Harry kept replaying the scene in his head, the words from Madame Pomfrey, the tone of her voice, the wrinkles around her eyes. Fuck, he hadn't even known cis men could get pregnant. Apparently, that had been covered in fourth year, when he'd been just a little too busy trying not to die during the Triwizard Tournament.
It was more common in pureblood families, extremely rare in half-bloods, and there had only ever been one recorded case in a Muggle-born. But of course it would happen to him . Everything always happened to him. Why had he thought he could shag Malfoy and walk away without consequences? Of course not.
It had been a week since he'd found out. A week of Neville giving him looks, never judging, just cautious. He'd been gently encouraging Harry to eat more, checking if he was cold, offering small comforts without ever once asking about the otherfather. That, at least, was a relief.
But he had to decide. It had been four weeks since he lost his virginity to Malfoy. One month pregnant. He had to choose whether to terminate or not.
But every time he tried to think about it clearly, he remembered Teddy. Remembered Lupin running off when Tonks was pregnant. Remembered the weight of his godson in his arms.
And then he just wanted to cry.
He was stepping into the common room when he spotted Neville sitting near the lit fireplace, scribbling something onto a piece of parchment. Harry walked over. Neville dropped everything the moment he saw him, offering a small smile, and Harry sat beside him, casting a silencing charm before resting his head on the taller boy's lap.
For a moment, he just stayed there in silence, eyes fixed on the flames as if waiting for them to spit out an answer. A flush of uncomfortable heat pressed at his temples, stark against the cold in his fingertips. The world around him felt muffled, like the crackle of burning wood was both too loud and impossibly far away.
"What do I do?" he whispered, even though no one else could hear.
"Telling the other parent sounds like a good place to start," Neville said, and Harry shook his head.
"I'm not telling him if I'm not keeping the baby," he replied, watching Neville frown. But before his friend could say anything else, Ron arrived and dropped into the armchair next to the couch, Hermione following closely behind.
"You look kind of pale, Harry," Hermione said, her voice laced with concern. "Did you eat today?" she asked, and Harry just nodded.
"Did something happen during your check-up last week?" Ron added. "You were already acting weird, but now it's, like... worse."
"Oh, thanks, Ron," Harry muttered, watching his friend grin at him.
"What is it, Harry?" Hermione asked gently, and Harry sighed, sitting up. He looked at Neville, who gave him a barely-there nod of encouragement.
His legs swung lightly, without rhythm. His hands, which had been resting on his lap, started to seek refuge in his own nails, tugging at the skin around them with tense, nervous movements. A shiver ran down his arms, even with the warmth of the fireplace just a few steps away. His throat tightened, making it hard to breathe. He averted his eyes from his friend, staring into the flames as if he could lose himself in them for just one more second.
"A month ago, something happened," he tried to begin, his voice scratchy, far too low, as if the words were stuck deep in his throat. His heart was beating so fast he could hear the pulse echoing in his ears. "I was drunk. The other person was too." His gaze was locked on his hands, which trembled slightly, and his fingers were already seeking out his cuticles, restless, merciless. The skin there was red, raw, marked by days of unease, and still he couldn't stop.
Each word felt like it demanded more air than his lungs could hold. He swallowed hard, but his mouth was dry, that metallic taste still lingering, insistent. "I didn't even know this was possible, actually… but I should've known." He let out a shaky, humorless laugh and only looked away from the floor when he felt Ron grab his hands, firmly, pulling his fingers away before he could draw blood again.
"You can tell us anything, mate," Ron said, voice steady but kind. It was exactly what Harry needed to hear, and exactly what he was afraid of hearing.
Harry's stomach twisted. The couch felt too small, the air around him thickened, and the crackling of the fire turned into a distant hum. He felt squeezed by something invisible, like his own body was refusing to accept what his mind had already acknowledged. His eyes flicked from Ron to Hermione, then to Neville, as if searching for some sign that he could still take it back.
"I'm pregnant," he said, and it was like the room froze for a second.
