The sun-streaked red hair was fanned out over the pillow next to his. Nothing much stirred outside, just the morning birds. So he watched her, completely in awe. He wasn't sure how he'd managed it, but by some stroke of luck, this woman was his wife.
She stirred slightly and muttered, "James," before rolling into him, and fitting her body around his. He kissed her forehead,
"Morning, love" He whispered. She grumbled back, and pressed her face into his shoulder.
And in their lonely house where no one could ever visit them, James Potter felt like the luckiest man alive.