Gherkaragus

After eleven years as Mrs Wood, Penelope started to panic. She was in the shower when she first realised, and when she, after wrapping herself in a towel, hurried over to the mirror her fears were confirmed. She was old. Nibbling her lip, she let go of her towel and stared at her own reflection. Her hands made their way over her soft, and nowadays rather plump, body and, giving her no longer firm breasts a squeeze, her thoughts began to wander. Her mother had told her all about the biological clock and now, when her real age had dawned upon her, her mother's words echoed in her mind. She'd always considered herself young, but when she came to think about it 39 was rather old. While time had been gentle with Oliver, it had had no mercy when it came to her, and it showed. Who knew if, perhaps, all her eggs had gone down the drain just like her looks had?

"I've got wrinkles." she said to herself and stared at her face. The closer she looked, the more fine lines appeared all over her pale complexion. Out of curiosity she smiled, and indeed her dimples weren't the only unevenness surrounding her mouth anymore. She came to her first conclusion of the day ('By Merlin's saggy long johns, I'm a less attractive version of The Fat Lady!') and immediately her brain began to catalogue these new facts. The age, the wrinkles, her chubby thighs and suddenly not-so-slim waist, the sheer hideousness. Without a doubt, her honey-blonde locks would be grey within a year (this was something of an exaggeration but Penelope had always liked a bit of drama).

'Agrippa, time is ticking, and it's ticking fast,' she thought. Time was indeed ticking, and the fact that there was a distinct lack of babies popping out of her bothered her more every passing day. Hell, she deserved a positive pregnancy test. Surely, at least one of the thousands of times she had had sex with Oliver should have resulted in a pregnancy? When you added the absurd amount of money they'd spent in different shady pharmacies (you'd think that they would have found at least one fertility-inducing potion that actually worked) it was beyond ridiculous. She'd always been told that desperate times called for desperate measures, and, as she was indeed starting to get desperate, Penelope Amalie Wood nee Clearwater reached conclusion number two. While she might not be or ever get pregnant, it was never too late to at least be a proper wife in every other, non-children related, way. It was time for her to finally learn how to handle a vacuum cleaner.

Wrapping the slightly damp towel around her head she made her way out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, careful not to step on the pile of dirty laundry Oliver had dumped in front of the washing machine. Not only was the man a sight to behold, he also took care of his quidditch gear after every coaching session. 'I'm a lucky girl, but he does deserve some help after all,' she thought and rummaged through her underwear drawer for clean knickers. It took her longer than normal but, considering her age and the fact that her body was no longer very attractive, lace was not an option. After a good few minutes of frantic searching she found a pair of old, white cotton panties and a matching bra, suited well to her plans for the day. No longer having to strut around stark naked, she wasn't in as much of a hurry when choosing clothes, which was good because it proved to be even harder than choosing underwear had been. On one hand, she wanted to look somewhat sexy when Oliver got home, but on the other hand, the thought of having to squeeze into one of her prettier dresses (that had been the case the last times she'd wore them, after all), wasn't at all appealing. In the end she settled for something in between, and semi-pleased she left the bedroom.

She'd seen her mother waltz around the Clearwater family mansion in the outskirts of Swansea with a feather duster in one and detergent in the other on numerous occasions, so she was well aware of what was expected of a woman in her late thirties. Throwing a quick glance on her wristwatch she noted that she had three hours until Oliver got home and she planned on spending those hours acting like a proper wife was supposed to act. From now on she wouldn't leave all the cleaning, washing and cooking to her husband. She'd be responsible, and she'd do exactly what was expected of her.

Oliver's newly found career as a quidditch coach didn't bring nearly as much money as his career as a player had done, but he'd been a pro for nearly twenty years so money was not an issue in the Wood household. She'd been able to leave her job at the Ministry thanks to his embarrassingly high income and, looking back the nine years she'd spent focusing on her art since that, she'd been ridiculously lazy. She had made a name for herself and her art gave them more money than Oliver's coaching job did nowadays, but she'd been lazy. Her mother had had more than ten house elves and she'd still done her bit in the household (much to the elves' dismay), but Penelope had been too absorbed by her own brushstrokes and she'd left it all for her hardworking husband to take care of when he got home. The truth was obvious and she didn't like it. She was a total failure of a woman. She didn't know how to cook anything but macaroni and she barely knew how to use a washing machine. How she had managed to find a husband as perfect as Oliver Wood was a mystery to her, but as she opened the cupboard where they kept the cleaning supplies she decided that things were going to change. She didn't deserve Oliver, but he deserved perfection and she was going to aim for it.

After unsuccessfully trying to clean the windows (they ended up dirtier than they had been before her feeble attempt) for almost an hour she realised that even though her mother and Oliver made cleaning seem easy, it sure as hell wasn't. Sliding her wand up from the front pocket of her jeans, she quickly used magic to fix the mess she'd made. Magic was cheating, but in love and war all is fair, and she sure loved Oliver and she figured that her fight against the dirty windows did slightly resemble a war of sorts. Desperate to find at least something she was good at without having to cheat, she then turned to the vacuum cleaner, which turned out to be easier to handle than the squeegee had been. It did take her an eternity to get through the living room but that was mostly because of the lengthy break she took when she reached Oliver's office. There was no need for him to have an office, really, and he never used it, but when they'd bought the house there'd been an extra room so they'd put some old furniture and all of Oliver's prices in there until they'd find a real use for the room. None of them had said it out loud but the 'real use' was also known as a baby. Ten years later, the office was still only used as a storage room for medals, cups and numerous Player of the Season plaques.

