NEW STORAYY! WHOO!

Many people have had this sort of idea before, but every other fanfiction with this said idea (despite how much I love them) have been really ... repetitive. Like, all the OCs have gone through troubles during Hogwarts, drama drama, "Aw, no, Voldemort's here! SHUCKS!", heart-breaking short deaths and shit, Sirius is in Azkaban and there's no daddy to meet the spawn! Arrghhh heartbreak noooo

So I've put my own spin on the idea. I hope it's... different, somehow. It's a very exciting experiment for me with an OC I have already connected with! Yay!

Enjoy! ^_^

1: The Art Room

Helena sat by the table, staring out the window and at the people walking down the streets. She marvelled at how different they all walked; some plodded, some strolled with swag, some jogged, ran, sprinted – a boy even fell over in his hurry to go to school.

But none of them were him.

Gathering her golden locks into a messy ponytail, she let out a sigh, looking down at the stick that was in her hands. For some wild reason she felt the need to do it the Muggle way – she spent so many years in the wizarding world that she almost forgot the easiest ways of the simplest of things.

It wasn't simple, as such. Complicated, but –

Her eyes widening at the awkwardness her mind had made out for her, she slammed the stick back down on the table, scurrying back to her new art room in the rather large flat they shared, trying to breathe out her apprehensive nervousness and instead inhale her inner artist. Closing her eyes as she picked up her trusty paintbrush, she dipped it into the cotton pink in her palette laid out on the small rounded coffee table and spontaneously flicked it.

Hesitantly peeping out of one eye, she looked at canvas to find that it was still clear of any bright pink. Disappointed, she tragically stared at the pink stain on her carpet.

That was another thing to pay for.

Ashamedly, they were in a financial crisis – as soon as Sirius got out of school, he decided to spend his Uncle Alfred's money on booze and numerous of useless things that he hardly used; well, he did use his flying magical bike quite often, laughing maniacally as he would soar above the clouds (which Helena found highly amusing), – but Sirius was unemployed, being too busy with Order stuff, and her job at the Leaky Cauldron was hardly sustainable for them, nevermind a –

She dipped her paintbrush back into the paint, more forcefully than planned, this time choosing a deep hazel brown – Sirius's favourite colour.

Absentmindedly, she wondered if the painting would be considered lucky; with a huge blob of brown and plain white – their preferred colours (despite the fact that white wasn't a colour, only a shade, but Helena decided to ignore that) – perhaps it would be good fortune. For the future.

She looked down, once again, at her seemingly-normal stomach.

For the future.

In total, she took five of those sticks, those test thingies. All of them came out positive, with a little plus sign that she had grown to dislike, at first getting mildly irritated at the repetitive, bothersome, infuriating outcome. When she struck the third one, her initial reaction to it all flew out the window and she started hyperventilating, hurrying to the corner apothecary much like the boy who fell over on his way to school to get another packet more.

It all started when she started throwing up regularly in the mornings, around a couple of weeks ago. Sirius, of course, was by her side at the toilet seat – always, he was always there – but today he had to dash off; apparently there was an unscheduled meeting. Stubbornly, she persisted on coming, but he somehow got her to stay.

"Paint me a painting," he had told her cheekily with a grin, pecking her quickly on the lips as he hastily shrugged on his leather jacket. "That's your new thing of the week, isn't it?"

She had only shaken her head in a 'do-you-ever-stop' manner in a proper reply, before darting off to the loo once more with more regurgitation. A snigger rang through the hall, making her raise her head from the toilet. "Sirius, just get out before I'll have to give you this bloody bug!" she snapped, something that was unusual in itself.

"Love you, too!" he sang, oblivious to the change of mood, before the slam of the door echoed across the flat and silence rang in her ears – only, until the sickening splash of her sick hit the toilet water.

She was in that room for an hour.

A shiver ran through her shoulders just thinking about it.

Helena stopped herself from dipping her brush into the sunflower yellow, stepping back and examining her painting. Pinks, browns, blues, yellows, greens – it was a mush of everything. Very hectic, very noisy – it translated what she was thinking perfectly, even a plus sign she seemed to have slashed across the smooth paper without realising.

The plus sign seemed bigger than it really was, looming out at her and making her feel even more nauseous and scared than before. It was dead in the middle, and even though the painting wasn't all that bad – she hated it.

That plus sign.

A loud three knocks from the front door broke her away from her frightened thoughts. Although she was usually thrilled with seeing Sirius once again – him being knee-deep in the Order (she was only a toe in) and her working in the Leaky Cauldron – nervousness flooded through her.

The fumbling of turning the keys the right way; door opening; the heavy footsteps coming nearer and nearer.

"Lena?" Sirius's low voice called out, hesitant and anxious, like he usually was after a meeting. "You alright? Where are you?"

She took a deep breath, forcing a smile; he was her husband! She didn't need to be afraid of a petty thing like telling him a small bit of news. "Yeah, I'm OK. In the art room!"

"Art room?" Confusion filled his tone, his normal confidence back to normal now that he heard her voice. She turned around to the door, waiting for him to come through it, but after hearing an increase in speed, he flashed right past it.

She let out a giggle, a real smile lighting up her face. The sight of her husband always cheered her up, despite the many things she could be down about. For instance, that plus sign.

Rolling her eyes, she bit her lip and gripped the brush that little bit harder. "Love, I'm in here."

"Could a told me, woman," he grumbled, but he still raced down to the room, using the frame of the door to help him slide effortlessly along the glossy wooden floorboards and into the room. Her eyes sparkled with something that wasn't there moments ago, her lips curling up at him.

His grey eyes analysed her from top to bottom; from her fluffy white slippers that were clearly for comfort, to her blue jeans that were decorated with splodges of greens, pinks and blues; to her colourful apron that was almost identical to the palette, and to her (most probably) dirty, mucky face that was filled with blue (she recalled on going pretty wild with that one).

