THIRTEEN
Harry has never seen Grimmauld Place look so festive as it does that December. Ginny insisted on decorating the house for the season, so when Teddy slept over in early December, they’d gone out to get a tree and then spent an evening trimming it. She made sure to get four Christmas stockings for the mantle — one for Harry, one for her, one for Teddy, and one for Snitch. “We’ll add his name to it when he’s born,” Ginny informed Harry as she hung it above the fireplace. For now, its only maker of ownership is a golden drawing of a winged ball. They’ve yet to seriously entertain the idea of what Snitch’s real name should be — “I think you should name him Snitch, though, or maybe Teddy Two,” Teddy suggested as they hung the stockings — but the stocking hangs next to theirs, reminding them of all the possibilities.
A benefit of classroom duty is that Harry has off for both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, a luxury rarely afforded when he’s in the field; then, he usually needs to at least work up until the last possible second before heading to the Burrow. This year, he spends the morning of Christmas Eve, having a lie in with Ginny, his hands cupping her stomach and trying to feel the movements of their son. He hasn’t yet been so lucky, but despite Ginny’s annoyance at other people trying to grab at her swollen abdomen, Harry is always welcome to. “It’s a pity you can’t feel it,” she tells him, genuinely remiss. “He takes after you, constantly pacing in there.”
Harry smiles against Ginny’s freckled shoulder, then kisses it lightly. He’s always been the person who takes after someone, usually someone he’s never met; no one has ever taken after him. “Soon.”
“Soon,” Ginny agrees. “In the meantime, Snitch is telling me he’s very hungry and he would really like a fry up from that place on the corner. So maybe we should take him to breakfast? For Christmas?” Her tone is hopeful, in part because even in the muggle world, Harry is still insisting he accompany her anytime she goes in public. Going out to breakfast with him is something of a treat.
His breath is hot against her shoulder as he chuckles. “Well, I can’t leave him hungry. He is part Weasley.” With great difficulty, Harry pushes the duvet off of them and rolls out of bed. He’s not particularly tidy, and he grabs a pair of jeans and shirt off the floor. If Ginny is hungry, there’s no time for them to mess around with silly things like showers.
She seems to be following a similar line of reasoning as well, grabbing a pair of tracksuit bottoms to wear. She’s been resisting buying newer, pregnancy-friendly clothes, though the extension charms she’s put on her pre-pregnancy clothing won’t hold much longer. As a result, she’s mostly been living in sweats and workout apparel and pajamas. She has a few dresses that still fit with tights, should she need to dress up, and Harry has a feeling that’s her plan for tonight.
They eat their breakfasts in companionable silence, sipping tea and reading — Ginny is trying her hand at the sports section of the muggle paper and Harry has charmed the cover of Ginny’s magical pregnancy book to look like a muggle one instead, and is attempting to read that. “Merlin, this is dull,” Harry comments as he turns the page. “How have you been reading this?”
Ginny snorts. “Very slowly. It nearly always puts me to sleep.”
“Should we get a more interesting book?”
“Eh, I don’t think we need to,” Ginny shrugs, mouth full of bacon. “We can just ask my mum and Healer Harris everything.”
Harry nods, flipping through the book absently. “What the fuck is a birth plan?” He asks as he comes across the chapter on this very subject, never really considering reading it for his answer.
“Search me,” Ginny responds. Is this something she should know? She folds the paper — there’s only so much she understands about Premier League football anyway — and reaches for the book.
He passes it over. “What happened to just asking your mum and Healer Harris?”
Ginny doesn’t answer him. She’s too busy scanning the chapter. “A birth plan is…well, it’s exactly what it sounds like, isn’t it? It’s a piece of parchment where you tell your healer or midwitch all of your wishes for the birth.” She looks at Harry, whose eyes are bearing into hers with obvious confusion. “What?”
“What do you mean, your wishes?” He asks, genuinely perplexed. “Your wish is to have a healthy baby as quickly as possible, is it not?”
Sometimes, Harry can be incredibly thick; Ginny rolls her eyes, despite the fact that she's been actively avoiding this line of thought herself. “No, they mean like, would you prefer to be at home or hospital? Do you want pain potions and charms or not? That sort of thing.”
Harry shoots her a questioning look. “Well…what do you want?”
“Dunno,” Ginny admits. “I hadn’t thought much about it yet. I always thought I’d have babies at home—”
“Really?” There’s a tone of surprise that is revealing, one of those moments where Harry growing up in the muggle world becomes apparent.
“Most magical births are home births, I’ll have you know,” Ginny tells him matter-of-factly. “I was born at the Burrow, and I’d put money on you being born at home, too.”
“Well, yeah, my parents were in hiding,” he points out, a cheeky smile belying the difficulty of the subject for him. “But wouldn’t it be safer, you know, at hospital?”
