disclaimer: i own not the world of harry potter, nor its characters and plot.
| THINK OF THE PATRON SAINT OF SACRIFICE |
lily evans potter.
and when they think of lily potter, they think of love and sacrifice. never of selfishness and hate.
they will never mention how she looked at the child in her arms with disgust and pity—he was so pure, so beautiful; to grow up in a world of such ugly and taint and hatred and be corrupted and broken was almost indecent; was indecent. and she hated herself because she knew, but she kept the child anyways.
they will never mention how much she, at first, loathed the man james potter. he was so careless and free (and she sort of wished that was how she could have been, and maybe that's why they get married) and he wasn't the sort to cling foolishly to hope but to throw himself headfirst into danger. they will never mention how when he first asked her out, on the landing to the common room, his friends a bit off, she turns her back and slams the door. they will never mention how she can't sleep for three days after, and dreams of messy black hair, and laughing eyes (james potter, james potter, james potter).
they will never mention how she screamed at petunia because she was so narrow and she'd never find love in vernon dursley and she threw away romance for practicality. petunia alone will remember the look on lily evans' face as she is dragged away by both james and Sirius on petunia's wedding day—she alone is the living witness of the disbelief, and the loathing, and the revulsion.
lily potter knew hate; it lived in the world where she was the mother with the baby and the husband with the messy black hair, and the sister who wouldn't speak to her, and the friends who die in vain and are shot down like birds.
they will never remember how she hates; hates with such fury; such fieriness. they will never remember the intensity that was lily potter's hatred.
because she was lily goddamn potter, the patron saint of love and sacrifice, and maybe that made everything else irrelevant.
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