A/N: READ! Please! I dreamt this story; and my best stories usually come from dreams.
"You never really know
What it is
Not until it goes
And if it comes again
It's a miracle"
-Vertical Horizon, "Miracle"
Morgan's dark, curly hair fell far below her shoulders. He had loved her hair. The chocolate spirals stayed perfectly in place, never frizzy, yet they never looked stiff and unnatural. He remember when he first saw her; he had seen her back only, and had fallen in love with her hair. Morgan had intense eyes that resembled the sea; they were blue on days, green on others, yet at times seemed more gray than anything else. She had a cute rabbit nose, tiny hands and feet, and a ivory complexion. Morgan was thin, but never skinny. She had a thick, curvy build, which, on the stature of five foot five, gave her a strong appearance. All these features together, Morgan was a strikingly beautiful woman. He had loved her.
He remembered the day he killed her. She had been sitting on his bed- it was their bed, wasn't it? The two lovers had practically been living together for three and a half years now- she had been sorting through pictures. Pictures of them together, pictures of her deceased parents, pictures of her friends. She had put them down when he had entered the room, getting up to hug him, kiss him, ask him how his day was.
He hadn't wanted to do it. He had loved Morgan- but there was no love. Remember? There was no love. Love was something that people made up to try and rationalize their existence on this planet. No one loves. Still, it was hard to ignore the look of kindness in Morgan's eyes, the way her entire face lit up when she saw him. But no one loves. There was no love. Their relationship was based one what they wanted it to be, not reality. He had wanted love, needed love, and he had thought he had received it. There was no love to receive. He owed his life to the man-no, the lord-who had taught him such an important lesson, who had taught him the truths of the world.
No one loves. He repeated that phrase over and over as Morgan hugged his body and massaged his mouth with her own. He ignored her smile, the light shining through her eyes, her lips, her everything. He abruptly pushed her aside and disregarded her inquires of concern. She was never scared, he acknowledged. Even at the end, she was never scared. Yes, Morgan was brave. That was why she died.
As he drew his wand from his pocket and pointed it at her. She again repeated her questions, this time with more force, as she was talking to a business partner instead of a lover. He ignored her again. He was going to kill her. He was. He took one last glance, one last gaze at the woman he thought he loved before he was brought to the fact that their love was fake. Everything he had known was fake. He took in her curly mane, her ocean eyes, her strong build, her cute nose. Why? He asked himself. Why am I doing this? Morgan was the closest to absolute goodness that he had ever known. She was the best he had ever come into contact with. Why was he about to kill her?
His parents were bad because they died and left him with the Dursleys.
The Dursleys were bad for obvious reasons.
Dumbledore was bad because he steered him wrong. He told him to avenge his parent's deaths, when they were the ones who had betrayed him.
Sirius was bad because he too deserted him. He fled the country after Dememtors almost caught him and was too scared to write.
Hermione was bad because she never loved him back. After he had given up on Cho, he had realized he loved Hermione. No, she loved Ron.
Ron was bad because he stole the only thing that he had ever wanted, ever loved. No, he told himself, there is no love. Love does not exist. Yet even if love does not exist, it was the principle of the matter which made Ron bad.
And here was Morgan. He glanced at her, his emerald eyes blazing into her blue-green gray, and heard the words of his new mentor echoing in his head. She is bad too. Morgan was bad because she was an auror. She was bad because she was brave and smart and knew too much. She was on the opposing team, the other end of the rainbow. She deserved to die.
So he killed her. He whispered the words and Morgan fell to the floor. It's a shame, he thought. She certainly was pretty, if not beautiful. His heart ached with guilt, more guilt than he had ever felt at any of his other killings. Love does not exist. No one loves; it does not exist. He repeated the statements out loud, each going in one ear and going out the other. He touched her hair, and a tear drop fell from his eye. No! He hadn't cried in ages; he wasn't about to start now. The tear made him finish the job in haste; he created the dark mark and made it float above their little townhouse.
He started to leave. No one would ever catch him. No one would ever pin hero boy to Morgan's death. He would be the lover in mourning, the one crying at the funeral. The one to never expect. He was going to get away with this scot-free, and somehow, that made him feel even more guilty. Do you want to be caught? Murdered for treason? Murdered for murder? No, he concluded.
He had gotten to the door when he heard the baby cry.
***
Harry Potter woke up with a start. He quickly turned to his right, but the place next to him on the king bed was vacant. He sighed and buried his head in his pillow. That same nightmare was playing again and again in his head, night after night, the same way as the dream of his parent's death. It kept on getting more and more vivid each time he dreamt it. The smell of perfume, the thump as the body hit the floor, each grew stronger and stronger as the days went by.
