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Miss Lily Evans holds the confession letter in a green-mittened hand. Her breath fogs in the crisp evening air. It is not quite winter, but the trees and grass have been frosted every morning and evening for the past fortnight. Her cloak, a verdant Merino wool that coordinates with her mittens and boots, keeps out the worst of the chill.
I formally request an audience by the Black Lake this evening at 7:30 p.m. to discuss a matter of the heart. It would please me if you would grant me your presence.
With hope,
Yours
A magnificent eagle owl, golden and speckled, delivered the letter to Lily at breakfast. She doesn’t recognize the handwriting. To be honest, most purebloods have similar cursive due to learning from identical primers. Still, this penmanship has an extra flourish at the end of the letters, which leads Lily to believe the sender is knowledgeable in Ancient Runes. There’s also a thickness and assuredness to each letter, which speaks of confidence.
“Who sent you?” Lily wonders as she stares out at the rolling expanse of the lake water.
All Lily knows for certain is that the letter isn’t from Heir James Potter. The jealousy on his face when she didn’t immediately burn the correspondence, which is on heavy, thick cream parchment, tied with a blush ribbon, revealed all too well that this isn’t yet another attempt of his to win her over.
Unfortunately, Lily apparently spoke Potter’s soul-mark words — the words Mother Magic gifts to each magical to guide them to the other pieces of their soul — at their first meeting. Surely, surely Potter has heard the words “It’s nice to meet you” many, many times in his life.
Yet, he latched onto her immediately, even though he had not spoken her own soul-mark words in response.
“Perhaps your words are ones I’ll speak to you later in life,” Potter says every single time Lily turns down his invitations to spend time with her.
Despite rumors that half of a soul-bond can trigger early, only to be fulfilled later, Lily has never found any evidence to substantiate the rumor. Thank Morgana. Potter’s just … not at all what Lily imagines the other half of her soul to be.
“Tempus,” she says, flicking her willow wand beneath the starry expanse of the black velvet sky.
7:26 p.m. hovers in the air, lit brightly by the waning gibbous moon.
“Almost time.”
Lily isn’t expecting her secret admirer to be her soulmate. This is the third letter she’s received since the start of her seventh year at Hogwarts. The last two were from purebloods who admired her but had never spoken to her before, and their first words to each other resulted in nothing. This will surely be the same.
Or, perhaps, it might be from a member of a ‘Blood Traitor’ family, those who bond to someone other than their destined soulmate.
While Lily respects everyone’s right to make their own decisions, she has no intention of bonding with anyone other than her soulmate. When she became a New Blood, when Mother Magic recognized her as worthy, Lily offered vows of fealty to Magic’s will.
Even if Lily has no established wealth, she has her integrity. It’s not something that can ever be taken from her. She will not cast it aside.
Footsteps crunch the grass behind her, which is already frosting over as the temperature drops. The time spell changes to read 7:30 p.m. right as a wizard steps onto the rocky shoreline beside her.
Lily’s grip on her wand slackens as she recognizes the wizard. His sharp jawline, aristocratic features, and fine flaxen hair are unmistakable. He graduated years ago now, but there’s no mistaking a wizard as distinct as he is, particularly not when he’s bundled up in the Malfoy heraldry colors with the Malfoy coat of arms embroidered on his hooded cloak.
Heir Lucius Malfoy.
Is she to believe that Heir Lucius Malfoy, one of the most — if not the most — coveted bachelors in all of Magical Britain sent her the letter she accidentally crumpled in her hand due to shock?
“Heir Malfoy,” Lily says as she dips into a respectful curtsey, one deep enough to acknowledge the vast difference in their stations in society, “I believe there’s been a mistake. This letter must have been meant for a worthier witch.”
Lily is a New Blood, yes. However, Lucius is the Heir of an Ancient House. He can trace his magical lineage back over a thousand years, to the time when King Arthur Pendragon reigned in Camelot. This letter cannot possibly be meant for her.
She’s not a pessimist. She’s a realist. It’s a wise way to protect her heart.
There’s a moment where all that Lily can hear is the lake lapping at the shore and the wind whistling through the trees of the nearby Forbidden Forest.
Then, Lucius drawls with smug victory, “I assure you, I don’t make mistakes.”
Lily’s heart flutters in her chest; she feels a searing warmth against her outer right thigh, where those words have been etched since her eleventh birthday.
He’s — Lucius Malfoy is her — “Merlin!”
“Not quite,” Lucius teases as he offers her his hand and raises her from her curtsey.
He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand and Lily futilely wishes she weren’t wearing her mittens so that she could feel his warmth against her bare skin.
“Will you allow me to keep you company a while yet, Miss Evans,” Lucius asks as he wordlessly casts a warming charm on the area around them. “I find that I’m quite loath to leave you so soon. Though, of course, I understand if your Head Girl duties require your presence in the castle this evening.”
Lily has covered for Potter — she honestly has no idea why he is Head Boy — without notice in meetings and on patrols several times this year. It’s high time for him to repay her generosity by doing the same.
She smiles up at Lucius, her stomach swooping as his gray eyes soften. Lily squeezes his hand, which is still holding hers, and says, “Nothing could tear me away from your side tonight.”
“Excellent. I will be glad for your company,” Lucius says, before leading her over to a large boulder. He casts cushioning and warming charms on it before sitting scandalously close to her. She can feel the heat of him through the layers of her clothes.
Lily smooths out the wrinkled letter with one hand on her lap, before slipping it into a pocket of her cloak. This letter is the reason she found her soulmate. She’s going to treasure it forever.
“Miss Evans—”
“Lily,” she interrupts, before wincing at her faux pas. “Please,” she says, cheeks flush with embarrassment, “call me Lily. You’re my soulmate. I … I should like to hear you say it.”
“Lily,” Lucius purrs.
She shivers, before daring to whisper, “Lucius.”
Dark hunger flashes through his eyes before he neatly hides it away from her. “It would, perhaps, be best if you didn’t call me by name before our bonding,” Lucius states.
An impish bit of mischief sparks inside Lily, and she’s speaking before she can even think to bridle her tongue. “What do you prefer? Shall I guess? How about my lord-fiancé?”
A craven need carves its way across Lucius’s face, but he doesn’t speak a word.
“No?” Lily teases. “How about my soul-heart?”
Lucius shivers beside her, and Lily isn’t naive or innocent enough to think it’s from a chill that somehow managed to penetrate the warming charm he erected around them. Yet, Lucius maintains his silence even as he tightens his hold on her hand.
It almost feels like a test, as if he’s waiting for her to puzzle out something from clues he’s already provided her. She refuses to fail the unspoken challenge. Lily has always been good at puzzles.
“Perhaps, you would prefer I call you my Slytherin Emperor,” she says, remembering the title he won by Right of Magical Might when he was twelve and held until his graduation five years ago.
He stays silent as he tilts his head; the moonlight and shadows battle each other to paint Lucius in light and darkness. His mouth is so close that his breath brushes against the apples of her cheeks, warming them further.
Lily leans toward him subconsciously, shifting her weight. It crinkles the parchment in her pocket, reminding Lily of the words in the letter. Oh. Could it be?
Lucius is twenty-two now. He has waited much longer than most purebloods to find his soulmate. It’s not uncommon for most everyone to be Matched by the time they graduate. The extra years alone must have been especially grating on him. Particularly since his closest friends — according to the announcements Lily read in The Daily Prophet over the past few years — are already bonded
She daringly raises her unoccupied mitten-clad hand and lays it against the side of his face. “Mine?” she whispers.
Lucius shudders and leans his forehead against hers. “Yours.”