Obviously all of these characters belong to JK Rowling.
"Hey."
His voice was soft and low, a gauzy blue shadow weaving through the morning light.
"Hey." My answer was less than a whisper, just a breath slipping through barely parted lips. He didn't turn to look at him.
I was sitting on our hill, my knees drawn up to my chest, watching the movement of the lake below. The water was diamond bright, with sapphire ribbons diving under the waves, then surfacing, laughing, before ducking under again.
I peeled a dry leaf from the forest floor. It was colorless, faded to a patched, brittle grey-brown. I began shredding it, absently.
James dropped to the ground behind me, wrapping his body around me, like two spoons resting in a drawer. I stiffened for an instant, but his skin was warm and I could feel the rhythmic beating of his heart throbbing against my back. Gradually, my muscles began to unknot and my breathing slowed.
I leaned my head back on his shoulder. A canopy of green leaves glowed above us, emerald shavings caught, and held, by the updraft, dusted from the divine workman's hands. There were no clouds in the sky, nothing but endless watery, washed-out blue.
He turned his head slightly and kissed my temple. My cheek brushed the tender skin of his throat as he shifted against me. I could feel the pulsing of his blood – my blood – warm and vibrant only separated by two thin walls of skin. He kissed my temple again, his lips light, a butterfly perching on leaves of grass, and laced his fingers through mine.
He began tracing tiny spirals on the back of my hand with the calloused pad of his thumb. I opened my eyes to a drowsy half-slit, and smiled a little at the picture we made. I could see his neatly laundered khakis running around my faded and torn blue jeans, like a stream hedged in by a pale stone wall. He stretched, but kept my hand, his arms sliding against my shoulders and his wrists arcing; his hands sloped gently down to our mingled fingers, like a waterfall running home to its stream. Then he sighed, kissed my temple one more time, and relaxed, resting his palm on the back of my hand again.
The sun faded to a light gold, sprinkling dappled pools of light across the shadowed floor. My dog lay sleeping in one to my right, his chest swelling in the steady breath of sleep. His graying muzzle was tucked between his paws and as I watched him, I began to shiver.
"Siri?" His breath was hot against my neck, but I didn't look away from my dog. Light gleamed against his fur, bleeding shadows down the contours of his body. And I knew, watching him, I could never replicate this moment. No words would ever be enough to capture the play of shadows on his fur, make me feel again the heat of his body, or see his drowsy, loving eyes. I would never get back the soft brush of any of those light, butterfly kisses on my temple; I could never feel the exact same strength of his hands, cradling mine. And the knowledge felt like a glacier melting, racking me with streams of icy water.
I bowed my head, digging my fingers into the earth. They were white, like piano keys, burrowing through bronze top soil to reach the rich, black loam. I scooped the dirt up in my left hand, letting it sift through my fingers, into my right palm. Lowering my nose, I took a deep breath. The fresh earth smelled like sunlight, freshly cut-grass, and vine ripe tomatoes on a summer evening, all at the same time. I sighed and let it slip through my fingers more slowly, but this time, he caught it.
The black earth gleamed against his bronze hand, tanned from Quidditch, stippled with bronze and grey-green mold. The lightest tips of his fingers still brushed the back of my hand, dark shadows quivering on my translucent skin. For a moment, he held perfectly still.
"We'll always come back to this?"
He meant it as a statement, a reassurance, but a tint of questioning slipped into his voice.
I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by a sudden sense of loss. This – the warmth, the sun, the scent of the earth, the earth stretched out beneath us and quivering between us; his fingers, so gentle, so light, almost not touching, but the sun and shadow of our skin ultimately bleeding into one. It was so beautiful, so perfect, hardly a spark in time, but lingering gently as the strains of a cello on the breeze. I wanted so badly to believe, to say yes, to hold on to this moment, but -
"Will we?"
He sighed, letting the earth slide between his fingers into a little pile on the ground.
"Yes." His arms closed convulsively around me, but his final kiss to my temple was curiously soft. "Always Siri," he whispered fiercely. "Somehow, we will. Always."