- Prologue: Eternity of Youth -

I wonder, from time to time, what the world must look like to a dying person. We've all heard stories of a blinding white light, the flip-book of memories racing before our eyes, maybe the odd supernova of colors here or there. As for me, I've never died; I couldn't advise you on which of these I would even claim to see. it's all very much a thought-experiment to me, a dark pool I dip my toes in mainly because I am not sure if it will ripple - or what it could mean if it doesn't.

For my thought-experiment, I imagine that time is no longer sequential to a man or woman lying on his or her deathbed.

Entertain this example:

Police are sealing shut a dark body bag. The street is blocked with orange and white barricades; a neon-clad deputy is redirecting traffic to a nearby intersection. The road, recently paved with fresh tar, is still pitch black; the outline of the victim's body has been chalked onto the pavement in white. Two gloved workers examine the murder sit and a blood smear expert kneels by the sidewalk, photographing the fine red spray that's colored up the concrete. The body is slammed into the boot of a van and driven away.

All of this happens as a function of time; linear, always moving forward. But to the dead man, time spun off its track the second the bullet struck; the two minutes it took him to die were spent remembering his regrets. Even after all these years, he recalls that he never took action when the schoolyard bully called his sister names, so he apologizes to her as his heart beats out its dying rhythm. He sees his sister's face and remembers the time she cleaned out the bicycle wound he'd won from speeding down a hillside without having bothered beforehand to put on a set of kneepads. Although he has never been religious, his last thought is of the Rosary.

Or even this one:

An old woman is lying in a hospital bed, and her family finally decides to turn off her ventilator. Foggily, in a dream, she thinks she's nine years old, fishing in a creek with her brother or father or friend, her lungs hooked to a pump siphoning each breath backward, forward, and backward again with the strangest current she's ever seen in water. She is vaguely aware of the pressure of her daughter's fingers and tries to squeeze back, feeling her frailness as a memory of her exhaustion after the birth of that baby girl fifty years before. She dies quietly and without pain.

Rendered artistically, I suppose some deaths might look like this:

The sun is setting over an ocean. Thrusting high above the sixty-feet waves is a one-thousand-foot cliff, a monument of rock that halts each wave in an explosion of spray, each drop of water a prism flying high into the heavens - one possible lens through which this person might be seeing their past. Sunlight refracts as it hits the mist and splits into red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, and violet, each color illuminating the truths of the dying person's life.

Somewhere else on Earth, a child sees that rainbow, reaches up, and tries to touch it. She isn't sure what he expects a rainbow to feel like, but she discovers it's just air and a spray of water, perhaps raindrops. She can't hold it, not really, so she wonders why it is that she can see it. She only knows that it stirs something inside her, and that if she tilts her head a certain way, it disappears.

x.x.x.x.x.x

My grandparents had an oceanfront cottage on the northern Atlantic coast. Petunia and I often spent weeks of our summers there when we were young, building sandcastles, bodysurfing, or hunting for seashells. We would play with the other children who frequented that stretch of the beach—a pair of stocky, freckled twins named Edwin and Noah, who both liked to roughhouse with me. This being the case, I almost invariably found myself being dragged into the water—careening headfirst, rather—and had to thrash my way back to the surface while the twins splashed and wrestled to the sound of Petunia squealing each time the water struck her legs.

Once, though, when we were six years old, the boys decided to pass the time by throwing rocks into the surf. Naturally this resulted in a rock-throwing contest, with me as the smallest and most ridiculous of the three contestants. Edwin, the twin with the longer range, tried to show me how to hold the rocks before letting go.

"Like this, see," he said impatiently, putting an oval-shaped piece of granite into my hand. "No, don't put all your fingers on it. Just two."

"But then it falls out unless I hold it really tight."

"You have to throw it before it falls out, stupid."

I scowled and pitched the rock as hard as I could. It flew roughly five feet and plunked into the water with a small splash.

"No, not like that."

"You're making me mess up."

"Am not."

"Yes you are. Bugger." I snatched another slab of rock out of the surf and threw this one as well, this time flinging it off to the side. It skipped twice before disappearing under the surface.

