What the Eye Doesn't See - H/G - R
Title: What the Eye Doesn't See
Author: shocolate
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Words: 1655
Rating: borderline-R for language

Written for itsbeenvery for the In Motion exchange at takingitinturns. You asked for Harry or Ginny losing their shit over quickly-approaching deadlines and then went all poetic on me and said : for inspiration: If I can't see it, it doesn't exist. I'm thinking of their relationship as being In Motion… Thank you magicofisis, for the beta, and for assuring me it counts as a Harry/Ginny.


What the Eye Doesn't See
****
"Just… think about something else," Ron suggested, tipping back his head to take a swallow of his butterbeer. "Pretend it isn't happening."

"Something else," I echoed.

Ron shrugged. "D'you reckon moving to Puddlemere will help Shah's England chances?" he asked. "They've got the strongest Chaser line up in the league."

I blinked at him.

"No, look," I said. "I don't care."

"Hmmm. Are you gonna partner Dawson with Underwood again, next week?" he asked, picking at the label on his bottle. "Because Dawson is a big girl's blouse and he ran shrieking out of that mineshaft because he thought he saw a rat."

"This from the man I had to rescue from a spider, yesterday," I said. "And, look, no."

"I only asked so you felt needed," Ron said solemnly. "I'm so over the whole spider thing. And you're the one who said you needed distracting, tonight."

"Distracting, yeah," I said. "But not with work or Quidditch."

Ron sighed.

"Gossip?" he asked. "You're completely out of touch, what with the whole… thing we're not mentioning, so it'll go away."

"It's not gonna go away," I said. "But try me."

"Katie Bell let a Quidditch groupie lick honey off her boobs after the match, last week," he tried.

"I'm up on the Quidditch gossip," I said. "Ginny loves flustering me with the latest lesbian news from Holyhead."

He smiled fondly, then moved on from the honey soaked image in his head.

"Seamus has another unpronounceable girlfriend, who completely has him by the bollocks," he said.

"I don't care about Seamus's bollocks," I said firmly.

"Not even one of them?" he asked, weighing an imaginary bollock in each hand.

"Maybe," I conceded. "The left one, if I have to choose. I'm unexpectedly fond of Seamus's left bollock."

"I'll tell him that," Ron said happily.

"Sod," I complained. "And I'm still not distracted."

"Look," Ron said, leaning forward and attempting to look serious. "It'll be fine; there's nothing to it."

"Nothing to it?" I echoed.

"OK," he said. "I admit I'm mildly concerned. I've never had an exploding sister before, but women have babies all the time."

"Not my woman, and not next week," I muttered.

"It's not like this has come as a shock," Ron protested. "You were 'trying' to make one for ages, and you've know for months that it had caught."

I grunted.

"You didn't spare a thought for me," he sighed. "And now you want my sympathy."

"I fail to see why I should have spared you a thought," I scoffed. "You're already an uncle, how is this about you?"

"There is a difference," he said darkly, "between proof, after the event, that Bill has been shagging Fleur, and…" He trailed off and glared at me.

"And?" I prompted.

"And Ginny telling me you're 'trying', and Hermione telling me you're 'trying', and you leaving me to finish off reports so you can go home and shag my sister."

I rolled my eyes at him.

"I may have occasionally left work to return home to the love of my life," I said. "And I know you know I shag your sister."

"Going home to polish your Firebolt is one thing," he said, with a pitiful attempt at a straight face.

"Ha ha," I said dutifully.

"There is a difference," he repeated darkly, "between giving an abstract impression that you go home to her to… put the kettle on, and you blatantly saying 'you stay here and describe the dismembered body parts we found at the Black Majick ritual, while I go home and repeatedly insert my body parts inside your baby sister's'. Repeatedly."

I laughed aloud and he smirked triumphantly.

"I frankly don't know where to start with that one," I protested.

He grinned.

"They weren't human body parts," I pointed out, "they were a cow's."

"If you have a bull's cock, I really do not wish to know that," he said, pulling a dreadful face. "And I'm gonna tell Ginny what you said about her having a cow's fanny."

"Ron," I said seriously, and he composed his face appropriately, "I left you at work to write a report on fake Black Majick and a dismembered cow, and I said I had to go home, because Ginny was ovulating."

"And if that doesn't have me picturing exploding bovine organs and you repeatedly inserting…" He shuddered.

"You're impossible," I complained.

"And you've stopped fretting about your exploding wife," he said.

"Not now, I've not," I moaned.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Just you wait, Ron," I said, staring over his shoulder, into the middle distance. "It's terrifying…"

He glanced over his shoulder.

