Instalment 2 =] Be warned, there are significant time jumps in this story. Just in case you get confused.
Two: Sail The Wildest Stretch
"I think you'd better get this stomach bug checked out by a healer," Harry commented, his voice laced with concern, as he held Ginny's fiery locks away from her face for the fourth morning in a row. He paused while Ginny retched loudly into the porcelain toilet bowl she was currently cradling. "I mean it. The wedding is in three days time, and Hermione will kill you if you throw up during the ceremony. She has every last detail planned to perfection, and you spilling the contents of your stomach in the aisle is not on the itinerary." His voice was light and teasing, but it was belied by the worry reflecting in his emerald eyes.
Ginny's only response was a groan, quickly followed by heaving and the sickening splash of her undigested porridge crash-landing in the toilet. It was several long moments before she felt steady enough to wipe her mouth and watery eyes. She finally, slowly, spun on her knees to face her husband. In a wavering voice, she quietly announced, "I don't think it's a stomach bug, Harry."
A nervous, jittery feeling was beginning to spread through Harry's stomach.
"What do you mean? Of course it's a stomach bug. You've been sick as a dog for the last few days," Harry insisted, a little too forcefully. Ginny raised an eyebrow at his strange muggle expression, but didn't comment. Instead, she steadied herself with three deep breaths.
"I'm late, Harry."
"Late for what? You don't have to be at work for another hour."
"Don't be daft. You know what."
A moment of complete stillness and silence settled between the pair. Harry now felt as if an acrobatic troupe had taken up residence in his stomach and were currently performing tricks and turns. His breathing had become ragged and harsh, and his eyes darted like frantic hummingbirds between Ginny's pale face and her flat stomach beneath her jumper.
"You're serious?"
Worrying her bottom lip anxiously between her teeth, Ginny gave a hesitant nod. Yes, she was serious. She was also terrified. Terrified of her body's strange new behaviour, terrified of the reality it represented, terrified of Harry's reaction. She was only 22, for Merlin's sake. She didn't know if they were ready for this.
"Are you certain?"
"No. But it's pretty likely," she admitted reluctantly.
"How...how do you find out for sure? Do you want me to go buy you a kit, do you have to pee on a stick, or -" Ginny quickly interrupted his ranting, her brow knitted into a confused frown.
"Pee on a stick? What do you mean by that?"
"Well, that's how muggles find out!" Harry shouted defensively. Ginny rolled her eyes. He might have been the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the golden saviour of the wizarding world, but sometimes Harry Potter was just plain clueless.
"No, you tosspot, there's a spell."
"Oh."
Another hesitant silence crept stealthily between them.
"Well...can you do the spell?"
"I don't know it, exactly. I have to ask mum."
"Oh, alright. But...but you're fairly certain, anyway?" Harry's voice hitched up in the end, sounding suspiciously like the beginnings of hysteria. Forcing herself to breathe, Ginny nodded slowly, eyeing her husband closely.
"Merlin," he whispered lowly through his teeth, "you're pregnant. You – we - a baby –"
All of a sudden, he pulled her into a tight trembling embrace. She buried her tear-streaked face in his chest, hands fisted in his jumper.
"Harry?" she mumbled, her voice muffled by the fabric of his jumper. "I'm scared."
"Me too," he confessed quietly. "But hey, at least we got to practice on Teddy for the past five years," he joked. Ginny pulled away, chuckling quietly as she wiped her eyes.
"Yeah," she smiled, her voice growing in confidence. "Yeah, we can do this. We can be parents."
A grin spread slowly over Harry's face as he gazed into his wife's warm brown eyes, and he spoke in a voice filled with a dazed sort of wonder.
"We're having a baby."