Mr. Evans: Who Was He?

On Christmas morning in Town of Cokeworth, the weather was exceptionally fine, with thin clouds hanging in the sky, tinged with a pale gold by the morning light.

A thin layer of frost had formed on the rooftops along Lilac Road, melting away, with water droplets trickling down the tiles and dripping onto the windowsills with a soft sound. The street was deserted, and in the distance, thin smoke rose straight up from the chimney of a house.

At the entrance of house number 4, the porch was wrapped with Mistletoe and holly branches, which Lily and her mother tied yesterday afternoon.

The house is warm; the fireplace has been burning since last night.

Mr. Evans got up in the middle of the night to add firewood. The fire had mostly collapsed by now, the charcoal glowing a dark orange light. Occasionally, it would crack open and make a sound from the Kitchen. Pots and pans clattered together, oil sizzled in the frying pan, and the aroma of toasted bread wafted from the Kitchen door, filling the entire living room.

A Christmas tree stood in the corner, covered with colorful ribbons and fairy lights, and several packages were piled up under it.

Lily sat on the blanket in front of the fireplace, wearing a beige cotton nightgown.

She wore a cardigan sweater knitted by her mother over her clothes. The neckline was loose, revealing a section of her collarbone, and the sleeves were longer than her fingers. She tucked her hands into the sleeves, with only her fingertips showing.

Her red hair was loose, falling over her shoulders, the ends a little frizzy from tossing and turning in her sleep last night, creating several curls that were now fluffy from the warmth of the fireplace. Her face still had the rosy glow of just waking up, her eyes bright as she stared at the pile of presents under the Christmas tree.

There were seven or eight packages stacked there, of varying sizes. Some were wrapped in kraft paper, while others were wrapped in several layers of colored wrapping paper. The top one was tied with a red ribbon, the bow of which was tied crookedly.

"Lily, have breakfast first." Her mother's voice came from the Kitchen.

Lily responded, but didn't rush to get up. She fidgeted with her sleeve, her eyes still glued to the pile of gifts.

"Don't worry, the gift won't run away."

Mr. Evans came out of the Kitchen with a cup of tea, sat down at the table, and opened today's * Cokeworth Post *. The front page featured the Christmas Mass schedule for the town's church.

Lily grinned at her father.

Mrs. Evans came out with a plate of fried eggs, toast, roasted tomatoes, and a few slices of bacon.

Lily smelled the aroma, her stomach growled, and she blushed as she got up from the blanket, slipped on her slippers, and sat down at the table.

"Where's my sister?" she asked, a piece of toast dangling from her mouth.

"I just called for it." The mother pushed the Butter dish towards her.

Lily spread Butter on the toast, took a bite, and as she chewed, her eyes glanced out the window again.

Mr. Evans glanced at his daughter over the newspaper and shook his head slightly.

Petunia came downstairs, wearing a dark blue loungewear dress, her hair neatly combed, her face washed, though she had dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept well. She pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.

Everyone said Merry Christmas. Mr. Evans told a not-so-funny joke, Mrs. Evans laughed along, Lily laughed the loudest, and Petunia's lips twitched slightly, which was enough to indicate she'd had her fill of laughter.

Everything was normal, except that Lily would glance out the window every now and then.

Twenty minutes later, Lily finished her breakfast and, before even clearing the plate, sat back down on the blanket.

The parents sat down on the sofa with tea in hand. Unwrapping Christmas presents was an annual tradition, and they waited to see their daughters' reactions. Lily opened her parents' presents first: a new light green sweater with small floral patterns on the collar, the stitches of which were hand-knitted by her mother.

"It looks great!" She held the sweater up to her body, then leaned over and kissed her mother.

My father's gift was a picture book containing watercolor paintings of landscapes from all over England.

Lily flipped through a couple of pages and said it was nice, but quickly put it aside and reached for the other packages.

Marcia Fawley's gift was wrapped in dark purple paper with subtle silver patterns along the edges, the designs of which were slowly changing—clearly from a wizarding shop.

As soon as Lily tore open the wrapper, the box popped open by itself, releasing a dozen colorful candy balls that exploded in the air, bouncing and crackling. Halfway through their bounces, the candy balls changed color: red to green, green to gold, and gold to Winky silver. They bounced around the living room, hitting the walls and bouncing back, making a clear, tinkling sound.

