A/N: By the time this is posted I will have waited like a week to post something which is SO DIFFICULT because as soon as I write I want to share. But I wanted this to be for Harry's actual birthday. Good news for you is that in waiting, I did have 3 lovely people over on tumblr all read this and I re read it myself so typos etc. should be on the lower side hehehe. I hope you like :) Also thanks especially to v-nnika for helping me brainstorm the idea 3

Each birthday, holiday, or really any day that includes an event where Harry's opening a wrapped gift from George also includes a moment where Harry's blood pressure spikes and he regrets not wearing Quidditch gear to family dinner. The most difficult part of it is George's ability to lull one into a false sense of security by giving a few, unassuming presents before unleashing some new test product on his brother-in-law.

It's not personal though, he knows, and really Harry doesn't tend to get anything worse than a face full of some sort of powder that gives him spots or charms his nose to look like a pig's snout.

His thirty-first birthday, for whatever reason, lands on a good year. Harry, as usual, opens the box with some trepidation, only to find a tangle of something rather rope like in appearance with some wooden bits mixed in and a note in George's overlarge scrawl. Take a load off, eh?

Harry lifts it from the paper tentatively and frowns, "Fishing net?"

George rolls his eyes, "Hammock – you've got to learn to relax before you turn into Percy."

The man in question rolls his eyes, but otherwise remains unfazed, bouncing his youngest daughter on his knee and earning giggles in reward. After, the rest of the little soiree passes with the usual Weasley-Potter-Granger fanfare, namely too much food, silliness, and laughter if it's possible. By the time the Potters return to Godric's Hollow, the entire brood is more than ready to sleep which leaves Harry and Ginny free for some last minute birthday celebrations.

Ginny's looming over Harry with that dangerous look that gets his heart racing just a half second before she swoops forward and grabs the snitch with easy grace, legs dangling as she makes her victory lap and crows proudly – if quietly, in respect for the three slumbering Potters.

Once Ginny tucks the practice snitch away in her pocket, they drift around each other in lazy loops with the occasional flashy roll or maneuver. Eventually, Harry flies closer until she's within reach and he locks his fingers with hers, pressing a kiss to her knuckles as they whirl like falling leaves toward the ground.

After sharing a few chaste kisses, Harry brushes Ginny's messy locks back from her eyes, thumb stroking her cheek while she smiles softly up at him. "So where are you putting it?"

Harry's brows rise and his volume drops as they enter the mudroom. "Pardon?"

She laughs, muffled behind her palm, "The hammock," Ginny's lips find his jawline, "I think we know very well where you're putting the other it."

They tuck both brooms into the closet before Harry presses Ginny against the closed door, hands running up and down her bare arms while he drags his lips over her neck soft, torturous. "We might as well get down to business then, eh?"

"It's no fun if you set up my double entendres so obviously."

Things progress in the usual fashion after that, discarded clothes, mussed bedsheets, quiet sighs – and the occasional laugh – and soon enough Harry's drifting asleep on one of many happy birthdays in his life. More than he would've guessed possible on his seventeenth or any before that.

Regardless, the gift from George slips Harry's mind until the following Friday afternoon when James asks if they can use it as a goal for footie in the yard. Ginny's stirring her tea absently while reading over drafts of her upcoming article on women who are rising stars in the world of Quidditch. The research has involved countless interviews, which resulted in the detritus currently occupying the kitchen table and half the den. Still, she's perfected the ability to maintain complete focus on her current task and prevent the mischief of Weasley-Potter children from coming to fruition. "No, James. You may not."

Despite her miraculous abilities where multitasking is concerned, Harry's known Ginny long enough to realize her fingers pressing into her temples is a sure sign of a growing tension headache. Harry drops his paper and turns to find James wriggling in the doorway. "Get your brother and sister, we'll set up the hammock between a couple of trees in the yard and take turns testing it out."

Four out of five Potters wander into the yard, Harry toting the gift that was previously gathering dust while his children parade in front of him. All told, re-opening the gift, preventing Lily from using it as a net to catch her brothers like a pair of catfish, choosing a pair of trees to use, and finally setting up the hammock, takes about three quarters of an hour.

