HD 'Teething Pains'

by tigersilver

MPREG, AU, EWE. Harry and Draco have been co-habiting for a long time, and mostly rubbing along well enough. Now their rubbing's caused a spark-and Harry has a definite beef about that! Too, Narcissa has an Owl Issue.

Author: tigersilver
Title: HD 'Teething Pains'
Rating: PG-13
WC: 4,600
Warnings/Summary: MPREG! Harry is a fat-bottomed boy. Draco is deep in his Quarterly obsession. And Narcissa has issues over excess Owlage. Life goes on, regardless. And the title of this is simply silliness.
For roma_fics* , for her birthday, wif' much luuuuurrrrrve from Tiger!

HD Teething Pains

"This is quite possibly the worst thing you've ever done to me, Malfoy, in all these years. And, really, I have to say I hate you for it, plain and simple."

"Yes, Potter."

"I've no arse left to me, Malfoy, and no proper middle. I don't fit my smalls; my shirts won't button unless I spell them," Harry took a breath, and not only because he was livid. He needed one; rants required excess energy and extra oxygen reserves and he was noticeably lacking in both categories, sod it. Which were the only categories in which he was lacking, blast and damn that Malfoy! "And more than that, you self-righteous, sperm-loaded tosser…" Harry winced, hand creeping to his belly. "Ugh, hang on. I have to sit down now."

"Hmm?" Malfoy, the git, didn't even bother to lift his eyes from the print. "Right, right. Do that, Potter. Take a load off."

Harry huffed at him, viciously.

"Huh! That's all you have to say to me, Malfoy? 'Hmmm'? 'Take a load off'? Sod you."

"Right, mmm-hmm," Malfoy nodded, not minding a word being exchanged between them, clearly. "You don't say, Potter. Really."

"Git."

Teeth clamped tight over additional-hormonally irrational-expletives, Harry circled the tidy little room fretfully, puffing as he seethed-this despite or perhaps even due the fit of his too-tight, too small house robes—and finally settled his enormously large arse upon the one single other comfortable armchair available in their sitting room. This, the lesser of the two comfiest armchairs they owned, and one of the very few in the whole house which wouldn't actively attempt to eat him alive when he went to lever his bulk out of it, later, was not Harry's chair. It was Malfoy's. The very same Malfoy who, deep in some learned prick's account of trekking through the Alps in search of rare Potions ingredients, remained undisturbed and mostly not at all present, mentally. Malfoy's arse, unlike Harry's, incidentally, was trim and fit and currently it was planted squarely in Harry's chair.

"Fine, that's it." Having settled Harry snorted, glaring across the short way at his idiot co-habitor, the comfy chair desperado. "Yes, I do realize you've just received your bloody precious Quarterly, Malfoy, and I know normally I let you enjoy it in peace, you swot. But, Malfoy, I find I don't actually give a shite if you're preoccupied this moment. I don't care if you're busy, I could give a bloody hoot if you're otherwise engaged. I'm telling you this one very important thing right now, this very instant, for once and for all, alright? So listen well and listen good, Malfoy, if you value your hide-and your bloody magazine! For if you don't, I'll incinerate that wretched thing, alright, and then where will you be? This has to stop, Malfoy. It has to!"

Malfoy ignored him, the ruddy wanker. Or, rather, Malfoy truly was mentally elsewhere entirely and only a monstrous disturbance in the force might possibly affect him. He was always exactly this way on Potions Quarterly days: inhabiting another planet peculiar to Potions-type geeks, those legions of apron-clad, goggle-eyed fanciers of the armadillo bile and the modified Amortentia recipes. Harry had learnt to live with it, as he rather adored the noxious git and that rather naturally allowed for these small annoyances cropping up like gnomes in the back garden. Like the Quarterly and Lucius Malfoy, his not-father in law...thankfully. That last constituted a boon, actually.

But this was different. This day he'd no qualms whatsoever.

Harry didn't wait for any assent, no matter how casually given; Malfoy likely wasn't planning on providing him the courtesy of one anyway, the pernicious rag-mannered perfectly proportioned prick. Any other day of the bloody year he was unfailingly attentive to Harry's every littlest desire, true enough; even overly so, to the point of smothering, but not on Quarterly days. It was…simply the way it was. End story. After so many years spent in Malfoy's company and glued together hip-and-heart Harry knew that...and didn't resent it.

Such was love. It had its drawbacks, surely. Today, however...today was different again. Today had been the kicker. The end. The bomb.

"Your mother, Malfoy," Harry snarled softly, glaring at Malfoy's unresponsive person with great severity, "however much I may esteem and adore the woman, is driving me right spare. Like a bloody hatter. As in mental." His voice sank to a nasty hiss in its vehemence. "As in round the bend, off my bloody rocker, gibbering. You, Malfoy, her everloving and only son she can actually claim by blood or Bond; you, Malfoy-are you hearing me, git? You'd better be! You need to speak with her, bloody like yesterday. Have a little chat with your dear old mum about restraint, alright? Break it to her gently that she has some sort of problem, Malfoy, and needs to seek immediate help, because I can't be dealing with thirteen fucking Owls up my nose before luncheon, Malfoy. Molly only sends the three and that's damned excessive. This has to stop!"

"Umm-hmm," Malfoy turned a page, nodding gravely, but his gaze didn't rise even the barest millimetre from the print of his beloved Quarterly. "If you want, Potter," he replied mildly, scanning obsessively. "You only have to say, you know. I'll do anything."

"Of course I want!" Harry shrieked quietly, sitting up with a jolt of indignation that sent him to clutching the padded arms for balance. Gone like the wind were his Auroring days, when he could dodge and dart like a bloody hummingbird! "And I am saying, berk! Whom else is going to speak to her for me, Malfoy? Lucius? Hah! As if he'd ever! He'd not lift a pinkie on my behalf, Malfoy, and you know it! He's barely grunting at me in passing and we've been together for how long now?"

