Your Harry Fantasies.

It hadn’t meant to turn into a fight.
What had started out as Harry reminding you that he was leaving for LA the following weekend, had turned into a fight that had you letting everything out. Your voice reaching a volume that Harry was unfamiliar with, your hands beginning to gesticulate and accompany the words rolling off of your tongue, and had fire behind your eyes – to Harry, you always had a light, a shine if you will, that had almost taken a permanent home behind your coloured orbs – that had Harry confused at the sudden change of emotion.
You’d understood why he had to take the trip out to Los Angeles when he’d first told you, a sweets smelling and newborn baby tucked into your arm as she suckled on your nipple and filled her tiny belly with food that she was craving, his figure settled beside you as he scrolled through his emails and explained the trip was for a talk for his new album. Signing contracts, getting the gist of what was about to swallow him up in a whirlwind of production and studio-work, and chatting fondly and throwing dates around for when his very first album would be finished and put together, set to release in stores worldwide.
You’d understood back then.
It was his job; and he’d promised to do more production at home, writing in his office and practicing with the tune on his guitar, to help you with Persephone and to ensure he was splitting time between your small baby’s cries for attention and comfort and a change of her nappy after a full-belly sleep.
But, after 3 weeks of sleepless nights and early mornings and a balance of your hormones levelling out in your body, you found everything to become irritable.
The smallest of things would have you erupting with every emotion possible.
And it wasn’t the first fight or bicker that the two of you had had, induced by tired minds and frustration.
Arriving home for the first time since taking a couple of days stay at the hospital, watching as your husband held the carrier tightly in his fist with the baby-bag slung over his shoulder and his head ducked down to catch a glimpse at the sleeping little girl tucked up beneath a knitted blanket his mother had made, you felt like the luckiest girl in the world. You felt complete – a husband and a baby, with a home fitting snuggly to the three of you.
However, by the time the evening came around, and you’d pumped more than enough milk to last the night, you’d found he’d been a little too clingy towards the tiny little being settled upon his chest. Throughout the day, he’d made sure that he was there to tend to her to make sure you got as much rest and sleep as possible; holding her close, taking photos no matter what she did, and you’d catch him every so often as he’d step foot through the living room, humming soft songs beneath his breath and chattering away to the baby who hadn’t yet to come across what he was waffling on about.
Settled beside you after a day of showing Persephone around her home, his body was clad in nothing but the jeans he’d worn that day to pick you up with his chest was bare and his feet were propped up on the coffee table, his eyes focused upon the TV playing a movie you’d picked to take away your attention from the numbing feeling taking over your chest – and much to Harry’s disliking, it was a movie that you’d make him sit through more than enough times in the past. You’d caught him shuffling around and moving his hips slightly in the corner of your eye, a indication that the cups of tea and coffee he’d made to keep him awake had taken a toll upon his bladder, forming an uncomfortable feeling at the pit of his stomach.
With an offer to take the baby from him for just a few moments, to feed her and to let him empty his bladder before he came back and settled down again with the both of you, he’d politely declined and promised you that it wasn’t a danger zone and that he was hours away from almost and very nearly wetting his jeans.
And a small bicker had commenced over time being spent with your newborn – you’d complained about not getting to tend to her, he’d complained how you’d gotten to feel her for a full nine months, you’d rebuttled and told him that just because you’d carried her, it didn’t mean that he could get in more time now she was in full baby form – your voices hushed to keep Persephone quietened against his chest whilst the gap between you both on the sofa kept getting bigger and bigger with each statement the other had to project.
Yet, it didn’t take long before you kissed and made up.
Settling the sleeping baby in her carrier, tucked up and swaddled in her blanket, he’d gone about setting the pumped bottles of milk into the empty shelf in the fridge and cleaning up the last of the washing up from dinner, letting you relax on the sofa and having a bonding moment whilst he made sure everything was in tip top condition before you moved upstairs to cosy down for the night.
