It was visible. That's what Harry noticed when he got out of the shower that late afternoon, and the realization kept echoing like a secret he didn't know whether he wanted to keep or shout to the world. He looked at himself in the mirror and looked at his belly. You could see it. There it was, the slight swell. It was no longer just him feeling it; now it was visible.
He put on a loose, long-sleeved shirt and looked at himself in the mirror again, letting out an almost relieved sigh when he saw the fabric still covered it. But the relief was mixed with a pang of guilt, hiding it felt wrong, showing it felt worse. He left the bathroom already dressed, one hand brushing over his stomach, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest that came with the awareness that it was the baby growing there.
He grabbed his bag. He had a Potions essay and another for Transfiguration to write, and at least that was simple, concrete. He went down the stairs, noticing how the common room was half-empty, and sat in one of the chairs near the fireplace. He set what he needed on the table and opened his Transfiguration book, trying to focus on what he could write.
"Harry." He turned at the sound of his name, seeing Dean. "We're having a party later, been weeks since you came to one," his friend said, and Harry felt his stomach tighten.
It was guilt, plain and simple. His friends had no idea what was going on, even though he was already thirteen weeks pregnant. Ten weeks since he'd found out, and still nothing.
"Mate, I'm not drinking, my therapist doesn't think it's a good idea," he lied, the first excuse that came to mind.
"You don't have to drink, but at least come by, hang out a bit. You can leave when everyone gets too drunk and it's boring for you, Ginny's coming," his friend was almost pleading, and Harry gave in, still feeling guilty.
"Alright, but I'm leaving when it starts getting boring," he warned, and his friend smiled, nodding in agreement.
Damn it, Ginny. He had to tell her. There was no doubt she'd accept the pregnancy, maybe she'd be upset about finding out so late, but the anger would come when she learned about Malfoy. And Harry couldn't lose her too.
He tried to cling back to the task at hand, starting to write without interruptions. He alternated between reading his notes, the book, working on the assignment, and drinking from Malfoy's bottle. He didn't get one every day, but when he did, he drank it quickly, as if it were a reminder that he needed to keep the baby healthy, even when eating still felt wrong.
He was finishing that essay, starting to mentally prepare himself to work on the Potions one, when someone sat down beside him. Harry's body tensed instantly, as if his muscles knew before his mind that this wasn't going to be good. He lifted his head, frowning, knowing it wasn't Ron or Hermione, they were off on a date. His brow furrowed when he saw Daphne Greengrass sitting next to him, without her Slytherin robes.
He didn't even have time to ask what the hell she was doing there before Blaise Zabini settled on his other side, not even looking at him, going back to his book as if this were normal, as if it were part of some routine. The knot at the back of Harry's neck tightened, his jaw clenched, and heat climbed up the base of his neck.
His patience was already stretched thin, but the final straw came when Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott sat down at the table. The air seemed heavier. Harry slammed the quill down, the sharp crack echoing against the wood, and let out a loaded sigh, leaning back hard in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his own shirt, his expression making it clear, someone had better start talking soon, or he was going to lose it.
"How are you, Potter?" Parkinson asked, flashing the fake smile Harry had seen a thousand times, the one that always gave him the same urge to vomit.
"Seriously?" he asked, one eyebrow arching, his voice already thick with impatience.
"As McGonagall said, house unity and blah blah blah," Greengrass said beside him, casually, as if she weren't sticking her nose into his life.
Harry let out another sigh, this one heavier, closing his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. He prayed to any deity that might be listening that he wouldn't get another headache, though deep down, he knew the throbbing had already begun.
The scrape of another chair made him open his eyes, and of course, it was Goyle sitting down. A genuine impulse to flip the table over and tell everyone to fuck off shot through him like an electric shock.
Malfoy's bottle started trembling against the wood. Of course. His magic had been slipping out all week whenever his irritation crossed the line, and right now, he was teetering on the edge of a break. He grabbed the bottle, stilling it, and locked eyes with Zabini, who was watching the object as if it were some kind of performance.
The Slytherin sighed, pulled something from his pocket, and tossed it onto the table, a copy of the Daily Prophet. Harry's heart lurched so hard it felt like it might burst through his chest, his blood ran cold, and in an instant, suffocating dread seized him. His hands went clammy, his stomach churned, and he had the absurd sensation that the entire common room was watching him, even though no one was. It had to be about the pregnancy. Of course it was.
But if the paper had been around since morning, why hadn't anyone stared at him all day? It didn't make sense. Still, the knot in his stomach didn't loosen. He grabbed the paper and opened it, reading the headline.
