The Evans of Church Lane
The Evans family were proud to say that they were perfectly peculiar, thank you very much. Their home sat on the end of Church Lane, sat near to the dreary estate that trailed down to Spinner’s End, but close enough to the nice new builds and parks along the brighter side of Cokeworth. It was an oddly coloured house - crimson and orange bricks built the base, with a yellow-pebbled coating upon the first floor. Twists of sage vines lined the windows that jutted from the front, with soft buds of rose and lavender twisting beneath the sills.
Moses Evans was a local plumber and a union man; a fact he was often keen to share with the young boys starting work. He was rather lithe, as one had to be in order to twist around the bends and trappings of pipes and toilets. His squarish jaw sported a pale beard as thick as his pale hair - blond and curled. Henrietta Evans worked the Saturday shift at the florists in the heart of town, though she much preferred her gardening to the selling of floral goods. She was a rather bright woman, with hair as shiny as copper and eyes such a vivid emerald that they gave the impression of always sparkling in merriment.
The Evans had everything they wanted in their home. But their biggest pride and joy slept in the two bedrooms round the back, tucked beneath matching quilts in white-framed beds. Three daughters - all named for their mother’s favourite flowers at the time of their birth, and the heroic women of their father’s favourite myths.
Petunia Aemelia Evans was their firstborn. She was an admittedly nosy child, always peering between the slats of the fences to spy on neighbours and scrutinising dustmen as they emptied the bins out front. As a rather quiet girl, her study was a rather silent thing. She observed, but she did not speak on that which she noticed. Instead, her parents watched her catalogue the world around her with round blue eyes that matched her father’s. Soft smiles and kind nods as she spent her days helping the flowers bloom and practicing scruffy stitches on old tea towels.
The twins had followed, a mere two years after their elder sister.
Lily Persephone Evans had been the first of the pair. She was rather similar to Petunia, though her curiosity lacked the scrutinising edge the elder possessed. Instead, the girl was simply fascinated by those around her. With bright waves, the girl would greet each neighbour and passerby - babbling stories as adults nodded and cooed at her precocious nature. She was the spitting image of her mother with all the handiness of her father. Thick and dark ginger hair tied in twin braids, always a little messy from play.
Barely minutes following, in a birth that could only be described as deeply traumatic, was Marigold Hermione Evans. Now, the youngest of the Evans family was often hidden from the eyes of the neighbourhood. Rarely interested in peering at the world surrounding, the young girl was most often found curled in an armchair with one of her father’s books - a hand softly petting the family cat. From the moment she could speak, she had begged to be known by her middle name - grinning as her twin fumbled the clumsy syllables until ‘Hermione’ flowed from her lips. She was the perfect blend of her parents, with her dark coppery curls and pale, glassy eyes.
When Mr and Mrs Evans woke up on a dull, grey Thursday in the midst of summer, they did not let the dreary skies bother them. Henrietta Evans fluttered her neat kitchen - pulling flour and eggs as she cracked ingredients together - and Moses Evans found himself busied with waking his three daughters for the morning meal.
The youngest girls were set to begin at the local secondary school come the beginning of September. Petunia had been coaching them on all those little details that most children did not notice, sharing the best places to play and which teachers were most useful or useless. Their father found the three curled in the eldest girl’s bed - wrapped in her handmade quilt as she giggled about the nosy landscaper and how she was certain his wife was the bumbling deputy headmistress. He heard the young laughter of his eldest daughters and saw the gentle grin of youngest.
Hermione did not giggle as her sisters did, though she was keen to extend them little wry smiles. Other parents might have found them odd for a child so young, but not these peculiar folk. Their youngest child had always been in a league of her own, always a little more perceptive than her sisters. And perhaps, if Hermione wasn’t so very kind a child, they might have sat her down and asked just what went on in that little head of hers. But Hermione was thoughtful in a very gentle way.
