Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and yada yada yada. I just have an overactive imagination.
Forget-me-not
"Congratulations, Mr Weasley. It's a boy."
The Mr Weasley being addressed looked up from where he sat, head drooping slightly in exhaustion, and got up so quickly that the Healer raised a pencilled eyebrow. A wild, barely-hidden expression of delight flashed across his face; revealing a man much younger than he appeared to be. Age had no doubt taken its toll on Mr Weasley but it seemed it was his experiences that made him who he was. Long, unkempt hair framed a face that was prematurely lined, though it was evident that at other times Mr Weasley portrayed an acceptable, if not neat, appearance. The spectacles perched upon his nose were at the moment lop-sided and Mr Weasley hurriedly straightened it, as the Healer said, "Wouldn't you like to see him?"
"Yes, yes," he said impatiently as he strode forward towards the Healer, who promptly turned around and glided down the crowded corridor. This corridor was silent for the most part, at odds with the rest of St. Mungo's. The only sound that echoed along the corridor was of the smart clacking made by the dragonskin boots of the various Healers who bustled around purposefully. Mr Weasley grinned at the other males he passed, who all seemed to smile weakly back at him before allowing a cloud of worry and anxiety over their faces again.
The Healer abruptly stopped and flicked a stubby wand at Door No. 2, which swung open on its oiled hinges. Mr Weasley hung back nervously, bouncing on the balls of his feet slightly. The Healer smiled slightly at the sight of the red-haired man and said softly, "Bed No. 11, Mr Weasley," and ushered him into the Maternity Ward.
The Maternity Ward was considerably noisier than the corridor outside, with wails and other high-pitched noises creating a rather unpleasant din but Mr Weasley could hear none of this. Neither did he have eyes for the high ceiling or the bright paintings on the walls or the colourful curtains drawn across various sections of the room. He only had eyes for Bed No. 11, where his wife sat propped up against two cushions, holding a bundle of blankets in her hands he knew to be his son.
He covered the distance between the door and Bed No. 11 in less than five seconds and gazed down at the face of his first-born child.
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"What shall we name him?"
Mr Weasley slowly looked up at his wife, the woman he had known ever since his golden days at Hogwarts.
"But…Angelina…he is…he is…"
"I know, George," she said simply.
George Weasley looked into those forget-me-not blue eyes of his son again, his words caught up in his throat. His own eyes welled up with emotion as he stared at their carbon copy.
A lone word escaped his lips.
"Fred."
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A/N: I well realize it is short. I've tried making it longer but in the end I felt that this was the best I could manage at the time.