#hphl

Ominis reclines on the sofa, massaging his head. To say he's thrilled to be expecting is an understatement – it's taken years to get pregnant, and too many nights of tears and solidarity and pushing on despite the emotional toll – but this is the one conversation he's been fearing as a result. He knew you'd object to the idea of giving the baby something simple and unremarkable. Something opposite to his own. You're so wild that your taste reflects it.

"I don't oppose wizard names," he corrects calmly. "I oppose ridiculous wizard names. We should name our son something that would fit well in the Muggle world."

"We're a wizarding family! He should have a good wizard's name. We could call him Ominis. Mini for short!"

"Do you know how many people misspell my name on a regular basis? Your own family did when we first met."

"They'd misspell Ominous too," you note, and flop down on the armchair opposite him. "It's wizarding tradition, isn't it, to name your children after someone you know?"

"We're not naming him after any of my family."

"No," you agree quickly. "But I think Ominis the Second would be so cute!"

He sighs. "I'm actually Ominis the Fourth, darling."

"... Really?"

"Some great-times-three granduncle, and before him great-times-five grandfather—" He waves. "I absolutely veto my name, regardless of number."

You huff. "Fine. Then what about my family? We could name him after one of my brothers?"

"How will you choose which one? And more importantly, how big do you wish to puff their egos?"

"Fair point."

"And we're certainly not naming him after any of our friends." The gloating Sebastian would do if they named the child after him, let alone any of your annoying companions – Leander or Garreth, for example – would be utterly insufferable. "If we name him after someone we know, he must be an exemplary person, and I cannot fathom a single someone who is worthy of that accolade."

"That's okay." Something rustles – he realises you've conjured a book. "I had a feeling we wouldn't agree, so I bought this in Diagon Alley last week."

He freezes. "Merlin help me if that's the Book of Wizard—"

"— Baby Names by Sudo Nym, yes."

That book is possibly the worst thing to ever happen to the wizarding world, published centuries ago, giving the pure-bloods ideas that it was acceptable to name their children after Greek myths or animals or letters strung together, like Apollonia or Peregrine or Marvolo.

"I thought we could go through it and find one we like."

Well, you've certainly come prepared – but he's done his research too. He waves his wand, and a sheaf of papers fall into his hands.

"What's that?" you ask sharply.

"The recent census," he says coolly, delighting in your tone, "for the most popular Muggle names."

There's certainly crossover, of course, he's not stupid – neither are you. But wizard names always have a certain eccentricity to them that Muggle names lack, and to call your child a wizard's name, especially one from that infernal book, is a blatant signal to the world about their heritage and their ancestry, and an invitation for difficulty in later life.

"Let's see." He glides his finger over the top of the list. "The first is John."

"Bleh! That's so unexciting! So plain! Whereas, the first name here is Aberforth."

"Absolutely not."

"Then how about Albus?"

"I presume you want our son to attend Muggle school before Hogwarts?"

"Of course!"

"Then you are asking for him to be bullied."

You groan – he takes advantage of the gap and skims down the list. "Here's a nice one. Harry."

You bark a laugh. "If Albus is asking to be bullied, then Harry is asking to be forgotten."

"Would a common name be so bad?"

"It's just boring, Ominis," you insist. "We're the most un-boring people on the planet. We can't give him a boring name. Oh! What about... Altair?"

"No stars. That's a Black family tradition."

"Corvus?"

"A favourite of the Lestranges."

"Ronald?"

"Sounds like an awful Weasley name. And yes," he adds quickly, "I know it's a Muggle name, too."

You rattle more off, a litany of first names, and Ominis loathes each of them for one reason or another – the name is attached to some nasty historical figure, or someone you both know, or it sounds clumsy with your surname.

"Ugh, you're not liking any of them!" The book whumpfs when you shut it. "Your turn, then, go on."

He smiles, certain he'll find something you like.

"George."

"I know about five."

"Ben?"

"Too short."

"Benjamin?"

"Too long."

"Herbert?"

"Do I really need to say anything?"

He goes down the list with increasing impatience, shocked when you reject even the most inoffensive names. It's too dull, or you know someone already with it, or it's so common your son will be the tenth in his year group and lack his own identity.

Frustrated, Ominis lets the paper fall limp. "So we want a name more wizard than Muggle but more Muggle than wizard."

"Precisely."

He might as well ask Father Christmas to be real. "Darling, I really do think it best we name him something appropriate to the world we live in now. We can't guarantee our son will be magical. What if he's a Squib? We ought to choose something we won't have to explain to every Muggle we meet."

"It's no one's business how we decide a name," you scoff. "We could name our child Marzipan and be plum dandy."

"... I can't tell if that's a serious suggestion."

"Who is the one carrying the child for nine months?"

"I am eternally grateful for that, but," he presses, "that doesn't mean I don't get a say."

"I'll allow you maybe a quarter of a say."

"I should think half is standard."

"Might be willing to bargain to a third."

"Darling."

"If you won't change your mind," you say suddenly, "then I'll just have to convince you."

"Or I convince you."

"Won't happen."

He grins suddenly. "Is that a challenge?"

You get to your feet and saunter over, leaning over him in the chair. Your low voice makes his spine trill.

"Not a challenge, honey," you whisper. "A promise."

As your belly begins to grow, you and Ominis continue back-and-forth daily on the issue. You suggest a name he hates, he suggests a name you loathe, on and on it goes. Something fun you've taken to doing over your relationship is leaving notes everywhere, written in braille for him to find, love notes, like I love you, or have a good day, but more recently they have become I LOVE the name Triton and Doesn't Athos sound brilliant?

After the third week, it becomes quite clear that you were right: you will be difficult to convince.

But difficult is not impossible.

One evening, after he's back from work and the confectionery is closed, you're squished comfortably next to him on the sofa, knitting a blanket – light blue wool, for the baby – and he's reading a novel, distracted by your chatter and the clack clack clack of your needles.

"— found some more I like from the book," you're saying. "What about Ocean?"

"Oh yes, that's delightful. Shall we name our next child Sea or River?"

"Harhar. How about Roe?"

"Delicious on buttered toast."

"Cosmo?"

"For a child or a cat?"