“For me, it’s really less about safety and more about the fact that usually a midwitch attends a home birth but a healer attends a hospital birth. I’m comfortable with Healer Harris, so wherever she tells me to go is where Snitch will be born.” This, too, is something Ginny reckons she should know by now; where a practitioner delivers is, according to her scan of this chapter, something you should assess before you choose yours. But this is, really, the first time Ginny has given any thought to actually giving birth. Before this moment, she mostly thought about the pregnancy and the baby she’d have after it was over; it was simply easier not to dwell on the unpleasant stage that connected those two things.
Knowing even less than Ginny does, Harry nods his agreement. “Well, obviously, you’re the one who is, you know, giving birth — and look, if I could do that part for you, I would, in a heartbeat, but biologically speaking…” He cuts himself off before he can ramble on. “So whatever makes you comfortable and keeps you and Snitch safe is what we’ll do.”
“Mm,” she murmurs, both satisfied by his deference and wishing he’d just make these decisions for her to save her the trouble of thinking about it.
Harry takes a few more sips of his tea before changing the subject. “What time did your mum say for tonight?”
Ginny blinks rapidly a number of times, as if struggling to process what he’s asked. “Six,” she answers finally.
“Might need to meet you there, then.” Harry’s eyes seem many kilometers away. It startles Ginny.
“Everything all right?”
Now it’s Harry’s turn to blink; doing so clears the distance and pensiveness in his eyes a bit. “Uh, well, it’s Christmas Eve. I, er…well, I don’t know if you remember, but I go to Godric’s Hollow on Christmas Eve.” He did this when they were together, too, and given that he told her about the Christmas Eve he almost died in Godric’s Hollow during the war, he’d expect her to remember it.
“Right, to lay a wreath on your parents’ grave,” Ginny remembers her eyes widening in recognition. “I should have remembered…”
“It’s okay,” Harry lies. He hates how it makes him feel exposed, having someone explain it back to him like that. Being vulnerable is easier with Ginny than it is with anyone else, but that doesn’t make it easy. “It’s especially important for me this year,” he adds, intoning his voice meaningfully. It’s not like it’s a mystery to her that her pregnancy has made him feel more connected to his parents, and has made him long for the kind of closeness to them that will forever be unattainable.
Ginny swallows with hesitance but never breaks eye contact with Harry. “I’d like to come with you,” she tells him. It’s an offer, but it’s also a statement, a declaration of intention. As if realizing Harry might want that time alone with his parents, she hastily adds: “That is, if you’re all right with that.”
The silence between them is deafening for a few moments while Harry ponders this. Finally, after what feels like years to Ginny but might actually only be a minute, he answers. “It would mean everything to me if you’d come, actually.” And it’s difficult to feel vulnerable like this, but it also feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders.
Upon returning to Grimmauld Place, Ginny pulls out a piece of parchment and scribbles a note for her mum informing her that she and Harry will likely be a little late for Christmas Eve dinner; without the warning, Molly would certainly panic. She yawns as she ties the note to Mammoth’s leg, so Harry proposes a Christmas Eve nap. As they settle back beneath the duvet, Ginny is certain it’s one of the best ideas Harry has ever had.
Though Ginny is asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow — pregnancy exhaustion and a large meal fueling a deep slumber — Harry only falls asleep for brief, five to seven minute intervals, bolting awake between, and then tossing and turning because he is tired and knows he should be sleeping. That’s the unsolicited advice of the moment: sleep now, you won’t get a chance when the baby comes. But Harry’s never slept well, maybe not ever in his life, and he doesn’t see how the impending arrival of fatherhood would make it any easier to sleep, anyhow. If he’s honest with himself, suggesting a nap was really more of a way of ensuring that Ginny got the rest she needed without her feeling like he’s nagging her to sleep.
By the time Ginny wakes from the nap, Harry has long given up on getting any rest himself. Harry’s already ready for their excursion to the cemetery and Christmas Eve dinner; a note on Harry’s side of the bed explains that he’s waiting for her in the drawing room. Ginny hastily gets ready, taking a quick shower, charming her hair dry, and squirming into an uncomfortable pair of black tights and a flowy green velvet dress that still fits over her stomach. She laments that none of her jeans fit anymore — this dress feels dressy for Christmas Eve at her parents’ house, and the tights dig into her swollen abdomen uncomfortably — but she’s not upset enough about it that she’d actually consider buying any pairs that would fit better for now. She shoves her feet into a pair of black boots before going to retrieve Harry in the drawing room.
