Here is a one shot for you all, it is purely fluff. I was inspired by a poem by W.H. Auden which a friend read to me at school. It has turned into my new favorite poem, its called 'Oh Tell Me The Truth About Love'. The poem is in Italics, I would strongly suggest you read it all on its own out loud because I find it is such an amazing poem, and if you say it out loud it sounds so brilliant as well. I've split it up in this to break up Harry's memories (its from his POV), but please do read the poem separately without the fic!
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

The point when she said yes. On a beach in Brighton. You remember the soft salty smell of the water as we walked along the pebbled, her hand in yours. Her hair was swaying in the gentle breeze, but it was still sunny and warm. Nikki stopped, causing you to almost crash into her. You remember her asking if you could both sit and watch the sunset over the sea. You sat down with her on the dry pebbles. You wrapped your legs around her and she leant into your body.

You asked her to marry him. Properly this time, you had mentioned it before, but she said she didn't want to rush it. You agreed with her of course, but privately you wanted to marry her. You knew she was everything you wanted. She agreed. You watched a smile develop over her face matching yours. God she was so beautiful. You pulled her around to face you and kissed her. She wrapped her legs onto of yours, putting her full weight onto you. It made you fall backwards, you were both still kissing and now laughing.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

You caught him, heard Nikki's sigh of relief. You hands were trembling as you lifted him up into your arms. Your beautiful baby boy. You cut the umbilical cord, making sure he was still safe in your arms. He had started to whimper, his tiny puffy face screwing up. You carefully walked over to Nikki who held out her arms for him.

"He wants his Mummy." You had said. You felt yourself crying, she was crying too, so was the baby. You watched her take him in her arms, pulling him into her chest. You watched your son snuffle as he recognised his Mummy. She suggested the name Edward, they had agreed on it a few weeks before hand. His first born baby. Edward Harry Cunningham. She pressed a kiss onto her sons forehead before allowing a midwife to clean him up and check him over. You remember looked at Nikki who looked back at you, her eyes brimming with joyful tears. You thanked her over and over again.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Noah Leo Cunningham. Your second beautiful child. You watched your Nikki as she cuddled with him. You decided to go and get Edward, who was being looked after by your Mum. You walked out the room and picked him up, explaining how you had another little boy to your Mum. You picked Edward up and carried him into see his Mummy and brother. Recently you remember that Edwards hair had increasingly darkened, people joked that he was looking more and more like you.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

You remember being glad your third was a girl, how you'd cope with three boys now you wouldn't have known. As with all his other children, he felt a sudden surge of overprotecting love. Her little face was still slightly puffy and scrunched up. She was soft and delicate, with a sweet little button nose. Surprisingly, unlike Edward and Noah, she had been born with dark brown eyes.

She sat with Greta Nicola Cunningham on your bed a few days later. You were thankful for all of them, for everything. All your children and Nikki were sleeping on the same bed, they all looked so beautiful. You had never been this happy.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

You watched Edward run into school with his friends, hardly calling out a goodbye. Noah always was a little more reserved, but happily kissed both of you before he dawdled into school. Greta looked at you with her large eyes. They were exactly the same as Nikki's, which never helped when she wanted something. You could tell she was nervous for her first day of school. You picked her up and gave her a cuddled. She told you she was scared. You hated that, if felt like you weren't protecting her. You comforted her and took her into her new classroom. A few parents were there, and quite a lot of children were around, playing with the various toys.

You looked over to Nikki who was now holding Greta; she was stroking her dark curly hair. You could tell Nikki felt sad, you did as well. All your babies were growing up, when did they all get so old? Nikki set Greta on the floor. Your daughter just stood there looking like a beautiful little doll. Her school uniform swamped her tiny frame and she looked around deciding what to do. She wondered to the book shelf and pulled out a book. You both watched her snuggle down into a huge bean bag and started to read to herself. You and Nikki both looked at each other and smiled. She would be fine.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

You and Nikki sat in the waiting room in the maternity ward. Leo, Greta and Noah sat opposite you. Edward's wife was in labour. You were both going to Grandparents; you didn't know what they thought about that. You remember when Edwards shyly announced to you all that him and Hope, Janet and Leo's daughter, were dating. It was followed by a lot of cheering and 'I told you so', as well as Noah handing over £50 to Greta on the bet they had made.

Janet had come hurrying in with a huge smile on her face. It was a girl. Leo had stood up and hugged Janet who had started to cry. You looked over at Nikki who had also started to cry, you pulled her into a hug. You looked over at Noah who miserably was handing what looked like another £50 over to Greta.

Maria Dalton. Edward had taken Hope's name when they got married; they said to keep the name in the family. No one had really minded, they were all family really. You held your granddaughter in your arms after she had been passed around to all the other grandparents. She had a full head of very dark hair complemented by her creamy dark skin. It brought back all the memories of holding your own babies for the first time. You felt so proud of Edward, of all of them. You were so happy. You loved everyone in the room surrounding the tiny newborn. You leant in a kissed Maria on the forehead before passing her back to its Mummy.

You remembered all those years ago when you first took Nikki on that perfect date to the park, then when you told her you loved her for the first time at the theatre. Love had changed their lives. It was perfect, everything you had ever wanted. You couldn't imagine life without any of them.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it!
Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize, I don't own, and the poem isn't mine either.
Please review with any of your thoughts/comments! I really appreciate any of them!
Thank you all, hugs to anyone who reviews!
P xxx