Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
This was written for Heart of Spellz's competition on Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum titled The Love of a Family Competition.
My prompts were: garden, ill, laughter, and table- they are used very faintly.
I realize this is definitely not a very happy portrayal of a family, but I like to think there's hope at the end.
Word Count: 1,596
I hope you enjoy.
Hogwarts, A Story
Reconstruct
The back of her knees dug into the cement steps where she was relaxing. Waves of light filtering through the iron latticework of the railing flickered across her face, making her squint. She did this every day, sat down and waited.
After her shift at St. Mungo's, she would return to the house, maybe do a couple of loads of laundry, start the dishwasher- and then, around three, she would open the squeaky latch of the screen door and lean against the steps of their house, sometimes listening, sometimes looking, sometimes not.
It was rather ugly, their house. It was small but was constructed of hulking masses of cement and timber, ungainly and uncoordinated. The front door was entirely too large compared to the walls, as if pretending to look more inviting, and the windows were in desperate need of cleaning. The shutters, which had once been painted a cheery shade of yellow in an attempt to brighten up the lot and detract from the hideousness, now faded to a murky chartreuse.
A few tendrils of ivy had been coaxed from the garden, gathering in sickly clumps around the window frame. The steps that she was currently sitting on were stocky and careless; thick logs of concrete piled in an unfinished heap together, as if the architect had suddenly thrown up his hands in frustration, angrily declared, "Fuck this!", and stormed off to find a drink or a cigarette.
Even the mailbox, which they never used and merely kept as a prop, leaned pathetically to one side as if wondering why their house was such failure.
Absentmindedly, she wondered if they would ever get around to remodeling, like they'd planned when they'd bought it.
A joyous trill of laughter startled her from her reverie. James was speeding up the street on his bike, returning from his play date with his cousins. In a way, it was nice having her sister only four blocks away, ready to welcome her son anytime Padma had a shift change and needed someone to babysit James.
Although sometimes she wondered what her life would be like if she didn't have a constant companion in her twin. At Hogwarts they had been separated by the Sorting Hat but perpetually tied together by their similarities. It was impossible to evade her sister's bubbly, warm personality, always reaching out and enveloping.
With just the tiniest bit of smugness, however, she would remind herself that it was she who had snagged the most coveted man in Britain through sheer wit- not manipulation, not cunning. Harry had chosen her for a reason. If he loved her so thoroughly, she would assure herself softly, that meant there was something worthy in her.
Right?
James was tugging on her elbow, demanding an afternoon snack.
"Didn't you eat at Aunt Pav's?" she inquired, pressing a tiny kiss to the crown of his head as they went into the air conditioned kitchen.
"Yeah," he explained hurriedly, limbs in perpetual motion. "But we only got two cookies and a glass of milk. I'm hungry."
She chopped up some carrots and washed the blueberries free of any dirt.
"Here," she offered, setting the dip down next to the plate of food. "Eat up." She was panting a little- somehow the motion of walking up the steps and slicing the carrots had unsettled her delicate stomach.
Displeased at the healthy fare, James grumbled but stuffed a handful into his mouth, probably thinking that it was better to starve with two cookies of Aunt Pav's than eat blueberries, but he chewed anyways. She watched, though, as his face grew even more annoyed and disappointed, until he finally deserted the kitchen for the more welcoming and interesting backyard, without even a word of thanks to her before he parted.
Her mouth twisted in revulsion- not at his awful manners, which she ignored- but at her own idiocy. She wasn't adequate enough. Even when her son was starving, she could only offer him miniscule, cut up bits of vegetables and fruit. What child enjoyed eating vegetables, especially ones prepared for a baby's mouth, and not a six year old's?
She felt a sickening sense of drowning, like the truth had finally caught up with her. There was no oxygen for her to breathe in this house- this damn house, she hated it so much! And her son, repulsed by her, by her mistakes- and in that moment, she hated herself as well.
She needed to lie down, to escape from her son's loud, grating shouts filtering in through the screen door. Couldn't he just shut up? Just once, let her sleep in peace?
