Lily Evans was born a squalling, miraculous little bundle in the winter of 1960.
She lived in a little house, far away from the muddied waters of the river that bisected her industrial town. Her creaky little home was situated near a cloistered park with winding paths that lead to nowhere.
Lily spent most of her time outside, even through the smoggy stillness of Cokeworth weather. She liked the freedom of running outdoors and traipsing through puddles more than staying in the room she shared with Petunia.
The way her parents told it, Lily never got along very well with her sister. As a child, Lily's mum would let Petunia try to rock her to sleep when she was being a bit fussy.
Petunia always wrinkled up her nose whenever their parents brought up Petunia's attempts at holding her. Cradling Lily in her arms always set her off more than anything else. It got to the the point that Petunia wasn't allowed to hold Lily for more than a few minutes at a time, unless they wanted a house filled with the loud cries of a newborn, and more complaints from the neighbors.
.
.
.
You are not Lily. There is a name for people like you. There is a label for the type of person you are:
Liar. Parasite.
Witch.
The magic at your fingertips is a revelation, and it is not a quiet one.
It goes a little something like this: Lily's mum asks someone to jog down and get the mail.
Petunia shoots her an imperious look from the other side of the room and says,
"Better do as mum says. I'm busy."
She flicks her eyes down to the nail varnish drying on her toes. Lily rolls her eyes and looks back down at her book. The dragons were just about to be defeated in the final battle and that's not something she wanted to be torn away from for even a moment.
"Girls!" Lily's mum's voice rings throughout the house with an obvious note of annoyance. Petunia deliberately flicks through another page of her magazine. Lily groans in defeat and ignores the victorious look Petunia sends her way.
She trundles out in summery shorts and a thin, strappy tank top that bares freckled shoulders to the world. The cool wind nips at her shoulders and she shivers.
Strangely, the mailbox is full to bursting. She hopes, naively, they're letters or coupons or maybe a package from Grandmum instead of bills. The bills always make mum and dad cross and cause their eyebrows to furrow and their eyes to tighten.
They're letters, she finds out. They fall in a heap at her feet as soon as she budges the mailbox open.
She grabs one, restlessly curious as always (there's a reason her pop calls her his little detective).
Lily collapses on the corner of Livingston Street and Breadworth Avenue.
.
.
.
You wake up five minutes later and your mum - Lily's - she is calling you back inside. There are new scrapes on your knees and your hands are bleeding sluggishly. You stand up, ignoring the pangs in your head. If feels like that time Lily startled Petunia when she was dancing around in yourtheir room and she'd kicked her in surprise.
Or maybe like someone had played target practice on your head with a couple of tennis balls. You stride unsteadily back home with the corners of your vision tinted black.
You aren't eleven anymore. You're twenty...something - thirty something, now. A liar and an adult.
The house you grew up in no longer feels like home. You see it for what it is, shingles on the rooftop falling slowly, bricks left out in backboard next to the tire swing that's grown rusty with the rainy weather and disuse.
Inside, your father - not yours - is reading the paper and his crows feet and silver hair stand out more than ever. He's old, tired. He looks the way you feel and you stifle a sob.
The room you share with Petunia is too small, too stifled, you can't. She's focused on her magazine, blissfully. You kick the letters under the space below your bed, on yourLily's side of the room. You're exhausted and terrified and you conceal your quiet, dry sobs into the bed covers.
You can feel Petunia's concerned gaze. She carefully grasps your shoulder and asks in a low voice,
"Are you alright? What's wrong with you? Lily?"
Your body trembles at the sound of that name passing her lips, of that second reminder of the life you stole. Lily doesn't exist anymore. You're nothing but a sub-par replacement for a bright little girl who is no longer alive.
The bookshelf on your - Lily's - side of the room creaks ominously and you hear the books tumble down on the ground in a heap.
Petunia gasps in surprise and you continue sobbing. You pass out a few minutes after hearing Petunia leave the room.
.
.
.
You wake up bright and early the morning of the following day. Lily's mum greets you with a concerned look as she carefully settles onto the bed right next to you.
"I..." You falter at the sight of Lily's mother. You just stole her daughter's life. What do you have to say? What right do you have to even look her in the eye, let alone open you mouth and lie to her?
You choose the truth.
"I don't feel very good,"
Coward.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lily's dad come in and lean against the door frame. YourLily's mother turns her head toward her husband and he frowns worriedly.
In a show of perfect, nonverbal communication that your parents never quite managed to achieve - and doesn't that hurt to think about, how you'll never see your parents again - they decide youLily weren't going to school today.
Lily's mum takes your temperature just in case.
She leans down, closercloser and does that motherly thing where she puts your forehead to her lips. You flinch and after a moment she pulls away.
She believes you.
Later, when you are standing in the bathroom with your eyes screwed shut, counting down from fifteen - ten - then back to fifteen again because you're a coward and you know the bright red wisps of hair that sway around you should never have been yours, you can understand why. Your haggard looking reflection stares back, utterly baffled and heartbroken.
You'd believe yourself, too.
.
.
.
Lily's mum offers to stay home with you, but you know that we - they, the Evans, you aren't part of that family anymore, not really - are behind on bill payments and the landlord has come knocking a few times. This isn't the best home; the roof is leaky when it storms, you have to share a room with Petunia, the yard is overgrown and nobody has time to take care of it because Lily's parents are always working, but you need a room over your head.
You decline.
Eventually, Lily's mum leaves for work and Tuney - Petunia, dammit. You never earned the right to call her Tuney, you don't really know her - leaves for school with her.
She tells you she'll bring your schoolwork home for you.
"Last time you were sick, you cried because you missed lessons so you can thank me later," Petunia says this with her head poking out from behind the door frame. The rest of her body stays firmly parked outside of the threshold for fear of catching sick too.
You don't say anything, because you're pretending to be asleep.
You remember the rivalry you had with our brother, before. The nausea comes back; the way Petunia talks to Lily, a mixture of careless words that inspire eye rolls and annoyance and the fear in her voice when you came back sobbing, it's all too much. You bury your head into the pillow and consider smothering yourself with it.
When it feels as if everyone has truly left, you hop down from bed sluggishly and pull out the letters from yesterday. They are all addressed to the same person, in the exact same handwriting, down to the dip of the y in Lily's name and the extra space after Cokeworth.
You spare a moment for a bit of humour and think, I really ought to check the mail more often, before choosing one from the pile and tearing it open violently, delighting in the way it rips apart in your hands.
It reads:
Dear Miss Evans,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
You skim through as much as you can before tears overtake your eyes and your vision becomes blurry. You feel like the rug has been pulled out from beneath your feet, set on fire, and then draped over you. You can feel yourself beginning to hyperventilate. The air you're breathing in is asphyxiating you and you feel yourself choking.
You dreamed of this, once upon a time. You joined the hype and read the books with your brother, gossiped about which house you'd belong to. In your daydreams, you'd grow up with magic. You'd get to leave behind your arguing parents, and the courtrooms, and arrive straight from your third foster home to the Hogwarts Express which would speed you out to a castle you dreamed of owning someday.
Now you know you can build it for yourself instead. Now you know you have this school, these lessons, and this magic.
Except...
Except you grew out of those daydreams years ago. Except you were Joanna Williams, part time mother to a limpet brother who looked at you like you'd hung the stars. Except you were finally figuring out your relationship with your parents.
Except you stole a little girl's life in the process, and you don't know if there's any way for you to take that back.