TWENTY-FOUR
It feels weird, laying back at Healer Harris’ office for one last exam — even weirder when Ginny considers the fact that James is asleep in his pram on the other side of the room, which she doesn’t particularly want to. She could have asked someone — her mum or Fleur, perhaps — to watch him during this appointment, but she didn’t want to do that, either. Fleur is already too invested in when Ginny and Harry will resume their sex life, and she doesn’t want her mom offering judgement and/or advice on the subject. So she arranges to walk in via the front door of the office and takes James for a long walk to get there. She’s spent far too much time cooped up inside in the last six weeks, anyway, and now that Healer Macdonald has declared James healthy enough for the world outside of Grimmauld Place, Ginny sees no issue in taking advantage of the beautiful day.
In two days, it will be the sixth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, which makes the mundanity of today — a walk with the baby, an appointment at the Healer’s, most likely takeaway for dinner — feel even more bizarre. Sunday will be a big day — James’ first introduction to the press, Harry making the annual speech he wishes someone would just take from him already, lots of grief to process alongside everything else — but today is ordinary. The normality of it is blissful, so much so that nothing can penetrate Ginny’s bubble of happiness, not even being naked from the waist down while her son is in the room and not even getting prodded and poked by Healer Harris’ instruments once again.
“You’ve recovered beautifully,” Healer Harris announces after the exam is done, and Ginny exhales a sigh of relief. “So you have my blessing to return to all of your normal activities. Quidditch, sex — it’s all on the menu for you. Unless, of course, you aren’t ready to do those things again, in which case, I will gladly back you up if you want to blame me.”
It occurs to Ginny that the giddy joy she feels upon hearing these words is definitely the happiest she’s felt in quite some time — including the moments after James’ birth, which were filled with so much fear and uncertainty — but she won’t acknowledge that. “No, I’m definitely ready to get back to it all,” she asserts happily, briefly hazarding a glance over to James to confirm he’s still sleeping. He is.
Healer Harris nods. “We need to discuss your options for contraception, then,” she tells Ginny with a no-nonsense and matter-of-fact tone that is eerily similar to Professor McGonagall. Ginny has to shake her head twice to get the image of her old head of house discussing birth control with her out of her mind. “In general, it’s not recommended to get pregnant again within a year of giving birth, but for most women, it’s not an issue if it happens. For you, on the other hand, the Cruciatus exposure and premature birth this time around make it especially important to space out any future pregnancies; your body simply can’t handle another one within the year, and I’d frankly prefer you to not get pregnant for at least another two. It wouldn’t be safe for you or a fetus, and witches tend to be particularly fertile in the year following a birth, so you must be especially careful.”
Ginny, of course, has no intention of getting pregnant within the next two years; she’s not even sure she ever wants to be pregnant again at all. Her preference is to get at least another four seasons of quidditch in, though, and maybe even a chance at the national team and World Cup. Then again, James was not intended either, so the point is well taken. “Well, I’m not sure I trust the potion anymore, to be honest,” Ginny grimaces.
“It’s not completely infallible,” Healer Harris admits with a wrinkle of her nose. “Though I would recommend it over the charm, given that the charm relies on you remembering to cast it each and every time.” Ginny blushes. She and Harry are someone’s parents now, but she doesn’t feel they’re mature enough to never forget the charm.
“So neither is a perfect option,” Ginny concludes with a grimace. “For fuck’s sake, we have literal magic and we don’t have better options than a potion that sometimes doesn’t work and a charm you might forget to cast?” It’s only after she says it that she realizes Healer Harris is, in fact, her healer and not a friend. “Pardon my French,” she adds hastily, averting her gaze.
“That’s quite all right, Ginny,” Healer Harris waves her hand dismissively. “There are some very smart healers in the States and on the continent who are testing alternative methods. But for the time being, I need to recommend the potion — the monthly dose, which is more effective than the yearly — and you can’t use the cycle-altering potions for quidditch anymore. As long as you don’t use those, it should be fairly reliable. Unless, of course, you want to explore muggle options? They have something called the coil that gets inserted into your uterus and emits hormones—”
“I’ll take the potion,” Ginny agrees readily; she doesn’t want to know how this coil gets into one’s uterus. “I’ll do the first dose today.”
Healer Harris smiles. “Great! And then we’ll set you up for a standing monthly appointment to take the potion.” She pauses. “If you’re planning to have sex tonight, I recommend using the charm as well,” she warns. “It can take up to twenty-four hours following the first dose to be fully protective.”
