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lomonaaerenTitle: Little Prince
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Blaise
Content Notes: Ignores the epilogue, established relationship, kid fic, fluff, brief discussion of past child abuse
Wordcount: 1100
Rated: PG-13
Summary: Harry was far more terrified of raising their son, Ian, than he had ever been of facing Voldemort. But Blaise was there to help, as he had been for so many years.
Author’s Notes: This is one of my “Solstitial Shorts” fics for this autumn, very short stories posted between Halloween and the winter solstice. This was written for lither’s request about Harry and Blaise raising their son or daughter.
Little Prince
Ian had started crying, and Harry had been the one who got up with him, because Blaise had spent most of the day taking care of him. Harry leaned Ian against his shoulder as he quietly coaxed the mingled milk and nutrition potion into his mouth. Ian gulped, one hand rising to wind around the bottle or part of it, his eyes blinking at Harry.
Harry looked back, enthralled and fascinated as always. Ian was six months old, and still seeing him every time was like seeing him anew. Ian had been created by the mingling of Harry’s magic and Blaise’s, and he had dark brown skin, a scattering of dark brown fuzz for hair, and green eyes. Blaise had been really smug about their success in the ritual, and Harry had to admit he could understand why..
“How are you doing?” Harry whispered, and leaned closer to Ian as he rocked him. “Were you just crying because you were hungry, or because there was something else? I wish you could tell me.”
Ian squirmed in his arms, but settled down when Harry repositioned the bottle. Already he was starting to suck less strongly, his eyes fluttering shut. But he hadn’t even consumed a quarter of the bottle, and Harry knew that he would start crying again in fifteen minutes if he had less than half.
“Harry?”
Harry glanced up with a wince as Blaise padded out of the bedroom. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“I wanted to get up.” Blaise sat down on the couch next to him, reaching across the space to lay his fingers on Harry’s arm where it encircled Ian. He touched Ian’s knee, too, under the bright golden baby blanket, and his face softened. “Hello,” he whispered, and then a soft stream of Italian too low for Harry to make out.
Ian lay there and was a miracle.
Harry gently shook him a little, but yes, it seemed Ian was really going to sleep. For right now, anyway. Harry settled back against the couch, content to wait until Ian woke back up and drank the rest of his bottle.
“Are you happy?”
Harry started and looked at Blaise. His husband was leaning forwards with such intense eyes that Harry thought he could see the stars beyond the window reflected in them.
“Yes, of course, I am,” Harry said, and he hoped Blaise could hear the depth and truth of his joy in his voice.
Blaise settled back against his chair with a long sigh. “I just—I know you love Ian. But you seem so worried about him all the time. I wondered if you were really able to settle into this role as a parent, or not.”
“I’m worried about not being a good parent to him.” Harry shifted Ian as he started to slide a little in the blanket he was wrapped in. It was bright gold, with darting purple stars and silver moons. Araminta, Blaise’s mother, had made it for them. “My own parents died when I was so young that they only thing I really learned from them is to die in defense of your child. And I didn’t have the best role models when I was growing up.”
Blaise grimaced. “I wish you would let me take care of them.”
“I don’t want you exposed to them.”
“Mother could do it.”
Harry had to laugh softly. Finding out that Araminta Zabini was an accomplished assassin who wasn’t above marrying her targets to get close to them had been a surprise. “I don’t want her exposed to them, either.”
“But it was okay that you were?”
“It’s in the past, Blaise—”
“No, it’s not.”
Blaise’s voice was low and angry. Harry was the one who reached out to him this time, turning so that Ian was cuddled close against his chest. “Hey. I’m not denying that they fucked me up. But I never have to see them again. So I know that I’m safe from them, and I want you and Araminta and Ian to be safe from them, too.”
“Don’t say fucked in front of our son,” Blaise muttered, but he was calming down. He grasped Harry’s hand hard enough to drive the blood away from his fingers. “If that’s his first word, I’m blaming you.”
Harry laughed. “His first word will probably be Papa.”
