Lily Evans loved to paint. It was the one thing that always calmed her – soothed her. As a little girl she would find herself afraid of strange things that happened around her; anytime Petunia would scare or become cross with her. She always found solace with a paint brush and blank canvas. She would pull her hair into a messy ponytail, don an old shirt and lose herself in colors and soothing sounds of bristles lightly grazing the paper in front of her. She felt alive.

Lily Evans loved to paint. It was always her escape – her release. Once she found out why strange things happened around her, and found herself immersed in a world she never imagined, she kept a firm grasp on where she had come from with paint and a blank canvas. When it all seemed too unbelievable to be true, she would lock herself away and lose herself in the beauty while using a different kind of magic. Creativity.

Lily Evans loved to paint. It kept her from murdering James Potter. When he and his pack of troublemakers made her life exceedingly difficult, bending and pushing the rules as far as they would go; it was how she dealt with anger. She found a room, it seemed to be there when she needed it; inside she screamed as her paintbrush slashed through the air. She watched the paint splatter across the canvas. Stupid bloody Potter.

Lily Evans loved to paint. It became her only source of comfort after the unthinkable. The one person she always counted on, who was always there, betrayed her horribly. Mudblood he spat. She felt her world crash down. Inside her secret room, she cried silent tears; her brush slowly and sadly made its way across the canvas. Black and grey shapes formed; they matched her soul. It surprisingly numbed the pain.

Lily Evans loved to paint. It helped her deal with the confusion of not exactly hating James Potter. All summer, before her final year at Hogwarts, she stayed in her room and painted out her feelings for him. She watched the change in her art mimic the change of her heart. The colors were lighter and the shapes softer.

Lily Potter loved to paint. With her swollen belly and feet, she moved around the empty room. This time the blank canvas was a nursery; she felt freer and more alive than ever before. She smiled and hummed to herself as the snowy white owls covered the powder blue surfaces around her. James watched on from the doorway. She positively glowed.

Lily Potter loved to paint. But it would not help her now. Tears streamed down her face as she begged for her son's life to be spared. His red eyes – unforgiving; terror seized her body as she shielded her son from him. Maybe he would one day find comfort with a brush and canvas, she hoped. Cold laughter and green light filled the room; Lily Potter's blood painted the walls.