Your Baby is the Size of A...

4 Weeks- Your Baby is the Size of a Poppyseed

A/N: Before I begin I would like to say that I apologize in advance if I get a few things wrong in this story. I do not know much about pregnancies or the babies growth rate during the time. Also this is a short chapter I was fairly tired today and didn't want to write. But I decided to get a quick one out. Sorry to disappoint.
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"You're supposed to gain some weight during pregnancy, Severus - not lose it," Poppy tutted softly.

Severus was laid back in the spare bed, tucked away in what used to be his room in the Infirmary - for those nights when Voldemort had left him a plaything for the others, broken at his mind and body relentlessly. Robes, vest, and shirt had been discarded. He glowered down at his stomach, still slightly concave, framed with the sharp edges of his ribs.

"Bloody hard to gain weight if you can't keep anything down," he snarled, trying to force the nausea down to a manageable hum - and failing.

"Still nauseous, then? Is the tea helping?" Her hands prodded gently at his stomach, as though she could feel where the sickness boiled just underneath his skin. As though she could simply pluck the bundle of cells from his entrails.

"Circe, no; not helping," he ground out, while it felt like his skin would crawl off his bones.

"Severus?"

"What," he barked, his fingers white-knuckled on the sheets, arms quivering finely.

Poppy sat back, smiling softly at him. "Your baby is the size of a poppy seed, now. Did you know that?"

Your baby.

He swallowed hard, as suddenly - the whole thing seemed so much more real. Severus managed to make a noncommittal noise high in his throat.

"Yes, well. How lovely," he sneered. "Do I meet your expectations of health? May I go now."

"Hmm? Yes. Though I really wish you'd gain some weight - you've always been too thin," she told him as he dressed. "Protein shakes, maybe - Muggle concoctions for muscle mass."

Snorting derisively, he took his leave - hurrying from the Infirmary as quickly as the churning in his guts would allow. And promptly nearly ran into Lupin as he rounded a corner. He drew himself up to his full height, arms crossed over his chest, while he sneered at the lighter man.

"Oh, Severus!" Lupin's eyes lit up, and Severus had this funny hum at the back of his head. "Hello." The smile was implied in every syllable Lupin spoke and would have made itself know had it not been etched on every line of his face.

"Lupin," he acknowledged drily, before making to move past the werewolf. Fingers curled around his wrist, tugging him back into place. That hazy feeling made itself even more apparent - in retaliation, he glowered angrily at Lupin.

"I was thinking . . . drinks, perhaps?" The question was soft, lilting.

"No. I rather think not, Lupin."

"Another time, then?" The question, though softer this time, was impatient, unwilling to be ignored.

Severus made a noncommittal noise low in his throat, striding past the lighter man with purpose.

And that purpose, as it turned out, was to return to his rooms and promptly offer his lunch as a sacrifice to porcelain gods. Finally giving into the nausea, he retched for what felt like a small eternity - until his throat burned and all the muscles in his body quivered weakly.

Limply, Severus curled on his side, the tile floor cool against his fevered skin. He panted, each breath making him feel more and more like something was crawling all over him. Thankfully, the mirror stayed quiet, and he undressed as quickly as his unbending fingers would allow.

He crawled into the shower, letting the cool water splash over him as he huddled on the floor of the stall. Severus drew in deep, almost calming breaths through his nose, forehead pressed to slick tile. His stomach still churned, but he'd ran out of things to give. There had been blood in the bile, at the end of it once the contents of his stomach had been emptied, once the heaves had seemingly tried to tear his soul free.

"I'd gladly welcome the Dark Lord for tea and a quick crucio if it meant not throwing up for a year," he muttered, eyes closing against the discomfort. The shower spray washed away unforgiving tears, lingering on his cheeks.

Minutes passed, and he laid there - quietly collecting his waning strength. Slowly - oh so slowly - he uncurled his frame from underneath the now cold spray and dragged himself to bed, determined to sleep for the remainder of the week - if only his body would let him.