"Mmm, yes, Potter." Malfoy only nodded blandly, his abstraction clearly impervious. Swotting berk turned another page and kept right on devouring the tiny print obsessively, as was his wont. "Alright. A long time, now. Very. Quite."

"That's it?"

Aghast, Harry stared pop-eyed at his longtime companion, the apple of his bloody eye and the bane of his ever more fattening days, currently happily ensconced in his favourite Quarterly-perusing armchair-Harry's chair, the git-a half-full brandy snifter stationed at his side like an aged and beloved beagle, its balloon shape resting on Great-Great-Aunt Matilda's scalloped-edge antique whatnot.

"Very? Quite?" Harry gasped.

Malfoy's treasured Potions rag was clutched possessively within long, well-kept fingers and all was right and tight in the Malfoy universe, apparently.

There were days when all Harry required was good excuse to hex the smug bastard. This was one of them.

"Peckerhead!" he added indignantly.

To his lover's irate gaze Malfoy resembled nothing so much as the very iconic image of the classically staid, stodgy, well-to-do Wizard, only (just) verging on the vaguely euphemistic 'middle years'. He lounged (in Harry's chair) at his ease, a fine, fit figure of a gentleman; a Wizard fully content with his lot and fully immersed there, from the part in his immaculately shorn hair to the tips of his perfectly polished house slippers of dragon doe leather. The paisley silk smoking jacket he carried off so elegantly only enhanced the stolid sheen of Malfoy gloss; the git wouldn't be at all out of place in a Muggle murder mystery novel, playing Lord of the Manor. He'd suit perfectly being cast in one of those Mugglish teccy novels by that Sayers bint or even that Witch Agatha Christie.

Harry sneered, baring the only part of him that hadn't grown substantially larger over the last eight months, his smile.

Malfoy should pay. He should pay on behalf of his overbearing, all too eager to be a grandmum again mother, Narcissa, and his blatantly obnoxious sire, Lucius, who dared have the gall to treat Harry as if he were still an unwelcome, unwanted, uninvited visitor to the Manor after some thirteen long and extremely satisfying-and now quite momentously fruitful-years of Harry being shagged senseless daily by the bloody git's son-and-heir.

And, Harry dwelt happily on his hormone-driven fantasy of providing the other father of the round ball of bulk inhabiting his once-trim middle with his due and just comeuppance, perhaps the blasted cretin-this prat here, not bloody Lucius-could be cast as the unfortunate MP found dead in the Study, who'd been brutally murdered by his justifiably frustrated helpmeet, the other Lord of the Manor. For once, Harry determined gleefully, it wouldn't be that bloody butler whodunit! It'd be the 'teccy that done gone and done it!

Despite his mate's apparent state of Gravitas extremis, order phantasmagoricus, Draco Malfoy read on, unperturbed. Woefully so.

Fulminating but somehow calmer after having enjoyed a bout of blood-stirring mental exercise, Harry absentmindedly returned to rubbing his ever-expanding stomach region. It was slightly sore from his awkward crash into the tinned peas tower earlier and the baby (their wonderful, miraculous baby, an unexpected benefit neither had dared hope for till it actually happened and still didn't quite dare believe, even now) was apparently engaged in swimming his or her evening laps. Hard ones, too, with a great deal of unnecessary kicking up of tiny heels and flopping about of miniscule flailing fists. All in the environs of Harry's impossibly stretched insides!

It was rather…rather sick-making, Harry decided ruefully, as he observed the nowadays version of one Master Draco Malfoy; he solidly, stolidly of the highest Wizarding corporate echelon. Swot squared, really, clad in wingtips and boring pinstripes and discreet ascots by day, the Citified git. A real jerk of a fossilized berk, in fact, decked in horn-rimmed designer reading specs and a disgustingly dear yardage of magical silk paisley of an 'at home' evening. Why, all Malfoy required was a water spaniel at his knee and a meerschaum pipe and he could be another one of those bloody boring-as-dry-biscuits Wizarding paintings lodged in the 'special' section of the V&A: 'A Wizard Peruses,' it would be entitled, pretentiously, as if anyone cared to view boring daubs of posh middle-aged Wizards caught out in their pleasure reading. Bosh!

Harry scowled, momentarily derailed by a great hormonal wave of nostalgia.

When had Malfoy ceased wearing imported denims tight enough to look painted on his fucking fit arse? When had his leather trousers been consigned to cold storage? The form-fitting jersies and poncy heeled dancing boots: where had they gone? And where, too, was the dashingly angry boy of Harry's fond memory? Whence had fled the strained and brittle young man Harry had fallen so hopelessly in lus-love with, back at Hogwarts? Where-oh, where?-had the real Draco Malfoy gone? The very one who'd used to hang rapt on every angry word Harry had to say to him—even if it was only for a chance to tear those same words to shreds and attack Harry's helpless ankles with a Tripping Hex right after? Oh, they'd been a right pair, then, two young hot-blooded bucks in rutting season!

It had been always exciting, with never a dull moment; had always been filled to the brim and spilling over, the sheer incandescence of emotion that raged between them. They had lived life to the fullest, then, scrapping and shagging and practically being legendary about it, their private lives spread all over the papers. 'Malfoy and Potter!' the headlines had run, 'Flouting Every Polite Convention!' 'Malfoy and Potter', they'd blared, 'Living in Sin!'

Now...now it was all about whether they should take additional steps to infant-proof Malfoy's home laboratory in the converted scullery-just in case, as Scorp had proved a right handful, years ago-and whether Harry should bother to return to Auroring after the newest little Miss or Master made an appearance. And who should be the chosen godparents and whether Harry was eating properly for two; getting down his bloody pease and carrots. Blah, blah, blah was their life. Bloody stultifying.

