The Stag and The Harpy | James Potter

Beautiful boy

Phoebe's eyes are red rimmed, glassy with tears, and dull with exhaustion.

Her body burns, the pain fading. It certainly wasn't the worst pain she'd ever felt. But the memories of the Cruciatus curse aren't the reason her chest is tightening with anxiety.

It's the lingering fear, the apprehension. There was no more 'when the baby gets here.'

He was here, and Phoebe wasn't sure how she should feel. She wasn't sure if she should feel guilt for being so pleased that it wasn't a girl. What does that say about her? She's afraid it says too much about her potential as a mother.

But when James turns, the happiest grin on his face that she'd ever seen, she feels reinvigorated, she feels hopeful. The healer slips out behind James as he walks closer to the bed.

In his arms, swaddled and now completely peaceful, is their child.

He walks over slowly, his eyes soft and glassy behind his glasses as he whispers, "You did it, you beautiful being."

Phoebe feels her cheeks flush, her eyes widening when he moves to bend down. When he tries to but the baby in her arms. She quickly shakes her head, remembering how fearful the healer had been. She didn't want to hurt her child.

But James knew. He knew better. His smile was kind, reassuring as he murmurs, "I held your hand the whole time. You didn't burn me, not once."

Phoebe hesitates but nods, carefully extending her arms. She holds her breath, hoping this isn't the start of something horrible. Praying that this child won't hate her. She takes comfort in James, in the ease of his posture as he moves closer.

James just grins as he lowers the baby into her waiting hold, his eyes watering again at the sight of her. Phoebe Griffin, the girl who's hair he used to tug on in attempts to make her mad. Phoebe Potter, his wife. Holding their child.

The Veela's eyes instantly zero in on the child in her arms. Their child. Their son. Her lips twitch, mapping out the dark brows and messy bit of brown hair. His eyes are clenched shut, his face mushy and pink and free of worried lines or scars. He looks like his father, and Merlin if that doesn't make her feel weak in the ear type of way.

A sense of serenity washes over her, one she hadn't felt since before she found out she was pregnant. Maybe one she'd never felt before. She'd been fighting this for so long, fighting love and scorning the idea of being a mother. Because what example had she had? Only one of pain, of limitations and sadness and disappointment. This was different. She was different.

He, her baby, was different.

He was strong, pure, untouched by the darkness that haunted her past and her family history. Untouched by the words creature or beast. This baby was Veela, yes, but he had the privilege of secrecy. He could hide what she couldn't.

Or she could celebrate it with him in a way that her mother never had.

Phoebe smiles, wide and brilliant and full of awe. Her baby. Hers. A laugh bubbles from her chest before she can stop it, her fingers slowly reaching up to touch her baby's soft hair.

"James," She says simply, her heart warming in her chest. He was beautiful, free of imperfections. She loved him. Instantly, she loved this baby.

More than she had feared she could.

"I told you that Halloween was too good, Griffin. Look at him, he's a masterpiece!"

Phoebe rolls her eyes at his suggestive words, too tired to explain that the quality of sex had nothing to do with what their child would look like. Her gaze easily returns to the baby resting peacefully in her arms, a buzzing feeling flooding her body and making her feel warm.

Her nose crinkles when she realizes she's not sure what more to say. Because she wasn't sure what to call him.

He needed a name. A strong one, because this world would tear people apart, rip people from their families. He needed a name that rang true, that the world would remember long after she was gone. She whispers to James without looking from the child, "I want him to be named after your family."

James' brows furrow, a noise of protest escaping him as he replies, "But, Bee, you're family—"

"You are my family," She interrupts, her throat growing tight and she finally looks at him with determination written across her face. She couldn't cry, she refused. "Fleamont and Mia are my family. So, you can pick his first name...as long as his middle name is James."

He stares silently at his wife, a new round of tears flooding his cheeks. He can't help but laugh, swiping them away quickly before leaning in and cupping the back of her neck to tilt her lips up to greet his. Phoebe smiles into the kiss, her happiness unchanging, fear replaced by gratefulness. She pulls back, murmuring, "Whatever you want, as long as it's not Elvendork."

James chuckles, tangling his fingers in the ends of her hair as he shakes his head. He stares at her grey eyes, wracking his brain. He wanted to name his son now, not later, because it would make it that much more real. No more waiting, no more preparing. He was here. And James wanted to know what to tell people to call him. He wanted to be able to shout it from the rooftops.

He leans his forehead against Phoebe's, hesitating before mumbling, "My Grandfather...he's the reason the Potter family was banished from the sacred 28."

Phoebe's eyebrows raise in surprise, stunned by James' family history. Her lips quirk upwards. She already liked the sound of James' grandfather. Though she wishes she could have met him even more when James whispers, "He condemned the ministry for not helping muggles during the First World War. He was practically black listed after that, but my dad said he was a hero. I thought...that might be nice. For our son to know. That we fight for people, even when they aren't like us. Even when the ministry won't."

The Veela cups his face with one hand, stroking the curve of his smile with her thumb. James' family was the family she'd always wished she had. Now they could start their own, while still paying respects to the people that had fought battles for them to get to where they are today.

"His name was Henry," James chuckles, "But we called him Harry. Harry Potter."

Phoebe looks down at their son, her eyes growing wide when he yawns, a rather pathetic attempt at one. Her eyes sting with unshed tears.

Harry.

A strong name. A strong person.

"Harry James Potter," She whispers, carefully tucking her son's blanket under his chin. James let's out a noise of approval, teasing, "How's that, Griffin? Think it suits him?"

Phoebe replies cheekily, "I think it suits him just fine, Potter. I think it's rather perfect."

James nods in agreement, quickly pecking her lips before asking reluctantly, "Should I go get Sirius? I'm certain he's worried about you."

Phoebe nods her head up and down quickly, her heart aching to see her friend. For him to see her, see her in a new way. This was new and different and beautiful. And the nervousness she felt hadn't abandoned her completely, but it just made her savor the perfectness of the moment.

And the tiniest part of her couldn't wait to show off her son.

Harry.

{{my heart is going to explode}}