Waker had been in a very good mood since George had taken her to Wales and then surprised her with the nursery painting upon their return. It had been a sweet, cozy holiday on the chilly coast, with a fireplace and cocoa and plenty of fresh air, and the mural was everything she could have hoped for-- something she hadn’t expected at all, that extra touch that went above and beyond being prepared. It made the nursery part of their home in the same way the rocking chair did. It made it feel like the baby was part of the family already, that they were a family, and its charms gave it the clever, magical touch that Waker craved as she made her own way in the Wizarding world. She had sent an owl to Layla Styles thanking profusely; if they ever had another painting project, Waker would be sure to consult her. Perhaps a surprise for George one day.

Despite back pains and an exponentially growing belly whose occupant had a fondness for kicking (this, she assumed, had been inherited from George, who did not like to sit still, either), the cheeriness had persisted through her last couple of work weeks. Having made friends with Akiva Eleor, Waker felt a bit less self-conscious at work, too… though there were still moments where she panicked a little, weighed the possibilities of having her water break in front of everyone, bosses especially, and having to take leave before she went into labor, confining herself to bed and going stir crazy; so far, work had won out, and Waker had steadfastly refused to sit around bored and anxious. It was much better to put that anxiety to good use.

Waker splayed a hand over her forehead and have her eye, shaking her head a bit as she grinned. Her eyes were squeezed shut with mild what have I gotten myself into sheepishness, but she was not really shy about grooming. She was at the point now where her usual routine was becoming harder. She had traded showers for baths and had foregone heels. It was a Sunday evening, and she had thought to relax by painting her nails, but matching the toes was out of the question, at least for Waker’s own hands. She had been about to use her wand, consult a magazine guide, when George had offered to help. “The slightly peachy one,” she said, removing her hand and lifting her head a bit to look over the hill of her tummy. Her smile became a slightly more sober expression as she watched him. “Have you ever done this before?” She wasn’t sure which answer she would prefer.

They had needed a change of pace from the busy day to day life of adulthood. Especially with such a life changer on the very near horizon. If it had also helped to encourage it while Layla did her magic, then there was that added bonus. George had been rather pleased with the outcome of her work. To be honest, he had doubted her just a teeny bit, what with their past and all.

He had been pleased that Eleanor hadn’t let him down, either. It was completely plausible, in his head, that she would set him up for failure. Then again... a bit of paint would’ve covered up any sort of mistake, and Waker could have been none the wiser.

Luckily that hadn’t been the case. It had been a wonderfully relaxing trip with an amazing homecoming. The couple of photos Layla had managed to send hadn’t done it justice. In a way, it was overwhelming. Reality was sinking in more each day.

Glancing up over her from his spot at her feet, George gave her a half grin. When she’d brought up painting her toes, it felt simple. If Layla could paint a mural, he could do her toes. Plus he wanted to help. But now that he was there... he was a little concerned he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Slightly peachy one? He ran a tongue over his teeth as he frowned at the colors picking up a couple and holding them for her to inspect.

“Have you ever done this before?”

He scoffed, shrugging as if it was no big thing. “It can’t be that hard, Waker.” Grinning, he blew her a kiss before dropping the unselected polish back in with the others, setting them aside. George had all ready rubbed her calves and feet, having exhausted the conversation about the game (from the day before). They had talked about her work, as well, though George wasn’t as interested in the little that she could tell him.

If she could just open up about what she really saw, he knew he’d be entertained for hours. The endless possibilities...

Wiping his oily hands off on a towel, he shifted a bit more, a leg drawing up with his ankle under the other leg’s thigh. “So... Does it matter how you apply the polish?” George gently pulled her leg to his lap, examining her toes before lightly tickling her arch. He grinned before picking up the polish, starting to unscrew it.

Peaking over her tummy was something of a task at this point, so Waker propped herself up on her elbows, her brown gaze zeroing in on the bottles George was holding up. “That one.” She noted his shrug and offered raised eyebrows and a slightly pursed mouth at his answer. “So that would be a no,” she elaborated for him. George, of course, was not someone who gave up easily. If he hadn’t tried something, he was certainly the sort of person who dove in head first, making adventures of new experiences. Waker, on the other, was generally a hyper-organized creature of habit. She mastered something and stuck with. Why break a routine if it was contributing to her overall success?

Not that pretty toes had anything to do with success. But the due-date was near, it was just a matter of restless waiting now, and she didn’t think she wanted the baby’s first view of the world to include chipped nail polish (and even if the baby’s eyes wouldn’t open for a while, who knew how many healers and nurses would be involved?!). Ten welcoming toes in a warm and cheery but still soft, subtle color would be a pleasant welcome, and Waker would still be her usual put-together self, never mind hours of labor.