Ron went pale almost instantly, eyes wide. Hermione dropped whatever she'd been holding, maybe a book, maybe a scroll, he couldn't quite tell, and the sharp thud it made on the floor echoed louder than it should have.
The silence that followed was brutal. Harry's chest was rising and falling too fast, as if there wasn't enough air in the room. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His palms burned, and now his eyes did too. He felt like he might throw up. Or cry. Or both. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to be wrong. He wished he hadn't said anything. He wished the floor would swallow him whole.
He didn't want to see in their faces the disappointment he already saw in himself.
"Does the other parent know?" Hermione asked, her voice trembling, and Harry shook his head, eyes fixed on some random spot on the rug at his feet.
"I'm not going to tell him if I don't go through with the pregnancy," he said, and had to swallow hard before finishing the sentence. The words felt too thick, too rough. He saw her nod slowly, her eyes narrowed like she was processing everything carefully, her lips slightly parted, unsure of what to say right away.
His hands were squeezed, and Harry looked up at the redhead. The sudden, firm pressure of Ron's fingers around his own was almost comforting, almost. A shiver ran through his shoulders as he looked at his friend, bracing himself. For a hard expression. For silent judgment. For that cold silence from fourth year, the one that still stung in memory.
But all he found was a gentle smile. Small, sincere, unwavering.
"We've been with you through everything, yeah? Exams, the war, we'll be with you through this too," Ron said, and Harry felt a tight knot form in his throat. The warmth rose so quickly it was impossible to control. His eyes burned, and the tears threatened to fall, heavier than they should've been.
He took a shaky breath, trying to contain what could no longer be hidden. Ron's gesture was genuine, he knew that. Hermione's words, Neville's calm gaze, everything around him screamed support. But what if they knew?
If they knew the baby was Malfoy's.
Would they still look at him like that? Still hold his hands so firmly? Still speak to him with that unwavering certainty that they'd be there through it all?
The doubts came fast, like a silent poison, corroding the fragile sense of safety he'd only just begun to build. Maybe they would still support him. But maybe, maybe not. Maybe this was the limit, even for friendships that had survived a war.
"You said it's been a month… That means you could still graduate," Hermione murmured, thoughtful, like she was mentally calculating the months, the final exams, the possibilities.
Harry let out a laugh, a fragile, almost wet sound, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand beneath his glasses. Of course that would be one of her concerns. And, somehow, that grounded him. Made him feel a little more whole. Just for now.
"Do you want to talk about your options, or change the subject?" It was Neville who asked, and Harry sighed.
"Change the subject, please," he said, and watched the three of them nod in quiet agreement.
The conversation slipped away, as if the previous topic had never existed. Hermione leaned in to explain something about the latest Potions classes, and Ron scoffed, saying Snape still made the occasional cameo in his nightmares. Neville laughed.
But Harry couldn't laugh. Couldn't really listen. Couldn't truly be there.
His mind drifted into dark corners, the kind no one ever sees. Memories that even the war hadn't managed to erase. Not really.
He felt the sting of chlorine in his nostrils, the same one he used to scrub Aunt Petunia's bathroom with an old toothbrush. He remembered the blisters on his hands, the skin stretched tight with calluses far too rough for a child his age.
From the suffocating heat of summer, when he was forced to weed the entire garden under the midday sun, wearing an old shirt that wasn't even his, and not allowed to drink water until he "finished the job properly."
He remembered the dull ache in his belly, that feeling you get when you haven't eaten for two, sometimes three days.
He remembered the sound of cutlery clinking on the kitchen table while he curled up in the closet, his bones pressing against his skin, trying to fall asleep early to trick the hunger. He remembered holding back tears so hard his face hurt, because crying wasn't allowed. If you cried, it was in silence, with your head turned toward the wall. If you cried at all.
And he survived all of that. But it stayed. It stayed inside him. And sometimes, when he was too tired, too weak, too alone, it was like he was still ten years old. Still locked away. Still invisible.
The thought of bringing someone into the world and failing them, through neglect, through trauma, through not knowing what to do, paralyzed him.
What if he repeated it all without even realizing?
What if, one day, he lost control of his own pain and said something cruel?