Just then Petunia approached us, incongruously tall and lanky in her nine years, the sand and briny spray making long blond ropes of her hair. "Lily. How did you do that?"

Faintly awed and bemused by what I had accomplished, I shrugged and said, "I just did."

"You still throw like a girl," Edwin scoffed.

That evening, after the other children had gone, Petunia and I stood alone on the beach, she watching me with her arms crossed and her pail dangling from her fingers, and I trying to re-create the incident that had occurred in the afternoon.

"I bet that skip was a freak accident," Petunia said in bored tones as I tried in vain to get a piece of round stone to skim the surface of the waves again. "You do have a lot of those."

I glared at her and flung another rock into the water. "I do not." Plunk. There it went.

"Give it up, Lily."

"No."

"You're just being dumb."

"You're just being mean." This time, I picked up a disc-shaped stone and tried flicking my wrist as I threw it; I gasped when it struck the water, bounced, and flew into the next rolling wave. "Look! I told you."

Petunia rolled her eyes. "That one only skipped because it was flat."

"So?"

"So you can't skip every rock," she said, sticking her nose in the air.

"I dare you to try it. I bet you can't."

This time she glared at me. "Just watch me."

I put my fists on my hips. "Then go ahead."

Petunia stared at me for a moment, then hesitantly waded another few feet into the surf. She made a face as the sandy water hit her legs and splashed her thighs, holding her pail high above her head as she bent down to fish a rock out of the mud. She recoiled as the water soaked her hair and stained her swimsuit. Finally she straightened up, scowling and holding a flat piece of stone between the tips of her fingers.

"Let's have a contest," she said. "You find one too and throw yours first, and then I'll throw mine."

"I'm not going to let you copy me."

"I am not going to copy you, you little brat," Petunia said, flushing.

"Ehh, you're the one who's acting like a brat," I scoffed, kicking water in her face. She gasped and wiped it out of her eyes with her wrist, spitting.

"Lily Evans! Stop that!"

"What're you going to do, tell on me?"

"Yes!"

I rolled my eyes and folded my arms. "Oh, I'm so scared."

Red-cheeked and angry, Petunia hurled her rock as far as she could, at which it struck the surf with an insolent splash. Then she turned, slapped some water in my direction, and flounced back up to our grandparents' cottage, her pail swinging at her elbow. Her feet left muddy tracks in the sand.

x.x.x.x.x.x

There were times during our childhood when Petunia and I got along quite well. My bouts of accidental magic had a tendency to get me in trouble, and these were the times when Petunia shone like the big sister she had always wanted to be. I was the hapless little sister who made worms leap out of the ground and flatten themselves over my classmates' faces, and she was the wise older sister who explained everything away with an "Oh, shove it, Lily's just quicker than you, now get out of my way before I tell the Headmaster on you," and march me off to a wash room to tut-tut at me as she scrubbed dirt off my fingers. Naturally I protested and argued when she did this, but privately I was grateful. Petunia had a way of making other children feel stupid for looking at me as though I were a freak, and because she did so, I knew she loved me, in her bitter, insecure way. And for that I loved her back.

But then, of course, there was the day I received the letter from Hogwarts. I had no trouble believing it; I hardly questioned the contents of that letter until both my parents had read it. You're a witch, the handwriting in green ink said, and you've been enrolled in a school where you'll learn all number of spells. You'll learn to hold a wand and levitate lead; you'll learn to transfigure matter and heal wounds without bandages. You'll learn to defend yourself with magic.

"You'll learn how to make cards disappear and pull rabbits out of hats, more like," Petunia snarled, snatching the letter and whisking it out of reach when I lunged for it. "What a load of tripe. What a load of crap. What are you going to do with magic? Bewitch my wardrobe so that it flies out at me every time I open my chest of drawers and—"

"Give me the letter back, you bloody—"

She was laughing now, a bitter, high-pitched screech. "'Talented young witches and wizards!'" she repeated, cackling. "What a joke! Lily, my dear, you don't really believe this is true, do you? So brilliant and you still fall for this! Hark, magic really does exist!"

"Petunia. Give me my letter!" I was chasing her around the room now, stumbling over furniture as she darted out of my reach, holding the letter over her head.

