Scorily: For jcomella
She was fire and fury, her mother’s daughter through and through. She was brown eyes in a porcelain face and hair like flames streaming behind her. She was a scarlet lipstick smile flashing teeth like an animal and spitting words like sparks. She was a wildfire walking, and her spirit fit the girl who had the name of a long-dead war hero.
If she was fire, he was ice. He was not his father’s son no matter how much everyone wanted to be. He was grey eyes and hair that may as well have been white and a face like a rodent. He was cold and calculating, choosing words like precious stones. He was a thousand years of history and tradition, the latest in a long line of manipulative bastards.
Lily Potter terrified him, the first time he’d seen her as she’d strode confidently across the Great Hall to the Sorting Hat. She was only eleven and he was thirteen- practically a grown-up- but she seemed effortlessly comfortable in her own skin in a way that he’d never been. He scoffed along with everyone else when she became a Gryffindor, the antithesis to his Slytherin, and his house denounced her as a fool, brawn instead of brains that all the others. Yet she still scared him.
They’d abandoned the rivalry their parents left to them, but he still saw Lily in the corridors every day. She was impossible to miss, laughing with her friends and defending her Hufflepuff brother while she tossed her hair, and he was helpless to do anything but watch it dance like flames. He was afraid she would burn him.
He didn’t speak to her until they ran into one another outside the Shrieking Shack at her first Hogsmeade visit, and she lamented how she wished it really was haunted, so she could explore it. He kissed her almost a year to the day after that, under the mistletoe that made the castle treacherous, and her lips didn’t scald him the way they’d expected.
If she was fire, then he was ice, but she was worth melting for.