You snort. "You're being awfully reticent about suggesting names to me tonight."

He keeps his book open. "I have a secret weapon."

"Oh?" You laugh. "I'm sure you do, dear."

He doesn't respond, soaking in the pleasure of flippant dismissal as it slowly curdles to apprehension.

And when the doorbell rings, not five minutes later, he shuts his book and smiles.

"Better answer, my lovely wife."

When you hurry downstairs, he stands and heads to the fireplace and taps his wand twice upon it. The room shifts to cull the wizard whimsy, floating books and candles settling on the surface, bookshelves sinking back into the wall, photos going still, the gramophone silencing. Just as he hears footsteps coming back, he summons a walking stick, and tucks his wand into the shaft.

"Ominis, hello!"

Gratefully he accepts the hug from his sister-in-law, your brother's wife – very much a Muggle. "So lovely to have you, Matilda. Thank you for coming."

"I do so love seeing you both. You, young lady, ought to invite me more often!" Matilda extracts herself to scold you, then hovers near the door. "Shall I make tea?"

You start, "No, Matilda—"

"Nonsense, I'll make it. When Ominis sent word about how hard a time you were having, I knew I had to come. I completely understand how taxing it is being with child. So is deciding a name! Sit down, I insist."

She heads to the kitchen, humming.

"You, husband," you say through gritted teeth, "are a very conniving man."

He relaxes into his armchair. "I don't know what you mean, my darling."

"You know exactly what I mean."

"I'm afraid any accusations will have to wait until after our guest leaves. I wouldn't worry about exposing our magical secret with that book, by the way. I've hidden that waste of trees in the other living room."

You're all cross and huffy by the time Matilda returns with a tray, passing out teacups and pouring to everyone's exact specifications. She worries over Ominis, placing his cup within arm's reach with the handle facing his way. Ominis has never had the heart to tell her he can do this all perfectly fine himself. Let her fuss over the blind man, especially now if it will win him sympathy points.

"A name must be chosen with great care," she rattles on, settled into the armchair opposite. "I would always find a handful that you like to start, and then look into the variations. Then you'll need approval from the church. You know, it took us three months to settle with James for our boy. Sometimes you just won't know until they're here. Now." Her bag rustles. "I brought some baby name books – they're a bit weathered, but they'll do in a pinch. Name trends don't change that quickly, after all..."

By the time Matilda has forced you to scour all three books, picking out the most Muggle names possible to consider – Charles and Samuel and Walter – the sun has long since dipped below the horizon, you are weary with resignation and he is utterly triumphant. Matilda makes you keep a list of the ones you like and promises to be over again to narrow it down, although he suspects you've just noted random ones down to keep her off your back.

When she finally goes, the both of you waving at the front door as she boards a carriage, you pinch his free arm.

"I'll get you back for this."

"Will you?"

"It takes two to play games, Ominis."

"This is a hill I'm willing to die on." He leans over, maintaining an impeccable smile. "So if this is a game we're playing... your move."

"Can I speak to you quickly, Gaunt?"

Ominis rolls his lips – not for the wrong surname, which no matter how much he insists isn't his anymore everyone still uses, but for the resigned disdain of his boss, Adalbert Pimlico. He follows the man into his office, thoughtful. Adalbert. Such a pompous wizard's name.

The office is musky with cigar smoke. Ominis resists the urge to wince as he sits in the lone armchair in front of the massive oak desk, cluttered with parchments. On the outside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is a well-oiled machine, highly efficient and shrouded in a little mystery, but his initial expectations were quickly doused once he realised how the whole place was strung together with nothing but determination and shoelace. As competent as Aurors are at the physicality of their jobs, they're awful at administration and organisation. Pimlico's office is the perfect representation of that.

His chair makes that squelching noise of leather when he sinks onto it. "I won't say this isn't an awkward conversation to have, Gaunt, but I'm legally required to address it."

Ominis purses his lips. Something to do with his blindness, perhaps? Or his family?

"What is it, sir?"

"I've heard... rumour..." he lets out a sigh, "that you are being a neglectful husband."

Very rarely is Ominis rendered speechless – this is one of those moments.

"I— beg your pardon, sir?"

"There's been... an informal complaint that you have been negligent of your family," Pimlico says practically through grounded teeth. "I know you do a lot of late nights. Are you... having any issues at home? With your wife?"

What in Merlin's name...? "No, sir. None that I am aware of."

Except for the baby names, of course.

Pimlico's beard crackles as he scratches it. "I'm afraid I've heard there have been disagreements."

"Disagreements?"

"Small ones, but significant?"

His heart blunders for a moment.

No. No, it cannot be about the baby names. You wouldn't have involved his work.

Would you?

"I believe this informal complaint has severely exaggerated things," he levels, trying to rein the sudden indignation that bubbles beneath his collarbone. "May I ask who lodged it, sir?"

"I'm not at liberty to disclose that. I can only say that it comes from a place of great care for your well-being." He leans back, the chair groans. "You're a good man, Gaunt, and you work hard, but maybe ease up a bit, spend time with the wife, you know? Wouldn't be where I am without mine. I heard you have a baby on the way, too. Congratulations. Adalbert's not a bad name, if you're looking for suggestions."

Ominis' teeth grind.

Oh, you did.

"Thank you, sir. I will certainly consider it."

When he Apparates home that evening, he immediately drops his bag and coat and marches upstairs into the kitchen. You're at the counter, humming as you stir a pot of soup.

You perk when he steps inside. "Hello, honey! How was your day?"

But he seizes your hands and pins you to the wall. You let out a squeak, releasing the wooden spoon.

"O-Ominis?"

Keeping you tightly clutched in his grasp, he closes the space between you, so he can feel your bump against his torso, and brushes his nose against yours.

"You got me in trouble at work."

There's a pause.

Then your lips curl into a wicked smile.

"I don't know what you mean, my darling."

Conniving little witch. "You think I don't know that complaint was from you?"

"Complaint is such a strong word," you say, sweet voice laced with poison. "I just happened to pop around Margaret Pimlico's for tea yesterday, and maybe we talked about how hard it is to be pregnant, and maybe I mentioned how you wouldn't let me choose a wizard name for our wizard son. Whether she shared that with her husband, well... that's her business."