Sitting with her back leaned against the doorframe, Penelope realised that this room represented the very biggest of her failures. They'd wanted a baby for ages 'And now, it'll most likely be too late,' she thought and felt something salty trickle down her cheeks. As she sat there, she imagined herself holding a tiny boy in her arms, stroking his back tenderly and humming one of the old, Welsh lullabies that her parents had sung for her all those years ago, and not for the first time she realised just exactly how much she wanted that little fragile life to love and care for. She sat there and allowed tears to fill her eyes while she stroke her pudgy stomach repeatedly, pinching the slightly excessive fat once in a while. She wondered how different her body would have felt, had there once been life growing within it. Sitting there, she realised how pathetic her situation was. She couldn't even clean the house without ending up a crying mess on the floor. Erasing the last evidence of her tears with the outside of her hand, she pulled herself together and managed to vacuum the rest of the room in less than ten minutes.

'I'm a woman, damn it. Isn't the kitchen supposed to be my bloody kingdom?´ she thought an hour later as she tried to chop the vegetables, fry the mince and keep an eye on the clock at the same time with various results. She was a bit worried that she'd managed to completely mess up the guacamole; it didn't smell nearly as delicious as it did when Oliver was the one in control of the spices, but it still seemed somewhat edible. She hadn't been brave enough to try it, but what would the point be in realising that it was disgusting ten minutes before Oliver would get home, when she wouldn't have time to do anything about it anyway? No, she preferred to live in ignorance.

The kitchen wasn't her forte, but so far she seemed to be able to cope with the difficulties the taco recipe threw her way. She was in a hurry though, and she felt sweat gather in her armpits. It had been a testing day, for sure. After making sure the mince wouldn't catch fire, she tore off the apron and ran up the stairs to change into something that wasn't sweaty and that didn't have a giant tomato stain across the chest. Feeling rather good about herself she picked out one of the looser dresses and just as she darted back downstairs she heard him put his key in the lock.

After establishing that Oliver had had a good, albeit hectic, day, and after carefully avoiding Oliver's questions about her day, Penelope was delighted to note that Oliver ate not only one or two, but three tacos, and that he didn't seem to be seized by a sudden urge to throw up upon tasting her food. No, she was the one feeling like the food in her stomach just wanted to get out, and quickly.

"You look pale, Pen. Y'alright?"

"I think I need to go to the toilet. I'll be back!" she said, before hurrying towards the bathroom. Crouching over the toilet, she was grateful to feel two strong, but gentle, hands keeping her hair out of the way and stroking her back comfortingly. Out through her mouth came meat, tortilla bread, pimientos, jalapeños and various unidentifiable and not very pleasantly smelling substances. She spent the next few minutes hulking over the toilet until her stomach was well and truly empty. As she leaned back against the wall, Oliver released her hair, muttering "Accio," and after showcasing his quidditch skills by catching the cleaning supplies as they came zooming towards him in the thin air, he flushed the toilet before beginning to scrub its insides.

"I've been cleaning all day just to surprise you and now when you're home the first thing I do is make you clean up this stinking mess." Penelope complained weakly.

"Honestly, don't worry about it, Pen."

"And why am I complaining? You should be the one complaining, not me! I'm such an ungrateful bitch."

"Is that more complaining I hear?" he joked as he looked up at her, "This should be clean now." he continued before flushing the toilet once again, "But you, my dear, might want to brush your teeth."

"I want ice-cream, Oliver." Penelope demanded, surprising herself. The sudden pang of nausea had indeed been quick, and now she wanted ice-cream. Or rather, she needed, almost craved, ice-cream. Immediately.

"You want ice-cream? Now?" Oliver asked, watching her with a slightly puzzled look on his face, "You never fail to surprise me, Penelope love. But sure, you just brush your teeth and I'll go see what we've got in the fridge."

"Ice-cream. Now." Penelope repeated as she grabbed her toothbrush and smeared toothpaste on it.

Penelope normally wasn't one to break the rules, and that was something she took pride in (it had made her Head Girl at Hogwarts, after all), but this once she figured that ice-cream was more important than brushing her teeth for a full two minutes was. She would brush them again before going to bed after all, so she settled for a minute and a half, followed by a fair few sips of Madame Toothie's Magically Germ-killing, Hole-Preventing and Nice-Smelling Tooth Potion. 'Now, where's that ice-cream?' she thought to herself as she rushed into the kitchen, where Oliver was busy taking care of the dirty plates and the left-over food.

"Where's the ice-cream, mister?" she asked, rather rudely, and when Oliver nodded towards the kitchen table, where there was indeed a bowl of ice-cream waiting for her, she dashed over there in speeds previously unheard of. There it was, chocolate and vanilla, just what she needed.

