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diana-bookfairchild · 11 months

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Falling (for you) Through The Snow

My fic for @jilychallenge2023 Winter in June Challenge. Partner: @wearingaberetinparis Prompt: You’re a snow artist and I think you just made a snowman(woman) that looks exactly like me… do you have anything to confess?

Lily Evans loathed the winter season.

She hated having to wear unwieldy scarves and large sweaters. She hated shivering and sneezing all the time. She hated the biting chill of the air. She hated the crunching of snow under her feet and having to shovel it out of the way. She hated even the merry carolers and especially the mistletoe she was allergic to.

It was honestly kind of ironic, because the man she was in love with was a snow artist and ice sculptor, which meant he basically personified All The Cold Things. Even imagining watching him make his intricate ice sculptures and snow craft made her smile.

She was that far gone.

Except that scenario was not at all plausible, firstly because she did not know the name of the man she was in love with, and secondly, he did not return her feelings. He was fixated on the The Unattainable Angel, or as Lily liked to call her, The One Who Had No Idea How Lucky She Was.

The name needed some work, but it conveyed her sentiment well enough.

She disliked disliking or competing with a fellow female but. . . Well, emotion did tend to disregard rational judgement and decision-making.

The love of her life thought ‘Effermont’ was a good pen-name, and she’d still fallen for him, so, well, love very clearly was one of those emotions.

It was her turn to write him, wasn’t it? It’d been nearly two days since she’d picked his letter up from Albus Dumbledore’s lovely little café Godric’s Hollow. If she left it much longer, he might think she’d abandoned him.

Or, more likely, that she’d died, seeing as he was rather full of himself on the exterior and would never believe anyone would deny themselves the opportunity to ‘bask in his reflected glory’ (his own words).

She’d grumble about the season to him. That always got him very cutely riled up.

Dear Eff,

Or should I say toff? I can’t believe you have a ski lodge! Are you going to it these hols? And what about your best friend/very annoying brother? Will he be going with you or is his wicked family going to trap him into one of their horror movie family reunions?

I can’t believe it’s winter again. I hate this season so much!

I can just see your face (I mean, I would I if I knew what it looked like) looking so annoyed. I know you like the winter, Eff. It’s the only flaw in your oh-so-perfect self.

I mean, winter is just plain annoying. With literally none of the good things other seasons bring! What comes in the winter? Slipping on the ice? Strawberries?

In other news, my sister and her husband came to visit home and my mum ordered me back, so I spent this weekend in my house in dodgy old Cokeworth. You haven’t heard of it. It’d be a no-name except I just wrote its name, so.

My nephew is a sweet baby, the cutest and chubbiest one on the planet. My sister on the other hand. . . Well, I’ll leave it at ‘we could get along better’. But you already know that. You probably know more of my sister and my relationship than anyone except my old best friend, but talking about him really brings down my mood so I’m not going to do that.

Not that much needs to happen for that. Winter is coming, after all. Winter is already here and that is such a pity.

She bought me this really ugly pink sweater. I’m sure it’s not lost on her that I’m a redhead and therefore ANY pink looks absolutely terrible on me, much less this garish monstrosity that makes me want to poke my eyes out when I look in the mirror while wearing it.

Redheads look terrible in pink. And basically any colour on the red spectrum. It’s a fact of life, and one she knows VERY well.

And she had the nerve to say it suited my personality? I’m sorry, what?

Honestly, sometimes I just want to kill her. And not in the good way – like how you say it about your very annoying best friend/brother.

How goes the life-ending heart rending love for The Unattainable Angel? You didn’t talk about that in your last letter, which is odd. Your letters are usually full of romantic woes. No judgement, mine were too, back when I actually had a romantic life to speak of.

How are your friends? Got into any ridiculous shenangians lately? Have you talked to your mother since your last letter? It sounds like you argued pretty badly and I know she’s very important to you, Mama’s boy.

In all seriousness, don’t let the bitterness fester. It does so too easily, and honestly, I’m a prime example. Don’t let one argument ruin such a wonderful relationship, Eff.

Onto lighter topics. I tried the flavour you recommended at Godric’s. It was good. Just the right amount of bitterness to offset the sweetness. Finally, we can say we both like a coffee flavour! It looked impossible for a while there.

And no, Katniss and Gale would definitely not make a good couple! The sheer amount of sweets you like to have is rotting your brain, Eff. Everlark all the way, thank you very much.