He laughs suddenly, which makes you go rigid.

"You think you've won, do you? One little chinwag with my boss' wife and you've defeated me?"

"Well, you wouldn't want to be a neglectful husband, would you?"

Oh, you are pressing all his buttons tonight. If he weren't so determined to change your mind he'd find it irresistibly attractive. Instead he splays your arms further apart, drags his thumbs down to the pulse at your wrists.

"You will choose a Muggle name," he murmurs into your ear. "I will make sure of it."

"You can try, Ominis, but you won't convince me."

"Don't start a battle you cannot win."

"I don't start battles," you whisper, fierce. "I start wars."

He chuckles, presses his lips to the shell of your ear. The way you shudder against him is divine.

"Then I hope you're ready for the artillery, my love, because I do not intend to hold back."

The kiss starts long and slow.

Pressed to the bed, his hands go to your hair, pulling you closer, gripping as you moan into his mouth. His tongue swirls along the seam, and when you part for him he takes his time to explore you, devour you – hundreds of times he has done this and yet there is always more he discovers. Every night you make him weak with the taste of you, as sweet and enticing as you have been since the moment you married.

You break off for air, panting beneath him. "We really should sleep. You have an early start tomorrow."

In an effort to stave off any illicit rumours of your marriage, Ominis has started going in earlier so he can come home earlier. Inconvenient, yes, but you've kicked a ball rolling down the hill that he can't quite stop.

"I should," he mumbles, lips trailing to your jaw. "But I won't."

He takes his wand from the bedside table, and nudging your wrists above your head, places a gentle kiss on your nose before he says, "Incarcerous."

The ropes bind your wrists to the headboard. You let out a gasp as he smirks.

"O-Ominis," you stammer, "I-I'm pregnant."

"As I am well aware."

He leaves his wand aside and dives down on you. Your nightgown is gossamer thin, leaving little to the imagination. As his lips leave marks down your neck, his fingers trickle down your body until he hooks beneath the skirt, and draws it up the smooth incline of your thighs.

"But—" You audibly tremble when his fingers caress gently along your inner thigh, as they trace closer and closer to the area between your legs. "W-We can't do anything while I'm pregnant."

So endearingly naïve. He takes your nightgown between his teeth to hike it up, his hands teasingly close now, whispers away from where you want them the most.

"My darling," he breathes, "do you think your body stops working when you are with child?"

"... Yes?"

He chuckles, presses a kiss to the gentle swell of your belly. Still adorably naïve. Drawing the touch lower, he breathes in close enough to smell your excitement, to feel it budding on your most intimate place. Gently he swirls over your heat, thrilled at your sudden gasp, and slips a finger inside. You whimper, clenching around him.

"O-Ominis—"

Your voice strangles as he pleasures you, slowly, lovingly.

"What do you think now?" he whispers. "Has your body stopped working?"

"N-No."

"Does it feel good?"

"Y-Yes."

Gratified, he slides another finger inside, eliciting another moan from you, and with that same, slow, agonising rhythm, soon your body starts to tense. He can feel you approaching your climax, and he pauses.

"Hnn—" You manage a small whimper. "Please."

"Please, what?"

"P-Please f-finish me."

He smiles, kisses the flesh at your thigh.

Then abruptly pulls his fingers out and stands back up, licking them clean and fixing the cuffs on his shirt sleeves.

"It was so very thoughtful of you to give me Dracula to read. I'm quite enjoying the Muggle interpretation of vampires."

"W-What?" The protesting noise you make mollifies a deep part of him. "Ominis—"

He swings around and finds the book left on the bedside table before sinking into the armchair. "I'm in the middle of the chapter, and I do so loathe being left on tenterhooks."

"That's great," you growl, "now come over here and finish me off!"

"Did you know it's an epistolary novel? That means it's written in letters."

"At least untie me so I can do it myself!"

He slides out his bookmark and traces the words to find his place. "There are some excellent Muggle names in this one too. Jonathan, Abraham... Quincey is quite sweet."

"Ominis Aloysius!" you all but scream. "You put that book down and come back here this instant!"

He rests the book on his open palm and lets a conceited smile devour him.

"I will happily pleasure you for the rest of the night, my wonderful wife," he says, "if you agree to give our son a Muggle name."

It's the perfect set-up. Short of starving you, there's nothing your body craves more than intimacy, love and sex. To deprive you of the pinnacle now will make you wild with frustration and prone to irrational decisions.

Such as caving to a Muggle name.

You hesitate – by Merlin, he feels it, teetering over a cliff edge, and he's one second away from lapping up the victory.

But then your voice comes out as vicious as a storm.

"No."

"No?"

"Wizard name," you growl. "Not Muggle name."

The plan has failed, but that's fine. He has all night to try again.

"Ah, then I'm sorry, my darling, it seems at this moment I'm feeling particularly... mmm, neglectful." He raises his wand before you can yell. "Silencio."

You instantly quiet, and he settles into the armchair to read, delighting in the way you kick the bed in frustration.

Retaliation will be fierce and swift, no doubt... but for now he will bask in this significant, and delicious, win.

"Yes... hmm... he's very healthy so far. How have you been feeling recently, madam?"

Healer Jules withdraws his wand from your belly, allowing you to fully jig on the hospital bed with excitement. "Good! Just excited!"

"And you, sir?" he enquires after Ominis, voice soothing as it has been every appointment over the pregnancy. "Your welfare is as important."

Ominis smiles earnestly. "I am cautiously excited."

"Your baby is very healthy so far, but we will continue to check up on him, given your... ah, family history." Inbreeding, he means. Ominis resists a wince. "Have you chosen a name yet? Or narrowed it down to a few?"

The temperature seems to rise. He was expecting this question eventually – but this early into the examinations?

"Not yet," you say pleasantly. "I have a few ideas, but I have yet to convince my husband."

"And the same in reverse," Ominis says, just as pleasantly.

"Well, don't fret," says Jules, "there's plenty of time. I know of some who didn't name their child for days after the birth."

At the rate you were going, you wouldn't manage to pick a name ever.

"Surprise!"

