Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.
A/N: I don't have a beta reader. Any mistakes are my own. Please reveiw. May 14th skimming this document I found two mistakes. I typed former instead of for her and ions instead of is. They are fixed now.
He was late. You can't decide whether you are relieved or hurt. You only have two hours together and you have something important to tell him.
This wasn't what you wanted when you were younger. Psychiatry is not popular in the wizarding world. You had to go to a Muggle university to learn the craft. But when Cedric died and your mother, a muggleborn, sent you to a psychologist you saw how helpful they could be and at the end of the second war you realized many of your friends were plagued with that horrific ailment. Post-traumatic stress disorder. You wanted to help.
You're a good psychologist. Usually you can help your patients, but at the unveiling of the war memorial at Hogwarts Ginny Weasley, Ginny Potter now, approached you. You know how hard it was for her, asking Harry's ex-girlfriend to help. It took a lot of courage for her to admit you could fix things that she couldn't. So Harry Potter became your patient.
You weren't making progress. You didn't want to admit it, but you couldn't seem to help him. And then that day, six months and two weeks ago, when you abandoned all professionalism and kissed him.
It was just one kiss. One kiss at the very end of a session. You felt awful. Ginny had trusted you.
The next session the two of you didn't even try to talk first and there was much more than kissing.
You still felt horrible, but slowly, in the period of time after it's over but before the appointment ends, when you both lie panting on the floor of your office, he began to open up.
He talks to you now, after the kissing stops and the air is longer filled with your moans, and it is helping. Ginny stopped you the other day to tell you just how much better Harry was doing. Your mouth went dry and you could only nod in reply.
Finally he enters, exactly six minutes late. He doesn't greet you, or nod at you, he doesn't even smile, he just moves swiftly across the room and covers your mouth with his own.
Almost two hours later, as the two of you sit on the floor, talking, he says: "And I'm bloody terrified. Ginny's pregnant. I'll probably be a terrible father."
You smile, or try to anyway. "Congratulations! You'll be a great dad." You assure him.
He thanks you, gets dressed, and leaves.
You put your hand on your own stomach. You'll tell him next week.