A/N: I loved your reviews this week, most insightful … but do you really think Gin would cheat on Harry? Come on, I'd never let her do that to our favourite orphan! Peace out guys, hope you like this one Xx S.

The next week passed in a strange, disconnected blur. Outwardly, he and Ginny behaved as though nothing had changed, and talked calmly in front of the Weasleys about wedding plans, R.S.V.P tallies, possibilities for the dress (Ginny still hadn't found an appropriate replacement), and desserts at the reception. They still smiled at each other, and ate dinner together, and slept in the same bed. Every day they played out an elaborate illusion of ordinariness, but for Harry it was an entirely transparent veneer. It wrenched at him, this sudden sweeping turn in their relationship. He had never been anything other than himself with Ginny. He had never faked it so terribly. He closed his eyes at night but barely slept. He lay awake in the early mornings listening to her vomiting in the bathroom, and cursed himself for not having the courage to simply bring it up and have the whole thing out with her. Still, he might be forgiven for his reluctance. The many times he'd tried all followed something like this:

"Ginny, I wanted to –"

"Hang on, I'm writing something."

"Alright."

Long pause in which she clearly hoped he might leave. He did not. She put her quill down.

"Yeah?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Now?"

"Yes, it's – about what we were talking about – the other day."

"The other day?"

"Yes, you know. The thing we were talking about."

"I don't …"

"Yes you do."

"I'm rather too busy to talk now. Could you run this list over to Hermione for me? She should be in the kitchen, or maybe she's with Ron outside. It's really important, we're just confirming with the furniture hire people exactly how many chairs and tables we'll need. I mean, it's really important. You can imagine what would happen if we were short twenty chairs or so. Could you do that for me? Thanks."

Following this slightly rushed speech, her head went back to her papers, and he was left speechless and hopeless, and doing her chores as though she didn't have his baby in her belly.

Harry knew trying to force a confrontation wouldn't get him anywhere much with Ginny. It would be the same if the situation were reversed. She was proud like him, and stubborn. He'd always loved that in her before, but now it was infuriating. He knew that he ought to wait it out a while, but he'd always found it so difficult. And this wasn't something trivial, a missed quidditch match, too much overtime – this was life-changing stuff, and she was pretending like she hadn't felt the speed-bump.

He tried not to touch her. They lay next to each other in bed, and said goodnight in the dark, and lay with their skin centimetres (or was it miles?) apart. He stung with longing for her, just to touch her hand, her sweet mouth, the gentle up-down rise of her chest, her long, lean legs, but how could he with this dark secret so huge and still between them.

Really, he knew why he lacked the bollocks to 'have it out with her', despite her reluctance, despite her false smiles. It was true that he could have kept on until she cracked. In actual fact, he was frightened of the things she'd said. She'd seemed so entirely disturbed by the idea, so desperate with her broken dreams. He had a terrible lingering fear in his mind that if he forced her to talk about the baby, she would come to the conclusion that she wanted to – well, make it disappear altogether.

He didn't think he'd be able to bear that. Thinking of her taking away what they made … it just seemed such an awful waste of love. And love was something he knew ought to be seized with both hands, at all opportunities. In his life, it hadn't always been in long supply.

He wished he knew what to do to make things right. He just wanted it all to be OK again.

On the weekend, Harry woke to find himself alone in bed. He listened briefly for the sound of his fiancée hard at work in the toilet bowl, but heard nothing. He sat up, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, patted his crazy hair and blinked at the room.

It was empty. He could hear birds outside and the sun was attempting, with pleasant perseverance, to pierce the curtains.

He swung his legs out of bed and frowned as his brain shook off its tiredness. Perhaps Ginny was making breakfast – he looked at his watch. The rooster hath long since crowed, it read.He'd woken later than usual. That made sense; he'd tossed and turned right into the wee hours. His body must have taken some extra time to catch up.

He pulled on clothes and headed downstairs for the kitchen. It was empty too, although freshly baked banana muffins were cooling by the stove. He presumed that Mrs Weasley had made them up for breakfast, and ate one while his thoughts circled with a little more speed. He poked his head out the back door. Fred and Angelina were doing a spot check of their brooms, presumably before flying out.

"Morning," Harry said.

Fred glanced up. "Morning, son. Sleep well?"

"Fine," Harry lied. "You?"

"Not a wink," said Fred.

Angelina slapped the back of his head, but Fred was unfazed.

"Cor, muffins!" he said, before Harry could go on. He made a move towards the kitchen door.

"Fred, we'll miss the current!" Angelina protested.

"Just one?"

"You can't eat and fly."

"How would you know?"

"You're just not co-ordinated enough, lad."

"I'm fairly co-ordinated," he grinned wickedly, and she couldn't help but grin back.

"Fairly co-ordinated, yes," she acknowledged, and he nodded.

