26 March 2010
2am

George stared at the screaming baby in his arms, face fallen as he tried to think of what else he could do. He’d tried to give her a pacifier, but she kept spitting it out and crying around it and shaking her head as if to say you’re kidding, right? George had tried running water, bouncing her around the living room, and he’d attempted to hold her different ways. She definitely wasn’t as immobile as a doll.

Not that he had much experience with dolls. Just enough to know whatever possessed his daughter was not a doll.

He was to the point of questioning everything he’d ever done in his life to deserve this. He’d begged her to stop crying, he’d asked her at least a hundred times what was wrong, all while expecting an answer that never came. Now and again she would quiet down, but as soon as George went to try and put her down, she started screaming again. His head was pounding; he hadn’t slept for days.

It felt like it had been an eternity since he’d slept through the night. George regretted all those times he had the opportunity to sleep and didn’t. Times he fought his parents on napping. Why had he squandered it all away when he could have saved up for now?

Waker had been up long enough to feed her, but George had (stupidly) offered to help her stay asleep after. Amelia usually went fast to sleep on a full belly. Usually was the word to use. Not that they had a lot of experience, yet. She was only a week and a half old. He thought about the fact that this could go on for years, and it made him feel suddenly overwhelmed. He had a game later on. All he could hope for was that Puddlemere didn’t bring their top notch players to the field.

Maybe they would all catch dragon pox... not that George necessarily wanted that, per say, but if it were to happen... he would send ‘get well’ cards.

The crying was going to shatter his eardrums. He finally gave in and felt his eyes fill up. What was this? Where had his machoism gone? When had this tiny person brought him down to his knees and broken him? George cried while she wailed, holding her to his chest as he rocked her in the rocking chair, patting her back and praying to whoever was listening to help put a cork in his daughter, the permanent owl howler. "Twi-i-i-inkle... li-little st-st-star..." His voice cracked as he tried to sing her to sleep, again.

It had been half an hour since George had taken over, but it felt both longer and shorter than that. Sleep was like gold this month, and so Waker kissed his cheek and crawled back to bed, falling asleep fast out of pure exhaustion, despite the noise. She had stirred a few times, shifting in bed to get comfortable every time a particularly loud, high-pitched cry brought her back from the periphery of her dreams. By the third time, she was wide awake again, fueled by a negative energy that was like static and waves. Amelia had somehow become louder. It was like an alarm clock telling her she had to be at work— or, just one sweet year ago, in class— and a sound which she equated with responsibility, routine, and quick action.

But, try as Waker might to stick to the rules, Amelia’s sleep schedule was not exactly routine. The baby woke up at the most random times, though usually there was some reprieve after she’d eaten (which, unbeknownst to Waker, was a logic that was presently puzzling George, too). If it weren’t for George’s offer, and the security of knowing he was with her, Waker would have jumped from bed at the first cry— or mightn’t have gone back to bed at all.

Despite the soreness in her limbs, she sat up and stuffed tired feet into neat and fluffy white slippers, grabbing a bathrobe from the back of the door as she made her way into the living room. George had migrated, from the look and sound of it. The little light in front of the bedroom showed only still shadows in the living room. Blinking away any disorientation, Waker turned toward the little closet that had become a nursery. The door was ajar, and she could hear the stuttering lines of Twinkle Twinkle just beyond more high-pitched screams of the world’s youngest banshee. Did banshees have babies? Waker was not a banshee, and the genetics of this entire scenario were simply impossible.

But she didn’t believe in impossible genetics, only logic. The logic of the baby books had cheated them somehow. All of her research… She narrowed her eyes at the thought of the pile on the coffee table even as she stared at the nursery door.

Peaking in, she could make George out in the dimness, rocking and singing and appearing from Waker’s vantage point to be on the verge of a meltdown— or perhaps quietly suffering through one as he tried to get Amelia to stop crying. It was a rare sight, almost unnerving. It was strange how much this had altered their lives.

Waker pushed the door open gingerly, and padded in on fawnish legs that were fighting back tiredness. “Here, let me,” she said softly, only after she had made it more than halfway across the small room with its warm pastel walls and creamy furniture. How anyone could cry so loud in such a comforting corner of the world… It was mystifying, like certain divination practices and daring broom tricks. Waker reached down to pick up Amelia, but her keen brown eyes found the look on George’s face before she could get there. His eyes were wet. Even in the sweet light that kept Amelia safe, but was dark enough to let her sleep, it was easy to see the tears. Waker lifted a hand to his cheek, frowning. She felt her heart jump.

