Chapter Text
Harry took pride in the fact that he had never fallen ill. He had broken a few bones. He had even endured an accident in which all the bones in his arm were removed. He had got a concussion. He also had a long history of Hospital Wing visits after his encounters with Voldemort over the years. But never, not even once, had he been sick.
At least that was until recently.
It had all started two days after his arrival at the Burrow. At first, he had felt tired all the time. He would sleep longer than normal, and he had found himself taking naps during the day. His friends had been able to find him dozing off in all kinds of places — on the sofa in the living room, in the armchair at the front of the extinguished hearth, under the tree in the garden. He also had no strength for anything. Not even Quidditch sounded appealing. Then came the problems with his stomach. All the smells suddenly irritated him, and he hadn’t been able to keep anything down. Running to the toilet during meals had become an everyday occurrence. His sense of taste had also sharpened. For the first time in his life, he had been able to name every spice used to make a dish or identify the type of honey in his tea.
It had been exhausting.
Mrs. Weasley, seeing his struggles, urged him to spend more time in bed and fed him potions, saying he would soon feel better.
Unfortunately, days had passed with nothing changing.
He ate almost nothing, slept all the time, and couldn’t find the strength to get up and do anything.
He heard his friends talking about him. They were worried that his condition was caused by the grief after Sirius’s death. But Harry knew better. It was something else. But what exactly could it be? He had no idea.
After almost two weeks of this, Mrs Weasley decided that enough was enough. Despite Harry’s reassurance that, for sure, he would be back to his perfect health in one more day, she contacted Dumbledore.
And that was how, at the end of July, Harry found himself sitting on the bed in the Hospital Wing, with Madame Pomfrey fussing around.
“Well, Mr Potter, let’s see what we are dealing with,” she said, glancing once more at the parchment floating in the air, where she had written down all his symptoms. “Please take off your shirt.”
Harry, somewhat reluctantly, followed the order, glad that the two of them were the only people in the sparse room lined with neatly made beds. He never really liked stripping in front of other people; there were far too many scars on his body to make the experience comfortable.
He watched in silence as the woman worked. Flashes of a different colour of light illuminated the space. Madam Pomfrey was murmuring under her breath from time to time — incantations and observations alike. After a moment, he noticed a slight concern beginning to show on her face, her brows furrowing as she urged her spelt quill to make additional notes.
“Harry,” she began, and he felt a shiver run down his spine. Her using his first name was not a good sign. “I’m sorry to ask this, but… have you had sex with anyone lately, with a man, to be precise?”
He instantly felt his cheeks grow red.
“What… what does it have to do with anything?” he stammered. Then it hit him — the tiredness, the nausea, his reaction to the smells. “Wait, you can’t be saying I’m pregnant! I’m a man! Men don’t get pregnant!”
At that, the woman’s face softened, and Harry felt his chest tighten. No, no, no… That was not possible. What was supposed to be a laugh escaped his mouth, sounding dangerously close to a whine.
Wait! Even if men could get pregnant, that definitely wasn’t the case there! After all, he hadn’t had sex with anyone! He wasn’t even into guys. Right?
“Harry…” Madam Pomfrey’s voice was deceptively soft when she addressed him. “I know it must be shocking for you, as you have been raised by the Muggles, but in our world, same-sex couples can have children who are biologically theirs,” she explained. “Magic has blessed us with many ways to make a pregnancy possible. The… let’s call it the traditional one… is, of course, the most popular, as it’s the easiest. But there are many rituals and potions that help achieve the end goal of producing offspring. The stronger the parents’ magical cores, the higher the chance of success.”
Harry nodded.
“Yeah, but… Even if that’s possible, I haven’t had sex with anyone. I also didn’t take part in any weird rituals. The only potions I took were the one you gave me at the end of the year and some Pepper Up from Mrs Weasley. I can’t be pregnant! There’s simply no chance!” he whined in protest.
The woman smiled. There was tension in her face. The corners of her mouth twitched slightly, as if she was forcing herself to maintain the appropriate expression. But the worry was clearly lurking beneath the surface.