"Oh, look, Lily wants it back. She thinks it's a magical passport to fairyland! What, Lily, you don't actually believe this, do you? Come on, you're my little sister, you can't possibly be that stupid-"

"Give it BACK!" I tackled her to the floor and tried to pin her arms down so I could pry the letter out of her fist. She was still laughing, her face red, blond hair all over the place, ropy muscles standing out on her bony arms as she attempted to wrestle me off of her. "What the hell is wrong with you!" I yelled.

"Ah-ah-ah, none of that, Lily! Mummy'll be angry!"

"Petunia, God, what's got into you! Give it back, what is wrong with you-"

Petunia kept laughing, gasping now, her face growing redder by the moment. She was out of breath; and never one to miss an opportunity when I saw one, I shoved my knee against her chest and snatched the letter out of her hand. Just as she began to thrash and lunge for the parchment again, Dad burst into the room, shouting.

"Girls!" In a moment he had yanked me off Petunia's chest and pulled her up off the floor. "Stop that this instant! Lily, what do you mean by pinning your sister against the floor? And Petunia, what the blazes did you think you were doing?"

"I got a letter," I explained furiously, breathing hard, "and she thinks she can just steal it, as if that's going to stop me from going. I just got enrolled in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm a witch, Dad. And if you don't believe it, read that letter. It'll tell you everything you want to know."

"She's got that right," Petunia cackled. "Burn her at the stake, that's what I say. I always knew she was a freak!"

Dad grabbed her by the shoulders and circled her around so that she couldn't lunge at me again. "You're going to repeat that to me later and explain to me exactly why you think that sort of talk is acceptable, because it is not, and I will not tolerate you even joking that Lily should be killed. Do you understand me, Petunia?"

She was shaking with laughter, so badly that she couldn't breathe. She nodded almost imperceptibly and kept laughing. When Dad let her go, she collapsed against the wall, gasping.

"You're fourteen years old, Petunia. You should know better than to pick fights with Lily over a letter. Apart from being completely immature, this is—"

"Hah. Immature! I have my reasons."

"Would you care to share any of them?"

She lifted her chin and gave a proud smile, but it was easy to see the tears forming in her eyes. There was a small tremor in her voice when she spoke. "No, I would not like to share them at all, thank you very much."

"Then you'll put your reasons away and never act on them again," Dad snapped. Then he rounded on me. "And you! You are not to attack Petunia under any circumstances. She is your sister."

"I hate her," I said, my throat tight. "And she isn't my sister. I don't know what you think she is, but if she can say that shit about me, I am not related to her."

"I'll have a talk with her. Now tell your sister you're sorry."

"What!"

"I'm waiting."

I stared at him, open-mouthed, unable to believe the punishment he was demanding I inflict upon myself.

"I'll wait all night if you make me, Lily."

I waited a moment longer to see if he would stand his ground. When I saw his face harden, I rounded on my sister and thrust out my hand. "Petunia, I apologize for retaliating. I should've known better than to fight with you, because you were obviously going to give the letter back on your own. I'm sorry you've always secretly hated me for being what you aren't. I'm sorry I'm not just your stupid little sister." With that I wrenched my hand out of hers, stuffed the letter in my pocket, and stormed out of the room, my eyes blurry with tears.

x.x.x.x.x.x

I was always getting into fights, of course; not by intention, but often because I simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time - and then having the nerve to simply not-disappear. There was one incident at Hogwarts where I tripped on my way from the dormitories to the common room; my books went flying, my uniform ripped, and I went crashing down the stairs, only to barrel straight into James Potter and Remus Lupin as they dodged into the stairwell with the apparent intention of avoiding a flying seat cushion. The three of us landed in a heap at the bottom of the staircase, yelling and swearing. We were thirteen years old.

"Oy! What the—watch the hell where you're going, Evans!"

Coughing, I shoved James away and scrambled to my knees, groping on the floor for my wand. "Excuse me? Who's in the bloody girls' stairwell when they're forbidden to be there? Hm?"

"Excuse me while I knock your block off," James said, putting on a high voice. "Hang on, let me snap my brassiere in your face—"

"POTTER! You little BERK—HEY! My WAND!"