Blaise leaned a little closer, his eyes brighter than ever, despite the fact that now he had his back to the windows. “And what about moving to Italy? Did that make you happy?”
“Do you have to ask?” Harry said, but apparently Blaise did, because he said nothing. Harry looked away and swallowed.
He had feared leaving Britain, it was true. He’d never lived anywhere else. And Ron and Hermione had told him that going on holiday to Italy, falling in love with an old Slytherin classmate, and announcing a fortnight later that he was moving there were dangerous.
“What if he breaks your heart?”
“What if you sell your flat and then break up with him and have to come back and have no place to live?”
The words had scraped at Harry’s heart and frightened him, even though he’d known Ron and Hermione were just doing their best to look out for him, being the voices of reason when his love for Blaise was unreasonable.
But he had come to Italy anyway, and Blaise’s smile when Harry had stepped out of the Floo into Blaise’s house had made Harry feel a joy that had only been surpassed by the birth of their son.
“I love you,” Harry whispered. “I love Ian. I love it here. I even love your mum. I feel—I feel embraced here in a way I never did in Britain.”
It didn’t have to do only with the sunlight, or the food, or the way that people smiled absently at him on the street without thinking about him being the Boy-Who-Lived, or the sunlight falling into Araminta’s conservatory, dense with shining flowers, but it was all those things. It was Blaise’s smile and hands and laugh and cooking and lovemaking.
And now with Ian added.
Blaise leaned close enough to drop a kiss on Harry’s forehead and then on Ian’s. Ian, unsurprisingly, took that as his cue to wake up and fuss. Blaise laughed softly in response, scooping up Ian and bouncing him around.
“Go back to bed, Harry. I’ll finish feeding him.”
“But what if I want to stay up with the both of you?”
Blaise shot him a single surprised look that almost immediately turned to a fond one. “Then far be it from me to discourage you.”
And so Harry sat up with them, and woke in the middle of the night to find Blaise slumped against him on the couch, and Ian asleep between them. Harry nestled closer still, ignoring the way that his back ached and they should probably go to bed.
This was what he wanted. This was where he belonged, where he was loved.
The End.
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Blaise
Content Notes: Ignores the epilogue, established relationship, kid fic, fluff, brief discussion of past child abuse
Wordcount: 1100
Rated: PG-13
Summary: Harry was far more terrified of raising their son, Ian, than he had ever been of facing Voldemort. But Blaise was there to help, as he had been for so many years.
Author’s Notes: This is one of my “Solstitial Shorts” fics for this autumn, very short stories posted between Halloween and the winter solstice. This was written for lither’s request about Harry and Blaise raising their son or daughter.
Little Prince
Ian had started crying, and Harry had been the one who got up with him, because Blaise had spent most of the day taking care of him. Harry leaned Ian against his shoulder as he quietly coaxed the mingled milk and nutrition potion into his mouth. Ian gulped, one hand rising to wind around the bottle or part of it, his eyes blinking at Harry.
Harry looked back, enthralled and fascinated as always. Ian was six months old, and still seeing him every time was like seeing him anew. Ian had been created by the mingling of Harry’s magic and Blaise’s, and he had dark brown skin, a scattering of dark brown fuzz for hair, and green eyes. Blaise had been really smug about their success in the ritual, and Harry had to admit he could understand why..
“How are you doing?” Harry whispered, and leaned closer to Ian as he rocked him. “Were you just crying because you were hungry, or because there was something else? I wish you could tell me.”
Ian squirmed in his arms, but settled down when Harry repositioned the bottle. Already he was starting to suck less strongly, his eyes fluttering shut. But he hadn’t even consumed a quarter of the bottle, and Harry knew that he would start crying again in fifteen minutes if he had less than half.
“Harry?”
Harry glanced up with a wince as Blaise padded out of the bedroom. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“I wanted to get up.” Blaise sat down on the couch next to him, reaching across the space to lay his fingers on Harry’s arm where it encircled Ian. He touched Ian’s knee, too, under the bright golden baby blanket, and his face softened. “Hello,” he whispered, and then a soft stream of Italian too low for Harry to make out.
