The living room of Potter Cottage had transformed from birthday party central to impromptu waiting room with the kind of awkward efficiency that happened when multiple adults suddenly needed to pretend everything was fine while Very Important Medical Things were happening behind a closed door.
Frank Longbottom had taken charge of the toddler entertainment division with the calm competence of someone whose Auror training included "maintaining order during chaotic situations." He was currently levitating colorful balls in increasingly complex patterns while Harry, Neville, and Susan watched with rapt attention, occasionally reaching out to grab at the floating toys with the determined enthusiasm of children who'd decided that gravity was more of a suggestion than a rule.
Shadow the Phoenix had settled on the back of the sofa, maintaining its semi-corporeal state while creating occasional sparkles that drifted down toward the children like very slow, very magical confetti. It seemed to understand that its primary responsibility right now was keeping Harry distracted and happy, which it was accomplishing with the kind of dedicated professionalism you'd expect from a creature specifically designed for child protection.
Alice sat beside the toddlers with a serene expression that would have been more convincing if her hands weren't gripping her wand like it was a stress-relief device. Sirius was pacing back and forth across the room with the restless energy of someone whose best friend was behind that door dealing with something Sirius absolutely could not help with, which was deeply offensive to someone who'd spent the last twelve years being helpful with everything from schoolwork to war efforts.
Remus had positioned himself near the kitchen, ostensibly making tea but actually using the kettle's whistle as an excuse for why he needed to stay far away from the bedroom door where he could definitely hear things he absolutely did not want to hear.
Ted Tonks was doing an admirable job keeping Nymphadora from investigating the interesting noises coming from the other room, though his daughter's metamorphmagus abilities were cycling through colors that suggested she was picking up on the adults' stress despite their best efforts at appearing casual.
"Is Aunt Lily okay?" Tonks asked for the third time in five minutes, her hair flickering from concerned purple to anxious blue.
"She's absolutely fine," Ted assured her with the kind of confidence that would have been more convincing if a particularly loud groan hadn't chosen that exact moment to drift through the bedroom door, followed by what sounded suspiciously like James Potter saying something that might have been encouragement or might have been a prayer to every deity he could think of.
"That didn't sound fine," Tonks said with the blunt honesty of nine-year-olds who hadn't yet learned that sometimes you were supposed to pretend you didn't notice uncomfortable truths.
"That's the sound of Aunt Lily working very hard to bring your new cousin into the world," Alice explained with the patience of someone who'd had this conversation before. "Having babies is hard work, so sometimes people make loud noises because it helps them concentrate."
Another sound drifted from the bedroom—this time unmistakably Andromeda's calm, professional voice saying something about "excellent progress" followed by Lily's response which was considerably less calm and included creative applications of vocabulary that probably shouldn't be used around children.
"Did she just swear?" Tonks asked with the fascinated tone of someone who'd just heard an adult break important social rules.
"Loudly and with impressive creativity," Sirius confirmed, apparently deciding that honesty was the better approach. "Childbirth is very difficult, Dora. People are allowed to use whatever words help them get through it."
"Can I use those words when I'm having difficulty with something?" Tonks asked with the innocent curiosity that suggested she was already planning to test this new information.
"Absolutely not," Ted said firmly. "That particular vocabulary exception is only for adults experiencing medical emergencies, not children who don't want to finish their homework."
From behind the door came James's voice, slightly higher than usual and carrying the particular strain of someone trying very hard to be supportive while also processing that childbirth was considerably more intense than any battle he'd ever witnessed.
"You're doing brilliantly, Lily. Absolutely brilliantly. The most brilliant birthing I've ever seen, and I've seen, well, actually I haven't seen any others except for Harry's, but if I had, yours would definitely be the most impressive—"
"JAMES POTTER IF YOU DON'T STOP BABBLING AND JUST HOLD MY HAND I SWEAR BY EVERY GOD IN EVERY PANTHEON—"
"Holding hand! Excellent hand-holding happening right now! Very supportive hand-holding! I'm being so supportive—OW! Lily, that's—okay, yes, you're allowed to squeeze that hard, that's absolutely fine, I don't need full circulation in that hand anyway—"
Sirius had stopped pacing and was now standing very still, his face cycling through expressions that suggested he was experiencing every emotion simultaneously—worry for his friends, amusement at James's commentary, and the dawning realization that childbirth was considerably more dramatic than he'd been prepared for.