Ominis almost – almost – shrieks. It's rare when people catch him off-guard, given his senses are so attuned to the world, but Apparating straight from work, he wasn't consciously worrying about intruders or a home invasion. Voices and footsteps suddenly overwhelm him, hands clasp his back.

"Congrats on nearly being a father!" Garreth Weasley – Garreth Weasley? – chimes. "Now, I'm just saying, Garreth is a fantastic name. I'll accept it without the second r too."

"What?"

"If you choose Mahendra," says Mahrendra Pehlwaan cheerfully, "I can guarantee you probably won't meet another. Well, unless you go to India."

"Flattered," says a third voice, which he quickly recognises as Imelda Reyes. "But you'll probably have to change it to Imeldus unless you want him to get laughed at in the playground."

More voices inject into the air. Sebastian and Missy, Adelaide Oakes and Evangeline Bardsley and Arthur Plummly, Natsai Onai and Cressida Blume. Even Leander bloody Prewett is here. All of them seem to have a strong agenda.

Ominis flings out his hands. "What the hell are you all doing in my house?"

Silence. Sebastian laughs.

"Oh, the wifey didn't tell you?" There is far too much smugness that radiates from his best friend's tone. "It's a naming party! She told us you were thinking of naming your son after a wizarding friend, so we've all come prepared to tell you why you should name your child after us."

Oh, you little... "Where is she?" he demands at once.

The door opens. With perfect timing, you enter the room.

"Oh, good, you're here! Now we can really start!"

He swings to face you, teeth clenched. "You—"

"It's so nice to have a reunion with everyone after so long, don't you think?" you sing-song, and he can detect the utter feast you're deriving from his expression. "I think we should hear our friends out. Some of them have Apparated such a long way away..."

He blows steam from his nose.

"Yes," he grouses. "Fine."

You both plonk down on the sofa as each participant gives a short speech as to why their name is best. He can tell some have made zero effort – Cressida doesn't even try, knowing her name can't really be turned into a male version – whereas some (cough, Mahendra) bring whole presentations with them, complete with notecards. Forced to sit there next to you, preening, he can't even pretend to entertain the ideas thrown at him.

When it's Sebastian's turn, he stands up, but doesn't bother walking to the centre of the room.

"You should name your child after me," he says, "because I will be the godfather."

Then he sits down.

"... Is that it?" Ominis asks.

"Yep."

"That's not a good enough reason."

"It's the only one you need."

"In fact, that's a terrible reason."

"Yeah," Leander scoffs. "I mean, who'd want two Sebastians running around?"

"Coming from you, Prewett?" Sebastian says moodily.

"Leander is a great name! It means lion! You can't get more majestic!"

"Wait your turn!"

"Your turn's over!"

"I think," you say, cutting both the men off, "that both names are lovely, and we will consider them. Won't we, Ominis?"

"No," says Ominis, dragging a hand down his face.

By the time everyone leaves, it's four hours later and dark outside, and, funnily enough, he's no closer to choosing a name, even after his friends said their pieces, even after they tried to peddle their obscure middle names too. He lies spread-eagle on the sofa as you flick your wand, gathering the crumb-laden plates into neat stacks.

"I thought we established early on," he says, as you clean, "that we wouldn't name our son after anyone we know?"

"Oh, we did."

"Then why did you have this naming party?"

You giggle. "To annoy you, of course."

"Petty." He comes over, taking your chin and pressing a gentle kiss to your nose. "Is that really the best you can do?"

"After getting your work involved and now our friends? What else do you want me to do?" Your voice falters when he smiles. "What else have you got planned?"

He smiles.

The entrance to the tarot parlour appears to be suitably... mystical.

Ominis yokes his disinterest as he almost drags you, arm-in-arm, through the front door behind your two excited Muggle friends. For reasons he cannot discern beyond simple atmosphere, the curtains to Madam Sybillus' Fortune House are drawn closed, plunging the group into a low-ceilinged reception thick with heat from the fireplace, a degree too hot to comfortably adjust from the balmy weather outside. It smells of smoke and incense, so strongly Ominis has to squeeze your arm to adjust, and a bell tinkles upon the door's shutting, announcing their arrival.

"Welcome to the start of your future," comes the luxuriously trill of the house assistant.

You give his arm a squeeze and whisper, "Oh, boy, here we go."

It's a true perplexity to him how much interest Muggle women take in divining the future. For wizards and seers, it's a genuine way to predict what is to come. For Muggles, however, it's simply a fun parlour game, a way to ascribe particular happenstances to choices made outside of one's control.

"Have you booked... an appointment?" asks the assistant, fluttering her fingers outwards.

"Yes," says Lizzie, who although the calmest of the three of you cannot seem to contain her excitement. "Half eleven, under Farmer?"

"Gertrude Farmer," says Gertrude, vibrating with nerves. "Should be for the four o' us?"

"Ah, yes, I see, with the great mother of divination herself," says the assistant. "She awaits you in her parlour down the hallway. Please, go ahead."

The magical nature of your backgrounds has meant neither of you have partaken in Muggle fortune-telling before. This unwitting hole in your life experience, of course, rocked Gertrude to her core so thoroughly that she rang her local parlour to make an appointment at once, a girl's outing with one morose husband. A week later, here you are.

"Putting it on, much?" you murmur to Ominis as they head down the corridor, out of Gertrude and Lizzie's earshot. "Bet you a Galleon she'll make a vague prediction that can be applied to anyone."

"I'm not prepared to make a bet I know I'll lose," he murmurs, smirking. "Do try to enjoy it, darling. It's meant to be for fun."

"Fun? It's a scam! All stuff and nonsense!" you mutter. "I don't know why Gerty and Lizzie believe in any of it!"

The parlour itself is so oppressively enclosed Ominis feels it like fingers on his back. There are no windows and the walls are layered with yet more curtain. A large round table, draped in velvet, fills most of the room, with Madam Sybillus herself seated at the perceived head. She stands gracefully to welcome you inside.

"Please, remove your coats and bags, and make yourselves comfortable." Her voice is the musical lilt of an eastern European accent, although Ominis cannot distinguish which. "We will begin the reading at your leisure."

