It had been a hard thing, getting used to owls swooping down over her head every morning during breakfast, but, as Ever's father often told her, a person could get used to anything if they lived with it long enough. She wasn't sure if that was true—she still wasn't quite used to the feeling of magic flowing through her fingertips when she held her wand, after all—but she had grown quite accustomed to seeing the Weasley twins getting little packages of fudge with notes from their mum every week, and Lee Jordan almost always had candy to share with them sent from his father. She'd never gotten a letter herself, and she'd never expected to—who did she know that would send her anything by owl post?—so when a screech owl landed in front of her one morning in the first week of February, at first Ever thought it must be some kind of mistake. She untied the package from the bird's leg and gave him a bit of toast to nibble on while she turned it over, looking for a name, and there, on the paper in the corner and addressed just like muggle post (Ever Moore, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland) was her name in her dad's neat, sloping script. Unable to fight back the huge grin that quickly spread across her face—how in the world had he found an owl to send her anything?—and too thoroughly tempted to wait until she was in the relative privacy of her dormitory, Ever carefully removed the tape holding the paper on and folded it, putting it to the side. Taped to the box was a sheet of notebook paper, and in the brightly lit Great Hall she could see her father's script through the page, but she placed that to the side as well for later reading. It had been over a month since she'd seen him, and some part of her was quite sure that she was going to cry when she read it; best not to do that surrounded by the twins and Lee, who were already looking at her curiously.

Inside the box she found a thick book of fairytales—the muggle kind, the ones that Fred and George had been pestering her about since she'd told them that they were quite different from the ones in the wizarding world; she'd mentioned it to him in her last letter home and now she could share these with the twins and Lee—assorted candies, and one long-stemmed rose, carefully wrapped in plastic as not to be crushed during the journey. There was a little card on the flower that read, quite simply, "Will you be my Valentine?" and for a moment Ever felt herself choke up—up til that year, he'd called her his little love, as her mother was his Valentine—before she placed it all back in the box.

"I'll meet you in Transfiguration," she told the boys, sliding the box into her bag carefully, along with the note and the paper that it had been wrapped in—those would go into her memory box with her other letters and notes. By the time Ever left the Great Hall, she was jogging toward the stairs, and halfway up she gave in completely and sprinted the rest of the way to the common room, barely stopping to gasp the password at the Fat Lady as she made her way through. Her dormitory was empty—Angelina and Alicia were down at breakfast—and she flopped onto her bed, unfolding her letter.

Ever,

If you're reading this, I've found an owl that has been trained by wizards...well, actually, are they trained or are they just magical owls that know how to find the recipients somehow? Anyway, I've found an owl to deliver this little message to you. I'm sending it a bit early, as I don't know how long owl post takes. This owl probably belongs to that doctor woman you told me about that's down the street, I can't remember her name right now, but I do remember you showing me the shack where she lives. Perhaps we should invest in an owl, love. It would make it a lot easier to send letters, in any case. Wasn't there a shop in Diagon Alley when we were with Professor Flitwick that sold them? This summer we'll look into it.

Well, love, it's Valentine's Day, or quite near it anyway, and this is the first time in fifteen years that I've not had a proper Valentine. I thought maybe we should make this something we do...you be my Valentine and I'll be yours, at least til one of us (probably you) finds another Valentine. Well, even then, I'll send you a rose or some such thing and we'll make a day of it. I think...well, I think your mother would have liked this very much. You're very like her, Ever, and I know she would be proud of you, because I am.

I wanted to tell you, before you came home for Easter holidays, if you're allowed, that...well, I've been seeing someone. It isn't serious just now, and I don't think it will be for a while yet. I'm not very ready for that and I don't think you'd be ready for it either. But her name is Emily, and she's quite sweet, and I hope you'll like her. There's a picture of her in the front of the book, I thought you'd like to see and I didn't want it to get wrinkled before you could take a look at it.

I'd better leave it here, baby, so I can pop out and get this sent off to you. I love you loads.

—Dad

Ever couldn't quite tell what was worse; the sudden mention of her mother, or the fact that it was only a segway to the appearance of a new woman in her father's life. She'd never even met the lady and already she couldn't stand her. This Emily had no right to be with her father, none, her mother hadn't even been in her grave for a year yet, and didn't her dad have any sense of propriety, didn't he know that it was much too soon to do anything like this, didn't he know that it was going to feel like her heart was being ripped out of her chest and—the first year made herself stop, swiping tears angrily from her eyes. She didn't know who she was more angry at, her father or herself. Surely he had every right to date, and as he'd said himself it wasn't serious, and Ever was probably just overreacting because it was so unexpected. Part of her never wanted to open the book and see the face of the lady of her father's affections, and the other half, the half that seemed to be controlling her limbs, was already reaching for it.

Emily was a pretty woman, Ever supposed, trying to view the picture objectively. Her mum was prettier, of course, but Emily had a nice face in her own right. Her hair was a strawberry blonde, more strawberry than blonde really, and her eyes were blue. She seemed to have freckles everywhere, just like the Weasley twins, and that tidbit of thought made her smile in spite of herself.

She needed to think about it, but not then. She was going to be late for class if she didn't get a move on, and the twins and Lee were likely to be waiting for her in the common room rather than actually having gone of to Transfiguration on their own. No sooner than she'd thought so did she hear Fred or George, she wasn't sure which, shouting up the stairs for her to come on.

Ever looked at the picture once more, and suddenly decided that she was wrong; she couldn't stand the face that she was looking at, she couldn't stand to think of her in their house and in their space while she and her mother weren't, and, grabbing her wand, she walked over to the waste basket.

"Ever!" shouted Lee up the stairs impatiently.

"I'm coming!" she yelled back, an steadiness that she didn't feel in her voice. With shaking hands she pointed her wand at the photo and muttered, "Incendio." The fire was immediate and satisfying, somehow, and she watched as the picture burned to the edges—it only took thirty seconds or so, but it felt a good deal longer—and when it finally reached the last corner she shook it out, scalding her fingertips in the process. She blew on them gently as she grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, and, as an afterthought, stuffed the book in with it; maybe at lunch she could read the boys Cinderella. In a disconnected, vague sort of way, she already felt guilty about what she'd done; surely Emily was a lovely person and didn't deserve that kind of treatment, and her dad deserved to go out and have dates and not be lonely, but...

On the way down to Transfiguration, the first year girl barely heard a word of what Fred and George and Lee were talking about. She slid into her usual space in front of them, between Alicia and Angelina, and in the 30 seconds it took for her to take out her quill and a bit of parchment and for the class to start, she had already started composing her letter home to her head.

Dear Dad,

Emily sounds lovely, you'll have to tell me more about her! She's very pretty, what's she like? Thank you so much for the book and flower, you know the boys, they've been asking about it for a while now...

She didn't manage to take notes in Transfigurations, or in Charms afterward, but she scribbled furiously all the same and carefully removed blots of ink with a quick muttered spell Charlie Weasley had taught her when a tear or two happened to fall.