We always used to call it Hope Hill. It rose out of the dust and dirt of
our city like an angel towering over a battlefield. Perhaps that's exactly
what our city was; a battlefield. It certainly contained enough hopeless
cases. You couldn't exactly call us a poor family - sure, we lived in this
trash city in the middle of nowhere, practically worshipping a *hill* - and
we didn't always have enough money for new clothes, and, unlike most of my
friends from nearby - they spent most of the year in expensive villages -
we only had a holiday every five years. We didn't care - and I use 'we' in
it's loosest term, here. My sister, Petunia, tended to pretend to be
something she wasn't - she told her friends, as they departed for their
yearly holidays, that our father was much too busy to take us away this
year. We never knew our father, and I think her friends knew that. It was
nice of them to humour her. I didn't have such luck. I was the kind of what-
you-see-is-what-you-get girl - always have been, always will be. I guess
that's why I was a little lacking in good friendships - little lacking here
meaning that I had one good friend.
Have you ever wished to be something you're not? I used to dwindle away so many hours wishing to have a proper family, living in one of those expensive villages that my not-so-close friends used to spend so much time in. I wished so hard that, sometimes, just for a second, I could hang between my imaginary life and my reality - and, in that second of bliss, I could almost taste the love that would be part of that life. Our mum loved us very much - she was always there. I guess it would be rude and greedy to say that she was the only one, but she was. It was obvious that our father didn't want anything to do with us. There's barely a year between me and Petunia - then he picked himself up and legged it. Never wanted the responsibility of a family. I do. I want to do something right.
I want to stand atop the highest building in England and yell 'Hello, My name is Lily Evans - my dad couldn't stand the sight of me and left when I was hardly a day old. But I just wanted you all to know that I'm not bitter about this small and inconvenient fact - although I grew up without him, extremely alone and all by his choice, I have grown into a superbly bred young woman. Indeed, I have an incredibly stable husband of my own, and a daughter,' (I always wanted a daughter) 'and we are all very happy. We love each other very much, and none of us are going to choose to find a way out.' But there's a few small flaws in that plan; one, I have *the* biggest phobia of heights, and two, I am almost seventeen (in a weeks time) and still haven't been a part of any vaguely serious relationships. Romance- wise, I guess I'm a kind of. dud. I never quite know how to react - not a good thing, trust me. Of course, I'm not saying I'm not admired - that's one of the problems. James Potter - idiot extraordinaire - has it in his head that I am the only one for him. The total salami brain has been obsessed with me for - and here I have to count on my fingers, because the sheer annoy-ity of it makes it feel like forever - six years now. Of course, even he can't only obsess over me, but I'd say that his obsession over me - as wrong as it is - has lasted the longest. I wake up each morning and mentally beg the foul moron to go get himself a life. I often tell him this - apparently he finds it attractive or something, because he just follows me like some kind of lost puppy. If I didn't despise the use of strong language, there would be a lot of things I would call him right here - however, I prefer more descriptive terms, and therefore it would be more constructive use of my time to inform you of just why I hate him.
James Potter - Marauder. Marauders - a group of immature, popular males that enjoy putting various innocent (and not-so-innocent) people through absolute hell. Hell - having your features extended to ridiculous lengths, your hair turned blue, your quill attack you mid-Potions, muddy puddles appearing from nowhere beneath your feet, and freezing to death in the winter because *some one* told the House Elves that there was going to be a heat wave. If that wasn't enough, they have a prefect in their midst, and he doesn't even try to refrain them from this consistent havoc wreaking they find so enjoyable.
I attend a not-quite-normal school - by saying this I don't mean they teach us all to be dropouts and hang around at street corners smoking and trying to look cool and adult. By saying 'I attend a not-quite-normal school' I mean, quite frankly, that I am, as was none before me in my family tree (as far as I can tell), a Witch. Right now I even have the authentic wart on the end of my nose, although, technically, it's a blackhead spot. My school is a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry; it's called 'Hogwarts'. I think they were rather drunk when they named the school. We had some foreign exchange-student visit us last year and she couldn't even pronounce it properly - as in, it didn't even have the basis of a recognisable word. But I'm not shallow enough to hold a grudge because she simply pronounced the name wrong (dork).
Amy - my childhood friend - moved, not long after I started my First Year at Hogwarts. Hogwarts, being a boarding school, kept me from giving my final farewells to dear little Amy. I've never seen her since; I've often gone to ring her and had to put the phone back down, thinking 'what would I ever say to this girl?' In all truthfulness, we are strangers now. It seems like forever since we would sit up late talking to each other through walky-talkies; we had so much to say then. Now all I can think of saying it 'aren't we having pleasant weather?' and, even now, I can imagine her reply; 'Lily, did you just call to talk about the weather? Because I was hoping you'd have more to say.' That's why we got on so well, you see; neither of us was ever afraid to speak our minds. But times have changed, and I'd never be able to tell her who I really am. 'Put down the phone, Lily; you know your path has changed course now. You can't go back.' There's so much left to say. Petunia's a Muggle (Muggle - a non-magical person), and so is my mum (Annie). I am a stand-alone person. Their world is so bland.