“You would think that, but you have to stay inside the lines, George.” Of course… “It’s easier to paint someone else’s toes. You should try your own.” With George’s love for swimming and his career in consideration, Waker would give him two days to keep his nails pristinely painted. (Without a charmed coat on top, of course). She sat up for a moment, raising both hands to demonstrate how she would do it, slow, careful strokes away from the finger (or toe). “Brush it towards you. Be careful not to let it drip on the sofa.” Then she leaned back into her elbows (which was more comfortable than sitting up) and watched him do the first few before laying back and trusting him not to make a mess of it. The wireless was on, alternating between comforting old songs and news blurbs.

When he was done, Waker sat up again and pointed her wand at her toes, applying a quick drying spell with one wave. She carefully shifted so that her feet touched the floor, and pushed up with a hand on the couch’s arm to go stand in front of a mirror beside the coat rack at the front door. She studied them carefully, turning a bit to see them at different angles. “Not bad,” she said looking over her shoulder to smile at him. “I don’t think she’ll be too traumatized when she sees them.”

He grinned, not meeting her gaze for a moment. "It's not like Phillip and I practiced in each other." George was well versed in painting things. Just not such small things. If it was important to Waker, then George was more than happy to help her out. And why not take command of the situation? It gave them something to do besides wait around for something to happen.

After they had dinner, it had been easy to help her relax on the couch with the wireless on. It had been a simple dinner; pasta and red sauce and some bread. He had been occasionally trying something new and exotic in the kitchen, but it wasn't always a success.

Still, he was trying.

"I can stay inside the lines." Maybe. It was a boast, attempting to show confidence. Looking up at her, he raised an eyebrow but accepted her demonstration. He was not going to paint his own toes. "Oh... ok." Rolling his eyes, George let out a breath of a laugh. As if he'd let the polish on the sofa.

He leaned over her foot, frowning in concentration as he bit his lower lip. After a moment of trying to figure out how to hold her foot, he finally pulled her toes down and started to apply the polish. Eyes went wide when he 'got outside the lines,' but a rub here or there with his finger, or the tip of his nail, and he was attempting to keep his mistakes to a minimum.

It took a lot longer than he thought it would. Once he finished (and stretched his back with a groan), George stood up and helped Waker off the comfortable cushions. The splatter of slightly peachy color over his fingers was a testament to his hard work. He grinned at her assessment.

"I had good direction." He walked over to her, stepping up behind her and wrapping his arms lightly around her stomach, gently rubbing it while kissing her neck. George started to sway with her to the music. "I can't believe it's so close." It was surreal. Every time she was a little bigger, George was amazed. His face nuzzled into her neck, kissing her upper back as he grinned. "I can paint her toes soon too. Did you think about 'Amazing' for a middle name, yet?"

“Too bad. Phillip seems like he’d be very good at it.” The staying inside the lines part, anyway. It wasn’t that George wasn’t good at that sort of thing, just that he was apparently always very willing to venture outside of the lines. But once they’d established the color, the way to paint, and where not to get the paint, Waker left him to it, putting her trust in him (mostly). There was always nail polish remover if it didn’t work out. It wasn’t as if she was asking him to take over her Ministry workload.

The little chill of polish on her toe here and there made her shiver a bit, but she stopped herself from sitting up to inspect. She felt George trying to correct it— or assumed that’s what was doing, and let her wand sit idly at her side. The warmth of the flat and the soothing songs over the Wireless made it easy enough to relax. (The cramps and little kicks and cravings and temperature changes day to day helped to keep her alert, though.).

She was glad George was here to help her to feet. The little things she needed help with lately annoyed her, and she was only glad she hadn’t been put on bed rest. She could only imagine the exercise she’d put the poor owl through if she were forced to work from bed.

Her smiled widened and her cheeks bunched as he came up to her. Waker returned her attention to the mirror, where she now had a good view of her toes, her belly, and George. “So I’m still a good tutor?” She asked, though she knew the answer. Pregnancy hadn’t changed her that much. She felt a shiver on her spine as he brought up how close they were. Not that Waker thought about much else lately. But she was also taking her sweet time now, the baby. It was strange how time moved in instances like this. (Waker had never really been in this situation, to be fair.)

“Let’s wait until she’s old enough to wear shoes before we think about painting her nails,” Waker insisted. For more reasons than one. George had done a decent job with her nails, but they had to be a hundred times bigger than the baby’s. At least shoes could cover creative liberties. Her face became less soft, her expression less amused as he brought up a clever middle name for the baby. “I’d rather you paint her toes.” They had gone over lists of names and narrowed them down. If Waker’s choices were likely to win out, well, no one would be surprised. They might have joked about such names in the past (and more recently), but she was certain the name would not include the word Amazing, as amazing as the baby might be. “You can call her that as a nickname. It’s not going on the birth certificate.” And as far as nicknames went, Waker was determined it wouldn’t be so serious that friends and family called her that. She would have a name that fit a human, not an adjective that set a perpetual benchmark. She touched his hands on her stomach and rose a brow. “Maybe you can name a pet Amazing. In a few years.” A baby was plenty without adding a puppy to their little family so soon.

