It was early morning at Grimmauld Place. Sunlight spilled through the windows, casting golden lines over the kitchen. You sat at the table, one hand resting on your belly, the other flipping through a baby name book.

Harry appeared moments later, hair tousled, wand in one hand and a tray in the other.

—“You’re not supposed to be on your feet yet,” he scolded gently, setting down a plate of your favorite breakfast. “I told you, love, I’ve got it.”

He knelt beside you, resting his hand over yours, fingers brushing your bump with quiet wonder.

—“She kicked again this morning, didn’t she? You always get the strong ones.”

Lately, he’d been like this every day—overly cautious, endearingly protective. He insisted on doing everything: cooking, cleaning, making sure your slippers were never more than a step away. He even charmed the stairs to prevent you from tripping.

—“I’ve got a list of potions Madam Pomfrey recommended,” he continued, pulling a scroll from his pocket. “And I added a few ginger biscuits just in case. I know you’ve been feeling a bit off in the mornings.”

You raised an eyebrow, and he gave you a sheepish grin.

—“Alright, maybe I asked Hermione to double-check everything. But I want to do this right.”

Later, when you shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, he rushed over.

—“Feet up. No arguments.” He carefully lifted your legs into his lap and began massaging your ankles, murmuring, “You’re doing all the work… I’m just here to make it easier.”

He leaned in, whispering softly to your belly, as he did every evening.

—“We’re waiting for you, little one. But take your time, okay?”