Written for Secret Sparkle's Adultery Challenge...With a Twist! A little AU, perhaps, but I think that was called for. The ambiguity is intentional, for rarely is anything in a marriage black-and-white.

Love Letters

He had found them in the desk drawer, of all places. Shouldn't such things be kept hidden away, in an old shoebox under the bed, or in a drawer full of her lacy delicates? And yet here they were, in plain sight, crammed in between various scraps of nondescript parchment in a large envelope marked 'Bills'. Perhaps that was the stealthy part; James would never think to look in there. If he hadn't been searching for where he'd stuck last week's standings in the Quidditch pool, he would never have looked inside. He would never have found out.

The love letters were stacked in what seemed to be chronological order, and tied with a simple length of twine. No fuss, no romance there. In a way, it startled him that Lily would be so efficient in chronicling her illicit romance. He hesitated, wondering whether he should take the plunge, so to speak—open the first one, and risk losing everything in one brief moment. And then there was the possibility that she'd come in and catch him in the act—but maybe, deep down, that was what he really wanted.

But no—Lily, heavily pregnant, was feeling so poorly between the strain of her condition and the terrible news filtering in from the outside world, that she'd taken to her bed today. There, cocooned snugly in bedcovers and pillows, she hoped to shut out the world.

James, on the other hand, could no more shut out the reality of the tack of letters in his hand than he could any of the other grim tidings the war had lain on their doorstep. He settled himself on the floor, the cold hardwood feeling strangely appropriate to the sinking feeling he'd recently discovered taking up residence inside him. James leaned back against the bookshelf and slid the first letter from the bundle. It was crinkled and slightly faded, but otherwise perfectly preserved.

It was, James thought, like reading a novel, written entirely in letters. It was the chronicle of a tragic and turbulent romance he thought he'd rather enjoy...that is, if the cuckolded husband were someone other than himself. The front of each page was entirely Lily's, written in that delicate hand he could recognize so easily. Her lover, on the other hand, had written his replies on the back of her missives, sending her own words back to her, with his added on as an afterthought. It was almost as if even the slightest indication that he was in regular correspondence with James Potter's wife would bode ill; the incriminating letters were far safer in Lily's care. Or so they had thought.

They started out so innocent—mostly minutiae, accounts of everyday news, inquiries after the other's health and—and here James sensed the urgency—safety. He hadn't even known that Lily had been in correspondence with him, though he'd often find her writing lengthy letters by the fireside and would ask, teasingly, who the novel was for. And Lily would always reply, jokingly, that it was none of his business. Or at least he'd thought she was joking.

But somewhere along the line, the letters began to change. Even James, who had never been a very 'literary type' (as Lily herself would put it when he rifled through the newspaper, foregoing the news for the sports pages) sensed a change in their tone. Desperation. There were allusions to conversations they'd had, possibly years ago, that James had never been privy to. Apologies. Affirmations. Frighteningly dark confessions that weren't James' idea of a textbook romance.

You're the only one who'll ever understand, Lily had written. Can't you see what you've done to me? I'm having James' baby and I have nothing, nothing to offer him. No heart, no eyes, no words, nothing. I've given them all to you, and now I am nothing without you. I hate the fact that I love you like this.

Love. She'd said love. True, she'd also said 'hate', but her words betokened a passion that left James feeling hollow. He thought only he had provoked such conflicting passions from Lily.

And do you think I've had it easy, Lily? was the response. Need I remind you that it was you who married him? And despite it all, you are his wife. You are Potter's wife and you're having Potter's baby and still I can't give you up. I hate you for what you did to me, and I hate myself for still loving you after all that has happened between us.

I think I hate myself a little just for having read these, thought James bitterly. She had always been his. His Lily. He'd fought so long and so hard to win her heart and her hand, and though she was still his wedded wife, carrying his child, he realized now that he had never, in fact, won her heart at all. It had always been his. Lily had played him for a lovesick fool.

