Severus Snape watched his final class of the day make a swift escape from the
dungeons, and it was a clear sign of the disturbed state of his mind that he
found himself wishing one of them would decide to linger, perhaps to ask a question
or just to talk. Ordinarily, of course, he would rather enter into a staring
contest with a basilisk than talk to a student, but today he was looking for
any excuse to avoid going home.
Home. It used to be such a pleasant place. He remembered fondly the time, just
a few months before, when he had been eager to leave the dungeons each evening
and return to his little house in Hogsmeade and his beautiful young bride. No
longer burdened with responsibilities as Head of Slytherin House, he had been
free to leave the castle at the end of the day, escaping the tiresome mass of
hormonal adolescents and embracing the peace of home and hearth.
Now, however, he was convinced that adolescent hormones were infinitely preferable
to Hermione’s hormones, which had been suddenly, violently activated several
months before by the silent alarm of what she called her biological clock. He
wished he’d heard the damned thing ringing; he might have prepared himself.
Instead, his first hint had been at the breakfast table one morning when she
announced with a gleeful look that she’d quit taking her contraceptive potion
the month before.
A row had followed, in which he had asserted his right to have some say in whether
or not he was ready to become a father. In the end she conceded the point, blamed
the mysterious “biological clock” for her deception, and asked him, with eyes
full of hope, if they might continue trying to conceive.
Truth be told, Severus Snape had no overwhelming desire to be a father. His
spent his days with children, and he saw little to recommend them. He had detested
his wife when she was a child. What if he detested his own children? What if
they detested him? Most children did, after all. Still, before he married he
had made his peace with the fact that Hermione probably would want children
one day, and there was always hope that the blending of their genes would result
in the first child he was ever able to like. It would be a Slytherin, of course;
all Snapes were.
So he had agreed and had quit preparing the potion for her. He had continued
making his genetic contribution to the process on a regular basis. He was secretly
glad that she had deceived him because he was able to look quite magnanimous
by comparison. He was a Good Husband, as any fool could see. What more could
she ask?
Quite a lot, as it turned out.
She had not gotten pregnant the first month, or the second, or the third. For
many women this was normal. For many women, this would not have been a cause
for concern. But Hermione Granger Snape was a planner. She made lists and ticked
off items as they were accomplished, one by one. And now, she had assigned them
a task and it had not been carried out. One or both of their bodies was not
cooperating. This was unacceptable. This was intolerable. This meant (obviously)
that they needed to Work Harder.
They were now in their second month of Working Harder, and he dreaded going
home.
He knew that he probably wasn’t the world’s greatest lover. His premarital experiences
had been few and far between, and although he had come to the marriage bed more
experienced than his wife, it had not taken her long to catch up. Quickly they
reached the point where they both entered into the process with enthusiasm,
and it usually ended in mutual enjoyment…or at least she made him think it did…but
no, he was fairly certain on that point. He doubted that his technique was the
stuff of romance novels, but he had not, heretofore, had any reason to be concerned
about his overall performance.
But now the focus had shifted from enjoyment to achievement. They weren’t there
to have fun, damn it; they were there to Create Life. They had a Schedule. They
had Responsibilities. She was contributing the X. He could give an X or
a Y, and she seemed to feel she was being generous in allowing him that latitude.
It turned out that Severus Snape was not terribly good at achievement-oriented
sex. Hermione had once been able to induce an erection simply by smiling at
him, but those days were gone. Now when she marched him to the bedroom babbling
about her basal body temperature, he frantically tried to think of something
stimulating enough to enable him to keep up (ahem) his end of the bargain.
Last night, both his mind and his body had threatened to fail him. He’d dealt
with three exploding cauldrons that day, which led to twelve trips to the infirmary,
and he had spent the afternoon cleaning his classroom. He didn’t want to have
sex, particularly if it meant forcing his weary brain to concoct an elaborate
fantasy. He wanted to have a drink and go to bed. Preferably alone.
But of course, it wasn’t to be. This was the perfect time in her cycle. They
simply had to have sex every night for the next three nights. Somehow, he had
managed it, but it hadn’t been easy.
One night down, two more to go.
He sighed and locked his classroom, heading for home. He was, after all, a Good
Husband, and he had Responsibilities.
§ § § §
Hermione wasn’t home yet from her job at the Ministry, and he allowed himself
a small sigh of relief. Perhaps if he had a drink, it would relax him a little,
help him forget about Creating Life and remember what he’d enjoyed about good
old recreational sex.
Scotch, he decided, reaching for the bottle.
He was on his third - or was it his fourth? - when she Apparated into the room,
scaring him nearly out of his wits. He’d known she was due home any minute,
of course, but he’d rather lost track of time as the Scotch tamped down his
more jarring thoughts, smoothing them into a blissful mental hum.
