Title: Here Comes the Sun
Summary: He's touching me the way he did that morning, with a reverence I didn't deserve then but now couldn't be more fitting: this child we've made cradled within me and between us, flesh, blood, and bone spun from our deepest, most desperate desires.
Disclaimer #1: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Disclaimer #2: "Good Night" and "Here Comes the Sun" are the property of The Beatles. Or maybe Michael Jackson's estate. Or... somebody who's not me. Please not to be suing.
Epilogue compliant? No
Word Count: ~5,600
Notes: Happy holidays, songquake! Your prompt asking for late-pregnancy sex and a frustrated, up-the-duff wizard inspired me. I hope this story pleases you.
Endless love and gratitude to K. and E., without whom this fic never would have seen the light of day.
Here Comes the Sun
The faint creak, creak of footsteps on the stairs tells me Harry's home after yet another all-nighter. The creaking grows closer, coming down the hallway until it stops outside our bedroom. With infinite care, he pushes open the door.
I send a vase of flowers sailing through the air, shattering against the wall centimetres from his face. Conduct unbecoming of a pregnant wizard, perhaps, but I'm teetering on the precipice of a nervous breakdown—and in any case, smashing vases is practically my birthright. Great Aunt Walburga smashed the family's prized Ming hundreds of times, after all.
“Note to self: secure all moveable objects with Permanent Sticking Charms,” Harry says, nonplussed. He wipes a tiny streak of blood from his neck where a ceramic shard nicked him. “Yes, the raid went off without a hitch. We caught the bad guys and suffered no casualties. Thanks for asking.”
“You did this to me." I don't care that I sound like a screeching Harpy, nor that Harry's ex-lover—an actual Harpy, albeit of the Quidditch-playing variety—possesses more emotional self-control than I do. I grab a pillow, clutch it to my chest—a feat complicated by my enormous abdomen, perpetually in the way of everything these days—and bury my face in it. "A pox on the house of Potter, and those horrid swimmers of yours."
"In fairness, my swimmers are only half responsible." I can tell without looking that he's smirking, and it doesn't help that it's true. Along with a dominant gene for vase-throwing, a recessive Metamorphmagus gene permeates Mother's family tree. This, according to the fertility Healers, made me the better candidate to carry our child, a plan to which I agreed all too willingly... and foolishly.
"Why are you up so early?" Harry waves his wand; the shards scattered on the floor fuse together again, the flowers depositing themselves into the newly re-formed vase. He siphons the puddle of water off the floor and sends the arrangement sailing back to the dressing table with another flick.
“I never slept." I groan and roll onto my side, drawing my knees up into the closest approximation of the foetal position I can manage. "I've tried more bloody cushioning charms than a dragon has scales, and I still can't get comfortable. And now, the baby won’t stop kicking.”
Harry unfastens the clasp at his throat and sheds his robes, throwing them over the back of the chair. He sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls off his boots. “Why don't you sing to her? She always settles down when I do it.”
I shoot him a withering look. “There's no need for cruelty. You know I can't carry a tune in a cauldron.”
“You don't have to be Celestina Warbeck. Just try it.”
Harry sighs. “Fine. I'll do it, then.” He nudges me onto my back and lifts my pyjama top. I squirm.
"I haven't even started yet."
"You know how ticklish I am."
Harry cradles my belly in his hands, taking care to keep his lips a few inches away from my protruding navel. "This all right?"
I nod, reluctantly.
"Now it's time to say good night," Harry sings. "Good night, sleep tight. Now the sun turns out his light, good night, sleep tight. Sweet dreams for me, sweet dreams for you..."
He continues, repeating the song twice, until the baby's kicking subsides and my abdomen is perfectly still save for the rise and fall of my breathing. Harry pulls away, looking supremely self-satisfied.
I stare at him. “How do you bloody do that?”
“What can I say?” Harry shrugs. “She has good taste in music.”