We always used to call it Hope Hill. It rose out of the dust and dirt of our city like an angel towering over a battlefield. Perhaps that's exactly what our city was; a battlefield. But I left that world behind. The sky above Hope Hill always used to be colourless, no matter what weather the rest of the city was experiencing. Hope Hill was neutral. I was at Hope Hill when I realised what I was.
Have you ever wished to be something you're not? I used to dwindle away so many hours wishing to have a proper family, living in one of those expensive villages that my not-so-close friends used to spend so much time in. I wished so hard that, sometimes, just for a second, I could hang between my imaginary life and my reality - and, in that second of bliss, I could almost taste the love that would be part of that life. Our mum loved us very much - she was always there. I guess it would be rude and greedy to say that she was the only one, but she was. It was obvious that our father didn't want anything to do with us. There's barely a year between me and Petunia - then he picked himself up and legged it. Never wanted the responsibility of a family. I do. I want to do something right.
I want to stand atop the highest building in England and yell 'Hello, My name is Lily Evans - my dad couldn't stand the sight of me and left when I was hardly a day old. But I just wanted you all to know that I'm not bitter about this small and inconvenient fact - although I grew up without him, extremely alone and all by his choice, I have grown into a superbly bred young woman. Indeed, I have an incredibly stable husband of my own, and a daughter,' (I always wanted a daughter) 'and we are all very happy. We love each other very much, and none of us are going to choose to find a way out.' But there's a few small flaws in that plan; one, I have *the* biggest phobia of heights, and two, I am almost seventeen (in a weeks time) and still haven't been a part of any vaguely serious relationships. Romance- wise, I guess I'm a kind of. dud. I never quite know how to react - not a good thing, trust me. Of course, I'm not saying I'm not admired - that's one of the problems. James Potter - idiot extraordinaire - has it in his head that I am the only one for him. The total salami brain has been obsessed with me for - and here I have to count on my fingers, because the sheer annoy-ity of it makes it feel like forever - six years now. Of course, even he can't only obsess over me, but I'd say that his obsession over me - as wrong as it is - has lasted the longest. I wake up each morning and mentally beg the foul moron to go get himself a life. I often tell him this - apparently he finds it attractive or something, because he just follows me like some kind of lost puppy. If I didn't despise the use of strong language, there would be a lot of things I would call him right here - however, I prefer more descriptive terms, and therefore it would be more constructive use of my time to inform you of just why I hate him.
James Potter - Marauder. Marauders - a group of immature, popular males that enjoy putting various innocent (and not-so-innocent) people through absolute hell. Hell - having your features extended to ridiculous lengths, your hair turned blue, your quill attack you mid-Potions, muddy puddles appearing from nowhere beneath your feet, and freezing to death in the winter because *some one* told the House Elves that there was going to be a heat wave. If that wasn't enough, they have a prefect in their midst, and he doesn't even try to refrain them from this consistent havoc wreaking they find so enjoyable.
I attend a not-quite-normal school - by saying this I don't mean they teach us all to be dropouts and hang around at street corners smoking and trying to look cool and adult. By saying 'I attend a not-quite-normal school' I mean, quite frankly, that I am, as was none before me in my family tree (as far as I can tell), a Witch. Right now I even have the authentic wart on the end of my nose, although, technically, it's a blackhead spot. My school is a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry; it's called 'Hogwarts'. I think they were rather drunk when they named the school. We had some foreign exchange-student visit us last year and she couldn't even pronounce it properly - as in, it didn't even have the basis of a recognisable word. But I'm not shallow enough to hold a grudge because she simply pronounced the name wrong (dork).
Amy - my childhood friend - moved, not long after I started my First Year at Hogwarts. Hogwarts, being a boarding school, kept me from giving my final farewells to dear little Amy. I've never seen her since; I've often gone to ring her and had to put the phone back down, thinking 'what would I ever say to this girl?' In all truthfulness, we are strangers now. It seems like forever since we would sit up late talking to each other through walky-talkies; we had so much to say then. Now all I can think of saying it 'aren't we having pleasant weather?' and, even now, I can imagine her reply; 'Lily, did you just call to talk about the weather? Because I was hoping you'd have more to say.' That's why we got on so well, you see; neither of us was ever afraid to speak our minds. But times have changed, and I'd never be able to tell her who I really am. 'Put down the phone, Lily; you know your path has changed course now. You can't go back.' There's so much left to say. Petunia's a Muggle (Muggle - a non-magical person), and so is my mum (Annie). I am a stand-alone person. Their world is so bland.
We always used to call it Hope Hill. It rose out of the dust and dirt of our city like an angel towering over a battlefield. Perhaps that's exactly what our city was; a battlefield. But I left that world behind. The sky above Hope Hill always used to be colourless, no matter what weather the rest of the city was experiencing. Hope Hill was neutral. I was at Hope Hill when I realised what I was.