Ginny — who is absolutely planning to have sex tonight — nods her head and commits the information to memory. She practices the charm for good measure, knowing she can cast it, even if she needs Harry there for it to be effective. Because that’s the weird sort of equality wizards have: the men can prevent pregnancy with a charm and the women with potions, and yet no one has figured out a way to give women a charm and men a potion.
Harry, however, is not in a flirty sort of mood when he returns home from work that day. He’s clearly distracted and upset — that heavy, guilt-tinged sadness that always overtakes him as the anniversary of the battle draws near — but it’s confusingly mixed with the warmth he always seems to have an abundance of around James. It occurs to Ginny when he doesn’t immediately ask about her appointment that Harry is so caught up in the grief and responsibility of the coming days that he likely has not fully remembered that she — or, in some sense, they — had something unrelated but also important set to happen today as well. The anticipation is making her batty, but her boyfriend doesn’t seem to notice at all; mostly, he’s focused on the baby, likely to avoid focusing on any of the obligations he’s resigned himself to around May 2 for the rest of his life.
“I’ll do bedtime with him,” she offers, holding her arms out toward Harry. He’s carrying James, who is wrapped in a towel that has the likeness of an owl on its hood, having just come out of the bath.
“It’s fine,” Harry answers her, voice clipped and short. He probably doesn’t mean it — he’ll be horrified if she points it out to him, no doubt — but he’s dismissing her.
“Harry,” Ginny sighs tiredly. She, frankly, could use the break that Harry handling bedtime would afford her, but she wants to give him time to brood on his own; he’ll need it, some release of his negative feelings, if he’s going to be amenable to a seduction later. There was a time where she’d let herself be his outlet for his negative feelings, but she reckons that isn’t healthy; anyway, she doesn’t think she’s ready for that kind of sex right now, not when she needs them to — big ick — make love and bring her back to her body, or whatever it was that Fleur was on about. “You need some time with your thoughts, and I know you’re not going to talk it out with our six week old son.” She puts particular emphasis on James’ age, hoping that might jog Harry’s memory of today’s significance, but his expression shows no recognition.
Pain and resignation flicker behind his vivid emerald eyes. “Ginny, I want to do bedtime with him,” he says, and it sounds tired — exhausted, really. “All day, all anyone wanted to do was talk about the service on Sunday and if I have my speech written and, oh, are you coming? Because not that many people know you already had the baby, mind, and I’m having second thoughts about letting him come to the service, actually. Although, come to think, we don’t have anyone I trust to leave him with who isn’t coming to the service also, so…well, anyway. All I wanted to do was come home to my family.” There’s still a thrill to it, that he has a family, and he’s not sure the wonder he feels at it will ever fade. “So please, just let me have bedtime with my son and then you and I can have some wine or something, and talk about anything other than Sunday.”
And what can Ginny say to that? Wine often has led to sex for them in the past, so she agrees and lets him take James to his nursery. She eavesdrops on them for a while, listening to Harry narrate bedtime to James for a bit before she heads downstairs and calls for Kreacher, asking him to bring a nice bottle of wine and two glasses, as well as some of Harry’s favorite snacks. She stresses that Harry is under a lot of pressure and feeling a lot of sadness, which means that the elf overcompensates, producing not only an expensive pinot noir and Harry’s favorite crisps and chocolates, but also an entire treacle tart.
“What’s all this for?” Harry asks when he arrives downstairs nearly an hour later, clearly confused by the display. “Are we eating crisps and Mars bars for dinner?”
Ginny, already nearly through her first glass of wine, sits up straighter and begins to fill a glass for him. “You said you wanted to have some wine or something, but the crisps and Mars bars and treacle tart are all Kreacher.”
“Mmm, I knew I kept him around for a reason,” Harry snorts, accepting the wine glass and gingerly plucking a crisp from the — much too fancy — crystal bowl Kreacher served them in.
“I thought that reason was that he wouldn’t leave?” Ginny skillfully arches one of her eyebrows in question, a smirk playing at her lips. Even a mundane interaction feels charged now, knowing that she’s building up to the banter that leads to sex.
Harry chuckles again, but doesn’t respond to it directly. Instead, he takes a long gulp of wine, draining half of his pour in one go. “D’you think I could design a time turner that would let me just fast forward to Monday?” It’s clear that he’s trying to sound lighthearted and jocular, but even if Ginny didn’t know him so well, he’d be failing miserably.