She had always been awkward around other people’s emotions, the awkwardness second only to her own when she was crying, but this was George, and it felt as if they knew each other better than Waker had ever imagined herself knowing anyone. And even if they had got themselves into this situation, and even if she was determined to be prepared for every little scenario, to document it, to find solutions, she knew what he was feeling; she felt it, too. She wiped a tear with her thumb and very gently reached down for the baby, lifting her from his grasp. “We’ll get her to sleep,” she promised. It was the most comforting thing she could think to say, even if she sounded like a prat.

Bringing Amelia to her shoulder, Waker bounced her a bit and rubbed her back, finally patting it. She should have burped her before handing her off to George. It was just the logical thing to do after feeding her. But she’d been so tired, and she’d thought he’d manage eventually. It was a weird thing, to know instinctively what this tiny human needed, and to feel the need to give it to her. Waker had not expected to feel this way, and had been both relieved and overwhelmed by it.

A few moments later, the baby was burped, and began to calm down. Waker continued to rub her back, slower now, hoping the rhythm would ease her to sleep. She sank down to her knees beside George. Very, very gently, Waker settled the baby back into his arms. “That’s all she needed,” she said, trying to sound soothing. Her eyes remained on Amelia for a moment as fingers grazed George’s, trying to encourage and comfort him despite her exhaustion. She looked up at him, finally, offering a weak smile. She wished she was more like him sometimes, could better comfort others, could juggle putting Amelia to sleep and stopping his tears, too. “Did you really think she wouldn’t inherit your energy?” She whispered, trying to tease him, to bring out a smile, to find the confident George she knew and— perhaps selfishly— needed. “That didn’t come from me,” she accused. It was like all of George’s confidence had seeped into an eleven-day-old baby girl’s voice. “She’ll be a good swimmer, with those lungs.” Only after highly monitored, survival swim lessons for toddlers.

George tried to keep himself from getting angry. There were times when Amelia was crying and he couldn’t do anything about it and he just wanted to beat his fists on the floor in frustration. Sleep deprivation and constant screaming could make any sane person go crazy. Add to it other frustrations and work, and George was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

It had all been going so well... They had been able to slip in an hour nap before Amelia had woken up again, and George had been so confident that they would get to keep sleeping after that he had volunteered to hold her until that happened. After the first week, George had started feeling more comfortable holding her. Practice makes perfect and all of that. Pretty soon he’d be a pro at baby handling. What he really wanted, though, was sleep.

His usual desire for things put sleep after food and gratification. Now, however, he’d happily forgo meals and - well, gratification was being withheld at the behest of the healers warnings - for some sleep. George would trade his broom for a whole nights uninterrupted sleep. That was some hard core bargaining. And he was trying to make those sort of promises and bets with Amelia, the little child who couldn’t possibly understand anything he was saying.

George looked up at the sound of the door, eyes widening slightly at the sight of his savior. If anything, it made his eyes push out tears harder. “I-I don’t know what to do.” George tried to swallow and breathe, his nose suddenly stuffy. Eyes took in his daughter before moving up to Waker, shifting his arms to offer her over. Her hand on his cheek reminded him of what was going on on his face; it forced a blush and a tightening of his jaw. George hadn’t expected to be so weak in the presence of his ruthless daughter.

His own eyes looked away, down to Amelia, an empty pit in his stomach. Licking his lips, George bit down on his lower one, trying not to wince when Waker wiped a tear away. Once she had Amelia in her arms, he quickly rubbed the streaks of tears off his face and chin, rubbing his eyes a moment to clear his mind. He nodded his head at her promise. One could be grateful for Waker not questioning his emotional state of mind.

An elbow leaned on the arm of the rocking chair while cradling the side of his head in his palm. George looked up, finally, to Waker, watching as she did some magic. The burp that escaped Amelia made logic click in his fuzzy brain. How could he have been so stupid? Of course he should have tried that... As he continued to call himself all sorts of names in his head, George pursed his lips and glanced over Waker and their daughter.