“Hello darling,” she greeted him with a smile. She eyed the glass in his hand.
“Long day?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Aren’t they all? I was teaching.”
“Ah, but with your passion for moulding young minds…”
He snorted. “Don’t be disgusting, Hermione.”
She laughed and cuddled next to him on the sofa. “I bought you a present today.”
“Really?” A new book, maybe. She often surprised him with books from his favourite
shop in London.
“Uh huh. Look.” She reached into the bag she was holding in her hand and pulled
out a handful of black silk. “See? Boxers.”
What the hell…? “May I ask why?”
“Well, I was reading something that said that briefs can actually diminish sperm
count. They keep the testicles too warm, you see.” She handed him the boxers
with a triumphant smile.
He stared at her in disbelief, letting the silk slither through his hands. “Hermione,
I don’t want to wear boxers,” he said, carefully enunciating around the
effects of the scotch. “I hate boxers.”
“Why?” Her face was completely surprised, genuinely innocent, and for a moment
he felt guilty.
But on second thought…no. “I happen to like warm testicles,” he
snapped. “I work in a dungeon. Dungeons are, by their very nature, cold, drafty
places, and there are certain parts of my body I prefer to protect from cold
and draft.”
“Oh.” She looked sympathetic, and for a moment he thought he’d actually won
this round. He should have known better. Hermione had a Plan, after all. “Well,
you’ll only have to wear them until I get pregnant, and I’m sure that will be
soon. Then you can go back to your others.”
He was never sure if it was the blazing row that followed this calm pronouncement
or the effects of the Scotch, but several hours later, when they settled down
to the inevitable, he just…couldn’t.
The Big Couldn’t.
The Couldn’t that had never happened to him before and left him curled up in
flaccid mortification, completely unable to rise to the occasion.
Hermione was…well, she was sweet about it. She really was. He knew she was disappointed,
and on some level he really appreciated the fact that she hid the disappointment
so well, and instead expressed concern for him. On every other level, he wished
she would leave him alone to die of embarrassment in peace.
“It’s OK, Severus,” she whispered, stroking the fine hairs on his chest. “We’ve
just been trying so hard, is all. You just need to relax. Is there anything
I can do to help you relax?”
**GO AWAY!**
“No. I’m just tired. I think I need some sleep.”
“Let’s try this one more time…” she said, her hand moving lower.
“NO!” He rolled out of her reach. “Enough, Hermione! Just…not tonight.”I
love her… I love her…I married her because I love her…She’s completely insane,
but I still love her…she’s obsessed, but I still love her…
“I’m sorry, Severus.” Her voice was hurt, and despite his own humiliation,
he felt a pang of regret that he’d disappointed her. He must actually love her,
he thought, if he could find it in him to care about her feelings just then.
She leaned over and kissed his cheek, running her fingers lightly over his jaw.
“I love you,” she whispered. “Good night.”
“I love you, too,” he said, deciding it was actually still the truth. He settled
in, his body and soul yearning for sleep, but his mind perverse, as always.
Maybe it was the scotch.
Maybe it was the fact that they’d had a fight.
Maybe it was just that he was so damned sick of scheduled sex.
Maybe it was psychological…he really didn’t want to have a child.
That showed promise, and he spent some little time on it, banging it into an
acceptable excuse for his body’s unacceptable failure. Eventually, however,
it wasn’t enough to push the real fear from his mind.
Maybe there was Something Wrong.
Maybe it was his age…he was in his mid-forties now and had a wife in her mid-twenties
- a wife who had just begun to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh and should certainly
not be expected to give them up. Hermione would never be unfaithful to him…would
she? He wouldn’t have thought so, back in the days when she was in her right
mind, but since the biological clock had begun doing her thinking for her, he
wasn’t exactly sure what she was capable of.
Wait a minute! He was a potions master! The right potion could take care of
his problem in no time. Hell, even the Muggles had a drug for this. He planned
to research it the minute he got to his office the next day, and with that off
his mind, he finally joined his wife in slumber.
§ § § §
He meant to get to work early the next morning, but for the second day in a
row his body conspired against him, and he overslept. Hermione overslept as
well, so their morning was spent crashing into one another, flinging the proper
robes at their bodies, grabbing cups of tea on the run, and then racing out
the door. Well, he raced out the door and she disapparated, but either way there
was no time for conversation, and for that, at least, he was grateful.
He arrived at the castle to find his dungeon classroom already full of snivelling
first-years, and within an hour he had given three detentions and reduced two
girls to tears. But on this day, even the joys of persecuting the pre-pubescent
weren’t enough to lift his spirits. The minute they fled the dungeon, he raced
back to his office to search for the journal article he remembered reading recently.
