Harry/Ginny (preg announc)
“Harry?”
He looked up at the sound of Ginny’s voice, seeing her leaning in the doorframe of the kitchen. He sent a warm smile her way, putting down his quill. “Hi, Gin. Need me for something?”
She shifted slightly, shaking her head. “No, just…I don’t think I should play this weekend after all,” she said, rubbing her palm across her stomach. “I feel a bit under the weather.”
“Are you sure? Because we could use all the help we can get; even if you’re at half capacity, you’d smash it.”
Ginny stared at him for a moment and then she laughed, bemusement and incredulity mixing in a way that she’d mastered.
“Harry Potter,” she said, “Are you a bloody Auror or not?”
“What?”
He frowned. He couldn’t parse her meaning but then his subconscious gave him a helping hand, reminding him of her uncharacteristic sickness the week before, and her sudden distaste for coffee, and the way she’d gotten strangely teary after seeing an advert in the Daily Prophet for miniature brooms.
Understanding solidified, crystalline and sparkling.
“No,” he said, shocked. He lost his breath at her sudden, sun-burst smile and then he was laughing, elated beyond belief. “Really?”
“Yes.” She was eating up his joy, eyes dancing across his face. “I found a few days ago and thought you’d have figured it out by now.”
“Fuck.” He wiped at his eyes, finding wetness there. He pushed his glasses up to scrub at them, still laughing in suspended disbelief. “I’m…so happy. Oh, Ginny.”
He went to her then, holding her close against his chest and feeling her own little tremors of happiness.