Chapter 2
Hari both enjoys and hates what she considers her post-war life. She finally has what she's always wanted—some normalcy without any expectations or burdens. But it's not how she'd imagined it. For so long she had so much to do, and the weight of the world was firmly on her shoulders. She had a war to win, people to protect, sacrifices to honor.
She won the war. (Not the one in her head.)
She protected her loved ones. (But not all of them. She can't wash away the blood.)
She honored her parents' sacrifices. (It's not enough.)
At the height of her despair, Hermione had suggested Hari build a garden. "You have to work through your emotions," the bright witch had said. "This will give you a peaceful place to retreat, and what better way to remember and reflect on the departed than to have a space dedicated for them?"
So, Hari had given herself the task of making the best garden that she could. For many years, she'd associated gardening with another task forced on her by the Dursleys to "earn her keep" and grew resentful of the hobby. She'd hated Herbology on sheer principle. If not for Neville, she never would have discovered that she enjoyed tending to plants. She'll never develop a passion for it—try as she might, she will never forget the long summer hours under the grueling sun weeding and mowing without water or shade—but she can find some peace in gardening for a few hours.
Her garden is one of her greatest treasures. It's in her backyard, safely ensconced behind a few sakura trees. There's a stone pathway leading from the back door with forget-me-nots and wildflowers on either side of the stones and it trails all the way to a small pond in the center of the garden. She'd put a gliding bench off to the side next to a decent sized stone.
It is her very own memorial stone, engraved with the names of every person she loved and lost.
There are many different flowers here.
Chrysanthemums. Morning glories. Daffodils. Daisies, harebells, pansies, and lilies. Her garden tells her sad story, and it surprisingly brings her peace. She'd built it herself on a foundation of agony and sorrow, and she took the ugly shards of her fractured self and made something beautiful with it.
Because sometimes the only way around suffering is to go straight through it.
Hari wakes up exhausted, and very sore. She rubs her lower abdomen to ease the cramps, and then journeys her way to the bathroom. She's not terribly surprised to see a little blood when she wipes. Although she's not expecting it, her flow has been irregular since the war. There are months where she will not have a period, and there are more months where she will.
Hari takes a quick shower, and then puts a liner in her underwear and downs a mild pain-reliever for the cramps. It works in mere minutes, and she sighs in content. The pain isn't unbearable, nor is it even terribly painful, but the throbbing ache will only be a distraction, and she doesn't need that.
Harry frowns slightly. Her stomach churns a little, her nervousness making her nauseous. A part of her wants to go right back to sleep, or maybe even go back to that bar and drink herself stupid. She really shouldn't; Hermione's already given her all sorts of lectures about alcohol dependency.
Hari drinks on a very occasional basis. She's been around Vernon's sister, Marge, to see firsthand how easy it is to become an alcoholic. There was a period of about four months when she was only seven that tragedy struck Marge, and the woman had come to temporarily live at Number 4 Privet Drive.
As Hari was charged with the task of maintaining the house (to earn her keep, of course), every weekend Hari would be allowed to go into Petunia and Vernon's bedroom to dust and vacuum. She was also instructed to clean Marge's room, and she would fill nearly two trash bags full of wine and liquor bottles alone.
She'd heard Vernon and Petunia fighting about it on more than one occasion.
"She's just wasting away here, Vernon!"
"Pet, she's my sister. I can't just kick her out! She's just lost her fiancé, for goodness sake."
"I'm not telling you to kick her out, but all she does is weep and drink. Be firm with her, Vernon, or she will drink herself to death, mark my words."
It wasn't until Marge screamed loud enough to alert several neighbors (to Petunia's mortification) and tried to attack his wife with an empty bottle of wine that Vernon managed to put his foot down about Marge's alcohol consumption. The woman had gained thirty pounds and the stench of wine and sherry clung to her very skin.
No, Hari had promised herself long ago that she wouldn't be anything like the Dursleys, and that included becoming a drunkard like Marge.
But having experienced her own tragedy, Hari understands all too well the lure of drinking until the pain is gone. She's wanted to drink and drink and drink until she can't remember anything about the war, anything about the lives lost or the sacrifices made. It's those very sacrifices that stop her from going down that road.
Last month was…different. She cringes a little. Hari doesn't do well with antiversaries, and February has been a difficult month for many, many years. If there was a way for her to sleep all of February and wake up in March, she'd take it. But there's not, and so every February, on the seventeenth to be specific, she allows herself to drink without reservations.
