There's a part of him growing inside her. They say it like an announcement, like it should be something she shouts to the world, but she doesn't think that. She thinks maybe she doesn't want a part of him growing inside her, for all the pain and sickness and stress it's already causing.
She doesn't tell him. She doesn't tell him because she isn't ready, and he doesn't need to know just yet. It won't really make a difference if he knows today or tomorrow, but she delays it for days and days until days become weeks.
There's a part of him growing inside her. They say it like its something new, like she should be excited to hear what she's just learned, but she doesn't think that. She thinks maybe she's always known that on her own, for all the pain and sickness and stress it's caused her.
There was a part of him etched into her DNA ever since they first met. And whether people say it was out of hate or love, it was still there, and she knew it even if she did deny it. It was there for years and years, slowly growing bigger with each passing day. All the screaming and shouting they did proved as much.
It's three years from the day he first attempted to get her to let him in. It's three years later and she still thinks she can shut him out. It's not as easy as she pretends it is.
They argue. A lot. Maybe because she tries to shut him out, or maybe because she can't. Either way, they're always yelling at each other. It's never anything important. And some way or other the magnets attached to their lips are able to find each other again and it's over.
It's always over quickly. It doesn't last long because even if it really doesn't look like it, they love each other. Beyond words, beyond distance, beyond time itself.
There's a part of him growing inside her. She says it to herself like its a secret, like it's something that can't and shouldn't be shared with anyone. She thinks that maybe she can shut him out just a little longer.
And then she remembers the holes in her pillow cases and stains on her bedsheets from the nights when he's gone too long and she can't help herself from screaming at the thought of what might've happened. She digs her nails into the pillow she's holding and shuts her eyes to keep herself from drowning in her own tears.
Sometimes Remus comes. He comes and sits and tells her everything is going to be okay because he's not the best at consoling, and it's all he can think to say. But it's a lie, and she knows it. He doesn't have a clue if it's okay or not, and she hates him for giving her false hope and comfort.
Sometimes Peter comes. He brings her food, books, some of his old ripped t-shirts, whatever she wants. He tells her that distractions will numb the pain because it's always worked for him, and it's the best he's got. But it doesn't work for her, and he knows it. He never stays long, and she hates him for leaving her to cope on her own.
Sometimes Sirius comes. He walks in and flops down beside her on the bed, making her watch old Muggle films with him on the television he insisted they buy. He makes jokes and tells her laughing is what James would want her to do because it's what they've always done. She knows he's right, and she hates him for being so calm and able to joke around like normal when her husband is somewhere alone and quite possibly dead.
But she looks at Remus's deep scars and Peter's pale face and Sirius's dull eyes, and she can't really hate them. She could never truly hate them. Not when they're the only real family she's got, and it seems like they're her entire world, and she loves them more than she thinks is humanly possible.
James always comes home. He's late, but home, and she almost instantly forgets how mad and worried she was as he limps through the door, and she throws herself into his arms and wraps her legs around his waist, and he stumbles forward, clutching at her silky hair, and kissing every inch of her face as if it's the only chance he'll get.
There are times when she wants to hate him. When he yells, when he leaves, when he tries to make her forget. But she could never hate him either.
She remembers the time when her parents were killed and he spent a good hour of that night forcing her to kiss him when she should've been mourning. She remembers how mad she got at him because that's not what mourning people do. But she also remembers the desperation in his voice as he told her she had to keep going because if she didn't, she'd start thinking too much, and she wouldn't be able to cope. She remembers how thankful she was for that when she woke the next morning, facing away from him, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his head buried in the space between her shoulder and her neck.
He was still wearing his glasses.
There's a part of him growing on the outside of her as well. Several parts, actually.
There is the old sweatshirt of his that she wears almost every night to bed. The way his glasses feel as they butt against her face every now and then. The silky trails his hair leaves against her fingertips. The gentle scratches his nails make across her shoulders and her face. The feeling of his lips imprinted on her own and her skin.
It's like a game. They taunt each other, scream at each other, test each other, and still somehow end up back together again. They're both pawns in a game they never wanted to play. Sirius and Remus and Peter, they're all playing too. They're not as far yet. They're back there somewhere, but they're together too.
In the end, no one really wins. Because he's left bleeding with bruises covering his face, and she's left to the nightmares of waking to find he'll never be able to come back for her.
They try to consume every bit of each other that they can, to memorize every little detail. It's impossible, of course, but it doesn't stop them from trying.
There's a part of him manifested inside her. She tells him like it's a punishment, like its something he should be dreading, but he doesn't think that. He thinks maybe this was what was meant to happen to give them a little light in this world.
After all, he says. If she could manage the pain and sickness and stress that loving him has caused her, she can do it for someone else too. She can do it for their child.