The Lullaby

Harry grinned through the steam at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. She was doing it again. Singing. A lot. In his private thoughts, where he didn't tease her mercilessly, he had to admit he liked it. Truth be told, his wife had, in Harry's opinion, one of the loveliest voices in the world, but in keeping with her usual disposition, she was never heard outside their bathroom. She was strictly a shower stall diva. Harry had nearly finished shaving when his mind registered just what she had been singing. His eyes widened and his grin softened to a sweet (albeit, goofy and rather puppy-ish) smile. She was singing the lullaby again.

Ever since the visit to the medi-witch when they first heard their unborn baby's heartbeat, she'd been practicing lullabies in the shower. Harry started to tease her about these, too, but he'd realized, with an uncharacteristically perceptive flash of male intuition, that it was just not a good idea to taunt the pregnant woman. Besides which, by the time she had sung halfway through her first melody, Harry had teared up to such a degree he no longer felt like pestering her. Now, four months later, Lullabies in the shower became her new ritual and Harry, standing at the mirror above the washbasin, shaving, was thankful to every good deity there was for these moments.

Harry was still wearing the smile when he kissed his still-damp wife, and the rounded distention of her abdomen which was their child. He winced when he felt an answering thump. The baby was still kicking. Glancing up briefly at his wife's tired smile, he addressed himself to his rowdy offspring.

"Give your mum some peace today, can't you? There's a good girl. Mummy will be comatose by the time you're born if you insist on keeping her up all night."

Thump, thump.

For all appearances, Harry's mind was sharply focused all day. It was quite a day, in which they managed to pick up several more of the remaining circle of Voldemort supporters. Harry joined the other aurors as they surrounded and stormed the dirty pest hole the death eaters were reduced to calling home, but in his mind, he wasn't smelling the decay and filth. He could still smell the steam from her shower, laced with the lemongrass she used in her hair. He registered the curses and hexes rushing around the room, but in his mind, he heard the sweet trill of the lullaby she'd been singing.

So it went. All day, Harry was the model auror, all Gryffindor bravery and staunch Boy Who Lived integrity. But his cheek could still feel the tiny blow of the kicking baby.

And he smiled.

It was lamentably late by the time Harry made it home. The house was darkened and he stole up the stairs, hoping she was getting some rest at last. Easing carefully into bed, he sighed in relief. Yes, this was what he needed. He had only just drifted off when rustling covers and a mildly exasperated sigh brought him back to semi-consciousness. Reaching for his glasses in an automatic gesture, he sat up.

"I knew I shouldn't have taken you to see Riverdance," Harry smiled into the darkness.

"Yes, I intend to blame you and your muggle shows entirely," she answered. "Do you think she'll ever stop kicking?"

A gentle movement rocked the bed slightly and she smiled as a tousled head rested on her abdomen. A husky baritone which she was quite certain no one else had ever heard before vibrated against her skin. The baby's restless thumping and thrashing slowed and stilled at last as Daddy sang a lullaby.