Chapter 2: Muggles and Magic
Any magical person, no matter the blood status, will know the story of their first accidental burst of magic. Some may recall the incident first-hand, others will have heard the tale from parents or siblings. These displays of magic can happen in times of high emotion or stress, or even sometimes in boredom or play.
James Potter was a pureblood, and was surrounded by magic from the moment he was born. He grew up watching house elves perform chores in his home, seeing his mother go through her morning and night routine beauty spells, hearing his father complain of the dangerous magic he had encountered during work that day. Still, there is a difference between seeing magic and creating it.
The first time James produced any substantial magic was, rather appropriately, during a tantrum at age five. Before this, he had levitated toys out of his crib, refilled his bottle with milk, amplified his shrieking voice; all skills expected of a baby wizard born with a silver spoon in his mouth. However, this occasion was different for two reasons: one, James had never permanently altered his surroundings before, and two, he displayed a significant amount of skill, particularly for someone his age.
It started like any other tantrum. Mrs Euphemia Potter was a glamorous and nurturing woman, and loved her only son more than anything in the world. He was unaccustomed to things not going his way. So, on one Saturday morning in mid-summer, little James Potter ran to the french doors leading to the grounds of Hallows House, his sticky fists wrapped around his father's old racing broom, expecting nothing more than a frown, a clucking sound and a disapproving glance from his mother.
"James!" she called, following his heavy little footsteps from the kitchen. He halted, one hand reaching up to the door handle. Euphemia had her hands on her hips, her expectant face framed by perfect auburn curls. "Where are you going with Daddy's broom?"
James pointed to the garden through a glass pane, his finger leaving a smudge on the glass. He grinned. "Outside!"
"You know you aren't allowed on Daddy's broom, sweetheart," his mother said, folding her arms and smiling despite herself. At her words, her son's face crumpled into the all-too-familiar pleading face he liked to wear, his lower lip sticking out and his hazel eyes almost tripling in size. Euphemia forced herself to harden her resolve. "I said no, James. Give Mummy the broomstick."
"No!" James opened the door with some difficulty, the broomstick clattering against the door frame as he ran out onto the sun-dappled grass, freshly trimmed into suburban stripes. His tongue stuck out for added concentration, he tried to throw his leg over the broom, wobbling slightly as he did. Euphemia's footsteps were muffled on the grass, and so when the broom disappeared from his grasp, he cried out in surprise and disdain. "Mum!"
"Not until you're older, James! You must listen to Mummy," Euphemia held the broomstick high above his head, the smooth handle reflecting the sunlight tantalisingly. James leapt up and down, his hands desperately reaching for the broom. Upon realising that he'd need to grow a significant amount to retrieve it, and that wouldn't happen for a good few years yet, the youngest Potter folded his arms tightly across his chest and stamped his feet.
Mr Fleamont Potter had entered the garden behind his wife and was watching the exchange fondly from the doorway. He knew Euphemia was doing right by her son; he was simply too young to be trusted with a broomstick capable of such speed, and it was good to tell him 'no' every now and again. That being said, he couldn't help but be proud of James' early interest in flying. He had been the same when he was a boy.
"Don't you stamp your feet at me, young man!" Euphemia threatened, wagging her finger dangerously at her son. James dared to stamp twice more, catching his father's eye and increasing the ferocity of his scowl. When Fleamont shook his head, that was simply the last straw for the little wizard.
James' lip wobbled and the air around him seemed to vibrate too, a fearful hush falling over the grounds of Hallows House in anticipation of the oncoming storm. He looked between his parents with tear-filled eyes in warning. Euphemia and Fleamont exchanged exasperated looks and the former took a step back from her son before he threw back his head and let loose an almighty scream of indignation.
This had happened before, too many times for the Potters to count. As I mentioned before, however, this tantrum was different. James' parents knew this tantrum was different when they felt the earth beneath their feet shudder threateningly, as if an angry ripple was emanating out from their son. Euphemia took another step back, looking around in alarm as yet another ripple coursed through the ground. A third movement surged out through James' feet as his scream reached a crescendo, and with this movement came a loud crackle of visible electricity, pulsing over the grass and up the bark of a nearby apple tree, like a loose bolt of lightning coating the surface of the wood. As the electricity dissipated, the Potters were dismayed (and slightly amazed) to see that the garden within a ten-meter ring of James had burned black in his electrical tantrum.
Euphemia turned once more to her husband, seeing that his expression matched hers: eyes wide, jaw dropped, skin pale. Beside them, blackened apples dropped onto the blackened lawn. James suddenly seemed to realise what he had done, and was staring determinedly at the laces of his shoes. The following day, Fleamont went on a trip to Diagon Alley, and returned with a size-appropriate toy broomstick for his son.
Needless to say, Lily's first experience with magic was much, much different. Lily wasn't the sort to have a tantrum in the first place, and if she had burned half of her garden, it is likely that the Ministry would have banned her from Hogwarts prematurely. No; Lily's first accidental magic was rather beautiful.
She was always a sweet girl, from birth to death. Her vibrant green eyes were capable of communicating surprising levels of emotion, and her flaming hair mirrored the passion and intensity she carried inside her. Anyone who met Lily could have told you she was special. This never got to Lily's head, and thankfully, she remained grounded and modest even after her witchcraft was confirmed. Her older sister, Petunia, never managed to live up to - well, anything about Lily. Lily was sweeter, funnier, smarter, more striking, and to top it all of, she was magical. Petunia never had a chance.
