"Classical music brings ice-skating to mind. People on ice. Mile length stretches of ice. Sea. Classical music creates vast landscapes like that. The higher notes form the smaller aspects of the environment. The birds, the trees. The fading notes are the falling leaves."
"Classical, eh?"
They're nestled in their cosy sitting room. In mushy armchairs and orange tinged light, pressing their woolly-socked toes together –at least until Lily shifts and withdraws.
Curling her petite feet against herself and under her chin. Leaving James and his toes abruptly abandoned and slightly droopy.
"Chopin's my favourite."
"What's Chopin?"
"Dear god."
Lily stalks off. Resembling what she was to James for years. Irretrievable.
James fears she regrets. Regrets marriage. Regrets pregnancy. Regrets him.
Later. In bed. A stiffness and unease lingers among the linen. James stares at the creamy expanse of Lily's back.
He shifts forwards. Dinner was awkward. She just kind of rammed the plate in front of him. No one talked.
He flicks his wand slyly towards the gramophone. "This Chopin thing" flips on.
Half of him expects Lily to roll over and love him floppy. But one can never be too sure.
After Berceuse In flat D, though, Lily does –oh so slowly– turn to face him. James is almost asleep, but he has the sense to seal the deal or get a black eye trying.
"Don't know about ice-skating. But it's like a wild field in spring."
Lily beams and presses a kiss onto his lips.
Tiredness gone, he props himself above her and kisses her freckled, almost rose tinted neck.
She's like a wild field in spring – is a hazy realization he dips down to whisper in her ear.
And she's ready to go.
James would feel smug if he weren't so pathetically in love.
He slips between her creamy, strong thighs –lifting up her nightie as he goes– and into something that pulses franticly around him, always has done.
Lily's shut her eyes, listening to that Chopin of hers and swaying in a way that makes him delirious. He dips down once again.
Shifting against her upper arm and jaw line in a soft rhythm. Planting kisses in his wake.
As Mr. Chopin, goes off on a rather explosive little solo, Lily twists and turns, moaning in an unmistakable way.
James is rather glad, because he can finally stop silently reciting the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration.
" Ja-ames" She gasps. The look on her face is enough to send James over.
He tries to slump against her as gently as possible – there's a baby in there and all. But when your mind's gone stark white blank, it's a tad tricky.
She adjusts; placing her shins onto the small of his back, and just lets him lay there as the last few bars of Barcarolle sweep over them.
Review, and you shall get a husband (or wife, what ever twiddles your dials) as lovely as James Potter!