I can tell there’s a storm coming. The skies are turning grey, and the wind is starting to pick up. It’ll rain soon, I know, even though the thought seems out of place after so many days of summer sunshine. But then again, I’m honestly not so sure what’s normal anymore.

I sigh softly, the sound of it lost as a particularly strong blast of wind makes the swing I’m sitting on creak. I’m in a small park, one with just three swings, two kids, and one slide. In the distance, I can see the city’s largest bridge, and underneath it, the city’s only river.

Another burst of a wind, another sigh. I know I should go back home – the park won’t offer any cover from the storm – and if I don’t leave now, I’ll be soaked by the time I reach my flat. But as much as I tell myself this, I can’t find the energy to make myself start walking home. It’s not as though I can Apparate in the middle of a Muggle town – even if I weren’t seen, Mary would be furious if she were to think I was being careless.

I glance around. The two kids are still playing, laughing and giggling as they tumble down the slide. They seem oblivious to the fact that raindrops are about to pour from the sky, but other than them, the park is nearly abandoned. If I had to guess, I’d assume most mothers made their children leave when the threat of rain became imminent. Or perhaps they made them leave because an eighteen-old-year girl has been sitting on a swing for the past hour doing nothing but staring at the kids playing around her.

Even earlier in the day though, the park wasn’t that crowded, although that’s not surprising. It’s an old park, and not very popular on the best of summer days. The paint that was once a vibrant red has faded to a murky maroon and parts of the slide sport a coating of rust. Its age might have made the park unattractive to some, but for me, the park’s appearance – the layout, really – is what holds an appeal. It’s nearly identical to the park near my childhood home, the one between my neighborhood and Spinner’s End. It has the same type of swings, and the slide, I swear, is exactly the same height. Even the white and red flowers in the field surrounding the playground look the same to me.

Being here, especially in the summer, reminds me so much of my childhood. It makes me think of the summer days I spent with Petunia and Sev – although never together at the same time. Here, I can recall chasing down ice cream vans and eating lollies and screwballs and Fabs until we felt sick. I can remember turning pink under the sun’s rays, and coming home much later than my parents allowed.

Seeing this park, so similar to the one I knew so many summers ago, is strange to be sure, especially since I’m more than three hours from where I grew up. Now I’m in another Muggle town, sharing a flat with Mary Macdonald. Not that I’ll be here for long – or at least I hope I won’t be. James and I have been dating more seriously, and though my younger self might have thought it quite unlikely, I do love him.

One of the children – a little girl with an impish smile – yells to the other, and I’m brought out of my thoughts and back to the playground. Her companion is a boy, probably the same age, with black hair that’s oddly reminiscent of someone I once knew. Well, know in the present tense, I guess, but at this point, implying any sort of closeness between us would be stretching it.

Suddenly, involuntarily, I can feel tears forming, and I wish the damn rain would hurry up and fall so I could pretend I’m not crying for him. Or maybe I’m not crying for him at all. Maybe I’m crying for myself, for what I’ve lost since I was that little girl. How wonderful it would be if I could worry about my ice cream melting or whether my parents would take me swimming, instead of wondering whether any friends or family have died today. Some days I feel I would give everything to spend this summer as a child again.

I tear my eyes away from the children and look up. Still, the skies are turning grey, and I’m reminded there is more than one type of storm. Barely a month ago, we were all still in Hogwarts, and now, now it’s easy to see how much can change in thirty days. Voldemort is no longer just a name spoken around the warm common room fire; the names of the dead in the Daily Prophet are closer to home than ever before.

Hidden behind castle walls and learning, it was easy to convince ourselves there wasn’t a war at all. I could stubbornly refuse to acknowledge what was happening outside Hogwarts, and if I tried hard enough, I could block out the warnings or impending war. But here, I can’t disillusion myself into thinking I won’t have to fight or choose a side. It’s funny, really, that while we were still at Hogwarts I knew I would have to face what I’d been avoiding come summertime. It honestly made me dread the day we finished with exams and then school. So many other students couldn’t wait until summer. I used to, of course. I used to count down the days until exams were over and I could finally come home. Summer was my favorite season, full of sunshine and fireflies and flowers. Now, the kind of summer I loved is nothing but a memory, one I refuse to let go of.

I told James about this once, right after we graduated. We talked about having to grow up too fast and leaving behind the childhoods we weren’t quite ready to let go of. It was that night that he told me about the Order of the Phoenix, and how he and Sirius had joined up, and Remus and Peter were doing the same. James asked me to think about joining, and I promised I would. And well, here I am, sitting on a swing in an old park thinking about things I’d rather ignore.

I’m only eighteen; I’m barely out of Hogwarts. What can I do? How can I make a difference?

I realise, with a bit of a start, I asked James the same question. And though at this point, I think I’d rather not hear them again, his words come back to me.

“You can be one more person fighting, Lily,� he had said. “You’re an amazing witch, you know, and you could make one hell of a difference.�

I know he’s right, too, if I’m perfectly honest with myself. We’ll need every person to fight if we want to defeat Voldemort.

“Joe!� The sound of someone else’s voice startles me, and I nearly topple forwards off the swing. I’d almost forgotten that I’m still sitting in the park, still waiting for the rain.

“Joe,� the little girl says again. “I think we need to go now.�

“Aw, Fee, we could stay a little longer,� the boy replies. There’s a moment when the girl stares at her friend, hands on her hips, that I feel as though I’m watching myself. The boy waits for another moment, before he nods and admits defeat. The two children leave the park, and I’m suddenly all alone.

The skies are turning grey, and I can’t hide from it any longer. No matter which way I look at it, no matter what I try to tell myself, I can’t justify staying out of the war. I can’t justify not fighting while others die.

I stand up, finally ready to leave the park. Everyone has to make this decision at some point, whether they like it or not. And looking around, the playground’s familiarity reminds me that he chose a long time ago. And while I can keep hoping he’ll find a way to be the person he seemed only to show me, I can’t keep hoping the war will magically disappear, just like I can’t keep wishing I were eleven years old again.

A step forward, then another. The playground is slowly disappearing behind me, and there’s no going back. The skies are completely grey now, and I’ve made my choice. I have to fight.

A single raindrop lands on my cheek and I know it’s begun.