A/N: Um, hi. So this is a thing I wrote. Takes place like a week before the primary plot of And So They Spoke, but you don't need to read that to enjoy this. If you didn't read ASTS, just know that Rose is pregnant, Scorpius is the father, but he broke up with her (for REASONS) before she could tell him she was pregnant. Also this is from Albus's point of view... I think that's really all you need to know. Enjoy!

Speak Softly

Every time I had slept in this bedroom for the past year, I was reminded why I had fucking hated sleeping in this bedroom for eighteen years.

For eighteen bloody years everyone in my family had thought I was an early riser.

No I bloody well was not an early riser. But when you sleep in a bedroom where the sun bursts in every morning promptly at sunrise, effectively the equivalent of a toddler bouncing on your bed saying "GET UP I'M UP GET UP I'M UP GET UP I'M UP," you sort of just become an early riser.

I squinted against the rays of the sun, wishing I could turn back time, wishing that I hadn't allowed James to convince me to take those tequila shots thirty minutes before the pub closed, and I turned in bed, smacking my lips together trying to get any moisture in the desert of cotton balls that was my mouth.

When I ended up on my other side, I froze for a minute when I saw the figure lying next to me.

I had been completely pissed last night. Totally and utterly out of my mind hammered, but I had a distinct memory of leaving the pub, James and I with our arms around each other, laughing and singing the Hogwarts school song at the top of our lungs, while the people around us on the street either laughed at our antics or rolled their eyes and avoided getting near us, fun suckers of the highest degree, not even getting an ounce of joy out of my fucking glorious and beautiful singing voice..

I remembered deciding that it was a fucking great idea to take a leak in an alleyway about a block from the pub, and I remembered also thinking, "I should probably just hurl while I'm over here."

After that was done, things were a little hazy in my mind—vague memories of tripping over nothing and taxis that we could only stay in for a minute before one of us had to get out and yack and a group of redheads that James insisted were probably, definitely some of our relatives that we just didn't know about—but surely—fucking surely—despite the tequila and rum and something that was flaming, James would not have let me take home a complete stranger that I had met on the street to our parents' house while my boyfriend was out of town. Surely.

"Shit. Shit shit shit," I murmured under my breath, sitting up quickly.

And that was a bad fucking idea because as soon as I sat up, the room started to spin, and I had to close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, convincing myself not to throw up in my bed.

"Whatareyoudoing."

The body belonging to the voice under my blankets stirred as he sleepily slurred his words together, and I let out a rush of relieved breath when I opened my eyes and saw my brother's face peeking out from under the blankets.

"No sun," he rasped, before turning over again and pulling a pillow down over his head.

Then I vaguely remembered what had happened when we got home.

"Shove over," James slurred, a bit too loudly—it was three in the goddamn morning and we were in our childhood home, sneaking in quietly like we had broken curfew, bumping into shit, laughing like idiots when we did so, "Shhhhhh"—after he stumbled into my bedroom.

"James what the fuck you have your own room," I said in a drunken, sleepy rush.

"S'lonely in there."

"Fine," I said pushing some blankets over to him and turning toward the inside of the bed, trying to ignore the way the room spun.

"Hey."

I opened my eyes, meeting my brother's bloodshot brown eyes in the darkness of my room. He was on his side facing me, eyes slightly wide and yet somehow still drooping. He flung an arm over so that his forearm was resting lazily on my bicep.

"I love you, Alby."

"Shut the fuck up, James."

I shut my eyes. The room spun. I tried to breathe.

"I'm serious, Al. We should hang out more, erm, more oft—erm… hang on."

I opened my eyes a bit to see James pursing his lips tightly together.

"Puke in the bathroom, J."

He held up a finger with his hand that was on my arm, and after a moment, it flopped back down again.

"No, I'm good."

"Okay." I closed my eyes again.

"Al?"

"Hm?"

"You're my favorite brother."

"I'm your only brother, you tosser.

I shook my head in James's direction before climbing out of bed, taking several deep, steady breaths, telling myself it would be fine, I didn't need to run to my bathroom and puke up all the tequila I'd consumed last night, along with the slices of pizza I was pretty sure James and I had gotten from an extremely shady, stereotypical pair of Italian blokes operating a food cart on the Mall.

