Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine. JK Rowling is amazing and I don't intend to infringe any copyright.
AN: I hope you enjoy this. As well as writing a love story, I think I want to explore how I think Lily must have been feeling with the war going on, so this chapter is emotionally heavy and James light, but they won't all be that way. I would like to promise regular updates, but I can't - I will do my best! Hope you're having a wonderful day.
My father was a great reader, and one of his favourite activities was reading aloud to the family when we were younger. It was so rare for this to happen anymore, with Petunia and I unable to be in a room together, but I tried to honour his wishes when I was at home, even though at the asge of sixteen I'm sure having my father read to me before bed should have been mortifying. I was often reminded of the opening to one of his favourite books, 'A Tale of Two Cities' by Charles Dickens:
"It was the best of times. It was the worst of times."
I couldn't think of a phrase that summed up better that summer between fifth and sixth year. And although I didn't know it yet, there was no phrase that would better sum up the remainder of my life.
X
"When I turn seventeen, the first thing I'm going to do is enchant them, so they swirl around like the stars in great hall," mused Mary. My best friend was always talking with wonder in her voice, particularly when she spoke about magic. She seemed to even enjoy doing homework, finding it exciting to learn anything and everything about the world. In appearance, she was about an inch shorter than me, with mousy brown hair, glasses and big brown eyes that were often lit with joy. Her smile was infectious, her giggles common and yet she had a depth of wisdom underneath, a level of maturity. At the start of our fifth year, a boy from our year, Mulciber, had attempted a particularly nasty curse on her – punishment for her having muggle parents.
Before that incident, I had hardly known Mary MacDonald. She had always been a bright ball of energy, one I respected but wasn't sure how to interact with. But a couple of weeks after that incident, after all the fuss had died down, I had found her crying in the dorm and given her a hug. That one embrace seemed to break down the previous awkwardness there had been, and within 24 hours she had very naturally become one of my best friends. Mary had recovered from the incident, but she wasn't quite the same. She quit the quidditch team and became a little more reserved. She was still a beacon of energy, but in a different – calmer, less excitable way.
She couldn't see me, but she could guess, correctly that I was admiring the droplets of light that hung from her ceiling. Mary's room had always been one of my favourites since I had first visited in the Christmas holidays. In the daylight, you could see her walls teaming with the faces of her family and friends, doodles and scribbled letters. A Gryffindor flag hung proudly from the door, and the table by her bed was pleasantly cluttered with books and trinkets. In the evening and the night however, as it was now, you couldn't see the plastered walls. In the dark above my head were chains of fairy lights, giving out a mesmerizing glow. I gave an appreciative hmm noise as I thought about them swirling across the darkness above.
"Sometimes it doesn't feel real, do you know what I mean? We come back to our muggle lives and we don't do magic for two whole months. We hardly even speak about it. I know, it sounds crazy, but sometimes I can't be sure it's all real. Lily, is that crazy?"
"No, I was thinking about it on the train today. Hogwarts starts to feel like a thousand worlds away when I'm at home. I spent most of my journey wishing I was on the Hogwarts Express."
"I'm so glad that you are here now, Lil. My parents love talking about magic – but it's not the same, they're still completely fascinated and so many words need explaining. My brothers are the same, desperate to know which parts of their favourite bedtime stories are real… It's been quite lonely."
"Are any of your neighbours still hanging out with you?" I asked.
"Well, they all tease me about my 'posh boarding school' which in reality they know nothing about and I don't know any of the people that they like to talk about. It's pretty awkward each time we hang out. I guess we just don't have anything in common anymore."
I hmmm-ed in agreement once more. I tried not to think about old friendships lost because of current differences.
Sensing, as very best friends can, that Mary was trying to put into words a question about Severus, about my tumultuous emotions, about whether there had been any further encounters, I asked if I could rant about Vernon Dursley for a bit.
Sensing, as very best friends can, that this was something I would prefer to talk about, Mary consented. I began.
Vernon Dursley was dating my sister. This afternoon, before I had gotten on the train to see Mary, I had been introduced to him over a Sunday roast beef and I was eager for some counselling. He was simultaneously dull, rude and obnoxious; he constantly interrupted to voice his uninformed opinions. I had very little to say to him from the beginning, having been instructed by my sister to not give away how much of a 'freak' I was (International Statue of Secrecy anyway), and yet he still managed to interrupt everything I said. Even when I asked for my father to pass me the potatoes. My sister seemed infatuated, for some completely unknown reason.
Mary voiced this, "Lil, I know you and your sister are pretty different and...complicated, but if he's so awful, then why is she with him?"
