47. MEDITATION (PG) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: Meditation
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,192
Rating: PG
Warnings: Grumpy!Harry (but when isn't he?)
Summary: Harry gets some things in order.
A/N: Fledging, which was a cookie, is now Chapter 48, which means it follows straight on from this one!
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
Ron helps me up to our room at about eight o’clock, right before he leaves for work. I sleep until midday, waking in time for lunch. The potion I drink without complaint, but I pick at my food and am generally grouchy and bad-tempered.
When I’ve eaten all I can, I head back towards the stairs, but Molly is faster. She grabs me by the shoulders, propels me out through the kitchen door, and orders me to go for a walk.
“Fresh air and sunshine will do you good,” she declares, before shutting the door firmly behind me. I hear the bolt sliding home. My wand is still in my room.
Bugger.
I don’t go far. I walk - or rather, stomp - around the perimeter of the Burrow twice to let off steam. I kick a few clods of grass, swear at the chickens, and glare menacingly at the gnomes giggling in the bushes. In the end, I wander down to the orchard and lie under a tree to get out of the sun. It’s not hot, as such, but it’s bright and glary and my head is beginning to ache.
I don’t sleep, though I thought I might. I lie there and let thoughts and memories stream through my head unchecked. Though I’m not actively doing anything with them, it’s somehow calming, and feels rather like taking a large trunk of jumbled odds and ends and sorting them into categories according to type or importance, and filing them away neatly again.
Time passes, the sun creeps across the sky, and by the time I hear Ron calling me, I’m simply lying there trying to make pictures in the clouds and leaves above me. About six feet up, and two feet to my left, the leaves and branches make a pretty passable outline of Fawkes-in-flame, with a puff of cottony cloud just visible behind for smoke. I add it to the list of things I’ve identified, which so far includes a hippogriff’s claw, a flobberworm, and a demented rabbit.
“Over here,” I reply, and he comes and stands over me. The cloud I thought looked a bit like a dragon egg crowns his head like a fluffy halo.
“Mum said you went for a walk hours ago,” Ron says, a little concernedly. “She didn’t know where you were.” His faint tone of disapproval suggests that deep down he thinks Molly should be charged with some kind of criminal neglect.
Somehow, I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I know he’s worried about me, and that he isn’t meaning to be overly protective. Instead, I affect a casual shrug. “I’ve been here the whole time. I’m fine,” I add, cutting off further fussing. “What are you doing home, anyway?”
“It’s nearly six,” Ron says.
“Oh.”
I had no idea I’d been out here so long. Hiding my discomposure at time apparently moving so swiftly, I pat the grass next to me. Ron takes the hint and stretches out next to me. I point up.
“Don’t you think that looks a bit like a demented rabbit? There, where those branches cross,” I ask.
Ron tilts his head and squints. “I suppose so,” he says slowly. “What part is that bit going off that way then?”
“A demented rabbit that was in a tragic accident,” I declare solemnly.
“Ah,” Ron says, equally gravely. “That bit over there looks like a gnome’s todger.”
“Yuck!” I declare emphatically.
“It does!” Ron insists with a snigger. “See those leaves right beneath it? They’re the same shape as bollocks and everything.”
“How do you even know that much about gnome bollocks? Does this have something to do with that story you wouldn’t let your dad tell me?” I ask cannily.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ron says breezily. “And that knot in the trunk there? The one with the moss around it? That looks just like a-”
I smack him on the arm.
“What?” Ron asks, wide-eyed.
“You know exactly what, and I don’t need to hear that some bit of a tree looks exactly like Hermione’s... parts,” I tell him. “Especially not just before dinner.”
He pouts. Right then, Molly calls from the kitchen door.
“Coming, Mum!” Ron bellows back.
We both climb to our feet, brushing off dirt and grass and the occasional beetle.
“Oh,” Ron says, with the air of someone who has suddenly remembered something. “Mum wants to know what cake you want. I was supposed to be asking you.”
“Cake?” I ask blankly.
Ron looks at me as if I’m a little simple. “For your birthday,” he says slowly. “Next week.”
“Oh. Right,” I flounder. “Um, I don’t really mind. Anything would be fantastic.”