"Is Uncle James going to be okay?" Neville asked quietly, his round face serious with concern.
"Uncle James is going to be absolutely fine," Frank assured him, though his tone suggested he was also questioning whether James Potter was truly prepared for this particular life experience. "Aunt Andromeda is a very good Healer, and she's taking excellent care of both Aunt Lily and the baby."
"And Uncle James's hand," Alice added with barely concealed amusement as another pained yelp drifted through the door, this time definitely from James.
"I SAID I WAS SORRY ABOUT THE HAND THING—" Lily's voice carried through clearly, though it was interrupted by what sounded like breathing exercises or possibly someone attempting to summon ancient spirits through respiratory determination.
"No no no, the hand is fine, completely fine, I have another hand, lots of hands really, well, two hands, which is the standard amount, but they're very good hands and you can break them both if it helps—"
"JAMES."
"Right, shutting up now, being quiet and supportive, excellent quiet support happening—"
Andromeda's voice cut through with professional calm: "James, I need you to either help or step outside. Lily needs focused support right now, not running commentary."
"Focused support, got it, absolutely focused, most focused I've ever been—"
There was a sound that might have been Lily laughing or might have been crying or might have been both simultaneously, followed by her voice carrying clear affection despite the obvious strain: "You impossible man. I love you so much but if you don't stop talking—"
"Holding hand quietly!" James announced. "Look at me being quiet. So quiet. The quietest hand-holding in the history of—"
"JAMES!"
The sound that followed was definitely James falling completely silent, followed by a long stretch of nothing but Andromeda's calm instructions and Lily's concentrated breathing. The adults in the living room exchanged glances that contained approximately seventeen layers of silent communication, all of which basically translated to "this is intense and we're all very grateful it's not us in there."
Shadow chose that moment to create a particularly elaborate display of sparkles, clearly deciding that the children needed more distraction from the interesting sounds emerging from the other room. Harry clapped his hands with delight, pointing at his phoenix friend with obvious pride.
"Shadow pretty," he announced to his playmates. "Shadow good bird."
"Very good bird," Neville agreed solemnly, watching the sparkles with scientific interest.
"Sparkles!" Susan added, which seemed to be her primary contribution to most conversations but was delivered with such enthusiasm that it somehow felt profound.
Another groan from the bedroom—longer this time, carrying the kind of primal determination that made everyone in the living room unconsciously hold their breath. Then Andromeda's voice, bright with professional satisfaction: "That's it, Lily! I can see the head! One more push like that—"
Sirius had gone very pale, his sophisticated pure-blood upbringing apparently not including detailed education about the biological realities of childbirth. "Is she supposed to sound like that? Should we—should someone—"
"She's supposed to sound exactly like that," Remus said with the calm authority of someone who'd done extensive reading on basically every topic ever. "It's intense, but it's normal. Andromeda would alert us if something was wrong."
"Okay but—" Sirius started, then stopped as another sound emerged from the bedroom. Not a groan this time, but a kind of roar that suggested Lily Potter had decided that this baby was coming out right now and biology had better cooperate or else.
"THAT'S IT!" Andromeda's voice carried pure professional joy. "Keep going, Lily, you're almost—"
And then, cutting through every other sound in the cottage, came a cry. Not an adult cry. The high, indignant wail of a brand new human who'd just been evicted from comfortable warmth into cold air and was prepared to file several complaints about the experience.
The living room went completely silent except for that cry. Even the toddlers stopped playing, their small faces turning toward the bedroom door with the kind of solemn attention that suggested they understood something important had just happened, even if they didn't quite know what.
"Baby!" Harry announced with the kind of proud certainty usually reserved for showing off particularly impressive accomplishments.
"That's right, sweetheart," Alice said softly, her eyes suspiciously bright. "That's your new baby brother or sister."
The cry continued—strong, healthy, and thoroughly annoyed about the whole being-born situation. Then they heard Andromeda's voice, warm with satisfaction: "Congratulations! You have a beautiful baby girl!"
A moment of silence, then James's voice, thick with emotion and wonder and the kind of profound awe that came from watching a literal miracle: "A girl. We have a daughter. Lily, look at her, she's—she's perfect. She's absolutely perfect."