"AAAGH! YOU HAVE VIOLENT TENDENCIES, EVANS! Wait, are you grabbing my zipper? Hey! Hey, Evans is trying to strip me, ha ha—"

"I think it's more like she's trying to kill you, James, I'd quit trying to cop a feel if I were you—"

"I'm not trying to kill him, I'm just trying to get my wand back, JESUS, Potter, will you give me the stupid thing so I can HEX the crap out of you—"

"Ha, you would, wouldn't you—whoa, whoa! Watch the face! OW, your nails SCRATCH! THE GLASSES, Evans, have some respect for the GLASSES!"

"Hark, I hear the voice of an idiot! HA. Die." I snatched my wand, clambered to my feet, and yanked a loose shoelace out from under James's stomach as he felt blindly under the couch for his glasses. Ten seconds later, I stomped out of the common room to study in the library, so that, perhaps, he'd stumble by a bit later and see that I'd proven my point.

x.x.x.x.x.x

Then, later on, there were the times when the fog rolled in and wouldn't clear for days.

When I was fourteen, I would sit by the window, trying to see into the wet and endless gray. I tried my hand at writing poetry about it, but gave up when the words began to look frivolous and vain. That year, I developed a venomous hatred for my own penmanship and vowed never to write poetry again.

When I was fifteen, I got lost in the Forbidden Forest with Alice Pearce, later to be Alice Longbottom. She was seventeen and had wanted to practice her dueling and concealment charms "on a terrain similar to what she'd be fighting on once she became an Auror." The other girls in her year told her they were too busy studying for N.E.W.T.s and couldn't come with her, which of course was code for something more like, "You are out of your mind and we do not understand you," so I went with her instead. I went because, while Alice was brilliant and as physically strong as the boys in her classes, her brilliance was the kind that screamed with terror, loneliness, and despair. So all afternoon we practiced Repulsion Charms, Disillusionment Charms, and Patronuses - or, rather, Alice practiced them, while I sweated with the effort of casting spells I had never used before as we stalked and dueled one another over hedges, rocks, and streams. Our fingernails became cracked and caked with dirt, and hour by hour our breathing became raw; but Alice was relentless, and as her exhaustion mounted, so did her focus.

Then came the fog. It drenched our clothes and soaked our hair. It chilled my fingers and weighed heavily in my lungs. Alice saw this as an opportunity to continue practicing under adverse conditions. I, however, struggled to find her, to see what she saw and name the things she named. I struggled, mostly, because it was night and the fog was impenetrable. Eventually, I tried to tell her so.

"I don't think we should stay out here anymore," I called out, slumping back against a rock. I was panting from trying to follow the squelch of her footsteps as she scrambled in the mud. "I can't see a damn thing anymore, Alice. I don't - I need to get back to the castle and study for O.W.L.s."

Her voice came back to me from somewhere I couldn't place. "This is how you should study for the O.W.L.s, Lily. The Defense section is all about this."

"I know, I just - I just don't think this is practical anymore, I think we've done enough. You can barely even find me - this isn't productive - "

"This is how it is," Alice said fiercely. "In the real world there's no mercy - none - you can't just quit when you feel like it - "

"Alice, come on, we're going to be expelled if we stay out here, somebody'll find out where we are and then your chances of getting into the Auror Academy will be shot. Let's go back, this isn't worth it!"

"That's not what the men would say. That's not what happens in training or war. You can't let them think you expect a break just because you're a girl!"

"What? Alice, that's not - no, that's not what I - we're just lost out here, don't you realize, we don't know which way is out of here anymore!"

Just then I felt a hand gripping my shoulder and nearly jumped out of my skin. It was Alice, slumping down next to me. I pointed my wand light towards her. Her brow was beaded with sweat.

"Frank says they try to get the girls at the Academy to burn out. It's war time, they want us at home making babies. I saw him at the Academy last week and the boys laughed at me. They laughed at me, Lily. Because I'm a girl."

I couldn't make sense of what she was saying. Just the thought of it was absurd. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! I hated it, I couldn't think of anything to say! I just stood there and got laughed at!"

"But that makes no sense - there are lots of women Aurors - "

"There are lots more men Aurors."

