Red in Latin
by jamespotters
January 1978
His mom signs him up for this pen pal programme.
She thinks he has been feeling lonely, secluded from all he's ever known which has, slowly, been drifting him apart since he left. He doesn't bother to deny it, because maybe he has – months away from home have cost him some changes, but he feels somewhat still the same. You need to be reminded of how much you matter. You don't seem to believe it when I tell you, she writes him.
He's reluctant at first. He doesn't know who'd want to write to a soldier – he doesn't feel like one, either – in a war that is cold with advances from either part. Sirius pesters him with promises of fit birds and Remus talks about how much it would help to talk to someone who isn't there. In the end, his mate's efforts and his mother's letters and phone calls become too bloody clamorous for him to ignore and he relentlessly accepts.
The first letter comes on a Tuesday.
He doesn't know what he had been expecting, but somehow he feels ordinary once he touches the white parchment (he hasn't felt that way for a while). His name is written in the front, the words in a loopy, pretty handwriting. His hands are shaking when he opens it and he isn't really sure why, because he hasn't even met this stranger and he's a bit worried that he might be one of those twats that only searches for comfort instead of giving it in return, for Merlin's sake.
He is finally able to free the sheets of parchment from the white owl's leg, but not before the bird bites his finger. He swears and with a tap of his wand turns the owl pink. He smirks once the bird realizes the change of its feathers. Daltrey – he admits to have read the end of the letter although, to his defence, warning him in the end isn't really quite helpful since his finger's aching from that sodding bird's bite– starts screeching but he's too concerted on reading the papers in his hand to notice.
Dear Stranger,
I'm sorry – they tell me that where you're at the rain freezes you to the bone and it snows every other week. You're one lucky sod. It's been bloody hot here in England, which, yes, isn't usual at all. I've been craving a proper drink for weeks – and by that I do mean something suitably fresh and with loads of sugar – but according to my sister it's bad for my figure and since Mum agrees, I'm being punished by slowly dying from thirst. It seems as though I'm the only person in this house who's actually trying to survive this scorching weather. Figures.
Blimey, it's two in the morning already and I ought to stop writing haphazard nonsense about my life because by now you might be wondering if you got paired up with a raging lunatic who is actually a monkey instead of a red hair person. With no offense to monkeys, of course; they are, after all, quite lovely. Do you have them around wherever you are? I wouldn't know, I'm terrible with Geography.
Anyway, Mum told me I should say a few things about me and then ask a few questions myself about you and since I've only written a few hundred words of gibberish, I'm dedicating these last paragraphs to actual interesting things (or at least I hope I'm interesting enough to you).
So, hello James, I'm Lily Rose Evans. Twenty one, Gryffindor born and raised and bribed to write letters to unknown people, who might just be a Slytherin in disguise. All right, don't think I'm a prejudiced mad woman – I'm merely trying to sympathize with our reign's affairs, even if I don't understand them at all. Know then, and nevertheless, that you're expected to be entertaining enough so that I won't feel the urge to pull my hair out. You'd understand if you lived here.
Curious fact: I'm named after my great grandmother who used to be a kind of Florence Nightingale during the Seven Year Drought. I've never really thought about it, but perhaps that's why I'm currently studying in the local university to become a doctor. You must be thinking how a wreck like me can be good at pressure situations, never mind treating other people? Apparently, I'm good. Top of my class, actually. Mum says she's proud of me, even if not too often. Bloody hell, this makes me look like a self-centred, egotistical twat. I honestly hope you do not paint me in your head as such.
In any case, if it's all right with you, I'll probably send another letter in a week or so, only because I'm terribly fed up and this seems amusing enough, oh James, the still stranger.
Sincerely too hot,
Lily Evans
PS – Daltrey bites.
He can only thing how wonderfully odd this girl is.
A few days later, the owl arrives with another letter.
Dear James,
I was expecting a reply and instead got a pink owl. Thanks for that. I have no idea how you managed to do that or what poor, innocent Daltrey did to you, but you should turn him white again. He's too bloody vain for his own good.
