Sweet Ophelia

TanninTele

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

I: Shell Cottage

The morning was bright and almost frustratingly cheerful for Harry, who was trying very hard to sleep.

"Fresh air and bed rest will do you good," Tom had said, arrogant and all-knowing. "Some place away from the city, preferably, in order for your body to heal."

The beach house was certainly isolate and peaceful. His husband affectionately called the hut 'Shell Cottage', with it's white-washed walls and proximity to the water. The sea and sky seemed endlessly blue, with only a small smattering of clouds on the horizon. Although Harry's body was wrecking hell, Tom and his beach house were like a little slice of heaven. Harry felt that even if the world was burning around them, he'd have no inkling of the fact.

It was a better resting place than most.

Bloodshot eyes squinting open, Harry was roused from his light nap by the tinkling of distant chimes. The window was open, a breeze ruffling the window curtain. Cool, salty air brushed against his bare skin, gooseflesh emerging in response. Harry felt the urge to burrow further in the blankets for warmth.

Instead, he sat up slowly, painfully, and rubbed the grit from his eyes. It seemed that no matter how often or how long Harry napped, he never felt well rested. Muscles straining, Harry stretched his slender arms high above his head. The bedsheets were tangled around him, entrapping him in the warm, white folds. His curly hair and olive skin made him appear like an seraphim, cradled by the clouds.

The space where his husband had slept was still warm, a note crinkling on the bedsheets. Tom, for all his faults, had terrific handwriting. Harry fondly stroked the curves of his letters, the words All my love written fastidiously in red ink. The note said that Thomas would be biking into town to visit the grocer's and apothecary. Their little ice box held only goat's milk, brown eggs and a few slice of tuna.

Twitching uncomfortably in bed, Harry began to feel restless, stomach heavy and twisting. If Tom was around, he'd surely push Harry back into bed and insist on making him tea to soothe his anxiety.

But Tom wasn't around.

Harry bit his lip, the skin dry and cracked. Green eyes narrowed slyly, his bare feet slid to the floor.

This was a bad idea. The air seemed to whoosh out of him, a wave of vertigo forcing him to sit back down. Blackness threatened to creep in on his vision, but Harry clenched the bedsheets determinedly. With an unsteady wobble, Harry inched his way to the outdoor bath house.

His nightgown trailed against the sandy walkway, toes wriggling in the hot sand. The sky was a shade of blinding blue, the sun's reflection on the ocean almost too painful to look at. Green palms waved 'good morning!' to him, eerily cheerful.

Finally reaching the bath house, a closed-off area with no roof and a stone-lined shower, Harry leaned heavily against the sink. A pearly bead of sweat trickled down his brow. He splashed water in his face, sipping gratuitously at the tap. Water dripping from his eyelashes, Harry stared at the mirror and his pale, exhausted mien.

He was no longer the lively, attractive man he once was.

His body ached, and he desperately wished for a cure or miraculous elixir.

Choosing not to dwell on it, Harry pulled open a drawer. An odd strand of hair was trapped in a bone-handled comb. The lock glinted in the sunlight, copper-colored and brittle, matching neither Harry's raven, nor Tom's brunet hair. Harry assumed it was left from whoever had owned the beach house before Thomas.

It wasn't the first time Harry had stumbled across buried treasure; the house itself was a bit like a scavenger hunt. In the bathroom, there were relics of a woman's presence; smears of make-up, hair in the drain, the lingering smell of perfume. The dresses in the wardrobe were all feminine, floral-patterned and ample in the bosom. The books in the library were strange and esoteric. Harry had never been a fan of mystery, nor photography, but the shelves were stocked with books of these types.

Harry tugged the comb through his hair. It stuck up in several directions, unable to be tamed, and Harry eventually gave up. He struggled his way back, overgrown hair dripping and skin moist. A hand against the course wall, he stared out over the sea. It sparkled in the sunlight, like dancing fairy lights. It was magical, in it's own way.

He wished that he could enjoy it.

In the week since they'd arrived, Harry had only gotten glimpses of the ocean. Harry fell faint easily, so was bed-ridden for most of their vacation. When the urge to pee became too much to bear, Tom would carry him bridal-style to and from the bath house. It was humiliating, at first, but Tom always responded with grace and humor.

At least, if Harry was to be confined inside, it was comfortable.