“Only way out is through, I think,” Ginny replies drily, wrinkling her pert, freckled nose.
“Story of my life,” Harry mumbles, reaching for the dish of treacle tart. He grabs two forks and the entire dish and sits with Ginny on the couch, offering her one of the two utensils in his hand. She smiles, remembering when he brought an entire treacle tart to her flat months ago when she was just pregnant with James and they hadn’t yet figured themselves out yet; then, she couldn’t have imagined where they would be now — in love, living in his home in Islington, already parents for six weeks even though she should be going into labor around now instead. She accepts the fork and follows his lead digging into it.
They pass a few minutes in companionable silence, the only sound the hum of the baby monitoring charm and the scrape of their silverware against the pie plate. Ginny knows better than to offer platitudes about what’s coming up on Sunday, because it won’t make Harry feel any better about it, and it will only remind her of the weight the day holds for her as well. So when she interrupts, it’s with a complete non sequitur.
“D’you want to shag?”
Surprised, Harry drops his fork. It falls noisily to the hardwood floor with a clang that thankfully is not loud enough to wake James upstairs. His jaw slackens, hanging slightly open. It takes him something like twenty seconds to regain his composure, reaching for his fork where it fell on the ground. “Your appointment was today?” She can tell as he says it that he genuinely hadn’t remembered it was happening. “Merlin, it’s been six weeks already, hasn’t it?”
Ginny smiles, trying not to feel as disappointed as she does that Harry clearly wasn’t anticipating the return to intimacy quite as much as she was. It’s unfair, of course; she understands that Harry has a lot on his mind, but she does as well. He’s not the only person with something to grieve this time of year, and he’s not the only one who’s taking care of a newborn while doing it. “Yeah,” she nods. It’s difficult to maintain the upturned corners of her lips when she’s trying not to feel rejected. “Healer Harris said I’ve healed nicely and that I can do everything again. So I can fly and exercise and…” She trails off, raising an eyebrow in a manner she hopes is suggestive.
“And shag,” Harry finishes, managing a smirk of his own. She recognizes that smirk — the satisfied sort of his that tells her he’s imagining something a little naughty. She doesn’t feel quite as rejected anymore.
“That too,” she confirms. “And I was hoping we could — well, I’ve missed you, Harry. And I know you’ve missed me too.” She bites her lip and looks down, then back up again. He’s always loved when she plays coy. “Of course, I know this weekend is emotional but that’s never stopped us before, has it?”
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he crashes his lips roughly to hers; there’s no moment where he deepens the kiss, for it’s immediately passionate and imbued with heat. She reciprocates hungrily. They’ve snogged since James was born, a bit, and those times were nice — unhurried and free from the expectations that usually come with a kiss once you’ve consummated your relationship — but this time is better than nice. The stirrings of desire start to prickle all over her body: her stomach swoops into her pelvis, heat and wetness begin to gather between her legs, and her mind focuses singularly on the feeling of Harry’s mouth against hers and his touch on her skin. They quickly make their way to a horizontal position on the sofa. He immediately, reflexively grinds his hips against hers, and she can feel how hard he is already, his erection eagerly straining against his trousers and twitching as it gets closer to her.
When she planned this, she’d wanted them to take their time: she expected this to happen in their bedroom, with time for lots of foreplay. She didn’t know if sex would be different now that a baby had come out of her; she didn’t know if the first time after giving birth would be uncomfortable or require readjustment, like losing her virginity all over again. This is one of those things other witches never talk about, as eager as they are to give advice about nearly anything else. So she’d wanted time for them to get warmed up, for Harry to use his mouth and his long, elegant fingers to help her prepare for his much more imposing — though typically perfect and satisfying — cock. And yet, now he’s right here; he’s so close to her and she can feel his desire for her through many layers of fabric. She can feel her own arousal beginning to soak through her knickers, and so she thinks she’s probably ready, because she can’t remember the last time she was this turned on. She reaches between them for his belt buckle, and it’s only then that she hesitates.
She breaks the kiss and looks up at Harry. Behind his glasses, his eyes are dark, though vividly emerald as ever, heavy-lidded and full of lust. His lips are swollen and his face is flush. “Hi,” he breathes at her, nearly panting.
