Disclaimer: As I am a middle-class brunette Filipina instead of a filthy-stinking-rich blonde Brit, I can hardly pass myself off as the owner of Harry Potter, can I?

AN (04/08/08): This is a re-write of the first chapter, Princess Lily Tells Her Tale. I didn't really like how the first version went; it didn't seem up to my usual standards. Like I said earlier, this chapter is a re-write. You might want to read it, because a lot of things have been changed.

Chapter One: Princess Lily Tells Her Tale

Silently, I contemplated the various hairpins and ornamented combs on my dresser. Perhaps I could gouge my eyes out. No, too messy. A quick thrust to the heart, maybe? Mm, no. Too slow.

Betrothals. I think—no, I know that's where all this started. Randomly pick out some society chit and pair her up with a young, foppish nobleman and hope they get along. It's ridiculous.

And such an arrangement is how I met His Royal Highness James Potter, Prince of Gryffindor.

But before I continue my story, let me introduce myself. My name is Lily Susan Katherine Evans. Hardly anyone ever uses all the names though (unless I'm being formally announced or in a whole lot of trouble with Mother). Mostly, people just call me Lily.

I was born a year after my older sister Petunia (or, if you like to get into specifics, Petunia Annabel Margaret Evans), to Jacob Evans II, King of Ravenclaw, and his wife, Susan Greer-Evans, Queen of Ravenclaw. As was tradition in the royal Evans family, female children were given the names of flowers. My late grandfather's late sister was named Jasmine, and my own father's sister was named Rose. Sadly for Petunia and I, giving female children two middle names was a tradition of the Greer family, my mother's people. As it was, Queen Susan's full name was Susan Annabel Ophelia Greer-Evans. Quite a mouthful, eh?

Even during the early days of our childhood, it quickly became apparent that Petunia and I were as different as different could be. I inherited Mother's dark red hair and her startlingly almond-shaped green eyes, her perfectly-shaped oval face and delicately-formed figure. Petunia had also received Mother's slender face and frame, but she had Father's pale blue eyes, aristocratic nose, and broad forehead, which gave the impression of a portrait cramped up in a too-small frame. Well, a peach and a mushroom both have lovely tastes, but you certainly can't put the two together—and that is the cruel trick Mother Nature played on my sister.

Physical appearance wasn't the only aspect Petunia and I differed in. When Petunia was four and I three, our formal education began. We received tutoring in literature, language, needlework, dancing, etiquette, mathematics, geography, art, and music. I took to my studies like a bird takes to flight, the exception being needlework. Petunia, on the other hand, was an average student at best. However, she excelled at needlework, whereas I was absolutely dismal in this field.

When Petunia was ten, Mother chose for her a respectable companion. Ten-year-old Lady Valerie Morgan, the daughter of the Earl of Pennhollow, became Petunia's lady-in-waiting.

Lady Valerie was very pretty. She had long blonde curls and baby-blue eyes framed with long lashes, and a smooth peaches-and-cream complexion. She was also a smart and talented girl, and Mother thought Lady Valerie's aptitude would rub off on Petunia.

Well, I can safely say that nothing of the sort happened. Instead, Petunia grew to idolize Lady Valerie, although the girl was a year younger than she. As young as she was, Valerie was a spiteful girl, jealous of Petunia's status as a princess, and began to feed my poor sister with lies that crippled her already low self-esteem.

"It's Lily's fault, don't you see?" one of the maids told me she had heard Valerie whispering to Petunia. "Have a look at the girl. Look at how lovely she is, and how brilliant and gifted. She far outshines you, and so everyone keeps comparing you to Lily. 'How pretty the younger one is, but the older one is so very ugly and dull,' they say."

It came as no surprise to me when Petunia began to show signs of resentment. I constantly tried to repair our relationship, but always Valerie was there, ready to hiss more lies into Petunia's ear.

And so began a year of torment from my sister and her lady-in-waiting. They constantly played cruel tricks on me, not even bothering to conceal from me the fact that they were the culprits. Foolish child that I was, I never told Mother or Father anything, thinking that, perhaps, if I kept my peace, Petunia might befriend me again.

When I turned ten, Mother found for me my own lady-in-waiting. She decided on the young Lady Cassandra Meadowes, the daughter of the Duke of Silverholt. Cassandra's father, Lord Edward Meadowes, was probably the wealthiest and most powerful man in the kingdom, second only to my father, of course. Mother couldn't have chosen better, for with Cassandra as my lady-in-waiting, the friendship between the two most prominent men in Ravenclaw was cemented.

Cassandra made for a lovely lady-in-waiting. She was only ten years old, but already she had a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. She was beautiful, not quite as beautiful as Valerie, I'll admit, but beautiful enough. She had chestnut brown hair that glinted red and blonde in the sunlight, and almond-shaped hazel eyes. She had an athletic sort of build, very slender but fast-looking, rather like a deer.

The Meadowes family had long had reputations of being staunchly loyal to the royal family, and Cassandra was no different. The underlying loyalty was soon enhanced by the closeness that developed between Cassandra and me, and unfortunately for Petunia and Valerie, Cassandra did not take her job as my lady-in-waiting lightly.

From then on, every practical joke that Petunia and Valerie played on me was immediately avenged. I remember one particularly enjoyable trick that Cassandra played. She emptied out all the vials, pots, jars, and bottles containing Petunia's and Valerie's cosmetics and replaced the makeup with indigo-colored dye—the kind that took a week or more to wear off.

Luckily for us, Petunia and Valerie did not go to Mother or Father either. Perhaps it was a matter of pride—I know if were an eleven-year-old girl, I'd be embarrassed if I were tricked by a younger, elfin little slip of a child—but in any case, the feud continued without any interference from Mother or Father.

As we grew older, the practical jokes turned into verbal sparring. Petunia and I mostly left Valerie and Cassandra to that—it was quite amusing to watch them. Admittedly, both were so acerbic with each other that these fights often ended with them descending into a glaring contest.

When I was seventeen, I received the news that so changed my life. A betrothal.

And that is where this story really begins.

AN: Anyone see the line from the novel Memoirs of a Geisha?