Colouring

Colouring

*~*

Harry Potter quietly closed the door behind him, wearily rubbing his aching neck as he did. The house was silent, save for the tick-tock of the hall clock and the gentle hum of life contained within its walls. He knew he was too late to see the children, but Hermione should be waiting up to greet him even at this late hour. She always did.

He slipped his shoes off at the foot of the stairs, wiggling his toes on cool floor. He checked the lounge, the dining room, and the study. Soft lights glowed in all the rooms, but no Hermione. As he moved towards the back of the house, he smelled the sweet fragrance of her favourite tea. Ah, she was in the kitchen.

And there she was, sitting at the small breakfast table. A cup of tea sat steaming in front of her, as well as a small pile of long, colourful pencils. Her head was bent over in quiet concentration.

“What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” Hermione smiled up at Harry. “Oh, hallo, sweetie.” Harry leant over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “My goodness, it’s been a long day for you.”

“And busy,” Harry said somewhat distractedly. He was scratching through a pile of owl post on the secretary desk. “Did all of those come today?”

“All day long, according to Tura. Someone at the Federation certainly wanted your attention.” Hermione continued working at the table.

“About four someones from the looks of it.” Harry held up one. “This one’s from Haldstadt. I saw him not more than two hours ago. What the hell did he send this for?” He ripped open the envelope. “We discussed his proposal two days ago! Nothing has changed, and the meeting was just a rehash of what he told me last week. Of all the—“

Harry continued his muttered swearing, when he sat heavily in the chair beside his wife. “I’m sorry.” He leant over and kissed her on the temple. “First, I’m late getting home, and then all I can do is complain about work. I didn’t mean to bring it here with me.” He smiled as Hermione’s fingers curled about his hand.

“It’s all right,” she said gently. “I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve missed you tonight.”

Harry’s heart melted at the sight of her sweet face, her bushy hair creating a golden halo about it. “I’ve missed you, too. Kids okay?”

“They’re fine. They missed you at dinner and bath time, but they’re looking forward to you spending time with them tomorrow.”

Harry sighed. “I may have to go in and take care of a few things, but I think it can wait until later in the day.”

“Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry your work is in such an uproar at the moment.”

“Well, nothing that won’t go away eventually.” He kissed their joined hands, rubbing the soft skin of hers against his lips. “I’m just tired." He hummed into her hand for several heartbeats, and then said, "I’m going to make a cup of tea. Would you like me to freshen yours?”

“Please.”

Harry rose and busied himself preparing a cup and heating the water on the stove instead of using his wand. He rummaged in the fridge for a snack, finally deciding on some cheese and an apple. When the water was ready, he poured himself a cup and then returned to the table to freshen Hermione’s cup. Finally finished, he sat again beside her, sipping his tea and munching on apple slices.

It was then that he noticed what she was doing. “Hermione, why are you colouring?”

“Well,” she said, as she picked up another colourful stick and twisted it, “it’s very relaxing. I always loved to colour as a child. And ever since Cassie and Jamie have been old enough, I’ve found I like to colour with them.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. There’s a very practical, psychological explanation for it.” Hermione stuck out her tongue as she rounded an edge with a bright swath of fuscia. “I’m engaging one part of my brain because I’m working with my hands; my eyes are focusing on the colours and the shapes. I find that I’m much calmer and my mind relaxes and can work much more efficiently. I’m writing a report in my head.”

Harry chuckled. “So what you’re saying is that while you look like you’re resting, you’re actually quite busy at a higher brain function level.”

That elicited a deep laugh from Hermione. She finally put down the crayola and put her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a long, strong hug. He stroked her back and held onto her; she softly raked her fingers through his hair.

“Mmm, I’ve needed one these all day,” he said into her hair. “Especially the nose tickle.”

“And this has been a good hair day for me,” Hermione murmured into his ear, giving it a gentle lick.

“Wow, what are those?”

“My mum picked up a bunch of different kinds of crayolas and interesting geometric design books for Cassie. I mentioned that she enjoyed working with shapes and puzzles, so this will help her look at patterns.” Hermione picked up a box. “Look at these. They have glitter in them. And those are metallic tones.” She touched a long box. “These are like crayolas we had when we were growing up, except that they look more like pencils, don’t they?”

“They don’t look like any crayolas I coloured with,” Harry said. “Of course, I don’t remember ever having a full box to begin with. I always got the ones Dudley broke and threw into the rubbish bin.” He pulled one of the slender twist-up crayons out of the pack, and twisted up the long, colourful, waxy stick inside. “I never had new ones. Except the one pack my first form teacher gave me.”

Harry went very still, holding the crayon. Hermione held her breath, watching her husband’s face.

He picked up the box of glitter crayons, slid up the flap, and carefully poured the crayons onto the table. “She kept sending notes home to Aunt Petunia, asking her to please purchase a box of crayons for me. We were learning our—shapes. I reckon I was the same age Cassie is.”