This was the biggest fight the two of you had had since your daughter had been born.
With one point after another, it seemed to spark up more and more things to argue about – something that started as a fight about LA had suddenly turned into a fight about friends that had then turned into Harry leaving for a couple of hours so the both of you had time to cool down without getting under one another’s skin. Doing small things that would set the other off, saying something that would bring up the heated bout again, making it worse than it needed to be.
He’d left with a huff and a grunt, his keys in his hand and a beanie on his head, followed by a bang of the door behind him as he gave it some gusto to shut. His mind centered on one person and one person only, the only person he could really go to when it came to relationship troubles and a trusted view; his sister.
“Harry, what are you doing? You should be at home,” she grunted with a yawn, pulling open the front door and catching a glimpse of him in his stained t-shirt and a pair of sport shorts that he’d thrown on that morning, “why are you here at 10? What do you want?”
“I need to stop off somewhere tonight,” Harry sighed, rubbing his face and groaning into his palms, “we had a fight and I just can’t stay there right now. Persephone won’t settle, (Y/N)’s getting hormonal and she’s driving me nuts right now. I honestly can’t stand it.”
“Harry,” Gemma sighed heavily, stepping aside and letting him step foot inside the porch way, turning on her heels and walking towards the kitchen, “come in. I’ll make you some tea and get you a jumper of Michal’s.”
“M’fine, honestly. S’not that cold out there,” Harry grumbled, kicking off his shoes and letting them fall in a heap of suede in her porchway, “we just kept fighting, and fighting, and fighting. One thing lead to another and I just had to leave before I said something I regret. She didn’t stop me from going either. I think she knew we needed a little separation tonight,” he added, his feet pressing against the tiles of her kitchen as he made his way towards the island, sitting himself down on a stool.
“What were you fighting about?”
“LA. She knows that I’m travelling out there next weekend, to start off the talk about my first album and all that. She was all for me going when I told her, telling me that I was going to do so well and that she couldn’t wait for me to come and tell her about what’s to come,” he dropped his elbows to the counter and cupped his cheeks in his hands, “but tonight, when I reminded her that I was going and told her that I might need to borrow her suitcase, she blew up and just erupted into this angered person that was no way my wife. Told me that I shouldn’t be going out when we have a newborn baby to look after, because she needs my help and that she can’t do this on her own. Then she started talking about how Jeff and the guys out there always demand for me to go out and visit them and that I was just giving in to them because I need time away from everything here,” Harry sighed, his eyes sullen and dull and staring ahead as he watched Gemma pour water into his mug, “I’m not going out to meet Jeff or James or Ben. I’m going to the record label, meeting them and coming back a couple of days later with all the paperwork.”
With a spin on her heel and two mugs in her hand, Gemma proceeded to make her way towards the island her younger brother was settled at, pushing a mug across to him and watching as he took it in his hands. A smile on her lips as she reached for the sugar pot situated beside the fruit bowl.
“Harry, look,” she started, “you need to remember that you’re both tired and sleep-deprived, and you have a baby that is now part of you both. You don’t have what you had before as just the two of you. I can see it on your face; you look absolutely exhausted.”
He was tired.
He’d found himself, more than enough times, falling asleep at his laptop when he was halfway through emails. Head tilted down to his chest, chin taking home at the top of his chest as soft snores and wheezes left his throat.
You caught him, more than once or twice, zoning out of focus with drooping eyes coming to a close as you explained to him about the spit-up blanket you needed from Persephone’s bedroom to continue with burping your daughter. Nodding absentmindedly as he tried his best to pry and keep his eyes open to hear the last of your sentence, but giving up when his eyelids met.
He was extremely tired.
And, deep down, he knew that a trip to Los Angeles would make him worse, with the jet-lag after a long flight and a time difference as well as no time to relax between meetings and paperwork collection and contract signing.