The beach house was awfully quaint, made for honeymooning couples with only two rooms. It was painted a faded white, with splintering shutters and red terracotta roof tiles. Handmade chimes spun and dangled in the breeze, the shells and small chunks of white rock clinkling delightfully against each other. Tom had cultivated a small garden with baby tomatoes, rosemary, and other herbs meant for his teas. His bike would usually be leaning next to the front door, but with Tom's absence came a tire trail of dirt and sand leading off into the jungle of trees.

Groaning as he ascended the steps, Harry slowly took a seat by the bookshelves, leaning his head back in exhaustion. The interior was painted in shades of pastels, soft blues, peach, and white. Harry thought it had a woman's touch, something Tom and he were sorely lacking. Scalp cushioned by the cushy armchair, Harry stared up at the ceiling. He breathed shallowly, feeling another onset of lethargy. It was becoming harder and harder to stay awake.

His life was experienced in bursts of wakefulness and sleep. It was pitiful, in a way. Tom tried to keep Harry as content as possible, with reading materials, games and good conversation - but even he could see the futility of it. Harry was dying.

They didn't know the cause, and they didn't have a cure.

Death seemed to follow Harry wherever he went. First, at the young age of two, his parents had died in a bizarre car crash. Harry alone had survived, scarred by shards of glass, and forever haunted by the glare of oncoming headlights. He lived with his relatives, the Dursleys, until he came into an inheritance at the age of seventeen. (Briefly, Harry had considered notifying the Dursleys of his illness - but they'd more likely throw a celebration than cry at his bedside.)

Tom and Harry had met during Harry's brief service as a law enforcer.

Tom, a decade or so older than Harry, was a doctor at Saint Mungo's. He had treated Harry for several ailments; gunshot wounds, a stabbing, and even when the entirety of his left arm had been shattered. A name plaque had been jokingly placed over Harry's usual cot, seeing as he ended up under the white sheets often enough. There had always been a spark of something underneath Tom's impeccable bedside manner and charming smirk. Tom was eerily attentive to Harry's needs, cool under pressure and clearly possessive of the trouble-making younger man. Harry, too, was smitten.

However, he had worried that their attraction was something of the Florence Nightingale Effect, and that Tom's reciprocation would eventually fade. They had danced around their attraction for months before Tom finally asked him to dinner.

It was whirlwind, it was wonderful -

- and, then, on New Year's Eve, Tom proposed.

Harry twisted his dark tanzanite ring, fitting snugly on his ring finger; the vena amoris. According to old lore, a vein in this finger led straight to his heart. The ring itself was an old family heirloom, carved with a strangely beautiful symbol that Tom said represented 'Until death do us part.'

If only they knew how literal that would be.

Neither Tom nor Harry had anyone to give them away, and no priest would sanction their marriage, except for old, dotty Reverend Dumbledore. To most, homosexuality was frowned upon, believed to be unnatural and ungodly. (Tom didn't believe in a god, regardless; he thought, quite astutely, that man was the closest thing to God in this universe.)

Reverend Dumbledore had liked to preach on the streets, wearing nothing but a long white robe, his beard long and tangled. Rumor had it, he was expelled from the monastery for consorting with an altar boy. Tom hadn't liked the strange man in their home, and so they had quickly exchanged rings and vows, signed a few papers, and kicked him out.

To make up for the rushed ceremony, they ended the night with a very thorough consummation.

All was well . . . until it wasn't.

Pressure grew behind his eyes.

The screeching of bike tires outside forced Harry to hurriedly wipe his cheeks. Crawling back into the large bed, he could hear Tom grunting inelegantly outside, hefting a basket full of medicines and food into the beach house. Harry pressed his head into the pillow and pinched his eyes shut, hoping Tom wouldn't notice the sticky tear tracks.

Tom's footfalls were soft as he moved about the kitchen, trim figure facing away from the bed. His shoes were off, and his pale shirt stained with sweat. Pale hands quickly distributed the fresh bottles of milk into the ice box, before turning on the stove and preparing a fresh pot of tea.

Wafts of chamomile and honey met Harry's nose. The pot boiled, and Tom deftly poured out two cups of tea. The cups were porcelain and decorated with lily petals and ivy leaves.

Tom silently added a few drops of medication to Harry's cup, which Harry knew would leave a slightly bitter taste. Once fresh bread and marmalade had been added to the tray, the man padded across the floor. He paused slightly, seeing the dishevelled bedsheets, the discarded note and the sprinkles of sand across the floor.

He sighed. "Harry."

Harry knew from the tone that Tom wasn't truly upset with him. Frustrated, perhaps, and disappointed, but nonetheless fond. He giggled slightly into the pillow. "'lo, Tommy."