Knowing he wouldn't get back to sleep, he got out of bed and walked into his kitchen. He started rummaging through the cabinets and pantry, trying to find a bowl and cereal. The lights hurt his eyes, so he was trying to find these things in the dark of the night. What time is it anyway? He looked at the clock on the oven; it read three o'clock in the morning. He fished through the pantry for the cereal. He pulled out a box of Rice Chex, then threw them on the floor. Who eats this crap anyway? He asked. Oh, yeah, Morgan did. He pulled out the Fruit Loops and started eating them straight out of the box.
He sat in the dark kitchen, gorging on cereal one wasn't supposed to eat if they were over twelve. The room was a royal mess. It had been six months since Morgan had been murdered and Harry had turned into a total slob. Morgan had at least managed to keep him in line, but without her, he didn't care in the least what his flat looked like. It could be overrun with cockroaches and rats and fleas for as much as he cared. Hermione would have been disgusted if she had heard him speak like that.
Oh yeah, Harry reminded himself. Hermione and Ron are to be married next month; you're his best man. Remember? Harry had forgotten, but he had most likely made himself forget. One of the most helpful abilities he had received in his line of work was the ability to forget. Harry frowned. You owe them; do it. Go to the stupid wedding and at least act like you're having fun. You owe them.
Harry did owe Hermione and Ron a big favor. They had been taking care Jamie, Morgan's child. And to be politically correct, Harry's child. Perhaps a month before her death, Morgan had given birth to their child, the very one that Harry had suggested that she abort. Morgan had refused, and insisted that the child be named after Harry's father. Damn bastard doesn't deserve my kid's name, thought Harry. After Morgan died, he had thrown Jamie onto Hermione and Ron, telling them that he was too upset to be a father. Harry hardly did much of anything anymore; he went to his job at the Ministry, he watched television, and he ate his meals over the sink. He had only gotten to shave for the first time in six months the day before. The smoothness felt odd in contrast to the shaggy beard he had grown accustom to.
Harry hadn't married Morgan when he had found out she was pregnant because he knew that she was going to be killed. She couldn't live. He wanted for her to be murdered then, to kill the baby also. But his lord told him not; the child would be a powerful asset to their plans. So Harry had gone through it; he had held Morgan's hand in the delivery room, trying to ignore the fact that in a month or so, she would be dead.
How stupid was Morgan anyway? Didn't she know that she was going to be killed? Harry pondered that; Morgan was one of the smartest people he had ever known. After all, Hermione had been the one who had introduced them four years ago at a party. Both were aurors. Most people wondered why Harry wasn't one; he was something else, something they never would expect. But, back to the point, Morgan was smart. The murder seemed almost to good to be true. She was stupid to trust him, stupid to ignore the obvious, stupid to offer him unconditional love. Yet Morgan wasn't stupid, and that fact left a ringing in his ears which was both unpleasant and redundant.
Harry stumbled into his living room, his thoughts jumbled and stirred together so that they were indistinguishable. He flopped on his couch, the leather rubbing against his skin. His horrible, impure skin. He felt dirty, cheap, EMPTY. His inner parts had been scooped out of him and thrown on the floor before him. He wanted to throw up, vomit, purge himself of all his actions. He also craved release; he wanted to let go, to find an outlet for his anger at the world. He didn't want to kill anyone to find this outlet, the consequential guilt would be too much to handle.
So he picked up a glass mug which was sitting on the coffee table, as he had been to lazy to take it into the kitchen. Harry threw it at the opposite wall. He felt no change. He stormed into the kitchen, grabbed another glass mug from the sink, and plumaged it down on top of his hand. The glass shattered, each fragment scraping his hand and creating lines of scarlet liquid to run from the cuts. Harry watched his hand numbly for a minute, waiting for the pain to come. Eventually, his wounds did start stinging, aching. His eyes followed the rivers of blood as they dripped down his hand to the floor below. Drip, drip, drip. He stood there, stationary, until the flow of blood subsided. He grabbed his wand, repaired his fractured skin, then went down the hall to bed with a smile on his face.
***
Harry awoke to the doorbell. He was laying face down on his bed, the gray-blue sheets partially covering his body. Light flooded through the windows; birds could be heard chirping outside. It was a warm, crisp fall morning. The leaves were beginning to change; the air smelled of pumpkin and was so fresh it burned one's nostrils if too much was inhaled at a time.
The doorbell rang again. Harry reluctantly crawled out of bed and walked down the hallway to the front door. On his way there, the doorbell rang yet another time. "Damn," he grumbled. "I'm coming."
He swung the door open to see Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley standing on his front stoop. Hermione stood tall and distinguished for her short stature of five foot three; she wore jeans and a navy cardigan over a plain white T-shirt. With her chestnut brown hair pulled back into a bun, she managed to look pulled together and proper in even the most casual of clothing. Ron, dressed in a pair of khakis and green shirt, looked equally neat. His fiery red hair and freckled gave him a more of a juvenile look for his twenty-seven years. Neither of them was smiling.
