Chapter Text
He leaned back in his chair, blinking slow and lazy against the haze of alcohol. Because Albus could throw a party, when he wanted. Soft music was threading through the teacher’s lounge; the lights were thankfully low. He could just make out Minerva and Poppy swaying together across the lounge, wrapped up in one another’s arms, Poppy’s head on Minerva’s shoulder.
And Severus let himself smile faintly, sipping at his scotch.
He felt heavy in the best kind of way – that submersion into alcohol was wildly different than most he had encountered. Because normally, it was him drinking straight from the bottle, sucking in haphazardly large gulps in an effort to shake the night off and then to shake the memories off.
Because Merlin had Voldemort driven him to drink. And a year was hardly long enough for his body to heal, let alone his mind.
Once more his gaze swept the room, catching on Hagrid and Flitwit and Sprout where they drank at the table, laughing. On Albus and Trelawney quibbling over tarot cards. On Lupin . . . making in his direction, bottle in hand. He fought down the urge to roll his eyes, because the entire staff of Hogwarts knew even when – or perhaps especially when – Severus had fallen into his cups and been made something that was almost softer, it still wasn’t an open invitation to talk. And they all accepted and respected that. All of them but Lupin it seemed.
He drained his glass just as Lupin sat down.
Remus knew he was being . . . perhaps intrusive. But Severus looked as though his edges had softened just barely. And the drinking and Minerva had encouraged him. Because the older professor had smiled widely and nudged him, even as Poppy had rolled her eyes and thrust the bottle into his hand.
He leaned forward and sloshed some scotch into Severus’s glass. Those dark eyes pinned him in place, gaze suspicious but not quite dismissive.
“To a year free of that mad bastard,” Remus quipped, his glass lifted in a toast.
An eyebrow lifted, and Remus swore he could see those lips twisting just slightly in humor. Severus’s glass touched his just barely, in the softest of clinks, before the other tipped his head back and drained the entire drink. Which was surprising and delightful as Remus followed suit, determined to not choke on the sharp burn of the liquor.
“Bored,” the darker man drawled slowly, and Remus was hard pressed not to pull a confused look, swimming through his own haze of alcohol to understand.
“Not particularly, thought you might be though.”
Severus snorted and leaned far closer into the werewolf’s personal space, snagging the bottle where it sat on the floor. He pointedly ignored the hitch of the Lupin’s breath as he poured them both a new drink – a larger drink, one meant for sipping. The bottle thumped back down on the ground.
“Pleasantly numb,” he admitted, sipping at his drink and regarding the other lazily. Because Lupin had taken to conversing with him more than strictly necessary in the past months, since the Dark Lord had crumpled. Because Lupin had ignored Severus’s every effort to dissuade . . . whatever it was that the damn lycanthrope was after.
A brief moment of quiet, where Remus found himself thinking of all the reasons Severus would want to be numb and coming up with far too many reasons, and then there was that silky tone in his ear again.
“What are you after, Lupin.”
Blinking dumbly, he glanced up at Severus. Even under the haze of alcohol, Remus could see the almost vulnerability in those dark eyes. Because years had taught Severus to be suspicious and wary – which pained him, because Remus had been rather . . . transparent in what he wanted, he thought. Because Severus pulled at him just as surely as the moon. Had always done so, but more so as the Wizarding World had tried to tear itself apart at the seams and didn’t.
Needing liquid courage, he drained his glass, scooting to the edge of his seat and leaning forward to retrieve the bottle but stopped with his fingers barely brushing glass.
“You,” he admitted softly, letting his word be swept up and away under the music if Severus was so inclined.
It was . . . alarming how Severus cracked open at that single word. Because years of war had seen him bundled up and distant, unable to reach out because the world demanded him be a cold, aloof monster of a man. Which was easier than something soft and vulnerable but that didn’t mean he didn’t fleetingly think of that novelty. So, he let himself be swept along by the werewolf.
A year had passed since Voldemort had fallen – for good this time. And Severus reminded himself he was allowed to shake the shackles of the past off . . . just this once.
He drained his drink. “Your rooms, or mine?”
And so, they stumbled into the room together, all possessive hands and hungry mouths. Just two dark creatures taking enjoyment in the feel of one another.