“Well, if you think I'm going to let you play her those Beagles—”
“The Beatles,” Harry says, trying not to laugh. “They're called The Beatles.”
“Whatever. She’s not listening to that rubbish after she's born. One minute it's Muggle music, the next she'll be dating Muggle boys, riding in Muggle cars—”
“Your family had a flying Rolls Royce,” Harry says.
I arch an eyebrow and look away. “That was Grandfather Abraxas. And we don’t talk about the Phantom.”
Harry unfastens the buttons of his shirt and shrugs it off. “There's nothing wrong with liking Muggle things, Draco.”
"Everything's wrong with it." I sit up, turn away from Harry, and cross my arms over my chest. "You're turning her into the next bloody Arthur Weasley, and she's not even born yet."
"She could do worse than take after Arthur." Harry tosses his shirt on top of his cloak. "He's a good man. And he likes you, so that's more points in his favour."
I shoot him a petulant look over my shoulder. "He tolerates me. For your sake."
"Well, that's... nearly the same thing. Hey, what's for dinner? I'm starving." Harry stands and walks to the doorway of the bedroom.
"Dinner was ten hours ago. And... I may have eaten it all." I don't add that 'dinner' was the four Pumpkin Pasties Mother owled us yesterday from her favourite gourmet pâtisserie. What Harry doesn't know won't hurt him.
"Well, we must have something edible." Harry disappears from the doorway and tramps down the stairs, returning minutes later with a small box.
"Takeaway, from that new curry place in Diagon we tried Thursday night. The smell made you nauseous, remember?"
I stare at him, incredulous. "That's three days old!"
"It still tastes fine." Harry scoops saag paneer onto a piece of naan and shoves it into his mouth.
"Ugh. You disgust me."
Harry chews and swallows. "This is worse than the three cantaloupes and tin of pilchards you ate yesterday?" He takes another bite.
I blush and look away. Mother's assured me her own cravings were similarly strange when she was up the duff with me, but I'm certain she's lying. Mother's never cared for melons, and she'd sooner drink Crup piss than eat anything from a tin. "I utterly loathe you."
"No, you don't." Harry downs another two mouthfuls of the takeaway in quick succession and Vanishes the container with his wand. He strides past me to the bathroom and turns on the water to clean his teeth. I bury my face in my hands.
"I knew this was a mistake. I should have made you carry the baby."
"I offered," Harry calls, his words garbled from his mouthful of toothpaste. "We both agreed my job is too dangerous."
We did, actually, but I resent him for pointing it out. Harry loves nothing more than to ruin a good argument with facts. "To hell with the Black family genes. I should have told the Healers I was a bloody Longbottom."
"Those genes allowed you to carry this pregnancy nearly to term." Harry wipes his mouth on a towel, tosses it on the bathroom counter, and comes back to bed. He lays his glasses and wand on the bedside table and sits next to me, running a hand over my belly. "Which you've done beautifully."
I stare daggers at him. "Do not use that word in my presence. I am not beautiful. I am not womanly. Do not even think of mentioning the girth of my hips." I roll onto my side, away from Harry. "And so help me, I will fit into my pre-pregnancy trousers again if I have to hex the fat off my own arse."
"Don't you dare hex that arse. It's your best feature." Harry slips his hand beneath the waistband of my pyjama bottoms, palming my bum. "Next to your very talented tongue."
I swat half-heartedly at his hand. "Flattery will get you nowhere. The only sex you'd be getting right now is hate sex."
"I wouldn't mind." Harry lays down next to me, curling his body around mine. "We had brilliant hate sex when we first got together."
Merlin, did we ever. Remembering the first time Harry dragged me into the alley behind the Leaky, shoved me hard up against the brick wall, and sucked my cock down to the root never fails to send a thrill up my spine. "Yes, well, that was approximately ten thousand shags ago. A few things have changed."
Harry pauses to consider this. "More like five thousand, by my reckoning. And as far as I'm concerned, all the changes..."—Harry kisses my temple—"have been for the better."