She doesn’t need to walk all the way to the drawing room, however. She finds her boyfriend sitting on the floor in Snitch’s half-finished nursery, playing with a training snitch she thinks he probably got for Teddy. Just like this morning, there is a pensive, far-off look deep within Harry’s striking green eyes, like he’s not really there at all. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a soft, worn Weasley jumper, and something catches in her chest, completely overcome by the observation that Harry is wearing one of her mum’s Christmas gifts from years ago when they’re about to go see his long-deceased parents. She shifts from one foot to the other before calling to him: “Harry?”
Something snaps, suddenly, and Harry is there again, like the mere sound of her voice brought him home. Something like a smile plays at his lips as he locks eyes with her. “Sleep well, Gin?”
“I needed the nap,” she tells him, implicitly confirming that she did. “I’m, er, ready to go. Whenever you are.” She narrows her eyes to examine him, concerned about his well-being and unsure of the best way to support him.
If Harry notices, though, he doesn’t show it. He simply nods, moves to stand; he deposits the toy snitch in a drawer of the baby’s chest, which is currently otherwise empty. “I just need to get shoes and my coat.”
They go downstairs, where they bundle up in their jackets and Harry puts on his shoes. Then, before she knows it, he pulls her close to him and apparates them to Godric’s Hollow.
Ginny hasn’t been here before, though not necessarily because she didn’t want to come with Harry the handful of times he’d visited while they’d been together. She never offered, mostly because he never asked, and then he’d return from his visits moody and withdrawn, expecting support but sharing nothing of what he felt. Harry clasps her hand tightly in his as he leads her toward the graveyard. There’s a dusting of snow on the ground, just enough that it’s slippery under the soles of their shoes, and their interlaced fingers provide stability against that as well as emotional comfort.
They enter the graveyard, in the shadow of a little church, and Harry guides her around in a trance, as if by muscle memory with no actual thought given to the location. When they reach his parents’ gravestone, Harry reaches out and carefully brushes all of the snow off of it, then drops to kneel in front of it. Gingerly, Ginny follows his lead, though the downward motion is not terribly easy for her right now.
Withdrawing his wand, Harry conjures a wreath and places it against the headstone, before staring at it in almost a meditative silence. Ginny doesn’t know what, exactly, she expected Harry to do, but this doesn’t quite square with it. She’s about to ask him if they should say anything when his voice cuts through the silence. “Happy Christmas, Mum, Dad,” he says, softly, but with the quiet air of the place it feels quite loud.
“Happy Christmas,” Ginny repeats, looking only at Harry, whose blank expression is going soft and whose eyes are going watery.
“You know Ginny,” he says, as if he really is speaking to his parents, and Ginny supposes it’s a testament to how safe she makes him feel that he’s having this conversation without any self-consciousness in front of her. “I know I haven’t brought her here before, but I know you know her.” And Ginny wants to ask him how he knows that, but she doesn’t get a chance as he continues. “So you probably already know that Ginny and I are having a baby. A little boy.” He swallows deeply, and this is the moment where it becomes clear to Ginny that Harry is definitely going to cry. “In May. You can tell Remus that Teddy is going to be his big brother.” And then there’s a little pause while Harry tries (and fails) not to cry, before he adds: “I need you both to look out for him the way you always looked out for me.”
Harry’s clearly in pain, and she hates that — seeing someone she cares so deeply for so visibly hurting — so Ginny throws her arms around him and pulls him closer to her. He melts into the touch. They stay there in their embrace for a while, silent but no words are needed to fill the space. It’s Harry who breaks the hug, his face streaked with his tears; they’ve also created small damp patches on the shoulders of her coat and in her hair. He looks at the battered old wrist watch her mum gave him for his seventeenth birthday, and nods as if to tell himself that his moment is over . “I’ll come see you soon,” he says, his hand against the gravestone, before he turns to leave. His eyes linger seriously on the dates, chronicling his parents’ short lives. Then he tugs Ginny’s hand as if to tell her it’s time to go.
She suggests a bit of a walk, to give them time to collect themselves before apparating on to the Burrow. They make their way down the snowy lanes, watching the odd person in the street and the soft glow of the street lamps.
“Er, I don’t care if it’s the first name or the middle name,” Harry says finally, after some time has passed. “But it’d mean a lot if we could name Snitch after my dad.”
And Ginny looks up at him, studying his face, and it’s so obvious, she can’t believe it wasn’t a foregone conclusion. “Of course,” she tells him firmly. “‘Course his name is James.”
The smile he returns is small and weak, but genuine. “I’d still like to, er, refer to him as Snitch for now.”
“Naturally,” Ginny agrees, squeezing Harry’s hand reassuringly.
Harry pulls her to him tightly, breathes in the smell of her hair — the scent of home — and without even thinking about it but nevertheless fully aware of what he’s saying, he murmurs into her hair: “I love you.”
Ginny is startled at the abruptness of his confession and pulls back to look at his face. “What?”