Lily's response was too quiet to hear clearly, but the tone carried exhaustion and joy and the kind of fierce maternal love that had made her willing to face down Dark Lords.
Sirius had sunk into the nearest chair, his expression cycling through relief and joy and the kind of emotional overwhelm that came from experiencing one of life's genuinely profound moments second-hand. "They have a daughter," he said, like he needed to speak the words to make them real. "Prongs has a daughter."
"Harry has a sister," Remus added with his own barely contained emotion.
"And we all have another niece to spoil completely rotten," Frank said with satisfaction, though his voice was suspiciously hoarse.
Tonks, who'd been listening to all of this with rapt attention, suddenly grinned with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested she'd just realized something important. "Me and Susie aren't the only girl anymore! There's another girl! Can I teach her about Metamorphmagus stuff? Can she change her hair color? Does she know any jokes?"
"She's approximately three minutes old, Dora," Ted said with fond amusement. "She probably doesn't know much beyond 'being born was strange and loud.'"
"Yet," Tonks said with determination. "She doesn't know anything yet. But I can teach her!"
Inside the bedroom, they could hear the baby's cries beginning to quiet as she presumably found her mother, followed by Andromeda's voice running through post-birth medical checks with professional efficiency and James making soft sounds of wonder that suggested he was still processing that he now had two children.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only ten minutes, the bedroom door opened. Andromeda emerged looking professionally satisfied and personally delighted, her robes showing evidence of hard work but her expression carrying the glow of someone who'd just successfully guided new life into the world.
"Mother and baby are both healthy and doing beautifully," she announced with warm formality. "Lily's resting, the baby's nursing, and James is..." she paused, her professional composure cracking into open amusement, "James is crying and trying very hard to pretend he's not crying while also narrating everything the baby does because apparently that's how Potter men process overwhelming emotion."
"Sounds about right," Sirius said with affectionate recognition. "Can we see them?"
"In a few minutes," Andromeda said. "Let Lily have a moment to catch her breath and maybe put on something that isn't soaked with sweat. Though I should warn you—James has already started making grand pronouncements about his daughter's future brilliance based on the way she grips his finger."
"Also sounds right," Remus said with a smile.
"What's her name?" Alice asked softly.
Andromeda's expression softened even further. "Rose. Rose Lily Potter. Apparently they'd agreed on the name months ago, though James got a bit emotional trying to explain the significance through happy tears."
"Rose," Sirius repeated, testing the name. "Like the flower. Like beauty and thorns and perfect dangerous things."
"Like something worth protecting," Frank added.
Shadow the Phoenix, who'd been maintaining its position throughout all of this, suddenly created a cascade of sparkles that formed briefly into the shape of a flower—a rose, perfect and glowing—before dissipating back into harmless light. The cosmic bird made a soft sound that somehow conveyed both congratulation and approval of the name choice.
"Even the cosmic bird likes it," Tonks said with satisfaction. "That's good. Names are important."
Harry, who'd been mostly quiet during the commotion, suddenly toddled toward the bedroom door with determination. "Baby?" he asked, looking up at the adults with hopeful curiosity. "See baby?"
"In a few minutes, sweetheart," Alice said gently, scooping him up before he could push his way into the bedroom. "Mummy needs a little rest first, and then you can meet your new sister."
"Sister," Harry repeated, testing the word. Then his face lit up with understanding. "Baby sister! Harry baby sister!"
"That's right," Andromeda confirmed. "You're a big brother now, Harry. That's a very important job."
Shadow descended from its perch to settle on Harry's shoulder again, apparently deciding that its primary human needed support during this confusing and exciting time. The phoenix created gentle sparkles around both Harry and the adults, its presence somehow making the moment feel even more significant—a blessing from something that existed at the boundary between life and death, welcoming new life into the family.
From inside the bedroom, James's voice drifted out again, soft but audible: "Rose, that's your brother Harry out there. He's going to love you so much. We're all going to love you so much. And you're going to be brilliant and brave and probably cause us no end of worry but that's okay because you're ours and you're perfect..."
"He's already completely smitten," Andromeda observed with warm amusement. "Give them about five more minutes, and then we can start the official introductions. Though I should warn you, Lily's threatening to hex anyone who suggests she looks anything less than fabulous, so perhaps lead with congratulations rather than observations about her appearance."
