He should have known. After all, when had his life ever possessed a semblance of normalcy? Even if he set aside the fact that he was a wizard, his life was still bonkers in comparison to his peers, courtesy of a raving, power hungry lunatic attacking him while he was still in diapers.
He thought it had ended once the oh so feared Dark Wanker had died at his hands, or more accurately, due to his spell being reflected back (Seriously, Trelawney, can't you avoid fucking up even while you're delivering an honest to god prophecy?). But then he had fallen in love with a magical being. And no, he didn't mean it in a metaphorical sense. He meant an actual being that existed solely in the magical world.
Fleur Delacour had been his secret crush ever since his fourth year at Hogwarts, so secret that even he hadn't been aware of it until the day he returned to Privet Drive after Dumbledore's funeral. At least he now had a solid reason why his relationships with Cho and Ginny had soured so quickly. After all, he was attracted to another woman, even if he didn't realize it. Maybe the catalyst had been feeling the relief flood him when the part-Veela had rejected Bill Weasley's proposal.
Five years had passed since the end of the Second Wizarding War, and he was happily married to the woman of his dreams and eagerly awaiting the birth of their first child. Their courting hadn't been easy, but he had persevered. After all, if he gave up at the first hint of trouble, he really wouldn't have been an ideal mate for the woman whose hand he was currently holding.
“Come on, Fleur. Just breathe. It'll be over soon.” He managed to keep a grin on his face, despite having lost all sensation in his hand a while back. Seriously, his wife was terrifyingly strong at times.
Her blue eyes met his, silvery-blond hair soaked with perspiration. “No, it will most definitely not be okay! You are never going to put that thing inside me ever again, Harry James Potter!”
He winced, but didn't respond to the jab. After all, Ron had said that Hermione acted almost exactly like what he was currently experiencing, and they had resumed their bedroom activities as soon as she had recovered. Still, a part of him worried, even if it were for naught. Yet, for some reason he was proud about how she had almost completely lost her accent. The only time she still used it was when they were in bed, and in those moments he had no complaints at all.
The pressure on his hand increased once more, letting him know that he actually did have some feeling left, although it was going to be leaving quickly. He could tell that she was close. At least that meant the ordeal would be over soon. He couldn't wait to hold his child for the first... wait, was her stomach glowing?
“Honey, is this supposed to happen?” He wasn't going to freak out. No, such events must be common for Veela. He hadn't really been able to learn much about his wife's race, although not from lack of trying. Wizarding Britain had almost no documentation, and France jealously guarded their secrets, with good reason. The taint of the previous administrations and their prejudice was still fresh.
What he didn't want to see were his wife's eyes widen in shock. She sat frozen for a minute, her grip on his hand slackening for a moment. All that escaped her mouth was, “Oh shit.”
He was finally beginning to freak. What the fuck is happening. Oh Merlin, please don't let anything happen to the baby, please let it be okay.
The light brightened to an almost blinding degree, forcing him to shut his eyes as he attempted to block it out. The intensity remained for a long moment, before it finally dimmed enough for him to open them once more. His emerald orbs immediately locked onto his wife, only to see that she was looking perfectly fine. And by perfectly fine, he meant that there was no hint of any pregnancy, and no baby to be seen anywhere.
He was about to sprint out of the ward, screaming his head off as he searched for his child, when he felt a slim yet firm hand wrap around his wrist. His eyes locked onto Fleur's, only to see a hint of trepidation. Alarm bells rang in his head. This definitely wasn't good.
“What's happening, Fleur? Where's our child gone?” He really needed answers, and he wanted them now.
She cleared her throat, her eyes looking anywhere but towards his. “Mon amour, there's something I should tell you. You know the muggle tale about how a stork brings the child?” His eye twitched. That wasn't important, dammit! His child was fucking missing. But instead of allowing all the chaotic thoughts in his head to spill out, he forced himself to take a deep breath. She was probably just as shocked as he was, and this was her way of dealing with it. He wasn't going to deny her the opportunity. “Yes, what about it?”
She fidgeted in her bed. “Well, it may not be as fictional as you thought.”