A soppy, deeply grateful expression is written across Harry’s face as he looks at her and repeats: “I love you. So bloody much.” Then, he pauses, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t expect you to say it back,” he adds, just as much to reassure himself as her.
But Ginny finds this genuinely funny, a sincere giggle escaping her lips. “Harry,” she breathes, once she’s caught her breath. “I love you, too.”
As he pulls her to him once more and turns on the spot to bring her to the Burrow, it occurs to him once more that while these words are monumental and huge, they are also the easiest things you can tell a person if they’re true.
…
The Burrow is alive and practically glowing with energy, Christmas Eve in full swing, even though they aren’t terribly late when they arrive. The holidays, even more than Sunday lunches, are the time when the Weasley People Collection is most on display. Every single member — from Teddy and Andromeda to the literal Minister of Magic to Charlie’s friend from the dragon reserve who couldn’t get back to his family in New Zealand this year — is there enjoying the holiday spirit, with a mug of mulled wine or eggnog.
Ginny and Harry barely have time to grab drinks of their own — gillywater for her and eggnog spiked with firewhiskey for him — when Percy approaches, trailed by an unassuming woman with blonde hair. To Harry’s mind, the woman — with her pale skin and pale hair, all of her very beige — reminds him of his Aunt Petunia, just a bit. “Audrey,” Percy says to the woman in a far gentler tone of voice than he’d use with any of his siblings or Harry, “This is my little sister Ginny and her boyfriend, Harry.”
The woman — Audrey — extends her hand stiffly but eagerly; it occurs to Harry that if this woman isn’t Percy’s girlfriend, perhaps she should be. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she chirps, accent distinctly American; Ginny is quite sure that she may be the first ever American at the Burrow. “I’m Audrey! I’m a friend of Percy’s.”
Ginny — usually the more talkative between her and Harry — finds herself looking at Audrey, eyes narrowed in curiosity instead of responding; as such, it falls on Harry to respond. He takes pity on Audrey’s extended hand and shakes it. “Good to meet you,” he responds, noticing the way Ginny shoots her brother a curious glance. “Er, you’re from the States?”
Audrey looks shocked. “How’d you guess?”
Harry blinks; it’s thoroughly unsurprising for Percy to be friends with someone lacking such self awareness. “Your accent?” As Audrey’s skin goes pink, Harry thinks it’s a relief that she no longer just looks beige; next to him, Ginny barely stifles a snort.
“Oh, yes,” Audrey laughs self-consciously. “Minnesota — Minneapolis area, if you know it.” Harry and Ginny share a glance that communicates that the pair of them have no idea where or what Minnesota is. “I moved to London for work somewhat recently and my family, well, they’re no-maj — or muggle, you'd call it — so they wouldn’t have been comfortable with me just portkeying home for a few days for the holiday, you know? So Percy invited me.” Still appearing very nervous, certainly not helped by the fact that Percy’s sister has yet to say a word to her, she continues rambling — this time, directed at Ginny. “Percy did mention that you’re expecting. So exciting,” she comments enthusiastically, glancing at Ginny’s stomach. “When are you due?”
“May,” Ginny answers with poorly-concealed annoyance.
“A boy, right?” Audrey continues, unperturbed in a way that Harry almost respects; were he in the woman’s shoes, he would have certainly made his exit by now, feeling as unwelcome by Ginny as she must.
“The first grandson,” Percy swoops in. “Audrey is actually a healer who specializes in reproductive magic and fertility,” he explains to Harry and Ginny, voice bordering on pride. “I don’t know if you know, but there’s actually been a concerning decline in magical births in the UK since the war, and the Americans really pioneered this specialty, so there’s been a new crop of healers brought over from the States to work on the issue.”
Ginny did not know this; instinctively, her hand goes to her stomach, though she’s not sure why, exactly, this makes her feel protective.
“A decrease meaning, er, fewer magical people are having children? Or fewer magical people are having magical babies?” Harry clarifies, his brow furrowed in something like confusion.
“Mainly the former,” Audrey explains. “Though I’m sure you’ve noticed your healer has been checking in on magical development?” Harry and Ginny look at each other again and nod. “That charm was actually developed by my mentor — there’s some controversy over its use, because some patients would rather terminate than continue a squib pregnancy, but ultimately, it also helps us provide better care. There doesn’t seem to be any significant increase in squib pregnancies, though; there’s just a lot of, you know, things like spell damage from the war that appear to be affecting the ability of some couples to conceive now.” She explains this with the air of someone who is struggling to balance explaining something with clinical precision and using commonly-understood language.
Harry’s brow is still tightly knit. He’s thought for months it must be lucky that Ginny got pregnant — mostly because he deeply wanted a family and it was a wonderful surprise to have the opportunity pop up — but hearing Audrey talk about this, he realized it must actually be nothing short of miraculous. After all, he and Ginny must have sustained a lot of spell damage during the war — she took the Cruciatus many times while at Hogwarts and, for Merlin’s sake, he’s survived the killing curse, twice! That doesn’t even begin to cover the other hexes and curses they took, or all of the spells that have landed Harry in hospital in his years as an Auror.
