Leap of Faith

Author's Notes: Beta-ed by the usual all-knowing triumvirate of geyer, bambu345 and alwaysjbj, with madeleone and arynwy cheerleading and alpha-reading. Extra special thanks to zanthinegirl for bringing her RL expertise to bear and giving this the once over from a medical standpoint.

A Little Victory

By Tales

The girl was wearing ankle socks and a pleated grey skirt. She smiled nervously as his agent waved her over to the front of his desk, clutching the weighty hardback book to her chest as if it were the most precious thing on earth. She laid it before him as gently as if it were a lost treasure from the famous library of Alexandria.

He couldn't help the lopsided, indulgent grin which was his response. His awareness of the magical sensations binding his golden ring to that of his wife had never seemed more acute. The band on his finger seemed to burn even hotter and itch deeper than it had for the past week. He ached for the tour to end, so that he could return to her.

"Can you make it out to Kelly, please?"

"That you?" he asked, trying to distract himself from the painful trapped wind that had been plaguing him on and off since he woke that morning. He turned to the title page and began the inscription.

She nodded, watching him through the curtain of her hair.

With a final flourish he underlined his signature at a rakish slant and turned the book back to her.

She whispered the words softly as she read them.

To Kelly,

When we read we can borrow the dreams of others.
When we love we make our own come true.

C. F. Gideon

"Mr Gideon?" The girl lifted her head properly for the first time.

"Do what you love, Kelly," he answered. "And try to be sure you channel the devotion you give to that book to causes and people who are worthy of it. Do that, Kelly, and you'll be great at whatever you do."

The girl departed to be replaced by a boy in his late teens, clutching another copy of the same hardback and two paperbacks. "Matthew, two 'T's, one 'H'."

Having learned from previous experience and hand cramps, he knew he couldn't afford to offer the same personal attention to everyone as he had given to the girl. This time he put a simple message before he passed the books back.

To Matthew

C. F. Gideon

"Mister Gideon, might ve haff a vord in prifate?" requested a familiar voice.

The author froze in the motion of reaching out for the next customer's book, his eyes widening and his mouth drawing into a narrow line. He turned to his agent. "I'll be as quick as I can."

The woman's gaze flicked back and forth between the two men. "You better be," she muttered, "or there'll be a riot." She waved over one of the book-shop staff, asking in a carrying tone if they would show Mr Gideon and his friend to the facilities.

"Even writers are human," she apologised to the queue.

Neither of the two men spoke as they followed the young clerk, who entered a number into a keypad, led them through a door marked 'Employees Only' and then down a narrow staircase into a basement. Every available wall space was lined with high, claustrophobia-inducing bookshelves, all carrying spare stock. She pointed straight ahead. "That's the gents. I'll wait here to make sure the area's secured when you leave."

"Thank you, miss. Ve will try not to take up too much off your time," the newcomer announced.

The writer's determined stride had already eaten half the length of the corridor. He turned and barked out something brusque to the other man in a language the clerk thought might be Russian. The taller dark-haired man broke into a jog, catching up with the other as he entered the toilets.

The redhead pushed open the door to the only stall, checking for other occupants before he turned to his friend, using Czech and avoiding any names as an added precaution against their being overheard. "What's wrong?"

"Ninny's waters have broken. She—"

"But she's not due," the redhead replied, as if that fact alone meant the other man had to be mistaken. "Her maternity leave doesn't even start for another week."

"That does not matter to your baby. Or to Ninny. She has sent me here to take your place, and to give you this." Viktor removed a tiny book from his pocket, a well-thumbed volume of names and their meanings. He slid it back into the pocket of his sheepskin-lined leather jacket. "Now, we must swap clothes, and you must give me your hair." He pushed the protesting redhead into the cubicle and followed him in, sliding a backpack off his right shoulder and setting it down in the corner farthest from the toilet.

"But we can't swap. My agent will know there's something wrong."

"Your agent will know that you are understandably stressed to hear that your wife is having a baby while you are on another continent. She will not expect you to be sociable." The brunette began to strip off his clothes.

"But your handwriting—" Charlie argued, even as he double-checked for a hidden camera and fingered the wand that was hidden within his sleeve, sending forth an invisible but potent blast of magic to incapacitate any nearby electronics he might have missed.