I didn't know what to say. I slid down into the mud and rested my back against the rock; Alice did the same. For a while we sat silently like that, soaked and covered in dirt. Eventually she spoke again.

"Thanks for coming out here with me. You didn't have to."

"Yes I did. You'd be crazy to come out here alone."

"And now you're stuck here with me until the fog clears."

I groaned. Alice wrung her hands.

"Frank punched the bloke who started it," she said. "Then they got into a full-on brawl. Just right there in the mess hall. One of the visiting Aurors who was there doing mission prep for the third years had to come in and break it up."

"Visiting Auror?" I asked, confused.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt," Alice replied, as if that answered my question. "Every three months at least one Ministry Auror goes on reduced field duty to lead third-year Academy students on real missions. Usually they're less dangerous. Frank's going to be starting his missions next year. Kingsley Shacklebolt is the one leading the third-years this spring, but he won't be there when I start in the fall - because I'm going to start in the fall. He had to break up the fight."

I didn't know what to say. "Oh."

"I think he saw me," Alice said. Suddenly she leaned forward and began to cry. "I think he knew."

x.x.x.x.x.x

When I was sixteen, I began to study the fog. It seemed that I could never get out of it, so I would go to the library every once in a while and try to find books on the weather. I would then spend my spare time flopped on my bed with them, reading about various wizards of different ages who had tried to manipulate the weather. Their arrogance fascinated me. I did not know why.

After James and I became a couple, we made it a point to sneak out of the castle whenever it was raining. He had a penchant for sucking the water off my lips when we kissed, and so the more torrential the downpour, the better he liked it.

Once we found ourselves outside in the rain and lightning. We hadn't realized how close the storm was until a resounding crash shook the wall against which I was leaning.

"Wow, shit," I remarked.

James laughed and began unfastening the buttons of my blouse. "I love how we're just standing here, waiting to be struck by lightning."

I felt his lips at the base of my throat and moaned as he worked his way down. His hair was soaked and black as coal between my fingers. "Yes, you do, don't you?"

x.x.x.x.x.x

One thing that's interesting about memory is the way it reveals us to ourselves, images of past loves and lives weaving before us as if in a dark labyrinth. The things we once were flash in and out of consciousness, waking but for one bright moment - but then, like a quickly fading dream, they fall asleep again.

It's sunny outside and I'm sprawled on the grass reading a book. Some young children are playing on the swing set twenty or thirty feet from where I'm lying, the same swing set I played on with Severus Snape when I was ten. The children are shrieking with laughter, one of them throwing himself as high up in the air as he can go before letting go of the swing and flying into the sandbox before them. I remember the look on Snape's face when I did the same and think, He mattered to me.

Then a cloud moves over the sun and the sky becomes subdued. Now I remember the hollowness of Snape's cheeks, the sunken shape of his eyes. His smile was a tight, thin puzzle I could not solve - and then, when we were older, one I flat-out refused to solve. I wanted nothing from Severus Snape, so I had nothing to give; but the less I gave, the more he clutched and struggled and screamed. I remember him and I feel sick.

One memory that stands out to me above all the others, though, is this one:

Alice's parents have just been murdered, and we're standing before their open caskets. Her mother's eyes are shut her lips rouged, her hands folded quietly on her stomach. She wears a black dress with a white lily pinned to the breast; her hair is wavy and golden. Alice's father is in black as well, and his hands, too, are folded quietly on his stomach. Death exaggerates the broadness of his shoulders, throws the scars on his face into sharp and ethereal respite. Both of them: elegantly, artistically, irretrievably dead.

Her mother had been a herbologist. Her father had been an Auror.

It's me who writes and delivers the eulogy. Alice is unable to explain to me why she wants me to do it, but her heart is set on it, so I comply with as much dignity and composure as I can. Sometimes I can see myself standing at that podium again, dressed in black; my eyes are dry, and my voice is controlled and even. It's a classic eulogy - fond memories and profound sentiments rested upon a bed of morals made for preaching. I've expressed the thoughts of the funeral congregation. I've provided a lead-in for their prayers. I'm the voice they want to hear. For a seventeen-year-old girl, I'm wise beyond my years.

