Hey everyone, I'm back again!

This is the sequel to Throwing Away Expectations, but I guess you can read it as a standalone too. I wrote it from Harry's perspective this time, so there is a slight issue with story crossover and recapping. But eh - I figured it was good to have Harry's personal context thrown in there a bit.

I am aware that it is a little repetitive in some parts, especially to one who has read the first in this little series. I'm really sorry about that, but what can you do? I am also aware of the fact that I have crammed quite a few events into this story, but as I was using my other story Requiem as a template I didn't really see a way of avoiding that. Sorry.

Warning! Smut.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this! Please remember to leave a review down below if you have any thoughts, or comments, or queries. :-) I spit on the graves of flames.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and nor do I in any way profit from this piece (unless you count views as profit). If I owned Harry Potter, Harry and Hermione would be screwing six ways to Sunday and having gazillions of babies.

For as long as he could remember, Harry Potter had harboured a massive crush on his best friend. Well, he had two of those – and there was no way it was Ron, he didn't swing that way, thank you very much. No, he had feelings for one Hermione Granger, know-it-all extraordinaire, bushy-haired, bossy Mione with warm brown eyes and a smile that could light up the dark.

Even the first time he had seen her he knew something had changed within him – as an eleven-year-old he hadn't been aware of what precisely that was. All he had thought was that she was interesting, and that he wouldn't mind knowing more about her. Sure enough, she had involved herself with him, going out of her way to educate him on the mechanics of the wizarding world she too was new to, accepting that he would need her help with retrieving the Philosopher's Stone. It was a character trait he appreciated, her simple acceptance, no questions asked, and coming from a life where validation was hard to come by he valued it highly. He knew he would've probably died in second year if it hadn't been for Hermione doing all that research on the Chamber, on the voices he could hear, that led to the Basilisk. In a way, he supposed, she had sacrificed herself for him, knowing full well she could be Petrified or killed at any moment but doing it anyway because she loved him.

The moment Sirius and Harry had that proper chat outside the Whomping Willow, no longer enemies but long-lost family, he had remarked on his relationship with Hermione, calling her a 'keeper', despite his protesting there was nothing between them – they were just friends. He had simply laughed it off and told him the tale of Lily and James.

"Potter men – it's like they have the gift of knowing who they were meant to be with," he had said wryly, recalling James's lovesick trailing after Lily, relentlessly begging her for just one chance, before she had finally caved and allowed him to take her out on a date, leading to another, and several more, to marriage and baby Harry. It had made him think, re-evaluate – did Hermione just belong to him, as his dad knew his mum belonged to him? And his grandparents before that (Sirius had mentioned them too in this little tale)?

He wasn't entirely certain until that night at the Yule Ball. Suddenly, it seemed as though a fog had lifted from his mind, and he could see the girl before him clearly, shining in her periwinkle robes. His motivation for chasing after Cho seemed pointless in comparison to attaining this vision – until she walked straight past him into the arms of Viktor Krum, champion seeker. She made it more or less clear to him that there were no feelings there on her part, so he resigned himself to loving her from afar, taking his chances with the former girl of his dreams to distract himself from the pain of unrequited affection.

It soon became plain to see that nothing could ever come of these feelings – Ron had confessed to him in fifth year, more or less, that he wanted to date her. Harry was always aware of the fact that Ron was an extremely jealous person, and he wouldn't cope if Wonder Boy took the fame, the fortune and the girl. So he contented himself with being the girl's best friend, taking her in any way that he could, happy just to be with her despite knowing he could never be with her. He was her rock while she cried over Ron, as she pined over another man – it killed him to do it, but he had to be there for her. He studied with her just to see that look of content in her eyes, pleased at Harry's willingness to work at his grades. He tried to date others, but couldn't help himself dwelling on her and talking about her. For a while he thought he could learn to love Ginny, indeed he was almost there, but the one thing stopping him was the fact she just wasn't Hermione.

