she carries the bags under her eyes
like the weight can only be hers
belly swollen like a globe
soon to become her world
she looks at you as if you’re gold
and sometimes you forget to look back
her voice is rich
like the honey she stirs in your tea
when you can’t fall asleep
and who would be so quick
to sacrifice their happiness for yours
mother,
i wish i could heal every crack
every wound grazed against your skin
mother,
i wish i could give you even half
of all you’ve given me,
let you laugh and live and smile
like the goodness you’ve poured out of yourself
just to see me do the same.”
Meriam BHT, for my mother, i wish i could heal you in all the places you’ve been hurt.
he is the boy who you claim to detest;
the one with the stupid grin and the knack for
being rude and mischievious and a blundering idiot
he is the boy who you dump a bowl of mashed potatoes
on, after deciding that you’d had enough of his
annoying antics.
he is james potter.
two.
he is the boy that you still continually claim to detest;
although two of his friends are pleasant, he still is not
and you hope that they help in shaping him to be nicer, better –
but hope for that is lost when you see him picking on another student,
however not your best friend, it is still bullying
and when the fists start swinging and laughter is in the air and you
saw that he started it, you race to get a professor, someone to
help, and swear that this james potter is nothing but trouble.
three.
he catches you when you sneak into the common room late at night,
hair disheveled and eyes dark. he has that look in his eyes
that claim concern but you won’t buy it.
a question hangs on both of your lips and neither of you speak
a word – after all, he is disheveled and sans glasses and
smelling of earth, god knew what he had been up to –
and you smelled of cold stones and magic but felt dirty –
and he catches you, for a beat that your guard is down
ALRIGHT EVANS ?
and you furrow your brows and shower him with vitriol,
like you always have, however, unsure if he was
deserving of it this time.
four.
he is still continually deducting points from the House by his
antics and still asking the stupidest, and somehow funniest
questions in class that sends everyone hooting
and he asks you out so often, it’s almost comical –
but you occupy yourself with your friends and your studies
and kissing other boys and girls that make you happy.
five.
he is a prick and an arrogant, bullying toerag all rolled into
one, and he is still tormenting the first friend you’d ever
made and severus seems embarassed to sit with you
because his friends always whisper and glance at
and about you like you’re dirt – you’ve heard what they
say about you, you’re not deaf, and you can’t believe
why he still is friends with them. on top of this you are
a prefect and taking your owls and Petunia still writes
to you that she doesn’t want you to come home and –
the catalyst is what happens when james won’t stop bullying
him and you try to split it up when your supposed best friend
calls you a mudblood and it hits you like a brick
and you shake and you are angry,
at both of them and yourself and you
decide you are more than all of this and nothing, all at once.
six.
you are sticking up for a fellow muggleborn when it hits you.
a hex, a spell, a creeping pain that twists you up and makes
your eyes fill with tears and know that this is
worse than all the times you have been pushed in the halls
or the ballistic teases and taunts that are thrown
your way and you feel like you will crumble anytime soon
when your attacker is disarmed and fought off
through the haze of tears in your eyes
you see james potter.
seven.
he is james potter and he is the boy, the man who has
changed his ways and he
holds your hand when you feel like melting through the floor
at the news of yet another muggle(born) attack
kisses your temples when you are shaking with rage and pain
and the boy you see flying around on his broom, scoring
and winking at you and makes you forget that when you step out
of the school, it will all be toil and war.
he lies down with you, a tangle of limbs, when you need to
study or just an ear to listen to, and in turn, you do the same.
love is a big word but you know
oh god, you know
that you love this
james potter.
eight.
he is the boy who fights alongside you in missions and raids,
whose friends have become your own,
and he holds you through the nights that don’t seem livable
and he who stood by you through your mother’s funeral,
through every tear and sob and waking moment,
every fretful second spent worrying for your family’s safety,
and when he says everything will be alright,
you believe him. because he’s james potter, after all.
nine.
he opens a ring box and inside lies an emerald ring, the very
colour of your eyes, by the crackling hearth in the headquarters
of the Order, in one of the eerily peaceful moments
and he asks you for your hand in marriage and you,
with fingers whose nails have been chewed up and chipped,
closed the box and tell him no.
and you’d never seen such devastation in his eyes before,
and you just want to cry and explain but there
seem to be no words and all you can muster is to
tell him to keep the ring.
you haven’t spoken of anything but missions and
reconsidering your decision and oh,
the upcoming battle and you begin to worry that
the james potter you love is slipping away
and you are frustrated at him and at yourself.
ten.
you have survived the battle but your mind is a whirlwind
and you couldn’t be worried about wedding bells
but he is persistent and you, you are tired
and begin to wonder
if there will even be an eleven.
Loving can heal, loving can mend your soul
And it’s the only thing that I know
I swear it will get easier, remember that with every piece of ya
And it’s the only thing we take with us when we die
We keep this love in a photograph
We made these memories for ourselves
Where our eyes are never closing
Our hearts were never broken
And time’s forever frozen, still
I dreamed I was dying; as I so often do
And when I awoke I was sure it was true
I ran to the window; threw my head to the sky
And said whoever is up there, please don't let me die
The word freak had just been so ingrained into her mind,
etched into her bones and plastered onto her skin for all to see.