"What's up?" Harry asked lazily. He felt amazingly out of place dressed only in a pair of pajama pants and gray T-shirt.
Hermione nor Ron had a response. It was only then when Harry realized that Ron was holding little Jamie, wrapped in a blanket to keep him warm.
***
"Harry," Hermione began, sitting on the chair opposite him. "We can't take care of him forever. You know that. You knew this day would come eventually."
Harry put his face in his hands. "I just can't do this."
Hermione sighed. "It's not that we don't love him-" She paused to glance at Ron, who was playing and talking to the seven month old baby boy. "We certainly do. It's just, with the wedding and all, we can't watch him anymore, and we don't think that this arrangement is in the best interest of anyone."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked.
She sighed again. "You're not being with your son, he needs to be with his father, and Ron and I aren't really ready to have children yet."
"We're still available to watch him now and then," Ron added.
"I can't do this!" Harry cried. "You said you're not ready to be parents. Do you think I am?"
"There's not much you can do now!" Hermione yelled. "I'm sorry, but you're stuck! You can't just wave your wand and fix this!"
Actually, Harry thought, I could fix this with a wave of the wand. Just whisper the words that he had said to Morgan…. "It's too soon," he whispered.
Hermione moved next to him on the couch. "Harry, we know it's hard."
"With Morgan gone and everything," Ron said. You know, you really don't, Harry thought. You don't know half of what happened with Morgan.
"But Harry," Hermione said sweetly, putting her hand on his shoulder. "You need to take responsibility. He's your son."
"He's a sweet kid," Ron said.
Hermione smiled. "Very sweet."
"He looks just like you," Ron added. He tried to hand Jamie to Harry, but Harry just slouched farther back on the couch.
"Harry," Hermione said warningly.
"Who else can take him?" Harry asked. "Can Mrs. Weasley? The Dursleys?"
Hermione gasped. "Would you actually do that and send him to the Dursleys? Would you actually do that to your own child?"
I'd rather send him there than keep him, Harry thought. "I can't do this."
"Sure you can," she said encouragingly. "Ron and I'll help you when you need it."
"And my mum will love to help," Ron said. "She can't keep him, Harry, but she'll help."
"I can't do this."
"Take him," Ron insisted, holding out Jamie.
"I can't."
"Take him."
"I can't."
"Take him!"
"No!"
"Do it!"
"No!"
"Goddammit!" Hermione screamed, startling both Harry and Ron. "Harry, he's your son. Take him!"
Reluctantly, Harry took Jamie in his arms. The baby smiled and cooed at his father. His tiny hands reached out and tried to hug his father, but he couldn't reach.
"See?" Hermione said. "He loves you all ready."
Stupid bitch, Harry thought. God, you two are stupider than Morgan was. Love, what a bunch of shit. His lord told him what love really was- nothing. Love did not exist, hate did not exist. Harry had always thought hate did exist; he hated the world. He hated the baby in his arms, he hated Morgan, he hated Ron and Hermione. Just go away. He glared at Hermione, and she backed away a bit. I should kill you right now. I should kill you right now. Yet something was holding him back, some little part of him that he had ignored for the last five years. It wouldn't let him kill Hermione and Ron and Jamie. It was the same part of him that made him hesitate in the murder of Morgan. He tried to shake the feeling off, but did not succeed.
Harry looked down at the baby in his arms. How in the hell is this my son? He's so… weak. And small. Not like the powerful Harry Potter. "He's so small," Harry voiced.
Hermione smiled. "Yeah, he's a bit small for his age. Then again, you were always a bit short too, and Morgan was shorter than I am."
Instead of sneering at her as he would like to, Harry's face broke out into a soft, sad smile. "I guess he's kind of cute."
"He's absolutely adorable," Hermione announced. She lightly ran a finger down Jamie's cheek. "I'm going to miss you, sweetie," she told him. The baby smiled and grabbed Hermione's finger in response.
"Me too," Ron whispered.
"Don't leave me," Harry begged. "Please."
Hermione pecked his cheek. "You'll be fine. Ron and I have to go. We're picking out flowers today for the wedding."
"Fun," Ron commented sarcastically. "I get to pick between roses and tulips. Great."
"Between roses and lilies, dear," Hermione corrected.
"I can't do this," Harry whispered.
Hermione and Ron pretended not to hear. They sat up and started to gather their things. "Owl us if you have any problems," Hermione instructed.
"I've got everything you'll need in here," Ron said, pointing to a light blue baby bag. "Bottles, diapers, clothes, the works."
"Bye Jamie," Hermione said softly, kissing the baby's forehead. "Take care of your dad for us."
"Ha, ha," Harry grumbled.
"Bye Jamie," Ron called out. "We'll see you soon!"
"Hermione, Ron, I can't do this," Harry whined.