“Hi yourself,” she responds, finding herself similarly breathless. She’s sure her eyes are alight for him as well, and she loses herself in his stare for a few seconds before finding herself. “I think we should go to bed.” She’s forcing herself to be reasonable, to do this the way she planned . It’s one of the hardest things she’s ever done, to pause this even for a moment.
“To shag?” He clarifies. “Or to sleep?” He looks worried, almost fearful, like he’s afraid she’s just gotten him all hot and bothered just to tell him she’s not up to it after all. He’d never protest if she did, of course, because Harry is nothing if not respectful of her boundaries. But that’s never been her style: she wouldn’t have directly asked him if he felt like shagging if she hadn’t been planning to follow through.
“To shag, obviously,” Ginny breathes, pushing him up and off her. “We have to cast the charm, too. I can’t forget. I took the first potion dose at the appointment, but she warned me it takes up to 24 hours to be fully protective.”
Harry stands immediately, groping at the coffee table for his wand. He points it at himself and mutters the familiar incantation hastily. She can tell it didn’t take the first time because he repeats himself, this time a bit more carefully. Finally, satisfied that they’re one hundred percent safe, he tucks his wand in his back pocket and reaches for her hand before dragging her upstairs.
They’re cautious and quiet as they make their way upstairs, careful not to wake James as they walk by his room. They’ve both been warned enough about the propensity of babies to interrupt their parents’ alone time to risk it. Once safely ensconced in their bedroom, however, Harry removes his wand from his back pocket and quickly casts charms that will allow noise into their room while keeping their activities silent. “We can make as much noise as we want now,” he informs her with a wicked grin. In response, she reaches for his belt buckle; this time, she actually undoes it.
There’s no time for them to really undress each other, of course. She undoes his buckle, but it’s Harry who pushes his own trousers and pants down his hips and pulls his shirt over his head; while he’s doing that, Ginny tosses her own clothes to the side, until she’s in front of him in just her bra. She hadn’t remembered until she made it to that last article of clothing that he hadn’t had a good glance at her like this, in her new in-between body — not pregnant, but not tight and lean, either. For a moment, there’s hesitance on her end, like she’s worried she might be repulsive to him as she is now; Harry doesn’t hesitate at all, though, before he bites his lip determinedly and closes the gap between them, kissing her hungrily as he reaches behind her.
“Is this okay?” He asks against her lips as he fingers the clasp of her bra, toying with the idea of taking it off. In the time before James, it wouldn’t have been a question, but he doesn’t know why she didn’t remove it herself; maybe not wearing it is painful. Maybe she’s sore and wants to set that boundary.
“I think so,” she responds, gasping sharply as his practiced fingers make quick work of the closure. Dropping her hands to the side, the garment slides down her arms until it hits the floor. She does feel a bit self-conscious as Harry’s hands slide up her sides to gently cup her breasts — it’s been ages since she was able to think of them as something to be looked at and touched in intimate contexts, something that could bring her pleasure; recently, they’ve felt like a functional thing, objects that exist only for James’ nourishment. But she’s always loved the feeling on his hands on her, even when they were fumbling teenagers the last few weeks of her fifth year at Hogwarts, when letting him palm her chest was dangerous and forbidden and sloppy and exciting, so she relaxes into his touch immediately, moaning into his mouth; in return he captures her lips with his again and guides her gently to the bed.
“You have to tell me to stop,” he tells her between kisses, even as he nudges her knees apart with his own, settling his weight between her legs. “If it hurts or it’s too fast or you need a lubrication charm you can tell me to —”
“Shh, Harry,” she cuts him off, staring into his green eyes with her warm brown ones. “I know, all right? I trust you.”
“All right,” Harry agrees. He’s tentative now, but not because he finds her body unworthy of attention. Instead, it’s because he cares for her, so deeply that he’s putting her experience ahead of his own. “So…what do you want to do first?” In that moment, he’s seventeen again, his ribs poking out as he hovers above her behind the curtains of the Gryffindor four poster in the days after the battle, knowing what he wants, but needing her explicit permission and help to get it. Except he’s not that boy anymore; he’s a twenty-three year old man, the father of her child, and he treats her with just as much reverence and respect as he did almost exactly six years ago.
She reaches for the hand that he currently has cupped around her breast and picks it up, moves it between her legs. “Maybe, er, test it out with your fingers first?”
He meets her eyes and nods, moving a finger to her entrance. He moves it around for a second, testing to see if there’s enough lubrication naturally, and satisfied that there is, he slowly pushes forward until none of his knuckles are visible. “How’s that?” He asks her.
