Once upon a time, there were two little girls...
Once
You had always hated your sister.
Or, at least, this is what you always tell everyone.
Because, once, you had loved Lily Evans as your younger sibling. Once, you had loved her a very, very long time ago for eleven years with as much sisterly affection as anyone could possibly hold. Once, you had been able to look into those green eyes without flinching or feeling a surge of hatred and jealousy.
Once.
But that was all in the past, and you had and will leave it behind you.
You wanted to start over, fresh, without any distractions, without her to ruin it all like she always did.
You tried not to think about it – about witches, wizards, Azkaban, dementors, or that strange Snape boy by Spinner's End. Ignore your connection, however small it may be, to the magical world in which you had once longed to be included in. You even got married and had a child.
But you would still give a tiny little – barely noticeable – jerk whenever the word "lily" or "magic" was mentioned.
Nevertheless, you tried. Tried your best not to get involved, and that small part of yourself that still thirsted – thirsted for the one thing you will never have – was transferred into craning necks to neighbor's houses and gossip cases on television.
Then, one day, everything changed.
You had always that ghosts were white and transparent; not flesh-and-blood with rosy cheeks and sleepy cries.
Glass had shattered on the doorstep, its marred, broken state resembling your own. With trembling hands, you had finished reading the letter in the familiar loopy writing; the same one that always delivered, for the second time, the worst news. This time, it had come along with haunting nightmares and unwanted knowledge, not disappointment, anger, and jealousy.
It struck you quite ironic that you learned more about your sister in a letter than the past years. Sisters as you were to her, bound by blood, yet you hadn't attended your own sister's wedding. You hadn't been the first one to find out that she had been murdered, and then now you have that same child of that same sister delivered to your very doorstep.
The knowledge of your sister's death did not bring tears nor any anguish. Instead, it just intensified the strange feeling that prickling feeling in your chest that had been bothering you for the past near decade.
It only felt strange, not emotional, to hold this basket up, to see face-to-face what was now your nephew. The only nephew that you would ever have.
You scrutinized him, fixing him a hard stare, expecting to find something special about him, like if he was emanating some kind of faint glow. After all, he was the savior of the Wizarding world, was he not? A kind of Jesus or something of the sort.
He was around Dudley's age, you supposed. His face looked mildly familiar; it was the same disgustingly messy black hair and appearance as the rotten Potter boy – James or John or something – that Lily Evans had gone off and married.
But other than that, he looked completely normal.
You pursed your lips, staring and contemplating the small sleeping boy. If you indeed take him in, the charm – or whatever you call it – for his protection, as the letter said, would be sealed for another sixteen years. And you'd have to take care of this boy for sixteen years, until he turned seventeen.
With a gasp, you realize something else.
You would then have yet another connection to magic – keeping a wizard in your very own house. All your efforts to keep your sister from invading into your newborn life, to keep your family safe and normal, would crumble into dust because of this.
This would be the complete destruction of all you had worked for.
Something white-hot pulsed through you, devouring you up, and all your old emotions came tumbling down in an avanlanche, all at once.
Never.
You would not have it. You could not take in this little boy. No, not the son of your sister.
Ideas came furiously, one after another, a rush of exhilaration. You understood everything clearly in that moment. After you've abandoned this boy you'd finally be free, freed at last from the chokeholds of your sister. You considered dumping the family less boy to another place, an orphanage. You could leave him at the doorstep with a note of your own explanation – after all, they wouldn't know, could they? – when a miracle happened.
Stirring awake, the boy – Harry – opened his eyes.
Green. His eyes were the bright vivid green that you had always envied with its beauty, so unique from your own dull and plain ones. They were the ones that you woke up to every single day, with the exact same achingly familiar shape.
They were her eyes.
Something inside of you stops.
Quickly, convincing yourself that the boy would start crying any moment now and wake the neighbors, you turned, taking Harry Potter to the place that he would sort of call home for the next sixteen years.
You were leaving him.
You realized that the moment you had looked around, finding yourself alone with him. You hadn't expected that. You had always wanted him to be the first one to leave, to turn and don't look back. You didn't even want to say anything to him, really, but here you are...standing in front of him.
"Well – good-bye," you say stiffly, words sounding unfamiliar on your tongue. You don't wait for a response; you don't expect one. You turn and start to march towards the door. A clean break was what you had wanted. After all, you had deserved it.
But then he had to ruin it. Like always.
"Good-bye," said Harry.
And suddenly, you stop. Pause. And you look back.
Right into those green eyes.
And you see something in them.
The words you've locked away start to flood to the tip of your tongue, floating, and memories rushing back in agonizing flashes. The swings, the curling flowers, and the betrayal, the fear, the loneliness and the anger. You remember the park you used to go with her, rolling down the sloping, grassy hills, the air pierced with gales of laughter as you tumbled, swung over and over again, spinning until you were dizzy. And all you see is green, green, green.
That strange prickling feeling was back, your veins filling with it, worse than it had ever felt before. And you want to say something – anything. Everything.
Tell your story.
Once, I'd been a good little responsible older sister.
Once, I'd begged your headmaster to be admitted to that school you go to.
One time, I had thought that being magical was special.
Once, I had felt pity for you.
And then the most truthful of all:
I hadn't always hated my sister.
You stare into his eyes again. No, you tell yourself, her eyes.
Something inside of you stops.
Because, once, you had loved Lily Evans as your younger sibling. Once, you had loved her a very, very long time ago for eleven years with as much sisterly affection as anyone could possibly hold. Once, you had been able to look into those green eyes without flinching or feeling a surge of hatred and jealousy.
Once.
But that was all in the past, and you had and will leave it behind you.
Looking at him one last fleeting time, you jerked your head, and left him.
End
Once upon a time, there were two little girls...two little girls who once loved, laughed, and lived.
EDITED: 16.07.2010