Disclaimer: HP is all the genius work of Jo Rowling.
Dear Lily, Chapter 2.
The sounds of students moving around the dorms awoke Lily the next morning. She knew she had better get up, or she’d miss breakfast. With all the self-discipline she could muster, she pushed the covers off and rolled over. Something crumpled beneath her. She pulled herself up and looked down to see what it was.
The letter. She had almost forgotten.
She picked it up and gently smoothed out the creases.
I simply could not bear to sully something so beautiful.
She placed the letter in the bottom of her trunk. She changed quickly and descended the stairs to the common room.
As she and Harriet walked to breakfast, Lily felt as though someone was watching her. Perhaps she was just imagining it, or perhaps she was just now noticing it. She threw frequent glances over her shoulder, but every time, there were simply students, minding their own business.
“Are you okay, Lily?” asked Harriet. “You’re rather jumpy this morning.”
“I’m fine,” said Lily with a laugh. “I just…had some weird dreams last night. You know how that can make a person.”
Harriet eyed her dubiously, but accepted the explanation.
The rest of the day passed quickly, and, as did the rest of the week, without any sign of the mysterious Mr. Prongs.
Mr. Prongs. What kind of a name was that? A false name, of course, but even then. Prongs? She found herself thinking about him and the letter at random points throughout the day: During lunch, in the middle of a Charms lesson, throughout a History of Magic lecture…any time her mind had the chance to wander.
She occasionally wondered if she had not dreamt it all, but the letter in the bottom of her trunk squashed that idea. Maybe, she sometimes thought, maybe this ‘Mr. Prongs’ had been angry or disappointed that his setup had not worked, that Lily had not been framed, that James Potter had spoilt it by proving (to some extent) her innocence. Perhaps the letter was his revenge. Perhaps he knew it would drive her crazy, or maybe it was sarcastic and mocking, and she hadn’t noticed.
But then, one Wednesday evening when Lily returned to her dormitory she found placed on her pillow what she had been dreaming about for so many days: A letter, with the scarlet wax seal.
Lily glanced to see that no one was looking, then closed the hangings around her. With an almost trembling hand she reached for the letter and carefully opened it.
Dear Lily,
I’ve found that my previous letter to you has done more than to introduce you to myself, your admirer from afar. It has broken the barrier between us, allowing myself to speak to you, when before I could not. It has broken the dam, and thus my words have been poured from my quill like the rushing waters that have so long been held back.
I find just writing to you makes me smile. I have no idea how you will receive these letters. Perhaps you will laugh at them, show them to your friends and laugh at the poor fool whose words he could do nothing more with than write letters. Perhaps you will despise them, hate them, cast them into the fire and watch them burn. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll accept them, and in time, accept me.
I’m sure I sound crooked or devious…A trickster trying to lure you into some horrible prank. I know no words that can assure you this is not so but the ones I speak now.
I remain yours,
Mr. Prongs
Lily found, as she finished reading the scarlet words, her mouth was slightly open. How could a prankster -- a Mr. Prongs -- write such beautiful words? Mr. Prongs! Shouldn’t a writer of such breath-taking letters have a romantic name, like…Nathaniel, or…. Franklin or Alexander? But Mr. Prongs?
I’m sure I sound crooked or devious…A trickster trying to lure you into some horrible prank. I know no words that can assure you this not so but the ones I speak now.
It was almost as if he knew just what she was thinking. Could she believe the words he spoke? What if they too were intended to deceive? What if, realizing a flaw in his scheme, he had added those words simply to fool her further? Could she trust this anonymous prankster who spoke so beautifully? And who was this nameless man?
She didn’t know if she could stand it. He had left her no way to contact him, so she could ask no questions, and it was driving her crazy. Would he write again? And when?
She found herself up in her dormitory during breaks, checking to see if another one would arrive. And another did, and another, and another, each as beautiful as the last.
Dear Lily,
How I look forward to writing these letters! I find myself scribbling words to you during classes and escaping to the confines of my dormitory simply to write to you and imagine these words I place upon this unhappy parchment are spoken to your face.
I find my floor is covered with crumpled scraps of paper, of words I threw away. That is why I hide in these letters, here, where I can be careful and calculated, where I can form each word in the way I wish; it is a comfort in knowing that I can say what I mean to say, and not a slip of the tongue, of words that would condemn me. It takes all the courage I possess to send you these letters, and yet so much courage I lack, to speak to you in person. That I might reveal myself to you at last!
But what is courage, and where does it hide? Why, when I most need it, can I not find it? You must think me a coward, to hide behind this scarlet ink, this false name. But I beg you, do not think too badly of me. Perhaps, in time, you’ll understand. I hope with all my heart -- the heart of a foolish boy and uncertain man -- that this will prove true.
Forever yours,
Mr. Prongs
Dear Lily,
I wonder if you ever think of me, wonder who I am, and what I am like. In a away, I think, you are the only one who really knows me, save, perhaps, my closest mates. You are the only I have ever written such letters to, before, and certainly the only one I intend to. And yet, I know so little of you, and you so little of I…I suppose these letters are my way of remedying that….
Dear Lily,
I thought of you again this afternoon, not that I don’t every day. I was out on the grounds at dusk, and I was flying, both literally and figuratively, I suppose. The sky was the most brilliant hue of reds and oranges…of your hair. And though it must have been one of the coldest evenings I have been out on in a while, a sudden warmth overcame me. I ceased my flying, and simply drifted along, staring at the sunset and thinking of you. I wish you had been there with me….
But by far the most poignant letter…a letter that made her want to cry, laugh, scream…was one she had received during break one Friday afternoon.
Dear Lily,
Can a man have everything in life? I’ve certainly pondered this question before. A man can have so much, and yet want so much more. A man can have everything he needs to live life, and yet in his heart, he lacks the most vital thing of all, leaving an empty, barren hole in its place. And what can he do to fill that hole? What must he lose from that past life, that seems so far and insignificant now, that he might find the one thing, or rather, one person who can fill his heart?
I read this back and it sounds like the babble of a very verbose madman, but perhaps a madman I am. You hardly know me, and I hardly know you. And yet -- I hardly know you, but, Lily…I think I love you. My tongue has been cut out, my ink has all dried upon my quill. I can think of no more words to say than that.
Yours, until the world ends,
Mr. -- it pains me to sign so -- Prongs
Lily couldn’t -- wouldn’t -- stand it anymore. Not after that last letter…She had to write him. She had to find out who he was. He hinted that she knew him…she tried to think of anyone she knew who wrote so beautifully. No one came to mind. She couldn’t stand it anymore…She had to write him.
So, with a quivering hand, she began to write.
Dear Mr. Prongs…
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