He resisted the urge to scoff. “What are you saying that Veela children are brought by a magical stork? Seriously Fleur, I love you but right now we need to focus on our missing child. Honestly, the next thing you'll tell me is that the stork would want me to prove my worth and we would have to...” A sharp tap was heard against the window to his right. He turned his head, beyond frustrated. Who in the blazes is knocking against the maternity ward window? His eyes finally landed on the glass, only for him to freeze.
“...box.”
There was no way this was happening. His eyes had to be fucking with him. There was no way a stork could be standing outside the window, with a fucking bundle held in his beak. Ron must have slipped something into his lunch. Yes, that was it. But somehow, he could tell that he wasn't hallucinating, as much as he would have wished he were.
“Open ze window, ‘Arry,” Fleur said. He didn't even notice that her accent had returned. His body was firmly on autopilot, moving over to the window to open it. He unlocked the latch, before lifting it up.
The stork hopped in, moving towards his wife. His eyes weren't even focused on the bird, instead watching the bundle in its beak. There was no way the situation could become any weirder.
Almost as if some higher power had heard his desperate words, Ron came barrelling into the ward, a massive grin on his face.
“Congratulations, mate! I came as soon as I could. Sorry ‘Mione couldn't come, she was held up at...” he froze when he saw the uninvited guest in the room. “Why is there a bloody stork in here? And why does it look like it has the muscles of a Hungarian Horntail stuffed onto its frame.”
For the first time, Harry noticed the bird's physique. He almost began hysterically when it finally registered. Ron's assessment wasn't so far off. The muscles on that particular bird could have put most bodybuilders to shame. Why did it need it, anyways? Did he actually have to... no. There was no fucking way. Fleur cleared her throat, clearly nervous about the next part. “Harry, the Veela have a tradition. Every time the females have a child, the baby is brought to us by a stork. However, the fathers have to prove their worth, no matter their race. They have to face the stork in unarmed combat, and if they win, they have permission to look after their child. If they lose, the mother will be forced to leave him, so that the child isn't sullied by such a weak man.”
Despite the outlandishness of the situation, Harry bristled at the words. He wasn't losing his wife and child to a fucking stork. He clenched his fists, ready to beat the bird into a pulp. At least he had something to take out his frustration on. But the mean look its eyes gave him pause, not to mention just how jacked the damn thing was.
“Is there anything else I need to know?” he hissed.
“Yes, you cannot use your legs in this match. It would be unfair, since it doesn't have so much strength in its lower limbs. Also, the two of you will be enclosed in a cage woven from raw magic. Neither can leave until one surrenders or is unable to continue. Also, you cannot kill it, nor can it kill you, but the rule is far looser for it than for you.”
What. the. Fuck. His mind was an inch away from shutting down due to the sheer ludicrousy of the situation. Ron wasn't faring much better, but somehow managed to pull himself together quickly.
“Don't stress it, mate. It doesn't sound so different from that muggle sport. Boxing, was it? Yeah, you showed me that movie series about it, some guy called Ricky.”
Rocky, Harry corrected mentally. Usually, he would have corrected Ron for messing up the name of one of his favourite movies, but at that moment, there were more important things on his mind.
Ron clapped his shoulder, a nervous smile on his face. “After all, what can it punch you with? Fleur said that it couldn't use its feet, and all it has after that are its wings. You’ve got this, mate, don't worry.”
He'd spoken too soon. Almost immediately, the infernal beast placed the bundle into Fleur's arms before cawing at his red-headed friend, almost as if it were offended by his words. A bright flash of light surrounded it's wings, only to reveal... Oh, you've got to be joking!
A pair of massive arms were present in place of its previous appendages, each one almost twice as large as Harry's own, substantial as they were from Auror training. The stork flexed its new weapons, since there was no other term he could use to describe them, before moving to the centre of the ward.
“Ah, well... that happened.” Ron tugged at his robes’ collar, loosening it around his sweaty neck. “Hey, Harry, you remember how I told you that if I could become anyone else, I would want to be you?”
Harry nodded. It had been one of the most gratifying things ever said to him. Coming from his best mate, it meant a lot.
“Well, I take that back. There’s no way I'm going up against that thing.”
“Thanks, Ron,” he grumbled. But he couldn't blame him. Seriously, the bird was a fucking beast.
