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Like usual, she’s already splayed herself across the couch, too enraptured in her book to notice the portrait hole swing open. Spotting her, he makes a show of staggering across the room, dropping his broom idly to the floor with a groan while soaking in the way her lips twitch behind the page in an attempt to ignore him. Making it around the couch, he gives no preamble and collapses against her with an oof, enjoying her small squeaks of surprise as he nuzzles his face into her clavicle.
“Practice was bad?” Her eyes settle back on the page and a hand finds its way into his hair, fingering the ends that have been shocked into fractured points by the winter wind.
“Horrible, awful, downright contemptible.”
“That many adjectives, huh.”
He grunts, scooting his body down further so his head is cradled into her chest, arms snaking around her sides to find the place where her shirt has gotten untucked to draw circles into skin. It has become a tradition of sorts—she waits for him after practice, holding court in front of the common room fireplace and making herself look too irresistible to not fall into the second he returns. It’s a shame they only have one year of school left to enjoy it.
She tries to go back to reading, but he continues to sigh, each more theatrical than the last, fingers starting to tickle and pinch at her waist rather than caress.
“If you want attention, just say so,” she says behind the book, mouth pressed into a tight line but her eyes sparkling.
“No, no. It’s fine. I’ll just lay here… suffering.”
She snorts, and he presses a victory smile into her skin. “You’re so spoiled.”
“Apparently not spoiled enough to get a little love from my girlfriend in my time of need.” He groans, wiggling his hips against her.
“When are you not in your time of need.” She murmurs, deadpan, but her hand moves to the back of his neck, slowly massaging the muscles that hide just under his tangle of hair. She feels him relax under her ministrations, finally abandoning his ‘ woe is me’ act to let his body meld against hers.
“What are you reading?” He asks after moments of silence, eyes fluttering closed from the rise and fall of her chest.
“Oh, some book about sex magic. Some absolute nutter muggle wrote it—complete madness but fun to read.”
“ Sex Magic you say?” Suddenly he is wide awake, propping himself up and arching an eyebrow from over the book. She eyes him warily and tries to ignore the fingers that have wasted no time to drift upwards and play with the buttons of her shirt. He swoops down, pressing his lips to her neck.
“Don’t get so excited, Potter. It’s a load of bunk.”
He hums, already undoing her topmost button and moving to kiss the skin there.
“I dunno—-maybe we should test it out first…get a first hand account.” He gets another button undone and she makes a noise between a laugh and a moan.
“I’m not very keen on being topless in the middle of the common room so if you could kindly quit it—-“
“You didn’t seem to mind it the other night,” he quips back and enjoys the view of her skin flushing from her cheeks all the way past where he can see under her uniform.
“James.”
“ Fine,” he whines. He stops his progress on her shirt and gives her exposed sternum one last kiss before settling his head back down, hands moving back to encircle her.
“You’re a tease, Evans. A dirty, rotten siren taking advantage of my poor knackered heart.”
She cradles him against her, letting one hand slide back through his hair while the other caresses his back. She loves him like this: sleepy, slap happy, sometimes a bit handsy but willing to meet her where she’s at in the moment. It’s the quiet moments like this that keep her going sometimes, knowing that whatever is happening out there will disappear by the end of the day when they can hold each other again.
They lay in a comfortable silence for a while, the fire crackling low beside them. She can feel James’ breath start to steady against her, somehow keeping his grip tight on her despite sleep setting in.
“Hey James?”
“Hmmm?” He nestles his nose down into her, hands grasping tighter at her waist.
“Have you thought about it at all?”
“Shagging in the common room? All the time.”
She snorts, shaking him a bit. “No, you git—about Dumbledore’s offer.”
His eyes remain closed but his mouth sinks into a small line against her.
“Nothing to think about—-I’m all in.”
She fidgets under him and the bottom of his jersey rides up, exposing some of his midriff. Absent-mindedly, she runs her hand over the skin, rubbing anxious circles.
“And your offer from the Canons? That’s a pretty big deal.”
“When the war is over, I can try out again.”
“And if they don’t let you?”
He props up on his chin, looking up to see her staring off beyond the common room. “Then I’ll look into another profession– like magical artifacts or becoming your indentured servant.”
He expects her to crack a smile at his joke, but her eyes continue to look away, seeing something that feels much bigger than job prospects.
“Lily?”