"Not all of them." I roll over to face him, fixing him with an accusatory stare. "You didn't used to work so much."
Harry gives me an exasperated look. "I wasn't Head Auror then. I've rather more responsibilities now."
"Including a husband, lest you forget."
"Including a family." Harry reaches for my hand. "And I never will. I promise."
My brow furrows. Harry's career has always been a point of contention between us, ever since the first time he sprang out of bed and Disapparated in the middle of the night to answer the call of duty. We'd only just begun properly dating, and I stayed glued to the wireless until dawn, my heart in my throat, desperate for news that he was alive and well. The fear that he might not return never really goes away. "Well, how you expect me to manage by myself, when you're gadding about at all hours—"
"Doing my job, you mean?"
"When you've a husband and child at home who need you... it's quite beyond me."
"You won't have to manage by yourself. Your mother's going to stay with us for a while, remember?" Harry caresses my arm. "Merlin knows I bloody well haven't forgotten," he adds under his breath.
My face heats. "Don't you say a word against my mother, Potter."
"I haven't. And don't 'Potter' me." Harry lifts my chin with his thumb and forefinger. "Hey. What's really bothering you?"
I look away; Harry's the only lover I've ever had who can see right through my querulous armour. "Nothing."
"Bollocks." He runs his knuckles lightly down the side of my face. "It's your father, isn't it?"
I swallow hard. It's been four years since Father and I last spoke—or rather, shouted at one another—and yet I feel the pain of his rejection as acutely as ever. It nearly destroyed my marriage in its first year, and only three months of sessions with a mind Healer helped me understand I was displacing my anger with Father onto my new husband. I still haven't forgiven the bastard, but I've learnt to compartmentalise my hurt. I've fought too hard to make this thing with Harry work to lose it on account of someone whose fealty to a madman nearly got us all killed.
Harry squeezes my shoulder. "He'll come around, after the baby's born. You'll see."
A knot twists in my stomach. "He didn't come around for us."
"A baby's different than a wedding. She's his flesh and blood."
"So am I." I can't disguise the quaver in my voice. "He should be happy for me."
"I reckon he would be, if his grandchild wasn't half Potter." Harry reaches for my hand. "I'm sorry. I know it's been hard for you."
If anyone has reason to feel sorry for himself on an otherwise joyous family occasion, it's Harry. I look away, thinking of our visit to Godric's Hollow just after we married. I remember how I conjured a bouquet of lilies and laid it against the headstone, how he nestled our wedding photograph within the flowers. I remember how I kissed the tear that rolled down his cheek, salty and bitter.
I remember thinking, in that moment, that nothing I did or said could ever fill the emptiness of their absence.
"I wish she could have met your parents," I say impotently.
"Yeah." Harry forces a smile. "At least she'll have the Weasleys."
I roll my eyes. Despite scores of Sunday dinners and good faith effort on both sides, the Weasleys have never understood what Harry sees in me—save for Ginevra, surprisingly enough. "He was never this happy when we were together," she whispered to me at our wedding reception, and whether or not she meant it, I've clung to those words for dear life ever since—especially on evenings I've wanted to stab a fork through my hand beneath the Weasley dinner table.
“It's not the same," I say.
Harry shrugs. "They're as good as family. Merlin knows our kid could do with a few more relatives."
He's a point there. "Speaking of whom, Mother's beside herself we haven't decided the baby's name yet. She's pre-ordered a thousand birth announcements from Scribbulus, and she's keeping the calligraphers on standby."
"I thought we'd agreed on Lily."
I frown. "My mother prefers Narcissa."
"Of course she does." Harry looks up at the ceiling, tapping his chin. "We could always name her after your cousin."
"Nymphadora?" My eyes widen with horror. "What a ghastly name."