"Of course you can!" Hermione exclaimed. A few strands came out of her bun and fell around her face, giving her a much younger impression. It made Harry long for the days when he was much younger, when he had wanted her, craved her more than anything in the world and lost to his best friend. Back when he was innocent.
Hermione and Ron left. Harry sat there on the couch most of the day, staring at his son, who began to get restless and had crawled out of his lap. Harry didn't object; he just sat in the couch, frozen, staring at the ceiling. What just happened?
***
Twenty two year old Harry stood in the middle of a crowded room. He was at a ministry party. He felt quite uncomfortable in his black tux, but Hermione told him that he looked incredibly handsome, and her word meant everything to him. He was looking for her now; he hardly knew anyone there. He got a drink, white wine, and was drinking it cautiously, not wanting a hangover for his first task committed for his new lord, mentor.
He saw Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She was wearing a short almond dress with her hair pinned up in a French twist and a few curly tendrils falling by her face. He nearly drooled. She waved to him, and he mindlessly came over to her. She was arm in arm with Ron, causing a unfamiliar sharp pain in his heart. You knew she was with Ron, Harry thought. They've been together for almost four years now. They might even get married soon. Then what are you going to do?
"Hey, Harry," Hermione greeted.
"Hey Harry! How're you?" Ron said, patting him on the back.
Don't touch me, he thought. "Hey Herm, Ron. I'm fine, thanks."
Hermione smiled again, and Harry really wanted to slug Ron. She should be mine, you jackass. I would appreciate her more than you. I've even kissed her once, tongue and everything. Of course, it didn't really count, because she was out cold at the time. I've bet Ron has kissed her thousands of times.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" Hermione asked.
"Very much so," Harry lied.
"Oh, I have someone you should meet!" Hermione exclaimed. She spun around.
The first thing Harry saw was long, dark, curly hair that went fair past a short woman's shoulders. It was most likely the most beautiful hair he had ever seen, so perfectly placed but natural looking. She was wearing a long, dark blue dress and platform sandals. "Morgan!" Hermione called. "Morgan!"
The woman spun around. "Yes?" Harry guessed that she was about his age, and had a trace of an Australian accent. She had gray eyes, pale skin, and was absolutely gorgeous.
Hermione beamed. "Morgan, this is my friend Harry Potter. Harry, this is Morgan Andrews. We work together."
"Nice to meet you," Morgan said.
"Very nice to meet you," Harry responded.
After that moment, he never again craved Hermione.
***
Harry awoke at three o'clock in the morning to screaming. Jamie, he thought. Goddamn kid! He laid in bed for five minutes, waiting for the cries to subside, before he left his bed.
He reached the nursery shortly; it was two doors away from his own room. He left the lights off; the blinding light from the fan would wake him up completely. He walked over to Jamie's crib. Jamie's face was red and blotchy, his eyes bloodshot from tears. Upon seeing Harry, Jamie held out his arms in order to be picked up and held. Harry almost smiled.
He lifted Jamie out of his crib and started pacing around the room. The nursery had been painted by Morgan almost the very day she found out she was pregnant. It was a sunny yellow color, with wallpaper trimming in the shape of bears and balloons. On one of the walls Morgan had painted a mural of a rainbow and teddy bears playing under it. As Harry observed the picture, he acknowledged that Morgan was quite a good artist. Every detail was there, brilliant little things which endeared the painting. The crib was wooden, painted white with small bears on the side. Also in the room was a matching dresser, bookshelf, chair, couch, and chest of drawers.
Harry looked down at Jamie. He had Harry's own emerald green eyes and jet black hair, but had inherited Morgan's curls and ivory complexion. Jamie stopped crying to look back at Harry, then smiled and shut his eyes. Jamie cuddled closer to his father in his sleep. Harry felt a small smile play his lips, then shunned it away. A wave of fear washed through him. What if Voldemort found out about this? Death Eaters, ESPECIALLY spy Death Eaters, did not have children.
Harry was too tired to think about it. He sat down in the rocking chair next to Jamie's crib and shut his eyes. He felt so- he couldn't even find the word for it, he hadn't had this feeling in so long. Harry quickly fell asleep, holding his son, ignoring the burning skull with a snake dangling from its mouth imprint on his shoulder.
A/N: What did ya' think? It was a bit weird, a bit predictable, a bit creepy (the beginning scared me a little), a bit sappy, a bit- I'm running out of adjectives. I need to stop baby-sitting; both this and epithalamia have children as one of the themes. Oh well. Please read and review, ok? I'm in need of some complements.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black, Lily Potter, James Potter, the name Jamie Potter, the Dursleys, Molly Weasley, Voldemort, Death Eaters, Dementors, and aurors belong to J.K. Rowling.
Morgan Andrews belongs to me. And so does the personality of Jamie Potter.
