On a dark and slightly damp night unlike very many others in this war, the four Marauders are gathered together for uncommon purpose, one no less important than the strategy and planning sessions that make up their days.
They are seated together next to a low dying fire, surrounded by bottles scattered on the table and empty chairs around them.
Only three of them are still awake - Peter is snoring in the corner, doing his best impression of a dormouse, with the remnants of cheese platter balancing precariously next to him.
The remaining Marauders are working on getting drunker. Remus alone appears to be mainly unaffected by the alcohol, but is more occupied eating peanuts and contemplating shapes made by the flames than acting as a chaperone. Occasionally he throws a shell into the fire. Slightly less often, he tosses one at where Sirius's hair is splayed over the overstuffed arm. So far, he seems oblivious to his involuntarily acquired decor. Nevermind taste-testing the bar, he has duties as a godfather, and he intended to fulfill them. That involves listening to James's every word, so that is what he's doing.
"How abou-a bow- a boat Henry?"
"Henerary?" Sirius was seriously sloshed, so sounding like it seemed simple enough. Being able to talk was in itself a minor miracle, or would've been had Remus not been periodically casting underpowered sobering charms over his shoulder.
James is left speechless, staring in disbelief at the betrayal of the man he'd entrusted the care of his spawn to. Remus stopped stacking his peanut shells, and looked across at them, blinking the afterimage from his vision. "What's wrong with Henry?"
"Iss just ... Henry."
"Well, what do you suggest then?"
"Soming ... starry. Like ... Procyon. Yeah. Procyon Badass Potter Bl – "
Finally recovering, James butts back in. "I wasn't done! Henry!"
As usual, Sirius on a roll is impossible to sidetrack. "...Badass Powerful Pott - "
Remus is too use to the role of peacemaker to sigh. "Why do you like Henry, James?"
"Good name. Kingly name." And one with chicken pet names built right in.
"It is, isn't it? Wasn't he the one with all the wives?"
That catches Sirius's attention, like the prospect of free alcohol at one of his parent's dinner parties.
"Potioneer Beater ... wives?"
James nods, narrowly missing Remus's peanut tower with his hair.
"At least four of them."
"I thought it was eight."
"Really?"
"Henry the Sixth. Eight wives. Or was it Henery the Eighth...?"
James tunes out his musings, too busy thinking to listen. They're growing more disjointed by the second anyway, and he just know that if he asks it'll be everyone knows this, James, muggles know this, what do you mean you aren't taught this, are you si -.
"There's an idea. Why don't we call him Henry?"
"Harry? Harry is a nice name. I had an Uncle Harold. Birdwatcher."
There's something niggling at the back of his mind, but it's hidden behind the hangover, and Lily's hidden the pepper up
potions again. She says it's to encourage moderation, but he's got a sneaking suspicion that that's not all it is.
"Bit of a womanizer too, but if names were people every Tom Dick and Harry would be the same, wouldn't they?"
James isn't sure if she's being serious or pointedly sarcastic, but she's made it to the armchair, and her feet are up, so he lets the conversation die down and settles in to do her feet. Pregnancy mood swings do absolutely nothing to hurt her intimidation factor.