The Celebration of Life at Hogwarts Castle, even with the full moon looming, had seemed as good a catalyst as any other for this moment. Or rather – that’s how Remus felt, as he licked and bit softly at the neck of a one Severus Snape, eliciting the most arousing moans in that brandy and chocolate tone. With too much whisky in his system, his thoughts wouldn’t quiet, but instead turned into a shout. Because there was Severus riling the wolf under his skin, as the darker man was wont to do.
If he were honest with himself, Remus had always been intrigued by Severus – and it had only gotten worse in the years since Hogwarts. The war had thrown them together, both in battle and close quarters. And Severus had never been anything but himself – suspicious with a quick, dark wit and heavy sarcasm – even if Remus had been playing nursemaid to him. And slowly Remus had come to the understanding there was very little malice for him in that tone, but rather for the world at large, at the situation at hand.
All in all, it had been more than easy to banter back, to fall into an almost understanding where Severus would suffer him with rolled eyes, and Remus would cautiously continue to chase him. Which had somehow led to the wolf in him becoming rather smitten with the dark man, with sharp teeth and sharper words that threatened to eviscerate if Remus mis-stepped. He, in general, had become rather smitten with the dark man. With the lingering danger of the other, finely wrapped up in control and snark – all of which hinted at something monumental when Severus finally let himself go. And Remus swore to be the one to catch him.
“Merlin, so many buttons,” Remus panted, clutching hard at Severus’s robe to conceal his finely quivering hands. He pushed his lips to that pale column of skin once more, set on eliciting more of those delicious sounds. Fingers in his hair rucked, dug in at his scalp, and Remus groaned low in his throat, nipping at Severus’s skin impatiently as his fingers stumbled over the tiny buttons.
Severus chuckled and disentangled himself from the pawing werewolf. The blended malt had settled rather nicely in his mostly empty stomach, had pleasantly wrapped hazy arms around his thoughts and left him feeling confident. He was allowed some indulgent behavior – after all, he had spent most of his life in various forms of peril. Heading for the bedroom, certain the lycanthrope would follow, he muttered the spell to undo all those buttons – because as Lupin had expressed, there was a blue million of them. The outer robe was more for presence – to make him darker and more foreboding as it were – though it offered up practical benefits when it came to potions brewing.
Heat pressed against his back as he folded the robe over a chair, Lupin’s hands roaming along his chest. “Damn,” Lupin’s voice rasped in his ear. “I was hoping for all the buttons to be undone.”
“Lazy Gryffindor,” he grumbled, turning in Lupin’s grip so he could taste that hungry mouth again. His hands automatically going to the row of buttons on his vest, even as Lupin batted them away.
Remus kissed Severus eagerly, his hands yanking at the vest until the buttons tore away. He growled softly as his hands encountered more fabric. The dark man was wrapped up tighter than a Christmas present, though the buttons on the oxford gave way much easier than the vest.
“Really, Lupin. Was that necessary,” Severus panted, somehow managing to sound put-upon instead of breathless.
Effortlessly – really need to feed him better he thought aimlessly – Remus hoisted Severus, carrying him those last few feet to the bed. Severus’s arms wrapped around his neck, clinging to him before he let the slighter man fall back on the soft mattress top. He was fairly certain that the look Severus was giving him was meant to be scathing – but with the darker man looking like sin spilt upon the bed it just served as arousing. Severus managed to be an alluring tangle of long limbs and opened clothing that gave up temptingly lurid flashes of skin, and Remus tore at his clothes so he could feel the slighter man underneath him.
Severus groaned low in his throat as Lupin’s hands ran almost possessively up his sides, as though taking catalogue of the furrows and ridges of ribs. His fingers threaded through Lupin’s hair again, pulling the other down for a broke-open kiss. The werewolf moved readily, lips crushing against his – overly eager in his want – as the other settled heavily against his frame as Severus reminded himself that he deserved this one indiscretion, like a spoil of war.
The heat was stifling, and at the same time almost comforting. More than almost comforting. After twenty years of the Wizarding World being torn asunder by hate, there was almost love there – some hot and headily sticky emotion that filtered in around them in their passion. Fingers catalogued scars, stretched and smoothed over the years from years of growth, of peace; they clutched at skin, nails biting sharp impressions into yielding flesh; they carded through hair and anchored lips.