How are your studies going? Mine are going pretty well. At least you don’t need to take a Sociology class which requires you to send letters out to complete strangers in the hopes they’ll reply. I can’t regret picking this social experiment, though, because it got me you, and that made it pretty much worth it.

Pretty much. Weighing it out.

No letter hassle v. No Eff. Hmmm. Hard to say.

Kidding.

Continuing the getting to know you game: I hate, hate, HATE answering this but the embarrassing story about me my mum and dad just adore telling people is the time I went around the house narrating everything that was happening just in case we had cameras recording us for a reality show. Or the time I was flower-girl at my aunt’s wedding and I threw all the flowers on her new husband’s really annoying father’s head. Or the time I tried to cut my hair with safety scissors and had to get a bob cut to rectify the mess. Or the leash story. God, the leash story. You don’t want to know it. It’s even more mortifying as an adult.

If I could holiday anywhere, it’d be Italy. Venice and Rome especially! The thought of going along on a little gondola is just really fun, and Rome has all the history I love. History’s been my favourite subject since I was a kid. Not that I could ever tell dad. Maths has obviously been my sister’s and my favourite since we were kids and still is.

He still isn’t over me studying law.

So, for you! If you could have any name other than your given one (obviously, I don’t know what it is, so please don’t trick me by just using that!) what would it be? If you could have any pet, which animal and why?

And write something for me. You’re a psychology student, psychoanalyze me and write me something I’d like. I know, I know, your artistic talents tend towards visual – being a snow artist and all – rather than literature, I’m the literature swot between us, but I recorded that song on the piano and sent it to you, didn’t I?

I hope the walls of your house didn’t collapse from how bad that was.

Lots of love,

Flower.

Her pining didn’t show through that, Lily thought, pleased. Nor did her bitterness at asking about The Unattainable Angel. Lily despised the thought of seeing the other girl as a competitor – and she didn’t – but she didn’t need to drive a stake through her heart by repeatedly hearing about her.

But she had long decided the only way to get over a hopeless crush was to power through it while making her heart bleed over and over. Hence the asking.

She folded the letter and slid it into the envelope.

“Lily!” Mary called from the hall. “Are you done getting ready?”

Lily froze guiltily. She’d completely forgotten about the party in favour of venting her frustrations at Eff. He was very good at taking that. He was quite possibly the best pen pal in the universe, except she had no objective way of measuring that.

Subjectively, he absolutely was.

But back to the moment.

“Er, not yet,” she yelled back to her roommate. “Give me a minute!”

She quickly put on the dress Eliza had gotten out for her earlier – much to her protestations then and now relief that she didn’t have to select one herself – and did her makeup. It wasn’t anywhere near what she would have typically done for a party.

“Your minute means an hour,” Mary was exaggeratedly complaining as she slipped out of her room. She frowned at her. “Why do you look like you threw that together in thirty seconds?”

Probably because she had.

“Never mind that,” Eliza said like the godsend she was. “Mare, do her hair while I get the mascara.”

“I don’t get why you guys treat me like a baby,” Lily grumbled, even as grateful as she was.

Eliza pinched her cheek. “Oh poor jelly-baby,” she cooed her very demeaning nickname for Lily.

“Quit acting like one then,” Mary suggested rudely, parting her hair.

“We’re stopping by Godric’s on the way.” Lily announced as she started driving on the icy roads, finally entirely ready. She looked in the rearview mirror for a moment. She looked amazing. Mary and Eliza were miracle workers.

Mary groaned. “Oh, come on. Do you do anything other than write to your beloved Effermont?”

Mary was very disapproving of the whole letter-writing thing: both the concept of writing to a stranger and the reopening of her very tender wounds of heartbreak every time.

“Plenty,” she replied drily. “Listen to your opinions regarding it, for one.”

“I’m just worried about you, Lils!” She called after her as she left the car. They’d reached Godric’s Hollow café.

Fair enough.

Albus Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as brightly as ever as he took her letter outside his café. “Your Effermont is in there right now,” he said amusedly. She flushed at the ‘your’ before actually registering the sentence.

“Oh my God,” she said, feeling a thrill run up her. This was the first time they’d ever been this close to each other – that Lily knew of, anyway. “I should go then. Don’t want him discovering my identity.”

“Of course. Is this the actual letter or simply the directions? For I fear he’s in somewhat of a hurry,” Albus said.

Lily grinned. Eff had made her drink his coffee recommendation – good and not ridiculously sweet for once – before she could get his last letter. She’d once made him climb a tree. He’d once given her a series of riddles to solve before Albus gave her his letter. It was fun, but also not something you could do quickly, and Lily’s grumble fest had been pretty quick. Their letters typically reached seven or eight pages.