“You’ve got a little baby to look after, keeping you up every night and taking your attention away from one another,” she continued, picking up the spoon sitting in her mug and dipping it into the pot, bringing a spoonful over her mug and stirring in some sweetness to the hot beverage, “I see where she’s coming from, if I’m going to be honest, Harry. She needs you home with her, looking after her and your baby, helping her when she needs it and taking over the night feeds and everything when she gets too run down,” Gemma admitted, truthfully and behind the rim of her mug, steam wafting up from within her cup and engulfing her face with warmth, “But, she’s tired. Sleepy. Deprived of what she had before Persephone arrived. Her emotions are going to change like crazy right now, balancing out and levelling up.”
He knew she was right; deep down, he knew what was happening with you, with him and with everything happening in the house around his sleepy vision and drowsy mind.
To him, when was Gemma ever wrong with her advice?
With a moments silence between the two of them, and a few gulps of tea, Harry perked up. His mug sitting in front of him, his fingers curled around the outside and his pointer fingers tapping loosely and out of a consistent rhythm, his feet swinging beneath him.
“What do I do, Gemma? I can’t just cancel this meeting out in LA. I’m out there for 4 days before I fly home, she was so understanding about how important it was and that this when I told her a couple of weeks back, and then she just exploded on me and we fought. The biggest fight we’ve had since P’s been born,” Harry puffed out, dropping his head down and looking at the coffee-brown liquid in his mug, “I’m confused with her. I love her, and I don’t want to be this way, but I just don’t know what to do with her and these outbreaks.”
“Harry, go home, yeah? You shouldn’t be here with me, drinking my tea and muttering slurs about her that you don’t mean. You need to go home and work through this.”
Work through this.
He could do that; all he hoped was that a tired wife would cooperate with him.
* *
He’d been gone for a good few hours.
3 hours, to be exact; enough time for you to cool off, enough time for you to realise that, just maybe, you’d erupted on him more than you should have, and enough time to realise that this was his job and, with the benefit of his home office and the allowance of being able to write at him, he was entitled to a few days out to benefit his career.
He’d been on paternity leave the moment you’d gone on maternity leave.
In retrospect, he’d been free from hectic work schedule with One Direction since the December of 2015. Focusing on his own material since then with the photoshoot for Another Man and Dunkirk being filmed as well as the promotional aspect of things occurring in the 2017. You’d taken to finding him hovelling in his home studio more than ever, hunched over his laptop or staring down at his journal with a pencil in his hand or set between his teeth as his mind wracked for the next lyric.
The moment you’d fallen pregnant, he’d taken the nine months more casually. Going into his office for an hour in the evenings when you’d fallen asleep after a day of carrying a large bump between your hips, and, organising meetings when he had the free time to attend them around baby shopping and doctor’s appointments and birthing classes you’d signed the two of you up for. Strumming his guitar and benefitting the both of you in the long run; he could throw around some chords and sing lightly, and, you could sit back and let him soothe the kicking of legs and the punching of fists causing a storm in your womb. Tending to your needs and your cravings and making you what you fancied in the middle of the night without the worry of having an early morning phone call, demanding he go in and show off to his producer what he’d been working on.
You needed him home.
As heart-wrenching as it was for you say and think, your daughter really was a daddy’s girl.
Settling down on his chest, subsiding her cries when she heard his voice, behaving as well as a newborn would when she was around him, taking the teat of the bottle when he coaxed it between her lips and giving him a crumpled expression of amusement and holding his fingers when he’d settle her in her bath to bathe and cleanse her from the day.
You had the mothering touch; you were the one she’d grown inside of, the one who fed her and drank for, the one who looked after her and took responsibility for, and you were the one who gave her life.
But Harry had the fathering touch.