It was impatient and rushed, slow and worshipping – a reminder they made it. That the world didn’t end; that light managed to push a new dawn into society. That it was all well and truly over; that life could finally move on.
They moved together, using blended malt confidence and hazy shadows as an excuse to leave the past in its grave, and Remus hoped to bring about a future. Yes, he thought – a future would be lovely, with Severus sprawled across his chest, damp breath puffing shakily against his neck. Feeling utterly content, running his fingers slowly along the sharp bite of Severus’s scapula, the buttons of his spine, a cut-glass angle of his hip, Remus let himself doze off. This is lovely was the last thought that filtered through his mind.
Stretching leisurely an indeterminant time later, Remus sighed contently. He glanced over at Severus, all long, pale lines in the dark bedcovers. Rolling over, he snuggled up to his bedmate, wrapping an arm around that all too thin torso. Pressing his nose to the nape of Severus’s neck, he inhaled the almost bitter scent of anise, the darkly spicy scent of cinnamon and cloves. That scent stirred something in him – a sense of belonging perhaps, as dark called to dark.
The looming full moon normally left him feeling restless, but he felt weighted – heavy with satisfaction.
The good thing about the Dungeons was the lack of natural light. There, he could pretend it was still last night; he could convince Severus for another go-around. Slowly, he rested a palm along the other’s flank, feeling the delicate bones wrapped up in wiry muscles.
What would it take for this to be every night – for Severus to share his bed for always.
“Really, Lupin,” Severus drawled, letting Lupin’s large, warm hands skim along his skin. He could almost be lulled into letting the night repeat itself. But of course, without the blended malt depressing his low self-worth, Severus’s guard was up. Or rather, was coming up rather quickly, even with that soft, almost loving touch on his skin.
He disentangled himself from the lycanthrope, scooting away on the bed. The remembrance that the full moon was scant hours away weighed heavy on him all of a sudden, reminding him of a rather hungry mouth. But Lupin’s teeth had only nipped and worried at his skin; thankfully he felt no actual wounds. He could feel Lupin’s fingertips tracing random patterns on his back, following scars; it was startling how easy it would be to be lulled into yet another sleepy, blissful state.
“Come back tonight, after dinner. I’ll have the Wolfsbane ready for you,” Severus said, his tone clipped as he pulled the duvet over that pale flesh. For a moment, there was no movement from the other side of the bed, but he waited – breath held.
Finally, Remus sighed, slipping out of the warmth of a shared bed and dressing quickly, finding his clothes scattered haphazardly on the floor. He cast a longing look at that dark head, just barely visible over the duvet and heaved a sigh. He’d really rather not be tossed out on his arse so early in the morning, but at least the previous night had shown him that Severus wasn’t immune to his advances.
Saying a small prayer, Remus slunk from the room, trying his very damnedest to not look as though he was currently on a walk of shame.
Severus rolled over, burying his face in Lupin’s fading heat. His body ached pleasantly, and he simply wanted to stay in bed – but he had work to do. There was Wolfsbane to brew, and the term would start soon, meaning he should begin working on his stockroom. Groaning, he scrubbed his hands over his face, and Severus pulled himself from the warm covers and headed for the bathroom.
The rest of the day was spent fastidiously trying not to find himself alone with Lupin. Severus forewent all meals in the Great Hall and kept within his rooms as much as possible. He told himself it was the potion; he needed to devote all his attention to it, to keep that damnable werewolf in fit condition for teaching when the term started.
Of course, he’d had to be trapped in a room with Lupin in order for said lycanthrope to ingest the potion in its entirety for the full week before the moon, which was something Severus only trusted with himself. It was a rather important, final step in keeping Lupin a docile animal rather than a raging beast – which he had seen himself firsthand back in 1976, in 1994.
“Severus,” the other started, licking his lips anxiously and grimacing at the bitter taste still lingering on his lips.
“No.” A curt reply, sharp and full of a million other words. He stood there, back turned to Lupin, until his office doors clicked shut behind him.
As night fell, he hid in his rooms, watching the clock – seconds ticking past – until moonrise, as was his tradition. Had been his tradition since the Order had reformed, since the war when Lupin and his potion had become one of the only constants in his life. This was the only potion he sometimes worried over, regardless of how much meticulous care and craft he put into it – even if he knew his concerns were false. And he adamantly refused – even to himself – to say he worried for the sake of Lupin.