A new potion had been developed – based on that Muggle drug, if he remembered
correctly. It was supposed to be a miracle cure for those with his particular,
er, problem. Of course, for him, it was just a one-time thing – of course
it was - but just in case…
He found his stack of journals and his eye skimmed the contents of each one
searching for those two terrible words…Erectile dysfunction. He shuddered slightly.
It just sounded so…dysfunctional. What an appalling name for a condition that
was almost certainly – in his case, at least – to do with stress and
scotch and the insane pressure of his wife’s biological clock.
He made it to the bottom of the stack and never found the article, and panic
was beginning to set in when it hit him…Poppy! That whole issue had dealt with
reproductive issues, and Poppy Pomfrey had borrowed it to read up on the latest
contraceptive potions, which she often dispensed – along with stern lectures
– to the older Hogwarts students. He would just have to get the journal back
from her. He resolved to do that after lunch, and then stepped back into his
classroom to relieve his feelings on another group of students.
He went straight to the infirmary after lunch, relieved to find Poppy – and
only Poppy – there.
“I came to retrieve my journal,” he said brusquely. “The one you borrowed several
weeks ago.”
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Certainly, Severus. I’d have gotten it back to you
sooner, but you said you had little need of it.”
“Just…a bit of research,” he said.
“That’s fine.” She began searching her desk, sifting through stacks of parchment
and other journals. “Hmmm. It was here just the other day. What kind of research
are you doing?”
“The none-of-your-bloody-business kind,” he snapped, and then he instantly regretted
it when he saw her look go from bland and conversational to intensely curious.
“Is it…Hermione?” she asked, remembering the nature of the journal.
Severus felt a rush of heat to his cheeks. He was quite certain that he’d never
blushed in front of a member of the Hogwarts staff before and thought, on the
whole, that he should probably just go ahead and turn in his resignation. Given
the way Poppy ran her mouth, his reputation with his peers was certain to be
ruined by this encounter.
He mustered all the dignity he possibly could and answered her stiffly. “Hermione
and I are interested in starting a family. I thought there might be something
in that journal that would…help.”
“Is there a problem?” She quit shifting items about on her desk and settled
into her chair, entirely professional now. She waved her hand at him. “Sit,
Severus, and don’t be such an ass. If there’s a problem, it’s possible that
I can help.”
He deflated at that and dropped obediently into a chair. She was a mediwitch,
after all, and perhaps she could help. Not with his problem, of course. There
was no way he was going to discuss that, but maybe she knew of something
that would help Hermione to become pregnant – quickly – and bring this reproductive
nightmare to an end.
“We have been, er, trying for several months now. Hermione is becoming anxious.
Do you know of something she could take to…uh…hurry the process along?”
Poppy arched her eyebrows. “I couldn’t begin to prescribe a treatment without
first diagnosing the problem. Several months isn’t actually that long, you know,
and if there is a fertility problem, it could just as easily be with you. It
would be irresponsible of me to attempt to treat Hermione first, without ruling
out the male factor.”
“Male…factor?”
She reached into a cabinet behind her desk and handed him a small container.
“Go into the back room there and get me a sample. We’ll start with that.”
Like hell they would.
“I think not,” he said firmly, still trying for dignity and feeling that
it was a losing battle as long as he held that cup in his hand. He set it on
her desk and started to rise.
“Oh, hello Professor,” Poppy said cheerfully. Severus turned around and saw
Albus Dumbledore entering the infirmary. “What can I do for you?”
“I need something for a headache, if you don’t mind, Poppy.” Dumbledore rubbed
his temples. “Fudge was here for two hours this morning, and you know what that
always does to me. Hello Severus. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all. I was just leaving.” He rose to make his escape, eternally grateful
for the interruption.
“Oh no you don’t,” Poppy said with determination. “Headmaster, please help me
talk some sense into Severus. He came here with a medical concern and now he’s
dashing out without letting me even try to help.”
“A medical concern?” Dumbledore said, worry moving over his face. “Severus,
is there anything I can do?”
“There most certainly is not,” he snapped. “This is no one’s business but my
own.”
“And Hermione’s,” Poppy retorted. “It takes two to make babies, last I heard
anyway.”
“Babies!” Dumbledore exclaimed, delighted. “Is that what this is about? Severus,
this is wonderful!”
“It’s not wonderful yet because she’s not pregnant yet,” Poppy said. “And Professor
High and Mighty there won’t give me a semen sample so that I can find out if
he’s the one to blame.” She picked up the little container again and waved it
around.