I was descending the stairs when I heard the distinct sounds of Say Yes to the Dress coming from the living room.

That could only mean one thing.

"What are you doing here?"

My very pregnant best friend craned her neck from where she was sitting on the couch to peer at me over her shoulder, her feet propped up on the coffee table and a bowl of grapes sitting on top of her enormously pregnant belly.

"Baby woke me up at 5am kicking the shit out of my insides and I decided to stay up and read the seven hundred drunk texts you sent me and listen to the fifteen drunk voice mails you and James left," Rose said before turning back to the television. "Then I texted your dad because I was bored and I knew he'd be awake. What are you doing here? Surprised you're not hugging the toilet right now."

"You're hilarious," I said as I came up behind her and rested my hands on her shoulders, gazing at what she was watching. "Aren't you a feminist?"

"Don't you have a flat to sleep in?" she said, ignoring the question and popping a grape into her mouth.

"Fergie's visiting his parents and his sister in Aberdeen."

Rose tilted her head back to look at me. "Aw the wittle baby can't sweep awone?"

"I need coffee," I said, rolling my eyes at her baby voice and patting her head before heading into the kitchen, not telling Rose that she was precisely right. I'd been staying at my parents' house for the past week while Fergie was with his extremely conservative parents in Aberdeen, Scotland—accepting that Fergie was gay but not wanting it thrown in their faces, you know, that bullshit, so I was here and he was there, and I had to fucking suffer in bed alone—wanking alone, watching old episodes of The Office alone—because if I even looked at Fergie in a way, they would go fucking berserk.

We'd been living together for seven months—spending almost all of our nights together before that—and I guess I had taken for granted how used to sleeping next to Fergie I had gotten because it was miserable without him, colder. I remembered those lonely nights on tour last winter, but since then, we hadn't even spent one night apart.

Seven fucking nights it had been, and I missed him. Just being able to wrap my arms around him whenever I wanted, or feel his arms around me, or smell his chest… Jesus I was such a baby, Rose was right, but I didn't care. I missed him, and I wanted him to come home, and after the first night I knew I wouldn't be able to survive so I decided to come visit my parents, who were both more than happy to have me home.

And even though my dad made breakfast for me every morning before he left for the Ministry and even though my mum washed all my clothes when she got home from the Prophet office, it didn't make up for not being able to turn over in bed at any point during the night and fuck my boyfriend until we both fell back asleep.

I pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen and saw my father standing at the stove, flipping some bacon that smelled fucking divine and made my stomach grumble so loud that it was practically growling the words "feed me bacon now please."

"Good morning, son," my dad said—much too fucking loudly when my head was screaming—grinning at me over his shoulder briefly.

"Softly, dad," I murmured before taking a seat at the kitchen table.

He chuckled. "Fresh coffee," he said, gesturing toward the pot on the counter. "And—"

"Hangover cure? Please tell me you made some."

My dad had this killer recipe for some kind of concoction that magically—I mean, not actually magically, but almost—cured hangovers. According to him, he and my Uncles Ron, George, and Bill went through a bit of a partying streak the year after Voldemort fell, and this hangover cure had become a necessary part of their lives. All I knew was that it had tomato juice and I suspected brandy, but he wouldn't tell anyone what was in it. "Just drink it and shut up."

"In the refrigerator," he said.

"Thank god," I said, heading in that direction and pulling a glass out of the cupboard on my way. "Where's mum?" I asked as I poured out the mixture from the pitcher and took a gigantic swig, feeling marginally better almost instantly.

"She went to the farmer's market," he said, glancing at the clock over his shoulder. "She should be back soon."

"James is here, by the way," I told him as I walked over to the coffee pot, cup full of hangover cure and an empty mug in hand.

"I didn't see anyone in his room."

"He slept in my bed."

My father burst out laughing, and I winced at the sound.

"Sorry," he said when he noticed my reaction. "For both."

I poured out some coffee, grabbed a banana from the basket next to the pot, and sat back down at the table.

"I used to do that to Ron all the time," he said. "Seems I passed that on to James."

"Yeah, well, thanks a lot."

My dad chuckled, and I watched him cook for a few more minutes as I ate my banana and finished my glass of tomato juice and special ingredients, trying not to think about Fergie. I stood up, coffee mug in hand, and turned to go back into the living room.