When Waker sat down near him, he stared at her. His face had fallen; exhaustion had a way of burying any smile. It was hard work to bring up the corners of your mouth when you just wanted to dig yourself into a pillow. Instead, however, he accepted Amelia back, cradling her close as he rocked her gently. He nodded mutely; it was obvious now what she had needed.

Fingers flexed and took hold of hers when she came close. Eyes met hers and he returned her smile. George shifted Amelia so he was holding her with one arm, moving his hand to hold Waker's gently, resting on top of his thigh. The area around his eyes was a little red and puffy, but he had stopped crying. He couldn’t help the soft chuckle that slipped out, almost unwillingly. His head shook slowly, slightly, before stopping, tilting as George finally looked back to her. Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her knuckles gently before letting both hands drop back to his thigh. “I don’t know, you have a decent amount of energy.” A squeeze of her hand and he pushed off the rocker just barely.

“And a good Quidditch player. She has endurance, that’s for sure.” He stared down at Amelia and smiled; his heart didn’t hurt as much as it had. The ache that had pounded in the back of his head was easing off a bit. His head rested back against the rocker while looking down to Waker. “She’s only the second woman to break my heart. Like mother like daughter.” It slipped out before he could process the meaning behind the words. Once it clicked, it was obvious on his face before he groaned and closed his eyes, shaking his head with another soft laugh.

“And the second one to steal my heart, obviously." Peeking out at her, he offered her a half grin and another hand squeeze.

She couldn’t fault him for not knowing what to do. It had taken them seven years— or eight— to learn a bit of magic. (Alright, a lot of magic, and Waker had needed every last one of those days.) One could not simply add up on two hands how long it would take to become an O-plus parent. If Waker were honest with herself, she knew that no number of books could prepare her; what she tried to overcompensate for with mountains of books and bookmarks and carefully filed notes, were often things that she felt came naturally to George… even if he hadn’t known what to do in this particular instance. They were both sleep-deprived, after all. However nervous their own parents made them feel about becoming parents, Waker would have been glad for an army of Carter and Nolan clones, if only it meant more sleep and instant parenting wisdom.

Potions were out of the question for the Ravenclaw alum, who was singularly responsible for feeding Amelia— and being awake when the baby was hungry. She hadn’t thought she’d need every last day of maternity leave she’d been offered, and now she wanted to laugh and cry at the naivety in her determination to juggle so many things so quickly. What she would do for Hermione Granger’s fabled time-turner… there were not enough to laws to be broken. And Waker Nolan did not break laws!

At least here, despite her exhaustion, she had George to lean on, and he had her. She was glad for his hand, the security it represented. The feel of his mouth on the back of her palm. She was entirely used to his touch in a way that she was not used to anyone else. “I do get to take naps with her sometimes,” she said, apologetically. “But I also have to feed her.” She said it in a way that almost sounded as if George had it easy, but she was gentle enough; she didn’t often see him look so fragile. For someone eleven days old, their baby ate more than anyone might have bet on. Waker was often exhausted just rocking with her, letting her eat.

She returned his smile, letting the awkward feeling dissolve in the new calm. Her own ears rejoiced at the lull in the screaming, and her eyes seemed to breathe relief at George’s own calmness. The kiss had been reassuring, too. “I don’t think she needs to chase quaffles just yet.” It was said jokingly, and yet there was a very serious hint of don’t even think about it there. “It’s very nice here on the ground.”

She needed every smile, every joke, every little kiss, and every bit of luck he possessed.

And, apparently, a cringeworthy comment or two.

She did cringe, or would have if she wasn’t so tired. Instead she picked up an abandoned pacifier and tried her luck, putting it gently into the baby’s mouth as she calmed in her father’s lap, eyes heavy with pending sleep. She took to it easily, the miracle invention bobbing a little, up and down, in Amelia’s sweet, impressively loud mouth. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, out of habit and for something else to do while she processed George’s comment, Waker blushed a bit. George’s save made her look up, finally, and offer a slightly weaker, more sheepish smile. “I would hope there aren’t a host of women stealing your heart, or you may want to invest in a new sofa.” Her eyes seemed to redouble in knowingness as they caught him peaking. She reached out to brush a finger gently across Amelia’s cheek; the baby didn’t fuss or twitch, which was a good sign. She was nearly asleep now. It was a matter of knowing when to put her in the baby cot. Waker’s hand moved back to his. “Sometimes I wish I’d learned Occlumency.”

