Inspired by various reportings of squicks over MPREG, I give you Ron Weasley's thoughts on the matter, in brief...

HD 'Ew!'

"You're serious, mate?" Ron Weasley screwed his normally open, friendly face up, and then actively restrained himself from gagging. "He is? I mean, you are?"

"Yes," Harry replied firmly and turned back to the business of making a pot of tea. Chamomile, because Draco was in the loo, actively gagging, and would want it after. "Why? There some problem with that, Ron?"

"Er—no!" His best friend was quick to cover up any hints of lingering unease. He shrugged. "I mean, it's not usual or anything, but that's not to say it doesn't happen."

"That's what Draco said," Harry smiled, when he twisted away from the counter, lofting the tray with pot and cup and miscellany before him. "Said it wasn't the norm, but we could do it if we wanted. So, yeah. We did. Er-excuse me for half a tick?"

"Oh! Yeah, sure, mate," Ron waved him out of the kitchen with a flap. "Take your time. Not going anywhere."

With Harry gone, he simply sat, wrapping his mind 'round the latest development in the unusual life of Harry Potter. First prophecies, then madmen, then shagging his old enemy and then sticking a bun up the arse's arse?

"Eeew!" Ron's eyebrows gathered. His lips thinned and he could taste bile. Not that male pregnancy was so outré, nor even that it so unusual these days, with a preponderance of wealthy Purebloods finally released from the coils of V-V-Voldemort's prejudice against homos and such. Nope, not that. He'd never minded that sort; Charlie, for one, was a good, ten-fingered, two-fisted reason not to…plus he'd always rather wondered about Fred and George, back in the day.

But that was neither here nor there. No, the problem was what the problem always was: Malfoy. That stinking, stuck-up prat Malfoy, with his claws so deep into Harry, the blinded-by-love berk would go along with any wild notion the arse suggested. Even Charming and Potioning and Magicking a bloody kid into existence, all just to provide a bloody heir to that bloody vast Malfoy fortune!

"Eeewww…." Ron mumbled. Speaking of magicking, how in the blazes was Malfoy supposed to get the baby out, when it was time? Knives? More Potions? Or—Merlin forbid!—natural childbirth? Ron still remembered how long it had taken his hand to heal after little Rosie was born. That shite was no stroll through Lyme Regis—it fucking well hurt!

Which meant Harry would be a basket case in seven months or so and he, good old Ron Weasley, would have to be at hand; at the ready, as it were, to scrape Harry off the fucking ceiling at St. Mungo's.

"Ew. Fucking, ew," Ron added aloud to his internal monologue, contemplating. Then there was afterwards, when Baby was born. There went their occasional nights out at the Leaky. He could wave 'buh-bye!' to pick-up Quidditch on a Saturday afternoon and dropping in unannounced for a free brunch spread on a Sunday, laid on thick and proper by Malfoy's French-trained house elves (not that he did that much, these days. Walked in on few too many scenes of torrid physical pleasure amidst the trays of miniature Danishes, Ron had. Ew!) And likely Harry would be all touchy and cranky, till the little one chose a proper sleeping schedule.

"Oh! Eeew!" Wait a moment! What if Harry wanted him to be a godparent? Harry was godfather to his own little Rose Petal, after all. Wouldn't be unheard of, him being asked to do the same in return, no, but the sprog—the sprog would be half-Malfoy! Bloody bollocks! He could imagine it, all the many opportunities that would spring up like mushrooms, what with Malfoy watching his every move like a bloodthirsty gyrfalcon whenever he was too close to the baby! Oh, and the inevitable carping—worse than his Hermione, likely. "Wash your mitts, Weasel, before you touch my child!" "Don't even consider holding him (or her—another girl in the family wouldn't be a bad thing, really; keep Rosie company) when you have those horrid, drippy, germy Muggle sniffles!"