“The letter itself,” she assured him, shaking his hand before striding back to the car. Mary frowned disapprovingly, and Eliza gave her a thumbs up.

Mary lectured her about the letters all through the drive, making her very relieved to come up the driveway of the house where Benjy Fenwick was hosting the party.

“That is one big ass house,” she said under her breath as she leaned against her car after parking. Mary and Eliza were already inside.

“Isn’t it just?” Remus Lupin smiled at her, looking as tired as always. “Fenwick has a really huge inheritance.”

She bit back the instinctive ‘how are you’ – she was sure a chronically sick person like him was sick of that (pun unintended) – and instead asked, “Where are your mates?”

He waved vaguely at the house. “Sirius and Peter are in there, causing trouble no doubt, but James got. . . Delayed.” There was a wry twist to the last word that suggested disapproval or amusement. Lily couldn’t tell. “I’m waiting for him now, in fact.”

Alarm reared in her head. The last thing she wanted was to run into James Potter. She didn’t loathe him anymore the way she had in high school, but that didn’t mean she wanted to see him.

Too bad for her.

“Hey, Moony! I’ve got a new—” James Potter stopped short at the sight of her, blinking. He was casually handsome in a polo shirt and jacket and trousers, hair tousled, his spectacles lopsided on his angular face. “Evans.”

“Potter,” she said briskly. “I’ll see you in class, Remus.” She moved towards the house, when Potter grabbed her arm. It was gentle, not restricting or pulling, but it felt like a jolt of electricity ran up her arm. “Don’t touch me!”

She turned to glare at him. He backed up in alarm, holding his hands up. “Sorry, Evans. Just had a question.”

She breathed through her irritation. “What is it?”

“Can I use you as a model?”

“A model for what?” She stared at him.

Potter faltered, “I – uh, I’m an artist of sorts. And I was just wondering, for this commission—”

“You can,” she said brusquely, moving again. She modelled for art classes for extra money. She was used to being a muse for people. She didn’t know why Potter had asked in the first place but. . . It was considerate of him.

Maybe he wasn’t that bad.

On second thought, nah. She remembered the utter fiasco he’d created last week in the mess hall.

Potter was, for some reason, the person she disliked most among the self-proclaimed Marauders. Perhaps it was his brief obsession with asking her out back in high school, or the fact that he’d been the main perpetrator in Sev being bullied. But she immensely disliked talking to or being around him either way, so it didn’t really matter.

She rejoined Eliza – Mary was off somewhere with her toy of the night, this time Hestia Jones – and thankfully managed to avoid all the Marauders for the rest of the party.

She even managed to enjoy herself, drinking a fair bit, dancing, playing a couple games and giving her number to a cute guy who might actually help her get over Eff.

All in all not a half bad night. She’d gone to worse parties.

She found herself back in Godric’s Hollow the two evenings later, listening to Marshmello on her headphones, sipping a Frappuccino (bitter, obviously) and finishing editing her assignment in Trade Relations.

“Lily,” Albus called. She looked up enquiringly, slipping her headphones down her neck. “A note from your Effermont.”

The whole world lit up from its previously dull colours. She eagerly took the folded paper from the barista, reading the scrawled message. Eff had a weird handwriting: it was like he’d been taught calligraphy, but didn’t have the time or the bother to either use it properly or disregard it completely.

It was charming. She loved it.

You will find your letter at the following place: 1. Dog Walkers for Hire 2. Home Repair 3. Symphony Orchestra

Lily closed her laptop and packed her things hurriedly, eagerness swimming through her. She’d figured out the place easily, and rushed to the intersection, grabbing the letter (with a laugh at the fact that a Congrats! Sticker was stamped on the envelope) and walked back to the flat, pulling her shawl tighter around herself.

God, she hated the cold.

Eff was as irascibly cheerful as ever.

To the Prettiest Flower in Existence, started the letter, making Lily blush delightedly.

It is I, your beloved Eff! I hope you haven’t missed me too much. It took a while to set up the hunt and write down everything I wanted to do. My mum goes crazy for Christmas. She’s hired all these decorators for the manor, and I can just hear you say ‘toff’! (If I knew what your voice sounded like, of course). So my very annoying best friend/brother and I had to clear off for a bit, and then my other friend had this episode with his illness and. . .

Well, anyway, I was busy. And things are all fine now. Mum isn’t going any less crazy, sadly, but the rest of it’s sorted.

