She blamed her pregnancy hormones. This damn baby was causing all sorts of turmoil. Physical (did she really need to pee this much?), psychological (had she always had such thick ankles?), and emotional (why was she crying all the bloody time?). Whatever it was, Pansy disliked it, immensely. She did not like addressing her wrongs. She'd done enough of that after the war and didn't care for it one bit. It hadn't helped that Draco had been near-frantic (and wasn't that something to consider), and it had been even worse when Ron had come home with bloodshot eyes and shaking fingers. They had known she was doing badly, of course. Had known that she was weakening when, according to Susan, she should be getting better. Pansy couldn't imagine what it must be like, being without magic. What it must feel like. What she must be going through.