“Are there spells that seem…more likely to cause it?” Ginny asks hesitantly. Harry doesn’t even need to look at her to know her thoughts are similar to his, if not the exact same.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Audrey explains vaguely. “Lots of compounding factors — someone who is older is naturally less fertile than someone younger, for example, so it might affect them more profoundly. One of the most difficult things about this situation is that there don’t seem to be many commonalities between cases, so treatment plans are very specialized. In the States, I actually kept general obstetrics as part of my practice, but here, I have fewer fertility cases that take up more time each.” There’s a curious expression on Audrey’s face that seems to tell Harry that she wants to ask about the spell damage he and Ginny might have sustained during the war and whether there was any difficulty for them conceiving, but is much too professional to bring it up in a social setting. He’s grateful for that.
“Fascinating,” Harry comments, and he really does mean it. Percy Weasley might be one of the dullest people he’s ever known, but he apparently can hold the attention of someone interesting.
“It really is,” Percy comments. “At the Ministry, we were all expecting a baby boom after the second war — much like the first — but it hasn’t quite worked out that way.” He pauses, looking at his sister and Harry meaningfully. “That’s what’s got people so excited about your baby, I think. Harry Potter having a baby gives them all hope.”
Harry’s eyes cloud over darkly, and he snakes a protective arm around Ginny’s shoulders. “I’m not about to let anyone put the hope of the wizarding world on our baby.” He turns to Audrey. “It’s nice to meet you. Happy Christmas.” He is trying to be polite to Audrey, but it comes out curt because of his sudden contempt toward Percy. Ginny is all too eager to follow Harry out of the situation — even if it means her mom might have a chance to grab at her belly now.
“Are you okay?” Ginny whispers to him. Past Harry would be moody and ornery following an interaction like the one they just had with Percy; she doesn’t know this more mature Harry quite as well, can’t know if that holds true now.
“I’m livid,” he admits. “It’s a bad time to say that sort of thing to me.” It’s not clear whether the time he’s referring to is after visiting his parents’ grave or when he’s just trying to enjoy Christmas or when his girlfriend is pregnant — or some combination of the three. “But I’m going to go give Teddy a hug and spend some time talking to people I love, and I’ll get over it.” When he says love, he looks at her, and she can see how much he feels for her as though it’s shining from his eyes.
They walk over to Teddy, who is brimming with the sort of Christmas cheer that only children are capable of. He excitedly rambles to them about how Father Christmas is going to come to Harry’s house, too, and can Harry and Ginny please make sure he has mince pies left out? He wants to know whether Father Christmas comes for babies that are still in their mummies’ tummies, before informing his grandmother, Victoire, and Fleur that Snitch already has a stocking at Grimmauld Place.
“Sneetch?” Fleur asks curiously. “Who ees Sneetch?”
Teddy blinks. “Snitch is the baby in Ginny’s tummy. That’s his name.”
“Not his real name,” Harry jumps in, aware that others might think Teddy is serious, given Ginny’s track record of naming things. “Just what Ginny and I have been calling him while decide on one.”
As if her senses tingled at the conversation, Hermione now stands next to them. “Talking about names?” She asks excitedly, loudly enough that all of Ginny’s brothers look over.
“Obviously we’re talking about it. He’ll be here in a few months,” Ginny scoffs, though tonight was really the first time they talked about it and it resulted in choosing a name.
“Which means we need to discuss it now, otherwise Ginny might actually name him Snitch,” Harry jokes good-naturedly. Ginny scowls playfully; she hates that Harry is in on her family’s inside jokes sometimes.
“If Victoire was a boy, I liked Sébastien,” Fleur contributes unhelpfully, as if a random French name will be of much use to two very English parents.
“No, Fleur,” Teddy sighs in exasperation. “Sebastian is a lobster in the movie where the mermaid sells her voice for a kiss.” Fleur, whose daughter definitely does not have access to muggle movies, is understandably confused. “Uncle Harry, can we show Victoire the mermaid movie?”
“Sure,” Harry agrees, though he’s quite sure Victoire has never been to Grimmauld Place, where the TV and movie live. “Anyway, we think we’ll just call him Snitch until he’s born, keep the name a surprise.”
“Harry!” George calls from behind him, merrily holding a bottle of firewhiskey. “Do you need a little more Christmas cheer in your drink?”
Harry shakes his head; the eggnog is already quite strong. “I’m all set, thanks.”
“None for you,” George tells his sister, waving the bottle in her face. Noticing she’s just about done with her gillywater, he motions for her to join him. “Come on, Gin, let’s get you another drink.”
