Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #8 - our own world
Disclaimer: Not mine.
after you defeat the dark lord and after the prophet stops publishing cockeyed, half-witted stories of your life—no, I’m not marrying molly weasley or engaging in bestiality with the black dog we rescued from the pound—and after the gleam wears off from winning a job with the aurors because they decide you’re too important as a figurehead so you’re stuck at a desk job, but hey, at least the view of the thames is cracking—
Harry kicks open the door to the flat and locks it—magically and otherwise—behind him. Ginny waves from the kitchen where she’s got three somethings stirring themselves on the stove, and everything smells amazing.
“Daddy!” James toddles to him and clutches his knees. Harry scoops him into his arms and blows a raspberry on his cheek.
Harry pastes on a smiles that strains his cheeks and heads for Ginny. He kisses her.
“How was your day?”
These days, she’s working at St. Mungos as one of the leading therapists in the world for physical and psychological trauma. She’s brilliant, and gorgeous, and the best mom ever, and really Harry should give a shit, but—
you wanted this. you wanted normalcy and love and a family, something so far from the dursleys, something with open arms and laughter and someone to curl up with at night—
They eat dinner, and Harry makes all the right noises at all the right times, like he does every day. He’s waiting for Ginny to notice that he’s a robot, that he’s gone, that he’s already skipped ahead, but her blindness squeezes his chest a little more each day, tighter and tighter and so tight that he wakes up at night, gasping for air that’s everywhere but where it should be. Isn’t it obvious?
After dinner, Ginny goes to shower, like she does every night, and Harry stands James inside one of those baby-jumping-spinny things because he loves James, he does, but this whole charade isn’t what he wants. What he wants is in a cabinet where James can’t follow.
Harry had it designed a year ago. A secret birthday present to himself. He opens the cabinet door and cradles the heavy wooden bowl in his hands, the swirling white twisting toward him, pulling him down.
He has ten minutes before Ginny will call for him.
Ten, perfect minutes.
It’s not a regular pensieve. Not one where you watch proceedings that already occurred.
Harry bends over it, his face brushing the surface, and tumbles down—
this is what waits for you after—
And then he is naked, in bed, skin sliding on deep green silk sheets. Tom swirls through a door, robes billowing. His disheveled black hair is desperate for Harry’s hands, and his dark eyes gleam, drowning Harry in their gravity.
Harry stands, the cool air kissing his skin, and then Tom is wrapped around him, enveloping him, swallowing him, nipping his lips, dragging fingernails across his back, and kissing the pain away.
“I’ve missed you.”