"Here." My father handed me a paper coaster from one of the kitchen drawers, and I frowned up at him in confusion. "To cover your coffee when you're not drinking it." I gave him a look like he was crazy—we had never done anything like this before—and he smirked. "Rose is really sensitive to smells. Hermione was the same way."

I rolled my eyes and took the coaster from him before leaving the kitchen just as he started whipping some pancake batter.

I took my covered mug into the living room and flopped down next to Rose on the couch as someone that the screen told me was a sister of the bride was saying how she hated the current dress because it made her sister look like a pig playing dress up.

"You smell like bananas."

I looked over at Rose, who had her nose wrinkled in distaste, her hands resting on her engorged stomach, rubbing back and forth absently.

"I just ate one," I told her, slightly incredulous.

"You can't sit by me," she said, waving her hand as if she was swatting me away. She put her other hand over her mouth and made a motion like she was gagging. "I can't—seriously, Al." She dry heaved.

I rolled my eyes, and stood up to move over to the love seat that sat perpendicularly to the couch. "Don't be so dramatic."

She fanned herself with her hand for a moment, and I noticed that her cheeks were flushed. "I'm not. I just… god, bananas make me—" She gagged again and I gave her a slightly horrified stare. Being a woman fucking sucked.

"Jesus."

"It's seriously like this all the time," she said, reaching forward and grabbing her glass of water with difficulty. "Eight fucking months of being constantly grossed out by smells." She rested her glass on top of her stomach with both hands wrapped around it. "Bananas, cheese, and anything with vinegar are the worst ones."

"So you're saying you don't want the banana and cheese sandwich I made for you with the vinegarette dressing?"

"Don't even"—she heaved—"don't even joke."

A moment later, there was thundering down the stairs, and James turned the corner, shirtless in a pair of plaid boxers. "Is there hangover cure?" he asked unceremoniously. I nodded and he said, "Thank god," as he made his way toward the kitchen. "Hey, Cheeks."

"Hi, James," Rose said right before James barreled into the kitchen and I could hear my dad laughing.

"That dress is hideous," I said after staring at the set for a few moments.

"This entire family is hideous, and the girl getting married is like sixteen."

"Does she have braces?" I asked, leaning forward to try to see better. "That can't be legal."

"It's America, Al, I don't know."

I sat back against the couch again and glanced at Rose. "How's Pea Head doing?"

"He's big," she said immediately. "Doctor said yesterday that he'll probably come early because he's so big. And he's just, like, sitting right on top of my bladder. And I can't watch CSI anymore because he fucking loves that show and he goes crazy and kicks the bloody hell out of me every time I put it on. And all he wants me to eat are dill pickles dipped in ranch dressing."

"Aren't dill pickles vinegar-based?"

"Don't question the logic of cravings, Albus."

"That's disgusting."

"You think I don't fucking know that?"

"I feel like you're not supposed to swear around the baby."

"I couldn't give a shit," she said, leaning forward to set down her water glass. "James!" she yelled.

A jolt of pain lanced right between my eyes. "Shit, Rose, I'm fucking hungover, yeah?"

"What?" James yelled back from the kitchen.

"Jesus Christ."

"Is there any ice cream in the freezer?"

"Mint chocolate chip and strawberry swirl," my dad yelled, adding another voice to the loud fucking mix.

"Errrrrmmmmm," Rose said loudly, contemplating.

"Make up your fucking mind and end this."

"Could you bring both?" she yelled, ignoring me.

"Coming right up," James yelled back.

"THANK YOU."

"Oh. My. God."

A few seconds later, James slammed through the swinging kitchen door, two tubs of ice cream and three spoons in hand. He flopped on the couch next to Rose, handing her one of the tubs and a spoon before tossing another spoon to me and popping the lid off the other tub. Rose sniffed hers for a moment, while James shoved his spoon into the one he was holding and took a bite. Without so much as a word exchanged between them—James staring up at the television set—he held out his cartoon and Rose switched the ones they were each holding, and both of them started eating, without missing a beat, eyes on some girl getting "jacked up," whatever the hell that meant.

"That dress his hideous," James said after a second.

