This is a little experiment of sorts. I've wanted to write some Harry Potter stories in historical settings (like WW2) for quite a while, and here is the first piece. I hope you'll like, review, and perhaps come with suggestions for other interesting historical events or periods that might be usable.
The main characters in this story are Lily Evans, James 'Prongs' Potter and Sirius 'Padfoot' Black.

A good man

He loves her. He loves her so much that it hurts inside. Or that might be the bullet wound in his side, hidden beneath a dirty bandage and still painful and itching like crazy. Doesn't matter. He imagines that those two things would feel just the same. It is not the love that hurts him, more the knowledge that he will most likely never see her again. Not in this life, anyway, and James Potter does not believe in an afterlife. Rubbish. Some romantic fool who tries to ease the burden of separation. The thought might be comforting to some, but it does nothing for him, and now it's too late. Too late to tell her everything that he wanted to, the things that he should have told her every single day from the second he met her, but which he did not. God, he'd do anything, anything, to tell her these things.

"Prongs!"
A voice to his right calls his name and he turns on his heels with hands raised and knees bended in a subconscious defense position. He quickly relaxes and sits down when he recognizes the newly arrived. Sirius Black looks back at him with dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but still with a spark of hope that James envies him, as he in a crouched posture makes his way through the muddy, semi-blown up trench that has made it for their home for the last two weeks. It has become what Sirius calls "A bloody pit of despair". He could be a writer, that Black, but poetry is not what they are in need of right now. That would be clean garments, fresh water, food that has not gone spoiled in this unsanitary environment, medicine of various kinds for all those suffering from equally various illnesses. That's what they need, and what they have no hope of having. The Allies have forgotten them; they are just foot soldiers fighting a possibly lost battle. That is the premise of war. They are numbers and ranks. Nothing more, nothing less. No one cares about Sirius Black and James Potter. Their names will soon be forgotten anyway.

"Padfoot". They know each other well enough to be on first name term with each other, but this is sort of an internal joke, an agreement that their pen-names are way cooler than their real ones. It is not, as some might think, a way to distance themselves from each other to avoid getting hurt too badly when one of them inevitably dies. They are in too deep for that. James just hopes that he dies the same day as Sirius. Everything else would be unbearable. He has (almost) come to term with never seeing Lily again, and now Padfoot is the only thing he has in this hell of gunfire, screams, grenades flying everywhere and fallen, bleeding comrades with their faces in the mud and their gazes empty. Seeing, but not really. Great, now he is becoming all philosophical as well. Neat.

Sirius is clutching at his upper arm, the one where he got grazed by a bullet. The same bullet that got Antony Lewis in the chest. He was dead on the spot. Lucky guy. Died the first time they tried moving from the trench to get a closer hold on the enemy. The Germans. The Nazi. Not humans, but sick, murderous bastards. They have been thought to think like that. It makes it easier on the soldiers, easier to kill other human beings, slaughter them like cattle. Kill or be killed. James does not want to kill good men. He is a good man himself, and good men are not supposed to walk around taking other lives like were they gods. But he doesn't want to be killed either. He has something to live for. Or rather, someone. Lily, sweet and loving and fierce and delightfully insane.

He cried a lot the first couple of nights. Cried for him, and for her. Cried about this foolish situation and this even more foolish war. World War 2. He had not lived to see the first one end, had not been born into a world of hate and fear. Now he understood why his parents, whenever he asked to the events of the Great War, turned pale and frowning, eyes darkening with the memories of all sort of horrible things. Dreadful that he has had to experience it on his own body before he was able to comprehend it.

"Look what I've got" Sirius says as he sinks down next to James in the slush. A disgusting slurping sound is heard when the back of his trousers slides across the wet ground, and James just then realizes how quiet everything is here, in the Bloody Pit of Despair. It is nighttime, and a silent agreement between the two sides goes that they don't fight at night. That's when James has the hardest time convincing himself that Germans aren't humans. They need to rest as well. Rest, sleep, gather their courage and tend to their slain friends. They have not asked for this war, none of them have. Not asked for smelling corpses in the same tight places as the one they sleep, eat and answer the call of nature in, but there's no room for digging real graves. Did not ask to sit with stiff legs for hours behind great walls of dirt and barbed wire. Not ask for the horrible cold and nagging fear gnawing at their insides side by side with the hunger. Hunger that started out as a burning sensation, but which is now a dull, constant ache that he almost manages to ignore.

James raises a questioning eyebrow, and a hope fills his chest. "Water?". Water is important, more so than food, but he has not seen a single clean drop of it since arriving at the front with his best friend. Sirius shakes his head with tightened lips, sad to cause the disappointment on his friend's face. Then he smiles hesitantly and passes his dark haired friend a thin wooden object. James adjusts his glasses (he marvels about the fact that they still haven't broken yet) on his nose and studies the thing. "A pencil". A smile grows on James' face without him even realizing it. Concerning his body this is nothing to much required fluids, but for his mind, it's a welcomed distraction. "Yeah. I've got paper as well". Sirius passes him a carefully wrapped bundle of the material. "Now you can write Lil a letter." He looks so proud of his accomplishment that James can't help but be a little suspicious. "Where did you get this?"
"Does it matter?"
James lets out a small laugh. "Guess not" he looks his friend in the eye and adds quietly, "Thank you"
"It's nothing" Sirius says and looks up at the sky, looking sort of content, "Stars."
He points to a point above their heads, and James nods. "They are very clear tonight. It's.. Nice"
"Yeah" Sirius then directs his attention to the writing tools, "Do you want to be alone while you do this?"