Ginny follows her brother over to the table where charms are keeping the nonalcoholic drinks cool. He twists off the cap of a glass bottle of gillywater before casually saying: “So you and Harry are talking about names, huh?” It’s only then that Ginny realizes her brother’s general air of merriment was at least somewhat put on
“We are,” Ginny agrees. “I’m not going to tell you what it is, though.”
“Is he going to be Potter or Weasley?”
Ginny shrugs. “We haven’t talked about it much. Harry says we could hyphenate, but I don’t think I hate him enough to make him write Potter-Weasley on the top of every paper in school,” she jokes. “I reckon we’ll just go with Potter. Harry doesn’t have anyone else who shares his name so…well, I think he deserves that.” She hasn’t told Harry this yet, but she thinks he’ll be touched, if not also pleased in that strange, masculine way he is every time he sees her bump. She takes a sip of her drink.
George nods. “He deserves that,” he agrees. He pauses for a second, sloshing some firewhiskey into a tumbler and tossing it back. “I don’t want to, er, presume that I know what names you’re talking about. And you don’t have to tell me,” he adds, uncharacteristically serious. “But…well, I want to name my future son after Fred. Not that Ang is — we’re not having kids anytime soon, I mean, but if you could leave that name for me…” He isn’t looking at her, and she can’t tell if he’s embarrassed to be asking or just feeling that aching sadness that never really stopped accompanying Fred’s memory.
Ginny nods. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Just like naming Harry’s son James, leaving the name Fred for George should have been a foregone conclusion, she reckons. Even so, she curses the realization that James Frederick Potter is actually a lovely name. “Can you keep a secret?”
George shoots her an incredulous look. “I’m offended you’d ask.”
“You know what I mean. Can you keep this secret?” Her brother’s eyes widen and he nods eagerly. She looks around them and casts a quick muffliato before whispering: “We’re naming him James, okay? Act surprised when he’s born.” And she ends the charm and walks away before George can say anything else. She can tell, though, that this is exactly what her brother was hoping to hear.
…
Waking up with Ginny on Christmas morning is one of those things that makes Harry believe reality can, in fact, be superior to his wildest fantasies. They’d stayed up late the night before, arranging Teddy’s presents and charming a note from Father Christmas to make sure he couldn’t tell the handwriting belonged to either of them. Ginny ate the mince pies, leaving behind some telltale crumbs, and Harry knocked back a brandy to make the scene even more convincing. They’d gone to bed contented and full of cheer; even he had slept well that night, dreaming of next Christmas with Snitch — their James. It was the only night in recent memory where he didn’t have a single nightmare.
They wake up with Harry curled around her, resembling cutlery, and when he realizes she’s awake as well, he greets her by pressing lazy, warm kisses into her shoulders and neck. It’s a happy Christmas morning indeed when these kisses to skin become languid, slow kisses of their mouths, which in turn becomes an unhurried, enjoyable shag before they even leave bed. Next Christmas, Snitch will almost certainly wake them up before they can do that, and that will be amazing in its own way; still, Harry is quite certain this is the very best Christmas he’s ever had.
Teddy and Andromeda arrive for a late breakfast, which Harry has told her is their tradition. Kreacher has prepared a feast that is really much too large for the four of them when Harry and Ginny still have Christmas lunch at the Burrow ahead of them — platters of eggs and pastries and fruits, and steaming mugs of hot chocolate for all of them. Hot chocolate, Ginny knows well by now, is Teddy’s favorite part of breakfast at Grimmauld Place.
They all open gifts. Teddy is particularly excited by the new training broom Harry gives him and the games for his muggle Gameboy from “Father Christmas”. Ginny gives Harry a new camera — “for capturing lots of memories when Snitch gets here,” she tells him with a grin — and Harry reiterates with misty eyes just how much he loves her; this earns him a knowing smile from Andromeda and a lot of teasing from Teddy, a small price to pay for the words he never wants to stop saying again. When Ginny opens Harry’s gift of theatre tickets she actually squeals. “I’ve always wanted to go to the theatre,” she tells him breathlessly, before kissing him soundly and saying he loves him back.
After Teddy and Andromeda go home — they’ll have Christmas lunch with Andromeda’s sister (and presumably, her nephew as well), which Harry doesn’t want to talk about much — Harry shyly produces one last parcel. “I have one more,” he admits. “It’s a bit silly but…” He holds it out for her.
Ginny shakes her head, as though she couldn’t possibly accept. “You’ve already given me too much.”
“It’s really for Snitch,” Harry promises, pushing the parcel toward her again. “Open it,” he prompts her.