When she said his brother’s name, George rolled his eyes and pursed his lips in mild irritation. It didn’t matter if George had used it. “He’s great at everything.” That’s what he felt he’d grown up hearing, anyway. If anything, it only made George want to prove that he could do this, as trivial as it was. If it had slipped out a little more punctual than usual, George didn’t notice. If he felt he was still in some sort of life competition with his older brother, then he couldn’t be helped.

Especially since his brother graduated Hogwarts on time and did not knock up his girlfriend. Instead, Phillip was a fantastic, successful prat.

End inner anguish.

Even if George had mucked things up, jumping the wand a little at starting a family, he was determined to do it his way. Which had been his problem most of his life, really. If George would have just conformed and done as he was told, he would probably have scraped by at Hogwarts and graduated on time. But then where would he be now? Would it have been the same? Would he have ended up with Waker beyond their first summer together?

Questions that would never have answers. And as he stood behind her, admiring her in the mirror, George didn’t need them. It was his life, as screwed up as it might get, and now… it was a life they had made. “You’re the best tutor.” He grinned widely and kissed her neck again, digging his head into it playfully, biting her lightly before pulling his head back. “Though we haven’t hit the stacks in a while.” Eyebrows wiggled at her in vain.

He shrugged at her insistence. If he had to wait to paint toes again, that was fine. She wasn’t twisting his arm. Her dislike of his middle name idea, however, forced a quizzical frown on his face. Why she was so easy to irritate lately… “But you said-” And then he got it. He let out a breath and resisted the desire to roll his eyes. Spreading his fingers out and accepting her hands over his, he continued to sway to the music. Perhaps when she was on some pain potions she could be more easily persuaded into amazing names.

The idea of a pet caused his eyebrows to rise in thought. That was the first time she’d ‘ok’d’ the idea of a pet. Grinning, he tilted his head and looked at the side of hers, ignoring the mirror for a moment. “Yeah?” If he chose to ignore a few years, that was just because he had selective hearing. “I know something you can name amazing.” George pressed up against her, a hand moving to her hip as he got into the song, suggestive of another relaxation idea.

His lips pressed against her neck again. George liked to push his luck, sliding his other hand over her abdomen and up towards another impressive feature of pregnancy. “Can we keep these?” He looked over her shoulder and grinned, kissing her cheek lightly, attempting to encourage her to turn her face his way, his hand giving her a honk.

“There has to be something he’s not great at,” Waker reasoned, noting the lack of amusement George possessed when discussing his brother. She felt a little guilty now. “You’re great at a lot of things he’s probably terrible at…” And, though Waker might have admired Phillip and his work ethic, she had chosen George for a reason. As often as they lovingly annoyed one another, they were meant to be together. She couldn’t imagine waking up beside a mirror image of herself. “He’s not keeping for a professional quidditch team, is he?” She pointed out encouragingly.

She continued to smile, pleased that she still held onto the title of best tutor. They didn’t need to be in school for that to still be true! And if there was one thing Waker had learned since graduating into adulthood, it was that one never stopped learning. “We can go book shopping soon, if you’d like.” She met his innuendo with a perfectly respectable answer. They might be saving galleons and budgeting carefully, but there was always room for more books. They were a sound investment with a great return.

Joking about calling their child something like Amazing was one thing. Actually doing it was quite another. Surely George knew that. Surely Waker didn’t have to say… She shook her head, reaching up to tuck a strand of blonde behind her ear. “If we did everything we joked about doing, I would have been expelled before graduating and we would be living in Spain by now.” Or not. Because she would have been expelled. She tried not to think about the E word too elaborately.

Future pets and idle dancing were far easier to accomplish. (Though it would be months before Waker actually let George bring a pet into the house. One baby was enough). “Your waltzing skills? I don’t know, you still need a bit of practice.” She was about to turn around, dance with him properly (if not waltz-level properly), when he had to just… “George. Do you know how annoying it is to buy new clothes every few weeks because everything keeps changing sizes?” Her face darkened a bit as she stared at his reflection. A hand came up to paw his away. She didn’t mind, usually, but Waker had had it up to here with her body playing tricks on her. And those were for the baby. (Which scared her a little. Or a lot. She had been reading a little much lately, maybe, if that were possible). Bringing his hands back down to her hips, she turned around in his hold and stared at him with a half pout. “And we? They’re mine, you know.” If he had half a clue about how infuriating they were… She squeezed his hands, which she still had pinned firmly at her hips. After a moment, she lightened her grasp and gingerly raised her hands to his shoulders, looping them around his neck. “What if I can’t get her to…” She looked down at her chest and back to George. It was ridiculous. “What if she doesn’t like... them?” She asked softly. She had read stories… But what Waker was really worried about was whether the baby would like her. The way she said them made it pretty obvious. If George had brought up something else, the color of the walls, the way she organized the shelves, the toys they had bought, she would have gone with that example instead. A placeholder. He’d had to pick those, and Waker felt a bit awkward, but it was better than asking what was really on her mind. Bonding wasn’t her forte. Motherhood? She knew nothing about motherhood. What were they thinking? She might fail, earn a giant T. She had never earned a T in her life, but this seemed like a test that was near impossible to pass.

