A/N: Written for Round 12 of the Quidditch League. As always (I only ever publish for the QL these days, it seems), written for the Chudley Cannons as Chaser 2. (Go Cannons! Yay Ron Weasley!) My prompts this time around were: "Quick, hide!", "The best way to find out if you can trust someone is to trust them," and How Long Will I Love You by Ellie Goulding. Enjoy! x

Lately, it had been hard to say sorry. They apologized plenty—when she thought about it, almost everything was laced in apology—but she hadn't heard the real, physical words, "I'm sorry," leave her mouth in a very long time.

It wasn't because she wasn't sorry; it just didn't feel right on her tongue anymore. It seemed to have such heaviness to it, one that didn't quite dissolve in their petty arguments. It was one of those phrases that was meant to mean something. Something that couldn't quite hold its impact after having shouted, "You forgot to lock the front door!" Especially when the door remained unlocked the next go around, anyway.

But they always apologized, still. James would kiss her on the forehead before he left—even after she begged him not to go—and they would linger there in suspension, eyes closed and soft breaths mingling together. She'd squeeze his hand a little tighter in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep, and he always squeezed back when she didn't expect him to, because he couldn't sleep, either. When Harry woke in the middle of the night, she'd sing him to sleep, her song of choice generally approved by a sleepy grin from James. But when she didn't make it to the end of the song, or when she'd choke on tears that were too common those days to be called spontaneous, he'd leap up and finish it for her.

That night, James went to sleep first. She'd deliberately kept herself awake, and just lay there in her blatant consciousness, watching him sleep. She admired the way that his chest rose and fell when he breathed. She'd never watched anyone like that before, the delicate, intricate manner of breathing in and out so many times in one minute. She smiled, if only a little. She liked his breathing. The sound of it. She felt content, and that was a rare thing, true content.

She moved slightly. With one side of her face pressed into his chest, she could feel the soft growl spread across his body. She shifted again, if just to let him breathe, and he whispered her name. She hadn't realized she'd woken him till then.

"Hey," he said, and one of his hands tickled through her hair. "You okay?" His voice was a caress, and she could have fallen into it, if she'd wanted to. And she did, but she wouldn't, not just that moment.

"Suppose," she murmured. "You?"

"Fantastic, myself."

"Good. Go back to sleep," she suggested.

"I'm all right," he said, and his hand went instead to her back, where he rubbed circles in the dip between her shoulder blades. Then further, where her spine curved inwards. The motions made her eyes go strangely unfocused and bleary, and she had to grip the fabric of his shirt between her numb fingers to keep herself awake.

It was something they did after they fought, struggling to stay up longer than the other. Lily usually lost, though she'd half beaten him already. She had to stay awake longer, anyhow, it was out of the question; she'd yelled at him for leaving (to see Sirius, unsurprisingly) even after she'd promised him she wouldn't anymore. Staying up longer and watching him sleep—well, it was an ample apology for a couple in the practice of avoiding the clearly-intended phrase I'm sorry.

"Don't," he whispered.

"But you already fell asleep, so it doesn't matter if you just do that again," she said back.

"Can't."

"You're a prat," she informed him.

He smiled suddenly, and she knew only because she could feel it against her cheek. He'd pressed his face there, and he fit in a strange, companionable way. She held him closer.

"I know," he said.

"I don't mind, though."

"I know that, too."

His words settled on the surface of her skin. She pressed her head beneath his chin and centered all of her thoughts suddenly on the feeling of being tucked beneath him. She felt secure and snug, and all of those little things fell away in her mind, like the fact that they'd run out of tea bags a week ago, or would probably need to wake up in an hour to change Harry anyway. The only sounds in the entire house were breathing and a gentle creaking of the floorboards on their front porch, which was a warm sound on cold and windy days, a warm sound for a lonely little family.

Lily left a kiss on James's jaw, and sighed. "Tell me," she said, and found his hand somewhere in the tangle of their blankets. His and hers both, for there was only so much body warmth could do, in England, in the middle of autumn, in a house without muggle luxuries, namely heating. Yet she squeezed his fingers as if that hadn't even crossed her mind. As if nothing had, in fact, but him. She said, "How long will you love me?"

