Harry was sure his thinking had been sharper and quicker before the pregnancy; it couldn't be that Transfiguration had suddenly become so difficult. The tip of his quill was almost digging into the parchment from how hard he pressed it without actually writing anything.
He heard a movement and lifted his head, seeing Malfoy sit across from him, next to Hermione, staring at him seriously. He frowned, confused, and then an envelope was tossed onto the table, sliding to a stop near his hand. The dry sound of paper against wood made his stomach tighten, as if he had swallowed ice.
He raised his eyes again, sighing as Ron and Hermione started gathering quills, parchment, and books to move to another table in the library. The sigh came out longer than intended, almost impatient, as if it were already a prelude to a headache.
"What's this?" he asked, watching Malfoy start fiddling with his family ring on his own finger, clearly anxious. The repetitive gesture made Harry even more aware of his own impatience, as if he could hear the ring scraping against someone else's skin.
Harry sighed, reaching for the envelope and opening it, needing only to read the first sentence to realize it was a manuscript for a Daily Prophet article that hadn't been published yet. His jaw tightened, eyes scanning quickly through the lines until they stumbled upon the headline.
"'The Chosen One gets pregnant by ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy: is it a plan to get back at the Chosen One, to bring You-Know-Who back, or a quest for family redemption and status?'" he read aloud, dropping the letter with a sharp snap on the table before looking back at the blonde. The sarcasm came out before he could even control his tone: "When are they publishing this?"
"This week, Mom's been bribing them since the female Weasel's show," he said, and Harry raised an eyebrow at the nickname. The discomfort gave way to a sting of bitter humor.
"We dragged it out too long trying to control the narrative, I apologize for that," Malfoy said calmly, and Harry leaned back in his chair, feeling the hard seat against his back.
"People have stared at me forever anyway, now a little more because of the fight and the bump showing, but it's not me being slandered in the paper," he shrugged, his hand automatically going to caress his belly, distracted.
"They're calling you naively in love with an affiliate of the people who killed your parents and friends," Malfoy said, his ice-blue eyes fixed on him.
"And it's not true," Harry shot back without thinking twice, the words sounding sharper than intended. He saw Malfoy sigh, heavy.
"My father demanded a formal meeting," he admitted, and Harry raised an eyebrow again, this time almost amused at Malfoy rolling his eyes. "I told him he wasn't in a position to demand anything and that I'd speak to you," the blonde murmured, stopping his fidgeting with the ring and crossing his arms.
"Wait, what's up with his cane?" Harry suddenly asked, the memory of the man coming to mind at the worst possible moment.
"I say my father wants to have dinner with us because we're going to have a child, and you ask about the cane?" Malfoy seemed incredulous. Harry raised an eyebrow, trying to hold back a smile threatening to escape.
"Yes, the cane. Is that an accessory, a weapon, or just a crutch for his ego?" The irony came naturally, and he had to lower his eyes to avoid laughing out loud.
"You're not taking Traditional Wizarding Culture while I'm taking Muggle Culture?" the blonde retorted, eyes narrowing as if he couldn't believe that was actually Harry's priority.
"You memorized my schedule?" Harry asked, half-amused, purposely frowning.
"That's not relevant," Malfoy replied curtly, but Harry noticed the stiffness in the way he adjusted his shoulder against the chair.
Harry snorted, almost laughing, before sighing. "Yeah, I don't pay much attention in that class, not good with theory." He shrugged lazily, as if refusing to give it importance.
Malfoy rolled his eyes, and Harry took a moment to savor the scene, the blonde looked like a perfect portrait of contained irritation.
"When does he want dinner?" he asked finally, already tired of the topic.
"Mom suggested a restaurant she likes because of its privacy for clients, next Friday." Malfoy shrugged, but his eyes never left the parchment in front of Harry. "Isn't this essay due tomorrow?"
"I said I'm not good at theory, though I did really well at Muggle school." Harry cracked his neck, feeling the discomfort of the chair.
"You're in all the subjects you signed up for, so you do well here too," the taller one muttered quietly, as if he didn't want it noticed. "Did you go in those kinds of metal carriages that move by themselves, with that unbearable noise and smell of smoke?" Malfoy asked suddenly.
"What?" Harry took a moment to process, then burst into a short laugh, leaning forward. "You're asking if I used to go to school by car?" Still laughing, he added, "I did ride in a car, yes, but I didn't go to school in it." The blonde nodded thoughtfully, but Harry noticed the tip of his ear turning red. "You can ask, Malfoy, I won't get annoyed," he encouraged, still smiling.