Going on the run with them both was just about one of the hardest things he ever had to do, and he had fought off Voldemort and his cronies pretty regularly. He distanced himself from them a bit, just so he wouldn't have to see Ron instigating those casual touches that were all but to his eyes. Holding her hand, watching her, actually listening to her for a change. It was plain to see how enamoured of her he was. But, and perhaps this made it all the harder, Harry could see the uncertainty in Hermione's reactions, her stance occasionally indicating her discomfort with the elevated contact. He thought she probably didn't even realise she was doing it; more than anything he wished she did, because it would mean Hermione knew she hadn't entirely decided to be with Ron. It meant he could still have a chance.

It was heart-wrenching to see her cry after Ron said all those horrible things. Because they spent so much time trying to figure out how to destroy the Horcruxes they tended to wander off together – it wasn't at all difficult to make the assumption that there was something more going on there. But the way he attacked her verbally, more or less calling her a slut and him a right git for stealing the girl he made claim to, made him undeniably angry. He couldn't stop himself for suggesting he leave; he couldn't stop the tiny feeling of relief as he watched him go, heard the loud pop of his Apparating.

Over the next few weeks Harry and Hermione got closer together. He realised, from the calculated gazes (sometimes on his half-naked body, and sometimes her gaze wandered even lower) and her furrowed brow that Hermione was beginning to re-evaluate things, perhaps come to see him the way he always wanted. She would curl up against him at night in the bed he had enlarged for that very purpose – he would get very little sleep on the nights she came to him. He felt her pressed up against him, the warm softness of her breasts through her sleep shirt, the throbbing of her core against his thigh. She would wriggle around in discomfort, making him all too aware that she was awakening to him.

He escalated in his treatment of her – Harry was getting sick of her refusing to acknowledge that things had changed between them. He saw how miserable she was, and noticed how she began to spend less time with him; the same defence mechanism he had so often utilised to control his own feelings for her, and he knew he was getting to her, knew he was breaking her resistance down bit by bit. On the nights she slept with him, he would wrap himself around her – if his hands wandered inappropriately (and they did, he was sure of it), Hermione would pretend nothing had happened, and he'd smile with eyes remained shut as she'd extricate him from her body and exit the tent, huffing. The measured stares he directed at her unsettled her, and it filled him with dark pleasure to notice her swallowing uncomfortably, squeezing her legs together to relieve the ache he was sure was building deep within her.

It came to a head one night, when Hermione had yet again volunteered to take watch just to get away from his heated looks and not-so-covert touching. Harry had had enough of the standstill – he followed her out, and a vague conversation took place. Unable to let her deny herself any longer, he had boldly leaned forward to suckle at her pulse point, her exposed neck stirring him inside. They had come together in explosive passion that night, urgent yet tender, as he took her innocence from her and made her his. He owned her every sigh, every gasp, every scream. Her secret places were unknown to all but him, and he vowed to himself that it would stay that way.

It turned out that Harry had misunderstood Hermione's motives for staying away from him. He had thought she was clinging to the memory of Ron still; little did he know she loved him with all her heart, choosing to sacrifice herself to him to make him happy, believing he would return to Ginny when it was all over. Certainly she was idiotic in the way she went about things, honestly thinking she was going along with his wishes. He wasted no time reassuring her that she was his, and he was hers, and that was how it was to be from that moment on.

They spent the next month or so shagging – it was Harry's perverse delight to have found something in which Hermione wasn't completely textbook knowledgeable about. Teaching her brought a wicked sense of satisfaction to him, and he greatly enjoyed introducing her to all the ways they could bring each other to completion. More than anything, he relished the image of Hermione reaching her peak; eyes hooded and dark, mouth slightly open and the most delicious sounds escaping, head tipped back, wild hair like a halo around her. He found her a goddess in these moments, earthy and real, and he felt oddly humbled to be a part of it.

When Ron came back and saved him from the lake, destroying the locket and retrieving the Sword of Gryffindor, he really had no choice but to invite him back to camp. The entire journey back he was plagued by guilt; guilt because he made love to Hermione, was making love to her still, and in doing so taking away any chance Ron may have had with her. She wasn't at all pleased by their return – she knew Harry's mind all too well, knew what it meant for them, that they'd have to live a lie to protect their friend. And she was right. It was too risky to be together in the tent, not with Ron so nearby, so he would bid her follow him down the stream deep enough in the forest that their cries of ecstasy wouldn't be heard.