She'd asked him before. She did on nights that she felt afraid, or on nights that she felt particularly remorseful. Tonight it was a little of both.

He laughed, but it didn't quite catch the air. "Long as stars are above you," he said, and traced the path of red hair draping down her neck. "And longer if I can." By now, it was rehearsed, but he had a way of saying it every time like he'd retrieved it from the very bottom of his heart. Lily liked that about him, his authenticity. It was a strange thing to like, she supposed, but he was strange in general.

She smiled. He felt it against his collarbone. "Go on," she whispered. "Your turn."

James hummed, sweetly. "How long will you be with me?"

"As long as the sea is bound," she answered, "to wash up on the sand." She wiggled in his grasp, and giggled, only a little. "How long will you want me?"

"As long as you want me, too," he said. One kiss, and then another. "But longer, by far."

She gave a shuddering yawn and fell against his chest once more. "It could be argued," she mumbled, "but not tonight."

"Not tonight," he agreed.

There was more quiet after that. Not silence, just mingled noise: quiet. The sound of breathing, James and Lily, all tied in one, and far off, maybe, if they held their own, Harry, with his little dreams and his chubby hands and his broomstick pajamas. And outside, the distant sound of that familiar creaking, which sounded at times strangely like footsteps along the floorboards. It was so loud, too, louder than Lily remembered it ever being. How windy was it outside?

"James," she prodded gently, "do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"The creaky porch noises," she said. "You know, the sort of sounds it makes when it's windy out."

For a beat he lay completely still, and then, seeming to hear it, he sprung up at once. Lily's eyes widened as she watched him grow frantic before her. The calm they'd had only moments ago shattered before them, and she hurried to gather the fragments.

"What? You don't think...?" she said.

"There's no windy creaking noise, Lily," he answered, trying not to look at her as he shoved his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and searched about for his wand."There's—I've...just sleep. Stay here. I'll go..."

"James, stop it," she hissed, and yanked him by the wrist. "Are you mad? I'm not going to just let you go by yourself. Of course I'm coming with you."

"Get Harry," he decided quickly. "Go. Please. We need to..."

She covered her mouth with her hands, the reality settling harshly in her stomach. Choking back a sob, she nodded, vigorously. "I'll go, but, oh, promise me, don't do anything stupid. Wait for me. Please."

"Do you trust me, Lily?" he asked.

She didn't respond at once. When she opened her mouth, he'd placed a finger over her lips, and she didn't bother to start.

"The best way to find out if you can trust someone," whispered James, "be it your husband, brother, father, whoever, is to trust them."

"Okay," she whispered back. And so she went, without another word of question, sprinting up the stairs for her baby.

When she got to him, he was perfect, still perfect. He lifted him in her arms and held him close, heart pounding viciously in her chest. There was something about life and death and war that magnified things, namely that of love, and in that moment, she couldn't remember ever loving Harry more. Ever needing him more. It all became very real in that moment, more than it ever had been; and she understood what James meant.

She trusted him—in this—for Harry. Him alone.

The house was quiet still, but all she could hear now was her own breathing, and Harry's. She skidded down the stairs and leapt wildly into James's grasp. He gasped in relief and kissed the top of his son's head, and then hers, so much love overflowing between the two of them it hurt just to feel.

"Go, Lily," he said, and released her, "we've got to, just—quick, hide!"

"I, I know... the cupboard—James," she gasped, "I'm not leaving you!"

"I'm, yes, fine... get in, though, and do be quick, Lils."

They scrambled inside, tossing a pile of coats on the floor so that they could shrink farther into the back, like panels on the wall. Lily searched for her husband's hand in the dark, and hugged Harry even tighter to her chest. She'd never been so grateful for his heavy sleeping in her life.