I paused, "I don't know…but I guess it might have something to do the fact he looks at her like she's some kind of angel…"
"Like the way James Potter looks at you?" quipped Mary. I lobbed a pillow at her head instinctively. Though it was dark, and she wouldn't be able to, I was fairly keen for her not to see that my cheeks had flushed red.
"James Potter," I began. "Is arrogant, is a bully, is obsessed with quidditch and his appearance, has nothing of worth to say… Essentially if I wrote a list of everything that puts me off dating someone, James Potter would have all but one of those qualities."
"What's the one?"
"He's not Vernon Dursley."
Whether Mary realised the closing of the conversation has been deliberate I didn't know, but she didn't mention Potter again and for a few moments we lay in comfortable silence.
In watching these glittering lights, I allowed my mind to drift to James Potter. I had been right in my assertion that he fitted much of my list of reasons I would never date someone, but Mary had been right when she had pointed out the way James looked at me. It would be stupid not to notice his infatuation. I mean, it could easily be brushed off as puppy love, but the nonetheless James was smitten. He had asked me out perhaps 13 times and each time had suffered my rejection each time acting as though he could brush it off. But I noticed things. I noticed the way he paused before his hand ran to his hair in the pretence of confident nonchalance and I noticed the disappointed look in his eyes. I noticed the concern that would flash briefly across the weary face of Remus Lupin, the way Peter Pettigrew's mouth would turn downwards and the frustration that would momentarily grace the handsome Sirius Black. I knew Potter cared when he asked how I was finding Transfiguration and yet I was unable to resist telling him to get lost, that I didn't need the concern of the class genius, that I could handle it alone.
Part of me felt guilty each time I put Potter down or told him to leave me alone, but later I would cease to regret it when he was hexing anyone in his way or boasting about his quidditch expertise (particularly loudly when I was in earshot). I didn't do, I couldn't do a part time friendship. I couldn't turn a blind eye if my friends behaved badly.
I'd tried and I'd lost to keep my mind from the incident. Just a few weeks ago, my best friend Sev had called me a 'mudblood'. As if I was nothing. Too much time with his pathetic friends, like Mulciber. And it had hurt.
As if she read my mind, Mary spoke, a sudden yet hesitant voice cutting through the silence with the subject that I knew eventually had to be raised.
"Are you thinking about Snape?"
I sighed. "Yes."
"How are you feeling about that right now?"
"Okay," I said.
Mary waited. I sighed.
"I'm still really hurting. Really hurting. He was my best friend, we grew up together. He was the one who told me I was witch, told me about magic, listened after every fight with my sister left me in tears. It hurt what he said… but," I swallowed. "But, I know I made the right decision. At the start of the summer, my whole body ached when I thought about it, but not so much now. It's still painful but I think its healing."
After a pause, Mary asked if I had seen him at all since the end of term. I replied that I had seen him on the street, once, perhaps twice, but had managed to avoid conversation completely. My parents had been told to not let him in the house… not that he had ever come knocking.
"I think you're doing the right thing, Lily," said Mary after a pause. "I really admire how strong you're being and how true to your convictions."
"Thanks," I said, feeling the hot sting of tears momentarily rise in the corners of my eyes. The decision to cut Sev off had been difficult. I knew, I was certain, it was the right choice to end our friendship, but it hurt me more than I could explain to have done it.
"It's just weird you know," I said after a pause. "I used to spend more than half my holiday just hanging out with him, and now nothing… thanks for letting me stay for a bit."
"Anytime Lily, we're going to have a lot of fun," Mary promised.
"Of course we will. It's us," I replied. Mary murmured something incoherent, and I heard the sound of her duvet moving as she rolled over. Before long her breathing had deepened, and I could tell she was sound asleep. I continued to gaze at the lights above, my thoughts flickering around memories from the summer and from previous years, interactions with Sev and with Potter, my tummy turning with feelings of loss and guilt.
X
Before I had visited Mary, my summer had been distinctly dull. I had done very little, spent time with family, written long letters, crossed my fingers I wouldn't see Sev each and every time I left the house. It had been lonely, boring and repetitive. The ultimate sign that your summer wasn't going as well as it should be is finishing your summer reading after just three weeks – before confirmation that you could even take those classes. After six weeks, it was a joy to see Mary at last, and just break out and do something different.
