The Stag and The Harpy | James Potter

Push

When Sirius lands his motorcycle at St. Mungos, Phoebe is silently and painfully waiting for a contraction to pass.

Sirius grabs her hand, wincing at her grip but holding steady as her eyes clench shut and a whimper finally escapes her. It hurt, her body was hurting her. But what hurt even more was the undeniable uncertainty she had.

She doesn't speak, even as Sirius helps her from the sidecar and into a waiting wheel chair. Even as healers take over, their green robes making Phoebe's eyes water as they rush her to the delivery ward.

Sirius jogs to keep up, his eyes flicking to her frequently to check that she's okay. His heart twists with sympathy, and for a moment he wonders what it will be like when he has a kid. Will he hear every hateful, evil thing that his father had called him? Likely.

James is already arguing with a healer when the arrive in the correct ward, his eyes instantly flying to Phoebe. He mutters something to the healer before hurrying over. He crouched down in front of her wheelchair, and Phoebe relaxes a fraction when his hazel eyes meet hers. He smiles, his glasses shifting. Whilst he speaks, Phoebe reaches out to straighten them on his nose.

"How are you going?"

Phoebe smiles weakly at his question, shrugging and replying, "I'm alright. Uncomfortable, but okay."

James visibly hesitates before saying lowly, "They're worried about your reaction to the pain as labor progresses."

Phoebe's brows furrow, her confusion growing until she peers over James' head and spies the healer behind him eyeing her nervously.

"They think I'll turn into a harpy?"

James shakes his head, squeezing her knee as he insists, "No, love. They're just concerned about the fire—"

"I can control it," Phoebe retorts angrily, brushing his hands off of her. James winces and looks for help from Sirius as she stands and begins to hobble towards the room. But Sirius is too busy scowling at the healer walking behind her, muttering, "Will they ever not treat her like an animal?"

"I tried, Padfoot."

Sirius glances at where James is standing with his head bowed. He frowns when his friend says quietly, "They threatened to throw me out if I intervened. So I just have to watch."

Sirius smiles and pulls James into a hug, mumbling, "It'll be alright."

He can't resist teasing, clapping James on the back, "Go get 'em, Dad."

James laughs and nods, pulling away to slip into the room after Phoebe. He pales slightly at her angry face, but he's angry too. Because she's scared. She'd already changed into a pale green paper gown, laying in bed. His heart aches for her when she winces. James says pointedly to the healer, "You're supposed to be making her feel better, not worse you fucking—"

"James," Phoebe says softly, shaking her head at her husband. He's weak when it comes to her, so he sends the healer one last sullen glare before coming to stand by her head. She grabs his hand, and James can't help but remember the last time the Veela held his hand at St. Mungos. His throat grows tight at the thought.

Phoebe suddenly lets out a cry of pain, her hand coming down to grip the frame of the bed. James frowns, stroking back some of her silver hair. He looks up when the healer speaks, sounding much more confident than she had earlier, "Mrs. Potter. You're ready to push."

Phoebe's heart turns cold, her eyes watering now. She shakes her head, insisting, "No. I'm not."

The healer's eyes soften and she comes to stand by the Veela's bedside. She hesitates, a residual amount of fear pausing her movements. But then the healer reaches out, takes her hand, and says softly, "It's time."

James' frown deepens when his wife begins to cry, her body shaking and her head twisting back and forth. She wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. Phoebe cries the whole time the healers set her up, while they get ready for the baby she's so terrified to have. She would be a horrid mother, it was practically in her DNA.

James can't help but feel a twinge of guilt, watching his wife suffer physically, emotionally. He holds her hand tighter, rests his forehead on hers as he whispers, "I've got you, Phoebe. I've got you."

Her breathing is stuttered, hiccups interrupting her. James cups her cheek and breathes with her, inhaling and exhaling together until her chest rises and falls easier. His lips brush hers in a chaste kiss, and her other hand comes to rest on his arm. He studies her grey eyes, and he can't help but be grateful that at this moment she can't guard her emotions from her. He can read her now, and she's complicated and scared, and tormented by the ghosts of her past. And she's beautiful, mind, body, spirit. James would read her forever.

Phoebe offers up a tiny nod, the searing pain in her abdomen driving her forward. James leans back, keeping his hand clasped tightly in hers.

"Alright, Phoebe, give us one good push and hold!" The healer says encouragingly, James eyes locking with the witch. She gives a confident nod, and when James turns back to Phoebe her eyes are clenched shut, her mouth pressed into a firm line as she pushes through her next contraction,

"Breathe, love," He reminds her, greeted only with silence as his wife slumps back against the bed, waiting for the next one,

"You're doing great," The healer says, but Phoebe can't hear them. She can't hear them at all. She hears her heart beat, thudding in her ears. She hears waves crashing against the shore, her ears ringing from the wind that flirts with the clouds that hang over the beach in France. The beach she'd told Regulus about, the one that had been her refuge from her grandmother.

Somehow, Phoebe knows when to push again, even if she can't hear James or the Healer. She feels pain, feels the wind whipping her face. Tastes the salty air. Bells toll, ships returning to the harbor. She can hear them. She can see it. Escape. But then a cry breaks through the barrier of her mind.

A cry that isn't her own.

Phoebe's eyes fly open, her head instantly turning to look at James. He's crying, tears soaking his face and a wobbly smile on his face as he says proudly, "You did it, Bee. You did it."

Phoebe feels her face change, feels her eyes grow wider. And then she's begging, pleading, "Go check, James. Go see."

James nods quickly, reluctantly letting go of her hand and striding over to where their baby is crying. Phoebe can't see anything, her view blocked by the healers and James caring for her baby. Baby.

It couldn't be a girl. She could be a mother, she could attempt to break the cycle that her grand mother and the Veela before her had started. But not if it was a girl. Please, not a girl.

Her throat is practically raw, voice breaking as she demands, "James—"

"He's perfect,"

When the words reach her ears, Phoebe lets out a sob of relief. He. Not She.

He.

The Veela weeps for her past, weeps for her mother and grandmother and aunts and cousins. She weeps for the future that she could now see wasn't so scary. She could break the cycle.

She already had.

A boy.

{{He's here!}}