Closest Thing To A Fairytale
It is around eleven o'clock when she forces herself to put down her quill and call it a night.
Time often flew by when she lost herself in her writing.
She leans back in her chair, rubbing her light brown eyes with an aching hand.
She really did write too much in such a short amount of time, her husband constantly told her.
Now, she realizes she would have to agree, although her stubbornness, she knows, would never allow her to voice that aloud to him.
Still, though, in her opinion, updating a novel is something that just cannot be put off any minute.
She checks her watch, yawning.
11:10.
A good night's sleep sounds like the best thing in the world to her right now.
Getting up from her chair, she retreats from her desk in the study to the bathroom down the long hallway.
She slips into a pair of black striped pajama pants and a baggy t-shirt and brushes her teeth within five minutes, the large, comfy bed waiting for her across the hall on her mind.
As she enters the room, though, sleep is temporarily wiped away from her thoughts.
The small lamp on the bedside table illuminates the walls, and casts its light on two figures lying still on the bed.
She can't prevent a content smile at the sight of them.
He is lying on his back, his jet black hair hanging in his face, his glasses lopsided, lost in his slumber.
Their four year old daughter, Helen, lay next to her father in a deep sleep, a thin arm thrown across his chest, her mouth slightly open. Helen's hair, brown like her mother's, framed her round face in waves.
She's quite thankful Helen didn't inherit the bushy aspect of her hair.
And Helen's eyes, a vivid green, mirrored her father's.
They were eyes, she remarked to her husband once late one night, that she could never say no to.
A book, one of Helen's favorites, about a rabbit, lay open on her husband's chest, inches away from Helen's hand.
Life never is a true fairytale, like the ones in the fantasy books, but she knows, without a doubt, that this, now, is the closest thing to a fairy tale she'll ever have.
She's not so tired anymore at the sight of this peaceful scene, and she feels as if she could stare at this all night.
Then a saying, a rather random one, crosses her mind.
Take a picture, it'll last longer.
She starts, deciding in an instant to do just that.
She's halfway to the chest of drawers, where she's pretty sure she left her muggle camera in somewhere, when a soft voice breaks the silence.
"That's my shirt, you know."
She turns, smiling, to face him.
Harry's eyes were halfway open, a lazy grin occupying his lips.
She folds her arms against her chest. "I know. That's why I love to wear it."
He laughs, adjusting himself up a little so as to not wake Helen, and picks up the book lying on his chest, depositing it on the bedside table.
Then he extends his left arm out wide, a silent invitation to join him.
She accepts in a heartbeat, climbing onto the bed, and as she does so she pulls off his glasses.
"My two favourite girls beside me," He says, sighing happily, "Nothing could be better than this."
She grins as she reaches over and puts the glasses on the bedside table with the book, turns off the lamp, and curls up close beside Harry.
It takes her only a second in the darkness to find his hand, and their fingers intertwine with one another's.
The picture could wait.
FIN.