Chapter Text
Lily woke up with a groan that seemed to echo from her toes all the way to the tips of her fiery red hair. The past few days had turned into a fuzzy blur of Christmas joy and way too much chocolate, leaving her in a state of blissful, yet unproductive, hibernation. She stretched, scratching an itch just above her ankle, and stumbled out of bed, her feet softly padding on the well-worn carpet.
Christmas, she had to admit, had been surprisingly... tolerable. A lot of that was thanks to the unexpected visit from her Aunt Layla and her cousin Gregory. Gregory, with his curious nature, had been utterly captivated by her stories of Hogwarts, drawing comparisons to his own experiences at Cambridge. He’d chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound, about how they both found themselves in old, dusty schools. Of course, she had conveniently left out the little detail that her school had staircases that could think for themselves.
As expected, Petunia hadn’t taken kindly to any mention of Hogwarts. To avoid the inevitable snarky comments, Lily had skillfully redirected conversations away from that topic. It was a minefield she preferred to steer clear of.
But now, the cozy peace of Christmas was fading, giving way to the familiar routine of Cokeworth.
Lily groaned again as she approached the bathroom door. It was locked. From inside, she could hear a faint but enthusiastic rendition of "The Sound of Music," which meant Petunia was in there. And she would likely be for a while.
Feeling defeated, Lily shuffled downstairs, where the strains of Greg Lake’s "I Believe In Father Christmas" crackled from the radio. The kitchen was warm and filled with the inviting aroma of cinnamon and butter. Her mother, a practical woman with kind eyes and hands dusted with flour, was busy at the stove, a growing stack of golden pancakes beside her.
Her father sat at the table, hidden behind a copy of the Cokeworth Chronicle, his dark auburn hair slightly tousled. He wore his cherished Cokeworth Ravens coat, a badge of his unwavering loyalty to the local football team. A steaming mug of coffee teetered on the edge of the table, and he took occasional sips, his gaze glued to the newspaper.
Lily settled into the chair across from him. As if he could sense her arrival, her father lowered the paper, a warm smile spreading across his face.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he greeted her with a cheerful tone.
"Morning, Dad," Lily mumbled, her stomach growling at the thought of pancakes. She also managed a soft "Morning, Mum" as her mother placed a generous stack of pancakes in front of her, drizzled with golden syrup.
Lily dove in, her eyelids fluttering shut in pure bliss. Her father tossed the newspaper aside with a sigh, muttering something about local politicians.
“Honestly, Rose,” he grumbled, “that Roy Perry is an absolute menace. Can you believe he’s trying to shut down the community center?”
“Now, Harold,” her mother said gently, flipping another pancake with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Don’t get yourself all worked up so early in the day. Besides, you know Lily isn’t interested in all that political nonsense.”
With her mouth full of pancake, Lily nodded vigorously in agreement. Local politics were a confusing, and frankly boring, jumble of names and broken promises. She had a vague idea about Roy Perry; her father had labeled him a "self-centered Tory prick" during the local elections last May.
Sensing that her father was about to launch into a full-blown rant about Perry's alleged crimes against Cokeworth, her mother wisely shifted the conversation.
“So, Lily-flower,” she asked, turning to her with a smile. “Any plans for today?”
Lily swallowed, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. "Uh, no, not really," she mumbled, hoping she could spend the day curled up with a good book.
Her father clapped his hands together, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Perfect! Because I could use a bit of help this morning.”
Lily’s heart sank. “Help with what?”
“Football training down at the park,” her father said, waving his coffee mug like it was a magic wand. “I need someone to haul the cones and the first-aid kit. Think of it as… quality father-daughter bonding time.”
Lily frowned, jabbing a stray blueberry with her fork. “Do I really have a say in this ‘quality bonding time’?”
Her father grinned, that cheeky sparkle in his eye growing brighter. “Not a chance, my dear. It’s your civic duty. Plus, you could use some fresh air after all that holiday feasting.”
Lily groaned, but her complaints were drowned out by the satisfying sound of her finishing the last of her pancakes. She washed it down with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, the sweetness doing little to lift her mood.
"Alright, alright," she grumbled, pushing her chair back from the table. "But you owe me, Dad. Big time."
She trudged back upstairs, dreading the thought of spending her Sunday morning running around a muddy park, trying to shake off her growing bad mood.
Petunia was still in the shower. Lily let out a dramatic sigh, grabbed her towel, and marched purposefully toward the bathroom door. She knocked sharply on the peeling paint.