"Ninny has given me a special pen. Do you not believe that she has had a plan for such a situation?"

"How is she?" Charlie demanded as he at last began to match the Bulgarian's efforts to disrobe.

Viktor rolled his eyes. "She is Ninny. She is in pain. She is impatient. She wishes for you to be there. I have not seen her myself. I spoke to Arthur by Floo. Someone from Mysteries came to tell him as soon as Nott took her to the hospital." When he was down to his underwear and socks, he rummaged in the backpack, unpacking a sheaf of typed papers, a pen, three large hipflasks and two small plastic bottles filled with a muddy fluid. He reached up, wound a narrow strand of his hair a couple of times around his index finger and yanked it out by the roots. He then pushed a couple of hairs into each of the small bottles, waiting until they stopped bubbling and turned the deep red-orange of carnelian before re-corking one and holding the other for Charlie, who was now similarly clad.

Colour rushed to Charlie's cheeks as he realised that they wore identical black form-fitting shorts.

"Our wives go shopping together," the Bulgarian observed impatiently.

Charlie reached out for the Polyjuice, but Viktor drew his hand back as far as was possible. "First your hair," he reminded his normally cool-headed friend.

"Oh, right! The flasks. How long—" Charlie was pulling out individual strands, a task he found more difficult than Viktor as his hair was shorter and more difficult to get a purchase on.

"Your wife will explain the details. Now, sign this. With your real name." He pointed at a dotted line on the papers marked with a red tab.

Charlie frowned but did as he was told. "Why am I signing papers in Bulgarian?" he asked. "And what about the animals?"

"The owls will feed themselves, and Kňourek is with Hermione. And there," Viktor added after flipping over a couple of pages, waiting until Charlie had finished to return the contract to the backpack. He gave the redhead a sly smile.

"Because you are very grateful that I am doing this for you, and when it is all over and you have held your daughter in your arms and you come back, you would tell me this. And you would say that if you could ever do anything to repay the favour you would, and then I would tell you that Vratsa's reserve Seeker has dragon pox, and how glad I would be to know that you could substitute for me if Magda were to go into labour during a match, but this would only be allowed if you were officially a team member for at least five days before the match. And then you would say if only you had known this today, you would have made the arrangements." He touched the flask he was holding to the bottle in his slack-jawed friend's hand. "Now drink! The sooner I am short enough and you are thin enough, the sooner we can get dressed. And go with God, my friend," he added before raising the flask to his lips.

Charlie had visited the maternity wing of St Mungo's often enough as a child to find his way there without the help of the welcome witch. He didn't even bother to wait for the lift, but ran straight up the stairs. However, he faced an unforeseen problem when he tried to gain access to the delivery suite.

"Where do you think you're going?" demanded one of the Healers.

"My wife is in labour. I need to find her."

"I'm afraid you've been misinformed. We only have a dozen ladies here today, and your wife isn't one of them," the Healer insisted. "Is it possible that she might have been taken to a Muggle hospital?"

"My wife gave our friend a Portkey to bring to me." Charlie drew the book of baby names from his pocket and brandished it in front of the Healer. "The Portkey brought me to the alley at the back entrance to here. I assure you my wife doesn't make those sorts of mistakes."

"Mr Krum, don't you think that if your wife was in labour, she might have been just a little distracted?"

"Mr Krum? I'm not Mr Krum. I'm Charlie Weasley. My wife is Hermione Weasley and before you say anything else about any Muggle hospitals, she was at the Ministry when her waters broke, so I'm damned sure she would have been Flooed straight here."

"Mr Krum, be reasonable," another Healer suggested, her gaze flicking tellingly to a set of double doors. "I know you're a friend of Mrs Weasley's and you don't want her to be alone, but all the baby's grandparents are in with her—"

"Merlin's todger! You put my mum in the same room as my wife? At a time like this? They'll kill each other!" Charlie made a dash for the door the Healer had indicated.

Suddenly, there was an eldritch screeching, which rapidly had every small child within five floors howling its head off. By the time Charlie pushed open the door to see Hermione in a hospital gown, being walked across the room he had invaded, with Jean Granger supporting her on her right hand side and his mother holding her up on the other, he could hear the heavy patter of hobnailed boots.

As he paused in the doorway, Hermione threw herself at him, or at least it was a cross between that and a sedate waddle, but he closed the distance as if he had as much volition as iron filings in the presence of an industrial electro magnet.

