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“I’m pregnant,” she told her husband, flushed and nervous and excited.
James dropped his cereal bowl, the porcelain clanking loudly against the linoleum countertop. He pushed his glasses up with one hand, gaping at her. “Are you - are you sure?” he asked breathlessly, crossing the kitchen to loop his arms around her hips.
She grinned. “I’m sure,” she said. “I took the test three times. Congratulations Prongs, you knocked me up.”
James let out a sound of delight, dropping to his knees in front of her and pulling up her jumper to kiss her still-flat belly, his mouth cold from the milk.
It couldn’t be any more different than when she told him she was pregnant with Harry; what teenagers were excited to have a baby in the middle of a war, barely out of school themselves? The night Poppy had confirmed it for them, they’d stayed up all night, laying atop their bed covers and curling up together like scared children, one of James’ hands laying over her belly like he could protect their unborn child from the dangerous world they lived in by sheer force of will. The entire pregnancy had been shrouded by fear, and for Lily it had only grown worse when they placed her newborn son on her chest, when she looked down and realized that all anyone had to do to destroy her was harm this tiny, fragile, completely dependant little creature that whined and whimpered as she kissed his goopy, dark hair.
It was no less terrifying to be pregnant a second time, not really, but this time she had the surety that she at least knew what she was doing - that she could be a good mother. Sure, Harry was a handful, but he knew he was loved, and he had a tiny army of soldiers willing to die to protect him. As long as their secret was safe, so were they.
“I hope it’s a girl this time,” James said, kissing below her bellybutton.
“No flower names,” she told him, carding a hand through his hair.
“You don’t want a little Rose Potter? Or a Dahlia Potter?” James said, eyes bright as he looked up at her, and she traced his mouth with her thumb, wiping away cereal crumbs.
“No,” she said. “Let’s name her after your mother.”
He swallowed. “Euphemia?”
“It’s a good name,” she said. “And your mother was a saint, really.”
James’ eyes were suspiciously bright as he stood up and kissed her deeply. “Harry and Effie,” he murmured.
“Harry and Effie,” she agreed softly, touching her belly.
James pulled away and smiled at her, the smile he reserved just for her. “Happy Halloween, Evans.”
She laughed and kissed his chin. “Happy Halloween, Potter.”