Rice Chex belongs to a cereal company, I forget which one. Fruit Loops belongs to Kellogs (Oh yeah, and I don't think they're just for kids under 12. I still eat em' and I'm over 12)
"You never really know
What it is
Not until it goes
And if it comes again
It's a miracle"
-Vertical Horizon, "Miracle"
Morgan's dark, curly hair fell far below her shoulders. He had loved her hair. The chocolate spirals stayed perfectly in place, never frizzy, yet they never looked stiff and unnatural. He remember when he first saw her; he had seen her back only, and had fallen in love with her hair. Morgan had intense eyes that resembled the sea; they were blue on days, green on others, yet at times seemed more gray than anything else. She had a cute rabbit nose, tiny hands and feet, and a ivory complexion. Morgan was thin, but never skinny. She had a thick, curvy build, which, on the stature of five foot five, gave her a strong appearance. All these features together, Morgan was a strikingly beautiful woman. He had loved her.
He remembered the day he killed her. She had been sitting on his bed- it was their bed, wasn't it? The two lovers had practically been living together for three and a half years now- she had been sorting through pictures. Pictures of them together, pictures of her deceased parents, pictures of her friends. She had put them down when he had entered the room, getting up to hug him, kiss him, ask him how his day was.
He hadn't wanted to do it. He had loved Morgan- but there was no love. Remember? There was no love. Love was something that people made up to try and rationalize their existence on this planet. No one loves. Still, it was hard to ignore the look of kindness in Morgan's eyes, the way her entire face lit up when she saw him. But no one loves. There was no love. Their relationship was based one what they wanted it to be, not reality. He had wanted love, needed love, and he had thought he had received it. There was no love to receive. He owed his life to the man-no, the lord-who had taught him such an important lesson, who had taught him the truths of the world.
No one loves. He repeated that phrase over and over as Morgan hugged his body and massaged his mouth with her own. He ignored her smile, the light shining through her eyes, her lips, her everything. He abruptly pushed her aside and disregarded her inquires of concern. She was never scared, he acknowledged. Even at the end, she was never scared. Yes, Morgan was brave. That was why she died.
As he drew his wand from his pocket and pointed it at her. She again repeated her questions, this time with more force, as she was talking to a business partner instead of a lover. He ignored her again. He was going to kill her. He was. He took one last glance, one last gaze at the woman he thought he loved before he was brought to the fact that their love was fake. Everything he had known was fake. He took in her curly mane, her ocean eyes, her strong build, her cute nose. Why? He asked himself. Why am I doing this? Morgan was the closest to absolute goodness that he had ever known. She was the best he had ever come into contact with. Why was he about to kill her?
His parents were bad because they died and left him with the Dursleys.
The Dursleys were bad for obvious reasons.
Dumbledore was bad because he steered him wrong. He told him to avenge his parent's deaths, when they were the ones who had betrayed him.
Sirius was bad because he too deserted him. He fled the country after Dememtors almost caught him and was too scared to write.
Hermione was bad because she never loved him back. After he had given up on Cho, he had realized he loved Hermione. No, she loved Ron.
Ron was bad because he stole the only thing that he had ever wanted, ever loved. No, he told himself, there is no love. Love does not exist. Yet even if love does not exist, it was the principle of the matter which made Ron bad.
And here was Morgan. He glanced at her, his emerald eyes blazing into her blue-green gray, and heard the words of his new mentor echoing in his head. She is bad too. Morgan was bad because she was an auror. She was bad because she was brave and smart and knew too much. She was on the opposing team, the other end of the rainbow. She deserved to die.
So he killed her. He whispered the words and Morgan fell to the floor. It's a shame, he thought. She certainly was pretty, if not beautiful. His heart ached with guilt, more guilt than he had ever felt at any of his other killings. Love does not exist. No one loves; it does not exist. He repeated the statements out loud, each going in one ear and going out the other. He touched her hair, and a tear drop fell from his eye. No! He hadn't cried in ages; he wasn't about to start now. The tear made him finish the job in haste; he created the dark mark and made it float above their little townhouse.
He started to leave. No one would ever catch him. No one would ever pin hero boy to Morgan's death. He would be the lover in mourning, the one crying at the funeral. The one to never expect. He was going to get away with this scot-free, and somehow, that made him feel even more guilty. Do you want to be caught? Murdered for treason? Murdered for murder? No, he concluded.
He had gotten to the door when he heard the baby cry.
***
Harry Potter woke up with a start. He quickly turned to his right, but the place next to him on the king bed was vacant. He sighed and buried his head in his pillow. That same nightmare was playing again and again in his head, night after night, the same way as the dream of his parent's death. It kept on getting more and more vivid each time he dreamt it. The smell of perfume, the thump as the body hit the floor, each grew stronger and stronger as the days went by.