What am I going to do? Lily's due in July. She doesn't know that I know. She's having my baby…

She was having his baby! That last realization hit James with the force of a stampeding bull elephant. It was apparent, now, that Lily had never really loved him, at least not the way she loved…James couldn't bring himself to say his name. But Lily…she had accepted his ring, hadn't she? She had allowed him to sweep her off her feet with grand gestures and promises and pretty words he'd borrowed from the poets and that book Sirius had gotten him for his sixteenth birthday. She had given her body to him, fully and unrestrainedly, and allowed him to map her most secret topography…and yet she didn't love him? It was a mystery to James, how Lily could take it so far as to have his child when she was deeply in love with another man. And the baby was definitely, unequivocally his, James thought with relief so complete it bordered on perverse. He counted back the months from her due date and recalled immediately the romantic long weekend away they'd taken together that past October. The champagne, the rose petals on the duvet, that big, old-fashioned bathtub...that had to have been when…and like that, he knew for a fact that Lily hadn't been around…him…in that time frame, that the child she bore was as quintessentially James' as the name she had taken on the day they were wed.

But how far had it progressed? She clearly loved him, her letters were testimony to that. They spoke to more than a carnal lust; they indicated a veritable marriage of heart and soul. The very words scorched as if they were burned into the parchment by tongues of flame. There were mentions, here and there, of Lily's delicate shoulders, her graceful neck…perhaps his rival had seen more of Lily than James cared to admit. James indulged the masochistic fantasy for a moment, trying to picture walking in to find him in bed with Lily. He, James, would stand frozen in the doorway, taking in her messy hair hanging around her bare shoulders, the little dimples of her back…dimples only he was meant to see. She would turn upon sensing James ogling her, perhaps pulling up the sheet to cover herself in embarrassment…or even shame? James shook his head violently, like a dog ridding its ears of water, trying to free himself of this disturbing image.

What am I going to do? he wondered again. This wasn't the same sort of idle worry he'd entertained over the past few months—'Will I be a good father?', 'Can I keep Lily and the baby safe?', 'What would they do if something happened to me?' No, this…this was serious. A deal-breaker, in most people's cases.

The creak of bed-springs and a weary groan; the sounds coming from the bedroom suggested that Lily had roused herself and was ready to face the world again. She doesn't know that I know!

Hurriedly, James gathered up the letters and secured them in their envelope, sandwiched nondescriptly between the myriad other papers. He assumed what he hoped was a casual pose in his favorite armchair with a book as Lily walked—or rather, waddled—in. Her hair was messy, and she was dressed halfheartedly in one of James' old shirts and her pyjama trousers. She glanced over at him, reading, with a small smile on her lips and then settled herself with great difficulty into a nearby chair, reaching out for the newspaper once she was seated. Even seven months pregnant, she could still flick her eyes upward every now and then in a manner that was unsettlingly sensual. As he watched her read, James was overcome with a shocking emotion.

It was desire. Her heart belonged to another, but in law she remained James' wife, willing (as long as she thinks I don't know, thought James) to love him the way a faithful wife would love her husband. Her body was still unquestionably his, and James was more than willing to continue to offer her his, for their mutual enjoyment. Pretty words, directed at another man perhaps, couldn't douse the fire they had.

He couldn't leave her, no. Not even now that he knew that she loved another, that she had cheated on him in thought and word and possibly even in deed. James couldn't say for sure whether he still loved Lily; he doubted he would ever feel the same things towards her again. He had little intention of staying purely for the baby's sake; that would be a disservice to the child, not to mention to himself and Lily. But regardless of whether he still loved her, he looked at her bewitching eyes, her perfect lips, and he knew that he couldn't allow anyone else to possess her. Perhaps it was foolish; perhaps it was pride, but when James Potter puts his mind to something, he never backs down. He had vowed to win Lily Evans' hand, and he was determined to keep it. Whether she loved him or not.

She may think she's his, thought James with satisfaction, but as far as the world's concerned, she's still mine. Who knows, maybe we'll even love each other like we used to someday…but until we do, I don't mind pretending. After all, if her letters are any indication, she was pretending when we made that baby she's carrying…

Even in pretense, Lily Evans Potter was too good a lover to give up over some foolish affair. And James Potter, regardless of what others might think, was not a foolish man.