She was born too small, too frail and too loud. The first four months that the world had Lily Evans in its hands, she was upset every night by quite possibly the worst bouts of colic an infant could have; nothing ever sated her crying that lasted for hours on end but being held by her mother, who lost precious hours of sleep through cooing and coddling her newborn daughter endlessly.
The earliest definition of a freak, she’d learned, was a baby who wouldn’t shut up -- babies born to the Evans family were quiet and obedient. A baby girl who kept her mum awake, and took away attention from her sister, all while disturbing her father’s much need of peace and quiet after long shifts at work, when she screamed and sobbed all night long.
Her hair was red, her eyes were bright green, and Evanses were brunettes or blondes. Neither did they have huge feet or short stature, all of which Lily seemed to posses. At family gatherings, she stuck out like a sore thumb, always looking and feeling misplaced. Why did she have to inherit her grandmother’s fiery red locks? Why couldn’t she be normal and be an Evans?
“You’re adopted,” Petunia had teased, once upon a time. And her cousins, who’d come to visit, thought it would be funny to jump on the bandwagon. And as Lily cried and protested that she wasn’t some misplaced foundling, and Petunia and the others scolded for ever saying such things, Lily soon learned the next definition of a freak. A sore thumb, the odd one out -- the ugly duckling.
Her magical abilities were a catalyst -- it was then that the word freak was carved into her bones and emblazoned into her being. Petunia was sour and her father was shocked and her mother taken aback. Even when McGonagall had come to their door to debrief the family of Lily’s abilities and future and education, it was like the elephant in the room.
An official freak, she’d become -- the kids on the street only ever played with one of the Evans sisters, for the other kept to herself and only ever was with one other child in the area -- the Snape boy, who had been equally branded as a freak as well. Lily didn’t know how much Petunia had said about her to all of her friends.
When Petunia’s friends did come over, one summer after her first year, Lily upstairs, creeping down the stairs just enough to see but be unseen, wishing she could be a part of the sleepover. She woke up the next morning with freak written on her forehead in permanent marker -- the girls had snuck up to her room and wrote it while she slept. Lily burst into tears, but wouldn’t tell on her mother, and instead, spent hours in the bathroom trying to scrub it off (because underage magic wasn’t allowed), only to be forced out by her mother, who then proceeded to scold her sister and have her grounded.
At Hogwarts, freak was quickly replaced with mudblood, which carried the same weight as her old title did. Because of this, her first friend, wouldn’t sit with her and was embarrassed of her, because of the friends he had. The blood supremacist friends he had, who disapproved of their friendship and, in turn, turned him into a monster for the dark arts.
She resents the word freak, and reprimands any and all students who use the word so liberally.
To this day, despite her magical prowess, intelligence and multiple affirmations that she wasn’t a freak anymore, that she was loved and accepted for who and what she had become, it’s still something Lily hasn’t shaken off.
She was a fighter. She really was. I’ve watched people tear her down, and then ask for her help. And she would help them. She would spend hours helping them. I’ve always admired and hated that part of her.
She is a fighter, with thick skin and a heart the size of a fist -- but like most of the soldiers in the war, she was a child forced to grow up too fast, thrown into the fray of toil and fire and tears. It shaped it, melded her, hardened her, but Lily Evans keeps fighting. She fights for the future, for her friends and for herself. It has consumed every bit of her and she knows she fights for what is true and what is right.
A loving mother’s death, a grieving daughter sent to eulogize.
Lily Evans is ridden with grief and above all guilt.
RE: Mrs Evans’ Funeral.
“Grief is like an ocean;
it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing.
Sometimes the water is calm, sometimes it can
be overwhelming.
All we can do is learn to swim.” --Vicki Harrison
Truth is, Lily Evans didn’t know how to swim.
“ -- Thank you all, for coming today. ”
Her voice shook and she knew it, and the catalyst to her tears would be looking up at the crowd, scanning the faces that she knew and didn’t, seeing all of their weary and tear stained faces. And yet, she still did, green eyes cast onto the throng of people that sat on wooden chairs painted white, and caught sight of those who she remembered. Nancy Lee, her mother’s childhood best friend, the woman who brought her family a bottle of wine and sweets every time she came home from her travels. Gene Lloyd, the gardener down the street, who always showed up at their door every Sunday morning with a bouquet of flowers. The parents of Petunia’s many friends, those of whom her mother had entertained and chatted with all those years ago. Her father, in his best suit, sitting right beside her sister who cradled his shaking hand in hers. And James, who sat sandwiched between two neighbors, who returned her pained gaze, nodding his head as if to urge her on to speak.