She exhales, deliciously aware of the feeling of even one of his long, slender fingers inside of her. “Try a second,” she encourages him, both anxious and eager to test the sensation.
He pulls his pointer finger out and slides it back in along with his index a moment later. Her lips quiver as a low, pleased groan escapes them. “Good?” He clarifies. There’s no response verbally, just a nod and another moan. As he slides his fingers back toward him just a bit, he extends his thumb to brush against her clit; he waits for the gasp that tells him he’s done well before he buries his fingers completely in her once more. It continues like this for minutes — maybe five or ten, maybe even fifteen; the pressure continues to build in Harry’s cock, delicious anticipation causing him to twitch, but he doesn’t mind that she’s not touching him. He’ll get his release soon, he knows, and until then, he understands implicitly that it’s about making Ginny feel safe and good .
He’s determined to keep it up until she finishes, but she eventually bats his hand away. “Don’t you want to —?”
“I’m not going to,” she admits with a sigh. “‘S all right, though. I’m having fun.” She means it. She doesn’t think she’ll come this time — probably needs some more time to get out of her head and into her body — but that doesn’t mean she’s not enjoying the feeling of Harry’s fingers curled inside of her and his thumb against her clit. “I think I’m ready.”
“Yeah?” The expression on his face is pure joy and hope; it’s almost childlike in its excitement, a sharp contrast to the very adult acts they’re engaged in at the moment.
“Yeah.” She opens her legs wider, giving Harry room to settle his whole body between them. “Maybe — I don’t think a lubrication charm would be a bad thing?”
“Of course,” Harry nods eagerly, frantically searching around for his wand before finding it on his bedside table, right where he left it. He leans over her to reach for it, and his erection lightly brushes against her stomach as he does; he groans at the contact and a shiver of anticipation runs up her spine. Earlier, she wondered if she’d be nervous in the moment, but now she finds she’s only excited.
After they’ve adjusted — the charm is cast and Harry’s weight deliciously on top of her, like the world’s greatest blanket — he uses his hand to line himself up. “Ready?” And it’s not like when they did this for the first time, because this time, he actually knows where everything goes and how to get it there. He knows what she likes, too. So for all the similarities, it’s actually completely different; in that way, isn’t the passage of time really the most wonderful thing?
After she affirms her consent, he pushes forward, agonizingly slowly, trying to be gentle. He mutters a low curse as he feels her surround him, but he trains his eyes on her face, studying her expression carefully. Ginny’s lips are softly parted, her eyes closed as if she’s savoring the feeling; a small knit in her brow tells him it isn’t all pleasure — there’s some discomfort, too, no doubt — but she looks as peaceful as he feels. This is them, reunited and whole and as close as two people can possibly be once more.
He sets a slow pace, thrusting shallowly and trying to ease her into the motion; even with his gentle rhythm, though, it becomes quickly apparent that he isn’t going to last this way. It’s been too long, and this feels too good. “I don’t think,” he pants, pausing to lean forward and press his forehead to hers. “I’m not going to last,” he tells her apologetically.
Her eyes snap open and lock with his; a gentle moan slips past her lips at the shift in position. He feels her muscles relax around him, a tension he hadn’t even been aware that she was holding until it was gone; lifting her legs, she wraps them around his hips, crossing her feet behind his back and pulling him in deeper. A strangled gasp erupts from his throat. Fuck.
“That’s okay,” she assures him, raising her hips to meet his, encouraging him to move once more. “We needn’t wait so long before the next time.” It’s difficult for her to find the words for what this time is to her. It feels good, certainly, and she feels more like herself with Harry inside of her. But tonight isn’t about passion and tearing through multiple orgasms; it’s also not really about getting it done with, in the crude way other witches might conceptualize the first time after birth. It’s about testing her limits and learning about her body — the way it exists now — so that she can focus less on learning and more on doing for the next round.
It’s over too soon, in Harry’s opinion. When he comes, he buries himself deeper in her on instinct, burying his face against her perfect, freckled shoulder as he cries out. He kisses her neck as the last few shocks ripple through him and, when he’s quite sure he’s done, he gently rolls off of her and onto his back beside her, still trying to catch his breath. She wiggles until she’s curled against him in that way she’s always favored, her head resting on his chest as if it’s the best pillow. As is tradition, he absentmindedly reaches a hand into her hair and twirls a vibrant copper strand around his finger.
