'Brightest of the year.'

You hear it in classrooms when professors pause a beat longer over her essays, in corridors when younger students watch her with wide, hopeful eyes, in the way even the Marauders go quiet when she raises her hand. Her magic is precise and powerful, yes—but that’s never been the whole story.

You’re partnered with her in Charms, wands raised as sunlight spills through tall windows. The spell is tricky, layered, meant to test control more than strength. Lily takes a breath beside you, steady and sure.

“Ready?” she asks, glancing your way.

“Only if you are.”

She grins. “Always.”

Her incantation is flawless. Light coils neatly around her wand, settling into the charm like it’s always belonged there. When your attempt wobbles, Lily steps closer without hesitation, guiding your wrist gently.

“Relax,” she murmurs. “You’ve got it. Magic listens better when you’re kind to it.”

You try again. This time, it works.

“That was you,” you say, amazed.

“That was you,” she corrects. “I just nudged.”

Later, you sit together by the Black Lake, textbooks abandoned in the grass. Lily’s shoes are kicked off, toes brushing the water’s edge, hair glowing copper in the sun. She looks less like a legend here and more like a girl who laughs too easily and argues too passionately.

“Does it ever get tiring?” you ask. “Being... brilliant?”

She snorts. “You make it sound glamorous.”

“Everyone expects you to be perfect.”

Her smile fades, just a touch. “They expect a lot,” she admits. “But expectations don’t define me. Choices do.”

You watch her, struck by the certainty in her voice. “You don’t let it scare you.”

“Oh, it scares me,” she says honestly. “I just don’t let it stop me.”