Chapter Text
The thin morning light slipped under the crack of the bathroom door. Harry sat on the cold porcelain tub’s edge, hands trembling as he held the small slip of parchment in front of him. The test.
Two thin lines. Clear, undeniable.
His breath hitched. The paper felt impossibly heavy in his hands.
Pregnant.
The word echoed in his mind like a curse and a secret all at once.
Me. Pregnant.
Not something he’d ever imagined, not in a million years- especially not at the Dursleys’, in their miserable, suffocating house, on his fifteenth birthday.
He wanted to scream. To shout, to cry, to run. But no sound came out.
His heart hammered wildly, pounding so loud it almost drowned out the silence. Every second stretched longer than the last.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
He glanced at the door. No footsteps. No Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice demanding he clean the kitchen or mow the lawn. For once, the house was still. Empty except for the thick smell of damp carpets and stale air. He pressed his forehead against the cold wall, trying to push down the panic rising in his chest.
Fred. Fred Weasley.
The boy who had laughed with him in the Great Hall, who’d thrown jokes and fireworks his way.
His boy. His lover.
Fred was the only person who could be the father.
How would Fred even react? Would he believe him? Would he want this? Would he hate him?
And the Dursleys. Oh, the Dursleys would never let this go. They’d call him every awful name in the book. They’d shove him in a cupboard or worse if they found out. They didn’t even let him celebrate his birthday properly- why would they suddenly care about a baby?
Harry’s hands shook as he folded the test carefully and tucked it inside his thin, worn jumper. He couldn’t let them see it. Couldn’t let anyone see.
His birthday felt hollow, empty. No cards. No cake. No happy wishes. Just this- this crushing secret pressing down on him like a stone.
He closed his eyes, breathing shallow and fast. He thought of the Burrow, of Molly’s gentle voice and Ginny’s fierce protectiveness. Maybe, if he could just send a letter- no, an owl- no one would read it but Fred. Maybe he could ask for help.
But even that scared him. What if Fred ran away? What if he told everyone? What if-
Harry swallowed hard and wiped the tears that he refused to let fall fully. He wasn’t crying. He couldn’t. Not here.
He slipped off the tub, careful not to make a noise. The house was still quiet.
For now.
Harry sat on the floor of his small, cramped bedroom. The walls pressed in, their faded wallpaper peeling like the pieces of his own hope. The test was safely hidden in his jumper pocket, but its weight settled heavy on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
He pulled out his old, battered owl post quill and a scrap of parchment. His hand trembled as he wrote:
Fred, I need to talk. Please be careful. I’m... I’m in trouble. It’s important. Don’t tell anyone.
He folded the note quickly and tucked it inside his empty envelope. The quill hovered above his desk, unsure how to send it.
Letters.
He hadn’t had a proper letter in over a month. Well, not really letters. He had a few notes from Ron and Hermione- short, clipped, almost like they didn’t want to bother. They mentioned Sirius, but it was like they were guarding secrets from him.
He missed them. All of them.
Hermione’s warm, worried voice. Ron’s gruff but loyal presence. Sirius’s reckless kindness.
It hurt worse than the Dursleys’ cold stares or Aunt Petunia’s silent treatment.
He wondered where they were exactly, if they were safe, if they thought about him at all.
Because he thought about them. Every day.
His fingers trembled as he slipped the letter out the crack under his door, hoping the house stayed quiet enough that no one would catch it. Maybe an owl would find its way to Fred, or Ginny, or someone he trusted.
Maybe someone would come.
But for now, all he had was the silence.
He curled up on the threadbare carpet, eyes stinging, heart aching.
Fifteen. Pregnant. Alone.
The sun climbed high in the sky, but Harry’s stomach churned with a gnawing emptiness that twisted into a dull, relentless ache.
No breakfast. Nothing but silence and the faint scent of frying bacon from the Dursleys’ kitchen, just out of reach.
“Oi, Potter!” Dudley’s voice cut through the quiet yard like a blade. Harry flinched, hands gripping the shovel tighter.
Dudley stomped closer, fat face red and puffy.
“Still looking like you’re gonna puke, yeah? Bet you can’t even lift that.”
Harry forced himself to keep his grip steady, to stand tall even though his knees shook. The nausea bubbled threateningly, but he swallowed it down, teeth clenched.
He had to.
Dudley sneered and kicked a clump of dirt near Harry’s boots.
“You’re pathetic. Mum says you’re good for nothing.”
Harry’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something- anything- but his voice felt thick and useless.
A wave of dizziness hit him. His vision blurred at the edges, and his heart raced like it wanted to leap out of his chest.
Not now. Not here.
He blinked hard and forced himself to stand straighter, pretending he was fine.
Dudley laughed, a harsh, cruel sound.
“What’s the matter? Gonna pass out, Potter? Maybe the baby can handle gardening instead.”
Heat rose in Harry’s cheeks. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to see him like this. Weak. Vulnerable.
He wiped his clammy palms on his trousers and turned back to the flowerbeds, digging deep into the earth as if it would swallow him whole.
The ache in his stomach twisted tighter, a reminder he couldn’t ignore. But Harry bit down the urge to vomit, the trembling in his hands, and the exhaustion threatening to pull him under.