Other times, though, I look back on that and see myself standing at the podium, feeling sick. My hands shake. I'm dizzy. I'm out of my depth and really just should not be there. Alice is staring at me as if she can't see me anymore, leaning back against the pew with her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes are red and her corsage is drooping. And although she never says it, I can tell that she's asking me, silently, why I can't sound a little more sincere.

Why can't I, indeed? I'm seventeen. My family is still alive. How can I possibly grasp her pain?

She thanks me after the funeral and tells me she's sorry for putting me on the spot.

"I shouldn't have asked you," she says, swirling her drink as we sit at the bar after the reception. She's staring at the ice as it clinks against the sides of her glass. "I just...I don't know what I was thinking. You told me you didn't want to do it, and I still…I'm sorry. I didn't realize. But thank you. Thank you for eulogizing my parents." She slumps over the bar and starts crying again. Soon she's feeling ill and I'm helping her into a toilet stall, holding her hair out of her face while she sobs over the bowl.

She's loud enough that the women entering the lavatory hear her, pause, and leave. But when she speaks her voice is barely audible.

Daddy, she whispers. Daddy, I hardly knew you. Please come back. I only wanted to know you.

I try to tell her he loves her and that she's always made him proud. I tell her this because, the few times that I met him, I knew it was true.

Alice can't seem to listen, but she tries to hear - she can hardly sit up straight, but she tries because she has to, so I help her up and wash her face. She has Advanced Tactical Dueling in less than two hours, and the Auror Academy is rigorous.

My father is waiting for me in the car outside the pub. I'm lost and he can see it. He's concerned for me; he's present. He has green eyes like mine and the same lips and chin. He sees the flecks of soap and vomit on my shirt and doesn't know what to say, so he pushes my hair out of my face and simply says, "Hello, lass. Want to go home?"

It's funny, this goose chase through the mazes of memory. It makes you wonder what you're looking for.

x.x.x.x.x.x

Before my grandfather died, I would sit with him on his back porch in the evenings, the two of us listening to the ever-present crash and sigh of waves along the shore. Often he would while away the entire night whittling small wooden figurines with a Swiss Army knife, a lantern perched beside him on the steps.

"How do you define wisdom?" I asked during the summer after my sixteenth birthday. "All I ever hear these days is a debate over who's wise enough to lead mankind to its inevitable demise."

Grandfather snorted. "Oh, bah," he said, carving the dorsal fin of a driftwood dolphin. He dug the blade into the dolphin's back and pried a splinter loose. "A lot of people in this world make noise, but they don't know what they're doing or what they're talking about."

I pressed my lips together and stared out at the ocean. When I didn't say anything, Grandfather cleared his throat and continued.

"I learned a couple of things while I was in the Navy, Lily. Always keep track of your socks, and don't jump into the water if there are dead guys in it, because dead guys mean blood, and blood means sharks. Oh, and you don't want to be sleeping on the bottom bunk if you hit stormy waters." He coughed. "But if there was one thing that really stayed with me, it was that life was cheap. But all of us, we clung to it anyway. If you want to be wise, you have to understand the stupid ways people cling to life, or think they're clinging to life, and you've got to be able to stay alive while they're doing it. People do the damnedest shit trying to protect themselves. Especially powerful people."

"Like…bomb entire countries and kill whole populations?"

"Yes. Like that."

"So if I want to be wise, I have to be able to survive when people are trying to kill me," I said dryly.

"More than that. Being wise means understanding the roots of other people's craziness, and then figuring what you have to do to survive without sacrificing your heart and soul."

Later, after the sun had set and Grandfather had retired for the night, I walked down to the surf and fished blindly for rocks to skip. From what I remember, I found two or three of a suitable shape. Whether they actually skipped or not, I don't know; but I like to think they did.

x.x.x.x.x.x

Wisdom.