The singing abruptly stopped. The sound of rushing water ceased. Rapid footsteps approached, and the door swung open to reveal Petunia, a purple towel precariously wrapped around her dripping wet body. She scowled, her perfectly shaped eyebrows knitted together in annoyance.
"What?" she snapped, her tone sharp and impatient.
Lily bristled. "You’ve been in there forever!" she hissed, gesturing toward the steaming bathroom. "I need to shower!"
Petunia, completely unaware of Lily’s growing frustration, simply pushed past her, muttering, "Honestly, I can’t get a moment of peace in this house."
Lily watched, fuming, as her older sister slammed her bedroom door with a loud thud. Rolling her eyes, she muttered, "Peace? She calls that peace? Singing The Sound of Music?"
She pushed open the bathroom door, the lingering scent of cheap hairspray and lukewarm shampoo filling the air. As she stepped into the shower, feeling the hot water flow over her skin, she couldn’t shake the thought that even a muddy football field might be better than another hour listening to her sister’s relentless quest for domestic perfection. At least on the football field, she wouldn’t have to endure The Sound of Music.
The lingering chill of a late winter morning nipped at Simeon’s skin as he bounded out of the shower. Steam still clung to him as he hurried back to his small bedroom, the linoleum cold beneath his bare feet. He dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of worn-out shorts and tugging long, thick socks up to his knees for warmth.
Finally, he reached for his prized possession: a black and red Cokeworth Ravens shirt. It felt good against his skin, a symbol of belonging, of teamwork, of the sport he loved. Today was training for the under-sixteen team, and Simeon couldn't wait.
He tossed his scuffed boots into his black backpack, grabbed an old, faded coat from the hook by the door, and headed downstairs, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. The aroma of cooked breakfast, rich and inviting, guided him towards the kitchen.
He found his mother, Elizabeth, standing at the stove, expertly arranging four plates piled high with eggs, crispy bacon, plump sausages, and a generous serving of baked beans. The sight brought a smile to Simeon’s face.
"Simeon!" His younger sister, Isabella, chirped, her voice filled with an infectious enthusiasm. She swung her legs, perched on one of the kitchen stools, her bright eyes sparkling. Despite the… odd incident she'd been through recently, she seemed, thankfully, back to her usual self, a whirlwind of cheerful energy.
“Morning, Bella,” Simeon replied, unable to resist mirroring her grin. He took the seat between her and their father, Tobias.
His father sat at the head of the table, already sipping his tea. He muttered a "Good morning," which Simeon grunted in response, a reluctant "Good morning" back.
His mother served them breakfast, carefully placing a plate in front of each of them. Isabella cried out, "Thank you, Mommy!" before quickly diving into her breakfast, her tiny hands gripping her fork with surprising strength.
Simeon chuckled, watching her devour her meal with gusto. "Slow down, munchkin" he said gently. "You'll make yourself sick if you eat that fast."
Isabella's eyes widened, and she visibly forced herself to slow down, chewing each bite thoughtfully. A few moments later, she was back up to speed.
Tobias, setting down his teacup, glanced at Simeon. "Looking forward to training this morning, son?" he asked.
Simeon shrugged, picking at his eggs. The question felt loaded, and he wasn't sure how to answer. Silence fell over the table, broken only by the clinking of cutlery and Isabella's enthusiastic chewing.
Isabella, who had now gone back to quickly scoffing down her food despite her elder brother's warning, peered up at Simeon. "Can I come along?" she asked, her voice muffled by a mouthful of sausage.
Simeon glanced at his mother, a silent question in his eyes. Elizabeth smiled and nodded. "Sure, why not? It'll be good for her to get some fresh air."
"Sounds like fun," Simeon muttered, a small smile tugging at his lips. Having his sister there to cheer him on couldn't hurt.
Tobias cleared his throat. "I could drop Simeon off," he offered.
Simeon's mood soured instantly. He grunted a curt, "I'm fine," but his mother cut in before he could elaborate.
"The snow's slowly melting, dear," she said gently, her voice carefully neutral, "but there's still ice on the ground. And the park is quite a walk away… a bit far for your sister in this weather."
Isabella chimed in, ever eager to assert her independence. "It's not far! I'm a big girl now!"
Tobias chuckled, reaching across the table to ruffle her hair. "You are a big girl, sweetheart, but sometimes even big girls need a little help."