George appreciated her attempt to boost him back up. Even if he was still somewhat frustrated at the thought of his perfect brother. He shrugged a little, thinking about it a moment. Phillip was shit at Quidditch. “No, he’s not.” Even if George was only on the Cannons team, it was still something he could accomplish that Phillip never could. Grinning a little bigger, he decided he liked that.

If he sighed at her offer for book shopping, it was quiet. It didn’t matter if they were alone in their apartment, she would still sometimes act as if they were on the verge of a professor rounding the corner.

“We could still live in Spain.” That didn’t have to be a joke.

That she refused to give into any of his jokes could prove disappointing. Her sarcasm and wit matching his did wonders for playful arguments. If she wanted to dance the waltz, then she sure wasn’t doing it right herself. Then she reprimanded him, and he was quickly put in his place with his hand. He matched her pout when she turned around. Her statement made his face screw up as he tapped his fingers against her hips. “I know... but I like them more than you do.”

He appreciated them. A deep breath was taken in before he let it out slowly, letting her keep his hands where they were. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, his hands slipped back a little, holding on to her lower back as best he could. The baby was in the way just a little bit.

“You’ll be able to do anything, Waker.” He gave her a small smile before having a look himself. It was an admirable sight. “How can she not like them?” George leaned down quickly and kissed the top of her visible chest, grinning as he pulled back. “If she doesn’t, then more for me.” Seriously, though, George wasn’t sure about sharing with the baby. His fingers caressed her sides. “She’s going to be amazing, Waker. And you’re amazing.”

A hand slipped up, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear while they swayed to the music. Moving back down to her hip, he pulled her in against him lightly, kissing her however briefly on the lips. “I love you.” Again his hand moved, gently rubbing her belly. “You too.” His eyes glanced down as he said it, grinning before his hand moved back to her hip, again. “I hope she looks like you.”

“We could still live in Spain.”

“Maybe that should be a goal for the future.” It was already, sort of, though Waker hadn’t written it down. Every time she lifted her quill to do so, she hesitated. She’d been steadfast in seeing through as many of her plans as she could, despite the pregnancy, but the past several months had made her wary of being unrealistic. Things which had not been on the horizon were at the forefront now, and things which she had meant to focus on were suddenly less important or not likely to happen any time soon.

It was true. George seemed to like them much more than Waker, who just wanted them to stay one size so she didn’t have to buy new undergarments every few months or worry that her work blouses wouldn’t fit the same way (though the third trimester had brought a handful of maternity dresses and loose tops, anyway). They were nice to look at, but a pain to keep up with. Literally. She didn’t know whether to blame the anxious-to-get-out baby in her belly or her growing chest or her daily commute for the pain in her back, but she’d had it with cramps and her wardrobe playing tricks on her. “Well, what if they go away when I’m done nursing her?" she challenged, hoping not to hear the wrong answer. She had gained the most in the past three months, and it nearly all in the front.

She felt her heart dance a bit at his words; she was both believing and wary, grateful and anxious. Needing someone was a strange thing, wonderful and nerve-wracking. She needed his words and his belief in her. She was less pouty this time when he kissed her fondly. At least his hands were in the right place for dancing. “I love you, too.” She swayed softly, considered his next words, and smiled with her usual bunched cheeks. “Or both of us.” She would be lucky to get George’s head (shape).

There wasn't much time left to think about whether the baby would like her. Not any, really. Waker had hardly pressed her cheek to his chest, moved with him for a few moments to an old song on the wireless, when the water came gushing. Suddenly the floor was wet, and drops were still trickling down her leg. She pulled back with shiver, her wand held tightly. “Oh, no. Not yet!”

Was it not all ready a goal for the future? He shrugged a little, looking down when the confusion slipped over his face. Where Waker enjoyed lists and marking things off, George kept a mental jumble of things he had to do, and usually ended up forgetting one or two things along the way. Like check the post on the way in. It was just so foreign that he often let it slip his mind. Or cleaning his mug in the morning before heading off to work.

Little things that might not go past Waker. If he happened to take his socks off in the living room and forget about them, to him it wasn’t a big deal. He could always pick them up later.

“What if they go away?” He considered her question only briefly before grinning. “Then I’ll have them all to myself again.” George had loved them before, and he loved them now. If there was more to hold on to because they were full of something important for the baby, then that was just an added bonus. He wasn’t going to reject her breasts because they changed size.

When she repeated the words to him, he couldn’t help but grin. He was a lovable guy, what could he say? They were a long shot from where they had been when love was first voiced. George loved seeing her smile without worry dragging it down. It grabbed at his heart; his fingers moved around her more, holding her to him while she leaned against him while they danced. Somehow, she could make him feel like the tallest person in the room...

Of course, it didn’t last long. The gush of water splashed sprinkles on to George’s trousers and bare feet. Startled a bit, he pulled back as Waker did and looked down. He heard her, but didn’t process. “Did... did you just pee on the-” Wait... not yet. Blinking as he looked up at her, slightly horrified and slightly... scared? “Not yet? Did it-is that-St. Mungo’s?” And suddenly he was a man on a mission, though he wasn’t sure which one.