“I love you so much,” he tells her, pressing his nose to the top of her head and taking an inhale. He didn’t need to say it, of course; he said it without saying anything while they were having sex. He showed her how much he loved her by being gentle, by asking for her preferences and consent the whole time. And while the phrase making love still makes Ginny cringe, she gets it now: it’s the act of using sex as a means to show the depth of devotion and adoration you feel for one another.
“I love you, too, Harry James,” Ginny whispers as though it’s a sacred secret. But it’s not a secret; he no longer doubts that Ginny loves him too, as deeply as he loves her. How could he? Wasn’t the ultimate act of love giving him the family he’d always been desperate for?
As soon as he thinks that thought, the monitoring charm makes a crinkly sound before the sounds of their son’s cries fill the room. “Good timing, James,” Harry comments wryly, disentangling himself from Ginny with great difficulty. He hands her his wand so she can clean herself up and makes his way toward the pile of clothing where his boxers lay abandoned. That might be the best thing about being a man, that he can simply put his pants back on and suddenly he’s dressed.
“I seem to recall good timing is a Potter trait,” Ginny replies as she waves his wand over herself and the bed, cleaning the evidence of their tryst almost instantly. She hands the wand back to him; she’ll have to go back downstairs to retrieve her own. “He certainly didn’t get it from the Weasley half.”
“That he did not,” Harry confirms with a chuckle. “A Weasley appetite and Potter timing — not a bad combination.”
“Ah, but he has the Weasley complexion and Potter hair, so it’s not all wins for young James,” Ginny snorts. “You’re good to get him?”
“I am,” Harry confirms, making a beeline for the door handle.
“You’re feeling better?”
“Much.” He turns back toward her so she can see his grin; they’ve been doing this for years, but she’ll never get over the accomplishment she feels when she’s the one who can help lighten his load, even for just a little while.
She returns the grin with one of her own. “Me too.”
…
James doesn’t sleep well on Saturday night heading into Sunday, and this suits Harry just fine. He hasn’t slept going into the second of May since the fateful early morning hours in 1998 when he defeated Voldemort. At least now, he’s got an excuse other than that he’s afraid that if he takes Dreamless Sleep, he won’t wake up in time to make his portkey to Hogwarts.
“I’m sorry you have to go, to tell you the truth,” he apologizes to his tiny son as they rock back and forth in the nursery that night. “I hate that you’ll see Hogwarts for eleven of these bloody ceremonies before you get to go there yourself. It’s just not the way you should experience Hogwarts for the first time. The first time I saw Hogwarts was — well, it was magic, really. I hate that you won’t get to experience it that way, Snitch.”
James is awake and alert, which certainly means he’ll be cranky throughout the ceremony tomorrow, but Harry can see the benefit to that too. If James is cranky, maybe he and Ginny can duck out after his speech. It’s wishful thinking, but it’s a nice thought. So Harry keeps talking. He decides that the battle is too scary a topic for his son, as is Voldemort. One day, Harry will owe it to James to give him the whole story, but that day is maybe a decade from now; so, instead, Harry tells him about the people they’ll be remembering tomorrow. And it’s at some point through a story about Fred that they both doze off in the rocking chair.
Ginny wakes much too early the next morning and finds them in that position; James’ head — which he is finally growing into, thank Merlin — rests against Harry’s shoulder, his tiny eyes fluttering behind delicate lids. Harry’s head is pressed against the back of the chair, his mouth slightly open and a line of drool at the corner of his lips on the right side; his arms are securely around James, even while the pair of them sleep. She watches them for a bit until James begins to stir, and then she wakes them both.
“Looked like you both slept well,” she teases Harry as she gives him a kiss good morning. Fussy noises escape James’ little mouth and Ginny reaches for him.
“I don’t think I’ve slept the night before the anniversary, ever,” Harry admits after passing James off. He moves his neck from side to side to work out the soreness from sleeping upright in the chair. “Snitch here wasn’t sleeping, either, so I thought we’d wait it out together, but I guess we both had a kip.”
Ginny can’t help but smile. She wouldn’t want the burden of Harry’s wellbeing to lay on her infant son — she knows how arduous that can be — but it’s nice to know that the baby brought Harry enough peace that he was able to get some sleep ahead of the day’s pomp and circumstance.