Harry missed that intense Draco Malfoy sometimes, something fierce.

"You're not listening to one single word I say, are you?" he demanded, when Malfoy's uninterrupted fascination with the pages before him had dragged on well into that extra-irritating tenth inning and he'd had yet another dose of 'enough, already!' "Are. You. Malfoy?"

"Hmmm?"

Nostalgia aside, Harry found himself sincerely wishing he'd the ready means about him still to thrash his complaisant beloved to within an inch of his bland boring life. The sheer effort inherent in staying still in his borrowed seat and not actively pummeling Malfoy about the head with his own rolled-up Quarterly left Harry feeling slightly winded...and he was already winded, damn it! Babies did that to one, routinely! Malfoy babies, it seemed, with horridly over-anxious grandmums named Narcissa!

"Arsewipe! Ponce! Peckerhead!" he spat, revving right back up to full attack mode. "Oi! I'm not talking solely for my own benefit here, Malfoy! Your bloody Mum's a bloody problem! Man the fuck up already! Take care of this for me, twat, or I'll hex the pants off you when you're least expecting it!"

There fell an infinitesimally small silence, in which the echoes of Harry's challenge clanged loudly. He sat back in his seat, breathing in a laboured fashion, rubbing his swollen abdomen and impatiently awaiting a reaction. True to his old form, Malfoy finally rose to bait. Granted, it had taken some time to herd him in the proper direction but apparently the ancient fire still yet burnt as embers, deep within the stodgy depths. The git darted an inquisitive glare Harry's way, irritably flapping the pages of his bleeding Quarterly.

"Ah. A problem, you say? Mother is?" he asked of Harry, cautiously.

"Oh, yes. Yes, Malfoy. She is," Harry scowled, lifting a meaningful eyebrow in return. It, too, was larger than it had been, months ago. He sneered. "And what, pray tell, are you planning to do about it, Daddy-O?"

"Cheeky!"

The Potions maven twitched his thin lips and turned his wary frown away, regarding the middle distance, giving forth all the signs of a modern-day Captain of Industry considering a potentially problematic situation at the office, assessing it for cost-effective, efficient solutions. In effect, subtly trimming sail and tacking agilely upwind. But, Harry noted, Malfoy still, regrettably, hadn't focussed on the considerable mass that was his intended lifemate for much more than a blip of an instant.

No. No, he had not.

Instead he rested a manicured fingertip on the exact line of print he'd been scanning—likely an advanced formulation for the reduction process of the wild tripe blossom to a Number Two commercial grade of non-sneezing powder or some similarly bloody silly Potions-geek technique—and lifted his abstracted steel grey gaze to view their mantel, scattered with collected memorabilia. And he said nothing more, the wanker...only sat in Harry's favoured chair and blandly considered.

"Pffft!"

In short order, Harry's baby-fuelled temper soared up another degree, achieving a lovely simmer. He hissed impatiently at his lover, the Father of his Giganticness, wordlessly prompting the prat opposite him to say bloody something-anything!

Malfoy but blinked innocuously at the mantel's various gewgaws and doodads, as if he were in some manner shocked by the news of his Mum's mental breakdown. Which he shouldn't be. Only look at how Narcissa spoilt all the other children she'd access to!

Shamelessly! Harry growled at the mere thought of it. Narcissa wouldn't be spoiling this latest Malfoy progeny rotten-at least not on his watch!

"My mother?"

"Yes!" Harry shouted eagerly, bouncing madly upon his cushion seat. "Yes, yes, yes! Your mother, arse! Mine is deceased. Remember? She cannot torment me like this!"

"Oh," was all the love of Harry's life replied. "Is she now? My mother."

"Gods, gods, gods, give me strength, I beg you. Your mother. Narcissa Black Malfoy, git, enemy of pregnant wankers everywhere-none other!"

Harry banged his chair's padded arm with a set of swollen fingers, clenched into a fat fist. He took a deep breath to calm himself immediately after. It wouldn't do to cause any more upset to the little one he carried; they'd gone through far too much just to arrive at this point, he and the Shameless Chair Thief. He wasn't risking it.

"Hmmm."

"Malfoy! I'm asking, here!" Stymied by various pointless mutters and useless minor grimacing on Malfoy's part, Harry deftly switched over to outright pleading as a viable alternative, batting his eyelashes (very thick they were now, like broom bristles, what with all those chemicals making babies inside him), unclenching the fingers he'd curled and spreading them wide open, waving them about in a rather helpless effect, sure to provoke something useful in return-at long last. And, too, staunchly ignoring the fact that even his bloody fingers were clocked in at over capacity, these days. They weren't fat, precisely, but they certainly weren't the svelte digits they had been, nine months previous. "I can't stand that sort of constant attention, Malfoy; you know I can't. I abhor it! And she's making me nervous and I'm nervous enough already! Make her stop!"

"Hmm. Ahhh. Well."

Malfoy heaved a weary sigh, a heavy one accompanied by a slight shrug of acknowledgement, indicating severally that yes, he was listening, and no, he didn't mind at all being disturbed by an unelicited rant from his longtime lover concerning the madness of his beloved mother but a mere half hour before retiring bedwards after a long, hard day dealing potions at Glaxo HQ—and on the first day of the third month of the year, otherwise known as 'the blessed day of the arrival of the eagerly awaited Spring Volume of his precious Quarterly. No, no, his body language conveyed, loud and clear. He didn't mind-anything for Harry.

Normally, Harry would kindly leave Draco in peace on an evening like this. Normally, Harry wasn't nearly ten months pregnant.

"You've not truly comprehended a fucking word, have you? Really, Malfoy? You think I'm joking? Thirteen Owls, Malfoy. Thirteen and that's only this particular morning! Sometimes there's more!"

"Potter."