"It's… creative, the way they manage things without magic. I mean, they created a kind of magic for themselves, electricity." Malfoy's tone dropped, almost shy, and Harry blinked, surprised.
"My favorite invention of theirs is the television, and music tapes and CDs," he murmured, recognizing the confused spark in the pale eyes.
"Television is that square box, right? Made of glass and metal, spitting out flat images, almost like portraits, but with no magic at all. Ridiculously loud, full of shadows and colors trapped inside." Disdain dripped from every word, but Harry noticed the fascination hidden in the pauses. "It was like they had stuffed a bunch of tiny people into a glass prison. And the Muggles just sit there, staring at it like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. I admit, I wondered how they get it to work without a single spell."
Harry shook his head. "James is going to watch television, you know that, right?" he said, just to see the reaction.
The instant panic on Malfoy's face made him laugh. "Of course he will," the blonde rushed to say, almost alarmed. "He'll know everything about Muggles, nothing like me as a child." Harry's satisfaction was immediate, the small smile slipping out effortlessly.
"But he'll also have pure-blood culture," Malfoy added, his voice sounding more like a warning.
"He'll be part of both worlds, so that's more than fair," Harry shot back quickly, resting his chin in his hand, amused at how seriously the other took the conversation.
"You're overcomplicating things." Malfoy grabbed his parchment without ceremony, and Harry barely noticed he was reading. "Transfiguration isn't about forcing the object to change, it's about convincing the magic that it was always that thing. Write down that the key to Transfiguration is intention. If you only think about the result, you fail. You need to think with the object believing it's already something else." Harry stared at him, somewhat surprised by the unexpected help.
"Okay," he murmured, quickly jotting it down on a separate sheet before the clarity faded.
Malfoy stood, placing the white bottle in front of him before turning and walking over to where Zabini, Parkinson, and Goyle were waiting. Harry sighed, picking up the bottle and taking a long sip. The cold sensation down his throat brought brief relief, though it didn't clear the confusion sprawled across the parchment in front of him. Still, he couldn't help but let a corner of his mouth lift, remembering Malfoy's alarmed expression over the television.
"What did he want?" Ron asked when he returned to sit in front of him, a few minutes after Malfoy left.
"We're going to have a little boy, Ron, we kind of need to talk." Harry replied without lifting his gaze, eyes glued to the parchment. He managed to get a whole paragraph written, and to him, that was almost a trophy.
"What did he want?" Ron just repeated, more insistently. Hermione sat down beside him, dropping a stack of books that made the table shake.
"He wanted to talk about the announcement the Daily Prophet is going to make about my pregnancy." Harry sighed, letting the quill slip from his fingers as if it weighed more than it should. "He apologized for what's written there, even though his mother has been bribing the Prophet staff for two weeks to not publish it."
"How are you?" Hermione asked, holding his hand under the table. Harry felt her fingers squeeze his, and the question seemed to poke at an open wound.
"Tired." He rolled his eyes, the air heavy as it left his chest.
"Voldemort killed my parents, and my mother killed him, I had a shitty childhood because of that, and then when I entered the wizarding world my life was at risk every fucking year." His tone rose without him noticing. "With Quirrell, with the Horcrux, the Basilisk, Peter Pettigrew, the Triwizard Tournament, Umbridge, Voldemort's visions, the Ministry invasion, the prophecy, the Death Eaters' invasion at Hogwarts, hunting Horcruxes, the Ministry invasion again, months in the forest, the kidnapping to the Malfoy Manor, the Gringotts invasion and theft, the battle itself…" He listed them like a weight pressing in his stomach. The air in the library felt too hot, suffocating.
"And I dragged you all and so many others with me, my godfather died, my dad's best friend died along with Tonks and left the kid an orphan, Aurors died, professors, Snape, kids, Cedric, Colin Creevey, Fred." He turned to Ron, his voice faltering for a second. The redhead swallowed hard.
"Will's face was deformed, Lavender was turned into a werewolf, fifty people on our side died just in the Battle of Hogwarts!" The exclamation rang too loudly, Madame Pince hissed at him to lower his voice, but Harry didn't even look. "And then I killed the son of a bitch, I died and came back just to finish killing him, and even with all of that known across the UK, the damn press won't leave me alone. Won't let me have my little boy in peace." The last huff came almost like a desperate gasp for air.
He felt frustrated, damn it. Was it too much to ask for a little peace and privacy?
"At least it's something about James, something nice. Not about when Hermione kidnapped a journalist and kept her in private confinement inside a jar. Or when we broke into the Ministry and I got attacked by those brains. Or when you stole a Hippogriff condemned to death." Ron spoke seriously, but his practical tone fell like a bucket of cold water over Harry's anger.
