Your Baby is the Size of A...

34 Weeks - Your baby is the size of a butternut squash

Of course, as he took tea with the two lovebirds the following week and recounted his harrowing tale, Minerva gave him a quick once over while she poured the tea with a wry smile. "You don't look as though you've spent a night with a murderous werewolf. Look at you, Severus. Not even a love nip!"

He rolled his eyes and sighed down at his peppermint tea, already regretting telling them about his faux pas as he watched the pearled leaves unfurling slowly as the hot water seeped into them. As it was, Severus was still trying to convince himself that he had dreamed up those perhaps breathed-out words, whispered into the silence that had followed the moon's curse sucking itself sharply from Lupin's bones. Briefly, he thought back to the situation which he could have clearly dreamed up, mind well exhausted beyond logical thought. Warm arms wrapped around him, holding him close while soft words whispered in his ear, followed by softer touches whispered against his skin.

He was trying rather hard to not let that bloom into emotions.

"Yes. I imagine Albus didn't take that into consideration when he locked Lupin in my rooms," he quipped sharply and most certainly did not huff. Severus fought the urge to fold his arms in front of his chest. Instead, he lifted his teacup and sipped at the still scalding liquid as he settled back in his chair.

"He knows you've more lives than a bloody cat," Poppy said with a snort. "Knew better than to expect you to perish all because of a too-amorous werewolf. And how do you just forget that anyway."

"I can barely keep my marking straight, let alone be held responsible for the side effects of the full moon," he scoffed. "You were the one who said pregnancy brain was a real thing; I just didn't think it would affect both of us. Not to mention my hormones are currently enough of a handful without mixing them with Lupin's." He sighed, rubbing a hand along his forehead. "I'll just glad when he's out of my hair."

Poppy nearly choked, shooting a look in Minerva's direction . . . and making Severus feel as though he had missed something very important along the way. Or more likely, a certain old man had forgotten to tell him. Groaning, Severus slapped a hand over his face and huffed out a breath. "Oh, don't tell me. Albus has decided Lupin and I are to be wed. He's found another way to twist my arm and get me to do as he wishes. Picked out the rings, venue, and all that, has he?"

Minerva cleared her throat. "Well, he's certainly taking liberties with you missing out on the staff meetings."

He snorted, resigning himself to being in the dark about Dumbledore's plans up until the very moment he was finally privy to it. "He's daft, you know."

"He's certainly something," Minerva huffed out, sipping her tea.

And Severus wanted to trash the tea set – because Dumbledore's latest, yet to be seen betrayal felt finite. Carved of stone, burned into the pages of their history together. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, drew in a deep breath, and counted backward from ten. And instead of lingering there in a muted sense of his own betrayal, Severus sucked in another deep breath and got to his feet.

"I think I will retire," he told them softly, but surely as he smoothed his robes down.

"Severus," Poppy started, giving him a look. But Severus shook his head, ready to head for the sanctity of his rooms.

The walk from the Infirmary to the Dungeons was quiet, filled with too much silence but Severus let it be. He let the silence of the halls be filled up with that quietness, splintered with the sharp staccato of his steps.

And the rooms were just as quiet – Lupin still taking his tea with Dumbledore, he was sure.

Feeling broken away from all sense of things, he charmed his robed open and left them over the back of the sofa. And in the bedroom, he continued to pluck at his clothes, stripping down to his waist before stopping. His stomach stretched grotesquely in front of him, a swell of flesh rising from bone – as unforgiving as a crag from the sea. His breath caught in his throat, a soft displeased sound rising there, as he stared down at his body, ran palms over the swell of his belly. Over the too-much thereness of himself.