What if this child felt what he felt? The hunger. The abandonment. The fear of existing.
He looked down at his own hands, so different now from those small, dirty ones that dug up Aunt Petunia's garden bed.
But sometimes, they still trembled the same way
Maybe it was better to stop it. End it right there. Before there was time to love too much. Or fail too much.
Hermione laughed at something Neville said. Ron watched him out of the corner of his eye but seemed to respect his silence.
The world kept turning.
And Harry, sitting there with the fire's warmth on his face, felt cold inside.
Later, Harry found himself wearing two hoodies and a jacket, sitting on the grass, under a warming charm, watching the stars. The sky was beautiful, and he couldn't stop thinking about Sirius, the last time he'd seen him, young, a spirit, alongside Lupin and his parents. He wished he could ask if his mother was still proud of him.
Would she have considered abortion? She and his father were at war; maybe they talked it over and decided to keep him. But what if they had chosen abortion? They would still be alive, he was sure of it. Sirius too. And Professor Lupin. And Tonks. And Fred. And Colin. And Cedric.
Merlin, how could he bring life into that world, being the one responsible for so many lost?
His head began to throb, and the stars no longer offered comfort. Suddenly, he missed his bed, his blankets, and stood up, starting to walk toward the eighth-year common room. Once again, he found himself grateful not to have to climb up to the Gryffindor tower.
When he entered, he walked past a group of Slytherins gathered around a table, apparently in the middle of a chess match. He made his way to a piece of furniture to grab a glass of water, only realizing too late that it was against that very piece of furniture Malfoy had fucked him.
He swallowed hard, took the glass, and turned to walk toward the dormitory, but his eyes met the icy blue ones. Malfoy was staring at him, seeming to recognize the same thing, one eyebrow raised, a smug smile growing on his lips, and Harry just rolled his eyes, continuing on to his longed-for blankets.
That night, he slept incredibly well, though it might have been influenced by Ron going to bed early, not long before Hermione laid down beside him. He understood them, it was good to sleep with the weight of both of them by his side, to be sure they were there, well, safe, after so much running away the year before.
The next week dragged on with his friends being relentless about his eating habits, making him want to yell at everyone to leave him alone, but somehow, he held it together. Besides that, he felt more tired than usual, with headaches and the urge to cry every time he thought about what he had to do. And, of course, those two waves of nausea before Potions class on Monday.
That Friday afternoon, the headache was especially brutal, pounding in a way that just keeping his eyes open was a huge effort. When he saw Malfoy walk into the Great Hall, he decided he'd had enough. Without a word, he stood up, grabbed his backpack, and headed toward the courtyard, hoping a bit of fresh air might help him breathe.
But he never made it that far, Ron grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a corner of the corridor. His ocean-blue eyes locked onto Harry's, analyzing him, which made Harry swallow hard.
"The other dad… it's Malfoy, isn't it?" Ron asked, and Harry's jaw clenched immediately. The name seemed to poison the air between them. He looked at his best friend, trying to read the tone, the gaze, the intention, while his mind scrambled frantically for an answer.
"How could you do that?" Ron asked, not angry, but with a wounded disbelief that hurt more than if he'd screamed.
It was like something inside Harry shattered. The exhaustion of the whole week crashed down on his shoulders all at once, his body heavy, his head pounding. A buzzing filled his ears, and for a moment, he thought he might throw up.
His vision blurred, but he blinked, too fast, refusing to cry there, not now, not again.
"I was drunk… I don't know," his voice came out small, like it belonged to someone else. "I don't even really remember how it started," he added, trembling, his heart beating so fast it hurt.
For a second, he was sure he'd be rejected. That Ron would pull away, leave, say he couldn't take it anymore. That it was too much, that he was too much.
But what came instead was an unexpected gesture: arms wrapping around his body, steady, warm, real.
He was pulled into a hug, the dread still lodged deep between his ribs like a splinter, but the embrace kept him from falling apart completely.
And, for a moment, he let himself give in. Just a little.
Just enough for the fear to quiet down. Just enough to keep going.