"Noted," Sirius said solemnly. "Congratulations first, survival second, honesty about post-birth appearance never."
And so they waited—friends and family gathered in a living room that had been meant for a birthday party but had become the staging ground for something even more significant. Harry clutched his Shadow Phoenix friend, understanding that something important was happening even if he didn't quite grasp all the details. The other children played quietly, their young faces serious with the weight of Big Events.
After exactly five minutes—Andromeda clearly having excellent time management skills—the bedroom door opened again. This time James emerged, looking thoroughly disheveled, slightly tear-stained, and carrying the kind of radiant joy that made everyone who saw him immediately understand that he'd just experienced something that had fundamentally reorganized his entire understanding of love and family.
In his arms, wrapped in a soft blanket that Lily had been preparing for months, was the smallest, most wrinkled, and according to James's besotted expression, most perfect baby girl who'd ever existed.
"Everyone," James said, his voice thick with emotion, "I'd like you to meet Rose Lily Potter. Born at 3:47 PM on her brother's second birthday, weighing seven pounds and four ounces, and already displaying what I'm certain is exceptional intelligence and magical aptitude based on absolutely no evidence except that she's mine and therefore brilliant."
The room erupted into soft exclamations of joy, congratulations, and various adults trying to get a better look at the tiny new addition to their extended family while being careful not to wake her from the light doze she'd fallen into after the exhausting work of being born.
Shadow the Phoenix created one more cascade of sparkles—gentler this time, softer—that fell around the new baby like a blessing from forces beyond mortal understanding. A welcome from the divine side of her family, acknowledging that Rose Potter was now part of something much larger than just the mortal world.
And in the bedroom, Lily Potter lay back against her pillows, exhausted and sweaty and completely radiant with the kind of joy that made childbirth worth every difficult moment, listening to her husband introduce their daughter to their family and thinking that despite the divine complications and cosmic phoenixes and impossible circumstances, this—this right here—was the most magical thing she'd ever experienced.
After all, some birthday parties ended with cake and presents.
The Potter family's parties apparently ended with new siblings and divine blessings and enough love to fill multiple dimensions.
It was, everyone agreed, exactly the kind of celebration you'd expect from a family that had never done anything the normal way and wasn't about to start now.
—
The bedroom had been transformed into the kind of peaceful sanctuary that new mothers deserved—soft lighting courtesy of enchanted candles that adjusted their brightness automatically, the air spelled to a comfortable temperature, and enough pillows arranged around Lily to suggest James had taken his "making sure she's comfortable" duties very seriously indeed.
Lily sat propped against the headboard, looking exhausted in the way that people who'd just completed a marathon looked exhausted—worn out but triumphant, with the kind of glow that came from accomplishing something genuinely extraordinary. Her red hair was pulled back in a messy braid, and she'd changed into clean nightclothes that were considerably more dignified than what she'd been wearing during the actual birth.
In her arms, nestled against her chest, was Rose Lily Potter. The baby had stopped crying and was now in that alert newborn state where they seemed to be taking in the entire world with solemn wonder, her tiny face scrunched up in concentration as she tried to make sense of all the new sensory information flooding her brand-new consciousness.
James stood beside the bed, one hand resting protectively on Lily's shoulder, his expression cycling between pride, wonder, and the kind of besotted parental love that suggested he'd already forgotten what life was like before Rose existed.
"Ready?" he asked Lily softly, though his tone suggested he was also asking himself whether he was ready to watch his son meet his daughter for the first time.
"Ready," Lily confirmed, though she was gripping Rose a bit tighter, as if her body was still processing that she now had two children to protect instead of one.
James moved to the door and opened it carefully. "Harry? Would you like to come meet your baby sister?"
The response was immediate—the sound of small feet moving with determined purpose, accompanied by the soft rustle of Shadow's feathers as the phoenix maintained its position on Harry's shoulder. Alice appeared in the doorway first, carrying Harry in her arms because apparently someone had decided that letting a two-year-old run into the room unsupervised was asking for chaos.
Harry's face was serious with the kind of concentrated attention he usually reserved for particularly interesting toys or watching his father do magic. Shadow remained perched on his shoulder, its semi-corporeal form creating a gentle glow that seemed designed to keep everyone calm and peaceful.