“Harry, the spell I used detected a second magical signature. It’s still weak. I would estimate you are at the very beginning of your pregnancy, but it’s still present.”
Harry shook his head vigorously. “No, no… It’s not possible!”
“I’m sorry, Harry.”
“But I’m a virgin!” he burst out, his face turning even redder.
He looked at his flat stomach and felt tears welling in his eyes. This was a new kind of nightmare. It had to be. There was no way he was pregnant! He’d never had sex. He hadn’t even snogged properly, for God’s sake!
Sex is not the only way.
His mind was racing.
If not sex, then what? Potions or rituals… But that couldn’t be it either. And, besides, even if he had taken a potion by accident or anything like that… there was still a need for a second parent, right? Even if he had got himself into something — which wasn’t that impossible, considering his records — there was still a need for someone to be there with him when this happened, right? Magic or not, there was no way that some kind of magical pregnancy popped into existence with only his engagement in the whole process.
“I’m sorry to ask, but I need to know… Can you think of any situation in which you were close to someone, anyone, and an outburst of magic occurred? The diagnostic spell showed that conception took place around the time you…” She hesitated for a moment. “Around the day you were in the Ministry with your friends.” She gave him a moment to think, but an unnatural emptiness filled his head as he listened to her. “Had anything happened on that day? Anything unusual?”
Harry wanted to laugh at that.
What hadn’t happened that night! He had allowed himself to be lured into the Ministry, believing his Godfather was in danger. He had fought some of the most ruthless Death Eaters, trying his best to keep them away from the prophecy he had no idea existed before that day. He had learned that he was the one meant to kill Voldemort. He had lost his last family member. He had been possessed…
His eyes grew big at the sudden realisation.
Oh, you must be fucking kidding me!
Madam Pomfrey instantly noticed the change in his demeanour. “Tell me,” she demanded. “Harry, you need to tell me who you think the other father is!”
“W-why…,” he blurted. “What does it matter?”
She took a deep, steadying breath. “Do you wish to keep the baby, Harry?”
Did he wish to keep the baby? How the fuck was he supposed to know that? Fifteen minutes ago, he had no idea it was possible for a man to be pregnant. Ten minutes ago, he would never have suspected he was pregnant. Damn, he still wasn’t quite believing it! Two minutes ago, he had realised that — of all people on the planet — the one who had managed to knock him up by accident was Voldemort himself. The very man who had been trying to get him killed since he was born, and the very same man he was supposed to kill.
How the fuck was he supposed to know whether he wanted to keep the baby?
He shouldn’t have wanted to keep the baby. He was sixteen! He had no partner! The baby was probably Voldemort’s!
He buried his face in his hands, breathing heavily.
Oh, Gods, why did things like this keep happening to him? Whom had he offended in his previous life to deserve something like this?
“I… I don’t know. Why does it matter now?” he asked, looking at the medi-witch through his splayed fingers.
“You need to understand, Harry, that male pregnancies are very different from female ones. Because the male body is not naturally equipped with all the necessary parts, pregnancy is an enormous strain on their body and their magical core. For the baby to develop correctly, it needs access to magic from both parents. If you wish to keep it, we need to identify the second father and get you in contact with him.”
That was some more bad news.
“Can’t I do it on my own? Can’t anyone else help me?”
“I’m afraid not. No one else’s magic would suffice. And even if you were able to keep the baby without the second father’s magic, the pregnancy would probably drain your core completely. In the best-case scenario, you would become a Squib. In the worst… It could kill you.”
Why?
Why?
WHY!?
“So… Either I get rid of the baby or I die?”
The flash of understanding lit up the woman’s eyes. “I’m afraid so,” she said, pityingly.
“I… I need some time to think.”
Madam Pomfrey nodded at that.
“I will tell everyone I need to run some more tests,” she said after a moment. “You can stay the night here, and tomorrow, when you have time to decide, we will inform Professor Dumbledore about the situation.”
Right, Dumbledore…
Harry, feeling even more drained than before, nodded in agreement.
What else could he have done?