Chapter Text
Even in summer, Britain stays chilly. The mornings are just as cold as fall days, often thick with fog and mist that rests on the fine hair of my arms and eyelashes when I run outside to get the paper.
When I come back in the house, Tuney has made her way to the kitchen and is staring blankly into a cup of coffee, heavy with cream and sugar. Her thin blonde hair is in a twirled mess from sleep. She spies me standing in the doorway and glares, taking a sharp slurp out of her mug. I’d say good morning, but I learned years ago that it’s no use – I’m a freak, and always will be. Or so she believes.
The yellow curtains on the kitchen window, speckled with red flowers, were sewn by my mother. She always says it was Tuney and I, but we were both children when they were made and contributed only the crooked edges. That was back when we were the best of friends. It’s so long ago now that the yellow has faded to a dull butter color and the red of the flowers is hardly noticeable.
I slip my wand carefully out of my back pocket and into my lap as I sit down to Petunia’s right, earning another glare from my sister. She is chided by Dad as I hand the paper to him across the table, nearly dropping it into his eggs in his distraction.
“Petunia, don’t glare at your sister. Eat your breakfast.”
It’s the most he ever scolds us for. Breakfast.
Tuney tuts at him, ever complaining of his preference for me and threatening to “walk out and never see my freaky, creepy family again.”
Silence. She gives a final huff to console herself before stomping back upstairs.
When she’s gone, Dad’s eyes slide to me, crunched in the middle in worry. “You’re not a freak, Lily. You know that.”
I shrug and scoop some jam onto my toast. “But I am.” I grin at him as I bite into the blackberry jam-soaked bread. “I’m . . . unnatural.” Besides freak, Petunia loves to tell me how unnatural I am. It’s not right, she’ll say. There’s something wrong with you.
He rolls his eyes and returns to the paper, spectacled eyes glinting at me occasionally over the crimped edges. I’m about to get up and find clothes for the day when I notice an owl pecking lightly at the garden window behind Dad’s head, a letter clasped in his beak. He’s a handsome tawny, with bright yellow eyes and a distinctive streak of white just above his beak.
I know that owl. I’d recognize Leopold anywhere.
I slowly stand and open the window, allowing Leo to perch on my arm for a rest. Mum waves from the garden, her floppy hat covering the better half of her face. Leo drops the letter on the counter, then looks at me with a curious tilt of his head.
“I know,” I sigh. “You want a drink. Here.” I hold out a glass of orange juice, which he dips his beak in. “It’s no pumpkin juice, mind you.” He doesn’t seem to be affected by the difference, screeching at me softly in thanks before sweeping out the window again.
Dad turns to see what the commotion is. “Who’s owl?” he asks, by now used to the odd system of communication.
I pick the letter up and turn it over. Parchment, just like the kind we use at Hogwarts. Lily is scrawled on the front in that spiky handwriting that seems to only confirm my suspicions. “Um . . . A friend,” I answer vaguely. “From school. Probably just seeing how my summer is.” Dad nods, allowing my ambiguity to pass, so I leave to my room as quickly as possible without causing alarm.
Once safe in my room, I shut the door with a snap and lean against it, eyes closed. There’s no way this is right. It’s too out of the blue, too strange, even for a Muggleborn like me who was thrust into this world. I sink down on the floor and slip my finger under the hastily sealed edge.
Evans,
I hope your summer is treating you well. Mine would be, if Sirius would only –
There’s a smudge, one I can only assume was put there by the previously mentioned Mr. Black. I can’t help but snort as I return to the note:
Never mind, then. He does get testy.
That he does.
I don’t really know how to tell you this, but I guess I want to say I’m sorry for being, well, a prick. As long as you’ve known me. I fancied you and was terrible to you, and I’m sorry. So if you’re all right with it, I’d like to start over.
I set the letter down for a moment. There’s no real feeling I can define, just a vast wash of confusion and shock.
I’m leaving on a holiday in the French south in a few days. The wizards there are incredible, with all sorts of spells I bet you’d love. I’ll try and find a book of them for you. I’d offer to send you the cuisine, but Leopold does love snails and I doubt you do. He’ll be able to find me if you decide to write back, it just may take a few days. But I will write you if you want me to.
I bet you miss Hogwarts as much as I do. What will we do next year when we’re too old? And on that note, what do you want to do after we finish? I want to be an Auror, join the fight against those Death Eaters, or whatever they call themselves. I call them Daft Eaters.
Leo will wait around a bit if you want to write back – but I understand if you don’t.
Yours,
James
Yours. James.
I’m sorry? Start over?
Daft Eaters?
It’s all odd and all wrong. James Potter is not the author of this letter. He can’t be. But the handwriting, so distinctive, is certainly his. As is the owl. And the terrible joke.
Perhaps he has changed. Then again, perhaps not.
Why not, I finally decide. I unlock my trunk, stuffed with school supplies and bits of old homework, and find a clean sheet of parchment along with my favorite quill. Just opening the trunk fills the room with the scent of old charms and wood fires, making me homesick for Hogwarts. In the window above the street, I begin writing.
Potter,
I have to admit, I was shocked at the delivery of your letter. My answer is yes, of course. So long as you write, I’ll respond.
I must be really bored.
I hope Leopold isn’t allergic to orange juice – he drank some when he delivered the note. He didn’t seem to be bothered, but just in case.
Summer has been all right so far. Muggle neighborhoods can be so boring compared to Hogwarts, but I supposed any neighborhood would be. My sister is her charming self, as always. I won’t be taking any holidays as amazing as yours sounds to be, although Marlene promised me a week with her family sometime. Just try not to get any hexes put on you by French wizards that us English can’t remove, yeah?
All this to answer – yes. I miss Hogwarts terribly. I’m sure the Quidditch pitch, at least, misses you.
Potter is a Chaser for Gryffindor.
I’m thinking of traveling when I finish at Hogwarts. I’ve heard Beauxbatons is wonderful. Will you be visiting there on your trip? Transylvania would be quite interesting too, although the vampire population is rampant. Either way, I heard The Daily Prophet is almost always hiring. Maybe I could get a job there.
If you don’t become an Auror and I don’t travel, maybe we’ll just hang around with Hagrid. I’m sure he could use some help with the flesh eating slugs.
Till next time,
Lily
P.S. – Daft Eaters. I nearly laughed.
I fold it up neatly and seal it, writing Potter’s name on the front before sticking my head out the window to call for Leopold. He sweeps around the corner of the house, wings spread wide, and snatches the letter from my hand before taking off in the opposite direction. I watch him fade among the houses and blurred horizon.
Unconciously, I roll my wand between my fingers. “Lumos,” I say softly, the tip of my wand illuminating weakly in the sunlight. “Nox.” It fades. “Lumos.”
Potter will never be my best friend, I decide. I’m only being kind and responding so he’ll let me alone come September. It’s only a letter.
Yeah. Right.