WATERLOO
A Prologue
Professor Grant once said 'the purest form of love is the sort that sparked- the sort that fizzled, to know someone so well that you almost completely understand them, but never enough, to the point where every dawn brings something new to learn, where every touch felt like electricity transfer, where every moment felt like something off the silver screen'.
In the years between 1971 and 1978, a delicate garden had been planted; the sort that had the flair for dramatic, the sort that was a tale as old as time.
It was the carousel of old money, new money and all those in between. Hogwarts was an institution to be reckoned with. Nearly one-third of parliament came from there, and it lay claim to half of the prime ministers. It was a progressive school, one could argue, knowing when times were shifting and switching accordingly. Women were welcome to attend, though they were limited to domestic classes until 1908, and out of school boarding until 1960.
Nowhere was there an institution as powerful as the old boarding school, tucked away in the middle of Scotland. Well- it was second to Eton, to Cheltenham, to Harrow, but it was a public figure nonetheless and we shall pretend otherwise.
It was a tense time; one could admit. Hogwarts had seen tension before, for it was as much a reflection of the society around it as the art of the time. The rise of the National Front had captured some student's eye; it had also angered some others, though it was considered by most in the country as a bunch of hobos gathered together. But for the most part of the story, violence was rare. It was a tale of teenage romance, teenage debauchery and teenage laughter, and a happy ending can be promised. Our characters deserve it, do they not?
The language of flowers could best explain them. The lily, the protea, the peony, the hyacinth, the lilac, gladiolus, daffodil, Queen Anne's lace and hydrangea.
Lily, the flower of purity and refined beauty. Pure she was, though her tendency to flame outwards did not indicate it, with a heart as kind as the earth. Refined beauty she most definitely possessed, with delicate curls on her shoulders and bright green eyes full of wonder. She learnt to let go of her pride, to clench her fist but hold her mouth, to keep to heart her morals but realize when she was wrong. She said no four times and said yes once.
James, the Protea- change, transformation, daring, resourcefulness, courage. It seeped through into his every being. He kept locked in his heart a strong moral code. While he was led astray by his pride in his middle years, it would not be fair to say he learnt the wonders of humility, and from that lens, his being shone through like the sun.
Peony, flower of brashness and compassion. Marlene; quick to speak, crass, but with a firm heart. She was loyal to her friends and quick to say what she thought, almost always the fireball of laughter. She learnt to be vulnerable, to trust, to hold her fist with dignity. She learnt to accept herself for who she was.
Sirius, Hyacinth, flower of playfulness, sport and rash attitude. They said blue stood for constancy, purple for sorrow, red for play and yellow for jealousy. Ever so complex, so much so it was difficult to understand him. He was handsome, arrogant, cocky, but with a heart that yearned to belong and be loved. It was said the simplest gestures made him whole.
Madeline, the lilac- youthful, innocence, confidence. The purple lilac represents first love, which proved to be as heart-wrenching as heart disease. She was quick to love, quick to see the good in people. Purple faded to white, humble and innocent, as her heart healed with another, learning to trust, regain her innocence. She learned not to trust in her beauty, to rely on her intelligence, to be critical of others.
Remus, the flower Gladiolus, strength of character, faithfulness, honor. Fond of Tolkien and quick of wit, he was perhaps the one who brought them all together. And yet, he was the one who initially seemed to tear them all apart. He learnt to go past his comfort zone, to realize that he was worthy of love, to let go of the harness and fall headfirst.
Dorcas- daffodil, rebirth, chivalry, new beginnings, eternal life. She stood above them all, with her head up high. What once ate deep inside her became a motivation, for greatness, for a rebirth of the greatest kind. She was the first of many, in a field unknown. Wise, kind, an owl from another time.
Peter, Queen Anne's Lace- complex, delicate, haven and sanctuary. Always looking for somewhere safe, though it turned out to be his downfall. He should've learnt to trust, to be loyal- but that's a story long down the road from now. Well, what he did, that was unforgivable. There were many he lost to love, but few he retained as he made his way forward.
Mary- the Hydrangea, heartfelt, used to express gratitude for being understood. In the negative sense, it can also show frigidity and heartlessness, though she soon learnt the wonders of accepting yourself, that jealousy did not suit her, nor did it achieve anything.
There were the others, the Frank Longbottoms, the Cordelia Kings, the Lina Hoffmans, the Alice Fortescues, the Severus Snapes. There were the villians, the Steve Abbotts, the Severus Snapes, the Edward Averys. There were those lost to love: the Liam Altons, the Matthew Wellands. The names that floated in conversation- Leah Matthews, Carmen Parisi, Hannah Oats. Grass, I suppose. Grass, some knotted and brittle, some tall and strong.
But above all, our protagonist tied herself onto the pyre of her memories and self-destruction and had a tendency to light herself on fire with her temper. And our other protagonist was nothing but a man clinging to the last fragments of his pride. Their souls, tangled like burnt jewelry, a necklace wrapped with words both said and unsaid, memories made on knotted grass and two bronze tempers that had split but were still laced together, who had made a vow in their minds to let each other go and all but hadn't.
For he loved her so, and it took her a long time to realize she reciprocated the feelings. She was Evans and he was Potter. One could argue it was the force of their friends that brought them together and one could also argue it was the force of their own stubborn will. As fancy and infatuation matured into something ever so delicate, it was a tale as old as time and a tale I hope to tell well.
Because they had danced on the tightrope of an intimacy they never quite recovered from, and in the end, they proved that they understood each other so well that they knew so very little. They were angels in their youth, but when you peer down the cliff of adulthood, wondering at what point you become your parents and make the mistakes you swore you would never make, sometimes, you forget your ability to fly.
And over three years, it was one big long saga of heart disease. Cardiac arrests and heart attacks, CPR and AEDs. Broken veins and clogged arteries. Rejections and words lost to love, with very little sympathy.
How did that song go? At Waterloo, Napoleon did surrender…I have met my destiny in quite a similar way. Waterloo- I was defeated, you won the war. Waterloo, promise to love you forevermore. Waterloo, Waterloo, Waterloo.
But long story short, it was the story of one green dress, two bracelets, three cigarettes, four (and a half) rejections, five detentions, six glasses of vodka, seven scars, an eight-letter phrase, nine tries, ten laps, eleven slices of chocolate cake, twelve games of rugby and thirteen characters. It was the story of how Lily Evans and James Potter came to be, among other tales.