"It's okay, man. I just don't get how anyone could hook up with that sharp-nosed blonde," Ron said, and Harry let out a weak laugh, the first real one in days. The sound was shaky, hesitant, but it was there.
For a moment, the weight on his chest loosened, not gone, but bearable. He let his back rest against the wall, like his body slowly remembered it could take a break.
Ron pulled away from the hug, and Harry followed him with his eyes, noticing the casual way his friend scratched the back of his neck and made an exaggerated disgusted face, like always when Malfoy was mentioned. Something so typical, so Ron, that the world felt a little less shattered.
"I don't know what to do," he murmured, still feeling that faint laughter echo inside his chest. When he looked at his best friend, he found him smiling small, sincere, the kind of smile that always reminded him he wasn't alone.
"I wouldn't know either. Honestly, I'm glad I'm not in your shoes, considering my family's fertility," Ron commented, making a grimace. Harry snorted a laugh and gave a light, almost automatic tap on his arm.
"But hey, look on the bright side, another reason to consider you family," he added, and Harry allowed himself to laugh out loud, for real this time, a sudden, free laugh that caught him off guard with its strength and relief. The tension slipped out from between his ribs, and finally, he felt like he was breathing right.
Ron laughed along, satisfied, and Harry didn't miss the proud smile on his best friend's face.
"Am I still welcome after all this?" Harry asked, and saw Ron roll his eyes.
"It's unsettling knowing I'll be the uncle of someone part Malfoy, but nothing will ever take your place at home, Harry, you're a Weasley, get that through your thick skull," he murmured, tapping Harry's head twice, gently.
"So, you think I should have the kid, then?" Harry asked, seeing his friend sigh.
"I'll be here no matter what you decide, and I know Mione will too, and Neville, Ginny, my parents, no need to ask, I just know it," he smiled softly. "But wow, I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but I think you need to talk to Malfoy about it," he said sincerely.
"Those words have never been said together before," Harry joked, and Ron laughed, hugging him sideways.
"How about a slice of treacle tart and then you're off the hook?" he suggested, and Harry sighed, rolling his eyes but nodding.
Hermione's face lit up with a wide, beautiful smile, and Harry could only think that was exactly where that smile belonged, Hermione deserved to be happy. His irritation about having to eat more than he thought he needed eased just a bit because of that.
He sat down and grabbed a piece of his favorite dessert, listening to the story that seemed just to be beginning about the last time Seamus got drunk, and how that ended with Dean crashing in the same room Seamus shared with Goyle, Terry Boot, and Justin Finch-Fletchley.
He laughed when Dean claimed no sex in the world was worth having to listen to Goyle's snores. He could picture his friends taking turns helping him with a baby, but even though he knew he wanted that child, he thought maybe he shouldn't.
Ron was right, Malfoy, despite everything, deserved to be part of the decision. He would have responsibilities if Harry decided to keep the baby, he deserved to be involved in that choice. Harry sighed, and for the first time in a month, he actively looked for the Slytherin, noticing none of them were at dinner.
He finished eating and stood up again, telling Hermione he just needed to sort something out, then headed toward the eighth-year common room. Frustrated not to find the blond there, he stopped by Seamus's room, just because it was first, but only Terry Boot was there. So he moved on to Neville's, slowly opening the door, only to find not just Malfoy, but all the Slytherins who had returned for their eighth year.
Nott said, "Longbottom isn't here" sounding surprisingly polite, and Harry thought about nodding and leaving, but instead he just took a deep breath, trying to gather the courage that always came when he needed it, though right now it felt like it wasn't interested in showing up.
"Actually, I needed to talk to Malfoy", he said, grateful his voice didn't tremble, even though inside he felt like exploding.
"Talk about what, Potter?" Malfoy snapped back immediately, his voice dripping with disdain, not even bothering to pretend civility like Nott had. Once again, Harry felt the urge to turn around and leave the idiot talking to himself.
"Can you come outside?" he asked, no longer trying to sound friendly.
"You came all the way here" Malfoy shot back, with that same childish tone as always, and Harry felt a heat rush up his neck.