Harry pretends to consider this. "You're right. Lily it is." He spoons himself around my back, nudging his swelling cock against my arse. "And now that we've that out of the way... "
I give an exasperated huff. I'm far from prudish, but there are times Harry's insatiety can be tiresome. The mind Healer said growing up deprived of every form of affection left Harry with a powerful need to touch and be touched, but Harry insists I just turn him on like no one else ever has. In any case, lack of sleep has me feeling anything but amorous right now. I shoot him what I hope is a discouraging look over my shoulder.
"Don't you ever stop thinking about sex?"
Harry shakes his head. "How do you think I pass the time on those all-night stakeouts?"
"Save it for the next stakeout, then." I wriggle away from him. "I'm beyond knackered."
Harry sighs. "Fine. I'll just toss off, then."
"Whatever blows your robes up."
I hear the clink of metal as he unfastens his belt, the rustle of fabric as he pulls his trousers and pants off. I hear the soft scrape of his bedside table drawer opening and closing, followed by the scent of...
"Mm-hmm." I hear the slow, rhythmic squelch of Harry slicking the oil up and down his prick. We bought the stuff on holiday last spring in Marseilles, and ended up putting it to such good use we didn't leave our hotel room for two days. "I thought we only used it on special occasions."
"Every day with you is a special occasion."
"But we're not even shagging."
"No, but you can help." I feel Harry's fingers on the waistband of my pyjama bottoms, and a second later he's pulling them down over my arse.
"What are you doing?"
"Just getting some visual stimulation."
"There are magazines for that, you know."
"I'd rather be looking at you." The squelching speeds up slightly. "Mmmph."
"I was just thinking about our first date."
"You mean that shag in the alley?"
Harry laughs. "No. Our first proper date."
"Oh. How could I forget?" Truth be told, I wish I could. "You took me to that horrid theatre."
"Right." I cringe at the memory. "Disgusting creatures, Muggles. You should have warned me they stick chewing gum under the armrests."
"You liked the sweets. Particularly the Revels." He nudges me. "And you fancied that actor.”
"The brunet. You know, the star.”
"Ah, true. A bit short for my taste, but he has nice eyes." I glance at him over my shoulder. "You liked the blond."
"Not really. I was too busy plotting how I could get you to spend the night with me."
My brow furrows. "Why? I was already a sure thing by then."
"You were still just using me for sex. I wanted more." Harry moves close behind me, and I can't be arsed to push him away. He slides his slick cock between my thighs, grazing my balls. "Remember how long we kissed on my sofa?"
I nod. "Until I almost came in my trousers."
"Yeah." Harry's cock is thick and warm and wet, moving against mine; despite my exhaustion, I'm starting to get hard. "And then I carried you into the bedroom—"
"Yes, well. I was rather lighter then."
"And rather less pregnant." His cock is slipping between my thighs in a steady rhythm now. "Then what did I do?"
I take a deep breath, trying to keep my arousal in check. "You fucked me."
I swallow hard. "Slowly."
"So slowly you almost cried."
It breaks the mood; I twist my neck to look at him. "I most certainly did not cry."
Harry stills. "Maybe not actual tears, but you were definitely emotional."
"I'd specks of dust in my eyes, that's all. Undoubtedly from that filthy theatre." I turn away to hide the flush of my cheeks. "You were imagining things."
Instead of soldiering on, as I'm expecting him to do, Harry pauses for a long moment.
"Yeah," he finally says, his voice soft. "Yeah, I guess I was."
Harry pulls out from between my thighs; I hear him scrabbling for his wand on the bedside table. I roll over to face him.
"What are you doing?"
Harry Accios a towel from the bathroom, giving me a small smile.
"You're exhausted, as am I." He wipes the oil off his rapidly-deflating prick with the towel. "We should get some sleep."
I open my mouth to speak, but I can't think what to say. Harry gives me a peck on the cheek, lays his head on his pillow, and closes his eyes.
Within sixty seconds, he's snoring... and I've an inexplicable ache in my chest.