Severus sipped blended malt by the fire, letting the slow heat burn him from within. He watched the hands of the clock churn, hearing in the depths of his mind Lupin’s bones breaking, whimpers, low-seated growls, nails gouging at wood. Blinking, he upturned his glass and drained the amber contents before filling himself another. As he would continue to do until sunrise, when he finally allowed himself to sleep.
The morning following the full moon, his stomach roiled painfully. Gritting his teeth, Severus tried to ignore it, getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom. He pressed a hand to his side. In the bathroom, he selected a pain potion – leftover from the years spent serving two masters, two sides – and upturned the bottle, taking a healthy swig.
Ignoring the lingering ache in his stomach, Severus turned the taps on the shower and yanked the nightshirt over his head, letting it puddle on the floor at his feet. In the mirror, he caught sight of Lupin’s love nips splattered and sucked across his pale skin. Heat flushed through him at the memories and he nearly smiled – nearly – before he caught himself.
“Someone had a lovely time,” the mirror crooned, and Severus was certain it was leering at him.
“Shut it,” he said wearily, stepping into the shower. It had been a one-time thing. No sense in dwelling on the fuzzy feelings it may or may not have given him. Because as it was, the almost worshipping feel of the lycanthrope’s hands on him, possessive in a somehow delicate manner was something he could easily get used to. But he pushed those thoughts away, drawing in a breath and snatching up the rough bar of castile soap.
Scrubbing the washrag over his skin, he was acutely aware as the nausea continued to mount as suds soaked into his skin. Quite honestly, it took him by surprise – the way it pushed at his ribs, heavy and tight. It roiled and twisted in his guts, making his legs quiver. Hand against the slick wall, Severus knelt on the floor. With only the bath steam to witness that weakness, he let himself rest for a second.
Severus drew in a slow breath, chest surging deeply as his lungs filled. He exhaled; breath strung together by water droplets. After years spent torn in half, he had found he could normally sway his body to his mind’s logic, willing away unnecessary hurts with deep breathing exercises.
He drew in another moist breath, feeling the steam coat the lining of his chest, his lungs – only to have his salivatory glands to go into overdrive and bile to scorch at his throat. He heaved, a deep and pained sound, as though his body was bound and determined to expel everything he had consumed in the last week. His eyes were squinted shut, but tears managed to seep out anyway. His chest was tight, every breath stilted and serving only to make him retch more.
Coughing wetly, Severus pressed his forehead to the floor, arms quivering pitifully – desperately glad his body had run out of things to give. Spit dribbled from his lips before he was finally able to push himself upward – the water had long run cold. He turned his face into the spray, letting it wash away the sick before he shut it off and staggered from the stall.
“Too much to drink last night, dear,” the mirror inquired playfully as he came into view, but he ignored the enchanted glass.
Instead, Severus stumbled to bed, skin cold and wet, and collapsed on top of the covers rather than under them. He buried his nose in Lupin’s pillow and pulled the afghan tightly over him.
He made it through three days – three days – of bone achingly hurtful retching, wherein the sick had gone from vomit to merely bile and blood and spit. All the leftover potions from his days attending Death Eater meetings, where the Cruciatus Curse had flowed freely, had done little to tamp down the pain. Empty vials were scattered on his dresser, the night table, just as helpful as they’d been with potions in them.
Severus swept the nearest vials to the floor in an angry fit. There was the soft tinkling of glass on the stones of his floor. He sucked in a deep breath; teeth gritted as he glowered at nothing in particular. He ran through a list of potential ailments and found them all lacking.
Groaning, he forced himself to leave the bed and dress.
“That’s some nasty hangover,” the mirror quipped impishly as Severus positively scrubbed the inside of his mouth with his toothbrush, abusing his gums until there was blood in the sink along with foaming toothpaste. Severus ran fingers through his hair, feeling exhausted and hurt.
He made himself slip up to the Infirmary – scowling hard enough to deter attention from his colleagues and ghosts alike, thoroughly scaring the prefects who traipsed in the halls, waiting for the term to begin. As it was, Severus found himself grateful for the nearly empty corridors which would within the week be flooded with the returning students.