"Remember what we talked about," Alice said gently, setting Harry down carefully near the bed. "Baby Rose is very small and very new, so we need to be gentle and quiet. Can you do that?"
Harry nodded solemnly, his green eyes—so much like his mother's—fixed on the bundle in Lily's arms with fascinated intensity.
"Come here, sweetheart," Lily said softly, patting the bed beside her with her free hand. "Come meet Rose."
James helped Harry climb up onto the bed with the careful attention of someone handling precious cargo, positioning him so he could see the baby without being close enough to accidentally grab or poke in the way that toddlers sometimes did when investigating interesting new things.
Harry's first view of his sister was met with complete silence. He stared at the tiny, wrinkled face with the kind of serious consideration that suggested he was trying to determine whether this new addition to the family was acceptable or whether he should file a complaint with management.
Rose, for her part, seemed equally curious about the small person who'd just invaded her field of vision. Her dark blue eyes—which would probably change color over the next few months—fixed on Harry's face with the intense focus that newborns used when trying to understand the world.
"Baby," Harry said finally, his voice soft and wondering. "Small baby."
"Very small," Lily agreed warmly. "She's your little sister, Harry. Her name is Rose."
"Rose," Harry repeated carefully, testing the word. Then, with the logic of a two-year-old trying to understand relationships: "Harry big brother?"
"That's right," James said, settling onto the bed on Lily's other side so they were all together—a complete family unit. "You're the big brother now. That's a very important job."
Harry seemed to consider the weight of this responsibility, his small face serious. Then, very carefully, he reached out one finger toward Rose's tiny hand, moving with the kind of deliberate gentleness that suggested he understood she was fragile and important.
Rose's miniature fingers curled reflexively around Harry's larger finger—well, larger by toddler standards—and something shifted in Harry's expression. The careful consideration transformed into immediate, fierce protectiveness mixed with wonder.
"My sister," he announced with the kind of possessive pride usually reserved for favorite toys. "My Rose."
"Your Rose," Lily confirmed, her eyes bright with tears that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with watching her children connect for the first time. "You're going to be such a good big brother, Harry."
Shadow chose that moment to create a gentle cascade of sparkles that fell around both children like a blessing—softer than usual, somehow more reverent, as if the cosmic phoenix understood the significance of this moment and was marking it with appropriate ceremony.
Rose made a small sound—not quite a cry, more like a surprised coo—and her eyes tracked the falling sparkles with newborn fascination. Harry's face lit up with delight.
"Shadow likes Rose," he announced proudly. "Shadow makes pretty for Rose."
The phoenix trilled softly in agreement, creating another gentle display of starlight that seemed specifically designed for a newborn's developing vision—not too bright, not too complex, just beautiful enough to be entrancing.
"I think Shadow has decided Rose is also under its protection," James observed with satisfaction. "We've got a cosmic bodyguard for both children now."
"Lucky children," Lily said dryly, though her tone carried affection. "Most babies just get blankets and stuffed animals. Ours get phoenixes created by goddesses."
Harry had leaned closer to Rose, his small face inches from hers as he conducted what appeared to be a very serious inspection of his new sister. After a moment of careful study, he looked up at his parents with an expression that suggested he'd reached an important conclusion.
"Rose pretty," he announced. "Keep Rose."
James let out a surprised laugh that was half-sob, his emotions clearly running close to the surface. "Yes, Harry, we're definitely keeping Rose."
"Good," Harry said with satisfaction, then returned his attention to his sister with the kind of devoted focus that suggested he'd already accepted his new role as protective big brother.
Rose had fallen into the light doze that newborns slipped into and out of with no warning, her tiny face relaxed in sleep while still maintaining her grip on Harry's finger. Shadow created one more gentle display of sparkles—quieter now, almost like a lullaby made of light—and settled more firmly on Harry's shoulder as if acknowledging that its responsibilities had just doubled.
From the doorway, their gathered friends and family watched the scene with the kind of warm affection that came from witnessing something genuinely beautiful. Sirius had his arm around Amelia, his expression soft in a way that suggested he was already imagining future adventures with both Potter children. Remus stood beside them, his scholarly features transformed by gentle joy. Frank and Alice held each other, clearly thinking about their own son and the friendship that would grow between Harry, Rose, and Neville.
