Disclaimer: I do not own anything but the plot. J.K. Rowling owns everything else.
At the Potter home, whether it is in London, Hogsmeade or anywhere else in the world, there is always a staircase that leads to the cellar. Directly across from the cellar, there is always a laundry hamper from which she picks items of clothes that need to be cleaned.
As a result of this practice and the laziness of the occupants of the Potter home, there are nearly always clothes on the floor around the hamper. Unwilling to make the journey down the stairs, the Potters throw their clothing through the cellar doorway, not watching where it lands.
And in this house, on every Monday, there is always a wet washcloth tossed haphazardly onto the bottom step.
Every Tuesday at six-thirty in the morning, she runs downstairs and does the laundry with the speed of a woman possessed, because laundry is her least-favorite chore.
And every Tuesday at one minute past six, he stumbles down the stairs, kneels down and picks the washcloth up, tossing it in the hamper. He wipes the step of any moisture using the hem of his robes before he silently stumbles back upstairs and into bed, next to the warmth of her body. She never wakes, never even moves as he moves her arms from his waist and her head from his chest. She only moves when he crawls back into bed, at which time she embraces him again, all the while sleeping peacefully.
She never knows that he does this, and he'll never tell her. She'll never know why his robes are always filthy at the hem, and she'll never quite understand the look in his eyes when she asks him about it.
She'll never know that he can't tolerate the thought of her tripping, hitting her head on the cold, concrete floor of the cellar. She'll never know that he wipes the last drops of water from the stair to make sure that drops of her blood will never touch that cold, wooden surface.
She knows that Lily tosses the used linins from the bathroom downstairs every Monday night, but she never sees the washcloth that always finds its way to that specific stair.
She'll never know how much her husband cares for her, and she'll never know that every Tuesday morning at five after six in the morning, she wraps her arms around her husband and whispers his name tenderly in her sleep.
And most of all, Ginny will never find out that Harry wakes up at one after six for the purpose of keeping her safe, and for the reason that he can't tolerate the thought of his treasured wife slipping and falling on the stairway to the basement.
A/N/: A random drabble that occurred to me when I tossed the laundry down this evening. Hope you enjoyed, and I would be thrilled if you'd review and tell me what you thought.