Their combined genetics, with varying degrees of energy and attention to detail (in different ways), had made for an interesting eleven days so far. George wasn’t sure how much longer they could last against the little terror that was their daughter. She definitely had a mind of her own; her personality was shining through with the intent look in her eyes, whether she was screaming her head off or not.

Glancing down at his chest, he offered a soft, singular laugh. “I could try, but I don’t think she’d find it satisfying.” Even joking about feeding her made his skin crawl; he wouldn’t do it again. Once Waker started pumping, he could partake in helping with feeding. Until then, Waker was the one in charge, which was why George had been willing to help out with getting her back to sleep. And they were where they were...

Any other time, jokes about Quidditch would have been met with laughter and continued prods into it. One-sided arguments about what position she might be best at. Right now, however, he had enough energy for a small smile before resting his head back against the chair. “For now it’s nice.” His head indicated Amelia as if to warn Waker she was there. It was best not to jinx the quietness just yet.

George watched Waker give Amelia the dummy, his hand moving to rest near in case she needed help to push it back in when she pushed it out with her tongue. An eyebrow rose; “Only the best sofa, in that case.” He shared a half hearted wink and grin with her, feeling everything mellow out a little. Life wasn’t as disheartening as it had felt moments before. He could breathe in and hold it without feeling as if the world was going to end.

He thought about occlumency, making a face and shrugging. “It seems like it’d be more of a burden though. I wouldn’t want to know what she’s thinking about beyond five.” Lest she never see the light of day. Shifting a bit, he pushed himself forward to the edge of the rocker, leaning over and giving Waker a soft kiss. George stood up with a couple cracks of his knees, groaning softly while stretching. Motioning with his head, lightly tapping Waker with his foot, George did give her a grin. “Come on, we can slip a nap in.”

Once back in their room, he slowly lowered Amelia into her bassinet, careful as he pulled his hands away to step aside, sitting on the edge of the bed. The charmed bassinet started to rock lightly back and forth, a soft song playing. George reached out and pulled Waker to him, resting his head against her chest. “I love you.” It was muffled against her shirt, eyes already heavy, pulling her down into the bed. Curling up behind her, George pulled the blankets up and over them, arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her tight against him.

He kissed Waker’s cheek before collapsing against his pillow, mumbling out a “sleep tight” before he started to slip back into dreams. Maybe Amelia would let him finish one out before she decided she was hungry again.

Strangely, despite their very new situation, there were parts of life that weren’t so different as they had been: as they joked about breast-feeding, sofas, quidditch, Waker was reminded of less responsible times, bantering on the school lawn or in the library. Not that having a human daughter wasn’t more complicated than having a little trophy family. It was hard to stay remotely panicked over George’s heartbreak comment when they still had so much of each other. And were this exhausted.

While it was true that it might be overwhelming to read Amelia’s thoughts, particularly after a certain age, Waker stared at her with an analyzing glance, wishing that she couldn’t so easily crumble a hypothesis. What the baby needed day to day was more or less the same, but what she needed or was thinking in one particular moment… the perils of parenting were in those little snippets of time. “Maybe I could stop using it when she turns twelve.” Wouldn’t that be ideal? Twelve year olds were a particular brand of unnerving.

A nap. The idea of sleep was the same feeling Waker felt when handing in an essay or a work report, or coming home to a perfectly organized room, but amplified a thousand times… and yet completely quiet. (Amelia was still sleeping.) It was something earned, a victory. She followed George, hands nearly pressed against his back as they moved from the nursery to their bedroom.

She watched him, then peaked into he bassinet for signs of a baby about to burst. But everything was fine, Amelia was heavily-lidded and breathing softly, and Georg was suddenly on Waker’s chest. She peeled her eyes from the bassinet and glanced down. Arms came around him, a hand pressed into his hair, near his forehead. Waker took a breath and let out the stress of the night. The words came over her, strong as his arms and soft as the blankets. Her response was in her eyes, a warmth as she was able to catch his gaze after he pulled her toward the bed. She loved him, too.

When he settled in behind her, she gave the hand around middle a squeeze. They were partners in this, and still very much teenagers (or almost teenagers) navigating their love for one another. “Not too tight,” Waker said, fighting to keep the sleep from her voice and sound reasonable. They had to be alert enough to hear the baby if she needed them.

How Waker thought they could ever miss it was a testament to her tiredness.