Like he has every other year for the last five, Harry takes a shower and shaves his face before fishing out the robes — the black dress robes he originally wore for the funerals and now wears every year only for the anniversary — avoiding mirrors after he’s put them on. He can’t stand to see himself wearing the wretched things, which is why he doesn’t want to ruin any of his other nice clothes by associating them with this ceremony. When he arrives downstairs, having taken his time with his thoughts in the shower, he sees Ginny is wearing her own black dress robes, which suit nicely given that none of her black dresses fit her at the moment; she’s fussing over James, who is swaddled in a pale grey blanket and wearing a white cap, trying to figure out the best way to transport him via portkey.
“I’ll hold him if you want to bring the pram,” she offers, noticing his presence. “When it’s time for the portkey, I mean.” She’s pulled her red hair off her face, half up while the other half curls loosely around her shoulder blades. She clearly used some potions and a styling charm, which is more than she’s done in months. Harry always thinks she’s beautiful, but she looks so lovely it almost helps him to forget why they’re all dressed up in the first place.
The portkey to Hogwarts — an old bottle of butterbeer that will deposit them in the Headmistress’ office (the floo is sealed on May second, for obvious reasons) — is scheduled to depart at eight-fifteen, though the ceremony is not scheduled to start until ten. Harry has to get there before the crowds, so his security is assured; having a brand new baby with him is all the more reason to do it, he supposes, though he’d never relished his status of requiring that sort of protection. So with James’ pram and bag of supplies shrunken to fit in his pocket and the baby himself strapped soundly against his mother’s chest, Harry taps the bottle with his wand and holds it out to Ginny, who uses one hand to hold James’ head to her and extends the other to hold on to the bottle. Moments later, there’s a tug behind their navels and they’re spinning until they land in the middle of McGonagall’s office.
Harry hazards a glance around. Some of the portraits of headmasters past are eyeing him curiously, but the current headmistress is nowhere in sight. He wishes it weren’t still his instinct to look for Dumbledore’s portrait whenever he’s in this room, but it is; Dumbledore's eyes are closed, though whether he’s asleep or just pretending to be, Harry can’t be certain. He’d probably avoid himself, were he Dumbledore. As it is, he prefers when he doesn’t have to confront the man. He glances over to the frame that supposedly holds Snape’s portrait, but it’s empty. The irony isn’t lost on Harry, that he was the one who insisted on Snape getting a portrait in the first place, but he’s never seen it.
“Do we just wait here until McGonagall shows up?” Ginny whispers to him, bouncing James up and down to soothe him after the rocky, uncomfortable journey.
“Or Kingsley,” Harry shrugs. “Whoever comes first.”
It’s McGonagall this year, the one who meets him upon his arrival to Hogwarts. “Who’s this?” She asks in lieu of a greeting, peering curiously as the bundle of blankets that Harry is currently settling into the pram. She glances over at Ginny, as if to confirm her suspicion that the youngest Weasley is no longer pregnant. “I didn’t realize the baby was already born,” she states plainly.
“We didn’t announce it to anyone but family,” Harry explains, unable to help his grin. “He was quite early and we thought we had enough without adding public concern into the mix.”
“He was six weeks old yesterday,” Ginny chimes in, offering McGonagall a sheepish smile. It’s weird, to be showing off her baby in front of her old head of house; McGonagall always has a way of making Ginny feel like she’s a child again, and that makes her feel too young to have a son.
“Does he have a name?” The older witch asks, her eyes peering above her spectacles.
“Nah, we just thought we’d call him The Baby until he’s old enough to name himself,” Harry jokes easily. It’s amazing to Ginny, how Harry feels so comfortable exercising his typical, snarky sense of humor in front of their former professor. Then again, Harry always was McGonagall’s favorite.
“Funny, Potter,” McGonagall comments drily, but her eyes are dancing with mirth. “Of course, now there are two Potters here.”
“There are,” Harry confirms, still grinning. He picks James up out of the pram, even though the infant had only just gotten settled in and brings him over to McGonagall. “This is James Sirius Potter.”
McGonagall’s reaction to the introduction is most peculiar: she both has tears in her eyes and laughs incredulously. “Naming your son after James Potter and Sirius Black? I’ll need to retire before a half-Weasley child with that name starts here.” But her tone is fond. “Congratulations, both of you. He’s beautiful.”
