February 14, 1895 — Diagon Alley
Rémy Toulouse

It’s your choice, my dear.

The words from the hag on Beech Street echoed in Irene’s head as she walked through the thick London crowd. The sun beat down on her straw hat, permeating the linen dress she wore, insistent upon drawing a bronzed tan from her skin. It was in the midst of a relentless, hot summer’s day that Irene had decided to take a walk, and while she wasn’t regretting it, she found herself wishing for some sort of cloud-cover. Instead she settled down on a bench outside an obliging shop; which shop it happened to be, she neither knew nor cared. She just looked down at the card in her hand.

It wasn’t dissimilar in size and shape to a regular playing card but that’s where the similarities stopped. Goblin metal smithing is what the hag had told her, and imbibed with a tricky kind of magic. Lined with a dark, silky red ribbon, it was inlaid with both gold on one side; silver on the other.

Warmth and frost in equal measure.

Depicted on the golden side was an open garden gate; lush and overflowing with snowdrops and lilies of the valley that almost sparkled with dew during the golden hour. Gold leaves adorned the borders, peeking out underneath the silk ribbon. On the silver side, wrought iron bars trapped a full moon encased in thorns. Bits of frost decorated every inch of the card, so sharp that when Irene ran her fingers over the embossed design she could almost feel the chill emanating from it despite the fact that she was seated in the full sun.

The longer Irene stared at it the more tempting it was to use it. She was tired of being plagued by nightmares. Tired of feeling like there was something missing. Her thumb traced the golden outlines of the side facing up. As she flipped it over, the silver glow that outlined the details flickered slightly, as if tempting her to tap it thrice. Make everything go away. Her eyes shuttered closed. She ran the pad of her thumb over the design. Tapped it once. Twice.

And before she could lift her thumb and bring it down a third time, someone crashed into the bench beside her. She jumped. The card, which had begun to glow a bright almost blinding silver, fluttered out of her hand and onto the ground, rendered useless. “Remy!” The last person she'd expected was her friend, despite the fact that — oh, Merlin. They'd said they would meet up right about now in this very place, hadn't they?

Irene tried to force a smile onto her face before she stooped down to pick up the card and stuff it back in her pocket. “Why do you look so out of breath?” She asked, hoping her friend wasn't in a particularly observant mood.

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Remy and the current season were not bosom friends. He had appreciated the beauty and novelty of snow at first. After all, it did not often fall in his hometown of Marsielle, France and he had spent most of his life in warmer climates. London was miserable in the winter and quite wet. Even so, he could not simply coop himself up in the house and he was meant to be meeting Irene.

And there she was and he was grateful for the chance to sit. He eyed her curiously as she scooped something into her pocket. "Who wouldn't be in this miserably wet day?" He asked. Though for February, the day was considered quite warm by the locals. But not by the man who had been born with summer in his veins.

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