"That's what I thought. One muffin?"

"If you like. May I have one too, then?"

"You certainly may not. All guests starve when they come to the Burrow. If you feed them, they'll just come back."

She laughed helplessly, and Fred came inside on a direct beeline for breakfast.

"Seen Ginny?" Harry managed, finally, to ask.

"Who?" he said, mouth full.

"Your sister. Ginny."

"Oh, Ginny. Sorry mate, just a bit dazed what with all the make-up sex."

"I didn't need to know that."

"But aren't you glad you do now?" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Harry, I'm telling you, I just had the most fantastic night of my life. No kidding. Better than when we stuck it to Umbridge. Better than when our shop was listed in Which Warlock as hottest new business of the year. This girl, mate – this girl's just – I've been a total fool, haven't I?"

"Tell me about it," Harry said. "Have you seen Ginny?"

"Haven't seen her per se. Thought I heard her knocking about down here at some ungodly hour. She might have been Flooing herself actually, I can smell a bit of charcoal in the air."
Harry could too, now that he'd pointed it out. But where on earth would she be Flooing herself at that hour, without even mentioning her plans? They might be having problems, but she still told him where she was going, even if it was only down the road to the village, or out in the next-door field.

"Fred!" came a call from outside. Fred grabbed another muffin and headed for the door.

"She'll turn up," he said cheerily. "I'm off, lots of flying to do, lots of frolicking in fields and so on."

He was out the door like a shot, and Harry saw he and Angelina kick off within moments, swooping carelessly about each other and up into the sky.

He had an eerie sense of foreboding now, and went to find Hermione. First stop was Ron's room, and sure enough his light knock produced her at the door. She was in a sweet cotton nightie and her hair was thrown up into a wild bun. Beyond her, he could see Ron sprawled asleep in their rumpled bed sheets.

He must have looked rather frazzled, because a concerned: "Harry, what is it?" was her immediate reaction.

"No, nothing at all," he said immediately, rather too quickly.

"Alright honey?" Ron mumbled, and she called "Yes, fine," back to him.

"Are you sure?" she said, and then came out the room, shutting the door behind her. "You look upset."

"I'm not upset."

"Then what is it?"

"I'm just looking for Gin. I don't suppose you've seen her?"

"No, I've been reading. Haven't even been to the loo yet."

"She didn't come in to see you? She didn't mention a trip to London or anything?"

"No, Harry."

Thoughts raced through his brain now, and none of them good.

"What is it?" Hermione asked quietly. Her eyes searched his face with the same piercing, intelligent gaze she'd had her whole life.

"I'm just a bit worried, 'cos she didn't say a thing to me about –"

"I don't mean today. I mean this week. There's something going on with you two, and I can't put my finger on it."

"Nothing's going on," said Harry, striving to maintain a semblance of calm. "We're fine. Are you fine?"

"Yes, but I'm talking about you."

"Well we're both fine, like I said."

"Will you tell me what's going on, for heaven's sake? Ginny keeps coming up to me as though about to ask some terrible favour or make a confession, but as soon as she opens her mouth all I hear is stupid gossip or trivial things about the wedding. You've been walking around with a pretend smile on your face and I haven't seen you even hug Ginny since last weekend. What on earth is happening? Did you row?"

"It's nothing," Harry said distractedly, and turned away from her. "Listen, go back to bed, I'm sorry I disturbed."

"Harry!"

He went marching off down the hall, and knocked on the twins' door.

"Is that Fred?" came George's voice.

"No, it's Harry."

There was an immediate scuffling and hushed whispers, and then the door opened a crack and Mrs Weasley's head became visible.

"Oh, hello," he said, rather taken aback.

"Hello Harry. Just having a bit of a chat with George. Are you alright?"

"Er – have you seen Ginny?"

"I haven't, no." She turned to look back into the bedroom, which was hidden from Harry's sight. "George?"

"Nope," said George, and then Harry heard him drop something, and (bizarrely enough) a bright crackling sound. "Blast! Oh, Merlin's knees – Mum, quick, help me with –"

"Must dash, dear, I'm helping George with some – some very important product experiments. Why don't you ask Ron?"

And just like that, she slammed the door shut and Harry was left with an odd mixture of confusion and rising anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

He went back to his room. Ginny had not materialised. Who else was there to ask? Mr Weasley, he presumed, was holed up at the Ministry. He was home very little, weighed down with responsibility and bureaucracy. Fred and Angie were out, Ron and 'Mione were probably shagging by now, and George and Mrs Weasley were clearly engaged in some kind of clandestine activity.

Harry sat down on their bed and briefly allowed his panic to surface. Where had she gone? And what was she doing? He put both hands in his hair and tried not to let one thought in particular voice itself, but it wouldn't be silenced. His inner monologue asked the question with painful matter-of-factness.