"Group of Neo–Death Eaters Spotted in Hogsmeade."
That was it? Harry blinked, incredulous, and looked up at Zabini, who only shrugged. He rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain, heat rising in his veins, his urge to shout burning hotter. His jaw locked, and his fingers clenched around the quill so tightly it almost snapped.
"I don't care what Malfoy told you, leave," he spat, trying to sound rational, but his voice already carried that cutting edge. None of them moved. "Look, I dealt with Voldemort. I can handle a few desperate hangers-on," he said flatly, taking a bitter satisfaction in the way they all flinched or shrank back when he spoke the name.
"But the situation's different now, isn't it, Potter?" Parkinson asked, and Harry felt hatred climb up his throat like poison. He wanted to hex her, preferably with something that would glue her mouth shut for a month, but he didn't, because he knew that if he started, he wouldn't stop.
"Oh, if it weren't, you would've already tried to turn me in again, wouldn't you?" he shot back, satisfaction hitting instantly when he saw her shift uncomfortably.
"We're just doing Draco a favor," Greengrass said.
"Go fuck yourselves," he said, now with no attempt at self-control. His voice came out deeper, sharper.
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with an irritating screech, gathering his things too quickly, his movements rough, almost violent. He shoved everything into his bag without caring about the mess, his heart pounding in his temples, vision starting to pulse at the edges.
"I've been dealing with this shit since I was eleven, and I'll keep dealing with it. It's not a group of ex–Death Eater Slytherins that's going to change a damn thing," he growled. He jammed the last book into his bag so hard he nearly tore the fabric, the throbbing pain climbing up his head, mingling with the metallic taste of fury.
He walked past a small group of Gryffindors who had been watching the scene closely, some standing tense, ready to step in if necessary.
"Dean, Seamus, sorry, my head started hurting, and I promised Hermione I'd finish both essays by tomorrow so she could review them," he said as he passed them.
"It's all right, mate," Seamus replied.
Harry didn't bother to smile. The burning heat of his anger was still there, throbbing under his skin, but it was already starting to fade, leaving behind that familiar heaviness, like all his muscles were too tired to hold up his own body. The irritation burned less, but in its place came an exhaustion that seemed to drag him down with every step.
He kept walking in silence, climbing the stairs to the dormitory corridor, his feet heavy as lead. He walked to the last room, feeling the tension in his jaw and shoulders give way slightly, replaced by waves of fatigue.
He lay down on the bed without caring about anything else, wrapping himself in the blankets along with the throw Malfoy had given him. He cast a warming charm and closed the curtains with a flick of his wand. The only thing that made that persistent headache go away was sleep, and right now, he was willing to sink into it just to silence the whirlwind of irritation and exhaustion consuming him.
But his body didn't seem to share the same resolve, no matter how tightly he curled up under the blankets or tried to convince himself he'd manage to rest. It was as if the exhaustion ran too deep for sleep to reach. At some point, he realized he'd blacked out, but for five minutes, at most.
And in those few minutes, images and thoughts came like blades, his baby, small and defenseless, surrounded by the same hatred he had once known. Masked faces, cruel laughter, wands pointed, that same suffocating helplessness that had crushed him during the war. The thought of his child running, hiding, or worse, screaming for him and not finding him, was unbearable. His stomach churned. His palms sweated. That old fear he thought he had buried came back with a new, sharper edge, more vicious now, because it wasn't about him anymore. It was about someone he'd barely even seen and who was already the most precious part of him.
He woke with the feeling that the weight in his head had doubled, and every time he tried to close his eyes again, the pain seemed to find new ways to intensify, pounding against his skull.
At some point, tears began to slide down his face. He didn't know when they'd started, but he could feel their warmth mixing with the cold of his skin. It wasn't the kind of crying he could control, it was as if his body had simply given up and surrendered.
He stood with an irritated motion, breath heavy, and the world seemed to tilt. Black spots bloomed in his vision, everything slightly blurred. He didn't put on his glasses, he didn't want to, didn't have the strength to reach for them.
The sudden, piercing sound of shattering glass filled the room. Every cup and jug in the dormitory broke, followed by the crash of the window. A sharp crack echoed, and within seconds one of the curtains around his bed caught fire.
He gathered enough focus to put it out, but the relief lasted less than a second, every pillow in the room exploded at once, feathers spilling into the air like a silent storm. The pain in his head became unbearable, a pressure that felt like it was trying to tear his mind apart from the inside.
