The human heart is a curious thing; an industrial function, the mere machine of a man that can hold such a vivid pallet of emotion, this wet, pulsing metaphysical flesh. Perhaps love, that cruel sweet temptress, is what struck a young girl blind in her musings one hot summer afternoon amongst the parched grass of her family home in late June, 1977.

At the tender age of seventeen, caught within the mysterious passage that defines woman from child, Lily Evans lay splayed with reaching fingers and toes amid gold-tinged buttercups and dipped-velvet freesias swinging in a violent tango with the hot musk breeze. Perhaps it was not love, though, that clawed her chest so tight, that prised those honey-dew tears from emerald eyes; no, it was the unwelcome, hag-like aunt of curious love, the eternal misery – that vengeful curse, grief.

Lily was alone in her dancing garden, discarded amongst the soft velvet petals and corduroy stems that perhaps at a second glance were more akin to twisting snake weeds bound to sharp needle-prick shrubs. This garden was unkempt, abandoned, if you will, a mere memory of the voluptuous blooms and peppermint blades that once adorned the homely ten-by-ten patch of land Lily called home.

And it was mere memories that kept her here now; had it been days, or just hours, that she'd lay reaching in the dry yellow grass? In truth, she had no real conception of time, nor did she particularly care to uphold it. It was grief that held her here, grief that swelled up like a tidal wave and engulfed, choking and drowning and burning –

It was her mother, you see, her father too, that she'd found, blackened with rust and grit in the charcoal heap that once bore strong her family home. It is difficult to comprehend, that icy trickle down the rigid spine, the falter in the beat of the horror-drenched heart. The culprit was clear before she's even set foot inside the blackened porch, her childhood wellies a hot plastic stench beneath her stocking-clad toes. Death Eaters had struck far and wide these past few months, and she'd been a fool to even consider herself an unlikely target. It dawned on her that for her own foolish mistake, her dear charcoal family had payed the price.

It had begun to rain. What an event, a damp, wet shower in this tropical heat! What is it they say, that cool, lemon-drop rain can wash away the past, cleanse and freshen those tender wounds of time; Lily felt no such conviction. Time passed and the rain soaked her, weaving through her hair and her clothes, growing heavier and heavier until her skin felt bloated, stretched, like a water-soaked corpse beneath her funeral pyre home.

She thought she heard voices from time to time. The iridescent twinkling of a child's innocent laugh, the rustling and grumbling as her father prepared tobacco for his pipe, even the stern satin lilt of her mother's voice as she asked please, Petunia, don't steal Lily's doll . . .

Another voice joined the fray, and another; Lily wondered if this was her own version of the afterlife, this tortuous reliving of voices she would never hear again in an endless salsa, sashaying and twisting beyond her reaching grasp for an eternity of misery she now felt certain she deserved –

"Sirius, we have to move her, she's freezing -"

Ah, the panic in this familiar tone, she had heard it once before, one full moon when she'd taken a stroll, danced and skipped down to the lake's edge, unaware that a more fearsome beast crept and stalked behind her –

"Pick her up – slowly, she might be hurt -"

"Jesus Christ, she's fucking freezing – get a blanket, Sirius, anything -"

Hands, wide and warm, pull around her middle, snake around her back and her head lolls, limp like a newborn child, and she shudders –

"She's going to be sick, get her upright -"

A push, wicked turmoil in the belly, a heave, and then glorious, splendid relief –

"Jesus Christ -" a pause, a warm hand brushing slick, wet hair from her forehead. "Bring the bike around Sirius; we need to get her to hospital."

A muttered affirmation, then silence. Lily wonders if it's her own heart pounding a jackhammer rhythm or his, or both, a frantic, pulsing beat in unison. She struggles to open her eyes, but they are heavy, an itching sandbag facial, and she strains, but the dead weight settles. Her mouth then, instead, parched lips stitching together sounds; sounds melding into words, a fractured sentence –

"James -"

Her parchment tongue withers and the flow of words is corked like ink from a well.

Frantic hands, hot breath on her cheek –

"Lily? Are you – Can you hear me?"

A momentary pause, and the dead weight lifts and her dry bleached eyes crack open to twilight, small stems of rain still filtering through the silver-lined clouds.

"James," Try again, take a breath, liquid words through sandpaper lips. "What -"

"Shhh Lils, it's okay," She's suspended, cradled and for the first time she feels safe, secure in this warm, worn embrace. "We've got you now."