My mind races back to that night. I sift through the images, the sensations, the feelings; it should be so much easier to remember than those drunken shags in loos and alleys. It was the first time we fucked whilst sober, after all.
Which, I suppose, is what made it so terrifying.
It's coming back to me now: the way Harry laid me on the bed, how he took his time pulling off my clothes. I remember how he sucked in a ragged breath when he laid bare my chest—the first time, in all our intimate encounters, I'd let him remove my shirt.
Christ, the look on his face.
I remember how he pressed his lips to the scars, his hair thick and soft between my fingers. I remember having the inkling that something bigger than either of us had permanently shifted. I remember that when he pushed inside me God knows how long later, it felt like we were giving back to one another something stolen from us long ago. That he was filling me in every way it was possible to be filled.
Hell, yes, I was emotional.
I stare at Harry's face, the picture of peaceful slumber. Merlin knows he deserves to rest. It would be cruel to rouse him again, given the night he's had.
Or perhaps, it would be crueler not to do so.
I run my fingers down his chest, lingering at the small thatch of hair between his nipples. In a few weeks—days, perhaps—our lives will no longer be our own. Unless Harry renounces his friendship with Granger—and believe me, I'd shed no tears if he did—we'll have no house-elf to help with the baby. Just thinking about the sleep deprivation, the soiled nappies... I can hardly recall what gave us this mad idea to start a family.
Oh, wait. Yes, I can.
The seed was planted, so to speak, the morning after our cinema date. I remember waking up in Harry's arms, followed by the overwhelming urge to slip out of bed, tiptoe out of his flat, and avoid the inevitable Talk. The one where Harry would tell me I'd misread everything that happened the previous night, that this was still just about sex. The one where he would let me down gently, because he's kind.
And then I looked at his sleeping face, and decided to gamble.
I remove my pyjamas and reach for the oil on the bedside table, remembering how I silently prepared myself that long-ago morning. I push a slippery finger inside my arse, then another. It's never enough to completely forestall the pain. Like our moments of emotional intimacy, the physical kind requires a fair bit of initial discomfort. I know the closeness will be worth it, and yet I push him away, time and again.
But not now.
I remember the hope and the fear gripping me as I straddled his thighs. I remember how he began to stir when I slicked his cock with the oil. He was hard—as he is virtually every morning, I've since learned—and it only took a few moments to make him wet and ready.
I fear that I've my work cut out for me this time.
I run my oiled palm lightly up his prick; the corner of Harry's mouth twitches. I'm exceedingly good at sucking cock, but in my current state, getting into the right position would appear to be impossible.
A hand job it is, then.
I remember how Harry's eyes fluttered open that morning as I raised myself up, his look of wonder as I lowered myself onto his cock, inch by inch. I remember how tightly he gripped my hips, how he gasped with pleasure when he was fully sheathed inside me. I remember how he reached up to cup my cheek, his face awash with happiness, and whispered two words.
Harry's prick swells again in my palm, and my own is rising to the occasion. I have no idea if I can do this; at nearly full-term, I'm not certain I've the strength or the stamina to ride him. Harry wakens slowly, low groans of pleasure escaping his throat as I stroke him. He blinks several times.
Even half-asleep, the longing in his voice tells me he wants this. I stop stroking him and lean over him as best I can. He sits up, meeting me halfway. I ghost my lips over his.
He opens his mouth to mine, his hand caressing the side of my belly, and the ache in my chest intensifies; I need him inside me, even if it hurts, even if we're both exhausted and the mechanics are difficult. This could be the last time we do this before our lives are changed forever.
I want to remember every moment of it.
I break the kiss and sit up, wriggling into position; he leans back against the pillows, gratitude mixed with anticipation on his face. I take a moment to look at him, really look at him, something I don't do nearly enough.
Merlin, but he's beautiful.
His hands close on my hips, lending me his strength. I reach for his cock—I can't see it, with my enormous belly in the way, but I can feel it.