Often, she let her sisters guide her through the world. Hands intertwined, the three would traipse the meadows behind their house until the street lights flickered into effect. Lily would collect wildflowers into bunches and crowns, draped upon their curls. Petunia would tell tales fresh from her imagination, stories of knights and princesses and magical things.
But Hermione… sweet Hermione simply followed. She nodded and smiled, but she did not incite much of anything. Still, the Evans could not find any fault in the youngest child. She was kind, if quiet.
She wasn’t the social butterfly that her twin was - always making new friends wherever she went, the most popular girl in their class. Nor did she possess the helpful presence of Petunia, who was so very useful in keeping the house running day-to-day. Hermione was simply a stable foundation to the home. An ever-present calming force upon her sisters.
This fact was found transparent later that day.
It was after Moses had returned from work, after his girls had flooded into the house after an evening playing in the meadows. He arrived as his wife was popping dinner in the oven - a whiff of casserole spreading through the home as the sounds of children screaming greeted his entrance.
“You’re being unfair!” Lily howled.
“You’re being naive!” Petunia bit back.
With a sigh, he moved through the home, quickly bending a kiss to his wife’s cheek before stomping towards the cacophony of arguing children. The girls were sequestered in the sitting room, two warring sides. Petunia stood by the fireplace, her arms folded over her chest - over her neat uniform of a pale blue blouse and grey pleated skirt. Her lovely face was twisted into a scowl that pulled her brows close together and lips pinched.
Lily and Hermione donned their winter uniform of a smart red blazer over a black pinafore dress - white shirt collar poking from beneath. Lily’s pose matched that of Petunia’s - the same scowl and same folded arms. But Hermione, always the quiet one, was curled into an armchair between them as she warily watched from behind a thick book propped upon her lap. Her eyes caught his first with a gentle smile - worn and wearied.
“What in the Devil is going on, girls?” Moses grumbled as he stepped properly into the room.
“Lily started it!” Petunia claimed - a finger of accusation pointed directly towards her sister.
“I did not!” Lily gasped, eyes narrowing to a glare as she threw her arms to her sides.
“Girls.” Moses spoke sternly, sighing as he waltzed towards his youngest child, propping himself on the arm of her chair. Hermione looked up at him with a slight smile, her gratitude at his interjection evident. “Do I need to repeat the question?”
“Lily’s made an awful new friend.” Petunia grumbled.
“Just because he’s from Spinner’s End!”
“He’s a bully!”
“He is not!” The girls spoke over each other, volume rising until Moses noticed his youngest child flinch.
“Girls.” Moses snapped, watching as his daughters flinched at the noise - turning to him with a chided tense of their shoulders and duck of their heads.
“We were playing in the meadows the other week.” Hermione explained in her soft voice, scarcely more than a whisper. Still, it was enough to still the shouts of her sisters. Enough to draw all attention to her. “Lily… well, she was making things with the flowers. And this boy saw us and Lily went off to play with him. She’s been playing with him since.”
“What boy?”
“Severus Snape.” Lily raised her chin.
“He’s awful.” Petunia growled, sticking her chin up defiantly.
“He’s just shy!”
“He’s-”
“Girls.” Moses sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose - a brief and commiserating glance exchanged with Hermione. “Why exactly are you fighting?”
“Severus is only nice to Lily.” Petunia claimed.
“You’re not nice to him.” The girl bit back.
“He started it!”
Moses looked to his youngest child with a weary expression that the girl matched with her own grimace.
“They’ve been at it all afternoon.” She sighed beneath the roar of her bickering siblings. “Petunia hates him.”
“And what of you?”
“I don’t like him.” Hermione spoke very quietly. It brought a scowl to Lily’s pleasant face as her yelling stopped abruptly, a contort of disappointment as she huffed and crossed her arms.
“Why’s that, treasure?” Moses Evans frowned, brushing a hand over her thick curls.