He pulled the book around to look at the design Hermione had been carefully colouring in. Harry examined the design on the opposite page and started to colour in one part of it—slowly. “She got very angry with me. She started saying things about my parents. ‘Why did they have to die and leave you with us?’ ‘Couldn’t they have left me with my dad’s family?’ 'Surely someone else could’ve taken me in.’ ‘They had all those friends from school. Why didn’t one of them come for me?’”

He put down the crayon and picked up another. “I remember she went up to Dudley’s room. I went and hid in my cupboard because she seemed so upset. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but Dudley wasn’t happy. He was shouting and then threw a tantrum. I think he was throwing his toys around.”

He put down the crayon and picked up one of the metallic ones, examining it closely before using it to colour another part of the picture. “Then the day after my teacher gave me the crayons, I brought them home to finish colouring a picture. Dudley found it, and he broke every single one of them. He tore up the picture.” He spoke very softly, his eyes unfocused on some spot before him. “He yelled at me, too. I can’t remember everything he said, but he said I made his mum unhappy because I was alive.”

Harry shook his head slightly, and then smiled ruefully. “I managed to salvage a handful of crayons and made sure to hide them. I used up every millimeter of them because they were the only ones I had.”

Hermione stared at her husband. Harry rarely spoke about his childhood, usually with little emotion. But this was something that went very deep, residing in some place he did not like to revisit.

“Whenever…” he hesitated, “whenever I see crayons, I think of the first time that I really understood that my aunt didn’t love me and didn’t want me around. Helluva thing for a six year old to find out.”

“Oh, Harry. I’m…I’m so sorry.”

He looked up at her, his eyes widening. “No, this isn’t one of those ‘poor Harry’ moments. Really. Sometimes these things sort of sneak up on me. I didn’t mean to put a damper on your colouring.” He looked through the book of pictures that his children and wife had made. “Maybe I can colour with them tomorrow.”

Hermione smiled. “They would love that, Cassie especially. It will be a time that she can have you all to herself, and she can chat up a storm.

“Then that’s what I’ll do. But say, these are terribly cool crayons.”

Hermione took the crayon from him and set it beside the pile. “I don’t want to talk about crayons anymore.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I want to kiss you.”

He slid his arms about her. “You do? Does that mean you’ve finished writing the report in your head, or is kissing going to keep one part of your brain busy while you complete the report?”

Hermione laughed. “My dear, when you kiss me, every thought flies out of my head. I can hardly concentrate on breathing, let alone keep track of legal facts.”

“Nice to know my kisses give that busy mind of yours a break from all those legal facts,” he said, as his lips glided over her pale neck.

“Mmm…I can’t remember a thing I was thinking about. Too bad I didn’t get around to finding a quill to write the report down before you came home,” she sighed, relishing the darts of pleasure Harry’s small nips were sending through her.

“I’m sure you’ll remember quick enough when you start colouring tomorrow,” Harry breathed into her ear, licking the shell gently.

“Oh, umm, I…”

“Come with me, my love.”

They quickly doused the lights in the kitchen and waved wands at the light in other rooms as they made their way to the stairs. Harry pulled her into his arms at the foot of the stairs and kissed her deeply. “It feels like I’ve been away from you for a million years,” he said as he plaed his forehead on hers. “I’m so sorry I’ve been distracted.”

“Shhh-shh. No regrets. More kissing.”

Harry silently pulled her up the stairs. They paused to check on their slumbering children, tucking covers around their chins and smoothing tousled strands of hair. Hermione lowered the light in the lamp on the hallway table to a soft radiance.

As she joined her husband in their bedroom, she saw that Harry had lit a single candle. His bare back was to her. She stopped to admire the mellow glow of his skin, scarred by the battles of a war fought long ago. She knew that the most significant scars of his life weren’t the ones she could trace with her tongue on his body. The ones that cut most deeply were the ones residing within his soul. And tonight, she was determined to heal one more.

“Harry.”

He turned to find that his very clever wife had banished all the clothing from her body. She stood before him gloriously naked. He quickly removed the rest of his clothing, shivering slightly as the cool air enveloped his warm body. And then she held a hand out to him.

He took it and followed her to the bed, where she pulled him down on top of her. She caught his lips in a passionate kiss.

“I love you,” she said, as she continued to kiss his cheeks, his eyelids, his nose.

“I know. I know it every time you look at me.” He kissed her neck, her chin, the high plane of her chest.

“Never doubt that.” She rolled him over onto his back, kissing the ridge of his pectoral muscle, the hardened nub of his nipple, the bony hollow of his sternum.

They had passed, long ago, the need to discover the places that elicited moans of arousal and the necessity to catalogue the meaning of each gasp and sigh.

They knew where and how to touch, and knew how and when to nip or lick or bite or kiss.

He knew when to enter her, and she knew how to squeeze him, and he knew where to touch her, and she knew what each breathy sound, each hitching breath meant.

And together they brought about the delightful bright stars that exploded through their bodies, rolling around them in waves of everlasting pleasure.

Later, Harry awoke, his wife entwined about him like a nurturing blanket of ivy. A soft, golden glow pierced the night. He watched the flame for a moment, marveling at the illumination it bravely gave. Then, with a wave of his hand and a whispered “Nox,” the room vanished into the comfort of black that held the promise of future colour.