"Because I'm expecting you to do something about it, Malfoy," Harry hissed through his teeth, unfashed and furious, "and you're doing a half-arsed hare-brained job of it. I mean, really!" he griped, chubby fingers describing arcs of inchoate ire. "It's your bloody Mum, Malfoy. Handle her!"

"Of course I have, Potter," the villainous perpetrator of Harry's pregnancy replied, his arctic calm not the slightest bit compromised. He even had to gall to blink calmly at Harry as if Harry were the one over-reacting. "Every word. Allow me to recap."

"Git! Go on ahead, if you feel you must," Harry snarled. "You've got two minutes, Malfoy, before I really blow my top!"

"Hmm," Malfoy hummed, settling himself more comfortably in Harry's chair. He tapped the faint cleft in his pointy chin, the same one Harry loved to lick, as it was ticklish. "Lessee. Firstly, you wish me to speak to my mother concerning an immediate and drastic reduction in her daily Owlage. Secondly, but of no less import, you're feeling rather overlarge and ungainly at the moment. And blue because of it." The git tapped his chin with additional emphasis.

"Right, right," Harry allowed, gritting his teeth. "Get on with it, then!"

"Upon reflection, Harry, you've realized you don't care for either item and you wish me to act upon these issues, on your behalf and to your immediate benefit. You expect that, naturally. As is your right. You are a Malfoy in all but name, Harry. Of course I shall do anything to ensure your satisfaction."

"Fuck, yes!" Harry swore, jiggling his bulk in his chair. "I very much do, git!"

"Naturally," Malfoy went on, unfazed. "Very well, then. I shall be more than glad to consult with my mother on your behalf as to the overwhelming preponderance of her Owls. I agree; she is fussing. It should be halted as soon as possible and believe me, it will. I'll see to it."

"Good enough," Harry allowed, crossing his arms. "And the rest?"

"However, Harry, your second agenda item is beyond my control at the moment; you'll simply have to wait, darling, until Mother Nature has determined the proper moment to release you. And trust me, I'll be there for you every moment. Wizard's honour."

"'Release me'! 'Darling'? You—you snot!" Harry gasped. "You-you bugger! What a horrid way to put it, Malfoy! This is your child we speak of, the same one that's taken over my entire life, the very same greedy little—little—whatever—and Merlin fuck yes, your Mum's fussing over him-or her-or whomever it is in there, playing Keeper! That's all your Mum does is fuss, fuss, fuss at me, all the livelong day, Malfoy-did you even realize? By bloody Owl, Malfoy! From a distance! That is, of course, when she's not simply barging in here to do it personally or else sending that damned Ditsy over to do it for her!"

"Hmm," Malfoy hummed. "I see. Foul, that. What a trial, darling."

Harry snorted, and instantly clutched his stomach when the hasty exhalation pained his now perpetually compressed diaphragm. The 'greedy little whatever' inside him chose that exact moment to arch into a high pirouette, followed by a spirited set of deep knee presses.

"Ouch!" he wheezed softly. "Smarts!"

"What, Potter? Of course it does; you're all emotional." Malfoy frowned a bit, his fair brow crinkling. "Take a deep breath, darling, and calm down, will you? Let me think on this for a moment. I can't bloody well pull solutions out of my arse when you're screaming."

"Bosh, Malfoy!" Harry gritted, both arms wrapped round his bulging middle and rocking. "I am not screaming, thank you very much! I am simply informing you in a carrying tone. Furthermore, arsehole, that's all you're good for, these days—thinking! I'd like to see you carry round what amounts to a sack of hyperactive potatoes, morning, noon and night! You'd be feeling then, prick!"

"Um-hmmm. Right, Potter." Malfoy merely smiled fondly.

"Oh, for gods'sake!" Harry howled. "Why do I even bother!"

"Now, now, Potter. Remain calm, please. You'll upset the child. On the other matter..."

Malfoy, intent on his professed cogitation, and also sneakily exhibiting an all-consuming need not to lose that so-important page in his bloody Quarterly, kept his forefinger firmly planted on the article he'd been reading and continued on in that measured tone he used only on the occasions when Harry was driving him spare. He'd used this irritating tone more and more often of late, or so Harry had noticed. That infuriated him too, incidentally.

Oh, yes...returning to the matter of Malfoy Mach II, Example B. Their peaceful existence together had rather gone pear-shaped in advent of Harry's much-longed-for surprise pregnancy. They'd almost give up on their hopes for a family of their very own…till that one fateful night at Blaise and Pansy's house, when the two utterly mad Zabinis had suggested skinny-dipping in their newly installed Magical Oases™.

Apparently-and this was a news flash-quantities of very warm water in combination with a whole raft of dry gin martinis produced an aphrodisiac effect that was startling effective, when combined with a Malfoy-patented fertility Potion.

"My other suggestion to you," Malfoy's measured tones rolled on, melodiously, "darling, would be to contact Jean-Luc over Moderne Messieurs and request he come and re-measure you for new paternity robes. I dare say you're about due for another round of them; it's been a month or more since we bespoke the last set. In fact, I don't know why you haven't taken care of that bit of business already, but I shall be sure to make an appointment for you first thing in the morning. So be still, my love. No need to pitch a fit."

They'd learnt the efficacy of the three combined when Harry turned up dreadfully ill the morning after—and every morning after that, for three months. Of course he'd not mentioned his growing suspicions to Malfoy, not wishing to disappoint the git when he'd just been appointed Head of Wizarding Glaxo's R&D Division. No...he'd suffered in silence, hacking up his intestines secretively and going off to Aurors as usual.

"Huh," Harry's jaw dropped; he was astounded. Of all the insensitive arses, Malfoy took the bloody biscuit! "And that's it, git? That's really all you have to say to me? Buy new robes? Calm the feck down? I never!"

"Well, yes, Potter."

