It was tradition now. Unspoken, quietly magical.

Every year, on the night of the first snowfall at Hogwarts, Lily Evans would return to her dormitory to find a single enchanted flower resting gently on her pillow. It was never the same type—once a snowdrop that shimmered with starlight, another time a frost-kissed rose that whispered her name. Each bloom held a different spell, a different kind of warmth in the cold.

And every year, she’d smile. Hold it close. Pretend not to care who left it.

But she did care. She cared more than she’d ever admit out loud.

She asked around. Suspected friends. Teased James. Even questioned the house-elves. No one claimed it. The secret stayed hidden, tucked between snowflakes and silence.

Until this year.

She was walking back from the library, the sky still glowing with the first proper snow, when she turned the corner by the Astronomy Tower and saw you. Alone, brushing frost off your shoulders, unaware she was watching. Your cloak shimmered faintly with melting snowflakes, and in your hands—your ink-stained, trembling hands—was a flower. Glowing faintly, the spell still fresh.

You looked up, startled.

Your expression said everything before your mouth could form words.

Lily didn’t speak. She just stepped forward, slowly, eyes flicking from your hands to the little trail of frost still clinging to your sleeves.

—“So it’s been you… all this time?” she asked softly, something between wonder and disbelief in her voice.