He had to hide it all. Had to survive the afternoon.
Because no one would help him here.
Harry’s legs felt like lead as he slipped into the kitchen, every step careful and quiet. The ache in his stomach hadn’t eased; nausea still churned like a storm inside him. He needed water. Needed something to calm the relentless sickness.
His fingers trembled as he reached for the small bottle of magical potion he’d managed to sneak from Hogwarts months ago- a nausea suppressant Hermione had helped him find for when he occasionally felt sick, though it wasn’t a cure, just a lifeline.
The kitchen was unbearably silent, except for the faint tick of the clock and the distant sound of the Dursleys’ TV downstairs.
Harry uncapped the bottle and tipped a few drops onto his tongue, then took a small sip of water from the tap.
Just as relief began to bloom faintly inside him, the sharp click of footsteps behind him froze his blood.
“Aha!”
Aunt Petunia’s voice, sharp and accusing, sliced the air.
“What do you think you’re doing in my kitchen?”
Harry whirled, heart pounding. Petunia stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a frying pan gripped tightly in one hand like a weapon.
“I… I was thirsty,” Harry said, voice barely a whisper.
Petunia’s eyes narrowed, lips curling into a sneer.
“Thirsty, huh? Trying to sneak food or drink without asking, as usual. You’re nothing but a greedy, filthy-”
She swung the frying pan down in a wide arc.
Harry dove out of the way just in time, stumbling backward toward the door.
“Get out of my kitchen!” Petunia barked, brandishing the pan.
Harry scrambled away, clutching the nausea potion tight in his pocket, heart racing with a mix of fear and relief.
Outside the kitchen door, he leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
No one here would help him.
No one but himself.
Harry balanced the tray with the meagre plates of food, feeling the sharp ache of hunger gnawing at his belly. He hadn’t eaten all day, not since the morning’s nausea had stolen his appetite-and his strength.
“Careful, Potter!” Dudley snarled, shoving past him roughly, “Don’t spill anything, you’re useless.”
Harry flinched but forced himself steady, placing the plates down on the table where Vernon and Petunia sat, smirking like they owned him.
He swallowed the bitter lump rising in his throat. The warmth he felt before- the flicker of hope in his chest- seemed so fragile now, almost laughable.
But maybe...
Maybe this baby was different.
Maybe it wasn’t just a problem to hide.
Maybe it was a beginning.
He thought of Fred’s easy smile, of the way his laugh had warmed Harry’s coldest days.
Maybe this little life growing inside him was a chance- a chance for love that didn’t come with cruelty and fear.
As Dudley jabbed his fork into his food with violent impatience and Aunt Petunia shot him poisonous glares, Harry’s gaze drifted away from the chaos.
He pictured a small hand curled around his finger.
A tiny heartbeat he could hold close.
A family he could finally call his own.
His lips curled into the faintest, secret smile.
For the first time in a long time, Harry dared to hope.
The thin light of dusk seeped through the cracked windowpane. Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the small, worn envelope in his hands- the letter from Fred.
His fingers trembled as he broke the seal.
Harry,
I’m coming to Little Whinging, on my own. Immediately.
Meet me by the window where me, George, and Ron rescued you with the flying car. Pack all your things.
I’m getting you out.
His heart thundered so loud he thought it might burst.
He’s coming.
Tears blurred his vision- tears of relief, of disbelief, of hope.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Harry dared to believe he wouldn’t be alone.
He began gathering his few belongings, each small item a step closer to freedom.
The baby. Fred. A family.
A new beginning.
The moon hung low and silver in the sky as Harry crept toward the window- the very one where Fred, George, and Ron had once pulled him to safety in the flying car.
His arms were heavy with a battered bag stuffed with everything he truly needed. His legs felt weak, like they might buckle at any moment. The weight in his belly churned, and the exhaustion from the day’s endless pain pressed down on him like a stone.
Then-
A familiar voice whispered softly from the shadows.
“Harry.”
Fred stepped out, his eyes wide with concern the moment he saw Harry’s pale face and trembling frame.
“You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Harry’s breath caught, the tight grip on his bag faltering.
Fred moved swiftly, magic flickering at his fingertips. With a gentle wave, the bag and everything inside the room shrank, folding neatly into a compact bundle no larger than a coin. He slipped it carefully into his pocket.
“You don’t have to carry all that,” Fred said softly, reaching out to steady Harry’s wobbling form.
Before Harry could respond, Fred pulled him close, lifting him effortlessly into the air.
Harry’s heart thundered- not just from the sudden weightlessness, but from the warmth radiating from Fred’s touch.
Fred’s hands cradled him gently as their lips met in a tender, lingering kiss.
It was a kiss full of promises- of safety, of love, of sanctuary.
“We’re going to the Burrow,” Fred murmured against Harry’s mouth, “No one else will be there. It’s locked up for the summer. We can be in peace.”
Harry’s breath hitched, a flicker of hope lighting inside him.
Fred’s arms tightened around him, steady and sure.
“We’ve got this,” Fred whispered.
In that quiet moment, floating beneath the stars, Harry felt something rare and precious: home.