To answer your questions: Honestly, I’m not sure what name I’d like. My dad and mum have these really ridiculous names, you’d laugh if you ever heard them. Seriously. And my best friends too. So I think I’d either want some stupidly fancy thing to match them (not likely) – like Theodore, or Romulus, or Perseus, or Octavius or Septimus. More likely some nice, common name like mine. So. . . Tom maybe. Tom sounds nice. Or Alastair. That’s a cool name too. Daniel. Sam. Alex. Noah. Henry, like my granddad. And I would love to be a Finnick, obviously. After my favourite character, even if it would invite jokes about being too finicky.

Honestly, it’s impossible to choose! Just like you to give these weird philosophical questions, Flower. I had to ask my parents why they chose the name James and all that, so points for giving me a chance to learn some family history plus some terrible details of their sex life I never wanted to know.

As for the second one, an owl. Hands down. I don’t need a dog, because my best friend/brother is practically one, minus the obedience part. An owl just sounds really amazing. Nocturnal animal, for one. It could keep me company on my night study sessions. Did you know they can rotate their necks upto 270 degrees?? And that they have asymmetrical ears? Plus they could be like carrier pigeons! Delivery owls! I’d train them. In fact, I want to be an owl trainer when I grow up. Forget my Psychology and Philosophy degree.

You’ve probably gathered from some of the other comments that I made up with mum. You were right. Naturally. You’re probably always right, and just incredible like that. I was a bit hesitant about making the first apology (my pride yada yada, psychoanalyzing and all) but your letter convinced me, so. . . Thanks for that, Flower. You’re the best.

I have heard of Cokeworth, actually. It’s where The Unattainable Angel is from, which is such a coincidence! Do you think you might know one another? You’re both about the same age – mine – and I gather it’s a fairly small town so you must, yeah?

I am extremely offended at your disparaging winter, Flower. My favourite season! I’m sorry, we’re over. I can’t write to someone who hates something so meaningful to me. I’m a snow artist! It’s a bit weird, isn’t it, that we’re writing to one another? Months after your first generic letter for your project? You dislike sweet stuff, I love it. You hate winter, and the winter is literally my livelihood. You ship Everlark, I ship Everthorne. BTW, you’re wrong about that. Like, so wrong. Attached is a list of reasons Everthorne would work. I love Katniss and Gale together!

Attached is also a story I wrote for you. Feel honoured, Flower. I don’t do this for just anybody. Also, don’t come at me when you find that it’s absolutely awful. I know. Like you said, I’m not a writer. I’m an artist. A SNOW artist, so deal with it. Winter’s the best. Winter is already here, and that is AMAZING.

Speaking as an artist, I can assure you, pink does not look terrible on all redheads. The Unattainable Angel is a redhead, and she would look pretty in a garbage bag, so I refute your assertion. I bet you look good in pink too.

In order to prove that, I, the stunning snow artist that I am, will be making a sculpture of The Unattainable Angel in pink! It’s a commission I got last week, for this business party in a garden in the suburbs. It’s some fundraiser, sort of, plus networking – don’t ask me. My dad does this kind of stuff for his business, and it all goes way over my head. Who holds something like this in a garden though? And wants an ice sculpture for it? Especially one of a girl? I contemplated not doing it, especially because I don’t want her stared at by perverts, but she agreed, and she’s a model, so she’s probably used to it. . .

She’s so great. And so incredibly gorgeous. I can’t wait to get sculpting! It’ll turn out beautiful, I’m sure. Anything would, with her as model.

Ouch about your sister, though. I can’t believe she said that. I’m sorry your relationship has soured so much. My best friend/adopted brother is the worst and most annoying person on the planet, but I can’t imagine my life or myself without him. I’m sorry you’ve lost that closeness. I’m sure it must be hard.

The Unattainable Angel is as, well, unattainable as ever. She really, really hates me. So nothing new on that front, except I actually managed words to ask her if she can be my model for the sculpture, to prove something to you and for the commission – the first more than the second ;)

Trust me, you don’t want to know about my friends. Really. Like I said, my chronically ill friend had an episode, but he’s fine now. But really. My brother and our other friend did this so stupid thing yesterday. . . It involved flag poles. And jumping off buildings. They may have been a tad drunk.

They must have been – either that, or clinically insane. And my mum still didn’t scold him! She’s definitely playing favourites. And I am not pouting about it. Also, I am so not a Mama’s boy, Flower! You take that back!

My studies are going well. I got an A on that test I wrote to you about being nervous about, so that’s a relief. It’s so weird to think we’re already well into our second year. It feels like I’m still at high school sometimes. The general stupidity of the population doesn’t change no matter where you are, I’m sure you would say. But still.