Placing the tray on Harry's table, Tom ran his fingers through Harry's damp, combed hair. "I hope you didn't strain yourself, silly boy. Sit up, love, no need to pretend."

Harry pulled himself back up, smiling lazily at his husband. Tom was frowning, observing the glint of tears on Harry's cheek. He sat on the edge of Harry's bed, leaning into Harry's thighs. He reached for a knife and the bread, smearing the sweet-smelling jam. "Hungry? Missus Flume made you her special marmalade mixture from their lemon tree." Harry smiled again, allowing himself to be hand-fed, biting playfully on Tom's fingers.

"The bread is from Dobby's Bakery, made without raisins. I know how you hate them. Sir Snape, too, sends his regards. During my visit, he smelt distinctly of cannabis - I believe he likes to 'test the quality' of his preserves on rainy days."

Harry swallowed another bite of bread, crumbs falling to the sheets. "How's his hair?"

"Oh, horrific," Tom laughed. "It resembles an oil spill. But, to be fair, yours is worse whenever you attempt to gel it." He ran an affectionate hand through Harry's curls. The boy shook him off, coughing out laughter. "Thirsty?"

Harry took the initiative, tremulous fingers attempting to grasp the tea cup. The porcelain rattled and nearly spilled over the hardwood. Tom steadied his hands, running the pad of his finger over Harry's ring. "There you are, sweet boy. Drink it all." Tom watched Harry's sips closely, blue eyes dark and piercing.

As he drank, the breeze rustling the windchimes, Harry thought of Hogsmeade.

From Thomas' stories, Missus Plume was a lovely, sweet-talking woman that managed a small grocery. Her husband had died only a few years prior, leaving Missus Plume to raise and homeschool two young girls. Her daughters, Hestia and Flora, attended a school several miles away. Missus Plume owned the only automobile in town, able to transport them too and from the school twice a day.

The baker, Mister Dobby, was a short old man with a toothy grin, dexterous hands, and a shirt stained with flour. He told stories of serving in the war, exaggerated, macabre tales with odd twists that made Tom wonder if the old man was delusional. Last was Sir Severus Snape, an apothecarian with a surly attitude and a beaked nose. He was well-read and intrigued with the medicinal properties of various plants, especially cannabis.

Harry handed the cup back to Tom. "I'd like to visit the town sometime. While I'm still able."

Tom's gaze flickered, and he carefully shifted on the bed. "You know how I hate to deny you, love," he began, laying a hand on Harry's thigh. "However, when you snuck out of bed this morning - don't deny it, you're not as sly as you'd like to believe - how long did it take before you became exhausted?"

Harry bit his lip, green eyes sheepish. "Not very."

"Like I thought." He leaned forward, patting Harry's lips with a folded napkin. "Please forgive me if I think a trip into town would be detrimental, rather than cathartic." Their eyes met, green against blue.

Harry caught his hand, pressing warm, pianist fingers to his chapped lips. "I'm not upset," he murmured, resigned. "I love you, Tom."

The older man seemed to melt, bringing Harry's head to his heart. "Oh," he breathed. "And I, you, my dear. Never doubt that. Now. How about some music?"

April 16th, 1979

Dear Diary,

It's ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. I can't believe they've put me on suspension - I'm the best damn football player they've got, and a little ankle break isn't going to change that! I've been going to the hospital for weeks now for physical therapy. My doctor is a codgery old man with a crooked nose, but his assistant is - well, let's say he's the only silver lining. I think he likes me. We've been flirting for a while, but I'm unsure how much of that is bedside manner or actual attraction. He's tall and incredibly clever, with a smile that makes me want to swoon.

My next appointment is in a week, and soon the cast will be off. Would it be horrible if I asked him out for coffee?

Love, Ginny.

June 3rd, 1979

Dear Diary,

I think I'm in love. Really, truly. Mum thinks I'm in over my head, that I'm too young to recognize love - but she married dad just out of school, and Bill married a Frenchwoman - as if they have any right calling me a slut! I'm eighteen now, and I can make my own damn decisions, I think. He's just so mature and sweet, so unlike like my brothers, who sabotaged my last few flings.

Marvolo's invited me to spend the summer with him. We've only been dating for two months, really, but he rented a house on the beach, with a dock for fishing and a huge yard to play football. He says I can spend the days sunbathing and reading my poetry, visiting the town or taking pictures.

And - of course - two young lovers all alone together are bound to get up to some mischief.

I can't wait.

Love, Ginny.