To the casual reader the following account may seem like the typical memories of a teenage girl, and as such, of little consequence to us Unspeakables. However, as this year's crop of trainees, it is important that you realise first and foremost that the work we do here is about idetail/i. If you were a casual reader, you would not have been given this book, nor find yourself with this job, would you?
No, look closer, for here you will see the very first attack using the Imperio Delirium modification. The Department of Mysteries retains these memories as crucial evidence of this attack, and of the effects of such a curse.
As you might remember, this was the curse responsible for the insanity plea of Mary Macdonald in 1980, and allowed Hogwarts Castle to become vulnerable to the group know as 'Death Eaters' in early 1978. This curse, one of the most dangerous weapons of twentieth century magic, is one of the deepest pits of Unspeakable research. If you choose, you may consider a place on our team, working to identify the symptoms of Imperio Delirium and compiling the methods to create a counter-curse or potion.
Read on, trainees, but be warned: this tale is not for the faint of heart.
1. Labelled as 'Kairos', from the memories of Lily Evans, August 1st, 1977.
I've long had a fascination with languages. To those that haven't studied the intricacies of languages other than their native tongue, it might seem that they know all possible words, and that there can't possibly be any other mysteries to be formed from the letters of the alphabet. Yet to a scholar of language - this is not the case. There's a word in Greek, for instance, that sums up a manner that in English takes a lengthy sentence to explain.
The one, special moment when everything aligns, that opportune moment, is summed up quite simply and beautiful in a world that just slips off the tongue: kairos.
"Lily."
There was a storm in his eyes and a storm in the sky, too. I couldn't tell if the flash in his eyes was simply in my imagination, or if there was truly lightening in the sky, electrifying our moment. Whatever it was, I didn't question it, because this was ikairos/i. I didn't care for the details when lightening thrummed through my bones. It was a perfect storm, and for two people who had never succeeded to create harmony, this was the only way in which we could communicate. This, this chaos, was our kairos.
"I have something-"
He'd been saying something important, I was sure of it. The whole world hinged on it, and I teetered forward, my tongue pressing against my teeth just as my wet hair pressed against my cheeks. Yet my anticipation was for naught - as he was interrupted.
This time, the flash was not lightening. It was green, dark and hideous and downright evil, and we both knew what it meant. The screams that followed shortly awakened our ears to the problem, and it became quite, quite clear that our kairos of chaos was over. There were no delusions now; this was no longer our chaos - but real, true chaos, coloured with real, true panic.
1. 'Kairos', part b.
"There's this crucial balance, you see, that keeps the planes up in the air-"
Marlene had spent all of July in Greece, and now we all had to hear about it. Naturally, Marlene herself had found great excitement in the aeroplanes, and instead of sharing tales about actual sightseeing (something I'd been looking forward to after a month of damn near incarceration), she was doing her best to explain just how gravity worked.
Pointless, really.
"It's called...er, grave...no, gravity, that's it!"
"You're not listening, are you, Lily?" The soft whisper of another of the group, Mary, caught my attention. Mary, with her pale blonde hair and paler grey eyes and palest pasty skin, was generally thought of as someone with very little colour in her. At first glance, that certainly seemed the case. Everything from her experience to her manner of speaking screamed mundane. Yet, Mary had one very important characteristic that made her instantly likeable to me, and that was her blood status.
"No," I smiled, "and I take it you're not, either?" One carrot-coloured brow arched as I asked, just like I'd practiced, and I was rewarded with a swift nod from my friend.
Of course, that wasn't to say that the only reason I befriended Mary was to have another Muggle-born at my side. No, I stayed her friend because, beneath the pale exterior, she had many characteristics similar to my own. It was simply that, initially, as a red-headed Muggle-born completely out of her depth, it had been easier to cling to the other, completely out of her depth girl, than try and make new friends.
That was six years ago, however, and as the group around us showed, we'd both overcome that particular fear.
"I wish she'd talk about Greece," I continued on, bending my head closer to Mary's considerably lower one, "I mean, she did go there to see the sights after all." Yet apparently, the Muggle architecture of a plane was far more fascinating to Marlene, a girl who jumped from thrill to thrill like others of us would change shoes. She would no doubt find flying in a plane a thrill, something I couldn't begin to understand, even though I'd only been up in the air once.
"How has your summer been, Lily?"