Ginny glances toward him skeptically, but she reaches for the package and unties the ribbon wrapped around it as she sits. It unfolds in front of her until what she finds is a tiny Holyhead Harpies jersey; she turns around and sure enough the back is emblazoned with her signature number 6 and the name Weasley. There’s also a little hat that Ginny is sure must be her team’s first ever baby hat. Hormonal as she is, she can’t help that her eyes water.
“I thought Snitch could wear it to cheer you on next season,” Harry tells her softly.
She opens her mouth in a small circle, but it takes her a few moments to find her words. “You…you think I’ll earn my starting position back?” Her voice is small, and it’s clear to Harry that this is a big fear of hers, that she got pregnant at the height of her game and stayed pregnant, understanding the risk that she might never get her starting chaser spot back.
“‘Course you will,” Harry tells her confidently, because he never had any doubt. “The team’s struggling without you. When you show up for preseason training, they’ll be begging you to save them.” It’s maybe a slight exaggeration; the Harpies are doing fine, but they aren’t topping the league like they did the year before, with Ginny chasing.
She launches herself to him, snaking her arms under his and burying herself in his chest. “Thank you,” she whispers against the place where his heartbeat thumps steadily in her ear. Even Ginny isn’t sure whether she’s thanking him for the gift or for believing in her — it’s really both, she supposes, though probably more the latter. She certainly could have gotten Snitch a jersey herself, after all.
“Anything for you,” Harry murmurs into her head. “I have no doubt you’ll get it back. You’re brilliant.” He draws her closer to him, and then moves one hand to her stomach, almost unconsciously.
They’re there for a few moments, just holding one another, when Harry feels it, the sudden pressure against his hand. His eyes go wide. “Was that…what I think it was?” He asks her breathlessly.
Ginny’s eyes go wide as well. “You could feel that?”
Harry nods excitedly. “So that’s — that’s him?”
“Yeah — he, uh, I guess is already very excited to join his dad for quidditch games,” she jokes, placing her hand over Harry. Snitch gives their hands another kick — or maybe it’s more of a high five or elbow jab. It’s not quite clear to either of them which body part is greeting them.
“Happy Christmas to you as well,” Harry says, more to Ginny’s stomach than to her. “Y’know, I reckon this is the closest thing to magic muggles get,” he adds, this time all for Ginny.
“Not movies?”
“Maybe movies,” Harry concedes. “But personally? I think this is way more magical.”
…
Somehow, Harry and Ginny sharing their baby’s kicks for the first time is only the second biggest thing to happen that Christmas in the Weasley family. When they arrive at the Burrow for Christmas lunch, they’re met with even more consequential news: Ron and Hermione have gotten engaged.
It’s not a surprise, really, except in the sense that it happened on Christmas. Otherwise, most of the family would say it was long overdue. Harry, for his part, had gone with Ron to pick out the ring ages ago and was relieved to see his best mate had finally bucked up and done it. He even says as much, as he claps Ron on the shoulder and leans over to kiss Hermione’s cheek.
“I looked completely stupid giving him a Gameboy after he gave me a ring,” Hermione tells Harry with an uncharacteristic guffaw. “You promise you didn’t know he was doing it on Christmas?”
Harry holds up his hands in defense. “I swear, I had no clue! He’s had that ring since March.”
“I was waiting for the right time, is all,” Ron says defensively with a good natured roll of his eyes. “Anyway, Hermione, I already told you: I’d much rather have a Gameboy than a ring. I reckon engagement Gameboys should be a new trend!”
Molly Weasley, for her part, seems excited to have an outlet for the wedding planning energy she hasn’t been permitted to use on her daughter. It’s lucky for everyone, really, that Ron and Hermione have to leave to spend the rest of Christmas Day with Hermione’s parents; no one wants to hear Molly lobby them further on planning a wedding for the spring. (“We’re thinking the fall, Mum,” Ron insists no less than three times before leaving. “Spring is really soon, and we’ve got enough coming up, don’t we?”)
Where Christmas Eve at the Burrow is lively, Christmas Day is usually rather quiet. This is when the Weasley boys tend to spend time with their partners’ families. Harry, for his part, hasn’t got any family for him and Ginny to see today, so Christmas lunch is really just her parents, them, and Percy (but not, notably, Audrey). The food is less elaborate than the previous night, though it is plentiful and delicious as always.
After they eat, Molly gives them each their new jumpers. “I owled your brothers’ this morning but, well, you were coming here,” she explains as she hands them each a lumpy parcel, dropping two in Ginny’s lap.
Ginny unwraps the first and is touched by what she finds. Inside the parcel is a soft green sweater — sized for an infant — in the center of which is a beautiful golden snitch. “Mum,” Ginny gasps, tears welling in her eyes. The reaction is short lived, however, because as soon as she opens the second parcel, she’s just confused.
It’s her normal Christmas jumper, but it’s much larger than it normally is. She wrinkles her nose. “Mum,” she repeats, this time much sharper, tinged with annoyance and a little bit of anger. “What is this ?”
