She was dramatic. He was dynamic. She was precise. He was impulsive. He was James, and she was Lily, and one day they shared a kiss, but before that they shared many arguments, for he was cocky, and she was sweet, and matters of the heart require time.

She had buttermilk-pale skin. The exhaustion was plain as pumpkin juice on her face. Her hair was lit from behind by the paling window, the red filaments mixed in with the brown flaring to life. She lurked in my periphery just like that—improbably, infuriatingly—and I could have sworn she was divine if I wasn't so sure she was a Mudblood.