She expected this past February to be the same. Find a bar, get smashed, nurse a hangover the next day, and try to get on with life. She did find a bar, and she did get smashed.
But she hadn't expected him. Kakashi. One of the sexiest ninja in Konoha, Mr. Sex-On-Legs.
His offer to help her forget wasn't quite expected, but certainly not unwelcome. And it helped. She did forget, or rather the dilemma was put out of her head temporarily. She was much too focused on the way his hands and his mouth and his body seemed to make hers sing under his ministrations.
Hari shakes her head to rid herself of that thought. It seems like nearly a month isn't enough to forget his skilled fingers or his deep voice. She's seen him once or twice around the village, but hasn't sought him out or tried to talk to him. They'd parted on good terms, but there wasn't an opening for more…relations.
Which is probably a good thing because, really, a couple of encounters over the span of a few hours should not make her want him, ache for him, again.
Hari sighs and walks into her bedroom. It's bigger than her old room at Privet Drive, and much more welcoming than the tent she'd used during the war. She has a nice queen-sized bed pushed against one side of the room. Mrs. Weasley had knitted a wonderful red and gold quilt that she liked to make her bed with. There's a nightstand just off to the side with a box of tissues and an alarm clock on it. Her dresser is next to the closet, and she has a desk by her bedroom window.
Her oak desk is nice and sturdy, and there are quite a few things on it. There's plenty of books, courtesy of Hermione, and there's some parchment and quills and an inkpot. Three frames are off to the right; one of her with Ron and Hermione, in their school uniforms and laughing at some ridiculous joke Seamus Finnegan said. The other two photos held pictures of babies; one moving and one still photo.
The moving picture was gifted to her from Remus and Tonks shortly after Teddy was born. Teddy is only two weeks old in the photo, and briefly opens his eyes to look at her before going back to snoozing. His hair turns a light pink. Hari looks at the photo, feeling that too familiar sharp pang in her heart.
She was beyond surprised when Remus had asked her to be his godmother, too sure that their argument about Remus' attempt to stray from his wife and child had been a little too far. But he'd forgiven her for what she'd said, had seen the truth in her words and accepted them. When she saw his spirit shortly before giving herself up to Voldemort, he'd asked her to look after Teddy.
Hari wants to, more than anything in the world, and honestly never expected to be rebuffed by Andromeda. She didn't want to take Teddy away from his grandmother, but rather she wanted to be there for him the way she wished Sirius could have been for her. She still wants that, still craves it.
"My grandson is the only person I have left," Andromeda had said, her voice harsh and frigid, but her eyes spoke of despair and anguish. "You've already taken away my daughter and son-in-law. You won't take him either, Potter."
Merlin, that was seven years ago and it still hurts. It still cuts deeply, almost worse than the torture Bellatrix had inflicted. Almost, but not quite. But then again, the Black sisters had each taken successful shots at Hari that left her wounded and bleeding.
She stares at the photo, a deep sadness seeping into her very bones. Her eyes turn towards the still photo. No, she can't think about it. Won't.
Hari licks her lips, sits at the desk, and uncaps the inkpot. She reaches for a quill and hesitates for a moment before she takes a deep breath. Nervousness grips her tight, and her stomach churns with nausea. It's just a letter, she thinks to herself. You can write a letter.
Without another thought, she puts the quill to the parchment and writes.
Dear Teddy,
I recently found out that Hermione is going to have a baby! That means that by the time the baby starts Hogwarts, you'll be a seventh year. If you're anything like your father, you'll be Head Boy. In fact, I have no doubt that's exactly what you'll be.
I'm sure your grandmother has told you many tales of your mother, but I'm not certain if she's told you of your father. He was one of my father's best friends, and I was lucky enough to call him an uncle. Remus Lupin was one of the smartest, kindest men I've ever met.
He helped my father and their friends create a map of Hogwarts. They were able to get into all sorts of mischief without getting caught because of it. Nobody really suspected it because he was the "good one" of his group, which isn't necessarily a lie, but he was definitely better at keeping his prankster nature under wraps than my father or Sirius.
He was a Gryffindor, like me and my parents. Your mother was a Hufflepuff, but there are merits to each house. I'm sure you will find great friends in whichever house you end up with. I certainly did.
I wish things had been different and I could've been there to watch over you as you grew up. I'm sorry that all you have are these letters. There are reasons why I can't be there, but I need you to know that you are always on my mind. There's not a day that goes by where I don't think of you. I wish your parents were still here; you deserved to be raised by them. They deserved to raise you.