He darted to the room, then to the bathroom, then back to the room, into the living room with her little bag, and into the kitchen. George felt as if he’d chugged a whole case of beer. Hand in his hair, scratching at the back of it, he looked around wildly before focusing on Waker. “What else, what-” Oh! He snapped his fingers as his face slipped into something a little more confident. He quickly made his way to the desk, jotting a quick note to his parents. Fingers shook as he tried to attach the note to the owl; if it took a couple tries and an irritated noise from the bird, no one should blame George.

As the owl was let out into the early evening sky, George turned around and looked at Waker. “So...” He fumbled for his wand and stepped closer, realizing only before he offered to apparate them that he needed shoes on. Making a quick show of pulling his plimsolls on, after wiping off whatever that was off his feet with his socks before slipping them on, he stood back and offered his hand to her.  Why was he shaking?

“Or I’ll have them to myself,” she pointed out, but she wasn’t not smiling. They were hers, after all, even if George was more enthusiastic about their changes. It would be nice when she could wear most of her wardrobe again.

He was holding her closer now, less playfully but with somehow more affection between them. Their closeness was nice, nicer than laying in bed or on the couch under a pile of blankets. Waker could forget for a moment the pain that came with pregnancy. Their dancing was slow, soft, almost like a hug with rhythm, which was about all Waker could handle in her current state. The music washed over them gently, the perfect song. Waker closed her eyes against his shoulder for a moment before opening them again, looking at his skin and shirt, tilting her head to catch his face, and then looking down (around the bump between them) at her toes. The paint was a relaxing color, she had chosen right and he had done a good job. It was silly, but she grinned at her feet and George’s as they moved together in the sweet, steady dance.

The transition from slow dance to preparing for the flood would have been comical if it weren’t so anxiety-inducing.

“I did not just pee,” she insisted, almost a scoff, despite her initial reaction. “My water broke,” she clarified, as George’s horror brought forth several questions. Or one question that started many ways. She barely elaborated before he was going about finding the things they had prepared.

Waker could feel the anxiety creeping in, she took a deep breath, shoulders heaving, then another breath, then another. It wasn’t even labor, just Waker trying to calm her panicking. This carried on as she watched George reappear and dart into the kitchen. Finally, she got her wits about her. She lifted her wand cleaned the mess on the floor. However sweet a moment, however fond a reminder of this new stage of their life, she could do without the wet floor. There would be other, sweeter mementos and souvenirs.

She had stopped wanting to shake but stared for a moment as George tried to remember something. The note. He thought of it before she could answer, blink, pull out a check list. She was glad that they had planned in advance (there was no other option) so that Waker’s parents would have a way to get there.

She noted that George was shaking as she took his hand, but she grabbed his arm to calm him. She let go gently and reached for her coat, which was hanging near the door, and asked for his help as she slipped into it. “I’m ready,” she said, taking his hand again, trying not to shake again herself, waiting for him to apparate.

---

They reached St. Mungo’s in a second, found easily the entrance that muggle passersby ignored because they could not see it. Waker led the way inside, feeling suddenly confident. They had got this far, right? Later she would be eating those words, that thought, most likely out loud. They checked in with the witch in reception and were directed to the appropriate floor (which Waker already knew well, having visited a couple of times in advance, going over the plans with the nurses after meeting with the healer). Soon, they had been set up in a small room, Waker having changed into a hospital gown and laid back on a propped up bed where she had nothing to concentrate on but labor and her shared nervousness with George. The seeming confidence from fifteen minutes ago was taking a backseat now. “You brought extra clothes, right? And the parchment and quills?” It had all been packed in advance, and she’d seen George collect the bag and whatever components they’d needed to add last-minute. Still! “What if your mum isn’t home? What if my mum isn’t home?"

Waker’s gentle touch prior to apparating to St. Mungo’s had helped calm him. George went through the motions of helping her with her coat. Tasks were easier to focus on than the impending reality. That, and the fact that she might have peed her water broke all over their floor, regardless of whether she cleaned it up or not.

George was just glad that his apparation skills were on par, even if his brain wasn’t functioning quite where it should be. Like the fact he had on socks and shoes, but forgot to change his pajama trousers (now with a few slightly peachy marks added in) or black undershirt. He couldn’t even say if the sweater he had pulled on hastily before departing matched!

Nothing screamed new parents quite like their get-up and rush to the hospital, even if they had a bag well packed and organized (thank you, Waker). George would’ve thrown a couple things in there and forgotten everything else. It was much better to have things ready to go in case something happened suddenly. Like it had. This time, her preparedness came in handy.

While Waker changed, George looked over the room, focusing on little things to try and ease his mind. Like the lights, where they were positioned, and the little area where he guessed the baby was put after. Once she was in the bed, he dragged a chair over, sitting down next to her and smiling. Even if he was nervous, and it showed. George had to put on a happy face and help her nerves.