Harry claims the first go, mainly to avoid another spill and the subsequent histrionics. Once it stands up to Harry's weight, he takes a few swings before standing and letting James, Albus, and Lily try it in turn.

By the time they're near tiring of their entertainment, Ginny appears at the back door announcing dinner – one of the family's favorite pies in Harry's recipe book.

Over the next few weeks, Harry remains too busy to really enjoy the gift. An irony he contemplates when he's ankle deep in cold mud on a small island off the coast of Ireland, lying in wait for a few dozen alleged traffickers in various illegal goods.

He manages to make it home in one piece, if a bit chilly, and falls asleep before his head hits the pillow – and well after his family's done the same. Luckily, he's off for the weekend and can sleep as late as he wishes, though his body has different ideas and he wakes an hour or so after sun up.

Feeling a bit lazy, Harry tugs on his sweats, grabs an apple turnover from the basket in the kitchen Molly'd sent home with them after last Sunday dinner, and wanders into the yard.

The grass is cool, still dewy beneath his bare feet as he breaths in the fresh air of a new day. He'd not say he was a morning person generally, but witnessing a world still unblemished and bright with possibility isn't the worst thing.

Which, flowery and optimistic as it sounds, doesn't make Harry eager to do much more than loaf about and get pastry crumbs on his shirt while he lazes away. Presumably exactly what George envisioned when he purchased the hammock.

Before he claims his new perch of relaxation, Harry retrieves a few week old copy of Quidditch Monthly he hasn't managed to finish and lies back, the hammock swaying and taking him with it.

His first clue that his family is awake and moving about is his view of the upstairs bedroom, Ginny's shadow against the closed shades as she wakes Lily Luna. He's been dozing for some indeterminate amount of time, though a glance at the position of the sun makes him certain it's well past sunup, by the time he wakes.

Soon enough, Ginny emerges with her dented watering can and Lily on her heels. With freckled cheeks, bright blue eyes, and still slightly clumsy legs, Lily trots toward Harry and only manages to bring herself to a stop by hooking her arms over Harry's middle and dropping a board book on his chest. "Read it?"

Ginny plops her well-worn straw hat over her messy locks and Harry feels contentment he's never quite gotten used to settle in his stomach as he drags Lily up into his lap. "What's up, Lily-Lu?"

She grins, toothy and unrestrained before snuggling under Harry's arm and waiting expectantly, keeping her wriggling as under control as possible. Which is not a large amount, but the effort is more than enough. Still, the distraction of the book, it's relative brevity, and Harry's melodic reading voice – Ginny's words, not his – manage to keep Lily entertained with minimal blows to his sensitive areas.

When Ginny's finished her weekly gardening tasks – light work meant to just barely shape the natural growth – Lily rolls from the hammock and rushes to follow Ginny into the kitchen, clumsy fingers reaching up until Ginny perches her on her hip.

The rest of the day passes in a delightfully usual pattern, wrangling kids, a few easy errands, light housekeeping, and a quiet evening with his lovely wife after bedtime.

After that Saturday, Harry makes it a sort of loose habit, waking early, lounging in the yard and beginning his weekend with easy laziness that begins the work of loosening his overly tensed muscles and too full mind. Somehow, by the time he's at the table with his family, half the workweek's stress has been pushed from his body, leaving a light dusting of freckles in its wake.

And with his habit, comes the formation of an entire family's worth of them. Lily's the first, her weekly reading sessions don't end. Her reading skills do improve, though her ability to remain still for any extended period does not.

As the mornings get colder, James returns to the tiny primary in town, Lily prefers curling up in front of the fire and avoiding the early chill, and Albus begins making daily appearances in the yard.

He's a bit more hesitant, always has been, about making his wants and needs known. It was a bit of a shock after having James as a first child – loud and boisterous and without a cautious bone in his body – but Harry wouldn't trade either, any of his children for anything. So where Lily'd simply claimed her place with many errantly placed knees and elbows, Albus lingers at Harry's hip, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt and blinking at him a bit owlishly. "Morning dad."