He stepped forward, standing right before the stork. It was only at that moment he realized just how tall it was. His mind must have been too frazzled to notice before. The stork's head towered above his own, and he could tell its arms would have no problem reaching his face. A soft golden glow surrounded them, encasing them in an impenetrable cage. Instantly, he could see that he was in trouble. Unlike a regular boxing ring, the space present was barely five feet in diameter. He was well and truly fucked.
The stork raised its fists, waiting for him to meet them. He tapped his own to the larger hands of the avian, instantly able to tell that they were as hard as steel. His eyes widened, realizing that there were no gloves at all. Shit.
He saw the beak move, and he was ready for a derogatory caw. Yet instead, what came out was the past thing he expected: fully formed words, with a slight Russian accent.
“I must break you.”
Well, that wasn't ominous at all.
He couldn't even see the first punch. All he heard was a whoosh of air before what felt like a battering ram smashed into the side of his face. He was thankful that he had corrected his vision through magic, since his glasses definitely wouldn't have survived. Still, he almost fell face-first into the marble floor from the first punch alone.
The second punch sunk into his stomach, forcing all the air out in one massive gasp. He felt his stomach rebel against him, and it was a miracle that his lunch didn't come spewing out.
“Ouch. Harry's ancestors must have felt that one,” whispered Ron. Fleur could do nothing but nod in agreement, holding her child close.
Harry staggered slightly, his back coming into contact with the golden barrier. He instantly jerked forward as what felt like a thousand volts of electricity arced through his body, forcing him to stumble. Big mistake.
The stork unloaded hook after thunderous hook, repeatedly hitting his face. Honestly, he was surprised nothing had...
Snap. Oh well, there went his nose. He could fix it. Right now, he was too busy being pummelled by some fucking bird that appeared to have steroids instead of blood.
He planted his feet into the ground before unleashing his own punch towards the bird. His fist connected with its neck, and he felt a temporary sense of relief, knowing that he had cut off its air supply.
That spark of joy was instantly doused when his had felt as if he had hit it against a brick wall.
The stork cackled, the sound terrifying to his ears. Dear Merlin, he could still hear the Russian undertone in the sound. He knew the laugh was going to haunt his nightmares, far more than any of the tripe Moldyshorts had come up with. He was rewarded for that frightening revelation by another vicious punch to his gut.
Ron was wincing along with each blow. “Those are some serious punches. Really, what is Harry thinking.”
“He isn't,” responded Fleur. A gleam entered her eyes. “Harry, listen to me! Go for the ribs, don't let the bastard breathe!”
Harry heard her loud and clear, but executing her command was slightly more difficult than he wished. He managed to slip by its guard a couple of times, and his punches actually felt like they were doing something. Yet, it was far less than expected, maybe it was because of the bird's natural breathing system, or maybe it was because magic decided to screw him over once more. And every time he landed a punch, the stork responded with two massive haymakers.
Fleur watched as her husband tried to gain the upper hand against the unexpected adversary. After nearly two more minutes of him getting twice as much in return as he was dishing out, she felt that it was necessary to chip in once more. “Focus, Harry! Use you head. You got heart, but you fight like a god-damn ape!”
Hey, she stole that from Mickey. Harry didn't know why he went off on that tangent, but he paid for it with another uppercut. He almost toppled over, but managed to right himself in the nick of time. He stepped back, allowing himself a moment to recover and analyse his opponent. He could tell that the stork mainly attacked him head on. From what he could tell, the creature struggled to hit sideways, and took a bit of time to turn around. That was more than enough.
He moved in, his fists raised in defence. He always stayed to one side of the stork, switching in between with a speed he didn't know he had within him. For the first time, he had the thing on the ropes, in a sense. Every punch he delivered seemed to do more damage to the stork than the one before it, and he could tell that while it was a powerhouse, it was somewhat lacking in stamina.
He could almost taste victory when he accidentally stepped into the stork's zone. He only had the time to curse his luck before a ferocious punch caught him in the liver. He dropped like a stone, hitting the floor with a resounding thud.
Ron almost leapt towards the cage, while Fleur let loose an agonized wail. It physically hurt her to see the man she loved slumped on the ground, the stork standing over him in triumph. She hated the fact that this one particular tradition had slipped her mind.
She had simply believed it to be a joke, something to explain why her father looked so beat up when he returned with Gabriel from the hospital. When she had told Harry, she had withheld the fact that until that point, she herself hadn't believed it, and from what her mother told her, her father had to train for nearly two years before he was ready to face the dreaded stork.
