~ George Bernard Shaw
Sunday, April 22nd ~ Early Morning
It wasn't a nightmare, but it was close enough. When Harry woke and turned his head to look at his wife who was sleeping quite peacefully, he knew. It was going to be a not good day judging from the anxiety trying to worm its way out of the pit of what could be called a stomach. Taking a deep breath, Harry forced himself to climb quietly out of bed and not pull Daphne's sleeping form close to reassure himself she and the baby were both alright. Stopping only long enough to pull on some sweats, socks and trainers, he headed out to the workshop.
Dobby went away with drooping ears when dismissed, not harshly, but thoroughly. It wasn't the elf's fault even the thought of food made him ill, but it wasn't as if he hadn't seen Harry this way before.
A slight tremble in Harry's hands made him a bit cautious about what tools he chose to work with. He really did care if he ended up slicing one of his fingers off, but he still needed to do something. Deciding the spindles of the cradle would be one task to keep him centered and concentrating, Harry put the first marked block of oak into the vice and powered up the band saw. The whine of severed wood floated out on the morning air. The smell of its anger over being transformed soon followed.