True to Mary's promise, fun we did have in the short five day visit. We celebrated with pink lemonade and strawberries the passing of our OWLs in a sunny meadow nearby. We spent afternoons outside for the first half of the trip, her reading and me sketching in the sun – though I had to move to the shade after the familiar pink of sunburn started to creep across my pale skin. The last few days were overcast, with the occasional drizzle and a cold every now and again, so we baked cupcakes, dancing as they rose in the oven, the music turned up loud – to the annoyance of Mary's two brothers, but the amusement of both her parents. I loved family dinners with the MacDonald clan, Joshua and Samuel (12 and 8) never ceased to amuse us with the adventures their days had held. It had been a long time since I had sat around a family table and just laughed for hours.
No tension. No sibling rivalry. Just pure joy.
But for all the bright colours and fun of the days, the evenings took a darker tone. Together, we would pore over the Daily Prophet, read reports of muggle-hating and rumours of worse to come. We would read the opinion pieces, the declarations and pleas of the ministry to stay calm, to be united. We would read about our world, about our lives, about names we had heard before but feel oddly disconnected, unable to find out more and living far from the events themselves.
At night when my wandering mind wasn't swimming with memories of the Sev incident, they were filled with worries about the future, about what it all meant.
Questioning how on earth someone like Voldemort could be gaining followers?
I couldn't understand.
It was a feeling of hopelessness.
James Potter appeared in the paper. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. The Potters were a famous pure blood family – one of the purest of them all. His parents were being interviewed on what they thought of current events, and contrary to a similar piece on the opinion of the Black family, the Potter's were furiously against the prejudice that was being reported. The majority of the article focussed on his parents, but at the end James had been asked about what prejudice was like at Hogwarts.
JP: It certainly does exist, I'm afraid. I have a number of friends who have been targeted by pure blooded bigots, simply because of who their parents are. It's totally disgusting of course, but the majority of it happens when teachers aren't around, and there's very little that can be done to prove that it happens. Sometimes it's one student's word against another's, and then the perpetrator normally gets away with it.
DP: Innocent until proven guilty?
JP: Perhaps
DP: Surely you're not insinuating that some of your teachers are guilty of this prejudice, Mr Potter?
JP: All I'm saying is that we could do with a little more kindness in the world. A little more bravery. Students need to stand up for other students. If we do nothing about this kind of behaviour, our apathy allows it to continue. It's exactly the same outside the Hogwarts walls. If you aren't standing against Voldemort, you are essentially for him.
DP: Thank you very much James, it is very clear that you are a Gryffindor.
It was coupled next to a picture of the Potter family, looking grave. Mr and Mrs Potter stood close together, their arms protectively encircling one another's waists. Mr Potter was tall and had a receding hairline, a smart suit and kind eyes. Mrs Potter, about a head shorter had fierceness to her, a readiness to challenge, but perhaps I was making it up. It also appeared that (James) Potter had grown a couple of inches, standing just a fraction shorter than his father – but perhaps that was my imagination. Nothing else about him had changed, his hair was a mess as usual and his eyes were alive – although his expression was more serious that I had ever seen it.
Mary had read the article quietly and hadn't commented to me, but I could tell that she had agreed with what Potter had said. Perhaps she didn't bring it up for fear that I would slam it down as him cherry picking the exact right words to make a good impression, without truly meaning them. It was the kind of thing I probably would say about him, though I didn't believe that to be the case this time.
Despite her silence on the Potter's, Mary did rant and rave about the Black family interview. How dare they not care? How dare they not say how wrong everything reported was – even if they didn't believe it themselves? What did it say about the current environment if this kind of thing could be printed in the paper? Why didn't they say how thoroughly the hated Voldemort?
How could Sirius live with such parents?
We noted that it couldn't be an easy dynamic. Sirius hadn't been present in the family photo pictured; it was just of his parents and younger brother, nor was he mentioned in the interview. To be sure, that couldn't have been an easy place to be.
Eventually our time together had to come to a close, and Mary's mother drove me to the station, bags fully packed and armed with the leftover cupcakes for my family – 'Lily, we cannot possibly eat them all'. I sketched on the train home, mostly to keep my mind off the cold greeting I was expecting from Petunia, but partly to process. I always processed through sketching. I was immensely grateful for the time I had spent with Mary, when her questions had probed past skin level and onto the deeper issue, when I had been able to be honest about my fears regarding the future, the times when I was having so much fun that those fears had momentarily dissolved. My hand flew across the paper, adding contour and shade where it was needed.
"That's beautiful," said the man next to me.
"Thank you," I smiled, taking a moment to stop and look at the unicorn I had drawn.
"It's so lifelike, almost as though you've seen it."
I smiled to myself, because of course I had, in fourth year Care of Magical Creatures.
"My granddaughter loves unicorns," he told me, his chest puffing ever so slightly with pride. "I'm on my way to see her now actually."
