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Gregory Goyle is never eating again. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can barely move. Hunched over his bloated belly, he trudges across the dark castle, heaving himself through corridors that stretch endlessly before his blurring vision.
Relentless sharp cramps and bouts of panting tempt him to lie down and quit, but he knows he has to make it back to the dorm — back to Malfoy, whose side he should never have left.
Only bad things happen when Gregory strays away from Malfoy. That’s the mantra that gives him strength to carry on. His stomach may be pressing up into his lungs like a heavy rock, and every shallow inhale may expand his torso enough to hurt but not enough to let the air in, but Gregory musters up all his willpower to push through.
A billion leaden steps later, just when his legs threaten to collapse, the passage to the eighth year dorms materialises before him like a mirage. He hurls himself towards it, then bursts like a rolling boulder into the safety of his dorm. He drops onto the nearest armchair with a thud, and his hand comes to rest on his abdomen.
For the labour of expanding his chest, this time he is rewarded with a whiff of a familiar crisp, citric cologne. Malfoy’s velvet dressing gown rustles quietly as he swivels around in his desk chair. The warm glow of the oil lamp shines on his soft, just-washed hair, highlights the delicate angles of his face, catches on the tip of the quill dangling between his slender fingers.
He squints at Gregory. “What’s wrong with you?”
Caught in the intensity of Malfoy’s scrutiny, Gregory drops his eyes to the floor.
“Ate too much,” he grits out between pained breaths.
“What you do at every meal, then,” Malfoy says, and turns back to the parchment and textbooks strewn on the desk. When Gregory replies with a miserable noise, Malfoy adds simply, “Pomfrey will have something for it.”
“Can’t… move…”
“You’ve made it all the way here,” mutters Malfoy, quill scratching away. “Why didn’t you go to the Hospital Wing instead?”
Gregory blinks. He frowns.
“S’hard thinking with a stuffed brain, alright!” he argues, and his stomach punishes him with a roil for raising his voice. “Might just shove a finger down my throat,” he considers bitterly.
At that, Malfoy’s head snaps up, eyes almost popping out of his skull. “No, you won’t,” he decrees.
“Yeah, it’d be a waste of…” Glimpses of Gregory’s several-course dinner flash in his mind.
A heaping pile of thick roast beef slices and Yorkshire puddings soaked in gravy. A mountain of mashed potatoes with a pool of melted butter shimmering on top. Roasted carrots glazed with honey, and Brussels sprouts with fried bacon. Several spoonfuls of creamy macaroni cheese bubbling with melted cheddar, a hearty serving of steak and kidney pie, treacle tart with clotted cream, sticky toffee pudding dripping with caramel sauce, layers upon layers of custard trifle, and goblets of sweet pumpkin juice to wash it all down.
Moments ago those were appetising delights, but now the mere idea of them leaves Gregory queasy. He can still taste grease and garlic clinging to the back of his mouth. He lets out a groan.
Malfoy clicks his tongue. Setting his papers aside, he walks over to Gregory’s bed and pulls the covers down.
“Don’t think I should lie down,” Gregory says warily.
“No. You need to lean back,” explains Malfoy, thoughtfully arranging and rearranging Gregory’s pillows, until they are set into a very precise angle.
When he’s finally satisfied, he shoots Gregory’s unmoving form an expectant look. It’s not that Gregory doesn’t trust him — it’s evident Malfoy knows what he’s doing; it’s just that Gregory might explode if he lifts a single finger.
Malfoy’s gaze turns impatient, and he walks over.
“Come on, you great lump,” he says, offering his hands to him to help Gregory up.
Malfoy’s kindness sends a fuzzy rush of affection through Gregory, which propels him to take Malfoy’s hands. Though Malfoy makes no effort to pull Gregory to his feet, his touch alone gives him the strength to do anything Malfoy asks.
The motion of hauling himself up from his seat does heighten the terrible awareness of the greasy sludge clogging up Gregory’s insides, but he focuses really hard on the sensation of Malfoy’s hands, and that helps him cross the room without exploding.
Malfoy guides him into bed, ensuring his back is propped up just right, and Gregory finds that it is more comfortable than sitting on a chair. Now that his organs aren’t all pressing down on it, his stomach feels more settled, and it gets a bit easier to breathe, even if it hurts to do so.
While Gregory appreciates this first hint of relief, Malfoy sits next to him on the edge of the bed, and reaches for his shoes. He takes them off, tosses them to the floor, and peels off his socks too. Then, Malfoy gives each of Gregory’s bare feet a little squeeze, before tucking them snugly under the blanket.
Gregory wonders if he’s gone into some kind of overfeeding shock that causes hallucinations.
But hallucination or not, Malfoy scoots up the bed to carefully slip Gregory’s already-loosened tie over his head.
Next, Malfoy leans in to unbuckle Gregory’s belt, and Gregory can only watch wide-eyed, not daring to wonder what would happen if all his blood weren’t so concentrated on digestion. As it is, he’s just immensely grateful to be rid of the pressure the belt was putting on his abdomen.
Lastly, Malfoy’s nimble fingers undo the top button of Gregory’s shirt, and keep working their way down.
Gregory never cared about Malfoy seeing his body before; he was proud to be big, that’s what made him useful. So why is he self-conscious? He realises the caring way Malfoy is treating him sparked a feeble hope that he could be more than useful — but now he's in for a reality check.