He grew ever uncomfortable at Ron's dawning suspicions that not all between him and Hermione were as it was before he left, that something had changed in them. He could not pull back entirely; the urge to touch her, to just reassure her he was there and he loved her were too overpowering. And he couldn't help the brightening of her visage when she was with him, and nor did he want to take that away from her, as happy as she was. Ron began to remove himself from their company more and more, taking extra guard duty, going for walks, practicing his spell work in the trees. It forced them back into the tent, though Harry still refused to shag her when Ron was near.

One night he caved; she was too persuasive, too bewitching for him to resist. When she pulled off her shirt and exposed her bare self to him his resolve collapsed; he was unable to fight her when she looked like this, teasing and beckoning, wild and sensual. She chanted his name breathily as he moved within her, refusing to bend to her pleas to take her faster, harder, more, more, more. He brought her to climax tenderly, reverently, pressing into her till her thighs quaked and her lips opened in a silent cry. Harry didn't think twice about pulling her to him and blowing the candles out.

It was early morning when he awoke, still joined to Hermione. It didn't register at first – he watched her peacefully sleeping, a few murmurs escaping her every so often. His eyes widened as he realised Ron had to have come back sometime last night, had to have seen them together. Harry began to hope that something had kept him from returning all night, hoped he had not witnessed the very thing he feared the most right in front of his eyes. He knew it was weak, using Ron to justify his secrecy, knowing neither he nor Hermione deserved that. He was relieved to find the bunk bed empty – perhaps he had been granted his wish, however unlikely it was. Clothing was strewn about the floor around the bed. He pulled his own articles on, hoping to catch some fresh fish in time for Hermione's awakening. Exiting the tent, he yawned and closed his eyes; he stretched his arms out, rolled his neck, satisfied when the joints cracked and loosened. He stiffened suddenly. Ron was standing just outside, right in front of him, back facing him. And he knew the game was up. There was no way Ron wasn't aware now.

"I think I noticed something was off the second I got here and saw the way you two acted around each other," he said quietly, still turned away from him. "Too friendly. I didn't want to believe you'd gone there."

"Ron –" Harry's voice faltered. "We wanted to tell you –"

He had said the wrong thing – the red-haired boy moved towards him, eyes blazing with the famous Weasley temper he had tried hard not to excite.

"If you'd wanted to tell me you'd have done it when you realised I knew something was up! Blimey, Harry, I'm not that thick. What are you doing?" What had started off passively angry had morphed, mutated into barely controlled rage. It was frightening to behold. "Did you go out and try to take her from me? You knew how I felt about her, and you did it anyway. Did it bring you some satisfaction to know you got a one up on me again?"

"It isn't like that –"

"Did it feel good, fucking her, knowing you were screwing the girl your best mate fancied? Huh? And what about Ginny? Did you ever even stop to think about my sister before you – you know what? Whatever. Congratulations, Harry, you won," he spat harshly.

"Don't you dare talk about Hermione that way," Harry could feel the rage building up in him, angered at the way Ron denoted Hermione as a cheap tumble. "And don't you dare treat me like I was out to betray you or something. It isn't like that, Ron, you don't know anything about us."

"Yeah," he said bitterly. "I know that now, don't I?" Tense silence reigned as each tried to control their emotions. It wouldn't do to say something they'd regret in a moment of passion. They had been mates too long, been through too much, to let their friendship die in that way.

Harry sighed. "Look, Ron. I never tried to steal her way from you – she was never yours to begin with, mate. She's her own person. And… we never meant to hurt you, it was never our intention to carry on together in order to spite you. It just… happened. But I don't regret it, and I won't be made to, either."

"How long?" Ron asked abruptly. He glared slightly at the look of confusion on Harry's face. He clarified. "How long have you been in love with her?"

