Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Infertility (WIP)

Biological Ghost

   It was a crisp autumn day. A mosaic of leaves danced and flew heaven-ward in the wind. A voice sounded out through the howling of the wind: 

   "CONNECTED MINDS!"

   "I WAS JUST CHECKING!"

   The voice sounded thin and faint in the wind. Like gauze in a blanket. Like cheese cloth amidst a towel.

   Harry Potter sat casually at his window, calmly contemplating the majestically magical scene.

   Little did he know of the tragic fate yet to befall him...

   He was staring longingly at his yard, which was covered in leaves like a phoenix in flight, reminiscing about his children who were at Hogwarts. Soon, they would be home for Christmas, and he could roast marshmallows at the fire with his biological children and very faithful wife, Ginny.

   Ginny, being part of the Holyhead Harpies, was often traveling to international stadiums, and had spent the last two Christmases winning match after match. In fact, he had not seen Ginny in quite some time. Though he was proud of her success, he could not help but miss her.

   He got up to go to their cozy kitchen to get another cup of tea,

   On the way, he passed a mirror and glanced at his glittering emerald eyes, worn, wire-rimmed glasses, constantly tousled mousy hair. He looked much like he did when he was young, the same mischievous smirk, simply worn, like a sandcastle being smoothed over by waves.

   He DESPACITO sipped the tea, steam rising from the cup and curling in delicate wisps. All the while, he studied the kitchen that he and Ginny had spent so long working on together, before the children were born. There were granite counters along the walls and gleaming white tiles, sparkling like vampires in sunlight LIKE THE OCEAN on a particularly sunny summer day. The boiling of the tea kettle (always prepared) just like the waves. 

   He gazed into his cup, nearly finished, and absentmindedly swirled around the remaining liquid and tea leaves.

   It was brought to his attention to peculiar shape the tea leaves had taken, almost like the head of a chicken. He had never paid much attention in Divination, or any class for that matter, but he paid more attention than Hermione, just enough to know that this was a bad omen. It was the omen of cuckoldry!

   No matter, he told himself. Divination was rubbish.

   The boy who lived cleared away the pile of mushy tea leaves and continued to stare out the window, lonely, for the rest of the night.