"Al," Harry says, leading as he pushes up to his elbows as much as possible in a woven hammock, "Want a swing?"

Albus nods, jerky, and clambers up next to Harry. His slim arm wraps across Harry's chest, or as close as he can get, and he tucks his head in the juncture between Harry's jaw and shoulder. And then the strangest thing happens. Albus begins to talk. About everything – Teddy's latest attempt at cross-breeding magical plants, the worst every flavor bean he's tried, why he refuses haircuts. In all honesty, Harry's never heard Albus say this much in one sitting. It's unexpected, but not odd in the abstract. There's always been something comforting about sharing your innermost thoughts with someone close to you both physically and metaphorically; Harry's spent many an evening cocooned beneath linen sheets with nothing but the glow of the moon to light Ginny's freckles as he unburdened himself about – everything.

Eventually, Albus does drift off for a mid afternoon nap and Harry follows right along with him, unaware until James storms into the yard all fire and excitement, just barely managing to toss his rucksack off his back before his feet crunch into the crumbling leaves. "Dad. Don't be asleep."

Albus stirs, opens one wide green eye to take in his brother, and then snuggles back close. Harry however, is a father, and doesn't have the luxury. "We're just taking a little kip."

James shrugs, "No work today?"

Sighing, Harry runs a hand through his hair and manages to set the hammock rocking with a twitch of his foot. "Sometimes crime happens on weekends, so my breaks don't. So there's the occasional Thursday vacation day."

As Harry answers, James does a log-like roll beneath the swing and begins prodding Harry's bum with the tips of his toes, fairly gentle but not entirely the best feeling in the universe. Though, with five years as James' father under his belt, Harry's well aware of the fact that putting a stop to this may give rise to something oceans worse.

Besides, it's actually close to a nice massage on his eternally tense lower back.

It's a few more months before the final Potter chooses to join the parade of hammock enjoyment, differentiating herself in two primary ways – the late hour of her arrival and her preemptive snuggle into the woven cradle.

Harry arrives home to an empty entryway, living room, house, and it's quieter than it should be. Than it has been since – in all honesty since James was born. In a worse time, not that long ago, Harry's mind would have immediately jumped to a worst-case scenario. But he's fought long and hard to create a world where the worst is no longer the most likely, and even longer and harder to re-train his own mind from assuming the contrary.

And his job has resulted in a mind trained to notice the little things; in this case, three missing pairs of shoes, an empty space where James' backpack is normally hung, an inactive kitchen, and a bottle of wine with two glasses centered on the table. The only logical explanation is an impromptu sleepover with Molly and Arthur, which means Harry has the house – and his lovely wife – entirely to himself for the evening.

Slowly, Harry wanders into his and Ginny's room to change into his sweats, sadly keeping up the trend of not finding Ginny. Once he slips the mismatched Harpy jersey over his head, Harry wanders barefoot into the yard and finally discovers the lovely Mrs. Potter swaying with one leg dangling so her bare toes tickle the tips of the soft grass, pink nails bright like tiny blooms sprouting from the earth.

She's dozing so Harry pads softly across the garden, though he's unable to resist running his fingers through her hair when he does find himself standing at her shoulder.

Ginny hums softly as her eyes flutter half open. "I just wanted to give it a try."

"Ten months later?"

"You and your hammock are in high demand," Ginny says, hand clasping his wrist so she can tug him closer, "Wouldn't mind having both at once."

Harry lifts her palm higher and presses his lips to it, short and warm. "Budge over then."

Once he's tucked in the folds, Ginny's arm banded over his middle and legs tangled with his, Harry lets his eyes drift shut as he sets the hammock swaying with a swing of his leg. Ginny kisses his jaw, cheek against his collarbone and breath brushing his throat. He squeezes her shoulders in a comfortingly familiar embrace. "Dunno how George can possibly top this gift come July."

Ginny chuckles, pinching his side, "What a sap."

"The sap you married."

"Never said I didn't like it."