"Ages, I think," said Harry softly, ever surprised at his friend's rare display of perception. "Definitely since the Yule Ball, but I'm sure there were feelings there even earlier. I couldn't help it. She… just everything about her. She makes me happy, happier than I think I've ever felt. She gives me hope, that maybe I'll survive this war, that I can have some kind of future with her. And I mean to, Ron – she's already agreed to marry me. I'm sorry, mate."

Ron closed his eyes in pain. He had accepted defeat. "Don't apologise. Don't say sorry for loving her. And now I know what things are at play, and it makes it harder to hate you, harder to be angry at her. If you'd told me earlier, I would've backed off, you know. I would've moved on. But… you can't help it when life goes a different way than you wanted it to, I guess."

"…Will you be alright?" Harry asked cautiously.

Ron shrugged. "Not now. Not yet. Give me time," he smiled wanly. "I think someday I'll be happy for you two." And he walked off into the forest.

Harry let out a deep breath, one he hadn't realised he'd been holding in. It hadn't gone nearly as badly as he'd expected, considering Ron's penchant to blow up first, ask questions later; it went worse than what he'd hoped for, though. He supposed it was wishful thinking to believe Ron would be all fine and dandy about it. He was just glad he didn't try to hex his bollocks off or something, or go yell at Hermione. He re-entered the tent to find her standing warily, hair mussed and wearing his clothing. He smiled at the sight – he found her especially beautiful in the morning, all sleepy and natural like this.

He pressed a light kiss to her lips. Hermione wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her head under his chin. They stood there, quietly embracing, breathing each other in.

"I heard what happened," she said slowly, looking up at him. "Is he alright?"

"Not yet," Harry said, thinking on what he'd heard him say. "But he will be."

It was a relief to not have to hide anymore. They kept it all to a minimum around Ron – it'd be cruel to flaunt off their relationship when he was still so raw. But at night, instead of resigning himself to sleeping in the cold lower bunk, alone, he could slip in with Hermione, relishing the fact he could hold her all night without having to depart in the morning before Ron awoke. It was slow, sometimes it was difficult, but gradually Ron came around to the idea of his two best friends being together. It was hard to be angry at the pair when they seemed so beautiful together, so perfectly matched – and it was clear to see just how absorbed they were in each other.

They slowly established a new normality. Over the weeks Ron became used to seeing Harry and Hermione together, and it was his satisfaction that Hermione had found all that she deserved in love that helped his heart to heal, that helped him move on somewhat. He was still bruised, still bitter, but his heart no longer broke at the sight of them together. At night they would go to bed, Ron on one side of the tent, Harry and Hermione on the other, and they would cast silencing charms so that Ron wasn't subject to the rather loud noises emitting from the pair due to their amorous activities.

Their routine was disrupted when Hermione stated she wished to go see Xenophilius Lovegood. Of course, Harry bowed to her wishes, unable to refuse her just about anything – it took some convincing on Ron's part, reluctant as he was to see a crazy shut-in about a funny triangle symbol inscribed in Dumbledore' old fairytale book, before they had packed up their gear and set out to Ottery St Catchpole, not far from the Weasley family household. Hermione was greatly dissatisfied with the outcome of the trip, having learned what she considered to be fanciful nonsense, when her growing suspicions of Mr Lovegood's shifty behaviour led her to realise what he had done. He had given them up to the Death Eaters to save his daughter, to save Luna. It was with some quick thinking and no little amount of physical exertion that Hermione latched onto Harry and Ron and Disapparated, landing back in the Forest of Dean.

Right into the midst of Snatchers, and the fearsome werewolf Greyback.

Harry could taste his panic as they ran, dodging curses and jinxes, worried for Hermione who was lagging behind, unable to keep up with the agility of the boys. It was their undoing when Harry slowed to grab onto her arm and pull her ahead; he failed to notice the great root sticking out of the ground, and they toppled over. Ron fared little better – his overpowering sense of loyalty meant he had turned back when he saw them go down, and thus all three were in the clutches of the enemy group. Hermione was able to hit him in the face with a Stinging Jinx, and he felt the sharp pain as it overtook his features, swelling until he could barely see from the slits that were his eyes.