With that simple question from Mary, I launched into a tale of bitter petunias, wilted lilies and blossoming magnolias. In other words, my sister had been absolutely wretched after her relationship crumbled (to my pleasure), I found myself rather dreary with little contact with anyone from Hogwarts, due to the loss of my owl, and my mother delighted in having two miserable daughters at home to hover over. All in all, it had been quite a typical summer so I had little to entertain Mary with. The recently turned seventeen year old didn't seem to mind, however, instead smiling at all the appropriate places and wincing at the inappropriate ones, neither one of us paying any attention to the larger group we'd turned our backs on.
That was usually how it was at Hogwarts, too. Large group conversations tended to let some people shine, and leave others to melt into the dull, flat background, any glimmer they'd once possessed far eclipsed by the shining stars at the centre. Mary, pale as she was, faded into the background by nature. I, by choice.
"Oh, Lily Flower, if thou aren't as brilliant as the summer sun!"
And that was why I chose to blend into the background. Thomas Keen, generally known as the Captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team and the friendliest Beater ever to have existed, was also a Shakespeare aficionado. At least, that was what he liked to think. He had a habit of thinking that if he threw the word 'thou' in a sentence, it instantly became a Shakespearian masterpiece. It was shudder-worthy, and shudder I did.
"Thomas," I returned, passing him a nod as Mary looked on curiously, "How are you?"
While it would usually pay to be polite, Thomas was apparently the exception. The boy took off at my question, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. Why he thought that was a good idea was beyond me. Thomas and I had been Charms partners for two years running, and while last year he'd solemnly informed me he wasn't continuing the subject, he was apparently quite keen on continuing our acquaintance.
"I am fine, Lily, I am fine. How are you, darling flower of mine? I've been reading some more of those books you mentioned, you see, and I was wondering if you had a minute to discuss..."
It was typical Thomas Keen drivel. With a flick of my head, I cast a glare over his arm to Mary, who only raised a brow in response. Thomas, everyone knew, was the overly attached type. Once someone settled into his affections, it was awfully hard to get out of it. However, what on earth I had done to earn a place there in the first place was beyond me.
He wasn't the only one that had tried to win my affections with literature, of course. Yet, truth be told, I did think he was the only isincere/i one. There was always the chance that he'd been put up to it, dared to draw the aloof Lily Evans in only to drop her fast. That was an idea that part of me clung to and worried over, and that sceptical part of me was also the one in control.
Maybe I was paranoid, maybe I was scared.
Or hell, maybe I was a coward, masquerading as a Gryffindor. I always did prefer to run from situations like this rather than admitting out loud that I had no interest.
The fact remained, however, that one James Potter, who was most certainly not a coward if his past actions were anything to go by, joined him in his attempts. The raven-haired boy was what Petunia would call the class clown. It would have been easy to class James and myself into two very separate bubbles. I, the rule loving prefect who could seemingly do no wrong yet who was just a little bit too uptight and unbearably naïve; James the fun-loving bad boy, who everyone adored.
Yet it wasn't like that at all. No, deep down, I was just awfully damaged. And James? Well, no, he was just a bit of a prick. Not everyone adored him, and those who did only had eyes for his biceps. The rest of the Hogwarts population found him an irritating, pompous ass much like Thomas Keen - yet unlike Keen, he had the good fortune of captaining a winning team, and therefore demanded some popularity by default.
It was rather unfortunate the way that worked, but it was the way of the world, I suppose. Potter and his band of merry men, the Marauders, had earned themselves a place in school society just as easily as they'd earned themselves a number of enemies. As entertaining as pranks were, there was always a victim. Mary and I were two of the quieter ones, naturally - but there were others quite willing to take James and the Marauders down a peg or two.
Thomas Keen, for one, and most likely the whole of Slytherin house as well.
"Thomas," I started, sliding out from beneath his arm, "I'm sorry, you must excuse me for a sec, I've got to pee."
Hardly the most ladylike excuse in the world, but it worked. The boy's nose wrinkled, and I slid gleefully towards the back of Florean's, feeling just a little bit like James Potter might feel after pulling a prank.
Yet, unlike him, I didn't seek an audience, and that made all the difference.
Instead of returning to Mary, as a quick glance had told me she had re-joined the group while I'd been trapped by Thomas, I ventured outside. There was something to be said for being alone - even when I had already spent an entire month mostly alone. I was quite okay with that, however, as people had a horrid habit of irritating me after a few minutes of conversation. There were obvious exceptions to that, naturally, but the rule had stood for so long that I now liked to think of it as Lily's Law on Conversation. Two minutes, tops, and you were done. Small talk was perfect for such things. No conversation should run longer than that, unless there was a deep emotional connection -
"Oi, Prongs, it's ya girl!"