"Hey, Hermione helped me with the Hippogriff," Harry shot back, the corner of his mouth already turning up.
"There was the illegal association against the Ministry, also known as Dumbledore's Army. Or breaking the rules with the Time-Turner." Hermione joined in, eyes focused but her voice dripping with irony as she looked at Ron. "It could be about your crush on Krum."
Ron turned to her, mouth open. "It could be about our crush on Krum." He corrected, pointing at the three of them around the table.
Harry couldn't hold it in. First, a short laugh escaped, then it turned into a full-blown guffaw, strong enough that he hid his face in his hands. The sound echoed through the library, full, almost relieved, while Madame Pince scolded him once more from across the room.
They left the library after that, Harry feeling his brain melt as if it were dripping down his temples. Ron insisted on carrying his backpack, and Harry didn't even try to argue, his fingers, distracted, traced the contour of the small swell in his belly as if seeking to confirm something they already knew.
James and Teddy wouldn't be in the same year, but they would still attend Hogwarts together. The idea formed clearly in his mind, the boy running down those corridors with light laughter, crossing paths with Teddy on some staircase, or sharing a spot in the Great Hall. James would have someone waiting for him, someone familiar, and yet he would make his own friends. The weight of Harry's inheritance would not fall on those small shoulders, not in the same way.
He wanted a shower before dinner and said goodbye to Ron and Hermione, who stayed in the common room. He climbed the stairs in silence, footsteps soft against the wood. His body felt heavier than it should, as if each step pulled a little more than normal, a low, diffuse pressure that he didn't bother naming.
When he stood naked in front of the mirror, he stared at himself. From the front, nothing drew attention. But when he turned his body, his gaze went straight to the small, round swell that now marked his belly. A low, almost reverent breath escaped him. James was growing there, safe, wrapped in layers of protection that would keep him close for another five months. Twenty-two weeks of waiting, and each day was another step closer to bringing him into the world.
He put on the dark-red set Malfoy had given him when he left the hospital wing, the soft fabric fitting well to his body, the cream cardigan over it warming his shoulders. His stomach twinged slightly as he buttoned it up, a strange squeeze that passed quickly, almost like the echo of the cold creeping up from the windows. He went down the stairs, still carrying the memory of the mirror in his chest, and gave a small smile at the way Nott and Neville were talking, heads close together in a calm exchange.
"Can we go have dinner?" he asked Ron and Hermione absentmindedly, reading the title of the book Hermione was holding, since it didn't seem like a textbook and might be interesting.
"Sure," Ron said after a few strange, quiet seconds. "Let's go," he added, jumping up.
"I could eat a treacle tart for dessert today," Hermione murmured, putting her book aside and following them.
"Did you see, Harry?" Ron started suddenly, eyes shining as if he'd been saving the news all day just for this moment. "The Cannons won the last match against the Appleby Arrows!"
"They won? You're not making that up?" Harry raised an eyebrow, holding back a laugh.
"I wouldn't make something like that up!" Ron replied quickly, raising his voice enough for a few people around them to look. "Their new Beater managed to take down three Arrows Chasers in less than twenty minutes. It was amazing!"
"Amazing isn't exactly the word I'd use to describe someone nearly getting knocked out by a bludger," Hermione sighed.
"Oh, love, it's Quidditch, not wizard chess," Ron shot back, rolling his eyes. "They're finally showing they can move up in the rankings this year."
"How many times have I heard you say that, Ron?" Harry let out a quiet laugh.
"This time it's serious. I'm telling you, Harry, if they keep this up, they might even get close to the League Cup." Ron gave him an indignant look, though the corners of his mouth curved into a smile.
"'Close' is a pretty strong word," Hermione commented, shaking her head, though she couldn't hide the slight lift of her lips.
The three of them walked down the torch-lit corridor, the buzz from the Great Hall already starting to spread.
"You'll see, Harry. One day I'm going to drag you to one of their games, and you'll admit they're the best," Ron said, sounding a little frustrated.
"If that happens, I promise to buy an orange jersey," Harry joked, and Ron's smile stretched so wide it looked like he'd already won a bet.
They sat at the eighth-year table, and Harry glanced at all the options before him. He was really craving fish, and of course, there was a choice. In the end, he put on his plate some salmon with dill sauce, sweet potato mash, and a few honey-glazed carrots, along with pumpkin juice.
It was when he brought the first forkful to his mouth that he recognized what he was feeling. It was hunger. But not an ordinary hunger, not the kind anyone might feel after a few hours without food.