Isabella thought for a moment, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Okay," she conceded, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "But I want to sit in the front!"
Simeon inwardly groaned. The matter seemed settled. He knew arguing would be futile.
Tobias and Isabella finished up their breakfast and headed upstairs to get ready, leaving Simeon to help his mother with the cleaning. He would wash the dishes as she dried them, the rhythmic clatter filling the silence.
While he was scrubbing a particularly stubborn bit of egg yolk from a plate, his mother quietly said, "He's trying, you know."
Elizabeth noticed Simeon's jaw clench, the muscles in his face tightening. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring.
She spoke softly, her voice filled with a quiet understanding. "I know it's hard, Simeon. I know what you feel. It was hard for me at first too. But after a while... I felt he deserved a chance. We all did."
Simeon whispered, barely audible, "Even after the crash?"
Elizabeth's smile was sad, her eyes seemed tinged with a lingering pain. Their conversation was cut short as Tobias and Isabella appeared in the hallway, ready to leave. "Simeon! Let's go!" Tobias called out.
His mum squeezed his arm one last time before the pair headed out. "You better win," she muttered playfully, a glint in her eye.
The ride to the park was filled mainly by Isabella's cheerful chatter. She would launch full force into her favourite songs – most of which Simeon didn't recognise – before playing a relentless game of I Spy. There was hardly a moment of silence.
Finally, they pulled up to the park, the winter sun reflecting brightly off the remnants of snow. Simeon hopped out of the car when his father stopped on the side of the road, carefully putting on his boots. He made his way towards the gathering of young boys, his heart rate quickening with anticipation.
Off to the far right was an equally large cluster of adults, the parents no doubt, braving the cold to watch their sons train. But Simeon soon noticed the red-haired girl, Mr. Evans' daughter, Lily, standing beside a collection of bags filled with equipment. She didn't looked all too thrilled to be out watching her father coach a bunch of lads.
Simeon took his place beside Jack, his best friend on the team, who playfully nudged him. Mr. Evans, the team coach, was standing with Mr. Peterson, the assistant coach. Together, they were outlining the plan for the morning. The team would start with thirty minutes of warm-up exercises before moving into dribbling, passing, and shooting drills. The session would conclude with a friendly game amongst the boys. The boys cheered, eager to get started, and began their routine stretches.
Time blurred as Simeon practiced his skills, his mind momentarily quietened by the rhythmic movement and the camaraderie of the team. However, the passing drill proved to be problematic.
He had been paired with Edmund Phillips, a Saint Michael's boy. Phillips was known for his arrogance and inflated sense of self-importance. The posh twit seemed to hog the ball, refusing to pass, and, as a result, frustrating Simeon and his team mates beyond belief.
"Phillips! Pass the bloody ball!" Simeon finally screamed, his voice raw with frustration. Edmund sneered in response, dribbling away from the direction of goal.
The biting wind whipped across the amateur football field, tugging at Lily’s coat and sending shivers down her spine. She huddled closer to the sideline, a silent observer to the chaotic scene unfolding before her. What had started as a friendly game was rapidly devolving into something far less amicable. A skinny boy with messy brown hair was gesticulating wildly at a stocky blonde, his voice rising in a furious tirade about a missed pass.
“Pass the bloody ball, you useless oaf! I was wide open!” the brunette shrieked, his face flushed with anger.
The blonde retorted, his voice thick with indignation, “I didn’t see you! Besides, maybe if you weren’t so busy whining, you’d actually be in position!”
The argument escalated quickly, the tension palpable in the air. Shoves were exchanged, and a small crowd of onlookers began to gather, drawn by the promise of a fight. Lily’s father, who was no doubt regretting volunteering as head coach, recognized the situation was spiraling out of control. He marched over, pushing past the boys who gathering around the bickering duo, and pulled the fiery brunette away from the blonde before punches could be thrown.
Lily watched her father steer the boy towards the sidelines, his calm voice a stark contrast to the boy’s sputtering rage. She sighed, a familiar mix of concern and pride welling within her. Her father always tried to do what was right, even when faced with the unruly passions of others.
Lost in thought, Lily almost missed the soft, tentative voice that broke through her reverie. "Hello?"
She jumped, startled, and spun around, expecting to see another parent or perhaps one of the players. But there was no one there. Confused, she glanced downwards, her gaze finally settling on a pair of dark, intelligent eyes peering up at her. Something about their depth and intensity sparked a flicker of recognition within her.
