It's best characterized as a 'swimmy wriggle'.
It's a far cry from the twisting, wrenching experience of being made into a woman on the insides. The idea of that had both sickened and fascinated him, but apparently it was how it was accomplished. Like a chameleon, Harry had concluded: he'd morphed into a Wizard of another colour altogether. Maybe purply-red, like a bruise. Maybe a sort of stomach-churning avocado-aubergine shade. Maybe.
Or, perhaps it was more he was like Tiresias, some old Greek chap whom Hermione liked to spout off about, as if the trials and tribulations of a man dead these two millennia or more could shed light on the living—
Oh, now. Whoa, there. Harry's not even thinking to go there! That's miles and miles into territory he's not comfortable with, at all!
Leave that to the real scholars, the pendants, and maybe to Prickwad, who'd a hopeless pash for poor Parkinson and kept slipping her notes with shoddily written poetry on them. No wonder the poor girl looked so downtrodden; no wonder even Hermione felt a bit sorry for her.
Harry has his first laugh in what seems like eons, and it's rusty and sour-gruff and entirely private, situated as he is in the very rear of the Library. Where he's retreated to escape Hermione's clutches, oddly enough, as she won't think to look for him there.
Truth be told, he has time enough of his own now, and though he was never the best student, he could manage well enough without his hand held. And, his revising for his studies and the upcoming NEWTS aside, he had so much more time to simply be by himself, what with the baby coming.
No responsibilities, then, other than to stay alive and remain healthy—ah, yes. Well, that old refrain was familiar, too. But no Quidditch. Once again that had been disallowed, though this time by a stern Pomfrey. No heavy lifting, no unmonitored incantations, no Muggle sex toys and no prolonged broom flights or Apparates. No reconstruction efforts, either, as they drained his precious magic and he needed all he had and then some, to hand off to the swimmy wriggle.
Name of Malfoy, that thing inside him.
Speaking of…Malfoy was looking pretty hollow-eyed and grim, lately. He was quiet, too, which was a damned pleasant change from his previous blather and chatter. As if words had been chosen as his new social oil and he always seeking to ooze his way in and out of situations. And then all once, abruptly, the contrary git wasn't using them anymore. They might've exchanged seven consecutive sentences in the course of the day so far and Harry didn't expect much decent conversation out of the night to come.
Didn't want it, either. He'd nothing to say to Malfoy now, nothing. And he wasn't about to relate any news of the swimmy wriggle. Malfoy needn't be given any part of tha—
Oh.
Harry caught his breath; swallowed hard enough to feel as though the inside of his tightening throat was scraping dry. Raising his reference book on Common Wafting Charms, he bopped himself plonk on his fading scar with its dusty binding. Enough to create and audible thump. Enough to bring his musings up short and halt them in their tracks, screeching and wailing and….
Bitter. Lemony-tart and bitter as ripe yew berry…and as bloody deadly. Poison, it was, the coil inside him, and wound entirely too taut. See, he'd made the most of the rather awesomely unattached sensation regular shagging had lent him, and he'd done it deliberately. Hide the heart inside the body, bury the mind ever deeper. Like Occlumens, a bit, but…profound. He knew how to do it, too. After Sirius, he knew.
Professor Snape would be proud of him, yeah? Except, probably not. Not now.
Not quite the exact same thing as occlumency, of course, but not a lot different, either. It was only that he was old enough now, wise enough now, to not strike out, to not flail about and point fingers—and wands!— uselessly—or blame people that might not be entirely blameless but also weren't scarlet-dyed guilty and evil. Evil? Hah! Shit happened; gods, but that was something Harry understood. Shit did happen.
And he knew of evil, too. And it wasn't that, the wriggle. Just…it was—it was a something he had to cope with. Adjust to. Despite it all, including his own wishes. Like so much else shit, it had been handed him and he must needs take it up and simply deal. The hand dealt him.
And not waste time. No, not that, either. Hadn't he said he was never going to waste another moment, once? Hadn't he sworn to live, to live for the ones who couldn't? Colin?
Even Crabbe. He'd fucking sincerely sworn to live for Crabbe, damn his Gryffindor idiocy, and wasn't that idea a stupid point he and bloody Malfoy shared in common? What were they, mental?
Bloody Crabbe. Bugger. Bugger.
Still…the swimmy wriggle, he felt it more often. More and more often and sometimes he had the oddest urge to speak to it. Say something reassuring, perhaps, or apologise. Say he'd not meant to be quite so…quite so. Recently, that was.
Or maybe even before that, and he'd not realized. Had thought it was only Ron who was off and gone a bit twisted.
No, poisonous. So…frozen up. So..hollow. He'd been that, had chosen it as the best possible alternative. He was that, still.
The swimmy wriggle, however, had rather a lot to say to Harry, whether he cared to hear it or not. Been talking to him, all this time. Silently but so much there, in its tiny movements, its pathetically feeble hands striking his magically-made uterine (he gagged at the very concept, but there it was, wasn't it? Faugh!) walls. Its very heartbeat, distinct from his own, and seemingly slightly faster somehow, and heard loud and clear in a sterile exam room at St Mungo's—all of those signals and more spoke reams. Volumes.
If he cared to hear. If he cared to really, really hear.