Mr. Evans was startled, nearly dropping his teacup, and Mrs. Evans also shrank back. Then the two looked at the sugar balls bouncing all over the room and stared at each other in bewilderment.

Lily laughed so hard she couldn't stand up straight. She reached out and grabbed one, popped it into her mouth, and immediately giggled. Her tongue turned blue.

"Your mouth!" The mother pointed at her mouth, her expression switching between surprise and amusement.

"Honey flavor!" Lily mumbled, her mouth full of candy, and reached for a second one.

A silver candy ball bounced twice on Mr. Evans's newspaper, landing on the front page headline.

He picked it up with two fingers and examined it; the candy ball had turned pink at his fingertips and was still trembling slightly.

Lily ran over and urged her father, "Dad, try some!"

Mr. Evans hesitated for a moment, then popped it into his mouth, chewed it, and gave a somewhat complicated look. "Strawberry."

Lily smiled and pulled Marcia's card out of the box. It had a crookedly drawn owl on it.

"Merry Christmas! This batch of candy is a new limited edition from Honeydukes. It bounces for about half an hour, then it will stop on its own, don't worry, Marcia."

"Half an hour?" Mrs. Evans looked at a candy ball that bounced off the ceiling lampshade, her expression somewhat helpless.

Lily smiled, pursing her lips, and lowered her head to continue unpacking the next one.

Susan Hopkins ' gift was a handwoven pendant made of several colors of yarn woven together, intertwined, with a wooden bead at the end, on which a smiley face was carved.

The workmanship isn't exquisite; a few knots are tied too big, and the loose threads aren't neatly finished, but you can tell that some effort was put into it.

Susan wrote in the card, "This can be hung on my backpack or by my bed. I spent the whole afternoon knitting it, and my hands are almost cramping."

Lily hung the pendant on her wrist and dangled it, the wooden beads gently brushing against the back of her hand. She smiled and put it into the Handbag Regulus had given her last year.

Others sent greeting cards; several classmates from Hogwarts sent cards, some with Chocolate Frog or Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, and some with a homemade Magic Bookmark that would light up when opened.

She opened each card one by one, spreading them out on the blanket in a row, occasionally reading a few words written on them to her parents.

Lily picked up the last small package.

It was wrapped in coarse, grayish-brown paper, without a ribbon, only tied tightly with a thin string.

She opened it, and inside was a small glass bottle, about the size of a thumb, containing half a bottle of light-colored ointment.

The bottle opening was sealed with a thin layer of wax, the surface of which was pressed flat.

A narrow strip of paper is attached to the bottle, with neat, almost stiff handwriting on it. It's for hand protection; apply a small amount to prevent cracking.

Lily held the bottle up to her eyes and looked at it. The ointment was whitish and slightly translucent. She unscrewed the cap and brought it closer to her nose. It had a very faint herbal scent, not unpleasant.

She applied a thin layer to the back of her hand, and her skin immediately felt cool. The fine lines on the back of her hand caused by the winter wind disappeared within seconds.

"Severus's," she muttered to herself, capping the bottle and placing it beside her.

It was all opened, but there was no dark green wrapping paper, no silver thread pattern, and no silk ribbon.

She put the gifts into her Handbag, then sat there with her hands on her knees, watching the embers in the fireplace slowly crumble.

A few candies were still bouncing around in the living room, landing on the coffee table and then bouncing away, making a jingling sound.

Lily mumbled something under her breath, so softly that even she couldn't hear what she said.

She glanced towards the window again.

Outside the window is the street scene of Lilac Road. A string of colorful lights hangs on the porch of the house across the street. The lawn next door is white with frost. There is no one on the street, and no owls either.

She looked away and ran her fingers around the cuff of her sweater.

Last year, the owl arrived in the morning. When it flew in through the window, it didn't even flap its wings. It landed steadily on the windowsill and tapped the glass twice with its claws.

Her posture was so reserved, she was practically posing with her fingers curled into a delicate pinky gesture.

All the owls at the Black family are like that; every single one of them has this "I just happened to be passing by your window" look on its face.

This year's hasn't arrived yet.