He screamed, a raw, almost animal sound, more from the desperate need to release it than from any hope of being heard. He clamped his hands over his ears, trying to muffle his own voice, but the noise was inside him, pulsing with every heartbeat. His legs gave way without warning, and he felt the hard impact of his knees hitting the floor. Almost as if on instinct, the entire bookshelf nearby was swept clean, books and objects flying as if they, too, were trying to escape the same pain that consumed him.
Harry rested his forehead against the cold floor, curling in on himself until his whole body shook, crying silently, his breaths short, as if each inhale tore at him more than it helped. He just wanted everything to stop. For the noise to vanish. For the crushing weight in his head to dissolve, even if only for a second.
He heard hurried footsteps, voices, Zacharias Smith, maybe. Another voice, probably Zabini. He couldn't move. Didn't want to. The world could fall apart outside and he still wouldn't get up. Then he felt a warm, steady hand on his back, and he didn't need to open his eyes to know it was Neville.
The headache eased just enough for him to risk opening his eyes, right as the warmth of a heating spell wrapped around him like an invisible blanket. A sigh of relief escaped his lips before he could stop it, feeling the tight muscles in his body finally loosen, still trembling, but no longer ready to snap.
The pain was still there, pounding hard, but at least now there was room to hear his own thoughts, to feel like he still had some control over his body.
"Harry, it's okay." Malfoy's deep voice reached him, steady, sure, but not enough to stop the jab of fear that clenched in his chest. "Blaise, close the door." This time, his tone sounded different, more commanding, as if something dangerous had just happened.
"What happened, Harry?" Neville asked, worry clear in his voice. He only shook his head, unable to explain, as if putting it into words would make the feeling more real.
"It hurts," he managed to rasp out, his voice broken and hoarse.
He was pulled into a sitting position, and the fear of losing his balance made him grab the first thing he could reach, only then realizing it was someone's lap. The world slowly sharpened into focus, revealing Malfoy's blond hair right in front of him. Around them, Nott and Zabini were casting repairs, gathering up the wreckage of the chaos he had caused.
The tears were still there, warm against his cheeks, proof that he hadn't stopped crying. Then, suddenly, a firm hand pressed against his abdomen, skin against skin, and something inside him loosened. The headache retreated a little more, down to something tolerable, as if someone had shut off a pressure valve inside him.
His breathing slowed, and for the first time in hours, he felt like he might survive this moment.
The door opened again, and he saw Neville approaching to hand him his glasses. The moment he put them on, the world came into focus, but the relief didn't last. The person who had just entered was Madam Pomfrey. He tried to sit up, but firm hands, Malfoy's and Neville's, kept him in place.
The woman knelt beside him, lifting his shirt and raising her wand. The world seemed to narrow down to a single point, the wand tip. His body reacted before his mind could understand, he recoiled sharply, heart racing, lungs constricting as if he were back in the middle of the war. A suffocating heat climbed the back of his neck while a sharp chill ran down his spine.
The need to flee, to protect himself, was so instinctive that he searched frantically for his wand, his gaze sweeping the room without any real focus. Strangely, he noticed, almost distantly, the glass in the windows and cups around the room beginning to tremble.
Firm hands held him in place, stopping any movement, and that only fed the panic. His breaths grew shallow, his throat burned, and tears returned with force, the salt streaming down his face as he cried, unable to stop.
And then, cutting through the internal chaos, a low voice broke in.
"Your eyes are beautiful, you know that?"
Harry stopped struggling, as if the sound had sliced through the suffocating air around him. He lifted his gaze, finding Malfoy's gray-blue eyes, so close it was easy to get caught there, like an anchor.
"You're so brave, Harry. The bravest person I've ever met," his tone was calm, and a small smile rested on his lips.
Harry shook his head. No, he wasn't. He was a fraud.
"You are," Malfoy insisted, the smile growing, though it wasn't happy. There was sadness, almost pain, in the lines of his face. "And so good, so kind."
Again, Harry shook his head. He wasn't kind, wasn't good. He had done terrible things, hurt people who didn't deserve it.
"Harry, you're one of the purest people to ever walk this earth. I know that." His hand was in Harry's hair, stroking in a steady rhythm, and it was so much easier to focus on that than on everything else.
"The baby's fine," came Madam Pomfrey's voice, and the room seemed to exhale all at once.
"It's okay," Malfoy repeated, and Harry drifted back into those watery blue eyes.
