Chapter 1 : The World Through The Eyes Of A Muggle Born
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~You think you know me
~But you’re wrong
~Don’t abuse me deep down I’m
~And I swear I will show you
~What I’ve got
~I am who I am
~Won’t be afraid
~To hold my head
~Won’t be what I’m not
~I am who I am
~That won’t change
~You thought you had me
~But now try
~Coz now I’m gonna show
~I can finally say
~I’m proud, so proud
~To be me
~*~ Prologue ~*~
~The world can be so different
~When viewed through different eyes
~So many things that hide
~That only I can see
~People can be blind
~Just to ignore it all, but see
~How it’s so different for me
~The things others suffer
~They don’t know what it’s like
~For anyone like who I am
~So many who can’t a give a damn
~That’s why I’m asking you to see
~See the things that I can see
~Feel it all, what I can feel
~See it through my eyes
~Tell me what you’re thinking
~Now do you see it to
~Feel the world that I live in
~Think what I do and now
~See it through my eyes
My name is Lily Evans. This is my life. If somebody tried to tell you it was easy, or simple, or that it was all perfect and meant to be, and that I had always been an everyday girl without a care in the world - somebody lied. Because it was hard as hell. But it was worth it.
Up until my eleventh birthday, you probably could have gotten away with saying those things. I was happy - or, at least, content. I had minor issues and problems, but everybody does, don’t they? I was a carefree little kid.
I wasn’t growing up in the happiest times. There was a war going on, and it effected everyone in some way, I guess. I was probably only just reaching the age of understanding then, when it all began to mean things. When it became reality. Not actors on TV with pretend guns. It was real.
I lived in Surrey, with my older sister, Petunia, and my big brother Dale. I remember my seventh birthday. Petunia was ten; Dale was fifteen. He was a nice brother. Couldn’t have asked for someone nicer. He bought me a huge purple gorilla for a present. I still have it.
The day after my birthday, he received a letter in the post. He’d been in the army cadets for about four years by then. He went away about a week after that, and I never saw him again. I understand now that he’d gone away to war, of course, but I was too young to really understand then. All I remember is that day my mother received a letter in the mail and she cried for hours. Nothing was really the same after that.
My father probably went to war, too. A lot of the men did. I wouldn’t know for sure, though. I never saw my father. We lived with our mother alone, Petunia and I. The person I had always thought was my dad had died of cancer the year before. He was a great dad. Always playing with me, telling me stories, buying me lollies. But deep down, I always knew I was different. Not blonde and brown eyed, like Petunia and Dale, like mum, who had brown eyes, or dad, who had the blonde hair in his family. No one really spoke of it, though. That’s all it was to me, I was just different. It never really occurred to me that I was different in that way until I was about ten. Petunia was thirteen then, and was at that age where she was interested in boys, and make-up, and gossiping behind other girls’s backs. Her brain started to tick then, and she came up with some terribly nasty things to annoy me with.
She tried telling me I was adopted. I didn’t believe that; even if I did have green eyes and red hair I did look remarkably like my mother. I had her nose, her eyes - well, the shape, anyway - and that couldn’t have been a coincidence. Petunia became really snotty around that age. Always being horrid to my mother and me. My mother said it was just the terrible teens and that she should start to settle down. But Petunia was downright nasty to my mother behind her back.
I knew Petunia couldn’t be right, of course, but it got me thinking. It was coincidence that I decided to pull out one of the old photo albums that day. It also just happened to be one from around the time I was born. Folded up in the front pocket was my first discovery. A letter. From a Mr Logan Evans. My supposed father. Dated eight months before I was born.
It was a brief letter; explaining how he missed everyone a lot and that he would be home soon. That the chemotherapy was like hell. That he was sorry he hadn’t been home for Christmas. That four months was a long time to be away from your family and he hoped that he’d be home within the next few weeks, even if it meant busting out of the hospital.
It didn’t take a genius to notice that it was logically impossible for this guy to be my father. Unless I was severely, and I mean severely, overdue. However, I was actually two weeks premature so it really didn’t fit. I turned the page, and let out a gasp. Luckily I was in my room, because I would have felt awful if my mother had seen what I was doing then. I had gasped because of one of the photos, you’ve probably realised. This particular photo was of a man. I didn’t recognise the face itself, but one thing really grabbed me. Those eyes. I knew them from somewhere. Then it hit me. Of course I knew those eyes; I saw them every bloody morning when I looked in the mirror. They were my eyes.