Ron looks relieved and nods, but doesn’t turn towards the house. “What do you want? For your birthday, that is,” he asks, looking a little nervous and expectant.
My immediate impulse is to say ‘you don’t have to get me anything’, but something tells me that that would be the wrong thing. Based on past experience, Ron would likely think I was just saying it because he didn’t have much money, and we’d get into a roaring fight.
Not good.
Instead of thinking about small and inexpensive gifts, my mind is drawn back to those neat piles it made earlier, those sorted stacks of mental detritus, and something clicks.
“I want you to say yes,” I say.
Ron looks confused, and a little suspicious. “Yes to what?” he asks.
“I’m going to ask you for something; nothing bad, don’t worry. Not today, probably not this week, but soonish. When I do, you’ll know, and I want you to say yes.”
I worry that he’s going to demand answers, and I feel my heartbeat speed up a little, in anticipation of a possible fight. He doesn’t. He just looks at me a little quizzically, and nods.
“Whatever you need,” he says softly, and slips his hand into mine as we head back towards the house.
***
That night, there is a small glass on my bedside table, containing a dose of Dreamless Sleep potion, and I drink it, gratefully. When I wake, refreshed and rested the next morning, I decide that it’s high time I bought Molly a present.
Flicking back through the now dog-eared copy of Witch Weekly, I find the full-page advert for their special edition cookery book. I know Molly clips the recipes religiously and keeps them filed in a drawer specially reserved for the purpose. This volume holds all the featured recipes going back two decades, and has a ‘read-aloud’ feature that’s voice activated, for times when you’re up to your elbows in a turkey or have fingers too sticky to turn the pages, which I think is particularly nifty. I quickly scrawl an order for a copy on a clean sheet of parchment, giving permission for Flourish and Blotts to take the Galleons directly from my vault at Gringotts.
“Hey, Pig,” I call quietly. “Want to go to London for me?”
Pig puffs up importantly on his perch then begins his customary, excited orbits of the room, as though nothing could delight him more.
<- 46. Edible c@r 48. Fledging ->
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,192
Rating: PG
Warnings: Grumpy!Harry (but when isn't he?)
Summary: Harry gets some things in order.
A/N: Fledging, which was a cookie, is now Chapter 48, which means it follows straight on from this one!
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
Ron helps me up to our room at about eight o’clock, right before he leaves for work. I sleep until midday, waking in time for lunch. The potion I drink without complaint, but I pick at my food and am generally grouchy and bad-tempered.
When I’ve eaten all I can, I head back towards the stairs, but Molly is faster. She grabs me by the shoulders, propels me out through the kitchen door, and orders me to go for a walk.
“Fresh air and sunshine will do you good,” she declares, before shutting the door firmly behind me. I hear the bolt sliding home. My wand is still in my room.
Bugger.
I don’t go far. I walk - or rather, stomp - around the perimeter of the Burrow twice to let off steam. I kick a few clods of grass, swear at the chickens, and glare menacingly at the gnomes giggling in the bushes. In the end, I wander down to the orchard and lie under a tree to get out of the sun. It’s not hot, as such, but it’s bright and glary and my head is beginning to ache.
I don’t sleep, though I thought I might. I lie there and let thoughts and memories stream through my head unchecked. Though I’m not actively doing anything with them, it’s somehow calming, and feels rather like taking a large trunk of jumbled odds and ends and sorting them into categories according to type or importance, and filing them away neatly again.
Time passes, the sun creeps across the sky, and by the time I hear Ron calling me, I’m simply lying there trying to make pictures in the clouds and leaves above me. About six feet up, and two feet to my left, the leaves and branches make a pretty passable outline of Fawkes-in-flame, with a puff of cottony cloud just visible behind for smoke. I add it to the list of things I’ve identified, which so far includes a hippogriff’s claw, a flobberworm, and a demented rabbit.
“Over here,” I reply, and he comes and stands over me. The cloud I thought looked a bit like a dragon egg crowns his head like a fluffy halo.