"They're beautiful together," Alice whispered.
"They're going to be absolutely impossible together," Sirius predicted with fond certainty. "Two Potter children, divine heritage, cosmic protection, and whatever trouble-making genes James has undoubtedly passed on. Hogwarts won't know what hit it in nine years."
"Eight years," Remus corrected quietly. "Harry will be eleven in nine years, but Rose will be following right behind him."
"Merlin help us all," Frank said, though he was grinning. "Two Potters with divine backing, raised together, probably sharing a phoenix guardian. The Marauders are going to look like amateurs."
Back on the bed, James had wrapped one arm around Lily and was reaching down with his other hand to gently stroke Rose's soft dark hair—hair that might turn red like her mother's or stay dark like his, though right now it was the indeterminate color of most newborns.
"We did good work," he said softly to Lily, his voice thick with emotion.
"We did," Lily agreed, leaning into his embrace while keeping Rose secure. "Though I'm not doing that again for at least two years. Possibly three. Maybe never. That was exhausting."
"Noted," James said with amusement. "Though you were absolutely magnificent. Most impressive birthing I've ever witnessed, and I stand by that assessment even though I haven't witnessed any others."
"You were also impressive," Lily said generously. "Once you stopped narrating everything and just held my hand quietly."
"I was nervous," James defended. "Nervous talking is a Potter family trait. My father apparently recited his entire Auror training manual during my birth."
"That explains so much about you," Lily said dryly.
Harry, who'd been quietly studying his sister with the devotion of someone conducting very important research, suddenly looked up with an announcement.
"Rose sleep," he observed. Then, with the logical conclusion of a two-year-old: "Harry sleep too. With Rose."
"Rose is going to sleep in her own cradle right next to our bed," Lily explained gently. "But you can visit her every day and help take care of her."
Harry considered this arrangement, his small face thoughtful. "Harry protect Rose," he declared finally. "Shadow help."
The phoenix trilled in agreement, creating a small glow of approval that seemed to seal the pact between big brother, little sister, and cosmic guardian.
"That's right," James said warmly. "You and Shadow will help protect Rose. And Mummy and Daddy will protect both of you. And we'll all protect each other, because that's what families do."
"Family," Harry repeated, then smiled with the kind of pure joy that only children seemed capable of experiencing. He carefully released Rose's finger and leaned forward to give her the gentlest kiss on her forehead—a gesture so sweet and protective that several adults in the doorway had to discreetly wipe their eyes.
Rose stirred slightly at the contact, made a small noise that might have been contentment, and settled back into sleep against her mother's chest.
"Best birthday present ever," Harry announced with satisfaction.
"Better than Shadow?" James asked with amusement.
Harry considered this seriously. "Shadow and Rose both good presents. Shadow pretty bird. Rose pretty sister. Harry has both. Harry lucky."
"Yes you are, sweetheart," Lily said softly. "Very lucky indeed."
As the afternoon light shifted toward evening through the spelled windows, the Potter family remained on the bed together—mother, father, son, daughter, and one cosmic phoenix—forming a tableau of the kind of love that transcended worlds and dimensions.
Outside the bedroom, their extended family began quietly organizing the remainder of Harry's birthday celebration, though everyone agreed that the cake and presents could wait. Some moments were too precious to interrupt with formalities.
Shadow created one final gentle display of sparkles, this time forming briefly into two flowers—a lily and a rose, intertwined—before dissipating back into harmless light. The cosmic bird settled into a more permanent position on the headboard of the bed, clearly having decided that this was its new station for guarding both Potter children.
After all, some birthday presents came wrapped with ribbons and bows.
Others came wrapped in blankets, with tiny fingers and solemn eyes, bringing with them the promise of sibling adventures, shared secrets, and the kind of unbreakable bond that would carry them through whatever impossible challenges their extraordinary family would face.
And really, when you thought about it, Rose Lily Potter was the most perfect birthday present Harry could have received—even if her timing had been dramatically inconvenient and her arrival had involved more screaming than traditional party activities.
She was family. She was precious. She was loved.
And she was home.