Malfoy gets to the last button and pulls the shirt open. There it is: Gregory’s grotesquely swollen belly in full display, stretched taut like it’s about to burst. Gregory braces himself for the sneer of the century…
But Malfoy’s expression mellows with compassion. He strokes his thumb over Gregory’s cheek, and Gregory leans into the gesture before noticing how it makes his face flush.
“You poor thing,” Malfoy coos. “Whom must I threaten into marriage?”
Gregory’s brows furrow.
Malfoy looks at him with that innocent glint in his eyes that has nothing innocent about it. It makes him too pretty to get mad at, and breaks Gregory into a guffaw.
Unfortunately, that jostles his tender stomach and turns into a wince.
“Can you threaten Flitwick?” Gregory whines.
Malfoy laughs. “Into marrying you?”
Gregory doesn’t know if it’s Malfoy’s bright laughter or the mental image of Flitwick in bridal robes that makes his mouth curl up at the corners.
“No,” he says, his face half-smile, half-grimace.
Malfoy gives a small snort, the ghost of his own smile lingering on his lips. “You should have come study with me. That’s what you get for not listening.”
“Yeah,” Gregory mumbles. “There’s just so much stuff this year, and I’m so behind, it’s like they only let me do NEWT classes as some joke to prove I’m stupid, so I didn’t wanna think about it at all, so I went and —” Gregory doesn’t know if he’s about to cry, sick up, or choke to death.
“Alright, alright!” says Malfoy, holding up a hand to shush him. “Getting all worked up will only make it worse. I’ll teach you Charms, you’ll be fine. But for now you keep not thinking about it. Just breathe.”
When Malfoy walks off to rummage through his trunk, Gregory has the impulse to protest, but he does need to breathe. It’s still an ordeal, but if he concentrates, his lungs obey him.
Is this really how pregnant people feel? How do they handle months of it? Gregory could never do it. Endless days with a leaden weight pushing your insides around, and what do you get out of it? A slimy creature crawling out of you, all bloody and loud, with squishy little limbs, and big round eyes sparkling silver, and feather-fluffy blond hair that gleams once it’s clean…
A sudden warmth interrupts Gregory’s thoughts. Brought back to his senses, he glances down to find that Malfoy has placed a quilted compress on his stomach.
“This’ll help relax your muscles,” Malfoy explains, before turning away once more.
The heat spreads through Gregory’s belly, seeps into his skin. It eases the bloating and melts the tension off. Softens him all over.
Gregory’s body sags blissfully, sinking him further into the plush pillows. He zones out to the homely sounds of Malfoy tinkering about, and next thing he knows, there’s a steaming mug before his face.
Not just any mug, but Malfoy’s special monogrammed mug, green with silver polka dots, dainty like an enlarged teacup.
“Peppermint. Take small sips, don’t chug it all in one go.”
Gregory takes small sips. He wouldn’t chug it, anyway, because he’s holding Malfoy’s special monogrammed mug.
Malfoy watches him intently, as if he’s concerned about something important to him. Gregory’s cheeks feel hot again, and he’s not sure it’s just from the tea.
“I won’t be rough with it,” he assures, raising the mug.
“‘Course you won’t,” Malfoy replies like that’s so obvious it’s insulting, but the concerned expression doesn’t change.
Oh, well, this is not the time for Gregory to try and decipher Malfoy’s weird moods; he contents himself with drinking his beverage.
Somehow each sip is at once as refreshing as cool silk, yet as soothing as a hot bath. A sparkling lightness begins to wash over Gregory, like a merciful antidote kicking in.
Once the mug is empty, Malfoy takes it back, diligently unscathed. Their fingers brush for the smallest of moments, but it's enough to make Gregory yearn for more. He also takes the compress, and Gregory suppresses a whine at the loss of its heat.
As if he’s been studying Legilimency, though, Malfoy replaces it with his own hands. Gregory’s heart does a somersault. Malfoy’s hands are on him, soft and warm and calming.
There is a second of panic when his fingers press down, but he only applies very slight pressure. He moves in a clockwise arch, rubbing small circles into Gregory's skin as he goes. Gregory stares, hypnotised, as Malfoy slowly massages him, with movements so gentle that they make something flutter in Gregory’s chest.
After a while, something else flutters in his gut too. It makes a low gurgling sound, and a slight swirling builds until a gust of trapped air escapes him in a resounding belch.
“Sorry,” he rushes to say, with a pang of dread at the prospect of Malfoy pulling away his hands in disgust.
Malfoy scrunches his nose, but doesn’t recoil. “Lesser of two evils.”
Gregory relaxes, and notices that the agonising pressure inside his body has eased considerably. Most of the soreness is gone, and his ribcage has enough room to fit his lungs again. Able to breathe again at last, Gregory indulges in a long, deep sigh of relief.
At that, Malfoy reaches over to card his fingers through Gregory’s hair a couple times. The tingles that cascade down his scalp towards his shoulders leave him completely boneless on the cosy bed, and Malfoy draws the covers over him.
“There, there. You’ll be good as new by morning,” he says, patting Gregory’s shoulder. “Ready to gorge yourself on breakfast.”
The word “breakfast” begins to conjure sugary, buttery images Gregory has to banish before they’re even fully formed. But then he pictures a different image: a bowl of diced green apples, sprinkled with tart berries and topped with a dollop of cloud-like cream. Yeah, Gregory can probably eat again soon enough.
Reassured by this promising notion, he lets his eyes droop closed. As he floats into a deep sleep, he thinks that coming to Malfoy was the smart call, after all.