You sit down, obviously dubious about the whole thing. As Gertrude and Lizzie giggling profusely, you squeeze his hand, and the fortune-teller calls for quiet.

"Mrs Farmer," she says to Gertrude, "perhaps you would like to go first?"

"Yeah, aw'right!" chimes Gertrude.

"The rest of you, close your eyes. Let your energy fuse with Mrs Farmer's as the crystal ball divines her future."

You grunt but oblige; Ominis closes his eyes too. Gertrude touches the crystal ball with her nails, and Sybillus' bangles jingle.

"Hmm... yes... I see... goodness..."

Gertrude is suddenly nervous. "Goodness? What d'you mean?"

"I see... children in your future."

"Children!" she gasps. "Yes! Jacob and I will have a family!"

You snort. "Of course you will. You've been married for two years!"

"And I'm sensing..." Sybillus exhales noisily, "riches... you will have a plentiful crop this year. The weather will work in your favour."

"How did you know I was from a farming family?"

"I wonder," you scoff, "was it maybe that your married name is Farmer?"

Gertrude slaps your arm – you yelp. "Stop being a bleedin' spoilsport!"

Sybillus laughs genially. "Please, let the young lady voice her opinions. You do not believe in the magic of fortune-telling, madam?"

You blurt a laugh, still squeezing Ominis' arm. "Magic, you say?"

"Choice, fate. No matter your perception, it is all the magic of life."

"Do you actually see things in your crystal ball?"

"I do not see," she says, "I feel."

"Riiiiiight." You give Ominis' arm a firm tug. "Forgive me if I'm much more of a practical, what can I do with my own two hands, sort of lady."

"I can see that. You and your husband went through many trials to be together, did you not?"

You go rigid. "What? Er, I mean, maybe."

Lizzie gasps. "You saw that in your crystal ball?"

"I felt it. Mmmm, yes." Her bangles clink again. "You worked so hard to be together, through heartbreak, grief... death. I believe you have many more trials ahead. You are expecting your first child. Your... son."

"Anyone could've told you that," you say, but your voice is straining now. "My belly's the size of a watermelon."

Ominis rolls his lips.

"You have hopes for your child... a loving, tender family, yes... raised in two worlds as one... you wish... for him to be... a Hufflepuff."

Your grip on him slackens. "What?"

"Is that true?" Lizzie asks you.

"What the hell is a Hufflepuff?" Gertrude mutters.

You shake Ominis' arm desperately. "Did you say anything?" you hiss.

"Not at all."

"Then how— how does she know?"

"That's not all!" Sybillus gasps. "Your son... yes, I see great things from him... great things for... Frederick... perhaps Ernest, indeed!"

"Frederick?" you bleat. "Ernest?"

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Lizzie cries. "You'll choose a name!"

"Or... hmm... I'm also sensing a potential... Harold... or Leslie!"

"N-No!"

Gertrude gives a great, belly-aching laugh. "Finally! After months of you two going on and on about it! And those names ain't half-bad either."

"You must've said something!" you demand Ominis. "I-I know you did! About the baby names!"

He sighs. "I haven't spoken a word, darling. I didn't even know what this fortune-telling was until a week ago." At least, not the Muggle kind. "Perhaps there is truth to what's been said?"

"B-But—" You pout. "But it's not real! You know that! Those can't be the names..."

By the end of the session, Lizzie has also been promised that good karma will be coming her way after she volunteered at the Royal Free Hospital last week. When Lizzie confirms she was there, you're jarred into complete, mouth-ajar silence. The candles go out, and Sybillus stands to wish you farewell, and you and your friends hurry to collect your things.

"Not you, sir." Sybillus crooks her finger at Ominis. "I'm afraid the reading was not settled properly by your party."

Ominis makes a show of grumbling. "Go on, I'll catch up."

You hesitate, but head back to the reception with your friends.

When you're gone, he finally relaxes, digging into his jacket to produce a pouch, swollen with coin.

"You played your part excellently, thank you. The second half, as promised."

"It freaked her out real good, that did," Sybillus cackles – her accent is gone. "She a big sceptic, then? Most women her age get into right tizzies when their fortunes are accurately predicted."

"A very large sceptic. I appreciate that you memorised the notes I gave you."

"What a well-paying client wants me to tell, I tell, even if it don't make no sense. What's with the baby names, anyway?"

He grins. You'll figure out his scheme eventually, but for now he's enjoying the fun whilst it lasts.

"Just a little joke with my wife."

This time, when the kisses start at nightfall, Ominis doesn't relax into them. He seizes up with immediate knowing.

Still, he's happy to play along for now. Happy to enjoy the physical affection, if naught else. He tips your chin higher as your mouth moves against his, shy at first, then eager and playfully nipping at his lip. He accepts the tongue, languid and sweeping, with a flutter of desire he keeps thoroughly caged.

"Ominis," you mumble, yanking his collar down for better access.

He smiles into your kisses. "You're very needy tonight, wife."

No doubt you won't let him tie you up, lest you end up being torturously edged for the whole night again. Still, he cottons on to your dastardly plot when you fall to your knees and hurriedly go to unfasten the laces of his breeches.

He puts a hand on yours. "Darling?"

"Yes, honey?" you say, all innocent.

"Do you really think I don't know what you're doing?"

"What? Just because I'm pregnant means I can't give you a good time?"

"I didn't say that. I do know, however, that you have an ulterior motive in that clever head of yours."

"No motive!" you declare. "I just want to please you."

"Oh, I'm sure you do."

He lays back to the bed anyway, deciding to indulge you. This might be fun. Unlike how he was with you, you have no intention of going slowly, yanking his breeches and drawers away until his intimate area is all on show. Your touch makes his blood boil, but he refuses to succumb to the pleasure – because the moment he does, you'll pounce. And not in the way he wants.

You try your hardest, he'll admit. You know exactly what he likes, where to caress your thumb, when to speed up and slow down. You know his body as well as he does. Desire flowers deep in his navel, but he quashes it like crushing parchment in his fist.

"You know," he says nonchalantly, "you forgot to tie my hands."

"Don't need to."

"No?"

"I only want to please you tonight."

"So far I'm not convinced."

