A/N: Hurrah! Part three. Enjoy the references to From The Infinitive, 'To Marmalade'.
March 27th, 1980
.
When you wake the room is warm but the bed cold; her presence by your side is missing. Worry starts to flood your veins, but then you hear a crash and a rather loud, "Fuck!" from downstairs and you know that it's not Death Eaters at your door because she would be doing more than swearing at them and you definitely wouldn't be allowed to lounge in bed.
You roll over and pick up your glasses, the edges of your vision sharpening as you slip them on. After plumping up the pillows and slumping on them – you attempted artful, casual relaxing but that's more what Sirius is for; you're a slumping kind of bloke – you wait for her to join you in the bedroom.
Her footsteps echo on the wooden stairs just outside the room and the door opens. She wanders in, eyes twinkling, levitating a tray in front of her with her wand in one hand and a bundle of presents in the other arm.
The glimpse you catch of her out of the corner of your eye prompts a sudden realisation.
She's yours.
Without question.
She's got your old Quidditch shirt on over a pair of your boxers and her hair's tugged back in a ponytail so you can see the necklace you got her all those years ago glinting at her neck. She sets the tray down with her wand and dumps the presents at the foot of the bed like your Mum used to do (it was probably the House-Elves though, wasn't it?) when you were a kid. She finds your Prongs mug that Sirius bought you jokingly one year and brings it over to you, smiling, and she carries your baby in her stomach.
She's yours.
You can't say why it hits you so strongly at this moment, but it does, and a second realisation follows: you're hers.
She owns you, and knows it, and you give yourself gladly to her, for her, with her. You'd do anything to make her feel happy and safe and loved.
She pokes her tongue out at you as she sits down.
"Alright, Potter?"
You nod, smirking, and pull her closer: she's not expecting it and topples towards you, knocking into the carefully laden tray. Coffee and toast and marmalade are sent flying and suddenly the duvet in front of both of you is covered in crumbs and splashes of hot liquid.
You turn to her sheepishly, but one look at your face sends her into raucous giggles and soon you're laughing along with her.
"James Potter!" she reprimands. "You're a complete idiot sometimes."
She says it with a grin, though, and even though you know she's not really angry, you give her your it's my birthday look (which, incidentally, is also your let's shag look) and she relents, reaching a hand up to stroke your cheek.
"But you're my idiot," she says softly, leaning into you.
You kiss her then, a long kiss which makes her pull away after a few moments, breathless and flushed, and as her fingers wind into your hair, as yours splay out on her belly and feel the thrum of life that the two of you created, a third realisation hits you.
You're each other's.
Without question.
Reviews are the Merlin cast at Comic Con 2012.