It was the same hunger he'd felt when locked in the cupboard under the stairs, when his stomach ached as if it were devouring itself from the inside. The hunger from cooking for three people and only getting the cold leftovers from the pan. The hunger from when the scorching sun in the garden burned him, and without dinner, he was locked in the room he only got too late. The same raw, almost maddening hunger from hiding in the forest hunting Horcruxes, with nothing to ease the pain except his own determination.
The fork froze halfway to his mouth. He blinked several times, but he couldn't push away the memories rushing over him like a flood, each one crushing the other until only the suffocating tightness in his chest remained. His breath faltered, air seemed impossible to draw in, and his stomach twisted so painfully that he felt sweat prickling at the nape of his neck.The glass of juice started shaking in front of him, the liquid sloshing in waves until it splashed over the edge. The plate vibrated along with the cutlery, clinking louder and louder.
The candlelight flickered for a moment, the flames bending as if caught in the rhythm of his failing breath.
Harry closed his eyes tightly, trying to hold onto his own body, but the magic pulsed in uncontrolled waves, stronger than his will. The tablecloth beneath his plate shivered with the same tremor, its corners lifting slightly, as if pulled by an invisible wind.
"Breathe." He thought it, or perhaps murmured, it was hard to tell. But the air felt too thick, too heavy, impossible to draw in.
His fingers gripped the fork so tightly the knuckles turned white, the metal creaking, yielding just slightly to the pressure. The world around him seemed to falter, the chatter in the room muffled, as if he had plunged his head underwater, leaving only the irregular sound of his own breathing and the incessant clink of cutlery on porcelain.
The magic surged in another wave, the juice spilling in a small orange cascade across the table, trickling to the edge. The bench beneath him vibrated so violently he felt like he might slide across the floor at any moment.
And still, he couldn't move.
A hand rested on his shoulder. He hadn't even noticed he was in a trance until the touch. He blinked, heart racing, and when he lifted his eyes, he found Malfoy sitting beside him, concern clear in the grayish-blue of his eyes.
"Harry?" His voice was low, almost cautious. It was obvious it wasn't the first time he had called.
It was only then that Harry noticed the warmth around him, the heating charm wrapping him like an invisible blanket. The tremor of the plate eased, but his fingers remained too tense, as if the fork were his last anchor.
"I… I'm fine." His voice came out weak, unsteady. He closed his eyes, trying to cling to anything other than the vertigo that threatened to swallow him. When he opened them again, he saw Hermione in front of him, biting her lip in worry. Turning his head, he noticed Ron standing behind, fists clenched, as if he'd run to fetch help. Ron had called Malfoy.
"What happened, mate?" Ron asked softly, but Harry couldn't hold his friend's gaze. He shook his head, his whole body trembling.
"I just…" he swallowed, the words coming out broken, "hunger." He shrugged, almost embarrassed, returning his gaze to the still-full plate. The smell of the salmon, which had once seemed delicious, now made his stomach twist.
"How about starting with the carrots?" Malfoy suggested, his voice strangely gentle, almost too patient for him. Harry only nodded, trying to force the fork against the food.
But he couldn't. The silence of the three of them weighed heavier than any memory. His throat tightened, the burning hunger turned to nausea, and the tightness in his chest grew again. The juice trembled once more, orange splashes falling onto the tablecloth. The candle flames flickered, leaning, as if responding to the same collapse.
"I don't…" he murmured, choking on his own voice. The fork vibrated in his hand, scraping against the porcelain.
"Hey." Malfoy spoke again, firm, leaning closer. "Look at me."
Harry tried, but his eyes glazed over, caught between the plate and memories he didn't want to relive.
"Look at me, Potter." The command was sharper now, dry but not cruel. And, for a moment, it worked.
He took a deep, gasping breath, as if only then he could see the Great Hall again. The glass was nearly empty, the bench still vibrating beneath him. Hermione had her hand resting subtly on the table, as if restraining herself from touching him. Ron, behind, looked ready to explode at anyone who dared whisper.
Harry blinked slowly, confused. Heart still racing, stomach churning, head light. It took a few seconds before he realized he was once again sitting there, before a plate still untouched.
"I… I'm here." He murmured softly, as if he needed to tell himself before telling anyone else. "What kind of music do you like to listen to?" The question came unannounced, tossed with the casualness of someone talking about the weather. Harry looked at Malfoy, bewildered. "You mentioned tapes and music CDs earlier, so… what do you like to listen to?" Malfoy pressed, as if it were the most important thing in the world.