It was the height of summer in 1969, and the Evans sisters were playing in their local park. Unbeknownst to them, a young Severus Snape was watching them from a distance, having always harboured a secret affection for the redhead; but more on that later.
Nine-year-old Lily was so content that day. The grass was soft, the breeze was gentle, the sun was glorious and hot. The park was framed by wildflowers, foxgloves and catmint and fuschia, and Lily could smell them on the wind. Her eyes were closed as the sunlight kissed her freckly face. Petunia sat beside her, a handkerchief in hand as she snuffled against the pollen in the air. Mrs Marilyn Evans had insisted that the girls go to spend time outside, refusing to accept that their pale skin was a genetic trait. She had armed her eldest daughter with a supply of militarial-strength antihistamines and sent her into the fray, and Petunia refused to be anything other than absolutely miserable.
They had chosen a spot beside a large patch of wild daisies (much to Petunia's chagrin), and Lily enjoyed watching them sway to and fro. She was so content. A warmness spread from her stomach to the tips of her fingers and toes; her happiness was so great. She was in such a place of comfort that it seemed completely normal to her that the flowers open and close of their own volition; in time with her heartbeat, the petals of the daisies were gathering and then spreading, gathering then spreading, softly and gently, without a sound. Petunia saw the smile on her sister's face and followed her gaze, then leapt to her feet in shock.
"What the hell?" she cried, running a hand through her blonde hair and looking confusedly between her sister and the flowers. Lily didn't seem to realise what the problem was, turning her eyes to her sister rather lazily.
"Isn't it pretty, Tuney?" Lily smiled, her feet starting to sway in time with the flowers.
"It isn't pretty!" Petunia snapped, feeling rather frightened and not really knowing why. "How are you doing that?"
Lily looked back at the flowers, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. What did her sister mean? Was it unusual to be able to control the flowers this way? She had always been able to make flowers move. She never questioned it because it had always been that way. Perhaps it was unusual. Lily got to her feet and the flowers stopped their rhythmic dance.
"I don't know, actually," she said, taking a step towards her sister. Petunia recoiled.
"Stay away!" Petunia snapped, and Lily froze, suddenly hurt. "Freak!"
Lily watched her sister flee the park and start back up the street towards their house. She felt the tears brimming in her eyes. 'Freak' was a very hurtful word, she thought. She didn't feel like a freak, but if Petunia had said it, it must be true.
The young witch turned back to the flowers and started, for she was no longer alone. A boy stood a small distance away, his dark hair falling into his face, wringing his hands together.
"You aren't a freak," he said, and his voice was quiet and shy. Lily didn't say anything, but wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. The boy looked at the flowers and spoke again. "I can do things like that. You're the same as me."
"You can make the flowers move too?" Lily's voice was hopeful, and she gasped as the daisies began to open and close once more under the boy's gaze.
"You're a witch," the boy told her, and she frowned.
"Well, that isn't a very nice thing to say."
"No," he backtracked. "I mean you're magical. I'm a wizard."
Lily laughed. "Are we playing a game?"
The boy seemed to be losing his patience. He stepped towards Lily, his hands wringing faster now. "What's your name?"
"Lily."
"I'm Severus," he stuck his hand out formally. She giggled and shook it shyly, still partially convinced that the boy was attempting to initiate a very strange yet imaginative game with her. "You can do other things, can't you?"
"Like the flowers?" Lily chewed on her thumbnail, thinking. "No, I don't think so. At least, I haven't tried."
"Watch me," Severus smiled for the first time since they had met, a sweet, shy smile, and stepped away from Lily. He fixed his gaze on the flowers again, his face turning a little red with exertion, and suddenly a daisy from the centre of the patch snapped free from its stem and sprang into the air. Lily yelped, then laughed, watching the flower in amazement.
"How are you doing that?" she whispered, her voice full of wonderment. The daisy moved towards her and she caught it in mid-air with a smile on her face.
"We're magical," Severus said again, taking a seat by the daisies. Lily did the same, and he scooted closer to her. "Let me tell you everything."
That afternoon, Severus told Lily almost everything he knew about the magical world. He told her about their powers, what they would learn someday, the school they would doubtlessly both attend. He told her about his mother, Eileen Snape, and her skills as an adult witch. Lily was enthralled, enraptured, soaking up every last bit of information like a sponge.
The youngest Evans became Severus Snape's first real friend. His childhood was an empty, miserable one; he felt alienated from other children because of what he was and what he would grow to be. He felt that he was better than the Muggle children, and didn't want to waste his time befriending people who would only ever know half of who he truly was. Even as a young child, he recognised that his mother was a highly capable witch. He traipsed around the house after her endlessly, watching her perform housecleaning spells and listening to her singing along to the WWN. His father, however, was a Muggle; a completely ordinary, useless, unspectacular man. Tobias Snape grew fat and lazy in his apathy, letting his magical wife use her powers to take care of their home and their child.
Severus hated his father. He thought his father was good for absolutely nothing, and largely ignored him. He had no time for non-magical folk. What good were they? The future lay in the magical world, he saw that, even at age nine when he met Lily Evans.
Despite these views being so important to Severus, he never told Lily how he felt about Muggles. He knew her family weren't magical; he didn't want to offend her. And so, Lily entered the magical world, not knowing that she was different to other magical people, that she was what some called a 'muggleborn', what others called 'Mudblood', because Snape kept quiet. But he knew. And, like everything else he didn't like, he ignored it.