You see, I’m medium height, which is weird, because everyone else in my family is extremely tall. This guy looked a bit short. I have bright emerald eyes. Cat’s eyes, I call them. And red hair. My mother always told me it was Irish blood. Never occurred to me she’s not Irish. This guy probably was. He had black hair, but maybe further back...
The caption under the photo read one name. Tom. Looking closer I see the photo is signed, in the bottom left corner. T.M.R. - With love. Hmm. With love, huh? Why didn’t he stick around? Or maybe he went off to war. But where had he been for nine years? And my mother was married! Not very faithful on her behalf, if you ask me.
Oh well. I slammed the book shut and shoved it under my bed. Come to think of it, it’s probably still there. Then I did what I always did when I was confused - I went to Joey.
Joey Taylor-Clark was my best friend in the whole world. I had lived next door to her forever. We’d been friends since we were one year old, because our parents met in some clothing store and started talking about nappies and somehow a friendship developed. Nappies, huh? You never would have guessed, but that friendship was built on a foundation of them.
When I discovered that photo album, Joey and I had been best friends for nine years. We were in our final year of our particular level of school, and next year we would be going to Stonewall Academy. We already had our uniforms; neat, pleated grey skirts, white blouses and long socks that came up to our knees. Joey was pretty. She had dark brown hair that, in the right light, could be mistaken for black. Beautiful caramel eyes framed by long, amazing dark lashes. She had a wonderful smile. I always thought she was going to be a superstar one day. She was so gorgeous, yet she didn’t ‘use’ it. She was tomboyish; always in boy’s t-shirts and jeans, her hair always tied back in a sloppy ponytail. And the horses. Joey was horse crazy. It drove me nuts, but I patiently listened to her babble on about them. She was my friend, after all.
‘Hey mum, I’m going to Joey’s, OK?’
‘Sure honey. Tell her mum I said hi.’
My mum was always like that. Pretty cool and relaxed.
I nervously straightened my hair as I knocked on the door to the Taylor/Clark household. I remember always doing that - like a ritual. One day I had gone their and Joey’s dad had opened the door. He scared the hell out of me. He was really big and menacing. He actually refused to let me see Joey until I brushed my hair! Luckily, he was always out. That day, Joey’s mum answered the door.
‘Hello, Lilian dear. How are you?’
‘Fine thanks, Mrs Taylor. Is Joey home?’
‘Of course. She’s up in her room. Go straight up.’
I thanked Mrs Taylor and ran up the stairs to Joey’s room.
‘Hey, Kanga! You home?’ I called, knocking on her door. Joey threw the door open.
‘Joey!’ I mocked, acting just as surprised. She grinned at me and pulled me inside her room.
I loved Joey’s room. It was full of lava lamps and fibreoptic lamps, disco and mirror balls, bead curtains, streamers, and all sorts of colourful things suspended from the ceiling. Most of all, I liked the fish tank. It was embedded in the wall, and had some sort of light inside that made it look like the water was changing colours. And the fish! She had about twenty fish - all beautiful tropical ones with long, rainbow fins and large eyes.
She had posters everywhere. At the moment they were of horses, but I wondered how long it would last. Only a year ago she had been obsessed with dolphins. She had a four poster bed with gorgeous red satin hangings and lacy drapes. Pillows in the shapes of hearts, moons, stars, clouds... I never got tired of exploring that room.
‘Hello. What did you want? Anything in particular, or did you miss me?’ Joey laughed.
‘Actually, I needed someone to talk to.’
‘Well, I don’t want to talk about it in particular. I wanted to talk about something else and get my mind off it.’
‘OK, cool. How does horses sound?’ she grinned evilly at me and I groaned. She knew that I didn’t particularly like her many pony friends.
‘Not good,’ I said, crinkling up my nose.
‘I know. How about... your birthday! It’s like, next week!’
I nodded my head, and we spent the rest of the day planning an extravagant party filled with ball gowns and crystal chandeliers that I had no hope of affording.
If was fun, but.