He had almost convinced Scabior that his name was Vernon Dudley, a Muggleborn on the run, when his eyes were drawn to his bloated forehead. No. It seemed the jinx wasn't enough to hide the lightning-bolt-shaped scar entirely, and it was with dread that he heard Scabior informing the others that they were to be escorted to Malfoy Manor. It was every bit as grand as the name Malfoy suggested, and every bit as dark as the loyalties of the family to the Dark Lord. He feel the fear emanating off Hermione beside him – when Bellatrix Lestrange discovered the Sword of Gryffindor in their possession her eyes bulged and her face took on a frightening aspect of insanity. She was perceptive, this deranged woman; she saw the closeness between him and Hermione, the way he had subtly angled his body in front of her, a vain attempt to protect her. Dragging her up from her place beside him, she ordered he and Ron be taken downstairs, a sick, twisted grin spreading over her face. No, no, NO!

Harry yelled out as Hermione's screams echoed from the floor above, beating his hands against the bars of the prison, tears of rage and anguish painting his face. He heard her cries, her sobs and her fearful pleas, and he wanted to rip Bellatrix's throat out with his teeth, watch the light leave her eyes.

"Come on, mate," Ron desperately tried to pull him away from the doorway – to no avail. He was near savage, lost to his desperation. She couldn't leave him; he loved her more than anything. She couldn't go like this, she just couldn't. He wouldn't let her die tonight, even if he had to take on Voldemort in that very drawing room this night to do so. He prayed to anything and anyone who could possibly be listening to give her strength.

Dobby's appearance snapped him out of his panic-induced frenzy – he noticed Ron holding the shard of glass from Sirius's mirror, saw Luna and Ollivander, bloodied and weary in the dark. After being set free from the cellar, he went on a warpath. Wormtail, Draco, Bellatrix. He didn't care about anything but getting to the limp form across the room, her head turned away from him, her breaths rising weakly from her chest. Something violent rose in his chest, and it was with sick satisfaction that he took down Narcissa, stole Draco's wand from him, stunned Bellatrix with the force of his hexes. Scooping up her body in his arms, he turned to reach Dobby, waiting with Ron and the goblin Griphook for him to reach them. His last view of Malfoy Manor was Bellatrix, arm thrown out, a look of triumph on her face, before the pulling, tightening sensation of Disapparition came over him and the image swirled away.

They landed on a windy, grey beach not far from a modest, yet not small cottage on the shore. Ron called it Shell Cottage, the home of Bill and his wife Fleur. Hermione was unconscious when he hit solid ground once more – he refused to let go of her when Bill and Fleur ran out, beckoning to him to hand the girl over. It was the sound of Dobby's voice that distracted him long enough to allow Ron to take her from his arms and carry her into the house. Harry Potter. Dobby's jumper was darkened with blood, Bellatrix's knife jutting out of his abdomen. No matter what he did, he couldn't staunch the flow. There was nothing he could do. Harry… Potter. The house elf died there, on the windy beach, in the arms of his friend Harry Potter.

Between long hours of sitting by Hermione's side in the large room in the attic, waiting for her to wake up, Harry made Dobby's final resting place one to be remembered, one he deserved. He did it all without magic, refusing to use the shovel offered and scraping a hole with his bare hands, setting rocks over the covered body, finding a suitable slab for a gravestone. He only used magic to inscribe HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF upon the stone, forever marking the resting place of the bravest house elf he had ever known.

Hermione woke a couple days after the funeral; amidst relieved kisses, Harry was forced to tell her all that transpired. She had had a fondness for the cheerful, quirky elf who was so willing to receive compensation for his labour – she cried when Harry informed her he had died to save them all. She was still weak; certainly not strong enough for the trio to continue their quest, and she had made it all too clear to them that she'd have their hides if they tried to leave without her. The following days consisted of Hermione regaining the strength to move around again, though she could not yet run around or over-exert herself.

