For the Calendar Challenge: November, 11, food, "Can you imagine if I was deranged?"


The Nineteenth Year

Chapter Eleven: Not So Empty Nests

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"It is much easier to become a father than to be one." –Kent Nerburn

"Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose." –Tennessee Williams

"True friendship is seen through the heart, not through the eyes."


"No, Parkinson, I will not represent you in a suit against Lavender Brown because she, and I quote, 'rubbed her werewolf hairs all over your Armada purse and threw up on your ten-inch heels, the little expletive-expletive-expletive werewolf expletive' unquote. Honestly, Parkinson, if you're going to go to the Vampire Bite, you ought to expect a lot worse."

"Weasley," Pansy Parkinson says dangerously, leaning over my desk (and, incidentally, getting a few of Lavender's non-werewolf blonde hairs on my latest case-parchment). "That werewolf b—"

It was the start of yet another tirade. I rolled my eyes and longed for a sandwich.

It wasn't like I hadn't heard both Pansy and Lavender's stories already. The points where the two coincided were: one, both women had gone to the Vampire Bite, a really seedy London bar that I, personally, would hesitate to take my wife to; secondly, Lavender had started flirting with a wizard who later turned out to be Parkinson's husband, Chad Bulstrode; third, Pansy had noticed and been understandably annoyed; and four, that a brawl of some sort had taken place, resulting in Pansy pulling out several of Lavender's blonde hairs, and Lavender, who'd clearly started lubricating before the contretemps (love that word—couldn't spell it until a few weeks ago, honestly) had thrown up some of her potations all over Pansy's shoes.

Those were the facts. In my opinion, the fault could be shared between Lavender, Pansy, and Pansy's husband, but both women seemed pretty eager to blame the other.

Pansy came to a natural pause in her narration, and glared at me. I sighed. "No, Parkinson. The most we can do is ban you both from the bar and issue Ms. Brown a warning. Understand?"

"I'm not giving up that easily, Weasley!" Pansy shrieked. She looked a little wild, still in her clubbing gear. The effect was spoiled by her shrill voice, though. "I'll take this all the way to the Minister if I have to!" And she stormed out.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and ended up having a coughing fit, thanks to her perfume.

"Is it safe?" Harry whispered, from behind the connecting door between our offices.

I laughed. "Yup. Come on out, mate."

"She's…determined, certainly," Harry commented, trying for a neutral tone.

I shrugged, already thinking ahead to where I was going after work, and hoping today would be one of Hermione's better days.

This pregnancy seems a bit rougher than the other two. Honestly, we weren't expecting it, not at all, and, even though the Healer we've consulted says there's no reason to suspect there'll be any problems, I can't help worrying about Hermione.

The family knows about the pregnancy now, that is, my parents, Bill, Percy, Fred, Ginny, Harry…I expect Mum wrote Charlie, too.

I just hope everything goes okay. It's been a long time since I had to change any diapers!

"So, ready for the meeting?" Harry asked. Clearly, he'd been worrying about the upcoming 'discussion' with the Minister concerning elf rights; I don't know why everyone's throwing such a big fuss, myself: Hermione already got the Elf Liberation Act passed, saying they've got to be paid wages. And it's a pretty safe bet that if Lucius Malfoy hasn't been able to finagle a way around something, it's airtight, you know?

"What's up this week?" I asked. "More trouble with stores that won't serve elves as equal customers? Malfoy dipping below minimum wage?" The minimum wage line was Hermione's idea; I think she got it from some Muggle custom. Basically, all servants, not just house-elves, have to be paid a fixed rate or more, legally. Great idea.

"No, I thought you knew," Harry said, sounding surprised. "There've been a couple revolts, elves marching in Diagon Alley, protesting our departures from tradition. The meeting's about these new radicals."

"We're not just going to let them say their bit?" I asked. "I mean, freedom kind of implies being able to say what you think, right?"

"Right," agreed Harry. "And that's all they're doing." I nodded, pleased, until I heard him whisper, "For now."

--

"Well, that was a complete waste of time," I complained to Harry and Hermione after the meeting. "Are all committees like that?"

"Honestly, Ron, it's not that bad," Hermione defended. "Kingsley's doing his best."

"As long as that's enough," Harry said pessimistically.

"What's the matter, mate?" I demanded. "You've been down all day."

"It's nothing," he said, fidgeting. Hermione and I looked at him. "Really," he insisted, "It's nothing, it's just, I…"

"Well?" demanded Hermione, putting her hands on her hips. "Really, Harry, we don't have all day, and I'd really like to sit down; I'm pregnant, you know."

