Bear It
"You sure you're okay?" Ginny asks, glancing at the sofa.
Harry's been slouching there for a while, which isn't like him when Teddy's around. Usually he adores playing with his godson, reading him books and making him giggle. Ginny knew that Harry would be brilliant with kids, and he likes Teddy more now that Teddy's older and mobile and can say a few words. But Harry's been surly and distracted for the last half-hour, and he hasn't wanted to fuss over Teddy like normal.
Ginny's been playing with their godson instead: This Little Piggie on his toes, Five Hopping Goblins on his fingers, tickling and cuddling him. Teddy's high-pitched squeal is adorable, and so's the way he squirms when he's tickled and hurls his head backwards when he laughs. Ginny's favourite part of being a godmother is the inexplicable things which make Teddy chortle: blowing dandelions, watching the curtains open and close by magic, the sound of Dad's Muggle lawnmower. He has his moments of being grumpy and stubborn, and even when he's in a mega-strop the noise of that lawnmower can make Teddy switch from bawling to guffawing.
Harry jams his glasses back on his nose.
"It isn't fair," he says with a growl, "They never even got to see him smile".
