HP one shots

Five Little Things // Drarry

Summary:

Harry was supposed to be good at this.
____________________________________

At half one in the morning on the third night Teddy sleeps over, the weight in Harry's lungs tips from heavy to suffocating. A plaster slapped over his nose and mouth, shaped out of his own fear. Harry makes himself breathe through it. He looks around the room and counts: five little things. And again. Eventually his dizziness abates.

He's gotten better at managing himself — not that he's had much choice in the matter — but it's a close call. The closest he's had in a while. And it worries him that he can still feel it circling the fringes of his psyche, like a predator feigning abandonment of the hunt. But it's fine. It will be fine. All he has to do is fix things. After, of course, he figures out what he's done wrong, which is turning into a bit of a problem. He was supposed to be a natural at this.

Evidently, he's not. He'd been so stupidly confident that even the dubious, "It's like flying a broom," Andromeda had murmured to herself before Floo-ing away, hadn't fazed him. Harry hadn't been worried. With few exceptions, Teddy's always been a pretty easy kid, and Harry loves him more than life itself — would die or kill for him, if need be. And Harry had been prepared, he's been babysitting for years: he's handled his share of diapers, and temper tantrums, and endless repetitions of Teddy's favourite stories; he knows what sorts of things to cook and when to hold out for another bite of carrots before giving Teddy a biscuit. He spared no cost decorating Teddy's room to Teddy's tastes, hunting through wizarding London for the perfect Unicorn cuddly toy, and Muggle London for a four-year-old sized Blue's Clues Thinking chair, for days on end; Teddy's bed is cosy, his decor not too stimulating, and his nighttime charms are all in place. Tonight, Harry even remembered to have him use the bathroom right before bed.

But none of that changes the fact that Teddy's wet the bed for the third time in a row, or that he's been sobbing like his heart is broken ever since.

The last two nights have been simple in comparison, a quick dunk in the bath, a change of sheets, a new set of pyjamas. A bit of sympathy and a few hugs, a promise of funny pancakes in the morning. Now Teddy won't even respond to a bribe for sweets, and Harry's suggestion of popping out for some GoodNights only resulted in fresh waves of tears and a wailed 'm not a baby!

Rubbing circles over Teddy's back, Harry ignores the terrifying frustration he feels and continues to murmur variations of reassuring things, which fortunately have the advantage of being true — it isn't a big deal, and almost all kids do wet the bed on occasion — but they don't help either. He can't remember the last time he felt this shaken. Why on earth did he think he could parent someone so small, in anything, when he'd had to figure so many things out on his own?

The curlicues on the curtains, Teddy's toy wand. His trainers, left in the middle of the floor. His tiny socks, stuffed into them. And Teddy.

Slow and controlled, Harry breathes.

Andromeda's never going to let him take Teddy on overnights again.

Harry's t-shirt is wet, rubbing unpleasantly against his torso as he paces back and forth with Teddy in his arms. And if he's uncomfortable, Teddy's got to be, as well. He wonders if he should forcibly unwind Teddy's clinging limbs from around him and plunk him down to draw a bath. Some parents are able to make themselves do that — overlook their kid's tears. Are supposed to, at least according to the books. For others it's probably instinctive, and Merlin knows there are some who don't even care. Apparently Harry fits none of those moulds, because he obviously doesn't have the instincts he was sure would materialise when he needed them. Just the idea of pretending he doesn't care closes his airways tight, makes him feel helpless. He hates feeling helpless.