“Really, Severus, you should let Poppy help you if she can. Think what it will
mean to Hermione.”
“Headmaster, I am not going to go back there and…with you two right here…and…well,
I’m just not. If there is a problem, I can assure you it isn’t with me. I’ll
have Hermione come see Poppy for a check-up.”
“Now Severus, there’s no shame in admitting that the problem might be yours,”
Poppy said soothingly. “It’s just like any other medical condition, and there
are some wonderful potions out there that can help. But first I have to get
a look at your sperm. Find out if there are enough of the little blokes…make
sure they’re strong swimmers - all that sort of thing.”
Severus’s eyes widened as she talked. He was in hell. He was sure of it.
Dumbledore was nodding sagely as if they were talking about the latest curriculum
changes. “That’s right, Severus. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Unless…”
He gave Severus his most penetrating look, the one Severus had learned to hate
because an unwelcome burst of extrasensory perception always followed. “Severus,”
he said, lowering his voice slightly, “Are you having a little trouble…er, controlling
the old wand?”
“Albus! I most certainly am not! How could you even suggest…?” He could feel
his cheeks burning again. Two blushes in one day was a record for him, and how
the hell was he ever supposed to get an erection if all his blood was in his
face? He had to get out of there…
“Severus, it happens to every man at one time or another,” Dumbledore said soothingly.
“Happened to me just two years ago.”
Who…?
No...best not allow himself to get distracted. He glared at the Headmaster.
“Albus, I might find that more comforting if you weren’t over 150 years old.”
Dumbledore chuckled. “Now, now. That’s all beside the point. I think you just
need to relax. You’ve gotten too worked up over this whole thing.”
If one more person told him to relax! How was he supposed to relax with his
colleagues casually discussing his sperm count and his wife trying to freeze
his balls off? He started to say something to that effect, and then decided
against it. He was Severus Snape! He didn’t explain things to people.
He cut them with a scathing remark, gave them an icy glare, and then glided
away. That was what Severus Snape did.
Except in this case, he thought he’d just skip the remark, since opening his
mouth had only gotten him in trouble thus far, and go right to the part where
he glared and glided away - or glared and ran away, which was something
he’d never tried, but he thought this just might be the perfect time for it.
“Oh no you don’t,” Dumbledore said, sensing his impending flight. He took the
container and handed it to Severus. “I’m curious now, myself. Go get Poppy a
sample please, Severus.”
Severus gaped. He wasn’t actually being ordered to…Surely there was some rule
against that? Something in his contract…? Of course, he’d never bothered to
read the fine print, but there was no way the Headmaster could makehim…
“You do know what to do, don’t you Severus?” Dumbledore was beginning
to look a little concerned. “It’s, er…just like riding a broom. You just grip
the handle, you see, and…”
“ALBUS!” Severus snatched the container out of Dumbledore’s hand. He
decided it would be easier to do what they were asking than to sit and suffer
Albus’s metaphorical explanations - particularly as they seemed on the verge
of being accompanied by pantomime. He barely remembered to glare before running
to the back room.
He sat down on the only available stool and took deep cleansing breaths. Once
he had regained his equilibrium, he remembered that he had been sent in there
with a job to do…so to speak. If he took too long, that would be embarrassing.
Best get it over with.
Except, if he hadn’t been able to perform in his own quiet bedroom, how in the
hell was he supposed to do it in the storage room of the Hogwarts infirmary
with Poppy and Albus waiting right outside?
He closed his eyes and thought of Hermione.
There. That was better.
He imagined her sweet smell and the way her hair felt between his fingers. He
imagined the softness of her body pressed against his. He thought of how it
felt to press his lips against her neck and feel her pulse accelerate at the
touch…to suckle lightly and hear the soft sounds of pleasure she made. One hand
worked its way under her nightshirt, over her hip, and smoothed its way up her
ribcage, just firmly enough not to tickle. It had taken a while to master that…
He cupped the fullness of a soft breast in his hand and teased the nipple with
his thumb…Yes, this was definitely working…
“Severus?”
He loved the way she said his name…like a caress. It went straight to his groin,
along with most of the blood in his body, and he knew that there was no chance
of him blushing now.
“I take it you changed your mind.” She laughed - a wondrous, throaty sound -
and he opened his eyes and she was there, in his arms, smiling at him.
And he was in his own bed, and that meant…it had been a dream.
No, it had been a nightmare - a reproductive nightmare - but it had become a
dream because they were both there, and he was moments away from making love
to her like he meant it. And he laughed too, a laugh of relief, yes, but also
a laugh of joy.
“Hermione?”
“Mmmm?”
“I’ve decided to try the boxers.”
The End