A Rake, A Spinster, And An Arrangement

Interlude #2 : Viscount Harry Potter

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, watching as his wife laid down on her back with her feet on the wall.

She was naked, save for her stockings, as they had only just finished having sex, and he was very much ready to go to sleep, but Ginny... she had her feet up, her arms spread out, and was slowly counting to herself under her breath.

"It's said to help," she whispered, then resumed counting.

Help with... help with... oh.

Right.

That thing they were not talking about, despite the fact that it seemed to run and rule their lives, because if they talked about it, then they would have to discuss the fact that it was failing, and then Ginny would cry and Harry would drink and her mother would end up coming up with more ideas on how they should do things, and just...

They had agreed, a month earlier, to no longer talk about it. The season was in full bloom, Hermione had been looking for a husband, people were in the city, social engagements were on the rise, and just... they could worry about in the fall. Until then, they would not speak on it, even as their anniversary approached, and passed, and her stomach remained flat.

He hated it. Hated watching her get dressed. Hated watching as her stays slid right on. Hated that her dresses from her wedding trunk all still fit perfectly. Hated that she woke up each morning exactly the same as she was the day before.

Not for his own sake, however. If he was the one that longed for children, for a home filled with laughter and joy, then he would have accepted what could and could not be, kissed his wife, and been grateful that he at least had her, a companion, a friend, one to grow old with.

Instead...

Instead, all he felt was anger, because his wife, who wanted a house filled with children and laughter and joy and picnics and small hands and little dresses... his wife that longed to hold a babe against her breast...

He couldn't give her the one damned thing she wanted more than anything else.

By this age, by this point in their marriage, both of their parents had a child - Molly already had two by twenty, and after a year of marriage was holding one child and pregnant with the next. He had assumed, stupidly, that it would be easy, that they would be together, and she would quickly fall pregnant. Her mother had seven healthy children. There was no reason in the world...

His parents had only had one. His grandparents... one, later in life. Before that, one. One. One.

One son. Not, one son and then others that were lost to sickness or accident.

One child. One child allotted to each generation.

And he couldn't even give his wife that.

He wanted to tell her to stop, wanted to tease her and tug her down into the bed, wanted to curl up against her, but instead...

They were not going to talk about it, because talking about it made it real, made it a fact, that they were still without a child, that Ginny still cried every time she bled, and that Harry was the problem, that he had failed his wife in the most basic of ways.

And so, he turned around on the bed with her, putting his feet up on the wall, and grabbed her hand. She giggled as he did so, and turned her head to look at him.

"Hello," she said very politely, as though they were not both being foolish.

"Hello," he responded back with a grin.

They lay there for some time, and his gaze turned to the ceiling. It was rather pretty, painted, not that he had ever noticed before. How many other things had he never noticed? He had never been the most observant of people, but this... taking a moment to just lay with her...