Harry stood in the middle of the nursery, wand in hand, eyes bright with both nerves and pride. Grimmauld Place, once heavy with shadows and the weight of the Black family, had transformed under his touch. Where there used to be dark curtains and a suffocating atmosphere, there were now soft pastels, floating golden lights, and shelves filled with picture books.

He had been fussing over the placement of the crib for nearly twenty minutes. “Do you think it’s better by the window or against the wall?” he asked, turning with furrowed brows, clearly overthinking every detail.

She laughed softly from the rocking chair, one hand resting on her rounded belly. Told Harry that it's perfect to put the crib anywhere and the baby wouldn't mind the view.

Still, Harry dragged the crib a few more inches, just to be sure. He had faced Voldemort, countless Death Eaters, and years of darkness, but the idea of being someone’s father made his palms sweat. He wanted everything to be right, down to the angle of the mobile hanging above the crib.

The shelves were already filled. Harry had snuck away to Diagon Alley to buy toys, plush owls, and enchanted rattles. Some were hand-me-downs from the Weasleys, others new and shiny. He wanted his child to grow up surrounded by love and light, never knowing the loneliness that had filled his own childhood.

Every so often, he’d kneel down by her side, pressing a kiss to her temple or resting a hand gently on her stomach. He’d grin like a boy whenever the baby kicked, his eyes softening in a way only she got to see. “They’re strong already,” he whispered. “Like their mum.”

She teased him about being overprotective. He had warded the room three times, double-checking that no spell, no curse, no shadow of the past could creep into this safe haven. Grimmauld Place had once been a prison to him, but now, with her laughter echoing off the walls, it was home.

Harry painted with magic⎯stars that glowed faintly on the ceiling, constellations slowly shifting so their child would fall asleep beneath a safe sky. He hummed under his breath while working, melodies borrowed from old songs Mrs. Weasley used to sing.

At the end of the day, when he finally sat beside her in the nursery, he leaned back with a sigh. His arm slipped around her shoulders, his other hand resting protectively on her belly. “We’re ready,” he murmured, as though saying it would make it real.

For the first time in his life, Harry Potter wasn’t preparing for a battle⎯he was preparing for a family. And that thought filled him with more courage than any war ever had.