“Poppet, please,” you cooed, your hand cupping beneath her bum as she cried and mewled into your neck, her moist cheeks and leaking eyes wetting your skin and dampening the t-shirt that you’d thrown on that morning, “please, please, it’s okay, I promise. You’re alright. Daddy’s going to be home soon, I promise. I’m sorry we woke you up, I really am. We didn’t mean too,” you whispered softly, your cheek tilted down and resting upon the top of her head.
The soft tufts of her brown hair tickled at your soft and tear-stained skin; and, without catching your appearance in a shining surface, you were sure you had make-up stains and mascara trails painting your cheeks with blotching skin and colour changes of upon your face and jawline.
Persephone’s cries intensified, her mouth gaped wide open and her breath fanning across your skin with each mewl that left her throat, your heart aching at the sound; contradicting from the feeling you’d felt when you’d first heard her cry sound after minutes of pushing and grunting and bringing her into the world.
“Sweetheart, I don’t know what the matter is,” you whispered, your feet stepping upon the carpet of the living room, a bob in each step and a sway of your hips as you neared the kitchen, “are you missing daddy? He’ll be home soon. Cuddles and everything for you, I promise, poppet. I’m sorry we woke you up.”
With slur after slur after point after point left your mouth, you’d forgotten about the sleeping baby taking her late-afternoon nap in her cot, located in the quiet corner of the living room. An idea of Harry’s that he’d spent hour after hour after hour on a Sunday afternoon, full of a roast dinner and being watched by a heavily pregnant wife, building in front of the TV, legs crossed beneath him as he took his lips between his teeth and furrowed his eyebrows in concentration.
Harry had forgotten the innocent ears that were located just footsteps away from him when he’d slammed the door behind him in the haste of leaving in the heat of the arguement, the thick wood coming into contact with the doorframe and rattling around the perimeter of the house – and you were sure with a little more gusto behind it, he’d have made every photo fall off the wall; every wedding photo, every photoshoot photo you’d had together, the enlarged photo of Persephone just minutes old in his arms.
Every photo frame would have smashed in his anger.
A slam of the door being enough to tell you that if he stayed a moment longer, he’d have done and said something he’d regret.
So you let him go; a wordless yet mutual decision that suited and worked for you both.
To let each other breath and think through what happened.
To let you both come to the understanding that you really, truly, definitely needed a second pair of hands to help with your daughter.
“What’s the matter? You’re starting to worry me,” you cooed, cupping the back of her head in your hand, guiding her face to your neck to muffle the cries that were at the point of crushing you with sadness and almost at breaking point, “oh, baby. Baby, baby, baby, I wish I could do something for you.”
It was only a matter of minutes before her cries started to weaken, her fists started to make their way to her ears and her face started to redden more than before. Her cheeks rosier than usual – something you’d cure with the unbuttoning of her babygrow and letting her settle And it finally sunk in that her temperature had risen, and what you thought was a hot-flush taking over her body was a fever beginning to course through her veins.
And it all clicked into place when you maneuvered her body from your chest to the crook of your arm, her snuffling body squirming in your hold as her face began to crumple – a spitting image of Harry when he’d scrunch his features together in confusion, or to mask his embarrassment, or even to coax a small smile from his little girl – and her mouth began to erupt with more pained cries than before.
“You’re sick,” you whispered, more for yourself than the little girl who could barely understand you, “alright, okay. I’m so sorry that mummy couldn’t work that out before. We’ll get daddy home, yeah? And we’ll call the doctor and we’ll get you feeling better, I promise. Let’s give daddy a call, get him to come home and we can take you to the doctors, okay? Get you all better and home before you know it.”
Panic.
That’s all you felt course through your body. No anger towards Harry, no sadness, no happiness. Nothing but panic.
In her 3 and a bit weeks of life, she’d never once come to contact with a person who had the common cold nor the sickness bug nor the simple somethings like the sniffles or a sore throat – you weren’t taking risks of you daughter capturing
You reached over, grabbing your phone charging upon the counter, pulling it clean from it’s place as you unlocked it as quickly as you could, scrolling your contacts and reaching the contact you’d been no stranger to calling more than once every day, bringing to speaker to your ear as you started up the bob in your step. To settle the cries erupting from your tiny girl and to stop the aching in your legs of standing in one position.