Has she gone to have something done about the baby?

Immediately he stood, strode to the door, strode back to the bed, to the window, back to the door, and back to the window again. Then he took a few deep breaths and considered his options. It seemed a logical explanation, as much as he didn't want to believe it. Why else wouldn't she breathe a word to anyone, not even Hermione? It wasn't at all like her.

I'll go to London, he thought.

And do what? asked his monologue.
Find her!

How?
I'll – check the directory for medi-witches.

Do you think you're in the Muggle world? Wizards don't have directories! Do they?

I'll ask Mrs Weasley who her doctor is.

You can't, she'll panic and think her daughter's sick.

Then I'll walk the streets and go into every medical centre I see. I'll go into St Mungo's. I'll search every floor.

That won't get you anywhere. How can you see every doctor in London and expect to find her before – before –

"Before it's too late," he muttered, and then banged his head against the window. He was frustrated, and desperate, and having conversations with himself. But what else could he do? What else could he do? All he knew was that if he didn't do something, and soon, he was going to go stark raving mad …

Just like that, he snatched up his broom and half-ran to Ron's door, banging on the panelling so that it shook. There was a pause, and then Ron came to the door rubbing his eyes.

"We're still sleep–" he began, but Harry cut him off.

"Come on. Get your broom. Quidditch."

"What?"

"Quidditch."

"What?"

"Quidditch, quidditch," Harry repeated irritably. "Come on, let's play. Where's your broom, I'll get it if you want. Put some clothes on."

Something in the crazed set of Harry's eyes must have made Ron's mind up for him, because he sighed heavily and said: "Alright, alright, jeez."

"What's all this?" Hermione asked from bed.

"Quidditch," said Harry.

"Quidditch?"

"Quidditch."

"Will everybody please stop saying quidditch?" Ron said tiredly. "Where are my Chudley shorts?"

"In the top drawer," said Hermione.

All this messing about was making Harry antsy. He tapped his foot impatiently, and then leapt into the hall as he heard a door open. George was padding over to the stairs with an empty mug.

"Oi!" he called.

"Oi yourself," said George.

"Quidditch!"

"Eh?"

"Let's play quidditch."

"Er – now?"

"Yes. Now."

"Oh. OK, fine. I'll just –"

"Meet you down there, meet you down there. You dressed Ron?"

"As dressed as I'm going to get on a Saturday." Ron found his broom behind the door and scratched his nose.

"Do you want to play, Hermione?" Harry asked.

"Certainly not," Hermione said. "Be careful. Have fun." She raised her book to eye-level, resting it on her upright knees. The title was Birth, Life and Death – Medical Observations and he felt a creepy shiver run from the back of his neck to the base of his spine.

"Bye then," he said shortly, grasping Ron firmly by the shoulder and steering him into the corridor and down the stairs.

"Steady on!" Ron protested, and broke away as they reached the kitchen. "What's with you this morning?"

"Are we playing?" George said from outside. Harry hurried out to meet him, and Ron followed, but just as he was about to suggest they play singly for goals, George said: "Oh look, Fred and Angie are back."

So they were. They touched down with barely a hello, then immediately fastened their hands and walked at speed to the kitchen door.

"That was quick," Harry said. "Quidditch?"

"No thanks," Fred said as he walked. "We came back because we – we forgot something."

"Come on, then," George challenged. "We don't have enough people. Fred? Angie? You can shag later, can't you?"

Angelina stopped in the doorway, and Fred marched back to his twin and lowered his voice to a mutter.

"No we cannot," he said. "What's all this fuss about quidditch anyway?"

"It's Harry," Ron piped up. "He's practically foaming at the mouth."

"I'm not," Harry said defensively, while Fred eyed him. He glanced back to Angelina, and then George.

"Twenty quid our team can whoop yours," George said.

That was that. Fred had never turned down a quidditch-related bet in his life.

"Angie, do you …" he began tentatively.

"I'll play too," she replied with a little half-smile, before he'd even finished. "We've got all Saturday, haven't we?"

For the next two hours or so, Ron and Fred flew against George and Angie, with Harry flying for both teams. He'd never played harder in his life. He chased every ball, he dodged every bludger. He swerved, he passed, he near hustled the others off their brooms. Ron was almost knocked out once or twice by Harry's passing Ascendant. It was such a fierce approach to backyard quidditch that the others were quite bemused, and exhausted themselves in trying to keep up with him.

"That's it," George shouted eventually. His brow was soaked in sweat and he was red in the face. "I've had enough."
He dropped to earth.

"Piker!" Harry called.

Angelina followed him with: "Yeah, I need a glass of water."

Fred made to disappear too, and Harry blocked him with his broom. "Oi, Fred, what are you doing?"

"I'm buggered, mate. Angie's half-dead. I told you I didn't get much sleep."