Your lips find him next – he lets out a groan as you slide him into your mouth, bobbing him in and out, eking out his pleasure, faster and faster. He grits his teeth, and a laugh bubbles hysterically from his lips.

"Oh, and now you're going to deny me the pinnacle. How original."

Slowly you pull him out. "I'm really trying to make you feel good!"

"It's adorable that you think you can use my own tricks against me. Is this really revenge for last time? You'll have to do better. It doesn't work if I expect it."

You're silent for a long time.

"What, no witty retort or battle cry? Or are you just annoyed I wasn't fooled for a single moment?"

The sigh that escapes you weighs heavy, like looming rain clouds, and when you stand and drift over to the bed edge, Ominis feels his heartstrings twang.

No, this is all an act. You are infuriatingly cute when you want to be, and it's a terrible trait of yours he's never been able to resist. Do not yield. His body disobeys, and he finds himself sitting up to listen to you speak.

"No, you're right... I was going to try and do the same thing you did to me, but... I just can't."

"Because you were caught," he says, raising his chin.

"Because I don't have it in me to play cruel tricks," you mumble.

Damn it. Another twang, this one stronger, making him want to pull you in for a hug. Ominis has always been protective of you, possessed with the natural inclination to keep you happy and safe. Perhaps it's in his nature, perhaps it's simply you, or perhaps it's everything you have been through together to get here, build this slice of peace in a desolate world. He physically feels his resolve crumbling, this petty rivalry between you over the last few months dissolving into a ghost of what it once was.

"I love you, darling," he says, and he caves, pulling you close, letting you tangle your fingers in his back. "That will never change, no matter what we name our child."

"I know."

"I didn't mean to insult you, I'm sorry. Have I taken our game too far?"

You sniffle. Merlin, tears? Now he feels really guilty.

"I just love you a lot, honey," you whisper into his chest. "I want our son to have the best name possible."

"He will."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

He feels something slide up his chest, and he moves to palm it – parchment. Briefly his fingers skim the top. Endymion. Drago. Magnus.

"Then here's a list of my favourites," you say brightly, all trace of sadness gone. "You pick one and let me know, okay?"

"Wait, what?"

You slide out of his embrace and skip out of the bedroom, humming.

You had him. Oh, you really had him.

"I'll get you back for this, darling!" he yells.

"No you won't!" you sing delightedly.

No, he won't.

Not yet, at least.

"You still haven't chosen a bloody name?"

One mild day in the buds of spring, when you're at an appointment with Healer Jules and he's covering the shift at the shop, Sebastian leans against the counter, sucking a lollipop and flicking through the Book of Wizard Names by Sudo Nym. Apparently he's grown a beard now. You say it looks distinguished; Ominis suspects it looks scruffy.

"No." He slams the till drawer shut with frustration. "She still refuses to acquiesce."

"You two have been at this for months now. Even I'm bored of it."

"Yes, well, we're stubborn."

"Brick walls are stubborn. You two are obstinate." The book shuts. "Can't you just name him Sebastian and be done with it? It's a good name to cover both wizard and Muggle ground."

"No." Ominis massages his face. "Did you know her compromise suggestions were place names? She argued Hangleton might appeal because it's a Muggle town and I was born there. Hangleton! And then she had the gall to suggest foreign places, too. She liked Florence."

"Florence? For a boy?" Sebastian laughs. "I guess you should be grateful she didn't suggest Hogsmeade."

God help him if you do. "I'm at my wit's end. Can you talk to her? Or can Missy?"

"Nice try, but that's all on you." He sighs, runs a hand down that distinguished-scruffy beard. "Here's an idea: you try convincing her the normal way, by explaining why the names you want are better than Endymion, Drago, Magnus and bloody Hangleton."

Should he even need to explain the absolute obvious? His chosen trio, William, Edward and Michael, are classic, understated and inoffensive. They blend seamlessly into both Muggle and wizard society. They don't raise eyebrows. Most importantly they don't make people choke back their laughter. Is it wrong to wish normality for his son? Ominis doesn't think it is. The more he blends in with his peers, the better.

But that's exactly what you don't like. You don't want anything absurd, granted, but there's an inherent magnificence to your chosen trio of names that he thinks will stick out far too much. You want him to have that wizard uniqueness that Ominis, a bearer of one such unique name, despises to the fiery pits of the earth.

It's an impasse. A stalemate. An unstoppable force meeting an immoveable object. And it will keep going until one of you stands down.

But Ominis refuses to give in.

"Whatever." Sebastian stretches, yawns, and takes a long slurp of his lollipop. "I hope you chose before the damn party, though."

Yes, the last hurrah before you're officially parents. It'll be a nice spring get-together with all your friends and family – Muggles and wizards alike. He was hoping to announce that you'd made a decision by then, but with the party days away, that goal seems impossible.

Unless someone yields... to public pressure.

"Oh no," says Sebastian, reading the calculation on Ominis' face. "What the hell are you planning now?"

A smile grows on his face.

It's harder than Ominis thought it would be to host a garden party. Especially when half the party are wizards.

The back garden is modest, only about ten metres long and as wide as the house. Varnished wood runs the perimeter in a rigid oblong, interrupted only by a gate at the back, which connects to a delivery road. A pavestone path lines the fence on the right, and the rest is simple lawn, freshly mowed for the occasion. A fair few people have come along to celebrate, and Ominis has had to discreetly clone more garden chairs to accommodate.

It's quite a strange sensation, to have the two communities come together, the merging of magical and Muggle. The last time he felt this jarred was his wedding. He's told his magical friends and colleagues to behave, and they know the laws, of course, but he's still wary Pimlico will forget that Auror is called the police here, or that Garreth will spike the Pimms with gigglewater.

You waddle outside, holding a tray of empty glasses with one hand and cradling your belly with the other. Ominis hurries to take it from you, lays it on the outdoor table.

"Don't strain yourself, darling."

"Am not," you say, but you wince. "Baby's just being wriggly."

"Takes after his mother," he says fondly.

He fetches you a chair and you sink gratefully into it. Less than a month until the due date, and now mostly you complain about your aching back and breasts, and swollen, sore feet. He's taken on a significant portion of the housework to assuage the physical load on your shoulders, even though you claim it's easy enough to wave your wand. He must ensure there is nothing for you to stress about; it is his sworn duty.

