Three Little Words

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything related belongs first, and foremost, to JK Rowling, and then to her partnerships with Bloomsbury, Scholastics, Warner Bros., etc.

Summary: What you remember most is the shock.

Posted: 6/27/10

Author's Note: Just another small – and I suppose I do mean small – fic-let of James and Lily. Just trying to keep the writing going, re-honing the skills, you could say.

Three Little Words

You still remember the day everything changed, one summer day just before your last year of school. You remember the searing hotness of the mid-July day, the small tank top you sported with your vivid red hair tied lazily behind your head. You remember the sound of children playing outside, of your parents' soft record player humming along in the sitting room below your room, of your quill scratching roughly across the long sheet of parchment you were pouring your heart and soul into (summer days were always the best for your writing). But what you remember most is the shock.

What are you writing about? You wouldn't be Lily Evans if you weren't writing. Came his first letter, bore on the leg of a large tawny owl you had never seen before.

This is James Potter, by the way. Came the second, a new owl soaring through your open window and plopping the letter onto your bed before immediately returning to the sky.

I know what you are thinking. Though you rarely ever smiled at the thought of James Potter communicating with you, you found yourself letting out a small fit of giggles at the thought of sending owl after owl to you. Who on earth needed this many owls, you remember thinking just as another one appeared.

You probably don't want to expose what you are writing – I hear that is a very 'writer-like' thing to do. In which case, good work, you've starting to get a good grip on things, Evans.

And then a fifth, Of course, if you'd ever liketo tell me what you're writing about, I'd be more than happy to read it – whether to critique or otherwise.

The sixth: Needless to say, I have quite a bit of free time on my hands.

Before the letters had a chance to get ridiculous – that is, even more so than they already were – you remember taking out your own spare piece of parchment and penning a letter back to him.

Potter –

You indeed have way too much time on your hands. Get a hobby and stop distracting me from mine.

Sincerely,

L Evans

Fairly satisfied with your stifling reply, you had returned to your story but what happened next still remains a slight shock to you. The tawny owl had returned bearing one last slip of parchment with James' messy scribble on it.

Evans, don't fool yourself: writing isn't your hobby. It's your life.

You still remember staring at the parchment for hours, utterly bewildered by James' correction to your statement, and more importantly, with his accuracy. You'll always remember that as the beginning. Even despite your own delusions that James Potter was a prat, and would never be anything more than a toe-rag to you, your writing said otherwise. From that moment on, you constructed a new character, developed from some newfound inspiration that you could not place your finger on. But it was his inspiration you had received – the character was all the most wonderful things about him you never wanted to see.

You remember though, as your seventh year moved onward, you no longer held any control over what you did or did not see. It was another mid-day, only this time in mid October when the large tiny owl arrived at your dormitory window.

I think it's time for you to tell me what you're writing. You still remember how you heard his voice in your head when you read the letter, due to the endless hours spent with him doing Head's duties.

We are friends now, at least, aren't we? That should merit something.

You remember not having words for him, to explain one way or another if you were friends; how there were no words to explain what your newest character was all about. So you never wrote anything back.

He never mentioned it, not in the next days to follow, or even months, weeks, years after. The beauty of his letters was that they were his writings to you – things he did not need to speak, things he wanted you to read. You remember it being late November when you finally received a letter from him you were willing to answer.

I saw a glimpse of your writing – but believe me it was not my fault! It was just sitting in the Charms classroom – a random page, I'm assuming, so I kept it safe for you, as you will tell from it being attached in the next letter.

The second small letter was lightly attached to a piece of parchment you knew you had been missing: I loved it, by the way. Really good writing, Lily.

The third: Bloke sounds really familiar in it, though. Have I met him before?

And even more alarming, the fourth: Meet me in the common room to discuss?

And though you never admitted it then, deep down you knew you had left the parchment there for him to find, read and understand. You remember wanting to see if he really did understand you. And that is why you remember replying to his letter with a small qualification of your own: Bed now. Grab some butterbeers at Hogsmeade tomorrow?

You remember considering that your first ever date, the first time you had ever let someone into your world, or as James put it – your life. And he fit right in.

Of course, in later years, you would hang on to that very first piece of parchment as a reminder of all it had caused. Sometimes when you look at James holding Harry, playing with him, taking care of him, as you sat on the nearby couch writing, you can see his small scribble in your memory and you can't help but smile at all the beautiful things just three little words could do.