Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.

Dudley Dursley slipped into the nursery where his little girl was making the faintest of snuffling noises in her sleep. Her little hands were fluttering around her head in a prelude of waking up soon, and he knew that her mother could do with a little more rest before she got up again. He wasn't good at creeping quietly, but he did his best. He was also no good at singing (it was an activity in which he did not participate), but he would make an exception tucked away in this place where it was just him and the tiny little infant that had upended his entire world. He brushed a hand over her head as softly as he could before bringing it to rest against her tiny side in what he hoped would prove to be a soothing motion. He hummed for a few moments a remembered melody as he waited for his head to catch up with his intentions and supply him with the words. He wasn't completely sure, but he thought he had them mostly right. He might need to make a phone call later to ask his mother to write them down for him.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry

Harry Potter rocked back and forth on his heels as he tucked James against his shoulder and rubbed circles on his back. The little boy settled against him with a soft sound so much like a sigh that Harry felt that he must be doing something right. He had been so nervous despite Ginny's encouragement and Molly's words of wisdom and confidence, but he reckoned that he wasn't completely mucking things up yet (no matter what anyone said, practicing on Teddy was not the same thing as having a full time one of his own). He noticed his wife leaning against the doorway and watching the two of them with a smile. He started to shift the baby to offer him to his mother, but she shook her head and motioned for him to leave him where he was.

"I think you're doing just fine," she told him. He nodded in acknowledgement and continued in the slow circle that the two of them had been turning as he kept up the rocking motion on his heels. When he completed the next circuit, Ginny was gone. "Looks like it's just you and me for a bit," he whispered.

It was a nice moment. It was a reassuring moment. His family had been right. He could do this. He started to softly sing the words from one of the songs on the lullaby CD that Hermione had purchased as part of their baby gift. He couldn't remember anyone ever singing him any lullabies, but that particular song had felt so familiar that he was certain that he had heard it before. There was something soothing about it, and he was equally certain that it had been intended for moments like the one he was having with his son.

Go to sleep my little baby

Petunia Dursley sat in the rocking chair that did not match the rest of the furniture in the nursery that she (with minimal input from Vernon) had decorated for their son. Normally, she was very particular about the decorating details, but the rocking chair had been something that she had felt that she should keep from amongst the things which had belonged to her parents. There could be exceptions made for things that were family heirlooms. Besides, when the time had come, she had found that she had desperately wanted that chair in a way that she had wanted precious few things in her life (she had actually been allowed to have even fewer of them).

She might not have her mother to turn to for questions and suggestions on all of the changes that came with having a new baby in her life, but she had the rocking chair and her memories (both good and bad) to use as a start. Her precious little boy was never going to feel second best to anyone. She would make certain of it. She held him close to her as they rocked and played with his fingers as she sang.

When you wake you shall have

Lily Potter sat cuddled up with her little boy in the window seat of his bedroom. There was no denying that her little one had gotten his father's eyesight. She knew that they kept telling her that it was too early to tell, but she knew. She had studied her son intensely for months now. She could tell you all about his likes and his dislikes. She could describe all of his budding personality quirks and give dissertations on all of the emotions that he was capable of expressing with his gurgles and coos and jabbering. She also knew exactly which point in each room in the house was the invisible line where her baby lost the ability to see her clearly.

She compensated by keeping up a steady stream of chatter whenever she put him down to roll and scoot around the floor and play with his toys while she handled the chores that were necessary to keeping a household running (even when you would much rather be rolling around on the floor with your baby), handled bits of Order business, or jotted off responses to letters that had come strapped to the legs of impatient owls.

As a consequence, Harry listened to her talk through most of his days. When she was getting him settled for the night, however, she preferred to sing.

All the pretty little horses

In a rocking chair tucked into the corner of what used to be called the nursery (now it was usually referred to as the girls' room), a woman eased back and forth as her two daughters settled in against her. One blond and one redhead rested against each other as they huddled under the blanket draped across her lap.

They were really getting too old to be squished into the small space together. They should go ahead and make the move to put the girls into separate bedrooms. Then, this space could go back to being her sewing room like the plan had originally been. They would have to do it soon. Lily was ready for a big girl bed, and there simply wasn't any place for it to go. Petunia would need a desk shortly as well. They had just outgrown the space.

They had really outgrown being able to comfortably sit together on her lap, but she was not quite ready to give that up - this was their quiet time. She was going to treasure it while she had it. She hugged the two of them a little closer as best she could and sang softly to the top of their drowsing heads.

Blacks and bays, dapples and grays
All the pretty little horses.

AN: The song in question is All the Pretty Little Horses. It is an oral tradition lullaby. As such, I have no one to whom I can offer credit as the author.