"God, yes," Harry says, his voice low and rough. "Christ, I need to be inside you."
I breathe deeply and push against the head of his prick; it hurts more than I expect when it slips inside me. Harry stills my hips.
I nod, wincing. "Just a tight fit, that's all."
"You sure this is okay?" Harry's brow furrows. "The baby—"
"It's fine," I interrupt. I breathe deeply again. "The Healers all said so."
Harry nods, but his brow remains furrowed. "Let's take it slow."
"Yeah." I rise up on my knees, with Harry's help, and lower myself again, further this time.
"Oh, fuck," Harry gasps. "Oh, God, the way you feel..."
A ray of morning sun pierces the gap in the curtains, flooding Harry's face with golden light, and the pain and exhaustion and awkwardness all fade away; I'm twenty-two again, back in that tiny flat with Harry, making love to him—grasping, for the first time, the true meaning of the term. Harry remembers it too, I can see in his eyes he does... and he's touching me the way he did that morning, with a reverence I didn't deserve then but now couldn't be more fitting: this child we've made cradled within me and between us, flesh, blood, and bone spun from our deepest, most desperate desires.
For family. For wholeness. For true immortality—the kind that can only be attained by giving life, not by taking it.
Harry's reaches up to touch my cheek, as he did that morning, and I close my hand over his; the dark years when my survival depended upon my Occlumency skills is long past, but the lessons remain, for better or worse. Only in moments like this do I drop my defences, allowing Harry inside me in more ways than one, telling him—with the press of my thighs, the roll of my hips, the hitch in my breath—everything I can't say out loud.
I'm glad you're home. I'm glad you're safe. I was afraid.
Less dramatic than smashing vases, perhaps, but far more honest. And Harry understands my silent missives. Every time.
Harry runs his fingers down my neck to my chest, over my belly... and suddenly it doesn't seem strange that our unborn child is part of this; it seems perfectly right. This has always been about her, about our future—even those first harsh and heady nights, much as we tried to delude ourselves. Some part of me always wanted this, wanted it fiercely, was willing to do anything to have it—even defy my father and all his ilk, the ones who would deny us this family we've made—and in this moment I pity them, because souls so full of hate will never know this joy.
"Draco," Harry gasps again. From the flush of his chest and the sheen on his brow, I know he's close. "Draco, come for me..."
He bends his knees, tilting me forward and rocking his hips... and oh, fuck, there it is, the silver lining of the last weeks of pregnancy. My cock slips between us, slick and tightly pressed against his flat stomach by my enormous one, and bloody hell, why haven't we been fucking like this all along? I reach for Harry's hands, and he clasps mine, holding them fast, and a familiar, delicious trembling rises from the base of my spine.
"Oh," I gasp, and I couldn't hold back now even if I desperately wanted to do so. "Oh, God, Harry...
I clutch his fingers in a death grip, squeezing his hands in time with the waves crashing over me, my come slicking our skins.
"Oh, fuck,” Harry says, arching his back. His hands fly to my hips again, pulling me hard against him, and I'm all too glad for him to take over. "Draco..."
Harry comes, gasping and shaking, his face a mask of ecstasy as he fills me... and I'm not ready for this to end, not ready to come back to earth. I want to savour this as long as I can, this strange and sacred connection between the dream born back in that tiny flat and its fulfillment now. I want to remember the way he pulled me down to kiss him, long and slow. How we both knew, without saying so, that nothing would ever be the same.
My knees, however, have other ideas.
I lean forward, limbs trembling from the effort I just expended; Harry's cock pulls free of me. Every muscle in my body aches; my arse, even more so.
The soreness has never felt so good.
I roll onto my side, still trembling; Harry folds himself around my back, nuzzling my neck. I don't know how much longer we have until the baby comes, but Merlin, I want to do that again, and again. No wonder the Weasleys had seven children, if pregnancy sex can feel this good.
Harry slides an arm around me; our wedding bands clink together as he slips his fingers through mine. I stare at our clasped hands for a long moment.