How easy it is to throw that word like a wrench into the heavy machinery of your mind and jam every cog and wheel you've ever suffered and triumphed to create. How simple it is to muddle, how insolently it invites cliche and redefinition. And in this we all take part: "Wisdom is the ability to understand, not just know"; "Wisdom is the ability not to be misled by either end of an extreme"; "Wisdom is the ability to content yourself with the world as it is, not as you want it to be"; "Wisdom is the ability to see things not as they appear to be, but as they are". It's easy to sound wise when you're speaking in generalities, and equally easy to say, "Yes, but that's not what I meant, you've got me all wrong" or "No, no, I meant that in a different context" as soon as someone else swaggers to the table and sneeringly, meaninglessly disagrees. Arguments about problems and politics become lost in bouts of egotistical shouting, and stories are lost not only in translation, but also in reception.

It follows, then, that the only way to ensure you won't lose the argument is to derail and parry your opponent. The hidden premise here is that if you can win these petty contests of ego and semantics, you somehow know enough to be considered wise, and you are therefore qualified to comment on things other people don't understand - and therefore you are qualified, also, to lead those people into war. To defend their lives and interests, to be their trusted guardian. To speak for them. To tell their stories.

That seems to leave a bit to be desired, doesn't it?

x.x.x.x.x.x

It's raining now as I write this by the indolent light of a lantern in King's Cross train station, in a makeshift notebook of parchment and tin paperclips. I'm working my shift as night watch-woman for the Order of the Phoenix, dressed as a shabby university student waiting for her train to arrive - but the only train I'm waiting for is the Phoenix Express. This train operates within the Order's underground escape network, through which we've been smuggling people to safety for the past six months. Week by week, the numbers of Muggles and Muggle-borns we shuttle through each week have increased. We are never sure if those people, wrapped in blankets, shaking, weeping, befuddled and frantic for their loved ones, are the only ones amongst their friends and families who are being targeted or harassed. There are many more we never know existed until they turn up dead or missing. Often these are the Muggle families of witches and wizards - which begs the question: How many more were being killed on spontaneous Death Eater raids? How many might we have saved, but didn't?

And yet, miraculously, absurdly, the world continues to turn. The Phoenix Express rushes away into the night. It's my job to make sure the Death Eaters can't follow it.

That's my night shift. By day, I work as a mail clerk in a small office building with a view of an alley and a brick wall.

- Actually, that's not a fair description. I'm being deceptive. I am a mail clerk, but my job is to screen mail headed for the Ministry of Magic and vet out the letters tainted with Dark Magic. Our office exists as a collaboration between the Order, a low-lying filing clerk at the Ministry, a person at the London Owl Post Office I've never met, and an anonymous source at The Daily Prophet who, I am told, has ears in remote places. This operation came into existence about a year ago, when it became clear that the Dark Lord was planning to overthrow the Ministry.

I didn't join the Order to work in the mail room. But, from what I've been able to glean, someone saw my name on a roster of new recruits and decided that it sounded like the name of someone who would be a mail clerk, so I clicked my heels and showed up for duty. As it turns out, there are a good number of Death Eaters who seem to think that attacking the Ministry via owl post is a good idea, so it's fairly easy to remember my raison d'être even when I'm going into my eighth hour of stacking, folding, scanning, and re-addressing piles of excruciatingly dull bureaucratic mail. That being said, working as a mail clerk is still almost always an exercise in relegation. The only Order members who have ever worked the mail room have been girls around my age, maybe a little bit older, and our supervision - which comes mainly from a handful of overstretched Aurors who run constantly between their offices at the Ministry and the war rooms at Order Headquarters - is remote and mostly disinterested. I've heard it argued that they're disinterested because we, the clerks, do our jobs so well - but the truth is that everyone is disinterested, and this is because we, the clerks, have been reduced to "the girls". The girls in the mail room. The girls who tie strings. The girls who giggle and gossip while tying said strings.

Sometimes it's easy to hide behind the trope of "the girls". But mostly it just seems impossible to be seen as anything but "one of the girls".

I forgive most people for this. There's a war on and most of them are busy trying not to die, so I can grant them their resentment. When you're one of "the girls", nobody thinks you're important enough to die for your cause, and, for the most part, people here are less likely to ask you to. So I'm thankful that I'm not under pressure to go die, exactly. And yet. And yet.

I'm nineteen years old, and I have seen people do the damnedest shit trying to protect themselves. But I do not understand them. I am not wise. I only know I crave the sun - that I've seen colors dancing in the mist, but that if I tilt my head a certain way, they disappear.