James Potter

James Potter lay on the grass, nestled between the girl's legs. His head rested on her lap, the green silk of her dress brushing his cheek, and a cool breeze ruffled their hair. He looked at her face in the soft light and didn't try to change his position—he loved the feel of her thighs at his sides and the complete safety of this small world created for them both. James slowly raised his hand and ran his fingers over her shoulder, tracing the pattern of her tattoo, a relaxed smile playing on his lips. The voices of the students drifted through the rustling leaves, but here, in the shade of the tree, time stood still.

He wasn't a Quidditch captain or a bully now—just James, a boy who looked at her with a tenderness that made her chest ache. He reached his other hand up to her face, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, and kissed her chin.

“You’re so calm when we’re like this, ” he said quietly, playing with the flower in her hair.

An old tree loomed over them, a carved heart with initials casting a shadow over his shoulder. James took a deep breath, inhaling the grass and her perfume, wanting to remember this moment forever—like the time-turner he carried in his pocket. He squeezed his hand near her knee, stroking her skin with his thumb, feeling her relax. James closed his eyes, enjoying the way her fingers tangled in his dark locks.

He knew about the coming war, but now, lying on her lap, he felt that everything would be fine. Turning over, he buried his nose in the folds of her dress and quietly exhaled:

• I'm ready to argue with you even with Death, my little flower.

An open book lay nearby, its pages fluttering in the wind, as if nature were watching. James was happy just lying there, and he needed nothing more on this sunny day.