"I wanted more, too," I say quietly.
"That first time I stayed the night. I was already falling for you." I squeeze his hand. "I didn't dare believe things would really go this far, though."
"I did." Harry runs our clasped hands over my swollen belly. "I wanted it all. Everything. Right from the start."
A smile curls my lips. Neither Harry nor I are particularly religious, but if sex is a holy sacrament, then post-coital bliss is Confession time. My thoughts grow darker; my brow furrows.
"What if I bollix it up? This whole... fatherhood thing."
Harry runs his fingertips lightly down my arm. "That's what's really bothering you, isn't it? You're nervous because the baby's coming soon."
"No. Well, yes. Maybe. I just don't want to repeat Father's mistakes."
"But what if something happens, and I don't know what to do? I've no one to ask for advice."
"You could always ask Arthur."
"Again with the bloody Weasleys." I sigh. "In case it's escaped your notice, we're not what you'd call the best of friends."
"You could be, if you gave them a real chance. Maybe let down your guard a bit."
I frown. "They still call me The Ferret behind my back. Don't pretend you don't know."
"Only Ron does that. And never in my presence." Harry yawns. "If it's any consolation, Ginny Bat-Bogey Hexed him the last time he said it."
The corners of my mouth quirk up; I make a mental note to send Ginevra flowers at the earliest opportunity. Still... "That doesn't mean the rest of them like me."
"They might, if you stopped pulling that face whenever you're around them."
I roll over to look at him. "What face?"
"Like you're sniffing dung."
I draw back, surprised. "I do no such thing."
Harry arches an eyebrow; my brow furrows.
"Yeah. You do." Harry pulls me close. "Look, they're mad, the lot of them, but they're good people. Especially Arthur. And no one knows more about being a father." Harry brushes the fringe back from my forehead. "I reckon he'd enjoy sharing what he knows with us."
I mull this over. "You won't need advice from anyone," I say quietly. "You're going to be brilliant."
"We both will be." Harry kisses my forehead. "You'll see."
I could almost believe him, he sounds so certain.
I nestle my head in the crook of his arm, tired in body but peaceful in spirit; he pulls the duvet up around my shoulders. I'm drifting off to sleep, visions of cantaloupes and Pumpkin Pasties dancing in my head, when...
"Christ on a bloody Comet," I wail. "The baby's kicking again."
"Your problem," Harry says.
I stare at him, sure I misheard him. "What?"
"I already sang to her. Now it's your turn."
"But I can't bloody sing."
"Liar. You were singing in the shower the other morning."
"You heard that?" My face grows hot. "Er, that was only because... Oh, balls. It's your fault for playing those Bagels so much."
"Whatever," I snap. "Now I can't get their bloody songs out of my head."
Harry sighs. "Just admit once and for all you like Muggle music, Draco."
Harry yawns. "Fine. Have it your way." He rolls over. "Good night."
"Right. Uh... huh..."
Exactly five seconds later, Harry's snoring again.
I stew in silence while the baby pummels me from the inside. Christ, but she's going to pay for this someday. I contemplate purchasing a journal in which to record her every transgression, starting in the womb, then discard the idea. It's not without merit, but Arthur would never approve... and something tells me his approval just might be worth seeking, along with his advice. If it will please Harry, I'm at least willing to try.
I sigh. "All right, Lily. You win."
I clear my throat, feeling perfectly ridiculous.
"Here comes the sun," I sing, hopelessly off key. Even tone-deaf as I am, I know I'm doing it wrong. "Here comes the sun, and I say, it's all right..."
I'm halfway through the last verse when I realise she's not kicking anymore. I stop, gobsmacked.
"Well, what do you know," I say softly to myself. "Those Beagles are good for something, after all."
I close my eyes, running a hand over my belly, and nestle closer to Harry; my lips curl into a smile.
Maybe—just maybe—I might not be so bad at this fatherhood thing.