Lily smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her despite the chill in the air. "Hello," she replied softly, crouching down to meet the child's gaze.
The little girl was bundled up against the cold in a faded red scarf that seemed several sizes too large and a dark, oversized coat. Her small face was framed by tangled dark hair, and her eyes held a mischievous twinkle.
"I didn't think there'd be another girl here," the little girl mumbled, her voice barely audible above the wind.
Lily laughed, a light, airy sound that momentarily chased away the grey mood of the day.
"Well, here I am. My dad's the coach," she explained, pointing towards her father, who was still attempting to calm the agitated brunette. "I'm here to help him out, you know, fetch the water bottles and make sure everyone behaves... mostly."
The little girl’s lips curved into a shy smile. "I help my dad sometimes too," she said proudly. "He brings me along when he fixes things. I help him hold the tools."
Lily nodded, impressed. "That's very kind of you," she said. "Teamwork makes the dream work, right?"
A brief silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the distant shouts of the remaining players. Then, with a sudden burst of boldness, the little girl blurted out, "My name is Isabelle."
Lily smiled warmly. "It's lovely to meet you, Isabelle. I'm Lily."
Isabella grinned, her eyes sparkling with delight. "Lily! Like the flower!" she exclaimed, her gaze drifting towards the muddy ground.
"That's right," Lily replied, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice. "My older sister is named after a flower, too. Petunia."
Isabelle's smile faltered, her gaze hardening as she stared at the slick, grey mud that coated the field. “I wish there were flowers here now,” she muttered, her voice laced with longing. "Everything is so… grey."
Lily, sensing the girl's disappointment, quickly reassured her, "It won't be long until spring, Isabelle. Then the flowers will bloom again. Just you wait."
But before Isabella could respond, a fresh wave of shouting erupted from the other side of the field, drawing Lily's attention away. She turned to see a large, imposing man stomping purposefully towards her father, his face contorted with rage. He appeared to be shouting about the way his son had been handled, his voice booming across the field.
Lily frowned, a protective instinct flaring within her. She considered marching over there to defend her father, but she knew that Harold Evans could handle himself. He possessed a remarkable ability to diffuse even the most volatile situations with his calm demeanor and soothing words.
Indeed, as Lily watched, her father remained unfazed, speaking softly and evenly to the irate man. The man’s son, however, the very same brunette who had started the fight, glared daggers at his father, hissing something Lily couldn't make out before storming off in the opposite direction.
Lily sighed, a mixture of relief and frustration washing over her. These games were often more trouble than they were worth. She turned back to continue her conversation with Isabelle, only to find that the little girl had wandered off. She was further down the field, crouched low to the ground, peering intently at something in the mud.
Frowning slightly, Lily trudged towards her, the cold seeping into her boots with each step. "Isabelle? What are you looking at?"
Isabella remained motionless, completely engrossed in whatever had captured her attention. Lily approached cautiously, her curiosity piqued. As she drew closer, she saw that Isabella was staring at a patch of bare earth, a small, barren space that seemed devoid of life. But then, Lily’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Nestled in the mud were several withered stems, remnants of flowers that had long since faded and gone dormant. But something was happening to them.
Right before her eyes, she watched in astonishment as the stems began to stir, slowly rising from the earth. Colour seemed to seep back into them, like paint filling a canvas, and gradually, delicate green leaves unfurled, followed by the emergence of pristine white petals.
In a matter of seconds, a cluster of bright white daisies bloomed in front of the smiling girl, their cheerful faces a stark contrast to the surrounding gloom.
Lily gasped, the sound escaping her lips almost involuntarily. The sudden noise startled Isabelle, who spun around, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and fear. Lily, however, was transfixed, unable to tear her gaze away from the girl and the miraculous display of nature she had seemingly conjured.
She stared at Isabelle, her mind racing to comprehend the impossible. The wind seemed to still, and the distant shouts of the football players faded into a muted hum. The only sound was the frantic beating of her own heart.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Lily managed to stammer out a single, incredulous sentence, her voice barely a whisper.
"You… you're a witch."
Isabelle's initial fear swiftly morphed into anger. She glared up at the red-haired girl, who only moments ago she had considered friendly.
"That's mean!" she hissed, the word sharp and laced with indignation. Without another word, she pushed past Lily and began to run back towards the football match.