Ian lay there and was a miracle.
Harry gently shook him a little, but yes, it seemed Ian was really going to sleep. For right now, anyway. Harry settled back against the couch, content to wait until Ian woke back up and drank the rest of his bottle.
“Are you happy?”
Harry started and looked at Blaise. His husband was leaning forwards with such intense eyes that Harry thought he could see the stars beyond the window reflected in them.
“Yes, of course, I am,” Harry said, and he hoped Blaise could hear the depth and truth of his joy in his voice.
Blaise settled back against his chair with a long sigh. “I just—I know you love Ian. But you seem so worried about him all the time. I wondered if you were really able to settle into this role as a parent, or not.”
“I’m worried about not being a good parent to him.” Harry shifted Ian as he started to slide a little in the blanket he was wrapped in. It was bright gold, with darting purple stars and silver moons. Araminta, Blaise’s mother, had made it for them. “My own parents died when I was so young that they only thing I really learned from them is to die in defense of your child. And I didn’t have the best role models when I was growing up.”
Blaise grimaced. “I wish you would let me take care of them.”
“I don’t want you exposed to them.”
“Mother could do it.”
Harry had to laugh softly. Finding out that Araminta Zabini was an accomplished assassin who wasn’t above marrying her targets to get close to them had been a surprise. “I don’t want her exposed to them, either.”
“But it was okay that you were?”
“It’s in the past, Blaise—”
“No, it’s not.”
Blaise’s voice was low and angry. Harry was the one who reached out to him this time, turning so that Ian was cuddled close against his chest. “Hey. I’m not denying that they fucked me up. But I never have to see them again. So I know that I’m safe from them, and I want you and Araminta and Ian to be safe from them, too.”
“Don’t say fucked in front of our son,” Blaise muttered, but he was calming down. He grasped Harry’s hand hard enough to drive the blood away from his fingers. “If that’s his first word, I’m blaming you.”
Harry laughed. “His first word will probably be Papa.”
Blaise leaned a little closer, his eyes brighter than ever, despite the fact that now he had his back to the windows. “And what about moving to Italy? Did that make you happy?”
“Do you have to ask?” Harry said, but apparently Blaise did, because he said nothing. Harry looked away and swallowed.
He had feared leaving Britain, it was true. He’d never lived anywhere else. And Ron and Hermione had told him that going on holiday to Italy, falling in love with an old Slytherin classmate, and announcing a fortnight later that he was moving there were dangerous.
“What if he breaks your heart?”
“What if you sell your flat and then break up with him and have to come back and have no place to live?”
The words had scraped at Harry’s heart and frightened him, even though he’d known Ron and Hermione were just doing their best to look out for him, being the voices of reason when his love for Blaise was unreasonable.
But he had come to Italy anyway, and Blaise’s smile when Harry had stepped out of the Floo into Blaise’s house had made Harry feel a joy that had only been surpassed by the birth of their son.
“I love you,” Harry whispered. “I love Ian. I love it here. I even love your mum. I feel—I feel embraced here in a way I never did in Britain.”
It didn’t have to do only with the sunlight, or the food, or the way that people smiled absently at him on the street without thinking about him being the Boy-Who-Lived, or the sunlight falling into Araminta’s conservatory, dense with shining flowers, but it was all those things. It was Blaise’s smile and hands and laugh and cooking and lovemaking.
And now with Ian added.
Blaise leaned close enough to drop a kiss on Harry’s forehead and then on Ian’s. Ian, unsurprisingly, took that as his cue to wake up and fuss. Blaise laughed softly in response, scooping up Ian and bouncing him around.
“Go back to bed, Harry. I’ll finish feeding him.”
“But what if I want to stay up with the both of you?”
Blaise shot him a single surprised look that almost immediately turned to a fond one. “Then far be it from me to discourage you.”
And so Harry sat up with them, and woke in the middle of the night to find Blaise slumped against him on the couch, and Ian asleep between them. Harry nestled closer still, ignoring the way that his back ached and they should probably go to bed.
This was what he wanted. This was where he belonged, where he was loved.
The End.
