Black Cotton Shorts

I own no part of the Harry Potter universe, but, oh, if I did!

I have been with him for many years, and anyone else would have said I've outlived my usefulness. I have faded in my old age; I'm not as strong or as vibrant as I was. But while I have gone a bit soft and loose around the middle, I still serve my purpose. They say if you spend enough time around someone you start to become like them. I do not know if this is true, but I would be honored to obtain that distinction, though I doubt my Owner would feel the same should our positions be reversed.

I have heard and seen many things while I've been with my Owner; I am unnoticeable to those around. We have been through much, and before I am cast aside to be used as nothing more than an old rag if I am to be so lucky, I will tell of our time together, the good and the bad.

Yes, there have been both, although mostly the former, and only recently the latter. We came together when he was younger man. He was strong and lean, and I knew we would fit well together. Those were busy days but good. He was planning his future, studying hard and working long, grueling hours. He socialized and slowly came out of the shell that his demon father had trapped him in.

Then the Dark period descended. He was nervous and fitful by turn, and I could do no more than what was necessary to care for him. After one horror-filled night, despair set in. He screamed in the night, lost in his own anguish and inconsolable, trapped inside his nightmares.

Lonely years lay ahead for us. There was no one he could turn to for solace, to take away his self-loathing. Alone in his cold damp rooms, more like cells than living quarters, with not even a faint moonbeam for company, he would turn to his own hand to ease his aching and desperate loneliness, crying out at his release and praying to those he lost for forgiveness and pleading for mercy.

He eventually settled into a meager sort of existence. The Darkness had been pushed back for a time, and he did what he could to move on. He taught, he experimented in his lab, and when the pain and anguish came rushing back, he turned to alcohol and hashish to keep the monsters locked inside his head. In his chemical haze, he would gently stroke himself and remember his younger self; the lusty days with girls in hidden corners and unused corridors, bared breasts that he kissed and licked and suckled. His hand would increase its tempo thinking of the warm, wet pussies he dipped his fingers into, and occasionally his tongue or cock, if he could talk the chit into it, and the soft round globes of their asses that he clutched at to pull them closer into the cradle of his thighs or to guide them as they rode him to their release. He would come then, in his hand or on his belly as I hung about his knees.

My main purpose in his life, it seemed, was to witness his sorrow and misery as he desperately attempted to lead a secure life. The night his life turned into a seeming never-ending nightmare, he tried to partially assuage his guilt by offering the only thing worthwhile in his life, his talents and his skill of stealth and observation. He would turn spy against the Dark, and his life became filled with terror and unimaginable evil.

They call him miserable, but never doubt the right he has to be so, for it was a miserable life that he led. He has witnessed more death and human misery than the worst sort of criminal. He suffered for his guilt and for his chance at redemption. He has been tortured beyond reason at the hand of that who was pure Darkness, pure Evil. He has been whipped and cursed, poisoned and made to relive his darkest moments without relief; he has been found broken and unconscious, lying in his own waste when he finally lost his last ounce of control. Yet it is a testament to his strength and character that he returned time and time again, to observe and report back.

Finally, finally, the Dark Lord was vanquished, and while my Owner was near death for many weeks, he survived. He was free, but it was a feeble life he was leading before She entered his life. It had taken him some time to realize he did not have to look over his shoulder, that he was safe in his bed, lonely though it was. But while he knew this, old habits were hard to break, even more so when those habits had kept him alive despite everyone’s best efforts to do him in.

In those days, he was alone and disenfranchised. He didn’t belong among the dead, but neither did he feel he deserved to be among the living. The girl changed all that. “A bushy-haired, know-it-all” is what he called her, but there was an affection in his voice, something I hadn’t heard in many a year. Real affection, not fabricated by scotch or hash. He was not friendly, but he didn’t turn away from what she was so willing to offer him. She became his savior.

They began by arguing, not a day or a topic went by without finding them on opposing sides. When arguing became staid, they moved on to active discussions on potions, hexes, books and whatever else struck their fancy. They did not discuss what was in the forefront of their thoughts—the war, the losses and what remained behind.

Their relationship developed slowly, both equal in terms of nervousness and uncertainty. Their relationship was a rare thing, sacred and more valuable than anything else they held dear in their hearts. When they finally dared to touch, just a small thing, a brush of fingers when passing a glass of wine, the result was immediate and explosive. The glass fell to the floor as they lurched for each other, meeting with tangled tongues and lips, eyes clamped shut and hearts full to bursting with the realization that it was finally possible to live. Her soft small hands were like that of an angel’s touch and were a balm to his fractured soul. When She slipped her hand past me as I sat on low on his hips and made him come immediately. Instead of embarrassment, however, it was with a greedy pleasure that She accepted his gift, his rare loss of control.

They are together to this day, some five years after their first shouting match. And I, his old black cotton shorts, am ready to retire, to be put into the rag box or the rubbish bin.

My Owner was ready to move on in his new life, one free of confinements and reminders of his dreaded past. She has other ideas, including pleading with him to not dispose of their favorite pair of shorts, the one he wore when he came for her their first night together, the same pair he wore on their wedding day when he needed reassurance and a bit of comfort, the selfsame pair he wore when she announced her pregnancy and his subsequent trip to the dispensary after he fell and knocked himself out.

These meager black cotton shorts traveled your life with you, and they share your history, She had whispered and tucked me in the back of her lingerie drawer, While you may no longer want to wear them, they deserve better than the rubbish bin. We should not be so quick to dispose of that which journeyed with us through our lives. What stories would they tell, if they could talk?

What stories, indeed.

A/N: A million thanks to my wonderful beta, Dynonugget!