I sometimes thought that the world would dangle on a string for me, that lines would shoot out of my fingertips, in crisscrossing scribbles, to form a masterpiece at the farthest corner of my faded parchment. I remember those days at my desk, when the sunlight beamed across my face and all I had to do was close my eyelids and everything would vanish. Everything except her.
She always started off as a blotched point with uneven edges. With my quill in hand, I would think about the way she walked, graceful and to some extent, steady. Each step she took was like a silent declaration to the world: Here I am. I would subconsciously fill in the empty curves as I thought about her other consistencies. There was her flaming red hair, which was always in that ponytail until seventh year, and more noticeably, her unnervingly high marks for every class.
I would then add a curved completely disjointed line around my blotch-turned-circle while I watched her slender wrist swishandflick play inside my head. Short and quick strokes would appear with every mental rotating movement until I reached the point where I began. It seemed like the constant struggle for years; my fight to get some sort of attention and hers to be completely rid of me. Somehow I always ended up exactly where I had begun: face down in an unpleasant position.
I could feel her constant sadness that lurked just beneath the perfect smile. The feeling wasn’t like anything else. It was divided into hundreds of different strands, just enough so that I could never grasp all of them at once. I would start to draw dashes a little above my blotch and they always startled me when the dashes built up at first and slowly thinned out. Even though the short lines disappeared in the end, they were just like her sadness, always there. No matter how far down I dug, no matter how many layers I removed, would still be just there.
I wanted her to be happy. I needed her to be happy. So I did what any lost person would do. I made a pair. My lines duplicated themselves until a set of scribbles stared at me from the blank parchment. There. Everything is balanced, everything should be alright now, I thought. But there was something missing so I absentmindedly added a bit of Potter into the mix. First, a lonely curve that had no meaning in the world, but soon more lonely curves started to magic themselves to the paper and they made a whole.
Suddenly, her brilliant emerald eyes would appear in my brain and took up residence there. They twinkled and glared at me. I would defend myself (mentally of course) with pursed lips and connected my strokes to make a mouth, one that was indifferent to the rest of the world.
I would start pondering her free spirit that was captive only by her own limits. Her expressive hands came into view and I closed my eyes to hold them. I let my hand loose. It created long, flowing contours that mapped out my parchment. They took on shape and volume as I clasped onto her fingers. The lines curved like commas as our fingers ghosted over each others, each vein and knuckle. Her palms would stroke mine the same way as the first time we touched. Our separate hands and fingers would meld into one, so that I could never tell where she ended and I begun, even during those years at Hogwarts. My hand and heart nearly ached as the line that defined her face appeared, the line that separated her from home.
I could not leave it at that though because her story, our story does not end. As I drew the curve of her neck, the place I know so well, more now then back then. I could imagine her insurmountable grace, which was only supported by her many flaws. They weren’t really flaws though, how can one ever find a flaw in his lover? The way she distanced herself when she needed me most could never be a flaw. Her want when she finally let me in made every second, every untouched part of her- mine, an extension of James Potter.
I would draw a pair of lines, the muscles of her neck: the component that supported Lily and held the vein that gathered her life in less than an inch. This time I would let the ink run. This part of Lily was me. My hands, my body, my being held her up as she did for me. This was where we came together; every pulse was a tribute to one another. And when I look back, it was inevitable.
Lily always had an air about her that demanded respect and yet had a tint to it. The tint had confused and grabbed onto my interest for ages, up until a year ago when we finally became one. I realized that the tint to Lily Evans wasn’t bravery or intelligence, though both traits were definitely present. The tint was passion. It was Lily’s passion for life.
I still have those drawings from my schooldays. They are stored away under our mattress, to the left of my putrid green socks that have a hole in the left toe. I’ve never shown Lily my countless sketches of her that crowd the parchment where my notes should have been. But one day, most likely when we do our spring cleaning in December, she’ll find them. She will ask me about them with her eyes. And I will answer her back, this time with all I’ve got to offer because now Lily and I are the same. I will be able to tell her about every single line and stroke, about every dash and curve, and how each one serves a purpose. They each represent a part of her, each amazingly wonderful, gutsy, and undeniably stubborn particle that make up Lily Evans Potter.
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