"Love!" he sighed before he was bowled off his feet, unused to Viktor's rather higher centre of gravity. Hermione landed atop him and he craned upward to kiss her. His fingers unerringly found the gap between ties on her hospital gown and spread across the smooth flesh covering her spine as he cradled her to him. "Impatient as ever?" he asked, smoothing her curls away from her face with his free hand and dropping his head far enough to look her in the eyes.

Hermione smiled as warmly as the summer sun. "For you? Always."

"Don't you know first-time mothers are meant to carry past term?" he teased. "It isn't too early, is it?" he asked in a more serious tone.

"It's only a couple of weeks. The Healers say they think it'll be close to normal birth weight," Arthur interjected. "But we won't know for sure until she comes."

"Don't you think you should get up again, Hermione dear?" Molly gave the pair on the floor a disapproving look.

"You got my message?" Hermione sighed, giving not the slightest indication she was aware of any interruption.

"Could hardly miss it," Charlie replied. "And was it your idea for me to sign with Vratsa?"

"Magda and I worked it out together."

"Hermione," Jean protested gently. "You shouldn't be lying on your stomach like that."

"I'm not lying on my stomach. I'm lying on Charlie." Hermione's eyes didn't leave her husband's until Arthur took one of her arms and Henry took the other, lifting her and settling her against the edge of the bed. "Though to be fair, he does have a few more sharp bits than normal."

"Stay there, darling," Jean suggested as Charlie made his ungainly way to his feet. "Let him come to you."

"Sir," interrupted a gruff voice from the doorway. "You need to come with us!"

"Greg Goyle," barked Hermione, "if you even try to make Charlie leave my side, I will hex you so hard your grandchildren will have tentacles. Believe me, I know my own husband, even when he's wearing someone else's body."

"Hermione," the huge security guard answered with a whine. "The Healers say we have to put him out."

"Then, if they come in here, I'll hex them, too. Tell them to turn that alarm off. It's just a misunderstanding. He'll look like himself in an hour."

"Speaking of..." Charlie delved into his pocket and brought out a set of keys. "Mum, you couldn't nip over to the flat and grab me a change of clothes, could you? Viktor isn't going to be very happy, if I split the seams on his gear."

"But, Charlie—"

"Hermione has her mum here, and I'm sure all those Healers know what they're doing," Charlie answered.

"But—"

"Come on, dear." Arthur pocketed the keys and took his wife's hand. "We don't have all day."

"Why don't you make some sandwiches and a flask or two of coffee to bring back, while you're there?" Charlie added.

His dad gave him a wink as he looked back over his shoulder. "I'll see what we can do."

Jean smirked as her daughter tilted her head toward the door as soon as the elder Weasleys had left. She glanced at her watch. "I think we both have a sudden thirst, Henry. We'll be back in about seventeen minutes."

Charlie's smile matched that of his mother-in-law. "Is that just before the next contraction or just after it?" he asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know..."

"Oh, Charlie!" Hermione sighed when they had the room to themselves. "Don't you ever go away for that long again!"

"Not if I have any choice in the matter, I won't." He grabbed a handful of curls and used them to guide Hermione's mouth to his own, kissing her tenderly in an effort to convey how much he had missed her over the last two and half weeks.

"Blame the airlines," Hermione protested. "How was I to know they wouldn't take beached whales?"

"You are not a beached whale. You're bloody beautiful and you know it," Charlie insisted.

"I forget when you aren't here to remind me all the time," Hermione half-teased.

"Well, don't," Charlie said. "Now, am I meant to be helping you walk up and down, or should we kick Kňourek off the pillow and cuddle for a while until your parents come back?"

"You should be helping me walk up and down, but if you don't help me onto that bed and cuddle me, then... well, I just might cry, and you know I hate to be a cry-baby."

"Cuddles it is." With rather more difficulty than normal he lifted Hermione into a sitting position on the bed. "Shift, Furball," he said, scooping the cat up into his arms and depositing him on one of the plastic chairs.

"Oh! Charlie!" Hermione bent almost double as another contraction hit.

"Fuck!"

Henry Granger's gaze went from his daughter to his son-in-law and then back before he met his wife's eyes in an unspoken request that she confirm his observation.

