Your Baby is the Size of A...

23 Weeks - Your baby is the size of a grapefruit

Five months, Severus thought, mulling the words over in his head. Size of a grapefruit.

He sat at his desk, all essays needing to be marked pushed to the side and his book all about Bump resting in front of him. The sheets of parchment laid his pregnancy bare in neat, spidery script – all scientific with as little emotion as possible. It read more like a periodical than a diary of sorts, which Severus figured was probably for the best. Should anything happen to him, the journal would be found and read by at the very least Poppy, if not Lupin and Dumbledore as well.

And the last thing he wanted was to profess within its pages his very real fear of dying.

A particularly hard cramp tore at his stomach, clenching and relaxing and clenching again until his insides seized up. Poppy had called them Braxton Hicks contractions, but from what he had read, contractions abated eventually. And as it was, his stomach muscles felt like a blanket of lead around Bump, tightly squeezing and unforgivingly heavy. The cramps made it unbearable to do more than meekly sip at his tea – just the one cup a day now – and if he went over that, he found himself retching until it felt as though the lining of his stomach would tear free.

Rubbing his palm over his forehead, Severus let out a long sigh and picked up his quill, determined to write at least a few notes on the latest development, but instead . . . found himself sitting back in his chair.

Poppy had mentioned updating his will – a precaution, she had insisted as her hands had smoothed along his spasming abdomen. The note in his journal became instead a comment to where his will could be found, in the off chance the worst outcome came about.

Pulling a blank parchment in front of him, Severus stared down at the empty sheet, fingers tight to keep the shakes down.

Of course, he had written a will before – back in the shaky peace between the wars, when Voldemort had still been fresh and weak, when his loyalty had been questioned by both sides, when he had given all he had to ensure some idiotic boy with Lily's eyes and Potter's attitude had had a fighting chance.

But that was then – nearly twenty years ago. And admittedly, a lot had changed since then.

Heaving a sigh, he forced the nib to scratch across the blankness, scrawling deeply into the emptiness as he thought of what exactly to do with his meager possessions.

The money in his account would go to Bump, should the babe make it; custody to be given over to Poppy and Minerva – as the Wizarding World simply wouldn't allow the child to go to Lupin. If the babe didn't make it, the account was to be absorbed by Hogwarts to help pay for school supplies for less fortunate students. Spinner's End was to be sold, the money to be given away however the executor of his will saw fit. His books would remain at Hogwarts, tucked away inside the library; his notes, articles, and writings on potions making would be sent off to the guild where he had earned his title of Potions Master. His pregnancy journal would be finished with a thorough examination of his body after death and then published. His remains would be cremated, scattered over the aster-covered fields outside of Cokeworth.

Dropping the quill as if it burned, Severus leaned back, glowering at the single sheet lined brazenly with deep red ink – his entire life divided up, given away, forgotten in an instant. His hands fell to Bump, holding the swell of his stomach, feeling the gradual shift of the baby under his touch. Clearing his throat, he leant forward once more, picking the quill up and pressing the nib to the last few bare inches of parchment for one last decree, demand, request. He addressed Poppy specifically, telling her that in no uncertain terms was Lupin ever to know the dire odds that had been stacked against him, against Bump; the odds he had willingly accepted in the undertaking of his pregnancy.

Getting to his feet, Severus refused to acknowledge what that might have meant – his final wishes that Lupin's feelings be spared the heinous knowledge that the pregnancy had been almost fated to fail from the start. He folded the single sheet of parchment into thirds and tucked it away inside his copy of Advanced Potion Making.

Severus cleared his throat, as though the matter was done with, and tucked his journal into a desk drawer, heading for his rooms.

He charmed his buttons open, peeling fabric from his form to replace the woolen trousers with soft cotton sleep pants and promptly crawled into bed. Yet another hard cramp griped his stomach, his ribs and sides – making it nigh impossible to draw in a breath deep enough. Choking as his lungs drew up pitifully short, Severus clutched at the afghan, the sheets and turned his face into the pillow.

The unspoken prayer of please don't let me die filtered into his mind, disappearing as quickly as it came, his eyes shutting against the hurt in his guts. He focused on his breathing, the slow and shaky inhale as he tried to calm the ache above his navel, lingering just under his sternum.

His hand rested pitifully against Bump, as though he could persuade the small devil to calm long enough to allow him some rest. Although, Bump answered with a particularly hard kick to his stomach, pressing against the organs of his left side aggressively until Severus dragged his exhausted body from the bed and into the bathroom. Severus retched, fingers clutching hard at the sink, determined not to spend time looking at himself in the mirror. He didn't need to be reminded that his cheeks had sunken, his eyes red-rimmed and smudged with sleepless nights; his lips chapped from all the retching and his gums swollen and prone to bleeding.

Sighing, he slumped against the sink, letting his body slowly collapse – folding inward as though his spine had been stolen. Rolling onto his back, he smoothed hands along the naked swell of his stomach, drawing in as deep a breath as he could, as though the act would sway the nausea in his guts, the ache in his chest, the vulnerable feeling clawing at his insides. Laid upon the cold stones of the bathroom floor, Severus stared up at the towering ceiling and mentally demanded he be stronger. Gritting his teeth against the emotions roiling just under his skin, prickling at his thoughts.

You agreed to this, wanted it, he resolutely told himself, closing his eyes tightly at the hurt that boiled sharply just under his skin.

Whatever comes of it, you welcomed it, Severus reminded himself, even as another jagged cramp dug at his soft insides. He gritted his teeth against the overwhelming hurt, as tears barbed sharp and unrelenting at the backs of his eyes, dribbling out from under tightly closed lashes and threading through the hair at his temples.

How long had it been since pain had torn him down into something far more human than he'd ever wished to be?

If you're to die on this hard floor, you asked for it, he thought bitterly, chest cleaved open from the hurt; broken from the wish for it all the just end.