become what I was meant to be. I could see the promise of wings that were beautiful on one side but made to scare predators off on the other. If I had been one, I would have stretched and flown away in order to find a new horizon to wake to. Formal study at the university seemed more like fate than choice.
Unfortunately, the war had hindered and postponed my fall plans to travel overseas as part of an academic hands-on feel of life. But because of the world that had gone astray, my plans to study the jungles of Africa with actual scientists would have yo wait.
During Tuney's wedding reception, my aunts pointed out to me that now more than ever, single girls had good odds of husband catching. From MPs in training, to airmen, to medical personnel, available soldiers filled London's streets, rallies, and bars. But not just any private would do. Those in our social circle wanted to duplicate my friend Alice's catch by latching on to at least an officer, perhaps even a doctor like my other friend Mary, or a pilot, the loftiest catch in the hierarchy of the uniform.
But I had never run my life in order to meet men or find romance. I certainly wasn't immune to those things though, either. I'd always dreamed that, maybe, someday love would come into my life in some grand fashion. It would probably happen in another country, on board a ship; most likely to unfold during a future quest to uncover the secrets of life. A side of me knew for certain that these were the dreams of an inexperienced girl, and yes, I was most certainly inexperienced with love. But it didn't bother me; every day, it didn't bother me.
Secretly I hoped to always disagree with my aunts. That way I'd known I had never fallen to the narrow-minded views of so many in their generation. But my loving mother - I could see clearly how my aunts comments hurt her. Despite the inevitable comparisons between my sister's soft blonde hair and blue eyes and my rather wild red locks and own dark green irises, Mother always pointed out my good qualities. She would say that my fingers were long and tapered, that I always sat tall in a chair, and that my teeth had come in straight and white like a row of dominoes.
"You are as sharp as a tack, you are," she'd say with a hug. "Someday you're going to go places."
As we grew up, my sister played with dollhouses and dreamed of a future beside a successful husband, whereas I became lost in the world around me. The stories and struggles of how people, plants, and animals grew and evolved around me worked their way under my skin. I was a bird, pushing my young ones to fly, or a tree when it first successfully grows fruit. As I grew into a young woman, a need to know and experience began to lead me. My entire being became part of the hunt; the desire for a fresh life seeped out of my every poor. It was Mother who understood. She helped me fill out my application for university and gather the references. She planned out on a map with all the places I ever might want to go and study.
But although many a learned woman wanted to deny it's extreme importance, Mother even admitted that still in our society, beauty was still prized above knowledge and wisdom in a woman. Despite new female accomplishments that for the first time held us in the same league as our male parts, many men wanted a beautiful image hooked on their arms. Yes, although a woman no longer needed a husband, Mother hoped that maybe I would want one someday. A husband that could appreciate me, mind and all.
Mother's honesty is always something I thought I would have. I relied on it.
When I remember Tuney's wedding day, my mind always focuses on the flowers. Before she left for her honeymoon, Petunia gave me a white lily she singled out and pulled from the arrangement before she did the bridal toss. I waxed the flower and kept it on the dark wooden top of my dresser in the months that followed. On that day, not only had the church and country club been filled with petunias, gardenias, and roses, but outside on the city streets and in the parks, the crabapple trees had been blossoming, every branch assorted with flowers of white, pink, and fuchsia so dark in shade it almost looked as though it was purple. The crabapple blossoms fell to the ground over a period of several weeks, coating the sidewalks and streets with such small, curled petals so thick that you could not see anything beneath them.
My mother had always loved those blossoms; it seemed like their abundance was a gift to her. During the wedding and reception, she held herself up full of pride, with plenty of blooming smiles and polite small talk in the face of the well-wishers of the wedding. I had heard, once long ago, that every person has to complete something of importance before they die, and maybe watching her oldest child marry had been that thing for Mother. She smiled and spoke happily with friends and members of Father's congregation throughout the long reception as if it were impolite to show that she was ill. Father had directed the event, though, and he would not have tolerated any less than perfection.
Afterward Mother slipped away over several weeks. It was like when slow streams gradually sink into the ground. My sister was busy with marriage and Father was held occupied by church duties. I left school to be with her; I was the one who eased her away to death.
Perhaps it was Mother's early death, maybe because the cancer caused her to suffer so greatly, or perhaps another absence between us caused the course of it all to change. After her death, even Father lost his normal stern control. In the few weeks after, he practically abandoned our house in one of the West End's neighborhood that Mother always kept pristine with pride. He let mail pile up on the table in the foyer and closed up other rooms to collect dust. He drowned himself in even more church work. Although we had owned two radios, Father allowed no music on the premise because the voice might sound like hers. We couldn't have flowers around again, either, even though the gladiolas were up when she passed, with their tall stems stabbing the passing sky and their petals open with silent shouts.
I've often played with the thought, even now, so many years later, why during times of pain and grief people seem to become new persons altogether. I don't think anyone would have guessed the smartest, most independent daughter would have been thrown into such havoc by her death.
In the next few months I found myself on a state of motions, thrown into a life I never dreamed for myself. I ripped away the petals of my own future and let them fly away.