A wave of nausea overcame you as you ate. The plate was filled with food. Too much food for now. You started to push it around and take drinks out of the goblet. Not wanting to admit that you felt ill. It was normal to feel ill while pregnant. But you knew the potions master would make a great deal out of it. It was too late to have that happen. You were too tired. The great hall’s noise level slowly started to tune out. Like barely hearable white noise. More sips out of the goblet. More pushing around food. Exhaustion. Chatter. Nausea. Nausea. Nausea—a hand. A hand? A firm hand. A firm hand was on your baby belly, rubbing gently. A pale hand. The potions professors hand. A voice. A baritone voice—the potions processor’s voice. What was he saying? A hand on your chin. Holding you firmly to look up into dark yet comforting eyes.