He heard other voices, other conversations, but they were all distant, muffled, irrelevant. The only sound that truly mattered was Malfoy's voice, the only touch that mattered was his. He was smiling at him, even with tears in his own eyes. And, in a strange moment, the panic seemed not to exist, like Malfoy was the only safe point in a world that could collapse at any second.
"Shall we get up?" Malfoy asked, and Harry nodded slowly, his head still spinning as though a whirlpool were trying to pull him away from reality.
Neville helped alongside Malfoy, his legs shook almost uncontrollably, and a tight knot in his stomach threatened to force out what little he had managed to keep down. He sat on the bed, leaning on Neville, closing his eyes for a moment, as if the whole world might stop if he just did that. The pounding pain in his head seemed to hammer behind his eyelids, heavy and unyielding.
"Harry, let's go to the hospital wing," he heard Neville say softly. He grimaced, reluctant, every movement demanding a strength he wasn't sure he still had. "It's safer for the baby," Neville added, and Harry sighed, surrendering to that creeping sense of responsibility, even when all he wanted was to run away.
The walk to the hospital wing became a blurred haze, the lights and voices melting together into a fog that pulsed in time with his pain. All he wanted was to close his eyes and vanish into silence.
When he was placed into one of the beds, a faint comfort wrapped around him at the feel of the soft blanket Malfoy had given him. The pounding in his head seemed to ease when the warming charm was cast, and Harry recognized Malfoy's magic, and, without needing to look, the silent, steady presence of the blond holding his hand.
He closed his eyes after that, aware that Madam Pomfrey was still running tests, but let fragile, much-needed sleep take him.
When he woke again, he didn't open his eyes. He was lying comfortably, well-covered, not cold, and his hand was still being held. But there were voices now, and he couldn't help overhearing the conversation.
"This is your fault," Ron's voice was easy to recognize, and then he felt someone stroking his hair, had to be Hermione.
"This isn't the time for that, Ronald," she said, confirming his guess.
"I made the pain stop," Malfoy's voice cut in.
"You wouldn't have to if you hadn't gotten him pregnant in the first place," Ron half-shouted, half-whispered.
"Ronald," Hermione scolded.
"I didn't do it on purpose, it was a drunken accident. Harry decided to keep it," Malfoy defended himself.
"Stop calling him Harry like you know him, you son of a bitch," Ron snapped, and Harry felt his hand being released, the cold creeping back into his fingertips.
"Listen here, Weasley, I was terrified when I saw him lying on the floor, glass all around him, crying his heart out," Malfoy said again, followed by Ron's derisive huff. "And I wasn't just worried about my child, I was worried about Potter," he said louder, and Harry felt a thin thread of anxiety tighten in his throat, fearing the headache might come back at any moment.
"You two, that's enough," Hermione whispered, still stroking his hair.
"Look, I want what's best for the baby and for Harry, and you have no idea what state he was in," Malfoy said, and Ron let out a quiet, scoffing laugh.
"I have no idea? Malfoy, I've been Harry's friend since first year. I was by his side at the very beginning, I was there when he started hearing the basilisk's voice that no one else could hear, I was there when a serial killer was after him. I tried to give my life in Harry's place that year. In fourth year I was a jealous prat, but even then I tried to help him. In fifth year he lost it, he yelled at everyone and was tortured by that cow Umbridge, and I was there. I was there while he chased you around in sixth year because he was sure you were up to something, and guess what? You were. He was right. I left my family in the middle of a war to help him, I went hungry for months in a forest for him, I stood by him through everything. I was there when he lost Cedric, when he lost his godfather, when we lost Mad-Eye, when we lost Dobby, Professor Lupin… and he was there for me when we lost Fred. And you honestly think I've never seen him in the middle of a rage, in the middle of a breakdown?" Ron's voice rang out, and what followed was a long silence.
"Look, I know it wasn't your fault. I know Harry's dealing with a lot, and I get… protective when it comes to my brothers. And Harry is my brother, always has been, always will be," Ron spoke again, sounding calmer now. "But don't act like you know him better than I do, better than Hermione, better than Neville. If his decision is to keep you around, fine, I've got no right to interfere. But stay in your place." He finished, and Harry heard footsteps coming closer.
Fingers brushed across his forehead, pushing hair out of his face, and he didn't need to open his eyes to know it was Ron.
"Look at the things you make me deal with, mate," Ron whispered, though Harry caught the humor in his voice, just before a quick kiss was pressed to his forehead.
There was another moment of silence before the hand left his hair and footsteps moved away. Then he felt Malfoy holding his hand again, and after that, it didn't take long for Harry to drift back to sleep.