Paper Flowers
When I was a little girl in grade school we used to make paper flowers in art class. Though generally I enjoyed reading books then I ever did making art projects. But this was the exception. There was a beauty in those paper flower creations, one that I could not describe. It was almost . . .
Magical.
Funny, that. I spent the whole of my childhood dreaming about the witches and wizards and magic I read in my beloved books, never knowing all along that I was a witch, and could produce magic much more powerful than any of my favorite characters.
But those paper flowers were somewhat different. It was the subtle beauty in the way I opened them up with my own hands, magical, lovely.
And this was how I spend the latter days of my pregnancy, sitting in my cozy kitchen daydreaming about paper flowers I used to make as a kid. This pregnancy was making me lose my mind. However, daydreaming about them gave me the urge to make them, why shouldn't I? What was stopping me? Nothing.
So I rose from the table (rather with some difficulty, damn pregnancy), and went into the little bedroom Ron and I shared, which was quite as cozy as the kitchen.
It was quite obvious whose' side was whose, as my side was neat and orderly, with quite a few books on my bedside table, while Ron's side was, well, a gigantic mess. As always. I huffed in frustration. If I had a sickle for every time I told him to clean his room, I'd be richer than the Queen of England. I tried to ignore his side as I dropped to the floor to dig under the bed (once again, not without difficulty. Being nearly eight months pregnant is no fun. At all. Which is probably why I was deciding to do something so out of character as make paper flowers to rid my boredom). I drug a trunk, my old school one, out from under the bed. This trunk contained various bits of wrapping paper and such for Christmas and birthdays and any other gift-giving event. And at the bottom—brightly colored tissue paper.
Triumphantly, I pulled out this bright colored paper and shoved the trunk back under the bed and stood up. My eyes immediately laid on the mess. I tried to push past this and ignored it . . . but . . . it was no good, I would have to clean it.
"Honestly, Ronald," I muttered to myself, "this would take you five seconds."
And indeed, five seconds later, the room was impeccably clean (magic was awesome).
I walked back into the kitchen, Crookshanks at my heels. After clearing off the table, I got to it.
It was surprising how well I remembered how to make those little paper flowers. (It had to be over twenty years since I had made them), and soon the little wooden table was littered with different colored blossoms, bits of tissue paper, and Crookshanks, who had jumped up on the table and was now giving me the have-you-gone-mad! look.
I had to admit, about an hour later, I was getting better. They looked less like shapeless lumps and started to look like real flowers (with a little help from magic, of course) some of them opened up by themselves, some of them twinkled from an unknown light source, some of them smelled like real flowers.
The door rattled open and there came the call of, "Honey! I'm home!" I wasn't deaf, you know, nor was I stupid. He didn't have to make an announcement. I knew he was home, the great blundering idiot.
"In the kitchen," I called back, and felt a stab of annoyance as I heard the unmistakable sound of Ron throwing his briefcase and cloak on the couch instead of in the closet. Heavy footsteps, and then a sigh.
"You wouldn't believe the day I had," he began, "Robards had us doing tons of paperwork, and—"
He stopped dead as he entered the kitchen, took one look at me, and burst out laughing.
"What is so funnyRon?" I exclaimed, though I have to admit, I must have looked quite a sight. Eight months pregnant, in my pajamas, my hair a mess, the table covered in paper, and my wand stuck behind my right ear (What? It was easier than taking it out of my pocket every time).
Ron didn't answer, but kept laughing harder than I'd ever seen anybody laugh.
"Oh, Hermione," he wheezed finally. "I wish I had a picture of this."
"Why?" I scowled dangerously at him. He seemed to get the hint, anyway, and abruptly tried to straighten his face, I said "tried" because he was failing miserably.
"Oh, nothing dear, you look—er—absolutely stunning today!" he said airily, and kissed me on the cheek. "What are you doing anyway?"
I glared at him some more for good measure. Ron turned his back on me and rummaged in the fridge for a few moments, and emerged with a large bottle of Ogden's Old Fire Whiskey. I raised my eyebrows.
"Is that really necessary?"
"Rough day," he said, and let a giggle slip out. But he made up for it by lifting me out of the chair and giving me a very deep kiss. Breathless, I sat back down, grinning broadly. I couldn't stay mad at him. "But I asked you first, what are you doing? This isn't something to do with spew again is it?"
Scratch that. I could most definitely stay mad at him.
"S.P.E.W.!" I answered hotly, "honestly, Ron . . . and no, it isn't."
He grinned at me over his firewhiskey. "So what is it?"
"If you must know, I'm making paper flowers."
"Paper—what?"
"It's a muggle thing. You make flowers out of tissue paper, see?"
I tapped a fresh square of tissue paper with my wand, and it instantly formed itself into a paper flower, blooming before our eyes. Ron's mouth shot open in astonishment.
"Cool!" he goggled, "how'd you do that?"
I smiled. Soon we were both chugging out paper flowers, like a little paper flower factory. Crookshanks stared between us like we'd lost our minds. I seriously half expected him to call St. Mungo's . . . if he had opposable thumbs . . .
"Time for dinner!" squealed the clock on the wall.
We were both so engrossed in what we were doing that we jumped, Ron actually fell out of his chair, and some flowers fell to the floor. It was my turn to laugh at my husband, and oh boy did I ever. Ron laughed too. Maybe it was because the situation was so funny, or maybe it was the firewhiskey, I don't know. But once we started, it was hard to stop. That is, until the clock squeaked "you're late!"
Hiccupping, still giggling, I helped Ron up off the floor. He grinned and vanished all the flowers on the table. I bustled around to make dinner, an uninteresting end to a very interesting day.
A/N:What a lovely fluffy little one shot! I hope you feel the same way! Let me know, reviews are very much appreciated!
~gfg