“He’s mean to me.” She scrunched her nose, flicking to the next page of her novel.
That brought Lily’s scrunched face free of its bitterness - slackening as she blinked down at her twin.
“He’s… mean?”
“He doesn’t like me or Petunia.” She explained with a slight scowl, eyes focused on the pages. “He says Lily’s magic, but he thinks we’re nothing. Not worth his time.”
“No he doesn’t!” Lily was quick to exclaim, though the furrow of her brow weakened her adamancy.
“Doesn’t he?” Hermione raised a brow - eyes darting to her sister with a softness only found as she regarded her siblings. “When he finds us in the meadows, he only says hello to you. He only asks you how you are, and ignores when you tell him about things the three of us get up to.”
“Tobias Snape’s son, isn’t he?” Moses asked, huffing as the girls nodded. “Not a very pleasant chap, that man. Refused to join the local union, the bloody scab.”
“He’s rotten.” Petunia nodded again. “And Severus is rotten, too.”
“He’s nice to me!” Lily squawked.
“But it sounds as though he isn’t very nice to your sisters.” Moses sighed. “And I thought, well I hoped, dearest, that you would trust your sister’s judgement more than your want to have more friends.”
“I…” she glanced at Petunia’s pleased expression with a frown that faltered as it flickered towards Hermione’s open face. “I… I won’t be friends with him if he’s mean to you.” Lily decided, though she clearly warred with herself at the decision. Hesitantly, she stood by Hermione, resting a clumsy hand on her knee. “I just got so excited.”
“I know.” Hermione smiled gently - her own hand reaching to squeeze her sister’s. “But you don’t need him to tell you that you’re magic. I’ve been saying it for years.”
“You have.”
“And I… well, I don’t think he’s got a pleasant future ahead of him. Best not get involved.”
“Is this another of your knowing things?” Lily asked, scrunching her nose.
It was a common occurrence for the Evans sisters to put stock in Hermione’s intuitions. For the parents as well, really. After all, it was hard not to trust your daughter’s predictions when they all seemed to spark true. Hermione just… seemed to know things.
“I suppose.” Hermione sighed, glancing up at her father’s knowing smile. “He’s coated by a rather awful shroud.”
“Is that so, treasure?” Moses raised a brow.
“There’s a dark stain upon him,” she nodded, mindlessly scratching at her left forearm, “a Mark.”
He suppressed a shiver as he looked to his youngest child. Sometimes, Hermione looked to the world with eyes too seeing for one so young. Neighbours liked to cal her an old soul, and… well, he truly saw their reasoning. There was something in her eyes, those irises that people likened to his own. Except… Hermione’s eyes weren’t blue like his. Not, not truly. They were an odd, almost colourless shade - like the sky reflected in a puddle of water.
Eyes that matched a soul as wearied as her own, with those bouts of sorrow that seemed to cling to their all-knowing daughter.
“Well,” Moses slapped his knees, wincing as all three of his daughters flinched at the noise. “If he’s unking to my treasure,” he ruffled a hand over Hermione’s hair, “or my precious,” he gestured for Petunia to come closer, his daughter resting her head on his shoulder, “then I don’t think I want any of my children talking to him. I’m sorry, dearest, but I won’t permit you to see this boy.”
Lily gasped, blinking widely at her father.
“You’ve never forbidden me from doing anything.” She muttered, more to herself than him.
“Never too late to start, isn’t it?” Moses grinned back, holding his daughters close.
“I already said I wouldn’t speak to him.” She sniffed.
“I know,” Moses lifted his arm from Hermione to motion for Lily to come over - the stubborn girl only hesitating a moment before bounding over. “But, now when he asks why you won’t play anymore, you can honestly tell him that.”
She blinked again, letting out a surprised little cackle - looking to Hermione to share her amusement. Her twin was looking to her with those pale eyes, soft and sentimental. Too aged for a girl that had lived for barely a decade.