His outburst of baby-induced unreason had finally earned Harry the full power of a pair of disturbingly clinical grey eyes, assessing him. They were light enough yet to catch the reflection of the reddened flames; age hadn't faded them, nor darkened them, either. And they were still as pools of stagnating molten silver. Malfoy was such a cool, calm fuck, now he'd entered his very late thirties and finally been promoted to his much hankered-after dual positions of Vice-President of the Wizarding Division of GlaxoWelcome and Head, Research.

Harry, illogically incensed and wanting nothing more than to leap up and pace the carpet, realized all at once (but belatedly) he was stuck—quite literally. He'd misjudged the blasted armchairs and that damned Malfoy had planted his narrow white arse in Harry's preferred one of course, the prick (all due to the ongoing, infantile game they played with each other, switching up their 'special' chairs for fun), and was staring at him with the same pair of sneering eyeballs that had challenged him daily some twenty-five odd years ago. The exact same.

Yes, Harry had stupidly wished for a return of the old Draco; this, however, he could do without.

"Why?" The git was every inch the composed VIP, unapproachable and icy. "Did you require something further, darling? Anything I can do-you know that. You've only to ask, Potter."

"Git." Harry, glaring for all he was worth, mentally pronounced (denounced, really) Malfoy as a wart on the arse of Creation in one single, succinct syllable. "Git-git-git! Argh! I can't believe you, sometimes! You're so! You're so bloody insensitive, Malfoy!"

"What?" Malfoy's eyebrows raised slightly toward the coppered ceiling tiles; he tilted that yummy chin of his inquisitively. "Is there something else, then? Just tell me straight out, Potter. Don't faff about. Please."

And, not incidentally, Harry realized on a short, sharp, silent snort, it was that very same pair of beady grey eyeballs that were directly responsible for landing him in his present overlarge, breathless, Owl-besieged circumstance. Gunmetal grey was a vastly seductive shade, actually, and especially when lit up from the inside by a species of passionate lust, brought to a seething parboil by the application of dry gin and hot water.

By the very nature of his bio-logical eventuality, Harry found this epiphany to be highly irritating. Shagging the great Fertility God seated across from him was very—very—far from his conscious mind, logging in as he was at the ten (excruciatingly long) months preggers and more stone than any one man should ever carry attached to his middle. Fine, he smirked nastily. Time to lob that bloody bombshell he'd been saving up, then. See how Malfoy liked that!

Harry cleared his throat in preparation; Malfoy raised an attentive brow. His Quarterly was still spread open in his lap, though, waiting for him to get back to it.

"Ahem, well," Harry, when pressed, could also pull off the icily cool, perpetually composed Malfoy act. Like a bloody champ, too, after all that exposure! "Perhaps you should be also be made aware I sicked up today, Malfoy. Right in the central canned goods aisle of the village Tesco's—likely that poor girl Martha who was kind enough to help me up after thought me some sort of utter slob." He sighed, waving a careless hand. "As I weigh a house-and look like I'm wearing one under my jersey."

"What?" Malfoy breathed, sitting bolt upright in Harry's armchair. "Pardon?"

"But she was nice enough about it, I s'pose," Harry went on blithely, as if unaware of what effect he was having on his lover. "Mopped my chin off for me after I knocked over the tinned pease and gave me a cuppa in the staff room, and then, after-you know, to be sure-I popped over to St. Mungo's to see Healer on the way home, you see, because that was odd, that. I mean, I've not been ill or months now, thankfully—but all was well, which was brill, really, and she sent me on home—"

"What!"

Potions Quarterly went flying; the brandy snifter shattered neatly where it sat, a fountain of pretty shards lofting up in a silvery, coppery crystal spray—and Malfoy (stodgy, settled, nearly middle-aged git as he was) must've have bloody well Apparated the five-and-half scant feet that separated the two of them, because in one blink he was lounging relaxed in his artfully stolen armchair and in the next he was kneeling before Harry's borrowed one, screeching his pale head off, his nervous hands burrowing frantically into Harry's ex-lap.

Very 'ex' it was, Harry's lap. There was no definition of the space apparent in that region that even came close to approaching the concept of a normal, everyday 'lap'. Nothing in the area allowed for it, really; all was baby Malfoy. Folding himself in neat halves was a thing of the past. For Harry, in his own humble opinion, had gained entirely too much weight after the first hideous trimester of yacking up his entire innards on a daily, nay, nearly hourly basis. He'd packed it all back on again, thrice over, and mainly on his bloated belly, flabby thighs and bubbled-over bumcheeks. It was, Harry had decided some months previous, a hideous thing, male pregnancy. If they weren't earning an actual baby out of it at the end, he'd certainly not have bothered.

Malfoy was, meanwhile, in the midst of a seriously huge shite-conniption. Practically frothing, the git, and pawing away at Harry's sore stomach in an effort to wrap his hands 'round it. Harry regarded him with a resigned eye and a weary air, edging nervously away on his borrowed cushion.

"What?" he asked his lover, snippy as your average fishwife. "Problem, Malfoy? You're all eyes and ears now, aren't you?" he added, not at all above snatching a bit of his own back. Anyone who'd been preggers for eons unending-any one such as Harry Potter, The Boy Who Bloated-had a certain Merlin-given right to be constantly out of sorts, yeah? He deserved it, that's what.

"What!" Malfoy shrieked, eldritch. Didn't stop to listen, though. "What's that you're saying! Are you alright, Harry? What sick up? What tins? Did they hurt you? You say you fell over? When did this happen! Where did this happen? How long ago? Have you Owled Molly about this—what of Hermione? my mother?—Healer? More importantly, are you sick still? Any pain, Harry—any bleeding?"

"Oh, Merlin, Malfoy! Do draw a damper, alright? I'm fine; Healer said."