In the Infirmary, Severus shut the door loudly enough behind him to draw Poppy from her office, even as he briskly made his way to the backroom that he had claimed as his own for all those years under Voldemort’s reign. The room was a place for his weaknesses to be laid bare, counted, addressed in an unspoken request for treatment.
Grimacing, Severus sat down on the bed and peered up at the whitewashed ceiling, waiting for the mediwitch to join him with fingers knotted sharply over his thighs in a meager attempt to keep the nausea and pain in check.
“Really Severus. I thought what with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named finally being gone, you’d get out of the habit of sulking up here in pain,” Poppy chided playfully as she approached the bed, giving him a visual once-over. “You look fine.”
Hands smoothed, firmly planted on his knees as he gave her a pitiful excuse for a scowl. “Yes, well. I’ve been throwing up blood for the last three days, so I don’t exactly feel fine.”
“Oh dear, you poor love. All right, lie back.”
He did as she asked, gritting his teeth as nausea swamped him. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Severus tried not to focus overly much on his salvia glands going into overdrive – a sure indication he was on his way to yet another trip to the bathroom. There was the slight tingle of magic as Poppy ran her wand over his form, a basic inquisitive spell to find out what ailed him.
How ironic, he thought to himself, letting his lips curl at the corners. To have survived two wars, a cruel lord twice, only to perish from an illness I can’t sate.
“Oh dear,” Poppy said again – her tone an odd combination of confusion and concern.
Severus opened his eyes abruptly, pinning her with a dark stare. “What,” he bit out, pushing himself back up into a sitting position.
“Well Severus – it says you’re uhm . . . that you’re . . . well, pregnant.”
“That . . . that’s impossible,” he snarled, feeling his cheeks flush. Pain jolted through his system as he forced himself off the bed, glowering at nothing in particular. Damned werewolf, he scowled, forcing his spine to straighten in spite of the pain in his stomach.
“I do know how to cast that particular spell, Severus. I assure you,” she said haughtily.
Pushing past Poppy with a snort, he made a hasty retreat for the door.
“Severus,” she called after him, stopping him in his tracks. For a moment, he was hopeful she would confess it was all a joke. “Try chamomile tea with honey, or perhaps peppermint?”
Giving a jerky nod, he rushed from the Infirmary and headed straight for the library. He proceeded to hole himself up in the very back corner, amongst cobwebs and forgotten languages, and scour the thickest, most comprehensive texts about dark creatures.
There was a lovely little spiel about being bonded for life – which he knew outright was a lie – and all the lovely things it would entail, least of which included intense desire for closeness, perception to Lupin’s emotions, the wolf bending to his whims.
“Utter drivel,” he ground out, flipping through pages more frantically now, swallowing hard at the panic that was rising in his chest. Lycanthropy pregnancies weren’t exactly rare, but neither were they the most common way of passing the curse along. Which was decidedly bad for Severus, as he flipped through dusty old books looking for some kind of explanation other than that he was good and royally fucked.
Everything pointed toward the full moon – the closer it was during . . . consummation, the higher the chances for pregnancy, whether his body was equipped for the job or not. Regardless of that fact, the common denomination seemed to be an extraordinarily high-risk pregnancy – the baby being a parasite in the truest of forms.
His heart bottomed out into his stomach, which promptly dropped a few more feet.
The likelihood of both him and the babe making it through the next forty weeks, give or take, would be slim . . . nigh impossible. The nausea would not abate, it would remain consistent throughout the whole stint, until his insides were raw. Sometime in his second trimester, it was entirely possible that the baby could simply die – rotting away in his body, poisoning him. Loss of consciousness, fevers, his body breaking at the slightest grievances – all the joys of his fate.
The last three weeks would be those things times ten.
When the baby was finally due, there was a high risk for excessive blood loss, coma, death – especially without the appropriate care. Fifty fifty chance the baby would be born alive only to expire mere seconds after the first breath of air filled its lungs; fifty fifty chance the baby would be born infected.
Growling, he slammed the book shut and clenched cold fingers into fists hard enough to turn his knuckles white. He had survived and now this. Now. This. All because of one stupid fucking night, when he’d finally let himself be tempted. Where he’d finally given into Lupin’s soft smiles and almost caring gazes. Stupid, stupid, stupid – he groaned internally, feeling his entire body cinch painfully tight. He abruptly stood, the heavy chair squealing backwards in protest. Severus had half the mind to leave the dusty old tomes where they sat, certain no one would look for them, but was unable.