And to be frank, she wasn’t sure if she could speak. Lily Evans felt like her throat had ran dry of all the words to say; her head was muddled and she felt like the darkness of the black clothes she donned. Her legs quivered but her feet were rooted onto the grass, the heels of her shoes digging into the earth underfoot. She could see the casket to her left at the corner of her eye, and as soon as the reality dawned on her, hitting her like a brick wall, her lip began to quiver as well. Suddenly, she felt as though she should just sit down, because she felt like she would shatter at any given moment, and that her knees would lock and give in -- she could see James poised to stand up, as if he would need to race over and catch her. But she cleared her throat and spoke, fingers shuffling the cards in her hands.
“ A-As you may know, I am -- I was Rosemary’s daughter, ” It cut like a knife to say that, one little replacement in a fragment of a sentence managing to crumble her, a shaky breath escaping her lips. Her eyes were glued to the paper her shaking fingers clung onto, taking a deep breath to collect herself. Ice water felt like it trickled down her spine as it settled that she was eulogizing her own mother, the mother who loved her and embraced her freakishness. And now she was paying the ultimate price, for having loved and embraced her freak of a daughter and attempts to understand the Wizarding world -- death. Lily remembered the day so clearly -- she was in town with some friends, celebrating the end of her final school year; Petunia was on a date with Vernon; her father was at work. And she came home to see her mother lying dead on the floor of their kitchen; it was obvious that this was no work of a muggle criminal -- the valuables, jewelry and what money they kept at home was untouched; the doors and windows were unbroken and untouched, as if nobody had even entered in the first place. Before she even knew it, she was in tears and the Wizarding Police were there -- the works of deatheaters, most definitely. Petunia yelled at her, in tears too, blaming her, to the point that she had to be taken away from the scene; her father stood in frozen shock, the love of his life taken away.
A sob hit her then, the ragged, pained cry hitting the air with a pang.
“ I know many of you knew her just as I did. Loving, caring, beautiful both inside and out. Her heart was the size of her fist, tenfold. All she ever did was love her family to the core, from the tips of her toes to the hair on her head, and it is so unfair that she was taken away from us so quickly. ”
Her words were genuine, another breathy sob wracking her system at the thought of it all -- her mother, killed before she could even see any of her daughters be wed, have grandchildren and barely even cross her 50s. All because of me, Lily thought. Caught in the crossfires of a war she didn’t even need to be involved in, only so through her daughter with her so-called dirty blood. If she hadn’t spoke up all those years at Hogwarts and jumped headfirst into the war, her mother wouldn’t have died. The threat wouldn’t have been dangled on the rest of her family -- the words were painted in blood on her kitchen wall, making it difficult to forget. But to their muggle friends and family, they had to make an alibi, a different story because god knows how they would react to their beloved Rosemary Evans killed by a terrorist organization in a world they barely knew anything about. Lily swallowed, somewhat returning back to reality, realizing that there was a mass of people waiting for her to continue, to honour her mother with her words.
“ William Cullen Bryant once said, ‘And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief,’ -- and it is true. Mum just turned 48 in the spring, and for her fiftieth, she had big plans, ” a shaky laugh made its way through her lips. “ But unfortunately, they won’t be lived through. However, all of us carry mum in our hearts, forever, with the memories that we had with her. And she’s up there, in the clouds and dancing in the stars, watching over us all. ”
She said it all with finesse, having composed herself enough to even squeeze in a small, tiny smile at the thought of her mother dancing in the stars. For the sake of the guests, for the sake of her family, for the sake of her own mind. But on the inside, there was this voice that drummed and insisted, on and on, gradually getting louder and louder --
YOU CAUSED IT. YOU KILLED HER.
YOU CAUSED IT. YOU KILLED HER.
“ Rosie Evans, loving wife, daughter, friend and above all, mother. ”
At last, her smile had crumbled, and as she walked to her seat, crumbled and fell apart in tears, soon finding herself sobbing into James’ arms. The entirety of the rest of the ceremony was almost a blur -- one right after the other, each of the friends and family that had come to pay their respects in speech did so; anecdotes and fond memories just a twist of words to Lily, who still sat there, shaking. And then the fear set in -- the realization that the very same monsters who had killed her mother could be there, watching, enjoying the sight that they had orchestrated. The occasional looking over her shoulder turned into almost every minute, tense and paranoid and above all sickened at the mere possibility, Lily grew agitated, almost hysterical, and kept it bottled up enough until the end of the ceremony when the guests had dispersed.
She spent those moments after, pleading for her sister and father to stay safe and take care, insisting on arranging new living conditions for her father, all while being in tears. Her heart yearning to tell them that they were possible targets but she knew she couldn’t bear the thought of them not understanding and being dangled into danger even more.
And the words, they kept drumming on. Every day, every night, every waking moment spent without having anything else in her mind, and slipping in when she least expected it.
YOU CAUSED IT. YOU KILLED HER. YOU CAUSED IT. YOU KILLED HER. YOU CAUSED IT. YOU KILLED HER. YOU CAUSED IT. YOU KILLED HER. YOU CAUSED IT. YOU KILLED HER. YOU CAUSED IT. YOU KILLED HER. YOU CAUSED IT. YOU KILLED HER. YOU CAUSED IT. YOU KILLED HER.
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