It's sort of a joke on Sirius' part, really, to even consider the chances of being left remotely alone in the small trench. Many hundreds soldiers crammed together has gotten them used to having no privacy at all. "No, it's okay. You just stay"
Sirius moves a little in the hope of finding a more comfortable position to lie down in. In the end he ends up sprawled halfway across James' legs, the other half pressed to the dirt wall. He tries to take up as little space as possibly, but he is a tall guy, which is kind of impressive since he is so lean, bordering on the skinny. The limited food rations having been helping in fattening him up. His collarbone is poking James in his thigh, but he ignores it, and Sirius contents to have his back used as a writing desk. James Potter lifts the pencil with a shaking hands and puts words to his feelings.

Dear Lily.

You told me to live.

And I am trying to keep alive, I promise. I am relatively well, and so is Sirius. We aren't starving, and though the trench does not make for the best living condition, we are getting by. I got shot by a German when we tried to breach their defenses. You don't have to worry, it was not fatal, and I both walk, talk and breathe still. The only thing that keeps my mood up and makes me fight every day is you, Love. Here in our hole-up, with nothing to do but try and get some rest, the only thing I can think of is you. I don't want it any other way, though.

I hope that you are doing well back home in London. How are Mom and Dad? Please make sure they remember to eat, I am worried about them. They seemed so devastated when I left, and I imagine that they might forget the basics in all their worrying. I trust you to take care of them, and also Moony and Wormtail. Moony seemed guilt-ridden about the fact that he is not allowed to go to the front because of his.. Condition, and Wormtail has been out of sorts lately. I fear he might be more riled up than he lets on. Can't imagine why, but you are great with people, maybe you can get him to open up.

There's a lot of stars tonight. Padfoot is staring at them like a dog at a bone. I think they bring him comfort, he seems calmer than he's been all day. They're also very bright. Like you. I think I'm picking up a poetic trait, which I'm not sure whether is a good or bad thing. But I'm certain about three things. I miss you. I love you. I'm so glad I have known you, that I know you. I'd rather die tomorrow than live a hundred years without knowing you. There's so much I'd like to tell you, so many things I wanted to do and see and experience with you. Together. Love, a family, everything. I love you so, so much. I can imagine that it won't seem as real on paper as it does when I say it out loud, but please believe that I convey everything I feel into these words. You deserve nothing less.

Sirius gave me the pencil and paper to write this letter. I have no idea where he has gotten them from, he has no money. I hope he hasn't stolen them. If he has I really hope no one figures it out. But he gave it to me, which was a nice thing to do. I've learned to appreciate the small gestures. There isn't much room for kindness around here. But we are together in this, all of us, and there's some kind of bond between us by now. A common enemy makes for great, bittersweet and unlikely friendship. Go through hell and high water, as the saying goes. Friendship is a precious thing, especially in war.

He's sleeping now. Padfoot, that is. I'm glad; he has been looking like a walking corpse for the last few days. Good thing he hasn't died. You can't die from exhaustion (I think), but you can certainly die by tripping on a bomb or a grenade in the field by accident. I hope we both make it out of this safely and that we can go home to England. No. If you decided to move to Amsterdam or America or India, those places would be home to me. Home is wherever you are.

There's not much room left on the paper, and I think I might need a bit of shut-eye as well.

I sincerely hope that you are well. Please give everyone my greetings and tell them that we are doing fine, considering the circumstances. Promise that you will take care of yourself and that you will think of me sometimes. But remember to live. Even if I die, you must live. Promise me.

I love you.

Yours truly
James Potter.

He does not check the letter for any spelling – or grammar mistakes. He might start crying if he reads it again. He slowly folds the paper twice into a smaller square piece, and then puts it in the envelope Sirius had also conjured from somewhere. A quick glance around tells him that someone with a huge bag is moving towards where he and his friend are sitting. The bag has POST written on it with big, red letters. With great haste James writes Lily's address.

"Anything to post?". The young man is now standing directly in front of him. His blonde hair shines faintly in the lamplight, most of it hidden beneath a cap. He has a gash on his right cheek which has stopped bleeding, but still glows an angry red. He looks so young. He can't be much more than eighteen, James thinks, but then he reconsiders. In war, 18 is grown-up. It's the 1940s, and there is nothing between childhood and adolescence anymore. Reality comes crashing down on James as he nods and flashes the boy an encouraging smile that he doesn't believe in himself, before dumping his letter down to the rest of them. He watches the boy disappear into the masses of soldiers, keeping an eye on him until he can't spot the fair locks anymore. Then he folds up the collar of his uniform and uses it as a protection between the back of his head and the cold prison wall of earth behind him.

James closes his eyes, and sleep comes to him within minutes. He dreams of her, and when he wakes up a couple hours later, his chest aches, and he know that this is hurt caused by love and great loss.

He loves her and it hurts.