Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its recognizable characters, settings, etc., belong to JK Rowling and her publishers, not to me. I own nothing, I'm making no profits, please don't sue.

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This is it. The very first day in my life as a Muggle. I spin once more before the mirror, not convinced I've gotten this quite right - the blouse looks too tight, and I can't help but feel ridiculous in trousers. I can remember how proud I was, once upon a time in another life, to get my first set of big-girl robes. It hardly mattered that they'd been Ron's first set of big-boy robes first.

I won't think of Ron today; Fred and George are my only brothers, and we are orphans. Today is the first day of my life. I have no mother, no father, no past. The war killed them; that they are still breathing somewhere is irrelevant. A clerical error in fate. They are dead to me. I am dead to them. A whole world died in that war.

I feel the faintest of flutterings, just below my navel, and press sweaty palms to the slight rounding of my belly. My hands are hot against my own skin through cloth that feels too thin to be decent. The baby kicks again, probably catching Mummy's nerves.

"You think we look okay?" I ask my belly. "Do we look sufficiently Mugglish to convince your uncles' customers?"

"No," says a smoothly drawling voice over my shoulder, and I jump, tense and easily startled. Larger, paler hands settle over mine. A pointed chin settles on my shoulder.

"She's kicking," I say in a whisper; his fingers fold through mine, moving over my abdomen, at once soothing and arousing, further nerve-jangling.

"You don't look like a Muggle," he murmers in my ear, prying a hand loose to press it flat over my belly. He's tall, long boned, and I am small and slight. I had a brother Percy once, who I resembled. His hand covers the rounding of my stomach completely, and I can hear the slight catch to his breath, beside my ear. He's not quite holding his breath, but nearly.

His daughter obligingly kicks. His breath sucks in, and I smile; it shocks him every time. He was an only child, before; his nearest relatives lived in France. He's never been this close to a pregnant woman, and he keeps looking at me like he's not sure I'm real.

Maybe it has nothing to do with the baby, but it's easier to think of it that way. More normal. I can't when he's waking up in the middle of the night screaming. The brothers I don't have did that to him; tortured him. But here in the light of day, that never happened. Here, now, this is our daughter just learning to move; stretching her legs in the small world of my body. This is what shocks him, makes him go tense. Life. Not death. Not the war. That is over.

"I'm *supposed* to look like a Muggle," I point out. "George is gonna be pissed if I look too wizardish. *I'm* going to be pissed. We can't stand out, there are some real magic folk here -"

He snorts; "Mudblood pretenders -"

"They could still expose us," I argue.

"Fine, you look like a Muggle," he says grudgingly, and kisses my neck. "To everybody else, you'll look just like a Muggle."

"So what's giving me away to you?" I press, determined; I cannot slip today.

"You are," he says unhelpfully. "Don't worry, no one else will see it, certainly not a bunch of brainless Muggles."

Today is the first day of our lives.

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