“We think so, too,” Harry booms. It’s rare to see him like this: so confident and at ease — on the anniversary of the final battle, no less! But Harry is a proud father, even after only six weeks. He may have been hesitant to bring James along to the ceremony, and Ginny doesn’t disagree with his reasons for that; even so, it seems that the comfort that James’ presence brings his father likely outweighs the annoyance of the press getting a glimpse of him.
The morning continues on like that. By the time they’re ready for Harry to arrive on the lawn, James has been passed around and held by most of the Hogwarts professors, as well as the current Minister of Magic. Harry even catches Dumbledore’s portrait taking a peek at the baby (though Snape’s portrait remains conspicuously absent).
Harry and Ginny walk out to the ceremony, pushing James in his pram, directly behind Kingsley and his protective detail of aurors. When the crowd realizes Harry has arrived with the long-awaited Baby Potter, there’s a period of silence that’s soon penetrated by the sounds of camera shutters and whispers. Ginny squeezes Harry’s hand as they make a beeline for their reserved seats in the front row; Hermione and Ron already occupy the two seats beside them, by Harry’s side as they always have been. Ron makes a beeline for the pram, looking in on his godson and whispering to his sister that he can keep watch over him during the ceremony. Everyone’s only looking for distractions, all these years later, so Ginny nods. She’ll let her brother think he’s helping.
She can’t recall most of what Harry says in his speech. It’s always a mix of the same platitudes about freedom from tyranny and what a shame it was to unnecessarily suffer such a loss of life. The only part she remembers is the one where Harry mentions becoming a father. “My son James turned six weeks old yesterday, and every day, I see in his face what we fought for. We fought for the future he’ll be lucky enough to know, and the promise that he will get to grow up in a time of peace. As long as I live, I’ll never stop pressing on, because our children deserve to have childhoods where all they worry about is quidditch and schoolwork and whether the person they fancy fancies them, too. I never want children to have to fight battles better left for adults again.”
The applause he receives after he speaks grows louder every year. He hates that, he tells her at the reception later, as everyone greets each other with a stilted sort of cheer — genuine enthusiasm at seeing old mates mixed with deep regret over the circumstances. “The first year, everyone was somber and the clapping was, I dunno, polite, I suppose. Today, it was like they thought I was a celebrity.”
“You are a celebrity,” she reminds him gently before plastering on a big fake smile to greet Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, who she thinks might be there together — like together together — though she can’t be sure.
They want to see the baby; everyone wants to see the baby, though she doesn’t suppose she can blame them. He’s very cute and, come to think of it, she and Harry might be the first of their cohort — the cohort who fought Voldemort when they were still school-aged — to have one. That he’s Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley’s baby certainly adds to the allure James holds.
“And here, I thought you wanted to see me,” Harry jokes, motioning to Ron that it’s time to return his son to his parents.
“You’re old hat, mate,” Seamus jokes as Ron returns, holding James. “Oi, Weasley, why’d you steal Potter’s kid?”
“I’m his godfather,” Ron boasts as Harry retrieves the baby from his arms. “And James here is part Weasley, you know.”
“Ah, so now you’ll accept that Potter’s shagged your sister,” Seamus jokes. Next to him, Dean just quietly smirks; he never makes comments where Ginny is concerned, and for that, Harry is very grateful.
“Fuck off,” Ron scoffs.
“Not around the baby,” Dean snickers sarcastically. “Honestly, Harry, I can’t believe you made this git your son’s godfather.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice, unfortunately,” Harry sighs sarcastically. “We swore it in blood when we were on the run,” he jokes darkly. And because they all fought a war as children and share the same morbid humor, the men all erupt in laughter.
“We also have to be each other’s best man,” Ron explains, as if there was ever any doubt about who was standing with him for his wedding in the fall.
“And you’re just going to let Ron and Hermione beat you to a wedding?” Seamus asks.
“Mate, you can’t just ask people that,” Dean hisses.
Harry just laughs. “Well, we already beat them to the baby, so we’ll call it even.” Still, after he says it he looks over toward Ginny. She’s chatting animatedly with Luna and Neville, who were among the first to greet James after the ceremony. Harry can’t hear what she’s saying, but he can tell she’s speaking quickly. A few tendrils have escaped from the clip holding her hair back, and the light coming through the windows of the Great Hall illuminates the gold and copper tones of her hair. He’s so in love with her.
At this point, Ron and Hermione will be married first; it’s a foregone conclusion. But it would be a miss if they weren’t at least engaged before Ron and Hermione’s October wedding. He just needs a plan.