Your parents come over. Since their second grandchild's announcement, they've been fussing over you and your health, and Ominis too, offering to cook him things or take extra shifts at the confectionery. He politely rejects them all, although he can't begin to express how grateful he is to have family who truly cares. After all these years, the feeling is still novel and beautiful.

"Cake's ready," says your mother, with a strange pitch to her voice. "Ominis, sweetheart, have you sat down once since the guests arrived? Even hosts must rest."

"I'm about to fry another batch of pork sausages," he says, waving their concern away. "Leander and Jacob keep inhaling them all."

Your father coughs gruffly and lowers his voice. "You can't have your... magic thingamajig do that?"

"It doesn't work like that, Papa," you say, exasperated.

"Truly, it's good to keep busy," Ominis says. "I'm fine, I promise. And thank you both for the cake."

Your father makes another gruff noise and looks away. Your mother touches his shoulder with affection – but her lips curl. She sounds like you when she's hiding a secret. "You're welcome, son. I've brought it down to the stockroom for easy access. Do you need us to do anything else?"

"Only one thing – what time is it?"

"Ah..." Your father pulls out his pocket watch. "Just gone two."

He smiles. Plenty of time.

The party continues in full swing. Many bring presents, although unnecessary, for the baby, books and toys and clothes. Ominis stores them in the house to unwrap later. Sebastian starts a round of croquet, a snug corkscrew of hoops within the limited space; Missy gets competitive against him, along with another one of your friends, Jane, and Nell from the local church. He tops up the sausages as you mingle and let people touch your bump. A surge of affection runs through him when he hears you laugh. It's been difficult, but still you embrace every moment with incandescent joy and gratefulness.

At about half-past, he finds you and peels you free from your host duties, finding a moment to share a brief kiss in the stockroom.

"What's this for?" you ask.

He hums idly, slides his hand between yours and squeezes. "Simply appreciation for you. Shall we bring the cake out?"

"So early?" you say. "If you really want to do it now."

"Why wouldn't I want to do it now?"

You don't answer. You only beckon him to the shelf, where you parents have left the cake ready to go.

Except – it's not one cake. It's three.

Strange. What on earth would you need three cakes for? You have a sweet tooth, yes, but this is excessive. You stifle a giggle, deep in your throat, and suspicion laps across his contentment as a wave rinses the beach.

"Something the matter?" you ask – again, that twinkle.

It triggers more doubt. Three. It's not just a cute, satisfying number. Three has meaning.

"What have you done?"

You sing-song, "Nothing!" and fit the cakes onto the trolley. "Help me take this outside."

Arm woven with yours, he wheels the trolley out to the garden. As the guests make a hole, delighted noises cut deeper into him, as loud as a chorus of warning bells. Wordlessly he helps you to table all three cakes.

They are not plainly decorated, like you said they would be.

"These cakes," you announce, "are named after three of the names Ominis and I are deciding upon!"

A stone drops into his gullet.

You didn't. You wouldn't.

"The Endymion cake," you gesture to the first "is a delicious blueberry and lemon."

He goes rigid. You have.

"The Drago cake is chocolate," you say about the second, "and this last cake, the Magnus, is Victoria sponge. Don't worry, you won't forget which one is which, because I've iced the names on the top."

The guests clap and clamour around, arming themselves with plates and forks. In the midst of it all, Ominis stands utterly still, reeling in the total loss of the moment – the loss of words, the loss of momentum, the loss of the fight, practically smoke in his fingers. You have announced your three names in such a public way, that for him to deny them now would be social catastrophe.

You truly are conniving, truly are clever. It's irresistibly hot, albeit infuriating, how you have bested him.

His grip on the walking stick tenses. You giggle and yammer to the guests, but he can feel your eyes on him, triumphant and smug with the victory.

But it will be short-lived.

You meander your way towards him at the buffet table, plate in hand, slices from all three cakes piled on top.

"Would you like some cake, husband?"

"I shan't partake, wife," he says coolly. "However," he leans down, just for you, "if you're not careful I might like to ravish you instead."

You shudder, and it's delicious. "For winning?"

"For coming so close to outwitting me. It's very attractive, I'll admit."

"Oh, Ominis," you pet his arm, "you can't even hope to beat this."

"My sweet," he responds, "I don't need to hope. I know."

"Look!" calls Gertrude, in sudden shock and awe. "What's that in the sky?"

She points, and as the party follows her gaze, Ominis instead pours himself a large glass of Pimms. Perfectly timed, as he is wont to be. Drawn towards them on a generous breeze, the great amorphous shapes floating from the north become an enormous hot-air balloon – three enormous hot-air balloons, dyed a rich blue like upside-down teardrops, with his chosen names, William, Edward and Michael, sewn in bold letters vertically down each parachute.

As realisation of the balloons' purpose sweeps the party, cheers erupt from the guests. Your Muggle friends clap, your wizard friends raise wine glasses and toast. In that moment he wishes he could see, if only to steep in the delicious shock-horror that has unhinged your jaw.

"You—" You swing to face him, positively puffed up. "You—!"

Ominis smiles and sips his Pimms.

"Me."

You tense up, like you're about to scream, but instead you pull his collar down.

"You copied my idea."

"I had no notion what you were doing. Perhaps you copied me."

"I didn't know you were doing that either!" You scowl. "You're lucky you're hot when you're being evil."

"Should I take this as acquiescence?"

You kiss his nose quickly, and smile.

"No."

Blast. How could that not have worked? His idea is bold, dramatic, inviting in its grandiosity. Your idea is quaint in comparison!

But his mistake comes through him in a cold prickle. If the cakes have names and the balloons have names, and both were displayed practically at the same time, then all the guests are going to think the spectacle planned. Worse, they're going to think it a game. He scolds himself. Foolish Ominis. If only he'd known of your attempted sabotage before he brought the cakes out. If only he'd listened to his instincts beforehand!

He makes another round of polite chatter, listening to the guests obliviously speculate on which of the six will be chosen. He can barely focus on anything else that's said. After everything, all the work he's done, all the favours he called in and the money he paid in such a short amount of time – and still you have not been swayed.

