The rain came and went, intermittent and uncertain as spring slowly emerged from beneath the snowy blanket of winter. Spring had gradually descended upon the small town, as it always did, peeking out with small fingers of color through the sharp, sparkling white. The flowers that had bloomed during the small bout of sunshine from the previous week were quietly enduring the water as it soaked the earth holding them steadfast, waiting patiently for the warmth of sun to return.
From high above, sitting in the window seat of her bedroom window, twelve-year-old Lily sat gazing at them with unseeing eyes, lost in a daydream inspired by the book clutched in her small, delicate hands. As she leaned against the half-closed curtains behind which the rain pattered softly, she pictured herself in Jane Eyre's place, yelling not at that awful Mrs. Reed but at her sister, Petunia, for her perpetual insults ever since Lily had gone to Hogwarts.
A solitary bird soared low through the rain across her line of vision, pulling her out of her reverie; she reached for the now lukewarm cocoa beside her and took a sip as she closed her book on her green beaded bookmark. She peered through the narrow strips of wood dividing the panes of the window to the steep landscape beyond, and as she imagined Hogwarts perched on the still snowcapped mountain in the distance, she absentmindedly removed her bookmark from Jane Eyre and began to braid it into her long red locks.
It—the bookmark—had been a gift from a boy at her school named James Potter, who had said the color reminded him of her eyes (which were also green, of course). James Potter, Lily recalled with a decisive frown, was aggravating. He seemed to have decided, a few months previously, that she was pretty, and henceforth devoted himself to following her around like a lost puppy and attempting to impress her with jinxes that he and his cronies preformed on her best friend. James had an air about him that simply teemed with a self-importance that proved impossible to dispel, which, topped with his endless lies about her beauty, aggravated Lily to such ends that she could hardly tolerate his presence for more than five minutes anymore.
She should have been, therefore, very glad for the Easter Holidays, during which time she could escape James' presence and spend as much time with her best friend, Severus Snape, as she so desired. Today, however, the rain confined the two of them to the interiors of their respective houses, where neither of them felt a particular desire to be—Severus because his parents were always arguing, and Lily because Petunia had become so hateful. Her sister's piercing insults had been what kept her shut up in her room for the past several days with the company of only the back garden's flowers; wherever she went, Petunia's cold glare followed her, and the chill of her own room was the only place she could find solace in solitude.
Lily sat in silence, sipping her cocoa absentmindedly. She had thought she had known what was coming, before, but her nine-year-old plan for life had been idiotic anyway. Before the magical world had been opened up to her, she'd wanted to attend University overseas and become a "Flower-Lady", where she could display her bouquets with one of her favorite newfound magic tricks. Of course, back then she hadn't known it was magic, but at least she'd had a plan for herself. Now, well, everything had changed: her sister didn't even like her anymore! After all this, would she end up happy? Lily didn't know. All she knew was that this place, the place she'd once called home, now lacked the sense of belonging it once held. In that moment, she wanted to break away from it and never return. Maybe that was the reason, besides all this confining rain, that she wasn't grateful for the Easter Holidays.
Her mother's voice drifted up to her from the stairway beyond her door, probably to call her for a lunch they knew perfectly well she wouldn't attend. She set down her book and mug on the table beside the window seat, stood up, stretched, and strode over to her bed to flop noisily down on the white sheets in boredom. The untied tail of her loose red braid flayed out behind her head like a forest fire streaked with one, still resiliently green blade of grass. Soon, she heard two sets of footsteps ascending the stairs just outside her door—footsteps that sounded, by the volume of the creaking, like they belonged to two adults. One of the people was clearly her mother, and the other was probably one of her frequent guests come to greet Lily out of pure politeness. She merely squinted at the slanted ceiling without interest.
There came a knock, and then Lily heard the sweet warmth of her mother's voice say, "Lily, dear? There's someone here to see you."
There always was. Her mother, though married, had become a frequent host to whoever had the grace to accompany her in her loneliness. Mr. Evans had been gone for a year on one of his fishing trips again, and the family had grown accustomed to his brief, infrequent visits home. Lily wondered who it was this time.
"Hi, Mom," said Lily, not looking toward the door as they entered. "Hi, mom's friend."
A new voice came now, deep and rough like the sea it so frequently battled. "Lily, it's me. It's Papa."
"Wha—Papa?!" she tumbled from her bed and, tripping over her sheets, ran to him as though he were a magnet. She threw her arms around him, not caring that he was soaked form the rain and possibly the sea (he was still wearing his sailing gear), and not caring that her shrieks of "Papa, Papa!" had deafening potential. He wrapped his arms around her, strong and firm, and held her there, chuckling his musical laugh, as she buried her face in his chest and breathed in the lasting imprint the sea had etched into his being. He tasted like salt, she thought, or that may have been the tears slipping silently from the corners of her joyful eyes.
As her mother put her arms around the two of them, beaming, Lily thought she might forget her sister's torments, James Potter's arrogance, her confinement—everything. She could have forgotten the world.