This fic takes place during Half-Blood Prince.
Nine days. Each day corresponding to about a month. Such was the particular cruelty of the curse.
"On the other hand," said Ron brightly, "You'll be done with it in about a week!"
Harry grunted, his mind elsewhere. He was primarily concerned with the sheer psychological weight of being an unwed, virgin (cough) father. He had sent a School Owl off to the ministry asking for all help in this matter, but he figured they wouldn't be overly concerned with a condition that sounded like it was taken from the stories those giggling third-year girls wrote.
Also, he had no idea how a pregnant person was supposed to act. The craving for pumpkin juice was easy; he was thirsty. The pickles were because he hadn't had any for months. Come to think of it, he wanted an apple. He would have to go down to the ki-
"Potter!"
That couldn't be good.
Sure enough, Malfoy was striding towards them, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Obviously, he had put whatever he was working on off long enough to come sneer at Harry. "Hello...Potter," he sneered.
"Hello...Malfoy," Harry riposted.
Had this been a Western, this was the point at which the townspeople would've started running for cover.
Malfoy drew first; "Are you sure you want to be out, Potter? A person in your condition shouldn't be exerting herself." Crabbe and Goyle tittered obediently.
A tumbleweed crossed the street as Harry's gun cleared the holster. As the weed softly bounced onto the porch of the saloon, Harry's revolver leveled, and he squeezed the trigger.
"Oh, I'm sorry Malfoy, I didn't hear you. I was just wondering what a boy like you would be doing with his...juice in Potions. It certainly couldn't be to augment yourself, could it?" Harry smiled benignly. "Pansy been complaining, hmm?"
A bang rang out, and the black-hatted desperado staggered back, a good deal of his arm blown away by the dark-haired man's shot. "This isn't over, Potter," he hissed, eyes blazing. "Not by a long shot." He staggered out of town, his two accomplices following.
Harry watched them go, feeling oddly unsatisfied. "Come on," he said to Ron, "or we'll be late."