Harry bit his tongue and his best friend looked at him, a mixture of confusion and fear flickering over his face.
'Don't matter.' Harry mumbled, not meeting Ron's eye. 'Forget what I said.'
'No.' Ron's voice sounded a lot stronger. 'I know that there's something that you're hiding from me. Hermione too, but I'm not sure if she's fully aware as to what it is. Tell me.'
The command sounded like a threat.
Harry still shook his head.
'Oh, for fuck's sake.' Ron exploded, leaping up onto his feet. 'Stop being such the Golden Boy Martyr and tell me. I'm your best friend for crying out loud. I've had to watch my wife cry herself to sleep ever since that bloody war ended – had to tip-toe around you and her, look,' he dropped his angry tone and began to look more sympathetic. 'Listen, mate. I've just lost one of the most precious things in my life. Please, if you know anything, please, please tell me.'
Harry exhaled. 'When I figured it out, I promise I'll tell you everything.'
As Harry lay in bed that night, wide awake, he questioned whether or not he'd made the right decision. Ron had correctly identified that there was something that he wasn't telling him. He'd also quizzed Harry about what Hermione was not telling him. But how could Harry tell Ron that he was right? That Hermione was hiding something that she didn't even know about?
Hermione, despite her sadness, seemed to have no recollection of what had actually happened in that alternate universe – but Harry could remember it as clear as if it were yesterday.
Sometimes, he was ashamed to find that he felt physically sick when he looked at her, blaming himself for how she was feeling.
No, Harry had made the right decision. He still didn't fully understand everything, only that they were in the right time now – weren't they? And besides, how did you explain to your best mate that in another world he was supposed to be dead?
They were back at the hospital. Ron had a tight grip of Hermione's arm as he steered her through the wards.
'I'm fine.' She said faintly. 'I'm fine.'
When they burst through the doors, Harry was jumping around like a lunatic. 'What the fuck do I do? What the fuck do I do?'
His best friends smiled. 'How far along is she?'
'Um, screaming.' Harry said. 'I can't hear what the Midwife is telling me – but it sounds intelligent, so I trust her.'
Hermione would have scoffed.
'Is Mum in there now with her?' Ron asked.
Harry nodded. 'Yeah, and Fleur too. I know right.' He added as Hermione raised her eyebrows. 'I never would have believed it either. She'll probably ask for you too, if that's alright?'
Ron looked concerned behind his wife's back, but she smiled and nodded. 'Alright. Show me the way, Potter.'
Ron had opened his mouth to say something, but was distracted by the arrival of George, Angelina and their two children, 3 year old Fred and Roxanne sleeping in her buggy.
By the evening, Harry Potter became a father to James Sirius Potter. Ron and Hermione had stayed with Harry as he looked at each tiny little finger, thumb and toes in awe – as if he couldn't believe that this little baby was real, like him.
Later, as they lay in bed together, both pretending to be asleep, Hermione said softly.
'Ron, are we shit?'
It was quiet enough for him to ignore it if he wanted to, or if he didn't understand what she meant. But he did. His arm already round her, he pulled her closer to him and kissed her on the forehead.
'Yeah. Yeah we are a bit.'
'I'm so happy for them.' Hermione confessed. 'But,' she tailed off.
'I don't resent them.' Ron joined in. 'I just wish,'
The couple sighed and lay back again.
The Boy Who Lived Now A Man
Yours truly, Rita Skeeter (21 and a few months), has just discovered the joyous news for The Daily Prophet that Harry Potter has just become a father. When I first met young Harry at The Triwizard Tournament and he cried to me over missing his parents, I saw him as you did, dear readers, a mere slip of a boy of whom we had a reason (nay a duty) to protect. Now, however, we are forced to admit that this boy has left childhood and has become a man.
The bouncing baby boy arrived this morning – a mark of a new day, and has been named James Sirius Potter. James of course for Harry's dear father who died after valiently fighting You-Know-Who off in order to give his wife more time to run away with Harry, and Sirius presumably for Harry's godfather – the man who served time in the Wizard Prison Azkaban for the murder of Peter Pettigrew who was mysteriously refound again in the clutches of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Sirius is also, if my sources are not mistaken, known under the stage name of Stubby Boardman the lead singer of the popular group The Hob Goblins.
So how will this little one turn out? We've spoken to readers from around the globe who are concerned with the childs upbringing.
'He'll be in Quidditch for sure.' Devon Greig booms powerfully behind a big ginger bushy beard. 'Like his father and his mother and his paternal grandparents before him.'
'He'll be trouble.' Van Herman comments thoughtfully. 'He'll be expelled for setting fire to Hogwarts before he even gets there.'
Only the notorious half-giant, Reubus Hagrid refused to answer my kind questions. 'E'll be a good kid an' that's tha'.' He said to me, shooing me off of his front step. 'Jus' like the people who'll be raising 'im. Naw, buzz off. Just le' the Potter's get on in peace, alright? They just wanna be like a normal family without a kid exposed to all a' tha'.'
'Anything interesting?' Ginny quizzed Harry, breastfeeding James as she tried to look over Harry's shoulder at The Daily Prophet.
Harry chuckled. 'Only that Rita Skeeter is apparently only twenty-one.'
Another gloved hand clutched at the same article, its thumb pressing hard on the picture that showed Harry Potter grinning at the camera with a small bundle in his arms.
The dark street is deserted. It's well into the night and all inhabitants are sleeping peacefully, scarcely aware of the strange and terrible things that were about to happen. For the present, blissful dreams soothed the warm night air.
A scrawny rat peeked its head up out from behind a newspaper and snuffled its whiskers. Upon deeming it safe to emerge, the rat scurried out and began to forage for food, something that it would not have done n the day surrounded by people.
The rat found a nut, and the nut looked good.
As the rat nibbled away contentedly, utterly famished, it began to consider its life.
Crack.
The rat's ears twitched. Glancing up nervously, the rat considered its surroundings. Had it imagined the noise? Was it imagining the growing darkness and the silvery mist that chilled the air?
A black leather gloved hand came out from the darkness and snatched the rat up. Ignoring its squeaks of fear, the captor savagely bit off its head. Crunching the bones lustily, the figure wiped the hand across the mouth to rid themselves of the dribble of spit and blood.
Once finished, the figure stepped out of the alleyway and out of the darkness surrounded by the soft flickering glow of the streetlamps; now, the figure bid the silver mist out and sent it to spread its despair.
One house stood high on a hill, proud and slightly apart from the rest of the village, the enemy lay within and though the figure's hand itched around its wand, they kept a cool head, remembering their true task at hand. Firmly, they instead turned to the ruins of a house outside and pointed their wand.
'Morsmordre.'
The Dark Mark shot up into the sky and Harry Potter woke with a start.