Chance meeting. . .
"No, you don't want any part of that. . .I'm telling you, you'll turn out to be a meathead," the father laughed as his son stopped in awe while passing (or more accurately, toddling past) the Quidditch supply shop.
The newly walking baby braced himself against the glass, wide blue eyes staring intently at a mahogany racing broom. With a loud, gleeful squeal, he rapped his chubby fists on the display window, catching the attention of people inside.
"Good job, Holden, break the glass, it's all rubbish anyways!" Ben chuckled, causing his son to move back to his leg where he steadied himself, babbling happily - his attempt to mimic the speech of his father.
"He's your son, Love," Avis laughed out loud, picking up Holden. Ever their biological son, he let out a shrill, stubborn yell, reaching out to the glass yearningly. His mardy look on his round face almost perfectly reflected one seen daily by his father - a genetic trait certainly passed on from the mother.
Ben ran one hand through his hair and grumbled, shaking his head. "We're not taking him in there."
"Not going to encourage an avid interest in Quidditch? Not at all?" Avis snickered, batting Holden's hands away as he tried to pull her sunglasses off.
"Nope. No son of mine is going to be a jockstrap," Ben said, which actually sounded a bit daunting and intimidating in his deep, gruff voice.
That voice only made Holden gurgle and clap his hands.
"That's just as bad as forcing him to play against his will," Avis stated, rather pointedly, in fact.
"No, no it's not. . .not anything close," Ben shook his head, longer blonde hair flopping around. He'd been far too busy paying attention to the baby, after all; teaching him to speak, reading him the books of his namesake, too much tikme all spent on Holden Fitzgerald to realize that he needed a haircut. Of course, Avis hardly minded and said he looked "gorgeous" all the same.
"My mum played Quidditch back in school, and she turned out okay, didn't she?" Avis asked, finally giving in and letting Holden play with her sunglasses, which he simply just tried to put in his mouth.
"That's arguable, look how you turned out," Ben snarked, already ducking defensively for a slap in the arm from Avis. The baby followed suit and did the same, waving his arm out towards his dad. "That's right, Holden," he laughed out loud, "copy your mother! Be abusive!"
"What a role model," Avis smirked back at him and rolled her eyes, playfully nudging Ben and hugging Holden tighter in her arms. "Now we won't buy him a broom or anything, we're just looking," she smiled, running her hand over the baby's fluffy blonde hair.
Ben groaned disapprovingly, opening his mouth to argue, until he saw Holden giving him the puppy-dog, pleading face; one he was directly copying from his mother. "You two gits," he laughed, knowing of course they both were completely aware of how to get to him. Ben swooped in and snatched the chubby little baby up from his mother's arms, putting him on his shoulders and walking in through the door, making sure to watch for low ceilings, displays, and of course, the doorframe. "First step in turning into a jockstrap," he grumbled, moving from side to side and making airplane noises, one of Holden's favourites. The baby giggled and clapped his hands on Ben's hair, as if urging him to go faster, squealing excitedly. And of course, Avis - ever the mardy, overprotective mother - walked close behind, making sure that their son didn't fall.
No, not because Ben's shoulders weren't wide or strong or anything. . .But of course, Avis the worrywart only got worse as she had the baby.
Ben turned around, playfully grimacing as Holden yanked at his hair, giving his wife a snarky, critical look. "When have I ever dropped him, Av?"
"You trip all over yourself, I don't want you to trip with the baby," Avis said in her usual mardy way, reaching up to touch Holden's chubby hand waving around in the air, his usual gesture for attention. Narrowing his blue eyes at his wife, evilly snickering, quickly bending over and Holden upside down. Their blonde hair flopped about together, the baby's head tilting back as he screamed with delight. "You loud little git," Avis admonished lovingly as Ben held him in his arms. Holden gurgled and giggled, burying his pink, grinning face in his father's neck.
Avis looked around at the store all about them, seeing the children in robes blinking at her family strangely. After all, they did look like muggles - Avis in her plaid dress, Ben and his son dressed almost exactly the same - jeans and ratty vintage t-shirts, even down to the same Converse on their feet. She was at least glad nobody recognized her - a decade or so ago, Quidditch fans would have been demanding for her to receive the Dementor's Kiss. But she didn't care to remember those days.
Ben let Holden out and on the ground, still trying to hold his hand, though the baby had his own ideas. He took off in his own version of a run, more of a dawdling toddle down an aisle, tiny Converse sneakers flopping on the old wooden floor. Wrapping her arm around her husband, Avis kept a watching eye on Holden and smiled to herself peacefully, resting her head on his shoulder. "Listen, he tries to sound like you," she laughed quietly. It was true, too. Anyone else would have thought the baby was growling, but his mother knew better. Holden had been trying to practice his talking, and after having his parents both speak with their odd, hybrid mix of accents, his idea of adult speech was a bit skewed. Especially with Ben's deep, low voice, Holden gave a good try in attempting to get it down himself. His father laughed, watching the baby run off down the aisle towards a Gryffindor Quidditch display.
"Nah, that sound? That can only come from you," he teased, earning a hip-bump from his wife. She moved away as Holden veered to the right and out of eyesight, Ben moving quicker to catch up with him.
. . .