Yeeees, soon we’ll bring you onto the dark side Flower! Soon you’ll be consuming the sugariest and sweetest stuff known to mankind and loving it! In all seriousness, glad you liked the rec! I’m going to suggest white chocolate peppermint tea now. It’s a Godric’s special. It’s pretty sweet, but I think you’ll like it. Or maybe not. Try it and tell me!

I absolutely want to know the leash story! Tell me, tell me, tell me! Pretty please with a cherry on top? I’m sending you puppy eyes right now. I wish you could see. My mum tells me my puppy dog begging eyes are absolutely lethal. I bet you’d cave in an instant. I wish we could meet in person. I know you don’t want to – just an idle wish.

Also, wow. Those stories are hilarious. Not as stupidly embarrassing as ones my mum insists on telling though. She brings out the baby album every. time. somebody visits. It’s so stupid! And my brother is no help, he just keeps laughing, especially because there aren’t any baby photos of him.

I bet you looked cute with your bob cut, though. How old were you then? The thought that people might be watching us in some reality show is pretty scary. Thanks for the nightmares, Flower.

Continuing the game: Tell me your favourite traditions for a holiday. Any holiday. And if you could have any three books survive the apocalypse with you, which would they be?

I want you to write down five things you even slightly like about the winter. As a snow artist, I demand that my pen pal/closest female friend like at least something about it. If you could send me that piano recording (which wasn’t that bad by the way) you can do this. For me? With puppy dog eyes again.

Lots of love,

Effermont.

Lily was smiling instinctively as she read through the letter, already composing a reply inside her head. She couldn’t help it. Eff was so effortlessly cheerfully charming. God, she was so hopelessly in love with him. Even as he pined after The Unattainable Angel. Who sounded like a bitch who had no idea what she had.

Lily sighed and tried to let go of that misplaced anger. She just wished she could have Eff like her. He did seem like he was flirting sometimes. It got her hopes up when they oughtn’t.

Maybe Mary was right. Maybe this was bad for her.

But at the same time – she couldn’t stomach the thought of this stopping. Of never receiving a letter from him again. Of never laughing at his random thoughts and smiley faces. Of never feeling that despairing love again.

There was no good choice.

She let her chin drop onto her palm as she scanned the letter again idly, stopping at the places where he complimented her, blushing and feeling nerves stir in her stomach. Stopping where he described his latest commission, she frowned.

That sounded familiar. Lily thought about it, putting the letter and the attached papers away for later reading and replying. A networking event. Garden. In the suburbs. Ice. . . Then it clicked.

Marlene’s mum’s company was having a gala in the garden just outside her house. A semi-informal one. Marley had talked to her about the ice statue of a girl they’d ordered for it. Someone in the family had been commissioned.

Lily’s heart skipped a beat. Someone in Marley’s family could be Eff. The thought was almost dangerous. She’d met her friend’s immediate family a couple times. Her mind was immediately racing: she had two brothers. And multiple male cousins. One of them. . .

But would knowing be a good thing? Did she want to know who Eff really was?

Yes, her traitorous heart replied. Of course she wanted to know whom she was in love with.

But the more sensible part of her protested. She already liked him enough. Knowing his true identity, seeing him around the Hogwarts campus – that might literally shatter her. She didn’t know if she could handle it.

But Lily was impulsive, reckless. It was somethine Tuney and Sev had derided her for multiple times. It was part of who she was. She took out her phone and shot a message to Marlene, asking if she could come to her mum’s party, on account of being a law student and networking.

It wasn’t a lie. Meeting influential people would be useful.

But she knew her main reason for asking. And it was purely personal.

The party was nice – a much classier affair than the high school and college parties she’d been to, thankfully. She chatted with several people, made nice and got business cards, all the while looking for an ice sculpture of a girl, heart thumping.

“Lily!” Marlene called. “Hey, crazy coincidence you’re here.”

“Why is that?” She asked, putting her glass of wine down and making her way to her friend.

Marley pointed vaguely in the direction behind her. “This ice statue— it’s of a girl, and—”

Lily didn’t bother listening further, turning and making her way in that direction. Then she saw the statue, and came to a standstill.

It was her. It was her, in pink clothes, just as Eff had promised. It was her right down to the curves of her hair and the green in her eyes and the smile on her face.

Eff had used her as the model for his commission.

She was The Unattainable Angel.

Her mind went blank. Her whole body felt numb, and not from the cold. Her hands were trembling.