And, of course: "What were you thinking, allowing my darling little Aphrodite Demeter Potter-Malfoy ("Ew!" Ron's brain went mental over the very idea of Malfoy christening that poor little mite 'Aphrodite') to roll about on the grubby floor with your common little Mudblood daughter, Weasel?" Yes, yes, Ron could see it now, playing out in his mind's eye like a tragedy, and fucking Harry (gormless, completely daft Harry, enamoured over a Malfoy, damn it!) would sit back and allow his best friend and the child's own godfather be ruthlessly bullied.

Oh, now that would be the kicker! Hounded over common dirt, damn it! Malfoy arsed off about germs on Baby, or anywhere within a furlong of Baby Potter-Malfoy, for that matter! Hermione had explained germs and their qualities of evil so often Ron could quote medical tomes, chapter and verse. Malfoy would likely be a hundred times worse on the subject, the wanker, what with his advanced educational degrees. And, come to think of it, what were they planning on naming their little one? 'Aphrodite' was right out, as was fuddy-duddy old 'Demeter', but maybe 'Lily' would be pretty—after Harry's Mum. Or even 'Lily Narcissa', to make nice to the expectant grandma, Mrs. Malfoy. Least she wasn't half-bad. Not like Malfoy himself, who was still a godsawful prat, and prouder than ever. One would think he'd managed his wooing of Harry all by his lonesome, the silly blighter! As if he hadn't been helped along all the while, from the sidelines, and by his own sworn schoolday's enemies! As if!

'Course he wasn't allowed to play 'enemies to the death' with Malfoy any longer, Ron admitted, ruefully. Harry rather frowned on it, even in fun. And it was sort of old and tired, their stupid childish feuding back-and-forth; rather like beating a dead Thestral even deader—if that was even a word. But not so funny, not any more.

Definitely not any more, if there was to be a baby!

"Um…" Ron chirped, shoving his chair back and having a sip of the regular caffeinated tea Harry still kept in the house. He contemplated what babies actually meant—for Wizards, at least. In his experience, which was recent and vivid. "Well. Oh, yeah—ew." Babies equated to crowds of excited Witches, scattered all over the landscape like Boggarts. And Harry's first-born would definitely merit coverage by the Prophet, Witch Weekly and every other rag that had gleefully published exposes on his ongoing and lurid affair with Malfoy. Yet more excited females, bustling about and fussing up a storm—all strangers to Harry and Malfoy, though that wouldn't stop them. Sending booties and rattles and teething rings and layette blankies, all unasked and unwanted. "Blech!"

Oh, yeah. There was more.

"Ew," Ron stated flatly, eyes on the sugar bowl, mentally digging his heels in against the rising tide of insanity on his best mate's behalf. "I mean, ew!" Likely even McGonagall and Pomfrey would be cooing and twittering, and Ron's own Mum didn't even bear thinking about—nor Hermione. Poor, poor, innocent, expectant Malfoy. He didn't even possess half a bloody clue of what he was in for, sodding pathetic git.

It would be a circus, of course. Totally a circus, just the same as Harry and Malfoy's Bonding. Skeeter would be on this Baby Potter-Malfoy story like flies to shite (Ron wondered idly just how many Galleons Malfoy had had to cough up already to keep the thing a secret this long—what, git was three months along already, wasn't he? That was a bloody fortune!) And every single Witch and Wizard all across Britain, and every surviving member of the old Order, and all the Gryffindor and Slytherin alumni from their years, and all their so-called mates; every one of 'em would likely be gabbing to their neighbors and their mates and even the fucking papers about this new nine days' wonder, because people did talk. And then, Hermione.

Poor bastard. Ron hoped the Manor, big as it was, had enough room to manage all those books and helpful pamphlets she'd be sure to deluge Malfoy in: What to Expect When Expecting Your Bundle of Magical Joy; Morning Sickness and Midwives: Potions That Cure; Ten Million, Zillion Cross-Referenced Baby Names for Your Erudite Little One—the list was endless. And Malfoy would be required to swot them all, cover to cover, because Hermione would be sure to quiz him after, unlucky sod.

