Your Baby is the Size of A...

18 Weeks - Your baby is the size of an artichoke

This is not the place to chide, Severus reminded himself, drawing in a deep breath through his nose, pinching the bridge sharply. Instead, he resolutely ignored the swift kick to his left kidney and leveled an irritated glare at the Fifth Year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Discretely, he canted his hip against his desk, relieving a little of the pressure around his midriff with the change of position. Arms crossed over his chest, he verily demanded one of them try and fuck up, to allow him to unleash a small portion of his irritation. Of course, the source of irritation was Bump, and not the somewhat competent students before him – not that they needed to know that.

Already, Severus was counting the moments until the class would end so he could run fingers and palms along the suddenly feisty fetus.

Yet another kick to his kidney, and then higher – against his ribs.

Severus gritted his teeth against the sharp pop of pain, the sudden inability to draw in as deep a breath as he would have liked in his irritation. He reached for his tea, glowering at the ineffectual liquid – as the nausea still came in waves, though less frequently now. As though Bump merely wanted to keep him off-balance rather than starved. So, as it went, as long as the food had no flavor or texture to speak of, it was fine. Which left him with broth and tea – which was about as delightful as it sounded.

He managed to get through the rest of the class – without any explosions or boiled over potions. He glowered at each student as they filed out of the classroom, before heading for his office. In his office, Severus charmed his robes open and promptly dropped into his desk chair, hips pushed upward to straighten his spine as his hands roamed Bump.

"You're trying my patience today, brat," he griped, trying not to focus overly long on the swollen fingers, the joints puffy. He flexed his fingers, as though he could will the swelling down – which had made it impossible to button his clothes without the help of the spell. As it was, his pants were rather snug against his hips.

Severus rubbed impatiently at his temple with one hand while the other coasted slowly along Bump, feeling the tight swell of his stomach under his shirt, having forgone the waistcoat. The buttons strained, and he was struck by the notion that soon he would need to magic the fabric larger. Which seemed absurd, given that the baby was only the size of an artichoke.

He pushed himself forward, resting on the edge of his seat so his body could curve to accommodate the writhing mass of Bump. He straightened marginally, shifting the pain from around his spine to rest rather firmly against his hips, crushing the cradle of his pelvic bone. A hand snuck behind his back, kneading at the ache near his spine.

Five more months of this, he groaned internally, snorting derisively. Five more months of sleepless nights and bland food, of raging hormones and perpetual aches. "Joy," Severus drawled, pulling his grading over in front of him, selecting his favorite quill and the deepest red ink he had. A slash of ink across the parchment looked suspiciously like blood, and Severus found himself almost smiling – almost. He imagined that the students would cringe when they received their essays back, partially from the color, as though their grades had bled onto the parchments.

Then he noticed the small box, its silver clasp glinting gaily in the light. Frowning, Severus held his fingers out toward the small box, calling it from where it loitered inconspicuously at the edge of his desk. Its little silver feet skidded across his desktop, snuggling itself under his fingertips. For a moment, his suspicious nature warned him against opening it – but most of the people who had it out for him had been captured, killed, or had fled in the final war. And he was curious.

His thumb popped the clasp open, his fingers pushing back the lid slowly. While Severus wasn't afraid of whatever was in the box, he also didn't want to unnecessarily get himself maimed. He drew in a deep breath as he took in the softly glimmering pile of fairy wings. The box glittered on the inside, dusted with gossamer motes from iridescent wings.