Rolling his eyeballs something fierce (because what an utter berk Malfoy really was, to flail about now, well after the fact), Harry raised his arms to fend off the long, lean paisley-clad ones lunging for him. But it was much too late to evade; Malfoy was in full 'diagnostic daddy' mode, wand in hand, and practically champing at the bit with a flurry of the Anti-Nausea incantations and the Stabilising Charms.

A positive babble of protective spells instantly surrounded Harry, padding him and coddling him and giving his swollen insides and the precious burden they carried a very thorough look-see along the way by. Malfoy, ferociously determined, his lower lip caught firmly between his teeth in concentrated effort, even went so far as to rip Harry's barely-buttoned robes apart without a care for the inevitable rending of fine fabric, evidently seeking to tenderly pet and fondle all that excess bulk his lover had just been complaining so vociferously of. His normally pale face had to have gone ten shades whiter; the firm jaw was dead-set and the steely eyes were glittering.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Harry yowled, squirming, "you've gone starkers on me, just like your Mum, Malfoy!"

"Harry! Harry, let me see!" Malfoy demanded, groping away like a gorilla. Harry's robes were half dragged off hastily, his magically stretchy trousers jerked southwards. "I need to—you must—will you simply just cooperate for once in the whole of your bloody existence? I have to see; don't you get it? I have to see for myself, Harry!"

"Oi! Malfoy! Watch it!" Harry yelped when he was inadvertently pinched, even as he squirmed about in the carnivorous cushions in a vain effort to retreat from his beloved's attentions. "Jeezus Christ on a lolly stick! You're shoving at me, git! At my middle! My very abused middle, Malfoy! Cease already, prat—you'll bruise me and I'm already bruised enough—on the insides, thanking you ever so! This child of yours is a bloody Keeper, Malfoy—he never lets up! Nothing gets past him, believe you me—'specially not my kidneys!"

Malfoy didn't crack even a hint of a smile; didn't lighten up even by a whit. His taut features showed no sign of any of his usual expressions. Not his corporate deadpan-and-stern, nor his 'at-home-with-Harry' mild and relaxed face—nor even his softer, rather romantically-inclined side, the deeply hidden aspect of him only Harry was privy to.

Apparently, Harry decided, his not-quite-a-spouse's resident sense of dry humour had been ambushed and carried completely away by malevolent pixies. No, Milord Malfoy only scowled horribly at Harry, instead, raising accusingly narrowed slits of eyes to bore down upon Harry's irate green ones.

"The baby—is she well, Harry? Are you well? Answer me!" Malfoy demanded with absolutely no sign of hearing a single one of Harry's fretful complaints in re being squeezed unmercifully. "Because-because if you're not, we're Flooing straight off St. Mungo's this instant, you careless twat, and making certain of it! I will not have either of you in danger, Harry—I. Will. Not!"

"Now, Draco," Harry sighed, used to this, as well. Periodically Malfoy did have a major hissy, but they were unusual and far between. It'd always been his job to jolly the git out of them, as he was generally the only one successful. "Listen to me, idjiit arse. I've just now told you I've already seen Healer, this morning—"

"Enough of this," Malfoy pronounced, rising to his feet, and seemingly deaf as a stone wall. "This is folly, Potter-don't blather feeble excuses at me! We're going."

"Oh, now!" Harry exclaimed. "Wait a sec, Draco-I've already been!"

"Oh, no!" he riposted. "Not listening! Off we go, Harry! Spit-spot!"

The impetuous git even shot off a quick Lightening Charm, enough so that he could gather Harry up in his long arms with ease and jounce him carefully into a half-bent, sideways-listing scoop of fat-bottomed up-the-duff ex-Hero.

"Ooooh!" Harry gasped, closing his eyes blearily as he was abruptly raised an additional utterly appalling yard or so above his normal sea level, his face going greenish and pinched with the onset of vertigo. His eyes bugged out in panic and he slapped a quick hand across his lips in a desperate move to keep his insides in, where they properly belonged. "Ahhhhgh! Ugh! Oh, gods! Seasick, tosser; seasick! You know how I get when you do that! Stop—blurgh—stop it this instant! Don't twirl me! Put me down, arse-right now!"

"Hah! You wish, Potter! I will not, not till we arrive at St. Mungo's and see Healer! Do be quiet, will you? I have to sort out the bloody Floo now! Hang on to me, will you?"

Malfoy barked that. Or possibly that was a deeply ironic burst of laughter; Harry didn't know and didn't care, particularly: he winced at it, feeling horridly woozy, as the universe spun in a lazy-hazy dance of slo-mo…including Malfoy's burning grey gaze, fixed intently upon his wan cheeks and white lips.

"I don't need to go; I've already been!" But it was merely a whisper Harry got out, or mayhap a moan. He really felt quite dizzy, yes.

"Harry!" Malfoy growled darkly, fear infusing the clipped syllables. "No! Potter, you moron! Stay with me, will you? No fainting! And how-how could you? How could you possibly not tell me of this—this incident? What if you've been bleeding internally all this while? Oh—no! No, no, no—that's it! I've had enough!"

"Malfoy. Malfoy, please…" Harry flapped a hand at his spouse's furious face, weakly. "Can you…you…just…stop—Healer already told me—"

"You know," Malfoy's vicious voice galloped on, riding roughshod right over Harry's faint plea. "I don't give a fig what nonsense you're babbling about Healer, Harry. I'm not listening to you—not this time! We're not waiting—we going to St. Mungo's right now, Potter. Right now, to make certain, and if I have to Incarcerous you in the future to keep your pert little arse out of trouble, I will do so, Harry! I will!"

"Draco….ohgods! Draco, please stop, will you? Listen?" Harry begged, feeling distinctly frail. "Listen!"

Draco was not listening, no.

