Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to J.K. Rowling. Sue not.
Lily digs into the ground, first with spade, then with her hands, anxious to feel life bursting up against her palms. She misses the ebb and flow of magic, swelling through her like an ocean. Unable to reach for it, she's more attuned to its tides than ever. At Godric's Hollow she plants seeds into the dirt in the hopes that one day she'll be able to walk barefoot on the earth and feel the ancient magic of life forming, growing. It's the only magic she's been allowed to feel for the last eight months; the only magic she'll be allowed to feel for – Merlin, she doesn't know how long.
The sun is warm; James, and her body where he touches her, is warmer. He leans over her, kissing the open space by the back of her jaw – where her neck meets her ear – with a wet and hungry mouth; lazy tongue. Lily sighs and arches into him, her neck a curve twining with his own.
In their room, he unbuttons his Muggle shirt (his costume, he laughingly jokes; but the light in his eyes is grim) and she unpins her hair so that it spills like fire down her back. James' revealed skin is smooth and pale, far cry from the days of Quidditch-captaincy and bronzed skin, bruises and raised scratches. Lily kisses him: on one eye-lid, and then the other; each freckle of the dozen scattered on his left shoulder; right over the space where his heart beats. Meanwhile, her hands are busy unfastening his pants, sliding in; she reaches upwards with her mouth to catch the groans he is making, swallow them and give them a home in her belly where they burn warm and radiate through her.
His hands are hungry and push her shirt off of her shoulders. His mouth is intent as it leans down to suck at her collarbone: Lily hums in exhilaration at the sensation. Night and day they find themselves in this room. It's the only time they feel really alive, not dulled by the protecting charms that suffocate. She knows that James misses Quidditch – the freedom and wildness and effortlessness. When he's with her, in her, it feels a little like flight.
They move together, rhythm long ago established. The curtains of the window are drawn, the bed is warm, and they are bathed in light as they make love through morning into the afternoon. Lily loses herself in the movement, in the joy and love and life. She stares into James' eyes, hazel with soot-black lashes as their frame, and falls hopelessly in love all over again.
After, glowing, she presses kisses to his smooth and perfect skin. She is never tired after sex: she feels as if she can run up mountains, battle giants, and tame dragons. James, meanwhile, drowses. In sleep his face is unlined of arrogance, and a stranger could mistake him for a humble man.
Lily gets up. She pulls a robe over herself, covers James with a blanket, and goes to check on Harry.
Her son is awake in his crib, cooing quietly to the mobile of a dog chasing a stag chasing a wolf chasing a rat chasing the dog. His green eyes are mirrors to her own and Lily smiles. With one hand, she strokes Harry's baby-soft cheek and tuft of black hair; with the other touches her belly. She can feel life forming within her, right at this moment, her the earth and James the seed, the ocean of her magic to water it to life bursting beneath her palm. She wonders if Harry's sister will have green eyes, or hazel.
"Happy Halloween," she tells her son. The future is bright.
The day is October 31, 1981.