Eff was in love with her. He was every bit in love with her as she was with him, judging by his letters.

She had to—she had to find him. She had to tell him. She had to move. She had to do something.

But what?

Dear Eff,

I saw the statue you made for the McKinnon Offices’ Business Party. I know her. I want to meet. I think I can help you finally attain The Unattainable Angel.

Love,

Flower

To the Flower of Utter Amazingness,

You want to meet??! Like, seriously?? Tell me this isn’t a joke, Flower. I’ve wanted this for ages.

I can’t believe you saw the statue.

So you do know Evans, huh. Small world.

Godric’s Hollow? The table where you left your first letter? 5 pm on Monday?

Lots and lots of love,

Effermont

Dear Eff,

Smaller than you might think, actually.

I’ll see you there.

Lots of love,

Flower

Lily was dying of anticipation.

She wasn’t one to tend to hyperbole like that – but this was an extraordinary situation. She was about to meet the man she was head-over-heels in love with. She felt that deserved some exaggeration.

It was four fifty-five on Monday. Lily had her book bag swung over her shoulder, too wrecked with nerves to go back to her apartment post classes.

She was going to meet Eff!

She. Was. Going. To. Meet. Her. Pen-Pal.

It still wouldn’t quite sink in.

She sat on a bench across the road from the café, with the table they were supposed to meet at well within view. She wasn’t willing to be seen as – well, desperate, and reach first, and she wanted to have a chance to assess after she was blindsided by information.

Lily liked to be in control of things.

It was why she found herself so extremely annoyed when James Potter of all people sat in at the table, moments after she’d taken her own seat. Why did he have to pick now to come to Godric’s? And that particular seat?

Eff would come soon and ask him to move away, she thought hopefully. She kept a keen eye out for anyone approaching that particular table, but no one did.

Bitterness welled deep in her twenty minutes into the wait. She couldn’t believe Eff had stood her up like this. It was ridiculous. He’d seemed so excited in his letter. Even Albus had chuckled to her about it. Had something gone wrong on his side? Was he perhaps waiting, not wanting to eject someone from their seat?

Nah. He was too arrogant for that.

Impulsively, she stood and made her way to that table. Maybe there was a note? Another letter?

“Evans!” Potter – squeaked, flailing about undignifiedly. He was always so odd around her. She despised him, but he seemed to waver between awkward and sleazy around her. Which was a pity. He wasn’t bad looking and Mary kept insisting he’d grown up since high school.

Lily didn’t really see how bullies grew up.

“Potter.” she said shortly.

“Did you, uh, want the table?” Potter stood up quickly, hands in his pockets. She could understand that. Lily hated sitting when someone was looming over her. She opened her mouth to tell him to keep the table when: “I was just waiting for someone—”

Dread encapsulated her. Dots which she really didn’t need at that moment connected. “Who?” She asked urgently.

He blinked at her. “Who?” She asked again, impatient and nervous and scared and excited and disgusted and anxious and apprehensive all at once.

“Just a, er, friend— we’ve never met before so this was the meeting place we decided – but she’s late—”

“A pen-pal?” She asked quietly. “Eff?”

Wonder took over his face. He smiled blindingly, hand lifting as though to touch her face before he put it down. “Flower?” He said quietly.

They stared at one another for a moment.

“I can’t believe it’s you—” He laughed lightly.

James Potter. James Potter. The one who’d tugged on her pigtails and dumped paint all over her and teased her about her drawing and told her she was beautiful and amazing and relentlessly persecuted Sev and partnered with her for a Science Project and won the lacrosse championship for their school.

James Potter.

Was Eff. Effermont. Who was always cheerful, had ready jokes, was arrogantly charming, a shoulder for her to cry on, and was the one person she trusted and relied on most.

Whom she was in love with.

Feeling suffocated and trapped all of a sudden, she turned. “I can’t either,” she snapped curtly, walking briskly outside.

“Hey, Evans? What – where are you – Flower!”

Ignoring the urge to stop at the final call, she jogged back home, burying the need to cry deep inside.

“I. . . Don’t get it, Lils.” Mary said, frowning. “So the pen-pal you were head-over-heels for turns out to be a guy with a great bod and an even better brain? What’s to whine about?”

Lily stared at her best friend disbelievingly. “You don’t get it? Mare! It’s James Potter! I’m in love with James Potter!”

“Yeah. So?”

“It’s. . .” Lily couldn’t help it; she got up and began to pace. “It’s so. . . Confusing, I guess. I mean. I didn’t like Potter. I still don’t like him, frankly.”