The death of Dobby was a harsh reminder of the fragility of life. It had affected Harry deeply, and he began to consider what would happen if he died during this war, if Hermione died, Ron or Luna or Dean. He couldn't bear the thought of going without having the family he had always wanted – it was a cold, blustery night when he had asked Hermione to marry him.

"Marry me?" he murmured as she pressed her mouth against his hip, travelling downwards.

She lifted up, brow quirked, hair like a lion's mane framing her face. "You already asked me that – well, not really, actually – but I assumed you knew I would say yes."

"I mean, marry me here, at Shell Cottage," he said insistently, pulling her up to his eye level, eyes burning bright. "Tomorrow, or the next day, or next week – whatever you want."

"What brought this on?" she exclaimed laughingly, allowing him to manipulate her body in the manner he wished, bringing her to kneel over him, chin in the valley between her breasts and arm about her hips.

"I don't want to waste any more time, love. I want to marry you, I want you to be my wife," he muttered into her hair, burying his face in the warm curls that smelled faintly of the sea. "Say yes?"

"Yes," she replied, moaning softly as he took her bottom lip between his teeth and pushed her back onto the mattress. She was half undressed, no knickers on and an indecently short nightgown borrowed from Fleur hanging on her thin frame. He pulled it up over her thighs to expose her core to him, manhandling her shapely calves so that they rested over his shoulders as he leaned forward to taste. He savoured the exquisite sounds emitting from her, having gone some days without his touch – shocking when one considered they usually shagged at least once a day back when they lived in the tent (due to a mixture of teenage hormones and the thoughts unspoken that they may not survive this war).

Impatiently, she pushed him off her, back, back until he reached the edge of the bed – he slid off and was pulled upright at the insistence of the girl before him. Harry watched with hooded eyes as she descended to her knees, tugging at the drawstrings of his pants, ripping them down his legs and engulfing him in her mouth. He closed his eyes and let out a string of expletives as she bobbed her head over him – he saw her watching him, eyes glinting wickedly, smiling around him and moaning. The vibrations made him shudder, and he grasped a handful of hair to stop her from taking it too far.

He grasped the brown-haired witch under her arms and hauled her face-down onto the mattress; she scrabbled for purchase, for control, but he wouldn't allow her that tonight. His hand came down lightly on the small of her back, holding her down, the pressure ceasing her attempts to turn and face him. Harry jerked her hips up off the bed and, without warning, sunk into her.

"H-Harry," she choked out as he moved against her, emitting breathy gasps of please and oh yes to voice her approval. "O-oh!"

He gave her release twice more before burying himself deep within her, groaning as her walls squeezed his essence from him. Harry noticed, after it was over, Hermione's struggle with restless sleep and nightmares – he could tell by the way she'd shift and let out murmurs of please no I didn't take anything I swear – didn't appear to burden them that night.

Upon asking the advice of Bill and Fleur the next day, he found there was really no way to marry without an officiator. It was Luna who came up with the suggestion of going through with an old binding magical union, a ceremony used back in the time of Merlin but not lost to the knowledge of the magical world. He learned from the ensuing argument between all parties occupying the kitchen that there was no choice of severing such an arrangement, that it would be in place until they died, and it would involve fusing the very substance of themselves together. Harry figured that that was what marriage was anyway, really, so it didn't make any difference to him whether or not there was an escape route. Hermione, ever knowledgeable, had helped the members of Shell Cottage set up for the ritual (I've read all about it) which would take place that very afternoon. No one questioned it; no one had to, after seeing Hermione's stern resolve and Harry's unyielding stance. They would be getting married, and Harry would be getting his family after all.

They married away from the house, up the slope of the sand next to Dobby's grave. It was Hermione's idea (I think Dobby would want to see his Harry Potter get married); beautiful, stunning Hermione, wearing a simple white dress, barefoot, hair up and eyes sparkling, and he thought he had never loved her so much as he did right at that very moment. There were no rings – Hermione finally snapped at his pestering, telling him he could get her a bloody ring after the war if he was so bloody concerned about it – and they stood at the centre of the circle marked around by the five other (mobile) members of the house, Bill choosing to undertake the role as spell-caster. The air was charged with magic and emotion. Harry imagined he felt Hermione's very being within him, and he within her, and they together. No words were spoken save for Bill's – nor did any need to be.