And after all the work you put in, too, neither has he.

You remain as you are, as he does. An impasse. A stalemate. An unstoppable force and an immoveable object.

Sebastian is right. You are both so stubborn.

And if that was his last try to change your mind, what is he supposed to do now?

Ominis' son arrives early.

Neither of you are expecting it. Both of you are tired, you from a particularly hard day running the shop, him from a particularly hard day running Auror errands, so you're settled into the sofa with your embroidery as Ominis tidies the house. Your due date is in a week – far enough away that it looms, but not with immediate panic.

Suddenly you go rigid and sit up.

"Oops."

"Hmm?" he asks idly. "Something the matter?"

"I think I've just had a little tinkle," you say sheepishly. "Bit embarrassing, but don't worry, I'll clean it up."

Ominis faces to you at once.

"Darling," he says, "have you been feeling incremental pains in your belly?"

"Well, yes, but I think it's just that stew we ate. I told you the meat was off."

Merlin's beard. "You didn't pee. That's your water breaking."

"My— ohhhh." You laugh suddenly. "Well, thank goodness for that! Here I thought I wet myself!"

He doesn't even have the time to facepalm. He's grabbing his emergency away bag, ramming some shoes onto your feet, and Apparating you to St Mungos. All thoughts about baby names and underhand attempts to change your mind evaporate when you go into the labour ward, whimpering about how much more frequent and painful the contractions have become.

"Would you like to stay with your wife during labour?" asks Healer Jules. "I understand if not. It can be quite stressful."

"Of course I will," Ominis says, offended at the very notion.

It takes some time until your body is fully ready, but before long Jules and the other healers start the birthing process, encouraging you to push in time with your contractions. He squeezes your hand all throughout. Eventually they feed some potion down your throat to dowse the pain, but it also makes you a little delirious. At one point you seize his shirt and yank him inches from your face.

"You will never put that thing of yours inside me ever again!"

"Y-Yes dear," he says, nonplussed.

Even with the potion, you shriek and scream and cry, sounding like you're been in the worst pain you've ever experienced, worse than Crucio, worse than the curse. It makes him feel guilty and helpless, but he knows all he can really do to help is be there.

"I-I can't... I can't do it..."

"Yes you can, darling. You're doing really well. Keep pushing."

He thinks of the many nights you tried to get pregnant, the many days spent in disappointment when your monthly bleeds came. He thinks about the minor spats over baby names and what colour to paint the room and which house you think he'll be in at Hogwarts. He thinks of the small joys, assembling the crib, completing the knitted blanket, the excitement, the anticipation of becoming a family of three. All of it strengthens Ominis at your bedside, all of it gives him hope as you continue to push.

And soon, before he realises it, a baby cries.

It's the most wonderful sound in the world.

"Congratulations," says Jules. "A beautiful baby boy."

Jules cleans him up and swaddles him in cloth, then hands him to you. Ominis can't quite manage to catch his breath, nor tame his racing heart. You're parents now. He's a father.

"Do you want to hold him, Ominis?" you ask.

His hands tremble when he accepts the child – his child – into his arms. You adjust the hold so the baby is comfortable, mewling and squirming and a bundle of warmth. Carefully he reaches around to feel his little face, the tiny nose and cute lips and the very wet tuft of hair sprouting on the centre of his smooth head.

"Hello, little one," he says, grinning so widely it hurts. "I'm your papa."

"He looks just like you."

"Really?" Ominis almost laughs. "He sounds just like you."

You laugh – and it's up there with the most beautiful sounds. He can't describe how deep the gratitude goes for you, for carrying and birthing the child. Despite everything you've gone through, all the disagreements and the pain and the loss, he knows you'll both be okay.

"You may still experience some contractions before the placenta comes out," Jules says softly, after cutting the cord. "But I will give you five minutes."

The healers leave you in peace, and Ominis knows. It really is time now.

Time to choose a name.

In the silence, he thumbs the baby's little hand, relishing the smoothness of his skin and trying to think of a name he likes that suits. William, Edward, Michael... Every choice runs through his head, but now that his son is here, in physical being... none of them are perfect.

"I don't think he looks like an Endymion," you mumble quietly. "Or a Drago, or a Magnus ..."

They seem too grand, too garish, for the boy, but loath as he is to admit, his choices are too plain for his son too. Ominis tickles his stomach, delighting when the baby wiggles.

"Nor any of mine," he admits. "That leaves us rather without a name though."

"Yeah..." The baby gurgles. "Let me?"

He passes his son back to you. "After all that, and we still can't decide."

"Gosh, we should be able to just pick one, don't you think? There are billions of names... surely there must be one we both like."

When Jules returns, you are sitting in a scrunched sort of silence, as if every word that wants to be spoken feels crumpled and unworthy of the occasion, of the decision.

"If it's all right," he says calmly, "I'd like to run a few routine checks to ensure the baby's health."

You nod, passing the boy over. His eyes are squeezed shut, yet the corner of his lips twitch as Jules beams over him.

"This might tickle, little one," he coos, wiggling his wand over the child's belly. Mumbling spells too long and complicated for Ominis to understand, the boy instantly relaxes, as if that soothing voice is a balm for agitation. After a moment, Jules passes him back to you. "Preliminary checks seem good, I can detect no issues. He's a very healthy boy."

Something shifts deep in Ominis' chest. It feels as though lightning has struck.

"Thank you," he croaks.

"It's my pleasure," Jules assures. "Is everything all right?"

"Could we—?" You seem to compose yourself. "Please can we have a little more time alone?"

"Of course."

Jules exits again, leaving you both on a precipice that pulls taut as thread.

Ominis is the first to fall.

"Jules is a nice name."

"I was thinking that too," you murmur. "It's not too Muggle."

"Nor too wizard."

"Not very common."

"Sounds nice."

"Named after someone exemplary we know."

"But very pronounceable."

"Ominis." You laugh suddenly. "Did we just agree on a name?"

He reaches out both hands – the first, touching yours, the second, a finger, being grasped gently by his new-born son, Jules.

"I... think we did."

Fin.

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