Jean grinned and nodded, and Henry edged his way in between Charlie and his daughter.

"I'll take over from here, Charlie. You grab a chair."

"But—" Whatever he was about to say was cut off as Charlie's pained grimace deepened and all the blood drained from his face, leaving his freckles more prominent than ever. "It's my job," he ground out between clenched teeth.

"To drop her?" Jean asked. "Be sensible, Charlie. It's not as if you walking back and forward will make the baby come any quicker, and you can't support her physically, but you can't really beat sympathetic labour pains when it comes to moral support."

"You what?" Charlie demanded. "Don't be stupid. It's trapped wind. Nervous stomach. Maybe an ulcer. That's—"

Charlie and Hermione both doubled up again at the same instant, Jean and Henry keeping their daughter upright, with Henry allowing Charlie to hold onto him as well.

Jean's grin was positively evil.

"And you were so worried when they first got married that they weren't right for each other," Henry reminded his wife in an overdone wistful sigh.

"I know. Isn't he cute?"

"Mum, you know that when we're both better we'll kill you, and we can do it so they won't find a body?" Hermione enquired of her mother with false sweetness.

"Oh, I'm not too worried. By the time this is all over, you'll forget I even exist," Jean retorted smugly. "Besides, you can't afford to alienate anyone who baby-sits for free."

"Arthur! Arthur, look!" Molly's voice carried from the doorway. "I thought it had skipped this generation. I should have known Charlie would be the exception. I'll get one of the Healers to enlarge the bed."

"Not another step!" Hermione spat. "Bed."

"It'll be quicker—"

"Fuck off, Molly."

"Now, Molly dear," Arthur quickly interrupted. "Let her follow her instincts."

"Dad, take everyone to the canteen," Charlie muttered before drawing in a deep breath and holding it as he drew Hermione into his arms, her back to his chest, on the now double-sized bed. "We'll be fine alone."

Hermione twined the fingers of her left hand with those of his right and vice versa, squeezing the once-more freckled hands until there were cracking sounds. "Now I know why I'm an only child," Hermione opined.

"My mum and dad must both be masochists," Charlie answered. "Why the hell didn't either of them warn me?"

"Lightweight," Hermione accused. "You only have imaginary pains."

"Imaginary? If these are bloody imaginary, then sign me up for—" He stopped, gritting his teeth for what might have been a minute before he finished. "Luna's next Crumple-Horned Snorcack hunt."

"Count yourself lucky you don't have to squeeze out something the size of a rugby ball through a gap the size of a tuppenny piece," Hermione muttered at speed before succumbing to a stifled cry of pain.

"You think it's the physical pain I'm worried about?" Charlie demanded as the contraction eased briefly and he nuzzled his wife's hair out of the way to brush a kiss against her cheek. "The physical pain will go away, but complete and total humiliation is forever. If you think Bill and George will ever let me live this down, not to mention your damned mother, you don't know either of our families! They'll be sending me knitting patterns and calling me Charlotte."

"Mum won't say a word," Hermione protested during the next all-too-brief pause. "She thinks it's far too sweet to make fun of you for it, and Arthur won't say anything because he was the same."

"And your dad?"

"My dad is too sweet—" She clamped her jaws together and squeezed Charlie's hand until she was answered by several small crackling sounds. "To make fun of you for having an exceptionally deep bond with his daughter."

"Even when your Mum is out the room and he's been celebrating?"

"Hmm! Good point. Might as well start lactating—" She cut short her rebuttal as a woman in her forties, wearing eye-watering lime green robes, came through the swing doors.

"Hello, Mrs Weasley, Mr Weasley. I'm Healer Wenlock. I'm the senior Healer on the ward for the evening shift. The prospective grandmothers asked me to look in on you. How are your contractions coming along? Your mother-in-law said they were almost constant."

Hermione squeezed tighter than ever on Charlie's hands.

Charlie didn't bother unclenching his teeth. He just nodded emphatically.

"Hmmmm," remarked Wenlock, palpating Hermione's vastly distended abdomen. "How about this? Does it feel tender?"

"Of course it's bloody tender," Hermione hissed through clenched teeth. "You try having a damned Quidditch player trying to get out of your stomach for eight and a bit months and you'll be tender, too."