She shakes her head like trying to dispel smoke. He sits up, swinging her legs so they now rest over his, hips flush together. Taking her cheek in his palm, he forces her to look at him and he sees tears just harboring past the surface.
“I know it’s silly—but can you tell me the future? The way you see it.” she whispers, curling into him so the top of her head can rest right under his chin, book falling abandoned down onto the floor. She knows he’s no divination master–she’s seen his grades to prove it—but they both know that’s not what she’s asking.
“Well–”
He stares into the fire, watching as the embers slowly lower and diminish one by one. It’s hard to ignore the feeling of encapsulation–that they are just children needing to concoct stories to make it all worth it. Her fingers play with the bottom of his jersey, anxiously awaiting his turn to spin this night’s fable, probably one of many before the war lets up.
“Well, first and most important, we will still be madly in love—sickenly so.”
She makes a noise and he can feel a smile break through for the first time that evening.
“Sickenly you say? Says who?”
“Says everyone who is jealous that they can’t be us. This shouldn’t come as a surprise to you as it is our current reality—obviously.”
“Obviously.” she echoes, before muttering arrogant under her breath.
“We will fight for the Order, beat out Voldemort, and have an incredible victory shag afterwards—”
She hums against his chest and he can feel some of the warmth coming back to her.
“Who knew it was so simple—have you told Dumbledore this strategy?” She turns her head up to flick his nose and he kisses the tip of hers in return.
“I did–he was shocked he never thought of it actually–said the last bit was particularly vital…”
She can’t help but laugh. “Sometimes it’s like your head deflated but landed right in the gutter.”
She continues to look up at him, eyes getting more brilliant as her tension melts. “Go on then—Voldemort’s miraculously easy defeat, victory shag…ok what else?”
He lowers his lips to her ear and lets them skim against the shell. “We get married.”
Suddenly both of their heartbeats fall into overdrive. He flashes his eyes down to see her cheeks are bubbling with pink, eyes wide and targeted right at him.
“And what part of the sequence does that occur?” Her voice is barely a whisper and he notices her hands have stalled against him, frozen mid-fiddle with the fabric.
“Well,” he knows she can feel his heart jumping against her, but he doesn’t care, “I was hoping during the exposition or rising action portion of the plot rather than the conclusion.”
Her eyes are dancing, surely from the fire that continues to drop beads of light into her hair and face.
“And you don’t think that’s…unwise, seeing we’ve only been dating officially five months.”
His eyes meet hers, now devoid of jest.
“It’s not like being wise has ever been in my wheelhouse anyways.”
She could fight it—tell him it’s a mad idea to be thinking about marriage at a time like this, in a time where every passing day seems less sure than the last. But something about it feels too enticing to pass up—the image of them in a home all their own, sitting just like they are now but more solid and sure of themselves, leaning into the domesticity and adoration of it all because they can.
She worries if she ruminates on it too much, it will be painful to let go when the time comes.
“And we won’t bicker?”
“Not anymore than married people do—or we do now I guess I should say.”
“And you will make me breakfast everyday, in bed?”
“Evans, if you’re my wife I’ll do anything anything you ask of me. My occupation is indentured servant, remember?” He is trying to stay light, but she can tell he means it.
She wishes she could dream like he can—see beyond the rubbish and focus solely on the parts that can work. It’s simultaneously what she is jealous of and admires in him, the bright side is always where he wants to be.
“James—” Its a warning: a warning that perhaps he is flying too close to the sun. A warning that perhaps it’s too tempting not to accept it. A warning that at this moment, it might be too much.
But she doesn't need to say anymore. He pulls her closer to his chest, catching the top of her head under the crook of his chin and locking her there against him.
“Don’t worry, this isn’t me proposing—just…just dreaming .” He lets the last word hang there, and Lily watches the image of them in their house with their happy life become clouded and technicolor. A fantasy.
Suddenly, the thought of losing it terrifies her.
“A good dream—a nice dream.” She doesn’t know who she is assuring more, herself or him. “Something I want too.”
She feels his body heat rise, hands finding the end strands of her hair and curling his fingers through them.
“Yeah?” His hope, like most other aspects of him, is contagious.
“Don’t get too excited Potter—there’s a lot that can happ—“
“Shh, Evans,” he says, grabbing her face, hands shaking with unparalleled joy. In his eyes the dream still lingers and she doesn’t want to ever look away.
“Let me kiss you—our dream can wait, but let me kiss you now.”