Ensconce: to settle securely or snugly.
April 29, 1981
A light flicked on in the upstairs window of a small cottage. Although the narrow lane was lined with similar squat little dwellings, although one or two other windows were lit, and the new light fell upon the road with a warm, jewel-bright glow, not a soul would notice a thing. To most of the street, that little cottage with its quaint fence running along the edge of the small yard and the tulips blooming in the window box didn't exist.
And the people living there prayed that it stayed that way.
A baby's loud, indignant cry broke the sleepy silence. It was the second time that night, and it was the fourth night in a row. Lily had already begun to roll out of bed, long red hair in her face and her eyes not even open yet, but her husband lay a hand on her arm, and that was all the persuasion she needed to fall back into her warm nest of blankets.
James had been awake anyway, staring listlessly out the window, trying not to think but increasingly devoid of distraction these days. Dumbledore had all but confined them to house arrest lately. It had been weeks since he'd been permitted to do anything for the Order.
He crossed the small hallway in two steps and pushed open the door to the nursery. At once the lamp in the corner illuminated the cheerful yellow walls, furniture stenciled with stars and jungle animals and teddy bears.
"Hey, little man," he murmured, approaching the crib near the window and reaching down to scoop up the bundle of wriggle blue blanket inside. "There we go."
With barely even a thought, he settled his son against his shoulder, rocking a little to quiet him. He sat down in the rocking chair in the corner, shifting the baby to the crook of his arm as his wails tapered into whimpers. James rocked slowly back and forth, gazing sleepily down at his son. A year ago, this natural routine would have seemed entirely alien. But now it transpired with little conscious thought.
Harry curled against James's chest, a little hand splayed against James's abdomen, but he seemed completely uninterested in being lulled back to sleep. He stared back at James with those wide green eyes, cooing now and then to break the silence, and experimentally poking his tiny pink tongue between puckered lips.
Everybody saw James when they looked at Harry. James himself saw it, too, of course. In the shock of black hair, the already-somewhat-crooked smile. But James, being rather more familiar with his own face, he reflected, saw Lily every time he looked at their son. Not just in the bright, curious green eyes that followed his every move, but there was something about the nose, the soft, pale skin, the expressions his son often gave him. It was all Lily.
He smiled at the nonsense Harry was babbling, and adjusted the blankets more snuggly around him, tucking him tighter in his arms. A little hand fluttered up to seize a button on his shirt.
He wouldn't have understood it a year ago, wouldn't have even guessed it two years ago, but he fit in that old rocking chair with that warm little body pressed against his chest. There were few other places he was more content.
A/N: This word conjured up 'baby' for me. And everybody writes about Lily and Harry (well, how could you not as they are such a tragically powerful pair), and very nearly did myself because I love them, but I've been on a bit of a marauders kick lately and got to thinking about James and his son, and well, this happened. Hope you liked it! :)