Reluctantly, Harry let him pass, and then spun about to glare at his one remaining player.

"Can't I go too?" Ron said plaintively, all out of breath.

Harry was about to tell him that they hadn't finished the game yet, but then he saw Ginny looking up at them through the kitchen window.

"Sure," he said faintly. "Whatever."

"About bloody time," Ron muttered and flew low. "Aren't you coming?" he yelled up to Harry, once his feet were on the ground.

"In a minute," Harry said softly.

"What?"

"In a minute!"

"Right-o."

He hovered in the air for a time, swooping gently back and forth. He was attempting to formulate the words he'd need when he spoke to Ginny, but none came. What do you say to a girl who hasn't even touched you for a week? What do you say to a girl who may (or may not – may no longer) be pregnant with your child?

Finally, Ginny came out onto the doorstep, arms folded across her chest.

"What are you doing?" she shouted up to him.

This was it, he thought. The words would have to find themselves.

He descended rapidly and skidded to a halt in front of her. Her hair reached past her shoulders now. He'd given her the top she was wearing, a little blue cotton thing with patterns on.

"The others said you were looking for me."

"Where have you been?" Harry asked stiffly.

"London," Ginny replied, frowning a little.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going?"

"Do I have to tell you everything?"

"You used to. You used to want to."

She bit her lip and he wanted to kiss her so much.

"Did you –" He stopped and lowered his voice a little. "Did you have something done about the baby?"

She stared at him a moment, and then shook her head very slowly. "No, Harry," she said, as though she didn't quite believe he'd asked.

He sighed so heavily that it felt as though all the breath had left his body. He was shaky, and so relieved, relieved right down to his bones and organs. He stared at his feet and fought the sudden, odd urge to cry.

"Did you think that's what I was doing?" she said softly.

He shrugged.

"I would never do something like that without talking to you. Not ever, Harry."

"You haven't talked to me for a while now."

He managed a glance up and she'd moved a little closer. "I'm sorry," she said, rather hopelessly. "I just couldn't think. With this wedding and all the stress, and I suppose my hormones are running about like wild things." She laughed once, awkwardly, and then reached out and touched his hand. He shivered, and she gripped more tightly.

"I just needed a day on my own," she went on, still speaking in that low, quiet way. "I sat in St James Park and let all my thoughts come out like bubbles. Because I've been holding them down all week, you see, pretending that I was empty, that I didn't have any thoughts at all."

"I tried to talk to you," he said.

"I know. I couldn't. I'm sorry."

"Alright." He took another deep breath, curled his fingers around her fingers and steeled himself for the big question. "What did you decide, then?"
He kept his eyes on her face, and she kept her eyes on his. "It's not just me, Harry," she said. "It's us, like you said. I can't just pick out our life for us."

"It's your choice in the end," he said, and she shook her head vigorously.

"No, I was wrong to say what I did last week, to say that it was mine and not ours. I thought and thought, Harry, and in the end there was only one thought to come back to. We did this, didn't we? We did it out of love. We might not have meant for it to happen just now, but that's beside the point really. We just – we just have to accept it for what it is, and not think of it as a mistake. Or I do. I – I want to." She searched his face anxiously, and squeezed his hand. "Please don't be angry with me Harry," she said in a small voice. "I just needed a good think."

Harry was quite overcome. "Are you saying," he asked eventually, "that you want to do this?"

She looked at him a moment, then smiled a little smile. There was still the glint of fear in her eyes, but they were now also set with that uniquely Ginny-esque determination he loved. "Yeah. I guess I am."

"Give me a hug," Harry said hoarsely and pulled her into his arms. She sighed against his chest and he touched her hair and her arms and her strong, slender back and he couldn't believe he'd been without her for a week.

"What about quidditch?" he whispered in her ear.

"Quidditch will have to wait."

"What about being young?"

"Me and the baby will have something in common, won't we?"

"You and the baby?"

She nodded briefly, swallowed, smiled that smile again. "Yeah."

Harry exhaled and felt all the anxiety sliding out of him. "I like the sound of that."

He put his hand on her stomach and almost believed he could feel a little heartbeat, strong and steady and certain. Ginny looked at his hand on her belly, and then placed her own over his.

They stood like this for some time, until a polite 'Ahem' sounded from one of the upper-storey windows. They jumped and craned their necks – George was looking at them with raised eyebrows.

"Hello there," he said. "If you're quite finished canoodling, we're upstairs recovering from our numerous injuries. Bring us some butter beers, will you?

His head disappeared back into the house.

"Do you think he heard?" Ginny murmured.

"No," said Harry. "And if he did, I don't care."

"Let's just keep it on the down low for a little while, alright? I've got to find a way to tell the family."

"Alright." He would have agreed to just about anything at that point. He was far too happy, far too relieved, to make objections.

Harry Potter was going to be a father.