"What's her name?"
"Amelia, she's six." He pulled out his wallet and showed me a photo. "This was her on the day she was born, she was so small. I can hardly believe how much she's grown. I wish my wife could see her."
As I saw the look of grief pass into his blue eyes, I signed my name at the bottom and pulled out the page.
"Here, your granddaughter can have it."
"Are you sure?" he asked, his white eyebrows rising in surprise. "Thank you!"
"No problem," I replied. "There needs to be more kindness in the world."
It was only later, as I remembered with glee that the next train would take me to Hogwarts, that I realised I had quoted James Potter.
X
I was running through my packing list again. I didn't really know what else to do. I didn't want to think about going back to Hogwarts tomorrow. The Wizarding World had been such a mess. I often thought back to Potter's words – about needing more kindness. It seemed I could give so little out, when so much more was needed.
And if I felt burnt out in the muggle world, what would it be like back in the wizarding one?
Sometimes I wished I didn't have to go back. It was the one thing I couldn't express to Mary, couldn't express to anyone. I felt so weak, so powerless, and so helpless. So pathetic for being scared at a time when I knew I needed to be brave. I didn't want to be killed. I didn't want to fight. I didn't want people to stare at me, whisper or glare at me as I walked past. Sure I was relatively safe within the walls of Hogwarts, but what about after I finished? What would I do then?
Sometimes I wished I had never become a witch at all.
But deep down, each time I got fresh news delivered, I knew that I had to. I would never forgive myself if I didn't fight. If I ignored what was going on, if I pretended to be apathetic.
So I was packing like a determined warrior, not in the last minute haste I was used to but repeatedly, calmly – attempting to focus on the small things.
I would take live this day by day. I would live with fire inside me, and I would fight even when it scared me. That's what a true Gryffindor would do.
And I would prove myself a true Gryffindor.
"You've been quiet recently Lil… to be honest, you've been quiet all summer," said my mum, as she sat down on my bed. Though I didn't hear it, as I turned to face her I noticed the sigh was present in her green eyes. She was really worried. I'd been so engrossed in packing that I hadn't noticed her come in, and had startled a little at the sound of her voice.
"I know that you miss Severus," she continued. I held in the flinch. "I know that you are not willing to forgive what he did. But I'm worried, Lily. Is there anything else you want to tell me? Any other friends you've fallen out with? Worries about classes next year? A boy who has been breaking your heart?"
Just the probability of a wizarding war – but how could I explain that? I sat on the bed next to her and met her eyes. I swallowed.
"Things aren't exactly… right in my world right now," I began. "It's all very complicated and not very stable, actually potentially very dangerous… I think it's safer for you that you don't know."
"Lily Amelia Evans," my mother said, her strictest tone accompanied by the fierce narrowing of her eyes. "Do not think for a moment that I would rather be safe and have you not confide in me. I am your mother. You and your sister are everything to me."
I looked over at her again; her face was carved with determination. So, I began to explain everything to her. I told her about Voldemort, about the rumours of a following. I told her how Severus' comment to me had not been something that had merely spilt out but something that had been grown and nurtured in a culture of prejudice. I told her how some people would probably rather see me dead than practicing magic.
The last parts came out in sobs, with tears streaming down my cheeks. My mother enfolded me into her arms, and began stroking my hair. I wept silently, releasing the unexpressed terror that I had been feeling for the last few days, weeks, months. I wept with relief that I had finally shared it with someone, who though in no way was it true, at least felt more in control than I was.
"Lily, you are an exceptionally brave girl but you are so silly to have kept this all looked inside of you," said my mother. Her voice was shaking slightly. She pulled away slightly, only to meet my eyes.
"This is a lot on such a young pair of shoulders."
"Are you scared?"
"Of course I am, this is enough to bring out a fresh round of grey," she replied with a nervous laugh. I giggled a little, not because it was funny, but perhaps because the stream of tears had made me slightly delusional.
"I love you Mum," I whispered.
"I love you too, Lily. And I think you are awfully brave and strong and I am so, so proud of you," she replied, leaning in for another hug. I stayed in her arms for a countless amount of time, it felt like forever. I felt safe there. I knew that at sixteen that was not a cool thing to admit, to admit that you still need your mum as much as you did when you were six. But I didn't care.
Tomorrow I would face the wizarding world and step back into the chaos.
Tonight, after a long hug, I could accept the invitation to play board games with my family, a tub of my favourite 'only for special occasions' ice cream in my lap and feel the muscles in my cheeks loosening when I laughed – probably for the first time since my visit to Mary.
Each day as it comes.