Word count: 313
Characters: Lily/James, Sirius, Remus, Peter
They tumble through the door like a five-headed monster, a web of limbs and jackets and laughter. They collapse onto the closest soft surfaces and Lily lies awake longer than the rest, her head in the crook of James’ arm, soothed by the symphony of their sleeping.
Some days, like today, when things go well, when they forget to look at the Prophet’s obituaries, when they say fuck it and get pissed in a Muggle bar in God-knows-where – those days, Lily thinks there’s no way they can’t win. She thinks it’s maybe the Gryffindor in her, the indomitable, stubborn optimism that Severus always found so ridiculous, but her chest swells with passion and determination and she can feel victory in every fibre of her being.
They’ll win, even if it’s not for another day or month or decade. They’ll win because they have to, because that’s how the fairy-tales always end. (And this is a fairy-tale, isn’t it? There’s magic and castles and danger and a love that she’d slay dragons for, just like she always used to read about.)
Tomorrow, she thinks, that conviction might not be as strong. There are days it seems hopeless and Voldemort seems truly invincible; there are days the coward in her wants to take James and flee to some distant country somewhere, lead an innocent, oblivious teenage life of passion and pointlessness and let Britain fall to pieces on its own. Tomorrow, for all she knows, it could be one of their names in the Prophet.
She closes her eyes and nestles closer to James, smiling against the folds of his shirt and breathing in the scent she knows so well. Tomorrow there may be wars to fight and dragons to slay, but as always, tomorrow is still a day away, and for the moment she’s content with this glimpse of happily ever after.