Knowing he wouldn't get back to sleep, he got out of bed and walked into his kitchen. He started rummaging through the cabinets and pantry, trying to find a bowl and cereal. The lights hurt his eyes, so he was trying to find these things in the dark of the night. What time is it anyway? He looked at the clock on the oven; it read three o'clock in the morning. He fished through the pantry for the cereal. He pulled out a box of Rice Chex, then threw them on the floor. Who eats this crap anyway? He asked. Oh, yeah, Morgan did. He pulled out the Fruit Loops and started eating them straight out of the box.
He sat in the dark kitchen, gorging on cereal one wasn't supposed to eat if they were over twelve. The room was a royal mess. It had been six months since Morgan had been murdered and Harry had turned into a total slob. Morgan had at least managed to keep him in line, but without her, he didn't care in the least what his flat looked like. It could be overrun with cockroaches and rats and fleas for as much as he cared. Hermione would have been disgusted if she had heard him speak like that.
Oh yeah, Harry reminded himself. Hermione and Ron are to be married next month; you're his best man. Remember? Harry had forgotten, but he had most likely made himself forget. One of the most helpful abilities he had received in his line of work was the ability to forget. Harry frowned. You owe them; do it. Go to the stupid wedding and at least act like you're having fun. You owe them.
Harry did owe Hermione and Ron a big favor. They had been taking care Jamie, Morgan's child. And to be politically correct, Harry's child. Perhaps a month before her death, Morgan had given birth to their child, the very one that Harry had suggested that she abort. Morgan had refused, and insisted that the child be named after Harry's father. Damn bastard doesn't deserve my kid's name, thought Harry. After Morgan died, he had thrown Jamie onto Hermione and Ron, telling them that he was too upset to be a father. Harry hardly did much of anything anymore; he went to his job at the Ministry, he watched television, and he ate his meals over the sink. He had only gotten to shave for the first time in six months the day before. The smoothness felt odd in contrast to the shaggy beard he had grown accustom to.
Harry hadn't married Morgan when he had found out she was pregnant because he knew that she was going to be killed. She couldn't live. He wanted for her to be murdered then, to kill the baby also. But his lord told him not; the child would be a powerful asset to their plans. So Harry had gone through it; he had held Morgan's hand in the delivery room, trying to ignore the fact that in a month or so, she would be dead.
How stupid was Morgan anyway? Didn't she know that she was going to be killed? Harry pondered that; Morgan was one of the smartest people he had ever known. After all, Hermione had been the one who had introduced them four years ago at a party. Both were aurors. Most people wondered why Harry wasn't one; he was something else, something they never would expect. But, back to the point, Morgan was smart. The murder seemed almost to good to be true. She was stupid to trust him, stupid to ignore the obvious, stupid to offer him unconditional love. Yet Morgan wasn't stupid, and that fact left a ringing in his ears which was both unpleasant and redundant.
Harry stumbled into his living room, his thoughts jumbled and stirred together so that they were indistinguishable. He flopped on his couch, the leather rubbing against his skin. His horrible, impure skin. He felt dirty, cheap, EMPTY. His inner parts had been scooped out of him and thrown on the floor before him. He wanted to throw up, vomit, purge himself of all his actions. He also craved release; he wanted to let go, to find an outlet for his anger at the world. He didn't want to kill anyone to find this outlet, the consequential guilt would be too much to handle.
So he picked up a glass mug which was sitting on the coffee table, as he had been to lazy to take it into the kitchen. Harry threw it at the opposite wall. He felt no change. He stormed into the kitchen, grabbed another glass mug from the sink, and plumaged it down on top of his hand. The glass shattered, each fragment scraping his hand and creating lines of scarlet liquid to run from the cuts. Harry watched his hand numbly for a minute, waiting for the pain to come. Eventually, his wounds did start stinging, aching. His eyes followed the rivers of blood as they dripped down his hand to the floor below. Drip, drip, drip. He stood there, stationary, until the flow of blood subsided. He grabbed his wand, repaired his fractured skin, then went down the hall to bed with a smile on his face.
***
Harry awoke to the doorbell. He was laying face down on his bed, the gray-blue sheets partially covering his body. Light flooded through the windows; birds could be heard chirping outside. It was a warm, crisp fall morning. The leaves were beginning to change; the air smelled of pumpkin and was so fresh it burned one's nostrils if too much was inhaled at a time.
The doorbell rang again. Harry reluctantly crawled out of bed and walked down the hallway to the front door. On his way there, the doorbell rang yet another time. "Damn," he grumbled. "I'm coming."
He swung the door open to see Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley standing on his front stoop. Hermione stood tall and distinguished for her short stature of five foot three; she wore jeans and a navy cardigan over a plain white T-shirt. With her chestnut brown hair pulled back into a bun, she managed to look pulled together and proper in even the most casual of clothing. Ron, dressed in a pair of khakis and green shirt, looked equally neat. His fiery red hair and freckled gave him a more of a juvenile look for his twenty-seven years. Neither of them was smiling.