Scowling to himself, Severus thumped the dark books back into their rightful places. His fingers rested wearily on their battered spines.
“Oh, there you are.”
His scowl deepened at that voice – the tone he wanted to hear least of all.
“What do you want, Lupin,” he bit out, glaring ineffective daggers at the books, unwilling to turn around and face the root of his problems.
“Brushing up on dark creatures,” Lupin almost purred. “Anything in particular? Lunar cycles, things that go woof in the night?”
Severus jerked around, stepping closer to the shelves to put space between them while he glared at the werewolf. Battered old spines pressed lovingly against his back. The intimacy between them was still too fresh, his body still holding markings of their union, and it took everything he had to not flush. Lupin had a fading bruise at the hollow of his throat, and he vaguely remembered putting it there.
“I’ll have you know, you insufferable cur, someone has to keep you and your kind tame,” he spat out.
There was malice there, overly loud in his tone – a blatant reminder to Lupin that Severus was nothing if not as dark, perhaps darker than the easily cowed lycanthrope. His darkness being born of his soul, not some unfortunate childhood incident. But all the same – Lupin leaned in closer, a hand spreading on the books just next to Severus’s head, as if the malice was nothing but cold honey, pulling him in, sticking him in place. The werewolf leaned in, dangerously close to edging in on Severus’s personal space.
“And the world thanks you for your efforts,” Lupin offered with a wolfish grin. “Would thank you even more if you were to agree to drinks with me . . . tonight? After dinner?” There was a hopeful lilt to that tone, and Severus could almost pretend that Lupin meant it.
“In that, the world will just have to wait until the sun burns out, I should think,” he drawled, tone low and dangerous. Mostly for himself – after all, it would do no good to allow himself to be bundled off the werewolf’s rooms for Circe’s sake. He was pregnant.
Lupin leaned just a bit closer, his hand slipping and pushing a few books from their shelves. Severus startled, leaning away as much as the bookcase behind him would allow and scowling deeply.
“You oaf,” he bit out, body twisting as if to escape the almost possessive bracketing of Lupin’s arm around him to retrieve the books, only for recently appointed prefect Thomas Ainsley to come around the shelves, books held in his arms and as fearsome a scowl as possible on the fresh-faced youth.
“Sir,” the Fifth Year finally managed, eyes blinking rapidly in surprise, and Severus could see the venom the boy had gathered at the tip of his tongue dry.
Severus reached out and took the books from the boy. “Mister Ainsley.” He could see the curious look on the student’s face, the other’s gaze darting between him and Lupin as though Ainsley would receive an explanation – which he would not. “How was your summer.”
“Fine, Sir. Ready to take on my responsibilities as a prefect.”
He made a quiet noise low in his throat as he reshelved the tomes. “Even though it means giving up the last week of your break?”
The youth gave him a bright and eager smile. “Yes, Sir. Thank you for this opportunity.”
“Professor Lupin was a prefect. Perhaps he would regale you with prefect stories of our youth.” There was a shocked noise behind him, as Lupin realized he was being pawned off; likewise, there was a similar noise from Ainsley. And Severus felt like patting himself on the back.
Instead, he smoothed the spines of the tomes perfectly straight and gave a spluttering, confused Lupin a glare before fleeing from the library, leaving both unwanted visitors behind, and promptly hiding himself away in his rooms for the rest of the evening.
He hid away for a week – for the first time in so very long missing the Sorting and Welcoming Feast, and instead curled up in bed with thick covers and self-loathing, leaving only to rush to the bathroom and retch. He shooed the owls away, leaving correspondences unread, unanswered. Finally, the house elves began to pop in, leaving him little notes from Dumbledore, from Poppy, from Lupin.
Finally, Severus dragged himself from the bed. He made himself shower, scrubbing hard at his skin and hair to wash away the grime and sweat and self-hate. He made himself dress, doing every single damn button by hand rather than magic, drawing his defenses and resolve around him. Every button done made him feel stronger, impenetrable.
He made himself leave his room.
And he made himself take tea with Poppy in her quaint little office at the back of the Infirmary.