I feel kind of silly sending these letters when I don't even know if you'll ever see them, but I can't give up. Your parents asked that I help take care of you. I'm sorry that I've failed them, and you by extension. But I know that your grandmother will do everything in her power to keep you safe, and healthy, and happy.
Just know that without a doubt I love you, and if it were possible these letters wouldn't be necessary. I pray, and hope, that one day we can meet face to face, and I can tell you all of these wonderful things about your parents in person. Maybe one day it'll happen.
Your godmother,
Aunt Hari
Hari sniffles and sets down her quill to dry her eyes. She folds the letter neatly, and then places it into an envelope. She seals it and puts it to the side, waiting for her owl Artemis to return from a hunt. She doesn't know if the letter will reach Teddy, but she's tired of sending letters to Andromeda and trying to convince the woman to let her be a part of her godson's life.
Maybe one day things will change.
Hari makes herself a cup of tea to calm her nerves. She ends up drinking four cups before she's feeling less anxious, and then has to rush to the bathroom before her bladder explodes. Her mind is so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she doesn't notice that she's stopped bleeding altogether.
And then she goes to her garden. She sits on the gliding chair and stares at her little memorial stone with a look that's halfway longing and halfway guilty. She stares there well into the evening.
It's been just under a month since his night with Hari and Kakashi still thinks of it.
He's not really the type to be hung up over anyone, never mind a woman he picked up in a bar. Ever since Rin died, Kakashi's been firm about not letting anyone get that close again. He won't admit it, least of all to himself, but he's scared to be that vulnerable again. It's why he constantly failed teams. It's why he ignores Anko's advances. Attachment equals pain and fuck if he's going through that shit again.
And then Team 7 happened.
The plan had been to fail them like he did with all the others. He didn't care that he got the last loyal Uchiha, or the top kunoichi, or that the dead last was a dead ringer for his beloved sensei and Kushina-nee-chan. Well, maybe he cared a little more about that last one, but it also left a source of deep bitterness in his core that he staunchly ignored most of the time.
Nevertheless, he'd showed up on the day of their real genin exam nearly five hours late with the complete expectation that he'd be leaving the training field the same way he'd arrived—without a team.
But they'd showed potential.
They'd showed promise.
They can do better, he'd thought to himself. They won't become his old team. They won't.
He should've stuck to the plan.
(He didn't, and he'd failed, failed, failed.)
Kakashi's eyes drift to the two pictures that hung on his otherwise bare walls. Half of the people in the pictures were dead, but they never left his mind. He can push them to the back of his mind on certain occasions, like when he's on a mission, but he still always thinks of them.
Always, without fail.
Until that night with Hari.
He slept with her because she'd caught his eye, and it'd been a while. He hadn't been expecting anything more than a night of mutual pleasure, and he certainly got that. But he'd also gotten more.
She's not like other women he knows. Granted, he's not well acquainted with civilian women, but he knows kunoichi. She acts like neither and both at the same time. Hari is a bit of an enigma.
Her gratitude had surprised him greatly, though he didn't show it. Her assessment had been insightful and accurate. Her tone, and subsequent admission, spoke of personal experience. He already knew that she had faced danger, had seen and felt the old, faded scars on her back. He'd studied the romaji carved into her hand while she slept, and didn't quite know what to make of it.
Her eyes that night showed a bitterness at the world that rivaled his own. It drew him to her like a moth to a flame. Her scars told a story of harsher times she'd endured.
The morning after, she woke with labored breathing and had laid in bed trembling. Whatever she'd faced in her life still haunted her, and fuck, Kakashi could relate to that.
But then she'd teased him. She hadn't reacted with self-righteous fury at the Icha Icha novel. There were no harsh accusations of perverse behavior; just a twinkle in her eye, a hint of an impish smile that had his member stirring ever-so-slightly.
And then she got up, and invited him to the shower. She stood tall, walked to the bathroom without looking back.
The world tried to break her, but she didn't let it.
She was scarred and jaded. Bent, but not broken. Not yet.
He finds it admirable, and distracting. Kakashi sits up with a sigh and walks to the bathroom. He needs a cold shower to take his mind off Hari and their night together. He doesn't know the woman, only has his observations and instincts to go on, but his body doesn't care. He still thinks of her.
The cold shower doesn't help.
A/N: Wow! I wasn't expecting such a response to this story! Thank you all very much for the reviews and interest. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. ^_^ Let me know what you think!