Something within her snapped. She rounded on Harry, yelling at the top of her lungs. “Get up, you son of a bitch, because I love you! You're not getting away from me.”
She was thankful that Ron had already applied Muffliato on her child. There was no need to add a crying baby to the already chaotic mix. Letting it stay asleep wound do just fine, thank you very much.
The stork cocked its head towards her, an arrogant gleam in its eye. “If he dies, he dies.” Damn, that bloody Russian accent wasn't going away, was it?
Harry gasped for air, knowing that he had already been down for five seconds. He had to get up. Unbidden, one of his favourite lines popped into his mind. It ain't about how hard you can hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.
He lurched to his feet, a plan in mind. The stork squawked in surprise, for once losing the Russian accent. It eyed him with those beady eyes, before lunging forward once more.
He rolled with the punches, allowing it to hit him over and over. But somehow, he ensured that none of those punches hit a critical area. For once, his plan was working, and he damn well wasn't about to lose now. “C'mon, champ, hit me in the face. My mom hits harder than that.” He silently apologized to his mother's soul for doing that, but his ploy worked. The stork was becoming sloppy in its movements, exerting far too much energy in each punch, with most of the power being wasted.
“What is he doing,” cried Fleur. “He's getting killed!”
“No,” replied Ron, recognizing what his friend was doing. “He's getting mad.”
Finally, the moment came. The stork overextended too much in one of its punches, giving him the opportunity to lash out. His fist connected with the side of its head, staggering it for the first time. He could see the shock in its face, and he relished it.
Another of his punches caught it in the side of its ribs, sending a heavy jolt through it. To his utter surprise, he could feel one of the bones snap under his fist, almost as if the previous endurance had completely drained away. He would have felt bad, but then again the same bird had been beating him mercilessly for what felt like an eternity.
His punches came in quick and heavy, never letting up. The stork was forced backward, colliding with the golden barrier. In a repeat of what had earlier occurred to him, the bird jerked as a jolt of electricity surged through it, leaving it dazed.
He planted his feet, delivering a powerful right hook to the face. He could almost hear the crowd shrieking behind him as the bird stumbled, unable to recover. He delivered another thunderous hook, almost causing it to topple over. He could tell victory was just around the corner.
His final punch was probably the most powerful and exhausting one he had ever delivered in his life. The second it connected, the stork's eyes rolled up into its skull before it collapsed in a boneless heap. He stood over it, panting. He had won. He had won.
Another bright light filled the room, forcing him to shut his eyes. When he opened them, he saw that the stork had disappeared, taking the gold cage along with it. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was finally over.
He hobbled over to the bed, feeling the soreness spread all over his body. Ron winced when he saw him. “You look like shite, mate,” the man whispered.
Harry didn't care. He could easily fix it with a visit to the healers. After all they were in the same building. At the moment, he only had eyes for the blond beauty before him, along with the small bundle in her arms.
Fleur gave him a weak smile, prompting him to give one in return. It may have hurt like a bitch, but Merlin, there was no way he could ever refuse his wife.
“I love you,” he whispered, “but I don't think I'm ready for another child yet. When we return to the bedroom, I need you to be on the charm.” She didn't even comment on him saying when and not if.
His hand slowly reached out to move the cover of the blanket away, and what he saw inside instantly latched herself on to his heart. Within the soft confines of the blanket was a face that he knew he would love for the rest of his life, with a tiny tuft of silvery-blond hair, the same as her mother's. He didn't know how he was aware of her gender; it was almost instinctual.
“She's beautiful,” he whispered. Fleur simply nodded, her eyes locked onto the baby with just as much adoration as his. “Lily. Lily Apolline Potter. For both our mothers.” Fleur smiled. “I love it. Now we just need the birth certificate to make it official.”
Harry nodded, but then stopped in his tracks. It seemed odd how the medical staff had suddenly vanished from their ward. “Speaking about that, where are the healers?”
In the very next room, a number of healers sat huddled together, watching the proceedings through a one-way mirror.
“So, who wants to tell him that we saw the whole thing,” asked the senior-most healer.
“After seeing what he did to that stork?” asked a French transfer. “I'd rather go get a Veela pregnant.”