Maybe a little later? Maybe there were delays on the way? Maybe they caught a field mouse and are having breakfast?

She shook her head, muttered something, and stood up to help her mother clear the plates.

In front of Petunia were two greeting cards, both ordinary paper cards. One was sent by a classmate, with a printed Santa Claus picture and a message inside saying "Merry Christmas, see you when school starts."

The other one is of the girl next door, and it comes with a bag of toffee.

Petunia placed the two greeting cards side by side on the table, ran her fingers along the edges, and then glanced around the living room.

Lily's blanket was covered with scraps of wrapping paper—colorful, silver, coarse paper, all sorts of textures.

A few candies rolled around on the carpet. The last one bounced twice before finally stopping, turning into an ordinary golden hard candy. Petunia's gaze swept over the pile of scraps of paper and lingered on the light purple Handbag hanging on the sofa armrest.

Lily has been using that Handbag for a year. She sleeps on her bedside table, carries it on her shoulder when she goes out, and doesn't even change it when she goes to town to buy things.

Petunia remembered that when the Handbag first arrived last Christmas, Lily held it and looked at it over and over, putting her hands in and taking them out, constantly saying, "It can actually fit everything," "Look, look."

She lowered her head, looked again at the two greeting cards in front of her, then unwrapped the toffee, took one and put it in her mouth, chewed a few times, and found it too sweet.

Lily came out of the Kitchen with a glass of milk and saw Petunia sitting at the table, chewing something, her face expressionless. She didn't notice that her sister only had two greeting cards beside her; her mind was elsewhere.

He sat back down on the blanket in front of the fireplace, hugged his knees, rested his chin on it, and glanced at the window again.

Still no.

Mrs. Evans came out of the Kitchen, wiping her hands, and saw her youngest daughter huddled listlessly on the blanket.

She didn't speak, but looked at her husband.

Mr. Evans put down the newspaper, and their eyes met briefly in the air.

He slightly raised his chin, gesturing towards Lily, but Mrs. Evans gently shook her head, indicating not to ask.

The two sat on the sofa, neither of them making a sound.

Mr. Evans remembered something.

Ever since Lily went to that Magic school, she has always told them amazing stories.

They talked about school classes, how to brew Potions, which professors were interesting, and what the effects of Magic were.

But after returning from summer vacation this year, a person gradually appeared in the conversation, without a name.

Lily never says a person's name on her own initiative, but she will occasionally blurt out "He said it," "He knows everything," "He taught me," or "He thinks this is wrong."

He, he, he, he.

Mr. Evans noticed that his daughter spoke of him differently than she did of other classmates.

She'd be happy talking about Marcia, roll her eyes when talking about Susan, and have a complicated expression when talking about Severus. But when she talked about him, her voice would lighten, her expression would leap, a smile would involuntarily appear on her face, and her eyes would occasionally wander elsewhere. Once, during dinner over summer vacation, Lily mentioned the school's college system.

"Gryffindor and Slytherin are mortal enemies, always have been, ever since the school was founded."

Mr. Evans simply grunted in response and didn't think much of it.

But now he remembered, Lily was in Gryffindor, and he was most likely in Slytherin.

Last Christmas, when the Handbag arrived, Lily said it was a gift from a classmate at Magic school.

But the packaging, the texture, the ridiculously reserved owl, the unsigned note that Lily knew immediately whose it was—Mr. Mr. Evans wasn't very familiar with the rules of the Magic world, but he had managed factories for twenty years and had a knack for judging people.

People who can afford to give away something like this must come from well-off families.

Lily once said that some wizarding families are all wizards, with the grandfather being a wizard, the grandmother being a wizard, and so on for several generations.

She didn't say more, but Mr. Evans could tell that that kind of family and their Evans family were probably from completely different worlds.

He accepted that his daughter was a witch, and that her life had entered a completely unfamiliar place for him since she was eleven years old.

He was proud, but also worried.

He was proud of his daughter's excellence, but worried about the things she was exposed to, things he couldn't help her with at all.

Lily was sitting listlessly in front of the fireplace, glancing out the window every now and then. He had seen her like this before, on other people.

That's what it looks like waiting for news from someone.

Lily is almost fourteen years old.

Mr. Evans picked up the newspaper and reopened it, but his eyes didn't read the words.