A/N: Ravenclaw, Prefect, Additional, "Discovering you're not who you thought you were" & "Thimble." W/C: 705
Growing up with so many siblings, I was pretty sure I didn't want the domestic life for myself. My mum always tried to teach me to help with some of the chores and things, but it didn't work out.
Instead of sewing, cooking, or cleaning, I wanted to de-gnome the garden, fix the roof, and be one of the boys. Things got worse when I went to Hogwarts because people liked me for it. I could fly a broom, cast a hex, and hold my own.
When I got older, got married, and got pregnant, I panicked. I'm sure Mum wouldn't have minded helping but it wasn't like I could just stop being stubborn.
Most things were easy enough, though. Spell books, and muggle books, and parenting books, and cookbooks . . . Hermione was proud of our growing library, but I was less excited.
You see, none of those books taught me how to use a thimble.
I drove myself crazy trying to figure out how to sew without sticking myself. My sewing charm is awful but sewing everything by hand isn't much better if I bleed all over. It's particularly annoying when I'm not bad at sewing as a task, just at doing so without stabbing myself.
Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be any way around the needle wounds. And the damn thimble just seemed useless! I tried everything : wearing one on every finger, wearing it on different fingers… everything I could think of! It just wasn't helping.
Baby Number One was coming soon and I'd learned to cook, clean, and sew. I still burned roasts, and I still hated folding laundry, but those things didn't hurt. Except maybe the roast . . . I hate when I burn the roast, it's just such a waste.
But I still can't sew without physically hurting myself.
I was contemplating all this when Harry got home from work. I'd been lucky that the Quidditch season ended in time for me to stay home and wait for Fetus Number One to become Baby Number One so that's precisely what I was doing when Harry arrived. And, of course, I was fighting with a thimble.
The door opened and closed and his familiar 'Gin? I'm home!' came down the hallway. I paused my sewing and called back to let him know I was in the living room, but he didn't reply. Dinner was on the stove, so I assumed he'd followed his nose into the kitchen. I managed to stick myself again and gave up on the thimble, looking up to see where Harry had gone instead.
Standing in the doorway, carrying armfuls of groceries, was my husband. His hair was its usual mess, and his half-smile was in place on his mouth. As I looked up at him, the same strand of hair fell in my face as always does.
It struck me then that we were the same people who went to school together all those years before. We played wizards' chess in the Common Room and drank Butterbeer in Hogsmeade. We'd lived through horrible things, too, of course, but really . . . we were the same people.
But now he was my husband. And I was his wife.
I was going to be a mom.
Harry smiled. "I thought you might like some help," he said. "Do you want me to work on dinner or just put the groceries away for now?"
The Boy Who Lived was...domestic. I was domestic. I was sewing and cooking dinner for my husband, and I was fighting with a thimble. I was a Holyhead bloody Harpy and I was domestic?
Instead of answering, I stood up and took the groceries from him, setting them down on the floor. I reached my arms around his neck and gave him a kiss.
"This isn't who I thought we'd be," I admitted quietly. "But I really like who we are."
"Even if you can't work a thimble?" he asked, noticing my sewing left on the couch.
I pushed him back, laughing. "Oh bugger off, you. Now you can put the laundry away, too!"
As I sat down, I decided that I hadn't expected this life… but it was a pretty darn good one. Even if thimbles are impossible.