Lily Potter, formerly Lily Evans and currently twenty-one years of age, is reading a muggle magazine. It's all that's left of the care package dear old Bathilda brought over the day before the Potters went into hiding. Lily can't deny that it's wonderful to read something that bears no mention of Voldemort after these many long, long years of terror. At the same time, however, Lily is mildly horrified. The luridly coloured feature now lying open in her lap reads: "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" in bold, blocky type. Underneath, there is a still photograph of a muggle woman holding a plump, grinning toddler.
Lily scoffs. How is it possible, she thinks incredulously, that a woman is so unfamiliar with her own body that she does not notice all the vast changes taking place? She remembers, with a small smile, how large she was with Harry. James had always seized upon this, taking advantage of it to tease her: "Yes, this is my new pet, Lily. She is a beluga whale." And: "This is the new house, we will be moving in shortly."
A loud snore draws Lily's attention to where her aforementioned husband and young son are sleeping on the rug in front of her, tired out from a lively game of "Quidditch", which mostly involved Harry roaring about on his toy broomstick and James tearing around after him, pausing frequently to beam at Lily and proclaim: "This one will be a proper Quidditch player, he will!", making Lily roll her eyes and laugh and return to her magazine. The truth is, Lily is just glad that James is enjoying himself, that he is free, for however short a time, of the worry that has plagued him recently. She knows, however much James tries to hide it from her, how much he worries, and how little he sleeps. Being cooped up in this little cottage, while safest for the three of them, is driving James a fraction mad.
Lily sets aside her magazine and slips off the sofa to seat herself on the carpet next to the messy-haired pile of boy that is distinctly hers. For "boy" is, of course, what Harry is, and what James is as well, never mind his twenty-one years, never mind that he is the father in this small family, never mind this very adult and very scary situation he's been dumped in.
Lily reaches out her hand, strokes Harry's hair. She can already see James in him, despite the roundness of his young features. She's glad that her eyes made it onto her son, that he isn't completely James-- heaven knows how she'd deal with the both of them at once.
Harry blows out a tiny sigh, curling his fingers around one of his father's, and burying his small face in James's chest. Lily smiles a bit. She's thankful, so thankful for this small, beautiful piece of happiness in an otherwise completely terrifying and frustrating world.
James inhales sharply, and his eyes open, wide, worried, and looking quite vulnerable. They find Lily's face. She smiles at him, lays her hand on his cheek.
"Go back to sleep," she whispers, bending to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"But--" he starts. Stops. Licks his lips.
She shushes him. "I'm holding down the fort," she tells him, firmly.
He falls back against the carpet, muttering, "I guess... Couldn't hurt..." And his eyes flutter closed again, and his breathing becomes deep and even.
Lily is quite probably the luckiest woman in the world. She's married the one person who manages to both exhilarate and infuriate her, this lovely man-boy, forced to grow up too quickly. Then again, everyone has had to age beyond their years, Lily thinks, sighing heavily and threading her fingers through James's hair, pressing them to his scalp. Everyone is getting married and having children at such young, young ages, because they are afraid. Afraid that there won't be time later, afraid they won't make it long enough. This makes Lily enormously sad.
The afternoon passes with Lily sitting on the carpet; the warm autumn sunlight spilling in through the front window slowly slants across different parts of the room. Lily's thoughts return to that silly magazine article. Impossible, she thinks flatly, snorting softly. Didn't know you were pregnant... Come on, now.
This is especially difficult for her to believe because Lily is very punctual in all things, even including her monthly cycle. She could set a clock to it. For as long as she can remember, she's started at exactly four o'clock in the afternoon on the twenty-eighth of each month. Except for, of course, when she was pregnant with Harry. And this month.
Lily freezes. The hand in James's hair stills.
And this month.
She is three days late.
This is unheard of.
Lily is in shock a little. Her mind moves at a rapid-fire pace, thinking logistics, thinking, considering, planning, worrying how this will work in this tiny cottage, having a short and ridiculous image of Dumbledore delivering a baby.
"Gack," says Lily.
She stands up, goes to get herself a glass of water, and pauses in the kitchen doorway. Hand on the door jamb, she turns to regard James and Harry. She has a fleeting image of another black-haired, round-cheeked baby, sleeping on James, and Lily is a little embarrassed by the tears that spring, unbidden, to her eyes. Lily smiles, decides she'll tell James of her suspicions later tonight, after Harry is asleep. That'll give her a little longer to make sure that she isn't just late, as she suspects it'll be a little more difficult to wrangle Harry into bed tonight, what with the festivities.
It's Halloween, after all.