“Oh, not this again,” Mary groaned. “Come on, Lily. Haven’t you been dragging this high school feud long enough?”

“He was an asshole!” Lily raged. “He bullied Sev!”

“Who gave back every bit he got,” she pointed out. “Look, I’m not saying Potter was right to do it, ganging up on Snape and doing all those awful things to him. It was terrible. It was wrong. But. . . It was years ago. You got to know Potter in a completely new, objective way. And you fell in love with him. Doesn’t that say something?”

Lily scowled, turning away from her friend. It did. It said several things.

It wasn’t as though she’d only hated Potter, even back then in high school. He’d asked her out repetitively during that one phase. He’d managed to cheer her up with his dumb jokes more than one time. He’d been an excellent partner for that one project they’d been paired up for. He’d been the only one who could keep up with her in the Debate Team – they’d used to argue until they were breathless, chests heaving.

Knowing Potter had been exhilarating even then. He was a constantly tempestuous ride, and she’d never known which side she was about to get – awkward Potter who couldn’t string together a sentence around her, the coolly confident one who teased and argued with her, the passionate jock she’d cheer on in the field, the bullying toerag who got off on the misery of others.

He was a dichotomy. Always.

But she’d never once gotten that vibe from Eff. Could he be arrogant, condescending, disregarding of others’ feelings occasionally and accidentally? Sure. But he was a good man at heart. Lily wouldn’t have set up a meeting if she didn’t believe that.

But Eff being James Potter. . .

And she was The Unattainable Angel. She, Lily Evans! She couldn’t believe it. And she couldn’t deny that thought made her heart flutter in a way it hadn’t in years.

Her mind made the decision quickly. “Okay. Yes. You’re right.” Her heart was pounding.

“I cannot believe you said that!” Mary cheered. “The Best To-Be Lawyer and Judge in the world said I’m right! Woohoo! Where’s my phone, I need to record this.”

“Shut up.” Lily rolled her eyes, ducking her head at the compliments. “But. . . I don’t have his number. What do I do? What if he hates me? What if—”

“Lil. Chill. That guy isn’t capable of hating you,” Mary said reassuringly. “And you have his best mate’s number. Call Lupin. Ask him to . . . I don’t know, connect you with Potter.”

“Okay,” Lily breathed, rubbing at her chest. “Okay. Thanks, Mare. You’re the best.”

“I know.” Her friend smiled smugly. “Go get him, girl!”

Hey, she texted Remus.

Hey, came a text back, only five minutes later. What’s up?

Can you send me Potter’s number? She asked without preamble.

There were the three dots, indicating he was typing. Then they disappeared. And reappeared.

You really hurt him, Lily, was the final message.

She stared at it. Tapped on the screen while she figured out her reply.

I know. I want to make up for it.

There. She thought that conveyed the sentiment, even though the phrasing was awkward and not her best. She just. . . Really couldn’t think about anything. Love had that effect.

There was no reply in words – just a number. Heart pounding, she sent him a thank you before saving Potter’s number in her mobile and starting to message him.

She went through several drafts in her head before she decided he would appreciate casualness the best.

Hi, Eff, she sent. I’m so sorry about today. Do over?

As Her Floweriness commands, was the reply, setting her at ease the way only he could do. The main fountain on the school campus okay with you, Evans? Tomorrow evening, 7:00?

Absolutely. See you then, Potter.

No running away this time?

Definitely not.

And it was done. Lily rolled over in her bed, grabbing her pen and journal, an idea striking her.

There was no better way.

She sat on the fountain, watching the water spring from the funnel, tired and excited and scared. Snow fell around her, landing softly. It was only fair, Lily supposed, that she be the one to wait this time. Still. It wasn’t easy.

“Evans,” someone breathed, and Lily spun around hastily, nearly tripping into the water. He caught her, one hand around her waist and the other grabbing hers. “Easy there.”

She froze, tingling sensations spreading from the place his hands touched. She wanted to stay there forever. She wanted to rip herself away. She turned to him slowly. “Potter.”

He let go of her, stuffing his hands in his pockets, the corners of his eyes crinkling. She felt oddly bereft.

“I, um—”

“Maybe we should—”

They paused, having started speaking at the same time. Lily cleared her throat. “I. Wrote this for you.” She thrust her letter at him.

He blinked at it. “Wow.” Why didn’t he take it? Did he hate her? Did he not want it? Did he have some other idea of how this was going to go? Was he— “That’s weird. I wrote a letter for you too.” He took something out of his pocket: an envelope.