The wedding feast was a quiet night in, playing Exploding Snap and Wizard's Chess, drinking Firewhisky (butterbeer for Hermione, she had no taste for the acrid stuff) and sampling some of the many dishes Fleur and Dean – who had a surprising affinity for cooking – whisked up over the course of the day. Harry noticed with no small degree of satisfaction Ron's arm about Luna's shoulders – it seemed the red-head had formed an attachment to the odd ethereal girl, if finding them pressed up against the wall together opposite the loo was anything to go by. Ollivander had come out of seclusion to join in the festivities; even Griphook had ventured out of his room, wondering what the fuss was all about. All in all, Harry was deliriously happy, his witch in his arms, finally his, and he knew he could die in peace should it come to it.

He had figured that was the end of all the drama for the immediate present – it'd be some days before they once more departed to finish their quest – when Hermione got sick. She became constantly tired, oddly sensitive and achy, and expelled the contents of her stomach frequently. He panicked each morning as she hastily bolted out of bed and sprinted to the bathroom, where the most awful retching noises could be heard through the closed door. She locked it every time – she refused to let him see her 'like this'. They were all worried; all but Luna, who'd merely offer Hermione some buttered crackers and ginger tea when she was done vomiting and walk away, humming to herself. It seemed the two other women in the house were in the know as to what was wrong with his wife.

Harry could have hexed himself for his stupidity when he found out what was wrong with his wife. After a couple of weeks of enquiries and snappish retorts from Hermione, she came to him one night where he sat drowsily by the fire in the living room, eyes glistening with thinly veiled joy.

"What is it?" he asked as she sat down upon his lap and buried her face in his neck. "Are you feeling better now?"

"Yes, but that's not it," she said tremulously. Her lips pulled up in an uncertain smile. "Harry. I'm pregnant."

It wasn't until she had repeated it that it finally registered. A baby. His own baby, to love and hold, to care for and protect, to give everything he had ever been denied. A family, one of his very own. He couldn't help the tears, the juddering sobs as he pressed his face into her hair. It was a mix of emotions that filled him at that moment; joy, fear, sadness, excitement, love – a baby. She shrieked and wrapped herself vicelike around him as he abruptly stood up and started swinging her about the house, yelling that he was going to be a father – oh Merlin, a father – to a baby and laughing and crying at the same time until Hermione was laughing and crying too. He remembered her mentioning the memory charm she placed on her parents – she was as without family as he was, maybe even more so. It was a new start for both of them. A new beginning. A tiny, precious little life was growing inside his wife right at that very moment. A baby.

He vaguely recalled the aftermath of the discovery – Ron patting him on the back and yelling his congratulations above the noise of the excitable girls – Bill clasping his arm smiling widely – Fleur throwing her arms around him ("Zis eez wonderful, 'Arry!") – Dean clapping him on the back – Luna telling him to make sure the Wrackspurts stayed away from Hermione and the unborn baby – and Hermione, turning to him, her face wet with tears and the most brilliant grin he had ever seen adorning her features.

Due to the impending arrival of a new generation of the Potter family, the hunt was again postponed. Ron figured that the Horcruxes weren't going anywhere, and, save once (right after the escape from Malfoy Manor), he had not once been pulled into Voldemort's mind, which meant Voldemort was as happy as Voldemort was capable of being – which meant he hadn't discovered that the little pieces of his soul were being destroyed one by one. The Horcruxes could wait, they decided; not that they had any choice when faced with Hermione ("Pregnancy's turning your wife into a harpy, mate," Ron had muttered under his breath to him one day – Hermione had resented that comment greatly). The months drew by slowly – Fleur had amassed quite a collection of magazines for expectant mothers (when Mrs Weasley found out, and of course she did, all she could do was pretend she and Bill were trying, though they certainly weren't ready for that just yet), and Hermione blushed when she used the spell to find out when the baby had been conceived ("It's practical to know when to expect labour," she reasoned). It had been one of those times in the tent, while she and Harry were on their own for weeks, and they had forgotten to cast any protection charms – in their defence, they hadn't been able to reach the wand strewn somewhere in the forest clearing, nor did they remember to, if she had to be honest. It meant she was more or less three months along.