"Is there more?"

"You want more ice-cream?"

"Yes!" Penelope demanded, but as Oliver returned from the fridge with a whole can of Ben & Jerry's, she still hadn't as much as touched what was already in her bowl. The immense happiness she'd felt upon first seeing the ice-cream was gone, and she felt as if she was about to cry.

"Penny, are you okay?" Oliver said worriedly as he saw her sullen face.

"I feel like a… a…" she began, searching for the proper word, "Look, Oliver, I sort of feel like a swollen gherkin."

"Penny, you've decided to clean the house and cook me dinner only to almost commit suicide by food poisoning just because you feel like a swollen gherkin?" he said, making the whole affair sound a fair bit more dramatic than it had really been, and although Penelope didn't like it, she could blame him for seeming to be somewhat amused. When he put it like that, it did sound funny, and so a slight smile graced her lips before she spoke again, "I'd imagine being swollen would feel like this for a gherkin, yes! But anyways, that's not even the point! I feel swollen, Oliver. I'm all pudgy and soft and there are wrinkleseverywhere!"

"Hey, don't cry, Pen," he said, pulling her close, "You know what? I like you when you're soft."

"I don't like it though! Really, Oliver, I feel like I'm a big, fat, swollen gherkin that's only going to get bigger and fatter and more swollen and I feel like a gherkin married to someone it really doesn't deserve… Like a… an asparagus, or something!"

"So you're telling me that I'm an asparagus and that you're my gherkin?" he smiled, and to his (and even more to her) surprise, she burst out laughing. Relieved that the worst seemed to be over, Oliver chuckled too.

"My mood swings are something extra, aren't they?" she said between the fits of laughter, not noticing how Oliver stopped and instead went rigid.

"Pen, stop it. Stop laughing. Listen to me," he urged, "Did you take your potion today?"

"Wha- no? No, I didn't."

"Last week? Pen, did you?"

"I… No, I didn't." she admitted, offering him a sheepish smile that turned hopeful as she watched his smile broaden.

"Perhaps…" he began.

"It might be." she agreed.

"We shouldn't get our hopes up, though."

"No, no. We shouldn't."

"But the mood swings,"

"And my nausea..."

"That, too. And you have put on some weight."

"Oliver!"

"Penny, I like it."

"I should really take that potion, shouldn't I?"

"Yeah. You should. And you're beautiful, Pen. And I love you no matter what." he murmured, burying his face in the soft spot just above her shoulder.

"I love you more, Oliver. Now, let me go or I won't be able to go fetch that potion."

She walked up the stairs painfully slow. It wasn't that she didn't want to know, she did, but she wasn't sure if she would be able to handle yet another disappointment. She wanted there to be something – or someone, rather – growing inside her. As ridiculous as it might sound, she'd only been this nervous once in her life, and that had been when tentatively sitting down on the stool with the Sorting Hat on her head, in front of the whole Great Hall. This whole ordeal felt like a second sorting, of sorts. If lady luck was on their side, they'd get sorted into parenthood. If not, they'd end up with the eternally pitied few without children. It felt final. She wasn't young, and she wasn't sure whether they'd give the baby making business many more tries without protection. Rummaging through the cupboard in the upper floor bathroom, thoughts about nappies and pacifiers and turning Oliver's office into what it was meant to be raced through her mind.

"Found it!" She exclaimed as Oliver entered the room, taking a seat next to his pile of dirty quidditch gear. He didn't answer, just smiled weakly at her before his features turned into an insanely nervous grimace, "It'll be either orange or purple. Orange means negative, purple means positive. Right, hand me that cup will you," she said and filled the cup Oliver gave her with greyish potion, "I'm just going to spit in it now. Won't take more than a few minutes… And then we'll know." she explained, before spitting.

They sat face to face on the bathroom floor, Penelope rocking from side to side and Oliver biting his nails, something he hadn't done since his late teens. Penelope felt bad for him, he'd never been present when she'd taken the potion before, and he hadn't expected this gruesome wait, that much was obvious from his pained expression. She took his hand, and slowly pulled it away from his mouth.

"We'll be alright, no matter what." she said calmly, and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, "I love you. And we'll be alright. I promise."

"I know… It's just that…"

"I know, Oliver. But we'll be alright."

Why time flies when you have fun, and always seems to go slower when you want it to speed up, Penelope would never know. But eventually time does grant your wishes, and it passes. A second might feel like a minute, and a minute like an hour, but it does pass. And after what felt like an eternity, but in reality was only just little more than four minutes, the potion began to change. It grew thicker, it started to fizzle, it started to fume. And then finally, it adapted a whole new colour.

"Oliver… This…. This is purple. It's purple. Purple, Oliver! It's purple!" Penelope whispered, her eyes not leaving the small cup with the bubbling, violet liquid.

"What do you get when crossing a gherkin with an asparagus?" he said slowly. Penelope took one last look at the cup, making sure that it was indeed purple, before meeting his hazel eyes.

"I don't know, Oliver…" she said, somewhat startled by his odd question. She had been expecting a somewhat different reaction.

"I don't know either... But Pen, I think we're about to find out."

The End.