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My Little Skye
By Kia

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Category: Post-OotP
Characters:Harry/Ginny
Genres: Angst
Warnings: None
Story is Complete
Rating: G
Reviews: 17
Summary: Time goes by and pictures are added the the walls..... everyone knew her father was dead.... yet her mother still hoped...
Hitcount: Story Total: 3880







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Disclaimer: JKR owns all the characters that you recognize.

My Little Skye

All she remembers of her daddy is the feel of his hair. How it would scratch and tickle her
cheek when he picked her up to swing her through the air. And yet how it would feel so soft
under her fingers when she grabbed fistfuls of it. Her memories are of laughter and warm smiles,
Mum and Daddy tucking her in and two kisses placed on her forehead..

But she can recall one night vividly. She can remember how her mum locked herself
quietly in her room that night the Grey-Man, Daddy’s friend, visited with a long, thin wooden
box and tears in his eyes. And how her mum told her the next morning, with dead eyes and a
hollow voice, that Daddy had gone missing while away on work in northern Wales and that all
the Aurors thought he was dead.

She remembers how her mum drew out a broken wand, with an ashen feather poking out
of it, and stared down at it for a long time.

------------------------

For months afterward, she would run into her parents’ bedroom every time she heard
Mum crying and calling out to Daddy in her sleep. It would make her sad to see her mum looking
so lonely in a bed too big for her, so she’d climb under the covers and lay down beside her. And
then she’d hug her mum and gently pat her head, quietly comforting her.

She knew that somewhere out there, Daddy would be proud of her for looking after Mum
so well.

There still were the same pictures on the walls. Mum and Daddy’s wedding, Mum and
Daddy flying, Daddy and herself when she was a baby, Daddy swinging her around through the
air. She liked to watch him in those pictures until her eyes water; tried to manufacture memories
of him in her mind — she still does. One of her tall uncles once told her that her eyes are just like
Daddy’s, but her red-gold hair is truly her mum’s. His wife, her bushy-haired aunt, told her that
she is as inquisitive as her father was. And almost as lively as her mother is -

- was.

--------------------------

Now she is five years old and when she calculates on her little fingers, she realizes that
it’s been almost three years since Daddy disappeared. Mum has stopped crying, but she knows
that Mum still thinks of Daddy.

Each day, her mother becomes more and more like the laughing woman in the pictures.
She doesn’t cry in her sleep as often as before. When she comes home from work, she calls out
her name, Lily, Lily! With her arms out, ready for a hug.

Then she’ll fly down the stairs and into her mother’s arms and give her hugs and kisses.
Her mum’s laugh bubbles from her chest and makes her smile. Then she’ll slide back to the floor
as her mum lets her bags fall onto the kitchen table and gives her a smile that shines with slightly
faded brilliance, before picking up her wand and asking her what she’d like for dinner.

On Fridays, Mum takes her out to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade to shop. Sometimes, she
even takes her to Muggle London, just to look. On the weekends, she takes her to the Burrow.

Time has added new pictures to the walls at home, pictures of her, flying on her toy
broomstick, making cookies with Mum, playing with her cousins, chasing the gnomes in the
garden at the Burrow, her uncles giving her rides on their real broomsticks. But the same pictures
of Daddy are still on the wall. And Daddy’s wand is still waits in its long wooden casket, over
the fireplace.

Where her mum can see it.

---------------------------------

Tonight is special, says her mum, because tomorrow she’s turning six. Mum smiles down
at her and tells her that she’s growing up, while she charms the spaghetti to cook to precisely al
dente.

Later on, after she’s been tucked into her little cot in her lavender room, she wonders
vaguely if her two uncles will make her birthday cake explode again this year. She’ll go with her
mum to the Burrow tomorrow, and she can’t wait to see her cousins again.

She hears a tired sounding thud against the door downstairs, someone knocking. Yellow
light creeps into her room from the crack under the door. Her mother’s house-robes and
nightgown make shooshing noises as Mum walks past her room, her slippers slapping against the
stairs. She hears the door slowly open, her mum’s gasp and then a man’s low voice, faintly
familiar. Her mother’s voice travels quickly up to her ears. She hears her mother’s gasp become a
hysterical laugh that rapidly becomes a muffled sob.

She sits up in her bed and stares at the steady flow of light seeping into her room from the
hallway. She quickly gets out of bed and grabs her floppy, stuffed stag in her sweaty palm,
crushing it against her chest as she opens her door and steps into the blinding light of the
hallway. Picking up the skirt of her nightgown, so she does not trip, she tiptoes across the hall to
the stairs. She slowly descends the stairs, easing her weight carefully onto each step as the
murmurs from the front hall grow louder and more distinct. The last step creaks. She tiptoes
through the dark kitchen, her bare feet making light pitter-patter sounds on the hardwood floor.
The early spring draft curls around her ankles, making her shiver slightly. She peeks around the
corner.

Her mum’s arms are wound tightly around a man’s neck and the man has his arms
wrapped just as tightly around her mum. A pair of cracked glasses lies forgotten beside their feet.
Her mum is crying softly into the crook of the man’s neck as the man tenderly kisses her hair, her
ear, her shoulder, her temple. Whispering her name.

Her mum suddenly senses her standing quietly around the corner and turns her head
slowly away from the man to look at her, never pulling out of his embrace or dropping her arms
from his shoulders. She is laughing and crying and the same time.

Lily, she calls.

Still holding tightly to her stag, she steps completely out into their view. The man holding
her mother looks up. He has long, messy black hair that tangles its way down, almost past his
chin, and dark bristles around his mouth, like he hasn’t shaved for a week. His dirty, baggy robes
that hang loosely from his shoulders, make him look small but he is taller than her mum. And
he’s been crying happy tears, just like her mum. He looks at her and she back at him.

Green meets green.

Skye? He asks, using his nickname for her. My little Skye?

She looks at him again. She knows him.

Skye. No one called her that for almost three years. And for almost three years, she stared
at his picture till her eyes watered. She needn’t even look up at his forehead.

She knows him.

‘Hi Daddy.’
Reviews 17
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