Do you think I swear a lot? Perhaps you haven't yet noticed. Petunia – my sister – has, anyway. She says I won't find a husband like her Vernon if I keep ingesting food like this and that I'll get mad, fat and lonely. That is such an antiqued view of the world. Why can't I be a happily single girl with a sailor's mouth? I'd rather live the rest of my life with my cat and eating toast with baked beans than marry that excuse of a whale that she calls a husband. Oi, I'm being mean and you should warn me about that! Shame on you.
Bit of a curiosity about me (or at least another one): I keep changing my cat's name even though I've had him for six years. He's been named after all of the Beatles, then after prince Charles, but he's The Cat for quite some time now. I can't choose by favourite Beatle, I suppose, and the cat pays the price. Reckon calling him The Cat is easier. But I'll leave that to you. (In case you haven't noticed, yes, that is a hint. Answer a lass's question! Be a gentleman.)
The weather's nice and cold again. Same old England. Mum made tea before and The Cat spilled it. I swear I'll return the cat to the shop if he keeps spilling my precious tea. Although I have been saying this since I got him.
I'm currently listening to Parselmouth Seer and now I'm sad. Have you ever listened to it? There's a tune of them I've been in love with as of lately, called Patronus. And there're these lyrics that remind me of my father. Blimey, I miss him. He used to put their record on all the time and he'd scream the songs so loud we'd soon be doing the same. Right now I feel like I'm bleeding my heart out. Have you ever felt like that after listening to a song? It's hard to deal with.
How are your parents? Are they barmy like my mum? I sincerely wish not for your own sake.
I hope you're happy, wherever you are. Or at least a bit content with yourself. I wish you'd be a little less like James Bond and stopped trying to protect other people in the process of forgetting yourself. You're so important and you're doing such brave things. Tell me all about that life of yours now. It would be rather lovely.
Either way, I send with this some biscuits my mum made to convince you to relieve a gal from her boring life. I reckon this will end up in deaf ears but it's quite all right too: no more cookies for you then.
Have a good week,
Lily
P.S – I'm sorry if that thing about my dad was random. It happens to be a somewhat difficult subject, at least to a certain extent.
James spends three days thinking about how to reply to that odd letter. He doesn't reach a decent enough conclusion to put in writing. Instead, he fills his days patrolling the grounds and writing reports about the ever calm enemy trenchers. He thinks about how the letters are the only thing he looks forward to. He welcomes the change, nevertheless. He has missed the audacity, and madness of knowing someone from the beginning; Lily is not at all what he expected. She doesn't seem like anyone he's ever met before. Barmy and different and astonishing. So far from him – physically – yet so close in a way that would seem as if they'd known each other before all this. Before the war, before Riddle.
And stuck in the trenchers of a war that neither began nor ends properly, James finds himself wondering how even in such a distressful situation he finds hope in someone that was never anything to him and is now beginning to be. Or at least he anticipates so.
It takes him every bit of strength to draft a small reply, despite feeling its inadequacy compared to her letters. He doesn't know why the task appears so demanding. It had been such a simple thing! To say thank you, to appreciate the work he deemed as important. But it had meant something more and he couldn't remain silent to that.
Dear L-,
Thank you.
J–
PS – Call him – The Cat slash Paul slash Ringo slash John slash George – Bond.
James,
Ha! I knew you were alive and able to form words, you sodding git. Part of me actually wondered for a while if you were a ghost. I'm glad I can put that theory aside. For now, at least.
I'm happy with the fact I finally received a decent enough reply, but you seem to have forgotten to tell me about yourself. So far, the only thing I'm sure is what I've read in the application and even that's not confirmed. You're from Gryffindor, too. You're twenty three years old and you've been away from home for far too long. I wish I could apparate and be with you within instants but apparently I'm far too driven by fear to even pass the test. It must be hard, though. I'm sorry.
You're fighting for a kingdom that is falling apart and good blokes like you ought to stay put and defend it within its borders and not outside of it. I hope Slytherin's weather has warmed up. Just in case, I send more pasty pastels and a few blankets.
Know, though, that if you refrain from replying me within two days you'll receive a very angry Howler.
Stay out of trouble, my best Soldier
L–
PS – Control him yourself without the hexes, you twat. I can't be there to save your sorry arse every time Daltrey decides to be more dog than owl. I do pity my poor pet to have endured such foul smell. He'll be scarred for life.
PSS – Why Bond?