grandfather winter

Harry James Potter has been a lot of things in his life, most of them born of necessity. 

He was small and fast in childhood, smart and lucky during his years at Hogwarts, selfless and brave during the war. After the war, when his responsibilities were over, he became quiet and reflective, beholden to no one. 

As a father, he was strong and loving. His whole life had been a heavy responsibility, but he’d never expected the weight that three young lives would place on his shoulders. He is still all of things he’s always been, though he can feel obligation down to his bone marrow. 

It isn’t until he’s a grandfather - until a grinning James hands him little Lee Winter Potter, minutes old and so warm and sleepy and sweet that Harry finds within himself softness. 

There’s no crushing weight of destiny and blame upon him this time, it’s just him and his tiny grandson, seemingly alone in the world. Ginny falls in love with him over again, and James vows to see that look on his father’s face as much as humanly possible in the coming years. 

Harry is as close to his first grandson as he’s ever been to anyone. His affection and love for him even rivals how he’d felt about Ron and Hermione in their younger, desperate days. 

He finds, in Lee, peace. 

For the anon who asked about “lovely, sweet, grandpa Harry” - here it is :) 

Lams AU Masterpost

@publius-esquire and @madtomedgar have been writing a fantastic, extended Hamilton/Laurens fanfic since 2013. The basic premise is that Laurens survived the Battle of the Combahee River. Politics, angst, sex, and sometimes a combination of all three. 

They aren’t written in a serialized format, but I’ve made a list that puts them in chronological order. There are a few ficlets that can really go anywhere, so I’ve just placed them strategically. If you’d rather read them in order of when they were posted, you can here or here. Most stories that need a content warning have one at the start.

Last updated: August 1st, 2016. Most recently updated story is starred and bolded.

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I stake my flag in you.
Offer you figs to sweeten the deal
your grandfather made one winter morning,
his donkeys breathing fog,
frost spreading like clutching
fingers across his fields.

Your abuela, bruja mia,
her lips spilling sugar,
taking the silver cross – your mother’s –
into her mouth, spit slick,
reflecting the moonlight,
the christlight.

Your aunts with their sharp voices and even sharper nails
picking nits from one another’s heads,
hair coarse in a way I’ll only understand
looking at your downturned face,
your blacksmith hands,
fingers blunt and heady in me.

We pack our daughter into the backseat,
leave our little house in the bad end of town
to the last trip of our youth.
Your voice slow and rich,
the country blown out of it by your strangeness,
your familiar mouth tasting fig corrupt, fig sweet.
—  Crystal Vega-Huerta, “Figs”