Settled as Charlie was behind his wife, Hermione couldn't see the sudden greyish tint to his complexion, but she picked up on the stiffness of his embrace as the Healer began a series of complicated wand movements.

"I'll just take a look and see how things are going." If Hermione hadn't been worried before, then the Healer's expression when she dropped the hem of Hermione's gown and straightened up would have been enough to tell her things weren't going to plan.

"What?" she demanded. "What is it?"

"There's some bleeding down there," the Healer explained as she pressed the call button by Hermione and Charlie's bed. "The signs indicate that the placenta is coming away too early."

Another Healer, this one a man a few years younger than Hermione, came in.

"Cadwallader," Wenlock said, addressing the newcomer. "We have a suspected Class 2 placental abruption. I want you to monitor Mrs Weasley while I concentrate on the baby."

The young man nodded and moved up to the opposite side of the bed from his mentor.

"Mrs Weasley, if, as seems likely," Wenlock continued, "the placenta is either in the process of coming away from the uterine wall, or has come away from it, then oxygen supply through it to the baby is likely to be affected. We have to get her out of there as soon as possible, and that means Assisted Apparition."

"Stop talking about it," Charlie snapped, "and get on with it."

"Mr Weasley," the Healer protested. "You have to understand that there are risks. The odds are in the baby's favour, if we're in time. We perform one of these procedures every three or four weeks, but there is a chance of Splinching."

"Then the sooner you do it," Hermione replied in a voice as taut and as steely as piano wire, "the more chance you have of being on time."

And that was it. One instant Hermione was pregnant, the next her squalling baby was in Healer Wenlock's arms. There were no words, she didn't even realise that she was holding her breath until seconds later. There was just emptiness.

"Mrs Weasley?" the younger Healer enquired, waiting until Hermione overcame the feeling of bereftness and nodded an acknowledgement, though she still didn't take her eyes off the bloody bundle in Wenlock's arms. "I'm just going to cast a gentle Summoning Charm. If the placenta is detached, it should be enough to draw it out so that we can assess any bleeding. If it isn't we'll just let it take its own time."

Hermione's only reply was a dismissive flick of her hand. "How is she?" she asked Wenlock in a hesitant tone.

"Her colour's good. I think we caught it in time. Ten fingers. Ten toes. And a good set of lungs. I'll just clean her up and trim the excess cord now that I can see what I'm doing. Then you can hold her."

Both Charlie and Hermione sagged in relief.

Charlie waited until the infant was safely cradled in her mother's arms before he turned his head in the direction of Healer Cadwallader. "If you've got a minute, could you have a look at my left hand before it's my turn to hold her? I think it might need some Skelegro."

Hermione turned tired eyes to where her husband cradled their daughter to his chest, skin to skin, in order to help the baby maintain body heat. "You can't keep calling her Pipsqueak, you know," she chided. "We need to give her a name before you leave."

Charlie's expression instantly switched from doting to tormented. "You know if there was any way I could stay..."

Hermione sighed. "I know, Charlie, but it's just another three days, and it's not fair to keep Viktor away from Magda any longer. For all we know, she could go into labour herself any minute."

"But I don't like leaving you until we're sure you aren't at risk."

"I'll be fine, love. I've had enough Blood Replenishing Potions to do a Quidditch team. It's not like in a Muggle hospital where they would have done a C-section and I would have had even more bleeding. We don't even know how long before she was born the placenta came away. It would only be if it had been a long time that we would need to worry about using up all the clotting agents, and I think she would have been in worse shape than she is if it had been detached for long."

"Don't start rationalising to me, Wife of Mine. You're still on bed rest. You heard what Wenlock says. They need to keep you under observation to make sure your uterus... fixes itself or in case you have any sort of haemorrhage when your system's already had so much to cope with..."

"Names, Charlie."

"Yes, love, I know, but there's something I want to say before we make any decisions on that." He swallowed, and Hermione thought that if his arms weren't otherwise occupied, then he might have cracked his knuckles. "I don't think we should have any more deliberate pregnancies."

"Oh, Charlie." It came out as a sigh, and Charlie couldn't work out whether it was disappointment at his words, or relief because she had had the same thoughts, but he had to say his piece. They couldn't ignore it.