"C'mon," he said comfortingly. "You want this."

"Hmmm," I said.

"You want a family."

I nodded.

"A baby," he clarified.

I whimpered.

"With Ginny."

"Of course, with Ginny," I said. "She's everything to me, and I have no idea why she'd ever… and now she's… risking her life… and…"

He shrugged one shoulder.

I glared at him.

"A bit melodramatic," he said. "We're in more danger at work every cow-free day than a witch is giving birth."

I grunted.

"Look," he said. "Just say she survives the birth…"

"What?" I squeaked.

"…which she will," he said dismissively. "And then you'll have this little person who depends completely on you, adores you, follows you everywhere."

"That isn't comforting," I protested. "That's fucking terrifying. I don't know anything about being a father. My fathering role model consists of dying, like my dad, or ruining the kid, like my uncle."

"Or my dad," Ron offered.

"Your dad's brilliant," I agreed. "And I'll never be half that good!"

"You'll be fantastic," he said seriously. "You'll be its dad and you'll love it and you would die for it, even 'though you won't have to."

"Hmmm," I said.

"I know you," he said. "You die for people at the drop of a hat."

"Very funny."

"What's the worst bit?" he asked. "The scariest. The thing you wake up screaming about."

I snorted.

"It's the no going backness that's the worst," I said slowly. "We decided eighteen months ago to 'try', and that – if you pardon the image – is great fun, and just the right amount of being a grown up. And then one day it works, and then… it's like an out of control train."

"You were dead excited when you first told me she was in the pudding club," he said comfortingly.

"Yeah," I said, thinking back.

"You sat right there, all wide eyed, and squeaked that you thought Ginny was pregnant."

"I don't squeak," I protested.

"You were all amazed and awestruck and said she hadn't even taken a test, but you could just tell," he said. "See how, um… in tune with this whole thing you are? Father's intuition, and everything."

"Well, I didn't really do any intuiting," I said. "I just noticed that…"

I trailed off and blinked at him.

"That what?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said dismissively. "Just something."

"What?" he insisted. "Something you noticed… I don't mind if it's bigger boobs, or something."

"Before she was even 'late'," I said slowly. "She… tasted different."

"When you snogged?" he asked.

"Uh… no," I admitted rather unwillingly. "When I…"

I nodded significantly at his lap and his face went impossibly pale.

"Different?" he whispered, his eyes going out of focus. "Like… stronger."

"Um," I said.

"Fuck," he muttered, licking his lips slowly. "Gotta go."

I watched him swirl into the fire and smiled into my beer. Excellent. Tormenting an expectant Ron would be just the thing I needed to distract me.

Nodding to Hannah, I stepped into the fire and Flooed home to my lovely wife, who was laying full length on the couch, listening to the Quidditch on the wireless, with a packet of biscuits balanced on her ridiculously large stomach.

"Hey," she said as I stooped and kissed her, "I think I'll go back to work; I could still outfly O'Neil."

"I'm pretty sure you could," I agreed, sliding onto the far end of the couch and putting her feet in my lap.

"If they don't score soon, they'll bloody well send me into labour this evening," she muttered, violently biting into another biscuit.

"You could be back on the team by next week," I agreed soothingly. "And I'll stay at home with the baby, and we'll listen to you on the wireless."

She narrowed her eyes and glared down her body at me, just as the baby rolled over and an elbow stretched and distorted her bump like something out of an aliens film.

"Since when are you this calm about the baby?" she demanded. "How much did you drink?"

"Only a couple," I said, rubbing her ankles. "But I think Hermione might be pregnant."

"No," she breathed, pushing herself awkwardly upright and sitting cross legged, with her belly filling her lap. "Really?"

"Well, I think Ron has noticed… the same thing I did, when this one first came along." I stroked her bump, following the wriggling elbow.

Her face lit up.

"Oh, Harry, I love you so much," she purred.

"I never realised you looked forward to being an aunt quite this much," I said.

She snorted.

"Not only do I have a huge pile of baby books to give to the new expectant mother," she sniggered. "But when they announce it at Sunday lunch, at the Burrow… 'gosh, Ron, how did you first find out you were expecting?'… and he chokes to death rather than explain in front of our parents that he goes down on Hermione!"

I shook my head warningly, but grinned to show I agreed that Ron deserved it.

"C'mon," she said, turning off the wireless and letting me haul her to her feet. "Let's find some other way of sending me into labour."

She smiled beatifically and waddled up the stairs and I reckoned I was lucky I'd gone on this baby making journey with the right partner.