January 2026

Much like every other alumni on VH, Paige Kennedy was pregnant.

She wasn’t overly thrilled about it, especially since the owl that had just arrived from St. Mungo’s confirming the results of her test had now folded itself into a little carriage and was pushing itself around her kitchen table.

If she was being honest about it, falling pregnant wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to her. At least, not right now. Her life was fairly stable. Fairly. She had a job (that took her to dangerous locations on a regular basis), and a boyfriend (who she broke up with every couple of weeks just because she could), and an apartment (which she shared with a mildly alcoholic young woman who frequently invited strange men to stay the night). While she was quite sure she was too young to be pregnant, she wasn’t that young. Not when her own mother had gotten pregnant at sixteen. Not when her best friend in the whole world was married and had a baby of his own on the way. Not when her sister, Megan, was married and had a daughter and another baby on the way.

She’d be twenty-two soon. Yes, in the Muggle world that was young to be procreating. But in the wizarding world? Not so much. She just needed to get used to the idea.

Thinking it might help her absorb things, she watched a couple of old movies about pregnancy – Nine Months, Look Who’s Talking, that sort of thing – and then decided that if she was going to have to deal with being pregnant then Kingston was too. Because, you know, it was his fault.

It still hadn’t quite sunken in for her, despite the week and a half of progressively debilitating morning sickness, when she Apparated to the flat Kingston shared with Sebastian. She walked in without knocking, and when a quick glance around the living area didn’t produce her boyfriend or his ridiculously pretty roommate, she yelled, “Kingston! Come here! I’m pregnant!”

Despite whatever you may have heard, Kingston Blake was not pregnant. And thank Salazar for that: his uterus was not fit for such an activity—at least in part because he didn’t have one of those. <<

This is irrelevant, however, because Kingston was not yet aware that Paige was pregnant and, therefore, would not be pondering the nonexistence of his womb (because if it wasn’t in his body, where had he left it?). He was, instead, wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets, fending off a… no, THE -- hangover from hell -- the best way a wizard who barely graduated from Hogwarts could.

I know what you’re thinking: what an unemployed slob. How is ever going to raise a child? And while that is still a very valid question, it is my great pleasure to inform you, smirk and all, that Kingston Blake was employed.

… As a bartender. But he had ambitions, too, okay? He was going to be the best bartender that McMerlin’s had ever seen. Unfortunately, Kingston’s stupid good looks allowed him to pour more drinks for himself than his patrons~ and on their galleon, no less. On top of that, his wretched coworker Jerry had won employee of the month for the past twenty-four months, which Kingston more often than not ended up drunkenly weeping about at the end of the night. You know that phrase, ‘never dip your quill in company ink’? I have no idea if that applies here. I think it might.

The sound of Paige Kennedy’s voice would normally be a comforting one, one that assured him snogging would soon follow, but normally Paige Kennedy’s voice wouldn’t be loudly declaring her pregnancy to his entire flat.

Pregnancy?

Her words rang out, transcending walls and headaches, begging Kingston to get off his arse and into the living area where his girlfriend stood. Which he did, albeit crankily. Rubbing his left eye with the palm of his hand, the alumni gave Paige a stern look -- which was hard to take seriously whilst his other free hand had been shoved down his pajama pants. But he was a man, after all. Paige was fully aware of how he behaved in the mornings.

The Slytherin processed her words again. ‘Kingston’… ‘here’… ‘pregnant’. One of these things is not like the other. Crossing his arms, the pureblood tilted his head toward the girl pointedly, trying to remain calm and failing (mostly).

“What do you mean you’re ‘pregnant’? WHY do you hate me so much?”

The girl insisted on making his life miserable.

When Kingston came shuffling out of his bedroom, bleary-eyed, rumpled, and wearing pajama pants, Paige's eyes narrowed considerably. It was almost noon. She could maybe see him still sleeping at noon if he'd worked last night, but he hadn't. He'd taken the opportunity to go out and drink a load of alcohol instead of pouring it for other people. And now look at him. He looked like the exact opposite of Father Material. In fact, the only way he could get any less appealing in terms of potential procreation was if he lost a few brain cells and got a tattoo that said Ask Me About My Weiner.

"Oh my god," she blurted in frustration. "How do you manage to look more like a drunken frat boy every time I see you?

By then, though, he'd processed what she'd said, and was staring at her like she'd gone to the bar he worked at and plastered baby pictures of him in the bathtub all over the walls. "Me hate you?" she repeated. "You can't be serious. You're the one who knocked me up! You probably did it on purpose, too, so I couldn't leave you for someone who actually has his life together."

Frankly, she wouldn't put it past him. Because she was awesome, and she could obviously do way better if she wanted to. She could be with someone famous, probably. Her brother-in-law played professional Quidditch; he could've set her up with someone. But he didn't, because Paige had told him not to, because Kingston was infuriating and had really pretty eyes and he smelled good. And look where that had gotten her.