“Extra clothes? I didn’t add it to the bag...” Glancing back at the bag on the little bench next to a window, he frowned. “Didn’t you put all that stuff in there?” He was starting to get warm. Pulling at his sweater, it came off from over his head, nearly taking his shirt with it. Grinning as he adjusted the shirt, he tossed the sweater back on top of the bag, turning his attention back to his girlfriend.

At her continued assault of questions, George reached out and took her hand, pulling it towards him a little. His thumb rubbed the back of her hand before he lifted it and kissed it, leaning forward and kissing her lips, sitting back down in his chair (but not letting go of her hand). “I’ll go and get them if they don’t get here in a reasonable amount of time.” Then again, reasonable lost its mind in a hospital room, waiting for a minute to click by as if it were actually a minute comprised of sixty seconds that moved as slow as a snail.

“Hey, did I tell you about the new trick we were working over on the practice pitch?” Eyebrows rose as he wiggled them at her suggestively, as if this was the sort of bedroom talk she liked. And he went on to describe it, explaining the complexity of it, pausing when the mediwitch entered to check on Waker and get her information.

George sat there quietly, glancing around again, attempting to focus on the woman’s words. Something about blood tranfusions and belongings and how she wanted to deal with the pain. All through it, he held her hand, waiting somewhat impatiently. How long did they think this process was going to take?

Once the woman was done, and had hooked up Waker to some medieval looking contraption (after explaining it was spelled to listen to the baby’s heartbeat). George lifted the gown (once the door was closed) to examine it all, raising an eyebrow before letting it fall back down. “So those things pressed against your stomach are supposed to tell them the baby’s heartbeat?” He shrugged, grinning. “Medicine. Amazing.”

He started to go back into explaining the new stunt. “And then, after the barrel roll and toss of the quaffle, I do a figure eight-” The door opened once again, and he trailed off as he looked up, frowning as his parents came in, followed by her parents. He quickly put a smile on his face, awkwardly standing up as he set about moving their things for room on the bench. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Nolan. Mum, dad.” He walked over and gave his folks a hug, and his mum a kiss, followed by a hug for her parents. Why not? They were all about to be family...

Waker tried not to knit her brows too hard as she went over the bag in her mind’s eyes. She’d packed it and checked it repeatedly. It had everything she needed. Unless George had rifled through it and removed things, they had come completely prepared, extra clothes and all. Still… “They should be folded in there,” she said, and eyed him as if she expected him to confirm or to check. There was a doe quality to her gaze, mixed with the worry and the expectation, something softer that she thought might compel him. And, well, because she obviously loved him! Even if he was wearing his pajamas in public. “Could you also check for the book? The big brown one.” Despite ready access to healers and mediwitches, and despite having been over everything with them, she thought now was an opportune time to brush up on the breathing and pushing techniques outlined in the giant book. So far, she did not feel anything that compelled her to push or change her breathing pattern. It was going to be a long night.

With the book in her lap, she perused pages, flipping back and forth from the ones she’d needed, pausing here and there to talk to George, or to beckon him closer so that he could read with her, elaborating on certain points (and pausing for the mediwitch, affirming George’s guess about the magical medical devices). She propped the book up on her knees and left it open as she listened to his quidditch story, her cheeks bunching in a humored grin. If she looked remarkably young in that moment— certainly very young to be here— it was a good thing Waker didn’t notice. “Just don’t break your bones,” she cautioned. "I like you the way you are.”

The steady stream of people in and out of the room began with the mediwitch and continued with their parents. Waker felt her jump a little as they all filtered in, crowding around the bed while the men fetched chairs.

Waker’s mother, a doctor, leaned down to hug her, and seemed torn between offering her daughter nervous smiles and staring in awe at the surroundings of the wizarding hospital room. She’d brought tupperware full of healthy snacks for the group— berries, apples, carrots, some raisin biscuits. Her father squeezed her hand and kissed her forehead before joining his wife in quiet conversation with the Carters. He also seemed to be surveying their surroundings, his scientific mind attempting to make sense of the magic. Four chairs formed a sort of semi-circle at the end of the bed. They all listened to the story of Waker’s water breaking (with Waker glossing over certain details and trying to keep a straight face on others, and completely skipping the part where George had thought she’d peed), and then one of the Carters offered to show the Nolans around the wing a bit. There was little to do but wait and find ways to distract each other or Waker— who had already become unamused with the hospital gown and the wait for labor to up the challenge. She had prepared so thoroughly almost nothing could calm her nerves. She held George’s hand and murmured to him about the differences between muggle and wizarding medicine.

Hours passed, with family members coming and going, running various errands and poking around the room. After what seemed ages, Waker started to really feel it.



