He pretends he doesn't notice her noticing. His hands curve slowly around her waist, fingers trailing along her sides, ignoring the shiver along her spine, the goosebumps that erupt under his soft touch. She moans gently, a quiet sound that breaks the silence and her facade of sleeping. He continues to stroke her side, one hand linking gently with her own, the coolness of her wedding and engagement rings fitting idyllically against his fingers. His legs entangle with hers and he moves lower, his mouth following the path of his fingers, pressing feather-light kisses to every expanse of bare skin he can find, the constrictions of his old Quidditch jersey proving a worthy enemy, the worn fabric shifting under his touch, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He continues to move slowly, small movements with no true intention. Reaching the swell of her stomach, he cups the ever-growing bump, cradling it against his fingers, smiling gently as she arches back against him, any air between them, vanquished with a single shift.

Her usually soft, pale skin is as white and smooth as before, the firm muscles hidden under the equally firm shell of their baby, a transformation that made him love her all the more, this tiny fraction of themselves. He slides slowly up against her, remaining pressed together, his hands never moving. Resting his head in her neck, she relaxes her head, lying firmly in the pillows. Pressing his lips against her pulse point, he sighs happily, the soft press, press, press of their son beating against his fingers. The sun rises outside their window, lighting the wooden slats of a house no-one sees, shining on the door no-one visits, a wind ruffling curtains no-one admires, the growth of their child, the only calendar of their living here.

He feels he has failed her. Their vows a silent contract being torn to shreds. To love, cherish and protect. His promises from school, a distant memory of childhood laughter and friends long gone, dates to the village replaced with slow walks around their backyard and gentle touching under the stars, the most clich├ęd thing he could accomplish in their predicament. Comfort you in times of distress. A white stick baring a single answer, the moon shaped and blood filled cuts on his hand as their headmaster stares blatantly at her stomach, sympathy alluded from every pore, the worn stones screaming the names of their closest friends, their family, the last time he saw the men he called brothers.

Her eyes flutter open, pretence over. Blearily the bright green stares out at the wall, a brief strand of red escaping with a heavy gasp of air from her husband's mouth. The sheets are white. The curtains the same, as are the walls. A dark, blue quilt is spread across the bed, lopsided and kicked away in the night, an innocent casualty in hormone lurches and the rub of bare skin. Her hands drift low, pressing against his, wedding ring to wedding ring, the bands identical in colour, cut and inscription. Their son lives under their hands, her stomach stretching day by day. He kicks, moves, swims, grows. He has no name, yet he has brought them closer together, the child they didn't plan, the child of the prophecy. With a nudge of a hand, a foot, Lily laughs, a soft chuckle in the silence of their room. James kisses her neck once more, fingers linking together, squeezing, every word unspoken, but heard. I love you.

ooc: drabbled this originally for a tumblr rp. now I'm slowly moving them over here.