Minutes passed. Hours, maybe, for all they knew. But Harry didn't stir, and neither did they; she wondered if James was holding his breath, too. They'd done everything they could to make sure this moment never came, and yet they'd waited for it all the same. Lily knew in her gut that he would find a way to them. That Harry would never be one hundred percent safe. And here it was. A little less glamorous than she imagined it, honestly, and a little more cramped, but her nerves were still all on end. She'd felt that way since they'd set the charm around their house, though; she could handle it.

But James. She could see what it was doing to him. She had seen it, over the months, growing on him like a parasite. She hated it. But it was Harry they were doing it for. What wouldn't they do for Harry?

James's hand slowly slipped from hers, and she felt the coats giving way at her shoulders.

"Where are you going?" she whispered, trying not to sound as frantic as she felt.

"Just moving over here. Detecting spell," he said. "Hold tight."

She did, but anxiously. There was a murmur—James's murmur, she realized—and a flicker of light. It hummed, and then burst across the room and through the walls of the cupboard. The humming stopped, and there was only silence.

"No one," said James. She wished she could see his face, but she could only hear the fabric of his pants brushing together as he turned. "I'll go get a look around, yeah? Stay here."

"James—"

"Lily," he said, firm.

"I... okay. Go. I just... Wait one moment." Clumsily, with one arm wrapped tight around her son, she stumbled out of the coats after him. She reached out and found his chest, and her hand wandered up to his chin, her thumb brushing his lips. She pressed her mouth there and kissed him, sweetly and simply. A second later, she drew back and whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Er... for what?" said James. "Not that I didn't appreciate the, you know, all that, but—?"

"Just am. Don't want to sidestep it. You should hear it sometimes."

She could feel him shifting his weight to his other leg as he said, "Well then. I suppose I'm more sorry," and his voice was dripping with a grin.

Lily laughed. "Shut it. Go on then, go check so I can put Harry to bed before he wakes."

He kissed her on the cheek and darted out. Within a few minutes, he was back. "All clear. Checked the windows, had a look outside. Turns out we really do have a creaky porch! Either that or we've got a band of mischievous muggle boys on our hands. Nothing there now, though, whatever it was."

She let out a long breath, and welcomed the air outside of the cupboard as she departed from it. "You are so dramatic. We hid in a cupboard because of you and your drama." She tugged his elbow. "Come tuck Harry in with me. Not that he'll need it, probably. Just in case. Your singing voice is so much lovelier than mine." Halfway up the stairs, she caught James rolling his eyes. She ignored it. "I feel like we were in there a century, don't you? Can hardly move my legs. I'm never going to let this go, you know. What's the date, even? November 2013?"

"Still the thirty-first of October, love."

"Ah," she said, as if she understood something he didn't. She grinned cheekily. "Halloween. What a lovely day. The Halloween of 1981. Never gonna forget it."

"I do think last year's was better, if I'm honest."

"You and Sirius were barmaids!" she shrieked with laughter.

"Beautiful barmaids."

"Oh, but you're beautiful in anything, aren't you?"

James pinched her cheek. "This," he said, "is why I love you."

When they reached the top of the stairs, little Harry Potter reached his hands over his head, opened his eyes, and started screaming.

"Oh, bugger."

"Here, give him here," said James, "I'll do that thing he likes—oh, my wand's downstairs. Come along, then."

She sighed. "This night has been full of unpleasant surprises."

"This'll be a pleasant one, I expect. You haven't seen my smoke ring trick, have you?" he asked, holding out his hand for her to take, wiggling his fingers.

She took it, and they descended the stairs together. "Only about a dozen times."

"Ah, well," he said, furrowing his brow, "I can do colors now!"

"Can you?" she said, pretending to be impressed. Though, as she watched him rock Harry on his hip, she had to admit—at least to herself—James Potter was very impressive. Maybe not for his Charms, but not everyone could be as gifted as Lily.

Either way—as they reached the bottom of the stairs—they were together, and that was what she would remember at the end of the day.

(And also the way James's voice softened when he sang to Harry. And also the way he'd rubbed her back to lull to her sleep. And also the way his hand fit in hers so perfectly.)

x x x