“So, you’ve laid down with Remus,” Poppy finally muttered into the hush between them, taking a sip of her tea. Severus wanted to blanche at the statement, accuse her of making wild accusations, and to deny the whole thing. But he would have been a fool to think she wouldn’t have done some digging of her own. After all – it wasn’t every day that something like male pregnancy wandered into the Infirmary.
“One-time thing,” he muttered drily, sipping his tea while his stomach quietly rebelled.
She tutted softly, “A one-time thing that very well could kill you.”
He sniffed in disdain. “Really now,” he drawled slowly. “If a dark lord couldn’t manage that, why do you think a bundle of toxic cells could.” The bravado was false, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. And they both knew it. But Poppy remained silent, and Severus merely tightened his grip on his teacup and willed it not to quiver as he lifted it to his mouth.
“Does he . . . know?” Poppy gave him a look, heavy with implications. And Severus nearly spit out his tea, clenching his lips tightly shut to keep it in.
“No. He does not.”
“Perhaps. . .” she stopped again, setting her teacup down on the small table between them, the look on her face sincere and thoughtful.
Severus was rather curious to see what she would say – and of course he was. Over the years, he and Poppy had managed to be as close to friends as a man such as himself was capable of being. They had worked together often to keep the Infirmary in running order – he had only ever supplied the best potions. Not to mention, she was one of the only people to ever see him creep back to Hogwarts, broken and bloodied.
So, when she said, “Perhaps you should give thought to . . . aborting this whole endeavor,” he was utterly shocked.
Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, but rather that he had never expected Poppy Pomfrey to tell him that maybe abortion would be the best route entirely. She doted on the students, tutted over them when they’d come for care. It was . . . an interesting idea that she would even consider the notion.
“Excuse me,” he said softly, his tone curious and low.
Poppy waved a hand animatedly between them. “Oh, come on, Severus! You know what I’m saying. If Remus doesn’t know about the baby, then perhaps you save yourself – and him – a lot of trouble.” Her tone softened, her features rounded as she looked at him. “I’ve seen you hurt quite a bit these last years, Severus, and I rather thought we were done with that. I don’t like seeing my friends in pain.”
He was silent for a moment, staring down into the murky brown of his tea. The color, the scent did nothing for his ever-constant nausea. Severus wrinkled his nose and placed the teacup down on Poppy’s desk. Which the mediwitch seemed to take as disgust at her statement, as Poppy’s hand was suddenly curled around his now empty hand. She backtracked on her words, as if she needed to explain it away.
“Severus . . . I’m merely suggesting that you think of yourself first, for once, my dear.”
The sigh whispered over his lips, and he waved her words away. Because, as it was, Poppy didn’t need to explain herself to him – not when Severus had thought the same, if only fleetingly. “I had – thought about it. An option, as it were.”
Suddenly, he found he needed something to do with his hands, and he picked his teacup up once more. His fingers clenched around the thin porcelain, taking solace in the heat that permeated into his skin.
“Right now, it’s still just a bundle of cells, Severus. It’s not a baby, it hasn’t formed. And I know there are potions you’ve brewed before for instances such as this. Well – not quite like this, but . . .”
“Poppy,” he finally said. Severus once more put his teacup down and clasped his hands in his lap, fingers knotting together. Mindlessly he picked at a thumbnail, feeling the dent there where the nail had broken well past the thumb tip and regrown misshapenly. She fell silent, looking at him expectantly.
“I . . . I think I want to keep it.” It came out more of a question than he intended, and he snorted at himself, suddenly angry. This was a time to be decisive, not a swaying decision made over tea. He was talking about a child, for Circe’s sake. He clenched his jaw, teeth gritting together – he was anything but indecisive, had always had to be. So, Severus drew in a deep breath through his nose and lifted his gaze to meet Poppy’s.
“Twenty years have seen so much death – I’ve seen so much death and pain, been privy to it, aided it in the worst way. How. . .” his voice failed him finally.
She was watching him, and then reached across the desk to hold his hand. “It’s all right, love. It’ll be fine.”
Of course, Severus was not fool enough to believe that piddly little lie, but he refrained from scowling.
“Every week. You will come see me every bloody week so I can check you and that baby over. Do you hear me, Severus Snape.”
He managed to pick up his tea once more, taking a sip of the brightly cold liquid. “Yes, of course.”