"That's the thing—maybeI'malittlejealousthatyoutwo'rehavinganotherkid," Harry said in a rush.

"What?" Hermione frowned.

"He's jealous that we're having another kid," I translated, rolling my eyes.

"A little—a little jealous, Ron!" Harry insisted.

"Wow," said Hermione. "But, Harry, you already have three, and this'll be our third, so we'll be tied. Is that all you're worried about?"

"Having kids isn't a competition," I pointed out, feeling grateful of this statement's truth. I mean, yes, Rosie is super-intelligent, just like her mother, but she's also a Ravenclaw, and Harry's got two little Gryffindors, doesn't he?

Not that House matters, of course.

"I miss this part," Harry was saying. "The glow of pregnancy—"

Hermione snorted. "Yeah, you don't have to carry the babies," she muttered.

But Harry was going on. "When the baby's born, a tiny, living being that's relying on you for everything, and then the constant learning process—for you as well as the child—walking, talking—"

"Whining, crying," Hermione added sotto voce. I sensed that she might be a little worried about having another baby too.

"Looking up to you, trusting you to teach them everything they need to know—going on to do more and more for themselves, learning to read, do arithmetic, playing with the other children—"

I caught Hermione's eye. Had she known that Harry was in love with his children? Perhaps as much with the idea of childhood as James, Al, and Lily themselves. This was powerful stuff.

"And then that moment you've been dreading, when they're speeding away from you on a red train to their future, and you realize that they don't need you anymore, and everything else seems empty—"

"Harry," Hermione said, after an anxious glance at me. "James and Albus still need you. It's okay; and anyway, you still have Lily, right?"

"For another twenty-two months!" Harry wailed. "And then—"

"And then what?" I asked. "Your life'll be over? Don't be so melodramatic, mate."

"I think we know where James gets it from," Hermione agreed—though actually, I think Albus and Lily have a bit of inner drama queen as well.

"You know what you really need?" I asked Harry bracingly.

"A drink at the Vampire Bite?" he suggested mischievously.

"Ew! I wouldn't go in there even if I wasn't pregnant!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Oh, I dunno…" Harry said, clearly teasing, and I relaxed a bit—he felt okay enough to tease us, at any rate.

"Whew," I whispered in Hermione's ear. "Can you imagine if I was deranged?"

"Easily," she whispered back, and smirked at my offended look.

After that, the three of us retreated into a nice bantering session, with a moratorium on all serious topics. What a relief.

--

That night, as I was whipping up a (hopefully) gourmet dinner for Hermione, I couldn't help thinking about Harry's breakdown. Clearly he was missing Albus, as I was missing Rosie; even so, it seemed a bit over the top, and I wondered if he was all right.

Inevitably, my thoughts strayed to the job I was doing raising my own kids. Would another one unbalance our lives completely? How could I make sure not to neglect Rosie and Hugo when the new baby came?

They're old enough that I wasn't worried they'd get into mischief as much as that they'd feel abandoned.

Rosie's already at Hogwarts, after all, and Hugo'll be there, too, in another two years or so.

I glanced over at Hugo, who was reading one of Hermione's books, by Henry James. She thinks he's a brilliant author, but I can't get through even one of his books—I've tried, but it sounds like nonsense to me.

"Hugo?" I asked, before I could change my mind. "Am I a good father?"

"You're the best ever, Dad," Hugo said, looking mildly surprised at the question.

"You know your Mum and I love you very much," I tried. There was a lump in my throat, and I was kind of regretting having this conversation with my arms elbow-deep in flour.

"Yeah, I know," Hugo said docilely. He's always so cooperative.

"And that's not going to change when the baby's born," I continued.

"I know, Dad," Hugo said patiently.

"Good, because I—" I couldn't go on; the lump in my throat had gotten worse, and tears were starting in my eyes.

Hugo sighed softly (but I still heard it; was he annoyed at his old Dad, getting so emotional?), and got up. I thought he was going up to his room, until his arms wound around me from behind.

"I love you, Dad," he said emphatically.

Say what you will, I have the best son in the world.

After awhile, when he judged I'd more or less recovered, Hugo relaxed his grip, and moved to the side slightly.

I looked at him. His palms were covered in flour from my apron. He glanced down at them ruefully, and I shrugged apologetically.

"Well," my son said, "Might as well help you with dinner, Dad."

And he grinned when I handed him a spatula.