“C’mon, Harry. C’mon,” you muttered, “answer the bloody phone, for god sake. The one time I need you to answer.”
You just wanted to yell.
Yell and cry and punch at Harry’s chest until your body felt empty of emotion, scolding him and swearing at him for not answering his phone and panicking you into a void of craziness, unable to answer when you needed him.
You had no idea where he was.
And you’d be wasting time in calling all of your mutual friends that you had logged into your phone contacts, finding out clues and seeing whether they’d seen Harry or not; whether he was taking home on their sofa for the night, or in their spare room for the evening, or even if he’d popped by and had a rant about what had happened.
Three tries and three voicemail messages later, you’d given up.
On your third and final time calling him, hidden beneath the mewls and the cries leaving Persephone’s mouth, came the almost inaudible buzzing and vibrating from the kitchen. The familiar ringtone of Harry’s phone sounding around the room and informing you that he’d left his it at home in the haste of the moment.
“You have to be kidding me,” you grunted, placing your phone back on the countertop and adjusting the baby in your arms, settling her upright upon your chest with your palm cupping her bum, “daddy’s getting right on my nerves today, poppet. I jus’ need you to settle for a moment whilst I ring the pediatrician’s office, alright? I know you’re uncomfortable, and I know it hurts and I’m going to try and get you feeling better as soon as I can.”
“Mummy’s gon’a try and get hold of your pediatrician, okay?” You hummed, settling Persephone down in her cot and tucking her up as cosily as you could with the bunny Gemma had brought for her as her first cuddly toy to sleep with, “I promise I’ll pick you back up so-”
“What is going on in here?”
Harry.
His voice came out strained, filled with confusion as he stood in the doorway of the hallway. His arms folded across his chest, stains of spit-up and food sitting on the material of his t-shirt and his legs covered with goosebumps from the cold near-October chill in the air.
“Where the hell have you been?” You scowled, “without your phone, too! For Christ sake, what if something really serious happened, huh? I wouldn’t have been able to get a hold of you! That was the stupidest thing you could do, Harry!”
“I went for a drive and I popped in to Gemma’ to cool off,” Harry drawled out, “what’s happening? Are you okay? You look like you’re about to burst with emotion. What’s up?”
“She’s sick, Harry! She’s hot and she’s been tugging at her ears and she’s all red and I don’t know what the matter is,” you cried out, close to tears and a shake in your words, “you left your phone here, I tried calling you, but you left it here and I was just about to call the pediatrician and then call Louis to take us to the doctors office because you weren’t here,” you babbled out, rushed and without a train of thought crossing you, “why didn’t you take your phone?”
“I forgot it,” Harry admitted shamefully, his cheeks flushing pink as his boots stepped foot upon the carpet beneath him, “what’s the matter, poppet? Hm? Are you not feeling so well?” Harry cooed softly, his arms plunging into the cot and lifting his tiny newborn into his arms, holding her against his chest, “c’mon, poppet. Let’s go get you strapped into the car whilst mummy calls the doctor, yeah?”
* *
As an hour and a few minutes passed by, and the doctor dressed in scrubs and a white overcoat made consistent visits to keep an eye on your sick baby, your nerves doubled and you felt sick to your stomach. Where Persephone was no longer crying out in pain and mewling and screaming into the atmosphere to gain attention to what hurt, seeing her under the vicious lights of the doctor’s office as they poked and prodded and checked her vitals was something that had you sitting back with a hurt expression on your face.
She looked uncomfortable.
Her tiny fists clenched tightly, knuckles white and fingers curled up, thrusting around in every direction possible. Her legs following in suit as they kicked out with her grunts and tiny murmurs of incoherent sounds leaving her gaped mouth.
