* for the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

of the beautiful annabel lee;

and the stars never rise but i feel the bright eyes

of the beautiful annabel lee;

and so, all the night-tide, i lie down by the side

of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,

in the sepulchre there by the sea,

in her tomb by the sounding sea. *

-annabel lee, edgar allen poe.

Lily Evans. The name rolls off your tongue, sweeter than Honeydukes chocolate, easier than blinking and breathing—although even that seems hard when she's around.

You try again.

Lily Potter. This one tastes even nicer. Yes, this one has to stick.

Flicking her fountain of flaming hair, the angel in question walks past your table in the library, a Charms textbook clutched to her chest, her eyes deliberately avoiding you.

"Oi, Potter!" you yell.

She keeps walking. You suppose she's not used to her new title yet.

"Potter!"

Nothing.

"Evans!"

She turns. "What? Why were you calling me Potter, Potter?" She marches over to you and around the table until she reaches your side, slams her book down and glares, her eyes bright with passionate anger.

To you, there is nothing more beautiful than Lily when she's angry.

"Well?"

Taking in Lily's pose—her hands on her hips, her hair behind her shoulders and her eyes cold—you smirk and say innocently, "Oh, Lily, didn't you get the memo?"

Lily raises an eyebrow. "Memo? What memo?"

"We're going to be married," you announce, as if it was obvious all along.

Lily laughed. "Oh, really?"

You nod.

"How did you come up with that, then?" your future wife asks. She's smirking and a butterfly flaps its hopeful wings in your stomach. You can't help but feel proud that you've earned her approval.

"I just know it," you say. "I take one look at you and I think, I am going to marry that girl. And probably have numerous children with her."

"Bet you're looking forward to that part."

"Definitely. Around seven of them?"

"Seven minimum," Lily jokes along, now perched beside you on the table.

"And they'd all look like me," you laugh, "because with genes like mine you can't let them go to waste."

Lily mock-slaps you on the arm.

"And a couple of redheads too. Hopefully not many of them will inherit my eyesight—"

"God forbid that happens, because you are blind!"

You laugh again—why is it you laugh so much around Lily?—and, drunk with your success so far, wrap your arm around your angel's shoulders.

With a snort she shrugs your arm off. "I never said I'd say yes."

As she walks away, you sigh and return to your neglected essay. You really want it.

You want what the future had to hold, and you wanted to see Lily in a white dress, her hair up, her eyes smiling, a bouquet of roses in her hand…

You want to wrap your arms around her as you curled up in a bed, content with your afterglow, and you wanted to plant little kisses on her neck and shoulder and you wanted to whisper sweet things into her ear as she went to sleep so she would dream beautiful dreams.

You want to see her holding your first child, giant green eyes peering up from a tiny crumpled face, and you want to feel its soft weight in your arms, and let your eyes absorb and memorise every feature, and you want to kiss its forehead and see Lily smiling and hold her and your child so tightly that they'd never be able to get hurt ever again.

And then you couldn't think about you want.

You drop your quill.

You just sit there.

And want.