Of the Unlikely Sort

There was no denying that life as a Longbottom could be monotonous.

Gone were the days spent gossiping with Millicent and Blaise about whether Professor McGonagall really was the world's oldest living virgin, instead replaced with screaming toddlers and forgetful husbands.

Gone were the days of picking on Granger, replaced instead with picking up Frankie.

You went from excitement to exhausted in no time fast.

You went from chowing down on chocolate to chowing down on asparagus and liver in an effort to prove to your baby daughter that the lumpy, green substance was yummy.

You went from being the center of the world to simply dallying on the periphery. Priority number one went to being a mother.

And if there was one thing you loved more than chocolate, it was being pregnant. So when you found out you were expecting your second child at the ripe old age of twenty, not only would you have another person growing inside you - you'd also get to eat all the chocolate you wanted without feeling guilty. Shivers ran up and down your spine as you contemplated being thisclose to another person once again.

Except for the weight. You were not looking forward to gaining that weight again, especially after you'd fought so hard to lose it. You were not looking forward to snide comments from your grandmother-in-law.

You were, however, looking forward to sharing the news with your husband. This pregnancy would be different, you were sure. You had been out of Hogwarts for years, there would be none of the problems that came with Frankie, as you accustomed yourself to your new, larger body, cravings, waves of nausea, and stares from other students.

Munching on your third Chocolate Frog before dinner, you sat across from your husband who was in the process of feeding his ravenously hungry child something pink and gelatinous. "Puddlebum?" you asked.

"Hmmm?" he responded, distracted, as rose-tinted drool fell down Frankie's mouth.

You took a moment. "Another Longbottom's going to be coming soon," you explained, patting your stomach. He was too busy shoving another spoonful into Frankie's mouth, who, before he could refill the spoon, already had her mouth open, ready for more.

"Daddy, more, peeze," Frankie requested, widening her mouth.

The spoon was poised in front of Frankie's mouth as Neville noticed that smoke coming out of his soufflé in the oven. "Bloody hell!"

He shuddered. "Gran's not coming again, is she?" he queried, obviously thinking about her last visit where she chastised him for taking on his wife's tasks.

"No," you whispered to your husband, getting up and turning off the oven with your wand. He wasn't going to pay attention, he had five things going on right now with dinner on the stove and Frankie fussing, besides being the most absent-minded individual in all of wizarding Britain.

"Daaaadddyy, I waaanttt mooorre, peeeeze," said Frankie in a singsong voice.

"Love, love, stop, stop, put the spoon down," you instructed, and he did as told. "Listen to me, Neville, darling. Listen." You grabbed his hand and put it on your abdomen - and he got it in that moment. His jaw fell, and the bowl fell out of his hand, until you reflexively froze it midair with your wand and brought it towards you.

"So we're going to have another one of these puttering around the house?" referring to his child with mouth wide open, making a grab for the spoon in your hand.

Frankie had given up trying to get either of your attention, and started singing to herself: "Over the hills and far away, Teletubbies come out to play..."

And you nodded, putting the bowl on the tray in front of Frankie's high chair, sitting on his pink carnation covered lap. Gods, you hated that song, and if food would keep her quiet, then by all means, let her make a mess.

"We hit the jackpot with Frankie, Pansy, my Puffskein. Forget having a boy or a girl. If the child is human, I'll be eternally satisfied."

"Again, darling, I believe that's a safe bet," you whispered before kissing him.

*****

More than the odd cravings, more than the nausea, more the weight gain - the thing you hated far more than any of this was, oddly enough, the time you had to spend on the toilet. It seemed that you spent half your pregnancy with Frankie in the girls' lavatory (what a waste of time!), and this pregnancy was proving to be no exception.

You decided to be productive, though. No minute would be wasted, you vowed to yourself, as you completed the paperwork for maternity leave from St. Mungo's well into your third month, sitting on the john. Awkward, yes, but impossible, no.

The two of you decided that you would leave at the beginning of your eighth month, when you would be so huge anyway, it would be difficult for you to Apparate or Floo anyway. You would be leaving at a critical point in Charity Services - the start of the new quarter when projected charitable donations would be presented to the board of directors. And while the duties leading up to the leave would be stressful and difficult, you reminded yourself you were married to Neville Longbottom.

Life rarely got more complicated than that.

*****

Frankie was indeed your daughter, a touch spoiled -

Well, perhaps a little more than spoiled:

"Mummy, I wanta little sister," Frankie declared one night. "I know I'll getta little sister."

"And how do you know this, Lady Francesca?" you asked, tickling her.

"Gwampa Pewwy said he'd get me anythin' I ever wanted," she declared.

"Yes, well, Grandpa Perry will do with remembering that you are my daughter, if he knows what's good for him," you responded dryly.

And as Frankie was your child, she was also your husband's.

She toddled about your living room, searching high and low, every crevice for something, moving sofa cushions, a determined look on her face.

"Frankie, what are you looking for?" you asked as she moved into the kitchen, searching through pots and pans.

"My gwasses, Mummy. I lost my sungwasses!" she sobbed to you.

You reached towards her, pulling them off the top of her head where they were hiding in plain sight.

*****

Your belly grew and your cheeks fattened up, and you became maternal and content and moody and derisive and jealous. For some reason, you were under the impression that Neville was flirting with the milkwoman who came every morning, and the odd thing was that you knew that Neville, more than anyone in this world, could not flirt. He couldn't do anything subtly without blurting out his true intentions.

You knew this. Then why were you still jealous, sitting on the couch, eating your sixth Chocolate Frog before dinner, refusing to speak to your husband after accusing him of breaking up your happy home?

Nothing you did, nothing you felt made sense. You were a whirlwind of emotions, happy one moment, miserable the next, content one second, empty the next.

It made no sense.

You made no sense.

A few months yet, you told yourself. A few months yet, and everything would return to normal. Your emotions, your waist, your breasts. Just a few months yet until you met this new person within you.

You couldn't wait.