Rose nodded, and I continued to stare at the two of them, slightly dumbfounded at how much pregnant Rose and hungover James seemed to be in sync.

"You want some?" James looked at me, holding his tub of ice cream in my direction.

"Er, no, I'm not in the habit of eating ice cream at eight in the morning."

"He's watching his figure," Rose said, mouth full of ice cream.

James snickered and shoved a huge spoonful of mint chocolate chip into his mouth. "He's gotta look good for when his boyfriend finally comes home from abandoning his arse."

Rose smirked, and the two of them went on watching the program unfolding in front of them, and I just rolled my eyes, trying to ignore them, trying not to think about how fucking much I missed the boyfriend who had abandoned my arse.

"How's the wee babe?" James asked, nodding toward Rose's stomach, eyes still glued to the television.

I glanced over at them, just as Rose was grabbing James's hand to put on her stomach.

"That's how he is."

"Holy shit," James gasped, finally dragging his eyes away and looking at Rose, who was grinning at him.

"It's wild, isn't it?"

"He's going to be a footballer for sure," James said. "He better get us free tickets."

"He will, or I'll disown him. Al, come here and feel this."

I immediately got up from my spot, having learned months ago that it wasn't wise to disobey a direct order from Sargeant Pregnant Rose Weasley, but I also definitely wanted to feel the baby going to town on Rose's organs.

"Holy shit," I murmured, echoing James's sentiment as soon as I sat on the coffee table next to Rose's propped up legs and leaned forward to feel her stomach.

James and I were still sitting there, hands on Rose's stomach, Say Yes to the Dress momentarily forgotten as she told us about the time the baby shifted and she thought she could feel his head, when my mother pushed through the door a few minutes later.

"Harry! I need help!"

"Have I always been a part of a family of banshees?" I asked as I stood up to help my mum just as my dad came through the kitchen door.

I took one paper bag from her hands and my dad took the other as he leaned in to kiss her lightly.

"Hey, Gin."

"Hi, babe."

"Hi, Aunt Ginny!"

"Hey, mum!"

I shook my head at all of them, resigning myself to the fact that I was just going to have to chug a bottle of painkillers, rather than hope my pounding headache would leave on its own, not with these fucking cavemen in my family, shouting and throwing things around and banging on their chests.

"Oh, Al, hang on." I stopped as my mum reached into the paper bag and pulled out a jar of whole pickles. "Rose I got those organic pickles you wanted, and…" she put her hand back into the bag, biting her tongue as she rifled around. "Bend down, Al, you're too tall," she murmured, smiling at me as I rolled my eyes, thinking they might get stuck that way before day's end, before she pulled out what she had been searching for. "One of the vendors was selling salad dressings."

"Ranch?" Rose said, turned around as much as she could be, perked up, eyes wide and excited like she'd hit the fucking jackpot.

"Ranch," my mum said, nodding, and walking over to Rose as my father and I took the bags to the kitchen.

When we got inside, I saw five plates set up around the table and steaming plates and bowls of all the food my father had made. My stomach growled appreciatively, and I was so grateful for him in that moment that I could have cried.

"Albus."

I looked up at my father, who was frowning.

"What is it, dad?"

"Scorpius is back in town."

I could feel my face go slack with shock.

"How do you know?"

"He came by the Ministry."

"Shit." I sat down at the table and scrubbed a hand down my face. I looked up to see my father frowning, unpacking the things my mother had brought home. "What should I do?"

"He has a right to know," he said, glancing up at me and then back down. "But it can't come from you."

"This is so fucked."

"I know."

"He broke her heart."

"I know."

"But it's his kid, too."

He sighed. "I know."

"Should I—"

"I couldn't resist the smell of the pancakes anymore."

I glanced up quickly to see Rose waddling into the kitchen, one hand on her lower back, pregnant belly protruding, immediately drawing attention, while her other hand was holding a half-eaten pickle.

Luckily, Rose only had one thing on her mind, so she didn't notice the looks on my and my dad's faces. She walked heavily over toward where I was sitting at the table, and right as she was lifting the plastic cover off of a plate, my dad rushed over, gasping Rose's name in warning, and Rose started gagging, covering her mouth as she rushed from the room as fast as the baby inside her would allow.

My dad looked at me, clearly trying to suppress a grin. "Banana pancakes."