"Don't forget I know you, git, all too bloody well—you've brushed it off, haven't you? Went right on about your business; likely even finished your silly shopping, didn't you?—and then those Muggle metal trolleys are so ungainly; I keep telling you to send the bloody elves to do it—and why didn't you Owl me earlier, git? I was only in meetings. I'd've come to you instantly! Nothing's that pressing I can't leave when I wish to—and I'd certainly wish to, if I'd only known! You're ready to pop, Harry, do you even see that?—any moment now! You could've had our baby right at Tesco's—and maybe died there—have you even thought of what could've happened, idiot? You simply must take better care of yourself!"

"Malfoy! Stop, for Merlin's sake! Shut up!" Harry shouted, though at only a quarter his usual volume, which didn't matter in the slightest, anyway. Malfoy was unstoppable; he'd stomped over to the braided hearth rug meanwhile and caught up two generous handfuls of Floo powder, all whilst juggling his burden about until Harry was certain he'd disgrace himself thoroughly by casting up his accounts for the second time that day.

"Malfoy!" he repeated, insistently, using the hand that wasn't feebly clutching at Malfoy's collar for balance to whack him a good 'un right smack on the furrowed forehead. "Just hear me out! I did see Heal—"

Malfoy was in no mood to cooperate with anyone, much less his beleaguered lover. He likely hadn't even heard Harry's appeal, in truth, he was so utterly focused on spewing out all his own pent-up fear and ire.

"If you don't—if you don't, Harry," he pleaded stormily, grey eyes flashing miniature bolts of Draco-fury, "what in Hades d'you think I'll do, if I lose you?"

"Oh, hey now, love," Harry essayed, attempting to soothe. "There's no need for that. Not going to happen." To no avail, though.

"Oooh!" Malfoy inhaled sharply, nostrils at full flare. "I hate it when you do this, Potter! Absolutely hate it—it's so selfish! Anything could happen and I'd never even know, would I? Because you never bother to let me in on even half of what goes on whilst I'm at work—in fact, you don't tell me a sodding thing, Potter! You certainly didn't tell me when you first thought you were in the family way, did you?" he accused nastily, wild-eyed and practically foaming. "Oh, no! Not my Hero Harry! Puking like the dickens every single day, day and day out; can barely drag your sorry self to work some mornings, and you never even mention it in passing! No! You keep it all to yourself instead and then I finally end up having to Floo Granger-Weasley and practically beg her to spill your secrets and you know I hate that, Potter—she's always so—wait! Are you alright? You're wincing? Why're you wincing, Harry? Can you still Floo, love? Will it make you ill again? I can take you Side Along, instead—don't worry. We'll get you to Healer safe and sound—"

"Malfoy, be quiet!" Harry roared, hands to his ears despite the encroaching nausea. "Stop it, you freak! And stop that infernal swaying! I'm fine; absolutely ace and tip-fucking-top, alright?—or I would be, if you'd not throw me about like a sodding sack of flour! I swear, git, you're worse than Narcissa ever is, what with all this mental carryings-on and upheaval!"

Malfoy drew his head back and took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. He considered his red-faced, snapping-eyed armful of ex-Auror carefully. For a very long moment, one that dragged on interminably, in Harry's opinion.

"Draco—" Harry began yet another intervention, vowing to be patient. At least the git wasn't shifting him 'round and about anymore; his gut had thankfully subsided back down his esophagus. "Listen, I—"

"No, we're going, Potter," Malfoy's insistence overrode him, as he nodded to himself in superbly confident self-agreement. "If you can still Floo, then we're going. Or Healer can come here—you should really likely be lying down now, Harry, still and flat—are you thirsty? Generally, you're always so thirsty after you've sicked up." Malfoy's worry-wrinkled face took on a weirdly wise air, as if he were imparting a nugget of great wisdom. "And did you just say you took tea earlier with that Muggle girl? You should've had water, instead—or ginger beer, to settle your stomach."

Harry clutched his aching head with both hands, shaking it furiously, and peeped up at Malfoy through scrabbling fingers.

"Harry, let's—"

"Oh, Merlin's Bollocks-and-Sidewhiskers, Draco Malfoy—listen to yourself, will you? You've lost all your marbles, git! I said I'm fine. I am well, healthy, hearty—hale, even—there's not a sodding thing wrong with me. It was just morning sickness, popping up its evil head again—perfectly natural, even now, Healer told me—"

"You're entering your tenth bloody month, Potter, and there is nothing natural about it!" Malfoy thundered, the extra-large handfuls of Floo powder he was clutching trickling between fisted fingers. He handled Harry's ungainly body as if he were a sack of finest crystal champagne stems instead of any lot of common grain, though, and instantly lowered his bellow to a courteous hiss when Harry glared balefully. "I remember Tory was all but finished with hers by the end of the first trimester—and that damned Weasel female of yours always claims she never suffered a single solitary day of it! I don't care, Potter—it's St. Mungo's for you, this instant! You're not budging another step in any direction until I'm satisfied you're healthy!"

"Oh. Gods." Harry sighed, and laid his head on Malfoy's tense shoulder. "Fine, if that's what makes you happy, twat, but I've already been, as I've told you and told you—and your bloody Mum insisted I have a lie-down when I arrived home, too—and they said it's fine. Healer said, Draco. Please just shut up, already, will you?"

Malfoy, far from shutting up already or settling down, stomped his foot like the two-year old they'd someday have tumbling about the house. He snorted loudly, and the familiar scowl showed up again, blacker and nastier than even before.

"It isn't 'fine', Potter, and I do so wish you would cease using that horrible word as a catchall. It's been used to cover a whole range of your sins, prat, from simple lies of omission over diet to deliberate outright contrariness! St. Mungo's," he called out, stepping up to the fire and firmly tossing in his overabundance of powder. "Paternity Floor!"