Harry, too.

"Ew, ew, ew!" Ron exclaimed and slammed his cup down on its saucer just as his best mate reentered the room. "Fucking Salazar, Harry! Why do you always have to spring shite like this on me without fair warning? Now we need a game plan, double-quick! There's barely any time left! What's Malfoy—three months now? Sheeesh! Merlin's Beard-and-Bollocks!"

"What?" Harry replied, eyebrows arched well up and obviously bewildered. "Is there a problem, Ron?"

"Yes!" Ron yelped. "Yes, there's a fucking problem, Harry! Whilst your Malfoy's busy breeding and spawning, what in the bloody hell do you think we'll be doing? Running interference, that's what! Now, sit your fecund arse down, right now, right here! We need a strategy!"

Harry smiled at first, and then chuckled aloud, and then guffawed, leaning against the doorjamb and looking like he was bloody bollixed by...something. It was a mental sort of expression, that. Maybe he was, Ron decided. Kids made a person go ruddy mental, they did. Even before they made their appearance in the world.

"What?" Ron demanded. "What's the problem, Harry? Tell me! Malfoy alright in there? No problems with him, is there? He's not sick-sick, is he?"

"It's—it's just you, mate," Harry choked and went on giggling, bending over and clutching his stomach, nearly losing his balance altogether. "You're just so—so!"

"So what, Harry?" Ron was beginning to think Harry might be sleep-deprived already. Certainly laughing his head off over nothing much wasn't normal Harry behaviour. He had to straighten up, Harry did; take good care of himself—he'd a baby on the way, sod it! Was going to be a father! "What the fuck are you on about now?"

"You! You great, galumphing berk!" Harry finally ceased his infernal insane laughter, though he still grinned. "You're planning on being Delilah's godparent, aren't you? Well…both of you, I meant? You and Hermione?"

"'Course, mate," Ron snapped, tilting his determined chin. "So? Malfoy have some slimy Slytherin we have to share honours with, stuck up his pricy robe sleeve? What?"

"So…" Harry replied, tentatively, "no issues with it being him, then? No…problems with the fact that 'that slimy git's' having our baby? My baby. Ron?"

"No!" Ron roared and did stand up over that piece of nonsense, shaking the kitchen table and rising to tower menacingly over his idiot friend, a six-foot something length of ginger-hued, highly irked, godparent-to-be. "Ew, Harry! What d'you think I am, stupid? Who the fuck gives a hoot if it's Malfoy, anyway? That's old news, mate. Come on, get your game face on, will you? We need to be thinking of ways to keep this scrum clean, Harry. Stop nattering over the Malfoy thing—I'm so over that, it's not even pause-worthy."

"Hah!" Harry hooted, and feel back against the door jamb again, snorting and laughing his arse off like he really was mental or something.

But poor Ron got no satisfaction; not for quite some time, not till well after 'that git Malfoy' joined them in the kitchen, thankfully no longer bilious, and deigned to talk ways and means of keeping his unusual pregnancy and their upcoming 'Happy Event' under wraps and thus still a calm and 'Happy' event for the foreseeable future. Ron was in his element, rather, mapping out scenarios and coming up with ploys to fend off Skeeter and all the baby-barmy ladies that would be lining up to cut up his best mate's—and best mate's ball-and-chain's—peace all to shreds. Even Malfoy admitted Ron was good at this sort of thing, the sneering git.

And even if he did have to stop by the local on the way home to Hermione and have another quick one, just to settle his gut. And even if he did find himself repeating that one little syllable—'Ew!'—seventeen more times over the next two days, till he finally grew accustomed.

Yes, well, as Ron justified it—to himself, to Hermione, to his favourite brother Bill—it's like this. Life goes on, mate, and sometimes Malfoys get themselves up the bum by sodding Potters and sometimes Weasleys just have to learn to like it or lump it. Word.