"I know you always said you wanted at least two, but this happening once means you're in the high risk category for it happening again, and say you'd gone into labour in a Muggle area..." He ducked his head, but lifted his eyes. "I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you. It'll be years before we know for sure whether she's really alright. If there is brain damage, she might need our undivided attention. Better Pipsqueak grows up an only child, whose mother is there for her, with cousins by the bucket load and little Lena Krum to keep her company, than take an unnecessary chance. Please, love."

Tears brimmed over Hermione's eyes, clinging to her lashes and then tumbling down her cheeks, but she nodded her head. "What if we have a pregnancy that isn't planned?" she asked.

"I don't know," Charlie admitted. "Sometimes magic finds a way... If that happens, then I guess we deal with it when it comes, according to our situation at the time and what the Healers have to say, but I think when we name this little scrap, we should name her as if she's the only one."

"I don't mind if you want to call her Molly," Hermione offered. "Those sort of traditional names are quite popular again."

"Well, I do mind," Charlie answered. "I'm not sure I can cope with more than one Molly Weasley in the world, and if there's any sort of truth to names having an effect on personality, I definitely don't want my daughter turning out like Mum."

"But won't she be disappointed?" Hermione asked.

"Has she ever seemed disappointed with Victoire or Dominique or Louis?" Charlie countered. "Besides, I'll just tell her that I know Percy has always hoped he'd have a daughter called Molly."

"Has he?"

"No clue, but remember Ginny was the first witch in the family in generations and then we already have three between me and Bill. Chances of Percy having a girl, too, must be astronomical. And he probably would call her Molly if he did have one. He's still trying to make up for the war a decade after."

"Speaking of the war," Hermione added her thoughts, "no Freda, no Dora, nothing like Harry and Ginny's. I can't stand the idea of her growing up with some version of a dead person's name, or two dead people's names, like some second hand suit."

Charlie grimaced. "Luna's alive," he offered.

"And out of the six names Harry and Ginny gave the three kids, she's the only one. It's creepy."

"Agreed."

"We can't name her after Magda if they're going to call theirs Magdalena."

"What about Jean?" Charlie asked.

"What about her? Oh, I see what you mean." Her eyes narrowed and she nudged her husband with an elbow. "Hey, I'm tired. It's one of those old fashioned names that isn't so popular. Maybe as a middle name, provided we don't call her Norma."

"Norma?" Charlie's face creased, and he peered down into the baby's face as if to see why his wife thought she might remotely be a Norma.

"Muggle thing. Don't worry about it." She darted a sidelong glance at her husband. "I like Charlotte."

Charlie shook his head. "Charlotte would be fine if she turned out to be a bookish little girl. If she turned out to be a tomboy Quidditch player, we'd end up with two Charlies."

"Well, Aretha, Henrietta, Wilhelmina, Percilla, Georgina, Ronette, Harriet and, though I wouldn't say it in front of Molly, Ginevra are too ugly to live. Well, Aretha isn't ugly. It just belongs on Aretha Franklin and no one else is going to live up to it."

"Well, we sure as hell aren't calling her Muriel," Charlie said, his eyes going to his watch. "We don't need to register the birth for another week. We'll have plenty of time to think about it after I get back, you know. I should think about making a move if I want to catch Viktor at the hotel. It'll get so much more complicated if I don't get to him before he leaves the room, and I'm supposed to do some interview for the local wireless station or something."

"What about Victoria?" Hermione asked, sitting up in her excitement. "I know Bill has Victoire, but it's not as if anyone calls her Vicky, and it's thanks to Viktor that you're able to be here, and she is our little victory."

Charlie grimaced thoughtfully. "Victoria Jean Weasley," he said slowly. "And when she gets old enough to complain about me calling her Pip, I guess I could live with Tori, even if it does sound sort of American."

"You can call her Victoria, like everyone else, and no one is calling her Vicky."

Charlie pressed his chin against his chest, aiming his voice at his daughter. "Don't listen to her, Pip. It's a dad's right to have a nickname for his girl." He cradled the little scrap of humanity to him as he shifted to a more upright position. Then he passed her back to her mother, who settled her at her breast, wrapping her gown loosely around her. He pressed his lips to Hermione's forehead, and walked to the foot of the bed to tousle the fur at the back of Kňourek's neck. Then he picked up the bag containing Viktor's clothes, the Portkey and the Polyjuice.

"Three days," he promised them both.