"Isabella, wait!" Lily called after her, but the girl kept running, her small figure disappearing into the crowd.
As she ran, the anger began to dissipate, replaced by a creeping sense of dread. She had done it. She had broken her promise. She had promised Simeon she wouldn't show anyone. That it was their little secret. But now Lily knew.
Would Simeon be angry? The thought caused her to slow down, her earlier rush faltering. A knot of unease tightened in her stomach. Would her older brother be disappointed that she had accidentally revealed her… her thing to someone else?
She desperately hoped not.
Simeon had made her promise not to tell anyone when she had first shown him. He had said it would be their special secret, and Isabella had loved that. She loved secrets. But now, she had broken it.
To make matters worse, the person she had accidentally shown had called her a witch. She didn't like that. It sounded scary, and… and wrong.
Slowly trudging towards her father, Isabella felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Her vision blurred, and she sniffed as snot began to run down her nose.
Her father, Tobias, noticed her distress immediately. His normally stern face softened with concern as he knelt down beside her. "Bella, what's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice gentle.
Isabella couldn't tell him. She had already broken her secret once; she couldn't risk doing it again. So, she lied. She sobbed that she was sad about Simeon getting into a fight.
Her father wrapped her in his strong arms, shushing her gently as he stroked her hair. His deep voice was soothing. "It'll be alright, Bella," he murmured. "Simeon wouldn't want you to be upset."
The tears slowly dried up, and her father wiped the snot from her nose with a tissue. He smiled at her, and she managed a weak smile in return.
A shrill whistle pierced the air, signaling the end of the football match. Isabella watched as the boys, muddy and exhausted, trudged towards their families. Simeon, covered in dirt and scowling, lumbered over to them.
The tears slowly dried up, and her father wiped the snot from her nose with a tissue. He smiled at her, and she managed a weak smile in return.
A shrill whistle pierced the air, signaling the end of the football match. Isabella watched as the boys, muddy and exhausted, trudged towards their families. Simeon, covered in dirt and scowling, lumbered over to them.
Isabella felt herself shrink a little at his dour expression. He grunted a greeting before announcing he was heading into town with his friends.
Her father frowned. "Shouldn't you have a shower and something to eat first?" he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of disapproval.
Simeon simply grunted in response.
It was always like this. Her father and older brother rarely communicated effectively. Their interactions were often terse, filled with unspoken tension, as if one or both of them were desperate to escape the conversation. Simeon, in particular, always seemed to want to get away.
They trudged back to their aging Volvo, the journey made in silence. On the way, Isabella noticed Lily helping her father with some bags. Their eyes briefly met, but Isabella scowled and quickly looked away. She didn't want to think about what Lily had said, or the secret she had revealed.
The ride home was not as cheerful as the ride to the park. There was no music, her father pointing out that Simeon seemed tired and didn't need a headache. Simeon grunted that he was fine, and her father fell silent.
Once back at the house, Simeon darted for the stairs, disappearing into the depths of the house. Tobias sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. Isabella's mother, Elizabeth, was in the lounge and greeted her warmly.
She frowned, sensing her daughter's distress. "What's wrong, love?" she asked, her voice soft and concerned.
Isabella mumbled that she was fine, avoiding her mother's gaze. Elizabeth patted the blanket-covered sofa beside her, inviting her to sit down.
Isabella snuggled in beside her mother, feeling the familiar warmth of her presence. Elizabeth tossed the blanket over the two of them, cocooning them in a world of comfort. Her father took a seat in a nearby armchair, sighing heavily as he settled in.
They sat there, watching television together. They watched something called Star Trek, a show filled with strange aliens and spaceships. Her father, a lifelong fan, spent time explaining the intricate plot and the nuances of the characters to her. Her mother would shush him playfully, reminding him that it was just a show.
The slamming of the front door was the only indication of Simeon's departure. Her father sighed again, his shoulders slumping. Her mother smiled sadly and reached out to squeeze his hand, a silent gesture of support. "It'll take time, love," she murmured.
The afternoon passed by in a blur of simple pleasures. Isabella spent some time playing with her toys, creating elaborate worlds and fantastical adventures for her dolls. Later, she helped her mother bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies, carefully measuring out the ingredients and stirring the batter with meticulous care.
As time went on, the worries of the morning began to shrivel away, replaced by the comforting rhythm of family life. Soon, she was laughing as her father sneakily swiped a taste of the cookie batter, her earlier anxieties momentarily forgotten.