My sought after solitude was promptly broken by a voice I recognized - unfortunately.
"Godric, is every seventh year visiting Diagon today?" I grumbled as I stood my ground, green eyes gazing levelly at the four approaching boys. "Afternoon," I offered, not bothering to attach the 'good' before it, as it would be a lie in this case, "I see you haven't managed to blow each other up yet. I s'pose there's always August for that, yeah?"
Some might say I've got a lip on me. Severus had told me such, a few times, though I'd always gotten the impression that he rather liked it, especially when it was directed at James. When I'd directed it at him, however, he hadn't been quite as fond. Arguably since that interaction, my 'lip' had gotten worse.
His fault, not mine.
"Ah, Evans, that's no way to greet us," James replied with a grin, quite clearly smirking at me. The other three, no doubt, were responding in kind. Remus, the tallest and lankiest, possessed something like the air of an Professor; he was intelligent, of course, but also had a way of kindly condescending anyone he was speaking to - and you wouldn't notice he'd done it until he'd already walked off. Sirius Black was the right-hand man who thought he was the lead; a classic case of inflated head and hair almost as greasy as Severus' - not that anyone would dare point that out. Finally, there was Pettigrew, the pudgy boy I would have guessed to be around fourteen if I hadn't known better. I liked to think he was actually the closest in personality to myself; he had a tendency to lash out irrationally when provoked (and naturally the other three always tore into him with logical, smart-ass responses), but other than that faded into the background like a forgotten watercolour.
"And how should I greet you, Potter?" I tossed back, tilting my head at him as if I cared.
"Ah," he started, mocking me with pleasure it seemed, "How about 'Hullo, James?' It's simple and classy - and I know you, Evans, you're not about to go along with something ridiculous like 'Your Royal Highness, The Almighty Potter.'"
Well, he was right about that at least. Blinking at the boy, I furrowed my brow. Truth be told I'd expected him to reply with some sort of impossible request - yet, strangely, he'd replied with maturity (well, mostly).
Or, he'd taken the boring route, however one chooses to look at it. I wasn't about to admit it to him, but I found myself rather put off by the change in his manner. Naturally, I lashed out, as anyone would when presented with a change they couldn't' understand. "Don't try so hard, Potter," I retorted, flouncing off in a flurry of white dress and red hair.
I didn't expect him to chase me, of course. I certainly didn't expect him to ditch his friends, or for us to come to a halt somewhere between the back of Flourish and Blott's and the alley running behind it, nor did I expect it to rain.
James Potter and I had a strange relationship. If there was a fine line between love and hate, James walked it perfectly. Like many impish boys, he delighted in teasing. I, as the redhead, the Muggle-born, and quite possibly the most naive person in our entire year, was a perfect target.
I could have called him a bully. Perhaps I should have, and then it would have all come to an end long ago. Yet, I never had managed to attach that label to him - though Severus certainly did - and instead James continued on, teasing and pulling and prodding. When he'd started to ask me out, I reacted as, I presume, most girls would.
"Ah, c'mon Evans, how about you go to Hogsmeade with me?"
My heart thudded, it started to race - oh my, did he just ask me out? Is this my first date? - and then he'd gone and ruined it by adding, "Oh, but Evans, you better do something about your hair if you do, as I'd rather not go to Hogsmeade with a banshee."
To this day, I don't know if he'd meant to say that or not. Could it be that he, like me, had a horrible habit of blurting out things in a moment of pressure? Possibly. Yet, that was most likely wishful thinking on my part. I had never fancied James, but I couldn't deny that a part of me found the concept of him wanting to ask me out thrilling.
Of course, in the years since then, I'd gotten quite used to his offensive offers and was now quite certain that I'd rather date Thomas Keen.
Well, maybe that's going a little too far, actually.
Regardless, I could no longer trace my dislike of James back to one single event. It had simply always been there, and we were just iexpected/i to yell and scream and tear our hair out over each other. Other people's expectations had a funny way of limiting my thoughts; if everyone thought we hated each other, well, then we simply must hate each other.
"Lily!"
"Lily!"
He was trying, he really was.
At some point, when the sky started to darken above my head and the alleyway surrounded us completely, I stopped. Dirt lapped at my heels and James' voice rang out again. It was charged with something. He was no wallflower. He was not dull.
