Written for the It's Not Over Yet challenge. Thanks to my beta, Jaine and everyone who reviewed during the challenge.
Spring 2008
People asked Ginny Potter an annoying amount of questions about her sons' names far too often. It was nearly impossible to go shopping without running into nosy witches who thought they were entitled to answers. Consequently, she had developed three standards, and her mood dictated her reply:
"George took 'Fred' first," when she was being flippant.
"My husband's losses are mine," when her input and choice was questioned.
The Bat-Bogey Hex. Reporters. Every last one.
Honestly, it was hard enough disciplining her sons' temper tantrums without having to explain Mummy's outbursts to them. Al, as young as he was, argued like some Ministry official. That is, if Ministry officials read Muggle comic books and wore footie pajamas. He would grow into his name well, Ginny thought. Her elder son was doing a pretty good job of it. Four years old and already making Professor McGonagall glad she had retired.
If one more inquisitive busybody came up to discuss names with her today, Ginny was not going to be responsible for her actions. Only one of her children would know, after all. Number Three, currently playing rugby with her bladder, wouldn't mind, she figured. Ginny almost wanted someone to approach her.
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