“Your jumper,” Molly replies innocently.
“It’s ginormous,” Ginny scoffs.
“It is not,” Molly bites back. “It’s sized to accommodate your changing figure.” Ginny hates that last part; it sounds as though it’s dripping with judgment to her. She’s been waiting for that shoe to drop, so it immediately puts her on the defensive.
“I’m not fat,” Ginny murmurs, a mix of anger and offense clouding her voice.
“Of course you’re not,” Harry jumps in with a calm voice, because that feels like his job at this point, and because he can’t just sit around and watch Ginny feel upset over her body, not when he’s never appreciated her body more than he does now that she’s pregnant with their baby.
“You’re pregnant,” her mother continues, as if Ginny hasn’t realized this, and is a stupid little girl who needs these things explained to her. “That means you need bigger clothes.”
“In a few months, I won’t be pregnant anymore,” Ginny huffs. “And then I’d just have all these big clothes for no reason? It’s silly, Mum.”
“What’s silly is you thinking your body will be normal after you’ve had a baby, Ginevra,” Molly shoots back, something decidedly sharp in her tone. Though Molly has expressed displeasure at the idea that Ginny is pregnant out of wedlock, this is the first time Ginny has felt it manifest in something like vitriol.
This strikes something in Ginny, whose eyes cloud with white hot rage. What her mother said might be true — pregnancy permanently changes a woman’s body and even she’s expected that it would take some time to get back to her typically athletic physique — but she is reading the subtext of it. What her mother is really saying is that she shouldn’t have had sex with Harry Potter if she wasn’t willing to give up her body for it.
“I’m an athlete, Mum,” Ginny seethes, eyes narrowing. “Loads of women — including women I play with — have gotten back into shape after they had babies. Are you implying I can’t?”
“It’s not as easy as you might think,” her mother insists in that same condescending tone. “And I don’t think you’ve ever considered what you might do if you’re so busy with the baby you don’t have time to devote to something as silly as losing weight.”
“It’s not silly if it’s my career, Mum.”
“It’s not a career suited to a mother, anyway,” Molly continues, undeterred. “What are you going to do if you have to go out of town for a game and Harry has to go away for work at the same time, hm? Your father and I are always happy to help, of course, but it would be such a shame if your son saw more of us than his parents…”
With great restraint he wasn’t sure he possessed, Harry manages not to jump in and reassure Molly that he will not be going away for work anytime soon. He did, after all, promise Ginny he’d let her fight her own battles, and jumping into her row with her mother on Christmas seems a lousy way to keep that promise.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking joking,” Ginny sputters, face going red with rage. Her heart is beating fast in a familiar way, one that tells her her anger is making her powerful . “Mum, Harry and I have planned for this. We’re not children.”
“You are practically children!”
“We’re older than you and dad were when you had Bill,” Ginny shoots back.
“We were married.”
“So we’re back to that, then, are we?” Ginny throws her hands up in frustration and anger and disbelief. “Is that what this is really about, hm? You’re embarrassed because you think your daughter is a slag who spread her legs for Harry-bloody-Potter and doesn’t even have the decency to marry him and quit her shameful, unladylike career?”
Molly doesn’t respond to that. Presumably, she feels guilty and ashamed when Ginny puts it that way, or at the very least conscious of the fact that she shouldn’t make her daughter feel like this.
“Happy bloody Christmas, Mum!” Ginny screams, storming out of the room and to the back door without even grabbing her coat.
Harry quickly summons it, and hastily puts his on. “I, uh, think she’s probably going to want to be going home,” he winces apologetically. He can’t say he disagrees with Ginny, but unlike her, he doesn’t feel he has the right to be indignant about the tone of her mother’s words. “She’s probably too tired to safely apparate on her own.”
The three remaining Weasleys call weak Christmas wishes after Harry, who offers one more flickering smile before running to follow Ginny out the door. He catches up to her as she exits the wards surrounding the house, calls to her. He holds out her coat, which she accepts gratefully. Then, he holds out his arms, an invitation. She buries herself in them.
“D’you want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head against the wool of his jacket. “Not really. Not now.”
“Okay,” he agrees. “You’re not a slag, though. Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that.”
She chuckles weakly. “I’m also not sure I really spread my legs when we made him, technically speaking. I think it might have been at your birthday party when we snuck off and shagged in the bathroom of that muggle pub.”
Harry laughs, a little disbelievingly. They hadn’t talked about this before, but it’s a strange realization, to think your child might have been conceived from behind in a pub bathroom while a drunk muggle girl banged on the door, screaming that she needed to pee. Romantic it was not, but at least they were laughing, Harry thinks vaguely. “We’re not telling him that.”
“Definitely not,” Ginny agrees before they apparate home.