He was completely unlike me.
"Lily."
I was still, too still.
His eyes bore into mine, and I wanted to insist, again, that he leave me alone. This was not the first time he'd tried to speak to me this summer. The first three attempts had been letters, all over the past week. Whatever he had to say was clearly burning his tongue, his throat, and his eyes -
"I have something-"
I might have even let him tell me.
Ever since our first year, we had existed solely on arguments. They were our lifeblood, our one source that propelled us on. He would give me some ridiculous, backhanded compliment, I would lash out, he would then reciprocate, and things went on. That, I presumed, was how everyone regarded Lily Evans and James Potter. He was the sole person that could make me spark, and keep me interesting.
And he did so by turning me into an inferno.
"Duck!"
We, a pair that tolerated each other only when fighting, were now thrown into a despairingly parallel situation. Now, we were fighting - together. It would have been incredibly ironic, if I hadn't been more scared than I'd ever been.
I ducked, as he directed, and together the two of us worked our way from behind the rubbish bins of Flourish and Blotts, to the mouth of the alley. It was almost surreal. If I hadn't been very aware of his presence by my side, if my ankle hadn't been throbbing (a sprain, most likely), and if my own ragged breath hadn't been annoyingly loud, I was sure I would have believed I was dreaming. It almost felt that way, as if the two of us, standing at the mouth of this chaos, were separated from the chaos before us.
It was worthy of disbelief. Smoke curled from burning stalls, black smears in the sky indicated masked wizards apparating in and out, leaving dark magic in their wake.
For a moment, I was simply stunned. There was a woman bleeding not three feet from me, seemingly dozens screaming, crying - and I stood there, mouth agape. Maybe I was a terrible person, or maybe I really was the Gryffindor coward. Mine certainly wasn't the reaction of a hero.
"Lily," James, clearly, was no coward as he quickly tugged at my arm and worked his way down the side of Diagon Alley, wand at the ready, "Lily, you were here with friends, weren't you? Where were they last?"
It was only then - when he asked about mu friends, not even his own - that I woke up to the situation.
I suppose everyone deals with shock differently. As a child I was always the type to have incredibly inappropriate reactions. Once, when I was at school, a boy tripped right in front of me. He wasn't hurt badly; just a graze, but I hadn't known that. No, in the split second after he tripped, I was a slave to my instinctive reaction. It, horrifyingly enough, had been to laugh.
He'd glared at me for a whole week after that, little Dennis Smith. I'd been mortified, of course.
Since then, I'd learned to keep such reactions to myself. Yet, here I was undeniably assaulted with another inappropriate reaction. Instead of instantly leaping to think about my friends, clearly in the midst of the chaos, or rushing to aid the injured near me - or hell, even fleeing, I had instead stared about at the scene as if it was a painting, and I was simply admiring the curious contrast between the neutrals of Diagon Alley, and the bright green and red and gold highlights of magic.
"Yes," I choked out, "Florean's."
And with that, the pair of us set off.
It was strange, to be willingly walking behind James Potter. Yet, instead I registered the chill in the air, the shake in my bones, and the undeniable fact that this was a very, very real attack.
As a Muggle-born, I'd entered the magical world expecting a perfect place free of the burdens of non-magical society. I had expected politics to be perfect, all witches and wizards to use their powers for good, and all creatures to be like unicorns, pretty and harmless. I couldn't have been more wrong. The underbelly of magical society was arguably worse than that of non-magical society. Perhaps that's how it works; when a society has a gift such as magic, there has to be darker consequences to balance things out.
Whatever the reason, I hated it.
I opened my mouth, two questions swirling in my mind. One, where were James' friends? Two, was this what I feared? There had been talk of a rebellion of sorts for years, practically as long as I'd been in the magical world. There were reports in the paper every so often; attack in Southampton, two dead, so on and so forth. Yet I'd never paid all that much attention - as when in print, they were just words. The names of the dead were nothing more than black ink on a white page, and they were so easy to brush over and forget.
Now, of course, I realised my error, for that name in the paper tomorrow could very well be my own.
My mind curiously numb, I opened my mouth again and attempted to voice either question - but instead, something quite different came out.
"What-" I gasped out as my feet beat a fast pattern on the pavement, another green flash lighting up the lightening struck sky, "What were you about to say, James?"
The boy looked at me, hazel eyes catching the light and gleaming as another spell came our way, this one a pale gold. "Congratulations on Head Girl, Lily."