All you wanted to do, a mother’s instinct, was to reach forward and hold her close. To give her a homely comfort, a motherly touch, the feeling of being with someone loving and caring and nurturing as she was examined and looked at and poked with needles and injections to update her inoculations and vaccines.
You were held in place beside Harry; more so, you couldn’t move with the stunned feeling taking over your body.
“How are you so calm?” You muttered from beside Harry, after an awkward yet comfortable silence had engulfed the both of you in the room, your bodies perched into hospital chairs beside the cot that Persephone had taken place in as her doctor looked over her vitals, “I don’t understand why you’re not going going crazy and panicking over this.”
“It’s normal,” Harry stated, “babies are prone to getting ill in their first few weeks of life. It’s their immune systems not fully produced yet. Mum’s told you all about the time I got sick at this age and threw up over pretty much everyone who held me,” he chuckled lightly; it was a story that got cracked out throughout your pregnancy, stories about Harry as a newborn being ones that were shared more frequently over the dinner table by his mother and his grandparents as well as subconscious memories that Gemma had stored within her mind, “let’s be a little more thankful that she doesn’t have that, hm?”
A forced and breathe-like chuckle left his mouth as he tried his best to lighten the mood drowning the room.
“I feel like,” you came to a halt, sighing softly as you kept your stare upon Persephone’s tiny fist wrapped around your forefinger, “I feel like I’ve ended up failing her in the first few weeks of her life. I’m meant to keep her from his type of thing.”
“Hey, don’t be silly,” Harry whispered, placing an arm across your shoulders and pulling you as close as you could get to his body, “Gorgeous, you’ve been wonderful at this. I’m so proud of you. I never told you.”
“I’ve done nothin’ to be proud of,” you mumbled, cheek pressed against his shoulder, “couldn’t even tell when she was sick, Harry. Not winning mother of the year award, am I?”
A sigh left Harry’s mouth, his head dropping down to yours.
He hated when you doubted yourself as a mother because, to him, you couldn’t have been doing a better job.
You’d done him proud from the moment you’d told him you were pregnant.
Any woman would have freaked out at the test sitting in their palms, loudly showing a sign in the tiny window of their life changing for good, but not you. You had no panic moments; only excitement.
You’d been a trooper through the toughest months.
Temperature and season changes going from cold to hot in a matter of months, midnight cravings that kept you awake, the uncomfortable kicks and punches to your insides as your baby moved in the space they were given within your womb, the swelling of your limbs that worsened after days of being on your feet all day, and the papped photos and chattered rumours coming that paired with the event of carrying the baby that was half Harry Styles – rumours that started from the announcement, that continued when Harry was seen out with someone else, that ended when he’d been clear enough to explain that the neither of you were going through a rough patch and that the both of you couldn’t have been any happier with what was happening in your lives.
The moment he erupted with pride was when you’d gone into labour.
The day had started out as any normal day, a kiss and a cuddle in bed that turned into sex to induce the overdue baby sitting upon your hips, but the relaxing day planned was drawn to a close. You’d called him from the kitchen, standing barefoot in a puddle of liquid with widened eyes and palms cupping your bump, the words “she’s coming” rolling off of your tongue, that was followed by a wince and a contraction, and a trepid Harry fumbling around the house.
With the feeling of pride coursing his veins, he felt his chest ache with love as you stood, dressed down and sweating and hissing under your breath with hair sticking to your forehead, hands braced on the bed as he took location on the opposite side.
Hand lodged in your hand, thumb rubbing across your knuckles as you squeezed through contractions, his other rubbing circles on your back, he was the most supportive birthing partner you could have ever had.
Whispering soft words of praise in your ear and promising you that you were doing so well in the labour process, kissing the shell of your ear with moist lips, nudging his nose against your sweaty and slick cheek, and taking peeks every so often between your thighs to catch a glimpse of the baby you were pushing – with great difficulty, nonetheless – into the world. Ready to share a life with you both as half him and half you, bringing joy to you and changing your lives for the dramatic good.