"Malfoy, could you please get your ass off that shitty bed and come out here to talk like a functional human being, or am I going to have to blow out every window in this room?" he fired off, firm, already gripping his wand too tightly. His fingers hurt from the tension.
Malfoy rolled his eyes, let out an exasperated sigh, and got up like Harry was forcing him to do something impossible. He came over, grabbed Harry's wrist roughly, only making Harry's anger boil more, and dragged him out of the room, slamming the door hard behind them and casting a privacy charm that sounded almost spat out with his words.
"Potter, I'm not going to fuck you again. I was drunk. It's happened before. It was no big deal," Malfoy started, his voice carrying that annoying tone like he thought he was doing Harry a favor.
Harry didn't even let him finish.
"I'm pregnant, you dumbass," he said loudly, blood pounding in his ears, chest rising and falling fast. He shrank back a little, not because of what he said, just instinct. Good thing the privacy spell was still up.
"You're what?" Malfoy asked, sounding more like a door being slammed with unexpected news than a thinking person.
"Pregnant, idiot," Harry repeated, crossing his arms tightly. His eyes landed on Malfoy's perfectly styled hair, just like Harry remembered that night, and that only made everything worse. Not even the damn messy quiff did he have the decency to lose.
Malfoy ran his hand through his blonde hair, messing it up the slightest bit, like that would help him process.
"Are you sure it's mine?" he asked, swallowing hard.
Harry blinked.
"No, Malfoy, it's Ron's," he replied with a venomous smile. "I came here to tell you I'm in this mess thanks to our long years of friendship and trust." Malfoy frowned.
"Of course I'm sure it's yours, you idiot," Harry added, just in case it wasn't obvious.
"You can't really know… I didn't do any magic compatibility tests and—"
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, shut up," Harry interrupted. "I was a virgin, damn it. I slept with you and no one else after. So unless I got pregnant by my finger, it's yours."
His breath was short, his face hot. He didn't know whether he wanted to punch Malfoy or throw up. Maybe both.
Malfoy's eyes widened, and he ran his hand through his hair again, a nervous, irritating tic now, and leaned against the wall like the floor might just disappear.
Harry stared at him like he could burn that wall down with a single look. Pale. Coward. And yet, the father of the child.
"You want to stay?" Malfoy asked, his voice finally showing some vulnerability, and Harry sighed, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, he'd been avoiding touching his belly ever since he found out.
"I don't know. I found out two weeks ago, I keep changing my mind about what I want to do, Ron said it'd be good to tell you, and I agreed with him," he shrugged. Malfoy pushed off the wall, looking at him strangely before glancing at his belly, making Harry uncomfortable.
"Stop looking, you can't notice anything yet," he muttered, feeling his headache creeping back slowly.
"I'll take responsibility if you have the baby. I'm man enough for that," Malfoy said, his voice softer now, and Harry wasn't sure if he liked that.
"How many weeks? How long do you have to decide?" he asked, and Harry rubbed his face with one hand.
"Five weeks," he said, suddenly feeling like crying. "Pomfrey told me I have until twelve weeks to decide, after that, no abortion."
"I need you to give me some clarity here, Potter, at least what you're thinking, I don't know how to react," Malfoy said, his rough tone slipping through a bit, and Harry rolled his eyes.
"I want to have this baby, but how would I do that? I mean, I don't think I want my baby near people who faithfully followed the man who killed my parents and me, plus all that blood supremacy," he spat out his thoughts, and Malfoy paused, nodding slowly.
"We don't have to involve my parents, the ideas I grew up with, none of that," he said, swallowing hard. "My parents need to know about this, but my mom would respect my decision and make my dad respect it too, if that's the case," he explained, and Harry nodded slowly.
"I can't give an answer right now," he said, feeling his head throb, and Malfoy nodded. "I need to sleep, but I had to tell you first," he said, stepping away from the wall, and Malfoy followed suit.
"You'll tell me when you decide, right? Even if it's the abortion, I need to know, Potter," he asked, his voice almost scared, and Harry nodded before heading back to his room, feeling slightly dizzy.