"Fine, but you'll be sorry, Malfoy," Harry sing-songed into the column of nice warm throat his poor nose was squashed against. "When the staff summarily throws us both back out into the street for bothering them for nothing. Healer Marguerite already said not to return for a week, not unless it was utterly dire. She's bloody sick of seeing my fat arse, Malfoy. And besides—I am fine. I keep telling you this and you don't listen!"

"Wait—what? You've been? Why didn't you say so, Harry? When did you ever tell me that, arsehole? I know nothing of that—it's the first time you've mentioned it!"

Malfoy halted on the beat of a heel-drop, glaring down at his bulky beloved in a vastly threatening yet somewhat bewildered manner, as if he'd somehow been Obliviated of a few crucial moments and had just discovered it. The grey eyes weren't their usual cool pools at all—no, not by any means. They were startled—and was that a hint of terror showing through, buried behind the righteous rage and confusion?

No, that was merely another flashback Harry was having, this night of remembrances. He knew exactly what it was like to have Malfoy pitch a fit at him. He knew, too, exactly how desperation looked when done up in hues of grey. This wasn't so bad, now that Malfoy had reached the stage of sensible processing of data given…but it wasn't far off, either. Poor git; Harry patted him softly.

"And you're sure you're alright?" Malfoy nagged, jiggling Harry a smidgeon to regain his attention. "It's really nothing?—the baby's alright, Harry? You? Because we can Floo, anyway—I'd feel better, knowing—and Healer won't mind. She's all bark and no bite, Harry."

"Malfoy—Draco, you idiot nit, I am fine. She is fine. It is all very fine. The only things that are not fine are—" He paused, drawing in a steadying gulp of oxygen.

"Yes?"

"Well, er." It came out in a rush, all Harry's complaints. At least now Malfoy was actively listening, of that he was sure. "I've, ah, left all the shopping at Tesco's, so you'll have to go and retrieve it in the morning, as they can't deliver to the Manor, no matter what. Your Mum, Draco—your Mum's bloody certifiable after today's little incident and needs a nice holiday, far away preferably, and possibly till after the baby the baby comes, and lastly—"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Last of all, I've absolutely no idea how to contact that snooty Jean-Marc of yours. He's not in the Floo Directory and he's not in your little black book, git. Also, put me down this instant or I'll sick up again. On your favourite smoking jacket, Malfoy. You'd deserve it, too."

"Potter. Potter, did you just wind me up for no good reason—?" Malfoy only tightened his arms 'round Harry—but carefully. "Because, if you did—if you did!"

"No, I didn't, I swear!" Harry protested, blinking up at his captor. "I was ill and it is normal. I've checked, believe me." He gazed up at the suspicious eyes that met his and smiled. Raised a curious hand to tap a forefinger (with a swollen knuckle, thanks to the coming Malfoy) against the pursed lips of his…well, his 'Malfoy', for want of a better term. They cohabited; had for years now, but likely the prat would insist on making it entirely lawful before Baby Malfoy Number Two came upon the scene, if only for the inheritance laws. Scorp being Number One Son and all. "I'm taking no chances, Malfoy."

Malfoy scowled. "Better not be, Potter."

"Of course not, idjiit. Now, you. You are the one intensely in need of a rest cure, Malfoy, along with your bloody mother. You're far too wound up over this baby and your brand new job and it's all spilling over-on me! And, if you're not putting me down on my own two feet, then at least carry me up to bed. I'm knackered. You've exhausted me."

"How knackered, Potter? More so or less so, after you saw Healer?"

"Git."

"No, I'm serious, Potter. There's a Potion recently developed, specifically to raise one's energy levels, and I know a man of your years, in your situation, can begin to feel extremely run-down—"

"Did you wish me to punch you, git? Black your eye? Because I can, even from here."

"Shut up and answer the question, Potter. More so or less so? That new formulae I've just been researching, there's all manner of beneficial properties—mmph!"

Harry kissed him; a hard smack, that meant a number of things but especially 'Shut it!' and 'I love you!'

"Malfoy, you'd be better off whipping up a potion that leaves me less horny. Because it's bloody annoying, you oblivious prat—the father of your child having his not-mother-in-law's bloody Owls pecking at the window when he's mid-wank. Every quarter hour on the hour, sharpish. You'd better damned well do something in the morning about it or I really will fucking skin you, prat."

"Oh, quit your bitching, Potter, and kiss me again. I happen to like you overly horny—best part of being pregnant, methinks…well, other than the actual baby."

"Sentimental old fool."

"Pugnaciously puerile little prat. Naturally."

"Soppy sybarite."

"Muggle-loving plebe."

Malfoy momentarily called a ceasefire, but only in order to kiss Harry breathless at the landing.

"Um…ah! Draaacoooo...Mmm, but I love their biscuits more, at the moment—you ate the last one, you wretched thief," Harry accused him, taking a fond whack at the monster who stole all his little pleasures, from chair to biscuits to waistline. "Didn't you, just now? I do hate you, Malfoy, don't forget—oh, and don't forget the shopping, now—ah!" He gasped when Malfoy slipped a tongue into the super-sensitive whorl of his ear. "Oh….tha'ss—thassss'niiiiice…"

"I should hope so," the unabashed Armchair Thief grinned triumphantly. "How 'bout this, then?"

"Mmmm."

"Mmm-hmmm. But bed, now. And see Healer in the morning."

"Awww, do I have to, Malfoy? I mean, I just—and she said—"

"Harry."

"Demanding prick."

"Nasty little git. Bed and Healer."

"Right, right," Harry sighed, and resigned himself. "Alright, worrywart."

"Harry," Draco kissed him, carefully, upon his scar. He left his lips there and they smudged across Harry's forehead as Draco trudged them both—ah, all three of them, really—up the last part of the staircase. "Harry, thank you."

"Oh, no, Draco," Harry sighed and smiled, all at once, and blamed the hormones for the fact that he was misty-eyed. "Thank you."

Fin