Her pregnancy certainly didn't stop them from having sex – if anything, the knowledge that she was slowly rounding with his child, that his seed had taken root deep enough inside her that life had been created, only served to increase her allure in Harry's eyes. Added to that was her hyperactive sex drive, and it was a wonder they ever left the Silenced attic room long enough to eat or shower.

They still hadn't decided on a name when she went into labour. It was a cold night, and they had all been rugged up by the fire, Hermione on the floor, her head resting against his knees, drifting off slowly as Harry carded his fingers absent-mindedly through her hair. She suddenly jerked upright, startling the dozing members of the household, her face white.

"I think the baby's coming –" she cut off with a low groan, clutching her distended belly instinctively.

No longer was the cottage quiet and peaceful – the inhabitants ran amok, making way for the new arrival. Ron, Dean and Bill crept uneasily out the back door – at least, they tried to when Fleur caught them (Bill was in big trouble). Luna was her usual self, humming complacently while ripping up sheets, either not aware of or drowning out the ever increasing sounds of pain travelling from two floors above. She handed the duty off to Dean when he came to her on Fleur's orders, under pain of being forced to take a more active role in the birth than he ever desired to.

Fleur rushed up and down the stairs, and the residents grew increasingly worried as Hermione's yelling seemed to have no signs of ceasing.

"Zere iz somezing wrong, William," she said in front of company, her eyes widened with panic.

After that, Ron and Bill were set upon to find something in the numerous books of aids, spells, quick-brew potions and charms that would make it easier on Hermione. They knew Harry would be irreversibly damaged should his wife die that night, delivering the long-awaited child into the world.

Harry was beside himself; he couldn't bear to hear Hermione's screams, flashing back to the night at Malfoy Manor (even then their little baby was a survivor, it had to make it through), her pleas to just make it stop. She whimpered in pain as she was made to walk around the room in the hopes gravity would take over, send the birth along its way naturally.

"Just think of our baby, love," he said to her over and over – it gave her renewed strength, encouraged her not to give up.

With the expert flipping of one Ronald Weasley and the adequate brewing of his oldest brother, a potion was safely delivered up to the bedroom. Half an hour; the screams at maximum intensity; then it all dropped away. The sound of infantile wailing echoed around the house.

Hermione cried softly as her baby was placed onto her chest, leaning back against the pillow exhaustedly, fighting the urge to just close her eyes and wish the world away. Luna had set about cleaning up the mess, cheerfully gathering up dirtied sheets and traipsing in and out of the room, respectfully giving the new parents some time uninterrupted (she was like that – no one ever felt she was intruding). Harry looked upon the sight next to him for a moment – his wife, sweaty and tearful, beautiful, and his wailing child, red faced wrinkled at the indignation of being forced through such an ordeal. He chuckled through his tears as he joined them on the bed, noting the messy head of black hair adorning the top of the still somewhat misshapen head.

"He has your hair," Hermione said, chuckling through her tears. "I don't know how I ever thought it'd be any different."

"He'll have your eyes, though," he replied lowly, running his hand softly over the downy locks. "And he has your nose."

"Hope he doesn't have my teeth," she commented.

They sat there, staring at their newborn son, the indescribable love of parents for their children filling them as they watched him take his first view of the world around him.

"What about Jamie?" Hermione murmured. Harry looked at her questioningly. "James William," she repeated. "After his grandfathers. But we'll call him Jamie, so his name is his own."

"I like that," Harry whispered. "I like that a lot."

He swallowed audibly, a lump forming in his throat as he stared down at the start of a new legacy for the broken Potter family. He smiled at his beautiful wife by his side, at his beautiful son in her arms.

"Welcome to the world, Jamie."

Please don't be afraid to leave me a comment! Hope you enjoyed! Perhaps I might have another sequel on the way :-)