With tears in his eyes and dribbling down his cheeks, he was offered the option and he gladly took it. Shaky hands at the ready as he was passed a pair of scissors to snip the umbilical cord, his daughter laying in a towel and crying upon your chest, squirming at the warmth and the comfort you had to offer.
In that moment, pride was an understatement.
“You’re doing great as a mother, in my eyes, Gorgeous.”
“You have to say that because you’re my husband,” you muttered softly, your thumb rubbing over your newborns soft knuckles, “and the father of my baby.”
“Hey, it’s only a small ear infection. She’s alright, hm? Just sleeping away like you do,” Harry chuckled, looking down at catching your fingers toying with his thumb. He caught your cheeks lift up, a smile forming on your lips as you looked up to him with softened eyes, “I’m sorry about earlier, okay?”
“I should be apologising,” you whispered, “this is your job. I shouldn’t stand in the way of that. Especially now that you’re going for solo albums and getting some solo stuff out after Dunkirk and everything. It’s only for 4 days; I think I can cope without you for that long.”
A smirk on your lips caused a smile to lift up Harry’s cheeks, dimples popping, as you pressed your lips against his own in a swift and quick yet loving gesture that had his belly doing flutters.
“I don’t have to leave,” Harry followed up, “I can do home calls and Skype chats with them all. It’s not an issue. They’ll have to email m-”
“No,” you interrupted, “no, no. You’re going out to meet them in person. It makes you look ready to jet-set into your solo career, okay? You’re going to get all the information, come home, inform me of what’s happening and you’re going to put on home shows for me and poppet, here, okay? We get first crack at hearing you.”
“That sounds like a plan,” Harry hummed softly, “a perfect plan, at that.”
“Mr and Mrs Styles?”
Attentions – your attention focused upon Harry and Harry’s attention focused on you – shifting quickly to the sound of the doctor’s voice coming from the doorway of the doctor’s room, you felt your heart jump and your limbs beginning to shake with nerves. A smile accompanying the words that rolled off of his tongue as he placed himself beside the cot that Persephone was sound asleep in.
“Everything’s fine,” he stated, a breath of relief pushing out between Harry’s gaped lips, “she’s fine. It’s just a tiny ear infection that should go away on it’s own over the next few days. We’ve done her monthly check-up to save you having to come in next week to get her looked at and everything seems perfectly healthy with her. She’s growing at the right pace. All that’s wrong is her ear infection, which, thankfully isn’t bad or threatening to her.”
“Do we need to buy anything? Antibiotics? Medicine?” Harry asked softly, standing to his feet and walking around the chair you were sat in, “is there anything we need to help her settle?”
The doctor shook his head, setting a clipboard down on his desk and freeing his hands.
“Just give her plenty of warmth and comfort, feed her regularly and keep her ears warm. I’ve heard the handkerchief’s always work well after they’ve been in the tumble dryer for a few seconds,” the doctor explained, “a warm blanket works just as well. You’ll find what suits her best, I promise.”
“She’s okay?” You perked up between the two of them, eyes focused on Persephone as she snuffled in her sleep and squirmed around on her back, “she’s okay to come home, right?”
“She’s more than okay to go home, Mrs Styles.”
You grinned softly, looking across to Harry who was bent over in the corner, adjusting the straps in the baby carrier and hooking her blanket over his shoulder, a beanie in his hand as he stood to his feet.
“I’ll jot it down in her records,” the doctor hummed, his hand cupping Persephone’s head in his hand as she roused from her sleep, green eyes coming into view as she took in her surroundings, “hi, little one. Mummy and daddy are going to take you home now. You’ve been a good little girl for us, hm?”
“A good little girl indeed,” Harry grinned, “now, we’re going to go home, snuggle in bed and make sure you’re all cosy and comfortable to go to sleep.”

Notes