Fairy Tales

On nights Uncle Vernon worked late Aunt Petunia would read fairy tales.

Harry used to stand by his cousin's bedroom door, shivering slightly in his too-thin-pajamas. He can remember sympathizing with the children who were not wanted by their families and feeling a desperate jerk in his stomach when he thought of houses made of gingerbread and wondering if a handsome prince would ever rescue him from his cupboard beneath the stairs.

Harry has forgotten he once knew how to believe in happy endings.

*

The nightmares worsen in his sixth year. Harry lies in bed for hours before finally drifting into a sleep that gives him no rest. He sees glimpses of images:

Teenage Sirius ripping a photograph- the image of young boy [different features but carved by the same artist] smiling with a sense of false arrogance and proudly holding a crest token bearing the phrase Toujours Pur in his small hands....

Cedric lying peacefully in a field, his bright Quidditch robes vividly contrasting the grass and clover surrounding his figure in a sea of green...

A young woman with flaming red hair and familiar green eyes sitting by the window, a piece of parchment in her hand and a wistful smile upon her strong features as the wind causes the curtain to flutter around her like a flame...

A man- dark hair neat, collar straight, pants ironed, shoes shined, hazel eyes shining- standing besides a large bouquet of lilies and a large black dog with gleaming eyes...

Harry has forgotten dreams of dancing sugar plum fairies and nights he doesn't wake in a cold sweat.

*

Shortly before midnight he awakes. Still dazed from sleep Harry gingerly puts his hand on his abdomen, half-expecting to feel blood. The dry cloth of pajamas tells him he has been dreaming.

He pulls himself up, puts on his glasses, and concentrates on breathing slowly and quietly.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in...

Eventually his breathing steadies and his heartbeat stops racing, but his eyes can't adjust to the darkness.

In. Out. In. Out.

Harry can't bear to stay in bed. So quietly, oh-so-quietly, he gets out of bed.

To his surprise, Harry finds Hermione in the common room studying by the dying fire. On second thought though, perhaps he shouldn't be surprised.

She silently motions for him to sit down besides her and he does, thankful that she doesn't ask any questions for once.

"There was once a little girl with a whole flock of brothers and sisters. She was only four but she knew the prayer 'Our Father' as well as any of them, and her mother would sit by her bed every evening to hear it," Hermione begins, smiling softly.

Hermione's voice, soft and soothing, wraps around Harry like a fleece blanket.

"One night the older children were rather wild, but their mother said they must be quiet for the little one was going to say her prayers. The girl, tucked snugly in her bed among the white linen with her little hands folded neatly and her face quite grave and serious, slowly began to pray out loud."

Harry feels his eyelids getting heavier.

"'But what is this?' her mother suddenly interrupted. 'When you said give us our daily bread there was something more I couldn't quite hear. What?'

"The little girl hesitated, and looked shyly at her other. 'Please don't be angry mother. I said please put plenty of butter on it.'"

"And then what happens?" Harry asks drowsily.

Hermione looks slightly surprised. "It's the end of the story. They live happily ever after."

That night Harry dreams of freshly-baked bread and clean, crisp, white sheets and a warm, motherly smile.

Harry will never forget that night.