"I probably look like a Smurf," she blurted, slightly smirking as she scratched the back of her neck guiltily.

"I don't even know what that is," he said, letting out a bark-like laugh and taking a few steps towards her, "but you're still as beautiful as the day I married you."

"Sirius, it was only two months ago," she dead-panned, though humour still glinted in her eyes.

He pulled out his tongue at her immaturely, close enough to loop his muscular arms around her hips and tower over her, face inches away from hers. "Still, has a nice ring to it, doesn't it, Mrs Black?"

"Ring to it," she giggled, looking down and fiddling with the simple golden ring on her left hand. "Seems like you're the master of puns nowadays, Mr Black."

Tilting her chin up to meet her eyes, his grey orbs bored into hers before he captured his lips with hers. Warmth spread through her body, a tingling running up her spine as his hands spread out to stabilise her back; he didn't do the rubbing-of-the-small-of-her-back thing because it both made her break out into laughter and partly conscious of her mole situated in that area – a lesson he was taught when she broke out into a mood with him a whole day.

She brought off her hands to stroke the side of his face with her thumbs, letting out her small contented sigh at the sensation of cigarettes, petrol, earthy wood and – and metal?

Almost immediately, she pulled away, studying his eyes to look for a lie. "What did you do?" she said interrogatingly. "What happened in the Order?"

He stepped away from her, his shoulders slumped guiltily, his hands slipping in his coat pockets and hanging his head in shame. Helena knew this stance – he used it all the way through school, a natural habit of looking apologetic and making that come across.

After analysing him more closely, she gasped, picking up on the small cuts and bruises etched across his face, neck, and arms – probably under his shirt as well. His beige track-bottoms – he didn't wear those this morning – was wet, sopping wet, his skin paler than usual, lips bruised and red, his dark locks of hair embedded with twigs and liquid.

Blood.

How come she didn't notice it before?

She rushed across the room, swallowing her disappointment in him, grabbing hold of his wrist and leading him to the kitchen, a quite small part of the flat compared to the other rooms. A small, rounded table for two with two chairs – one of which she sat on mere hours ago –marble flooring, and two parallel laminate work tops running along the sides, cupboards underneath them and hovering over them – that made the kitchen, her haven for her stage of food, which was, according to Sirius, "last week's thing", but really was a week-long experiment that ended up wrong.

"Sit," she instructed stoically, practically shoving him onto a seat. With trembling hands, she rummaged through the cupboards for the First Aid Kit that Dumbledore provided them for, and after three minutes of frantic searching she found it, a little dusty from lack of use. Throwing it onto the table, she opened it up and snatched numerous rolls of bandage.

"Look, I'm –"

"Take your shirt off," she demanded, sighing stressfully for the five hundredth time that day as she shoved her hand in her pocket, in search for her wand. Crossing her eyebrows in frustration, she muttered a tired "Be right back", speed-walking to their bedroom and retrieving it from the nightstand.

"Helena?" Sirius's said in an amusingly unlevelled tone just as she came back to the kitchen. She widened her hazel eyes at what he was holding.

The stick.

"Sirius –"

"You took a Muggle pregnancy test?" He gave her a wide-eyed, shocked look, which didn't look especially great with the pale face and the now bare upper-half of his body, which had a huge nasty gash across his chest. "You pissed on a stick? Why? You're not – you're not pregnant."

She chose not to answer, deciding to concentrate on wounds. Wand pointed at his chest, she mumbled, "Tergeo." The blood vanished. "Vulnera Sanentur. Vulnera Sanentur –"

"Helena?"

"Vulnera Sanentur." The wound healed, she moved on to his head injury, nonverbally charming the bandages as she Tergeo'ed the wound. Biting her lip to stop herself from going to pieces and bursting into tears about the whole awful, horrible day so far, she sat down into the seat on the other side of the table, looking out the window.

The street was empty.

"Helena," Sirius said, his tone serious with a tinge of worry. "Look at me."

Head resting against the window, she set her hazel gaze on him, desperately trying to preserve her emotions for when she wasn't affected by the plus sign or Sirius purposefully lying or her stomach-bug-but-not-really-stomach-bug.

But it shown through anyway, it seemed, since he knitted his eyebrows, concerned.

"Hm?" she said noncommittally.

"Why'd you take this?" he said, holding up the stick.

Sighing (again), she swivelled around in her chair so she properly faced him, anxiously wringing her hands under the table. "I've been, ah, counting days," she told him, her throat feeling heavy and clogged up. "The stomach bug – it's – it's not a stomach bug, Sirius." With a small, hesitant smile, trying to seem supportive, she pointed at the plus sign, thinking it was obvious. When she received a blank expression, she gave up on the subtle pointers. "I am pregnant."

He stared.

And stared.

And stared.

Helena thought he was about to faint, his eyes were so wide and his face paler than before (if that was possible). Biting her lip, she wiped away the aggravated tears in her eyes with her sleeve and patiently awaited his reaction.

"You're pregnant," he choked out.

"Yes, honey." It was rare when she called him that; only on special occasions such as these that needed subtle comforting did she use 'honey'.

"You're pregnant."

She nodded. "With your baby," she added.

If it were possible, his eyes bulged even wider. "So we're in the middle of the war, where hundreds of people just like you and me are murdered every day, and you're pregnant."

"Yes, Sirius."

Of course, Helena knew what he was going to do before he did. Sighing, she looked down and fiddled with her hands, giving a subtle sniff – she didn't want to cry into shambles when he needed her to stand tall, proud and confident about their future, what they were about to get thrown into.

"Love you."

With an echoing crack, she was not shocked to find that Sirius had Disapparated out of the apartment.