A/N: Combination of 2 prompts. SO fluffy I can't stop myself. Mutlichapter and Demigod part 2 still in the works :)
The second hand on Harry's alarm clock stuck on every third tick, which is why it's always slower than the rest of the time telling devices in the flat. Which is why Ginny's husband is almost always rushing about in the morning even when he gets up with the first ring of his clock.
She really should tell him, now that she knows. But it's his fault that she knows. Because his child is currently somersaulting about her belly and keeping her awake for the third night in a row. So she might not tell him – at least not until she gets more than forty-five minutes of sleep in one go. Because marriage means if she suffers, he suffers.
Ginny feels bad for a minute, but then baby James decides to stretch his legs and then settle directly on her bladder, so she grumbles to herself and shuffles off to the bathroom. "Baby, please. Let mummy sleep."
The unborn Potter simply continues his acrobatics and Ginny sighs as she goes about her business in the loo, stroking her stomach in the vain hope that it will somehow turn her son into a peaceful and considerate child. "If you go to sleep I promise I'll give you candy for dinner every night."
"That sounds like bad a plan dear," Harry's gruff voice calls from the threshold. He's rubbing at his eyes with sleepy fists and Ginny's caught off guard by his boyishness.
It's not that she hasn't seen it before, but she can't help that her breath catches a bit to see what he would've looked like as a child before she knew him, or if he'd had a normal childhood without a prophecy breathing down his neck.
Warm tears well in her eyes and Ginny mentally curses the heightened hormones raging through her body and making her a complete hosepipe of a human being. Despite her best efforts at camouflaging her watery eyes, it seems Harry's noticed as he gently guides her to wash her hands and return to the bed, "Alright Weasley?"
Sniffing loudly and dramatically, Ginny leans into his shoulder and nuzzles his neck, letting a few tears leak onto his t-shirt, "Potter."
Harry chuckles as he rubs her back comfortingly, fingers occasionally digging at the knotted muscles riddling her back. Gently, he pulls away, always maintaining contact with her as he drops back to his heels and addresses her belly, "I know you're bound to be a troublemaker given your heritage," Ginny laughs tearily and Harry pauses to beam at her, "but your mum is quite tired."
Ginny groans in agreement and rubs her stomach again as Harry continues, "And as you may have noticed, she's quite cranky when sleep deprived."
Apparently anticipating her less than savory reaction, Harry ducks out of the way as Ginny swipes at his head, but her cat like accuracy wins the day and he rubs at the sore spot with eyes narrowed in her direction. "See what I mean?"
It's only in the quiet that follows that Ginny notices James is quieting down, movements more balletic and smooth, which he usually does before settling for a nap. Desperate, she grasps Harry's biceps, "Keep talking. Your voice is making him calm."
Harry's eyes spark at that, and Ginny's reminded that despite all evidence to the contrary, he's nervous about being a bad father. He's said himself, on multiple occasions, that her dad was a beautiful example – and helping raise Teddy is no small feat. But this will be the first time it's just him (them) and his greatest failing – and gift – is a desire to protect and sacrifice and take responsibility on himself so others don't have to. It's only natural that someone putting that much pressure on themselves would doubt their ability to measure up.
But Ginny knows better than anyone Harry will more than rise to meet his seemingly unreasonably high standards.
He's murmuring softly now, still knelt before her, but with his lips pressed close to her belly. It's too quiet to hear, but he glances at her a few times as if confirming his memory and she knows he's describing her to their as yet unborn child. Harry's taken to doing that – telling James about everything he sees as much as he can whenever he can.
One afternoon he'd spent three quarters of an hour dramatizing the antics of a waddle of ducks that lived in the park near their flat and Ginny'd jokingly asked whether he planned to let their baby have any surprises left when he was born. Harry had shrugged, looking bashful for a moment as he rubbed at his neck and mumbled he didn't want their children left in the dark to figure things out on their own without knowing he was there.
She'd nodded once, brow furrowed, before turning his face toward her and describing it in minute detail to her baby bump. And if she'd gotten sidetracked when describing his bowed lips and dragged him back to the flat for a snog and then some – well they have to have grown up fun sometime.
Breaking herself from her own reverie, Ginny yawns hugely and cards her fingers through Harry's hair gently, "How about we take this under the covers?"
He glances up, wriggling his eyebrows mischievously, and Ginny flicks his lean chest, "Maybe we'll talk when your son hasn't been torturing me for thirty six hours."
Laughing, he tucks her into the bed and slides down the mattress, head pillowed on his arm as he lifts her (his) t-shirt over her middle and presses a gentle, barely there kiss to the warm skin. "Did I ever tell you about the time your mum won the Quidditch Cup?"