“This is all your fault,” Waker accused through clenched teeth, her brown gaze full of daggers for George. The pressure was ridiculous. The books had lied. There was no way to chart it. And no matter how diligently she breathed and pushed and squeezed George’s hand and allowed her hair to be pushed from her forehead and accepted ice to crunch on, it just got more pronounced. “AHH!” Her screams and shouts, like her accusations and murderous stare, were reserved for the young man at her side, whose hand she was currently squeezing so hard that it might have been turning worrisome colors. “Yours,” she huffed again, exhausted.

Very lucky for George, there was the mediwitch with a lovely little potion.

George didn’t feel that he was completely to blame if he didn’t get her well hidden hint to check the bag. When she looked at him, eyebrows rose and he gave her a small smile, nodding in agreement. They should be in there. He agreed. Then she asked him about the book, also, and he frowned back at her a moment before jumping up from the chair and moving over to the bag. “Sure.”

He wasn’t quite as meticulous as she was, however, and as he rummaged through, he pushed things aside in his pursuit. Finally, however, he grabbed the book and pulled it out with a grunt. She wasn’t joking when she said the big brown one. “You sure you should be lifting this?” George grinned at his own joke, turning back to her as he offered it to her, leaving the bag as it was. No doubt she’d have him get back into it soon enough anyway.

It was comfortable sitting and chatting with her about things as simple as Quidditch plays to things as complex as whatever she wanted him to look at in her book. George loved when she smiled; he found it infectious. Glancing over her face, he raised his eyebrows quickly, laughing as he squeezed her hand. “Trust me, I’ll keep my bones unbroken, just for you.” It was nice that she liked him how he was, without broken bones. “I like you too.”

While their parents settled in, George squirmed a little in his chair, one hand still holding hers as the other tapped lightly on the arm of the chair he was stuck in. He was never sure how her father felt about him; George was, after all, quite a screw up. Case in point, the reason they were all in the hospital room together. Plus it was weird, knowing that Mr. Nolan knew what George had done to his daughter.

He tried not to sweat it, though, preferring to focus on other things. Like the way his mum eyed his trousers. “George... did you bring an extra pair of clothes?” She tried hard to not point it out directly, attempting to be polite, but still motioning to the pajama bottoms with a look of slight horror on her face. “Uh...” George glanced to Waker, a questioning glance on his face. The response was obvious, and he grinned as he nodded, turning his attention back to his mum. “I think the bag’s all set.”

When the parents left to tour the wing, and people started taking turns staying in the room with them, George attempted to relax, feet on the bed with Waker as he kept his butt in the chair, hand holding hers while listening to her read aloud sections from the book. “Wait, what’s going to happen to the baby’s head?!”


“This is all your fault-”

If she hadn’t all ready blamed him for everything else, George might have been more phased by her choice of words. As it were, he merely frowned a little, the shock value having lost its touch when he could still feel his pinky. All that time the mediwitches and the occasional healer had warned them to rest and try and sleep... and he’d squandered it, sitting at her bedside, catching a light snooze here and there. Now, it was game time, and George wished he had a time turner.

His free hand, which he was making sure to keep away from hers, attempting to smooth back her hair. George felt helpless. “Remember to breathe, Waker, just... just... like-” And he demonstrated it, or he thought he was demonstrating it. Was he right? Would it even help anyway? Her scream twisted his gut. Eyes searched the room for something more friendly. The mother’s, however, were chit-chatting behind him. Chit-chatting! As if this were some Sunday Brunch! His dad had made up an excuse to hang out in the waiting room when Waker started screaming, and her dad found it an appropriate time to join Sam.

“Ah, ah, my hand-” Attention was quickly back to Waker. Sympathy slipped over his face as he once again tried to get that stray hair out of the way. There was no point in pointing out again that it wasn’t his fault. Not solely, anyway. That had not gone over well the first time. George licked his lips before kissing the side of her head. “You’re doing so good.”

He must have looked like a scared little boy as he turned his gaze over to the mediwitch. “One for her, one for me?” The weak joke slipped out without all the usual enthusiasm he had. Exhaustion and verbal abuse had taken a toll. After Waker drank the potion, he gently rubbed her shoulder. “Good job.” What else could he say? He’d exhausted his words of encouragement out with the last couple hours of active labor.

The mother’s took a break from gossip to come back to his aid. Her mum was on Waker’s other side as Penelope gently rubbed George’s back, shaking her head once again at his pajama bottoms. It would be her son that would come to St. Mungo’s looking like some hoodlum.

Waker’s mum, Wendy, moved aside as the mediwitch slipped in, warning Waker prior to checking her what she was going to do. George glanced down to watch, able to see just where the hand was going before the sheet obscured his view; to be honest, he was a bit fascinated with the idea of checking the baby through... there.

“Ok, Waker, it’s almost time. We’re going to get the healer in, but we’re going to start pushing again. You’re going to feel a lot of pressure, but the potion should help.” The mediwitch gave Waker a sympathetic smile, moving her into position. George had respite for his hand briefly as Waker moved herself about, and he shook it out as he watched, waiting for intruction.