—
The evening had settled gently over Potter Cottage, the earlier chaos of birthday party and unexpected birth giving way to the quiet contentment of family and friends sharing a meal together. Rose had been fed and changed and was now sleeping peacefully in the cradle beside James and Lily's bed, while Harry had finally succumbed to exhaustion and was napping on the sofa under Shadow's watchful guard.
Most of the guests had departed with promises to visit soon, leaving only the closest members of their chosen family—Sirius, Remus, and Frank and Alice who were collecting a very sleepy Neville from where he'd been playing quietly with building blocks.
James caught Remus's eye across the room and tilted his head toward the kitchen in silent invitation. Lily, who'd been resting in the armchair with a cup of tea that Remus had prepared earlier, caught the gesture and smiled.
"Remus," she called softly, "could you help us with something for a moment?"
Remus looked up from where he'd been cleaning up the last of the party decorations with the methodical efficiency of someone who found comfort in helpful tasks. "Of course. What do you need?"
"Just a quick word," James said, leading the way into the kitchen where they could have some privacy. Lily followed more slowly, still moving carefully after the afternoon's exertions.
Once they were alone, James leaned against the counter with that particular expression he wore when he was about to say something important but was trying to appear casual about it. Lily settled into one of the kitchen chairs, her hand resting unconsciously over her still-tender stomach.
"Remus," James began, then paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. "You know how much you mean to us. How much you've always meant to us."
Remus's expression grew cautious in the way it always did when people started saying nice things about him—like he was preparing to deflect compliments or argue against his own worthiness. "James, if this is about helping with the children, you know I'm always happy to—"
"It's not about babysitting," Lily interrupted gently. "Though we'll definitely be taking you up on that offer frequently."
"We want you to be Rose's godfather," James said directly, apparently deciding that his usual approach to important conversations—talking around the subject until everyone was thoroughly confused—wasn't appropriate for this particular moment.
The silence that followed was profound. Remus had gone completely still, his amber eyes wide with shock and something that looked dangerously close to tears.
"You want me to..." he started, then stopped, his voice catching. "James, Lily, I'm honored, truly, but surely there are better choices. Someone without my... complications. Someone who could provide stability and—"
"Someone who's been our friend since we were eleven years old," James interrupted firmly. "Someone who's loyal and brave and kind. Someone who loves our family and would protect our children with everything he has."
"Someone we trust completely," Lily added softly. "Someone who understands what it means to be different and could help Rose navigate whatever challenges come with her heritage."
"But I'm a werewolf," Remus said, the word falling between them like a stone. "What if something happens during a full moon? What if I endanger her?"
"You've never endangered anyone who didn't deserve it," James said with absolute certainty. "And you won't start with our daughter. Besides, with Sirius as Harry's godfather, we need someone equally important to stand for Rose. Someone she can turn to when her parents are being impossible or when she needs advice from someone who actually thinks before acting."
"That's a low bar considering Sirius," Remus said weakly, though a smile was beginning to tug at his lips despite his obvious emotional overwhelm.
"Say yes, Remus," Lily said gently. "Say yes because we love you, because Rose will love you, and because you deserve to be part of this family in every possible way."
Remus looked between them—his oldest, dearest friends—and something in his expression crumbled. The self-doubt, the automatic refusal, the belief that he didn't deserve good things. All of it fell away, leaving only raw emotion and gratitude.
"Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, I would be honored to be Rose's godfather."
James crossed the kitchen in two strides and pulled Remus into a fierce hug, the kind of embrace that spoke of years of friendship and unspoken love. Lily joined them carefully, wrapping her arms around both men with as much strength as her exhausted body could manage.
"Thank you," Remus said quietly against James's shoulder. "Thank you for trusting me with something so precious."
"Thank you for being you," James replied. "For being exactly who you are, and for loving our family enough to protect them always."
When they finally pulled apart, all three of them were wiping their eyes and pretending they weren't crying, which fooled absolutely no one.
"Come on," Lily said with a watery smile. "Let's go introduce you to your goddaughter properly. As her godfather, not just as Uncle Remus."
And as they returned to the living room where Rose slept peacefully and Shadow kept watch, Remus Lupin carried with him the knowledge that he was valued, trusted, and loved—not despite what he was, but because of who he'd become.
After all, some families were built not just on blood, but on choice, loyalty, and the kind of love that saw past surfaces to the goodness underneath.
---
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