“Mum said you went for a walk hours ago,” Ron says, a little concernedly. “She didn’t know where you were.” His faint tone of disapproval suggests that deep down he thinks Molly should be charged with some kind of criminal neglect.
Somehow, I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I know he’s worried about me, and that he isn’t meaning to be overly protective. Instead, I affect a casual shrug. “I’ve been here the whole time. I’m fine,” I add, cutting off further fussing. “What are you doing home, anyway?”
“It’s nearly six,” Ron says.
“Oh.”
I had no idea I’d been out here so long. Hiding my discomposure at time apparently moving so swiftly, I pat the grass next to me. Ron takes the hint and stretches out next to me. I point up.
“Don’t you think that looks a bit like a demented rabbit? There, where those branches cross,” I ask.
Ron tilts his head and squints. “I suppose so,” he says slowly. “What part is that bit going off that way then?”
“A demented rabbit that was in a tragic accident,” I declare solemnly.
“Ah,” Ron says, equally gravely. “That bit over there looks like a gnome’s todger.”
“Yuck!” I declare emphatically.
“It does!” Ron insists with a snigger. “See those leaves right beneath it? They’re the same shape as bollocks and everything.”
“How do you even know that much about gnome bollocks? Does this have something to do with that story you wouldn’t let your dad tell me?” I ask cannily.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ron says breezily. “And that knot in the trunk there? The one with the moss around it? That looks just like a-”
I smack him on the arm.
“What?” Ron asks, wide-eyed.
“You know exactly what, and I don’t need to hear that some bit of a tree looks exactly like Hermione’s... parts,” I tell him. “Especially not just before dinner.”
He pouts. Right then, Molly calls from the kitchen door.
“Coming, Mum!” Ron bellows back.
We both climb to our feet, brushing off dirt and grass and the occasional beetle.
“Oh,” Ron says, with the air of someone who has suddenly remembered something. “Mum wants to know what cake you want. I was supposed to be asking you.”
“Cake?” I ask blankly.
Ron looks at me as if I’m a little simple. “For your birthday,” he says slowly. “Next week.”
“Oh. Right,” I flounder. “Um, I don’t really mind. Anything would be fantastic.”
Ron looks relieved and nods, but doesn’t turn towards the house. “What do you want? For your birthday, that is,” he asks, looking a little nervous and expectant.
My immediate impulse is to say ‘you don’t have to get me anything’, but something tells me that that would be the wrong thing. Based on past experience, Ron would likely think I was just saying it because he didn’t have much money, and we’d get into a roaring fight.
Not good.
Instead of thinking about small and inexpensive gifts, my mind is drawn back to those neat piles it made earlier, those sorted stacks of mental detritus, and something clicks.
“I want you to say yes,” I say.
Ron looks confused, and a little suspicious. “Yes to what?” he asks.
“I’m going to ask you for something; nothing bad, don’t worry. Not today, probably not this week, but soonish. When I do, you’ll know, and I want you to say yes.”
I worry that he’s going to demand answers, and I feel my heartbeat speed up a little, in anticipation of a possible fight. He doesn’t. He just looks at me a little quizzically, and nods.
“Whatever you need,” he says softly, and slips his hand into mine as we head back towards the house.
***
That night, there is a small glass on my bedside table, containing a dose of Dreamless Sleep potion, and I drink it, gratefully. When I wake, refreshed and rested the next morning, I decide that it’s high time I bought Molly a present.
Flicking back through the now dog-eared copy of Witch Weekly, I find the full-page advert for their special edition cookery book. I know Molly clips the recipes religiously and keeps them filed in a drawer specially reserved for the purpose. This volume holds all the featured recipes going back two decades, and has a ‘read-aloud’ feature that’s voice activated, for times when you’re up to your elbows in a turkey or have fingers too sticky to turn the pages, which I think is particularly nifty. I quickly scrawl an order for a copy on a clean sheet of parchment, giving permission for Flourish and Blotts to take the Galleons directly from my vault at Gringotts.
“Hey, Pig,” I call quietly. “Want to go to London for me?”
Pig puffs up importantly on his perch then begins his customary, excited orbits of the room, as though nothing could delight him more.
<- 46. Edible c@r 48. Fledging ->