“Ok, now, when you feel your next contraction, I need you to take as deep of a breath in as you can and hold it. Then you’re going to bear down as if you’re having a bowel movement. Dad-” It took a moment before George realized she was talking to him. Blinking at her, his eyes glazed over a little, he closed his mouth and nodded as he listened to his instructions. What was happening? Was it really happening? Right now? What time was it? His breathing increased as he stepped back up to the side of the bed, assisting as the mediwitch explained.

“You’re doing great, love, you’re so amazing.” Eyes turned back to her face as he smiled at her, gently moving her hair out of her way again. “Just... keep it up.” That’s what he came up with? Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at himself, he helped support the back of her thigh with one hand, glancing to the mediwitch as she told Waker to take in the deep breath and hold it, counting slowly to ten. On ten, she told Waker to take a few breaths and do it again.

He lost track of time amongst her screaming and groaning and pushing. It felt like hours and at the same time minutes. Suddenly the healer was there as well, and another mediwitch, and George was helping to pull Waker’s leg back, trying not to hurt her as he offered his other hand for her to squeeze. “Good job, babe, you’re doing fantastic love.” He needed a pint.

George was doing a fantastic job of being a supportive partner and father. He took Waker’s abuse in calm stride, reminding her to breathe, even demonstrating. It might have been easier to recall their earliest tutoring sessions if she weren’t so pained, so tired, so ready for this chapter to lead to the next. The books had all warned how long it might take, but living it was an entirely different experience.

The nurse with the potion laughed at George’s question, but Waker would have taken both potions if she’d brought a second for him, all of her manners and self control out the window. Her mother joined her side, and she calmed a bit, relenting on George’s hand just a little. Maybe it was the potion, but she felt like a child again, and her mum’s presence was comforting. Whatever awkwardness there had been initially about their expanding family seemed to have gone where her own temperament had gone.

Her eyes flitted to the witch as she checked on things. She did not notice George watching so intently as she too was looking at the sheet and the nurse’s head. She shifted to accommodate the mediwitch, and took a deep breath with the next contraction just as instructed. There was a strange mixture of ebbed pain and intense pressure, numbness in some areas and heightened feeling in others. She would remember to tell her friends who were studying magical medicine that they should look into improving these potions. Still, it was better than no potion, and Waker could not be more pleased with herself for choosing the potion route over an entirely natural affair.

Like George, Waker was also confused when the witch said dad, and looked around for her own father before remembering that George was about to become one. Mr. Nolan had wisely and politely excused himself to join Mr. Carter, leaving this particular milestone to the women, for whom this was a rite of passage which spanned generations and which required an entirely different sort of magic than the potions and contraptions in the hospital room. Female magic.

George’s encouragement was helpful, despite her accusations: she caught his eye when she wanted to give up, and something of his bravery seemed to invade her, lift her spirits, allow her to persist. She wanted to laugh, almost, at what he said next, and she did, once, very briefly, before it became a push and a growlish scream again. “Sorry about your hand,” she managed with a weak smile before the next push.

That there were women who wore full faces of makeup to give birth, even magical makeup, was mystifying. More power to them she supposed. Waker was diligent about looking put-together, but she could only imagine the moody, hair-plastered-to-her-forehead look that she was giving now, and how much worse it would be with mascara running down her cheeks, blush highlighting the red of her pushes. For some reason her mind landed on this, and she felt ridiculous.

She squeezed George’s hand and her mother’s, breathed and breathed and pushed and pushed, and if there was a clock on the wall, it was useless to the girl who measured everything.

The healer came in. There were the final few, most intense pushes, and suddenly there was crying. Waker felt a shiver all over her body, hearing and sensing her, the baby, her baby, before she saw. The chill evaporated when her eyes quickly found the tiny, pink, screaming thing whose voice seemed much louder than her own, even. The healer handed George a pair of scissors, and Waker ignored the soreness of her body as she watched. It didn’t matter, all of the sudden. Her mouth melted into a smile, one which looked shaky, baby-deerish at first, but which was actually thrilled, but her voice caught and her eyes were wet. And then they were wiping the baby off, checking her, weighing her, and all of the necessary things that seemed to take a year, but which really only took five minutes. Physically exhausted, Waker nevertheless felt wide awake. Everyone’s smiles and congratulations and cheers were background noise until finally one of the mediwitches walked back over to them with one the tiniest humans Waker had seen. She squeezed George’s hand despite her eyes being keenly fastened to the baby. The woman grinned with remarkable knowingness as she handed the swaddled child to her mother.

Waker’s face melted in a different way now, or simply remelted. She was warm, soft, a little squishy looking in the cutest way possible, with a huge, beautiful head, perfect nose, and sweet swath of fuzzy baby hair. Waker’s eyes had been glued to her for five minutes, and now was no different. How had this come from her? She was perfect, had no flaws, nothing to critique, nothing to redo. Both Wendy and Mrs. Carter were no doubt beaming, too. Finally, Waker looked up, remembering George, and grinned with more meaning that she ever had. She reached out to pull him closer, so that he was huddled over the baby with her, the side of her head touching his.

“Hello, Amelia,” she said. “We’re your mum and dad."