Harry blinked, hesitant, raising the fork again. "I like rock."
"Any bands you'd recommend?"
He furrowed his brows. "What?"
"Come on, Potter, this'll help me with my Muggle culture homework." Malfoy said with an unlikely ease. And Harry realized too late that he was smiling, though so faintly it might not have even been visible.
"I guess Nirvana, Oasis… a bit of The Offspring." He brought the mashed potatoes to his mouth without thinking. "Red Hot Chili Peppers is good too."
"Just those?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow, as if judging the answer.
Harry sighed, averting his eyes to the plate. "I like Nas, Mariah Carey, Madonna… and, well, of course, Michael Jackson. But they're not what I listen to most."
He wasn't stupid. He knew what Malfoy was doing. He knew the distraction was deliberate, a way to pull him out of the memories while keeping the fork moving. And he was grateful for it. The second bite of salmon felt lighter than the first.
"What do you listen to?" he asked, deciding it was better to focus on Draco than on the food.
"Oh, you know… The Weird Sisters, The Cattermole Twins, Silver Cauldron, Celestina Warbeck, Ophelia Dusk." Harry nodded in silence, too embarrassed to admit he only recognized two of those names "Do you support any Quidditch team?" Malfoy said, and this time a laugh escaped Harry, still weak, but real.
"He supports the Cannons." Ron answered before Harry could, a hint of pride in his voice.
"The Chudley Cannons, seriously?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow, incredulous, as if offended.
"You're crazy, the Cannons are amazing!" Ron shot back, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "They might not win every time, but they're ours! I always root for them!"
Hermione sighed, giving the redhead a light smack on the arm. Harry just watched, surprised to realize that the nausea had subsided.
"Amazing? Weasley, please, the Cannons are a national joke. Even I, who usually have some sympathy for underdogs, feel sorry for them." Draco arched an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with that cold, confident air.
"Sorry? Seriously, Malfoy? They have the best keeper in the league and loyal fans!" Ron made a disgusted face, slapping the table.
"Oh, yes, the best keeper… if you enjoy watching slow disasters with a dash of luck," Draco retorted, crossing his arms. "If you want real Quidditch, with technique, tradition, and class, you should root for Puddlemere United. They understand strategy, not just screaming and bad luck."
Harry watched silently, chest still a little tight, but the pressure no longer suffocating. Draco's calculated provocation, Ron's predictable indignation… it was almost comforting. He didn't even notice when his fork started moving again on its own, or when the plate began to empty.
"Class? They just live in the past, Malfoy! No one cares about them in recent years!" Ron huffed, exasperated, as if Draco had insulted his family.
"And that's exactly why appreciating them is a matter of refinement, Weasley. You need to recognize history, technique… elegance. Things that, apparently, you can't see in the Cannons." Draco tilted his head, a teasing smile slowly spreading.
Harry felt a warmth rise to his face, not from the salmon or hunger, but from the way Draco seemed to savor every word. When the blond shot him a quick glance, he swallowed the next bite with an involuntary smile, surprised at the sudden lightness he felt.
"See? Eating isn't so bad when there's a good Quidditch debate to distract the mind." Draco murmured, as if sharing a secret with him alone.
"I'm more distracted by you two interacting peacefully than anything else," Hermione said, horrified, pointing at Malfoy and Ron with her fingers.
"'Peacefully'?" Ron repeated, looking at his girlfriend. "He's talking atrocities about my Quidditch team!"
"I'm just stating facts. But if you want, I can start talking real atrocities." Draco retorted, voice low and sharp.
"No one asked you, ferret-face." Ron shot back, turning his attention to Hermione again.
Harry laughed at the expression on Malfoy's face, a small but genuine laugh that spread relief through his body.
"Thanks," he said quietly, in a tone only Draco could hear.
"I'm glad you notice the effort I make to not openly curse that dreadful Quidditch team." Draco replied, and Harry rolled his eyes, smiling faintly "You didn't answer which team you support," the blond insisted, his voice softened now.
"I usually root for the Cannons with Ron, but I really like the Holyhead Harpies." Harry shrugged, only now realizing his plate was almost empty. The strange emptiness inside him wasn't hunger anymore, but something else, lighter, almost unfamiliar.
"Nice coat, good taste from whoever bought it." Draco said suddenly, with that pretentious air only he could pull off.
Harry let out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "Shut up, ferret-face."
The difference, however, was in the smile. It wasn't the tense laugh from before, not a disguise. Draco seemed to notice too, instead of the sour expression he'd used with Ron, there was now a shadow of a satisfied smile on his lips.