"What's up?" Harry asked lazily. He felt amazingly out of place dressed only in a pair of pajama pants and gray T-shirt.
Hermione nor Ron had a response. It was only then when Harry realized that Ron was holding little Jamie, wrapped in a blanket to keep him warm.
***
"Harry," Hermione began, sitting on the chair opposite him. "We can't take care of him forever. You know that. You knew this day would come eventually."
Harry put his face in his hands. "I just can't do this."
Hermione sighed. "It's not that we don't love him-" She paused to glance at Ron, who was playing and talking to the seven month old baby boy. "We certainly do. It's just, with the wedding and all, we can't watch him anymore, and we don't think that this arrangement is in the best interest of anyone."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked.
She sighed again. "You're not being with your son, he needs to be with his father, and Ron and I aren't really ready to have children yet."
"We're still available to watch him now and then," Ron added.
"I can't do this!" Harry cried. "You said you're not ready to be parents. Do you think I am?"
"There's not much you can do now!" Hermione yelled. "I'm sorry, but you're stuck! You can't just wave your wand and fix this!"
Actually, Harry thought, I could fix this with a wave of the wand. Just whisper the words that he had said to Morgan…. "It's too soon," he whispered.
Hermione moved next to him on the couch. "Harry, we know it's hard."
"With Morgan gone and everything," Ron said. You know, you really don't, Harry thought. You don't know half of what happened with Morgan.
"But Harry," Hermione said sweetly, putting her hand on his shoulder. "You need to take responsibility. He's your son."
"He's a sweet kid," Ron said.
Hermione smiled. "Very sweet."
"He looks just like you," Ron added. He tried to hand Jamie to Harry, but Harry just slouched farther back on the couch.
"Harry," Hermione said warningly.
"Who else can take him?" Harry asked. "Can Mrs. Weasley? The Dursleys?"
Hermione gasped. "Would you actually do that and send him to the Dursleys? Would you actually do that to your own child?"
I'd rather send him there than keep him, Harry thought. "I can't do this."
"Sure you can," she said encouragingly. "Ron and I'll help you when you need it."
"And my mum will love to help," Ron said. "She can't keep him, Harry, but she'll help."
"I can't do this."
"Take him," Ron insisted, holding out Jamie.
"I can't."
"Take him."
"I can't."
"Take him!"
"No!"
"Do it!"
"No!"
"Goddammit!" Hermione screamed, startling both Harry and Ron. "Harry, he's your son. Take him!"
Reluctantly, Harry took Jamie in his arms. The baby smiled and cooed at his father. His tiny hands reached out and tried to hug his father, but he couldn't reach.
"See?" Hermione said. "He loves you all ready."
Stupid bitch, Harry thought. God, you two are stupider than Morgan was. Love, what a bunch of shit. His lord told him what love really was- nothing. Love did not exist, hate did not exist. Harry had always thought hate did exist; he hated the world. He hated the baby in his arms, he hated Morgan, he hated Ron and Hermione. Just go away. He glared at Hermione, and she backed away a bit. I should kill you right now. I should kill you right now. Yet something was holding him back, some little part of him that he had ignored for the last five years. It wouldn't let him kill Hermione and Ron and Jamie. It was the same part of him that made him hesitate in the murder of Morgan. He tried to shake the feeling off, but did not succeed.
Harry looked down at the baby in his arms. How in the hell is this my son? He's so… weak. And small. Not like the powerful Harry Potter. "He's so small," Harry voiced.
Hermione smiled. "Yeah, he's a bit small for his age. Then again, you were always a bit short too, and Morgan was shorter than I am."
Instead of sneering at her as he would like to, Harry's face broke out into a soft, sad smile. "I guess he's kind of cute."
"He's absolutely adorable," Hermione announced. She lightly ran a finger down Jamie's cheek. "I'm going to miss you, sweetie," she told him. The baby smiled and grabbed Hermione's finger in response.
"Me too," Ron whispered.
"Don't leave me," Harry begged. "Please."
Hermione pecked his cheek. "You'll be fine. Ron and I have to go. We're picking out flowers today for the wedding."
"Fun," Ron commented sarcastically. "I get to pick between roses and tulips. Great."
"Between roses and lilies, dear," Hermione corrected.
"I can't do this," Harry whispered.
Hermione and Ron pretended not to hear. They sat up and started to gather their things. "Owl us if you have any problems," Hermione instructed.
"I've got everything you'll need in here," Ron said, pointing to a light blue baby bag. "Bottles, diapers, clothes, the works."
"Bye Jamie," Hermione said softly, kissing the baby's forehead. "Take care of your dad for us."
"Ha, ha," Harry grumbled.
"Bye Jamie," Ron called out. "We'll see you soon!"
"Hermione, Ron, I can't do this," Harry whined.
"Of course you can!" Hermione exclaimed. A few strands came out of her bun and fell around her face, giving her a much younger impression. It made Harry long for the days when he was much younger, when he had wanted her, craved her more than anything in the world and lost to his best friend. Back when he was innocent.