They stared at one another. She couldn’t believe they’d had the same idea. It was ridiculous. Connecting. Soulmating, if she believed in those crap romance novels Eliza liked to read. Hand trembling, she reached out to take his. They exchanged envelopes.

Lily tore her eyes from his face to the letter in her hands.

Lily-Flower,

Thanks for running away, Evans. I really needed that. Real nice of you—

Sorry about that. Just. . . Got a bit angry.

Hey, Flower. I can’t believe you’re Lily Evans. The girl I’ve been pining over like an idiot since high school. Yes, you can gasp in shock and recoil in disgust. Doesn’t change the fact that I’ve got a massive crush on you.

No. That doesn’t sum it up.

I am absolutely, utterly, horrendously in love with you.

I don’t have the way with words you do. So. . . I’m not sure how. . . I guess I was halfway there even with my friend and pen-pal Flower. Padfoot, Moony and Wormtail always used to get these looks on their faces whenever I told them about the letters. But I was too hung up on you, Evans. You were. Well. You were The Unattainable Angel after all.

First and foremost, you’re my friend. And you don’t have to be. If you never want to see me again, call quits on the letters, that’s fine. I just hope you read this. One last letter from Effermont to Flower, eh?

I guess I can tell you why I picked that name now. My mum’s name is Euphemia. And you know my dad’s name is Fleamont. It was a kind of combination of their names. Plus, it sounds a bit like effeminate – which, I know is sometimes used as a slur, but you thought I was a girl when we first began writing. It was a joke.

A mean one. I know. I thought a lot about why you ran away like that. I was angry. Hurt. Still am, honestly. But I guess I can understand. I know you, Flower. I know you pretty well. So I can understand you running away to deal with your emotions.

I just hope you don’t mind this contact.

I haven’t. . . Always been the best person. I know that. And I don’t think I would have liked the person I would have turned out to be if I had continued like that. It’s. Hard. I was always arrogant, entitled, and jealous and bullying. . . And. It’s hard to describe.

And I know you hated me back then in high school, especially when I asked you out – which was all serious, by the way. I know you thought that me making a production of it was because it was a joke. It wasn’t.

Your hating me’s your prerogative, obviously.

I suppose I understand reconciling your friend with someone you loathe is hard.

Anyway. I’m just writing this to say. . . It’s okay. Whatever you want to do.

And I am still as in love with you as ever, Lily Evans. I didn’t need you to sing in the assembly like Peeta did (I hope you appreciate me making an Everlark reference). I just am. Have been for ages. Seems, at this point, like I always will be.

Yours,

Eff James Potter

Lily swallowed. She lowered the letter, looking at Potter. His face was intent, hopeful, wary. He was obviously done with her letter, folding it over and over in his hands.

“Since high school?” She whispered. “All those times. . . You were serious?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, Lily. I really, really was.”

He was calling her Lily now, she noticed vaguely. “You said whatever I want to do, you’re okay with it,” she said.

A flash of uncertainty. “Yeah. ‘Course. I meant that. Still do.” he assured her.

“And you don’t understand from my letter what that would be?” She asked, tone slightly teasing.

“Weeeeeell. . .” He dragged out the word, smirking a lopsided grin that made him very attractive. “You could stand to be a bit clearer.”

“Okay,” she said softly, walking closer to him. She could see the way snow fell on his head, the way the droplets clung to his lashes. The way his eyes, the golden flecks in the hazel, softened when they landed on her. “I am ardently, steadfastly, horrendously in love with you, Eff. James Potter.”

And she leaned up and kissed him.

He gasped, still for a moment, before kissing back. The pressure was electric. It was comforting. It was warmth, in the snowy winter around them. His arm came up against her back, lightly pressing, supporting. Her hands trailed up to his shoulders.

They parted, saying nothing for a long moment, staring at one another softly. James cleared his throat. “You’ve – got some snow here,” he patted it off her shoulder gently, letting his hand linger, his thumb brushing her collarbone.

She shivered, not entirely due to the cold. “Ugh. I hate snow.” She complained, still lightheaded from the kissing. “I loathe the winter.”

He smiled, a small quirk of his lips. “Yeah, I know.” He took her hand bringing it up to his lips. “Not only bad things happen in winter, though.”

She felt her own face light up in response, curling her hand with his, interlocking their fingers. “I suppose not.” Lily replied. “You still can’t say anything good about the snow though.”

“She says to the snow artist. . .”

And they bickered, walking hand-in-hand through the snow.

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