She wished she could snap her fingers and it would all be gone- James, Harry, this awful, constricting house, this monotonous, looping existence! And then she would be completely free- no obligations to love her child, to care for her husband, to sweep the floors and to cook dinner every night.
It wasn't that she didn't care for her son- she did, most deeply- but it was just sometimes when her mind darted to that place where she wondered if she only loved him as a mirage- she was supposed to love him, so she did, but it was never real.
What if her whole life was a vision, a hologram created in the depth of her imaginative mind? She pushed the thoughts away quickly, laughing at her own foolishness. This was the price for her inquisitive intelligence- she doubted herself and the world which she lived in constantly. It did her no use to ponder, she reprimanded. You are here, in the moment, with a wonderful son and a loving husband and-
Her breath hitched in her throat, unconsciously. She wasn't aware that she had been muttering out loud until the pause alerted her to the wavering of her voice. Her fingertips twitched downward, pressing to her diaphragm. Breathe, she tried to press her hand to the muscle. Move, breathe, please. I'm choking. I'm dying! A hint of panic raced through her brain and shot down the nerves of her spine.
Her vision was suddenly rising, soaring out from the kitchen and zooming out the dusty windows, poised above their house, noticing every minute flaw contained in the walls, each magnified, terrifyingly, until they were all she could see.
There was the night that she and Harry had drank a little too much at the Macmillan'sparty, and the shouting match had only ended when she had whipped the porcelain vase at his head, shattering her contained, bottled up rage against the door frame.
And there, not three months ago- two in the morning, her every muscle taut as she willed her body not to move- as he slipped silently into their bedroom, praying that she was asleep and didn't notice how late he had come home. Her eyes didn't open, though, and the bed creaked as he slid under the covers, hardly believing his luck that he had made it back to their house unscathed. She could smell the sweat and the booze and the perfume on him, decidedly not masculine, but she said nothing.
And she said nothing when Harry grew so furious at James that he slapped him, the noise echoing painfully through the empty rooms, reverberating and reminding them- all of them- of their shortcomings again and again, each one like another slap to the face.
Failure, failure, failure.
She was a failure, he was a failure, their marriage was a failure, their house, their life was a failure! It all tumbled down on her like an avalanche, crushing, damaging, breaking so she couldn't even think. She didn't know how long it lasted, maybe seconds, maybe hours. Each scene in her head replayed, until she couldn't see any more, and her thoughts wandered into some black pit, praying to come out the other side.
Softly, slowly, a flit, a glimpse of another kind of memory began to trickle by. Then more memories floated on, propelled by the current- the tulips he had brought home last week with a tender kiss, the pattern he had traced on her back four months ago when he held her protectively in his arms after a particulary bad shift.
She resurfaced from the calmer water, startled to find herself in the exact same place where she had started- siting at the kitchen table, and James was still running around outside. Good. She was still safe, she was still sane, she was still alive. Pumping, expanding, dividing cells, completely alive and all right. The terror had subsided, and she was filled with a curious mixture of calmness and strength.
And she made a decision, right there and then.
Purposeful strides brought her to the counter where she wrote a note before her newfound courage failed her.
Tonight I'm going to tell Harry I want to remodel our kitchen. And our bedroom. And paint the exterior of the house. Also he needs to fix the mailbox- it leans to the left.
With a triumphant grin, her hand moved to her abdomen again, pushing slightly. And there it was, steady and most certainly real- the baby, gurgling inside her uterus, the placenta bringing nourishment and blood, life-giving and warm. No, this child inside of her was most decidedly real, and if she was sure of nothing else she was positive that she loved it.
She walked to the sink and started scrubbing James' dishes clean, soap bubbles floating upwards and popping.
For the first time in five and a half years, she began to hum.
A/N: Yes, I know my writing style is falling into a pattern, and I'm trying to work on that. I think this piece just needs to flow better... like, a lot better. Eh, but what's the point in writing if you don't take some risks now and then?
Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!