Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.
On Getting a Good Night's Rest
It's late when he slips through his front door and up the stairs. He skips the fifth step, which creaks, and dodges the potted fichus on the landing on the way up. When he reaches the bedroom door, he hesitates, turns, and softly makes his way down the hall.
He stops at the first door on his right and slowly turns the knob. A moment later he is surrounded by a child's clutter. Books and toys litter the carpeted floor, though Harry notes with amusement that the corner where James' toy broomstick resides is immaculate. The moonlight shining through the wide picture window casts its pale light on bright walls, partially covered with drawings and finger paintings; if one looked closely, many of the drawings had already begun to resemble makeshift quidditch plays, all x's and o's in swirling patterns. The bed, too, is a tangle of youthful energy; even in sleep, James is a study in perpetual motion.
Bright orange sheets are wound around the small body, miniature snitches and bludgers dancing across the folds as James' chest rises and falls. Harry watches, transfixed, as the boy snorts in his sleep, rolls to the side, and promptly falls back into tempo. The pillow is on the floor, the double C's of its logo clearly visible even in the nighttime darkness. How Ron had managed to corrupt his son so very early was a mystery to Harry, but the infatuation was well and truly complete--every game watched, every player memorized, and James barely two years old!
A snuffly sound from the next room, followed by one plaintive wail, draws Harry's attention away from the boy in the bed. Quickly and quietly he withdraws to the hallway and steps lightly to the next door. He approaches the crib inside and peers at the child within. "Albus, my man, what's wrong?" he asks, scooping the crying baby up and cuddling him to his chest. "How about a new nappie and a cuddle? Does that sound good? Yeah, I think so, too."
A few minutes later, Harry sinks into the recliner by the window with a newly clean and dry Albus. He appraises the little body in his arms, running long fingers over dark, wispy hair, down a chubby cheek, and across tiny, pink hands. Wide, dark green eyes regard Harry with interest, and he can't help but see himself in that gurgling face. Albus has Ginny's nose, but the rest is as pure Evans-Potter as Harry himself is. The tiny fist grabs Harry's finger and holds on tightly, as if agreeing with the assessment. Albus yawns mightily and blinks at his father, who chuckles.
"We should get you to bed, little man," Harry says, but merely adjusts the chair to a laying position and shifts the boy to a more comfortable spot, enjoying the feel of the tot snuggling into his shirt near his heart. "But we'll just lay here a bit, first. It's such a beautiful night…"
Ginny Potter stands in the doorway to the nursery, gazing at the scene before her. She'd woken up this morning to an empty bed and no note from Harry telling her that he'd not be able to come home. She'd been furious, worried, and ready to send off a Howler if she'd not gotten word by breakfast. He'd promised to come home and get a good night's rest! When she'd gone to check on her boys, however, she'd only gotten to the baby's open door before she located her wayward husband, sound asleep in his favorite recliner with Albus curled on his chest.