Hermione and Ron left. Harry sat there on the couch most of the day, staring at his son, who began to get restless and had crawled out of his lap. Harry didn't object; he just sat in the couch, frozen, staring at the ceiling. What just happened?
***
Twenty two year old Harry stood in the middle of a crowded room. He was at a ministry party. He felt quite uncomfortable in his black tux, but Hermione told him that he looked incredibly handsome, and her word meant everything to him. He was looking for her now; he hardly knew anyone there. He got a drink, white wine, and was drinking it cautiously, not wanting a hangover for his first task committed for his new lord, mentor.
He saw Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She was wearing a short almond dress with her hair pinned up in a French twist and a few curly tendrils falling by her face. He nearly drooled. She waved to him, and he mindlessly came over to her. She was arm in arm with Ron, causing a unfamiliar sharp pain in his heart. You knew she was with Ron, Harry thought. They've been together for almost four years now. They might even get married soon. Then what are you going to do?
"Hey, Harry," Hermione greeted.
"Hey Harry! How're you?" Ron said, patting him on the back.
Don't touch me, he thought. "Hey Herm, Ron. I'm fine, thanks."
Hermione smiled again, and Harry really wanted to slug Ron. She should be mine, you jackass. I would appreciate her more than you. I've even kissed her once, tongue and everything. Of course, it didn't really count, because she was out cold at the time. I've bet Ron has kissed her thousands of times.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" Hermione asked.
"Very much so," Harry lied.
"Oh, I have someone you should meet!" Hermione exclaimed. She spun around.
The first thing Harry saw was long, dark, curly hair that went fair past a short woman's shoulders. It was most likely the most beautiful hair he had ever seen, so perfectly placed but natural looking. She was wearing a long, dark blue dress and platform sandals. "Morgan!" Hermione called. "Morgan!"
The woman spun around. "Yes?" Harry guessed that she was about his age, and had a trace of an Australian accent. She had gray eyes, pale skin, and was absolutely gorgeous.
Hermione beamed. "Morgan, this is my friend Harry Potter. Harry, this is Morgan Andrews. We work together."
"Nice to meet you," Morgan said.
"Very nice to meet you," Harry responded.
After that moment, he never again craved Hermione.
***
Harry awoke at three o'clock in the morning to screaming. Jamie, he thought. Goddamn kid! He laid in bed for five minutes, waiting for the cries to subside, before he left his bed.
He reached the nursery shortly; it was two doors away from his own room. He left the lights off; the blinding light from the fan would wake him up completely. He walked over to Jamie's crib. Jamie's face was red and blotchy, his eyes bloodshot from tears. Upon seeing Harry, Jamie held out his arms in order to be picked up and held. Harry almost smiled.
He lifted Jamie out of his crib and started pacing around the room. The nursery had been painted by Morgan almost the very day she found out she was pregnant. It was a sunny yellow color, with wallpaper trimming in the shape of bears and balloons. On one of the walls Morgan had painted a mural of a rainbow and teddy bears playing under it. As Harry observed the picture, he acknowledged that Morgan was quite a good artist. Every detail was there, brilliant little things which endeared the painting. The crib was wooden, painted white with small bears on the side. Also in the room was a matching dresser, bookshelf, chair, couch, and chest of drawers.
Harry looked down at Jamie. He had Harry's own emerald green eyes and jet black hair, but had inherited Morgan's curls and ivory complexion. Jamie stopped crying to look back at Harry, then smiled and shut his eyes. Jamie cuddled closer to his father in his sleep. Harry felt a small smile play his lips, then shunned it away. A wave of fear washed through him. What if Voldemort found out about this? Death Eaters, ESPECIALLY spy Death Eaters, did not have children.
Harry was too tired to think about it. He sat down in the rocking chair next to Jamie's crib and shut his eyes. He felt so- he couldn't even find the word for it, he hadn't had this feeling in so long. Harry quickly fell asleep, holding his son, ignoring the burning skull with a snake dangling from its mouth imprint on his shoulder.
A/N: What did ya' think? It was a bit weird, a bit predictable, a bit creepy (the beginning scared me a little), a bit sappy, a bit- I'm running out of adjectives. I need to stop baby-sitting; both this and epithalamia have children as one of the themes. Oh well. Please read and review, ok? I'm in need of some complements.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black, Lily Potter, James Potter, the name Jamie Potter, the Dursleys, Molly Weasley, Voldemort, Death Eaters, Dementors, and aurors belong to J.K. Rowling.
Morgan Andrews belongs to me. And so does the personality of Jamie Potter.
Rice Chex belongs to a cereal company, I forget which one. Fruit Loops belongs to Kellogs (Oh yeah, and I don't think they're just for kids under 12. I still eat em' and I'm over 12)