The silence fell softly, leaving him too full of thoughts, even as Poppy filled his now empty cup.
“I think you should tell the Headmaster,” Poppy almost whispered, as if now that he had made his decision, the whole situation was worthy of note. “You’ll need extensive care – if you’re certain you want to keep it,” she finally said, her lips pursed in a disapproving manner.
“On the contrary. I don’t feel as though this is his business in any way or form.”
“He’s going to find out eventually. At some point, you will be very pregnant and then shortly after you will have a child. And Remus – are you going to tell him? People need to know, Severus. It will make itself known.”
Cup still half-full, Severus set it down on the desk between them. “I have some marking to do, Poppy. And I suddenly find myself tired. I shall see you in a week, then.” His reply was curt, he knew, but softly spoken to try and preserve the friendship. They both knew he liked his privacy.
She simply made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, her nearly disapproving gaze suddenly lost out over the quidditch pitch.
He excused himself out. In his rooms, he paced. He took a mouthful of blended malt and let it sit – heavy and bitter – on his tongue merely for the taste, before spitting it into the fireplace. He wondered how long it would be before Poppy finally spilled his little secret.
Every meal that followed was tense, like a miasma that spilled out into the Great Hall – in a way he hadn’t felt since Voldemort had fallen. Constantly, Severus felt on edge, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop.
On top of it, the nausea limited what he could eat – or try to eat – sticking with soups and dry bread. The heady scents were too much, but there were only so many meals he could miss before others came looking for him. Severus kept his head bent, choosing not to converse as though he could make his stomach behave through willpower alone. And of course, he ignored pointed looks from Lupin and Minerva.
Every meal, he left at the earliest possible moment – waiting until dessert appeared, begging off coffee, and heading for his rooms.
It took a week and a half, as it turned out – ten days – before the statement was uttered, damning him.
“Severus – a word after dinner, please,” Dumbledore muttered softly from the center of the table, as he got up to leave the Hall. “Perhaps tea. In my office.” The sly look he received was an executioner’s gaze. All at once, he had been tried, judged, and sentenced.
But he simply returned to his rooms. And he waited. After twenty years, Severus was well aware that Dumbledore would wait up for him.
The ever-constant nausea threatened upheaval, roiling in his guts – and he barely made it into the bathroom before he promptly lost what meager foodstuffs he had picked aimlessly at during dinner. Clutching at the rim of the toilet seat, he retched, throat already raw as his stomach flexed hard enough as though it could expel the fetus out his mouth.
“You poor dear,” the mirror tutted, as Severus spat the last dribble of bile from his lips. He got to his feet and rinsed his mouth with cold water, spitting it into the sink – watching as it sluggishly crept toward the drain.
“Yes well – it’ll get worse before it gets better.”
Straightening his clothes, Severus decided to walk to the Headmaster’s office rather than Floo, thinking that it would give his stomach time to settle. He scowled darkly, determined to make everyone he ran across as miserable as himself.
But – by the grace of Circe, he encountered no one.
“Chocolate frogs,” he bit out to the statue, watching as it withdrew and allowed him entrance. Up the stairs, his fingers gripping tight at the wall. Nausea, his constant companion, roiled in his stomach. He could do this, or so he kept telling himself.
Before he reached the top step, he stopped, and Severus spread his fingers against his stomach. For a second, he was able to pretend it was still barren – as it should be – and that the nausea was due to nerves. That he and Dumbledore would only have a chat about curriculum and his treatment of the students.
Sucking in a deep breath, he approached the door – which opened before he could knock.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk; McGonagall hovered just over his shoulder. Unexpected, but not really. Severus tightened his lips into an almost scowl and stepped into the room.
He stood in the middle of the room; arms crossed over his chest defensively. “Headmaster, Professor McGonagall.” And he waited.
“Severus, my dear boy. Sit down, won’t you?” An order wrapped up in a soft request.
“No. I rather think I’ll stand.” A quiet reminder that he no longer – truly – had to take orders.
The silence droned on, each new second of it making Severus’s skin crawl. Those damnable blue eyes were twinkling at him, and he ground his teeth. All anxious energy, he began to pace, scowling at nothing in particular.
“Severus, you really should sit,” Dumbledore said again, voice plying and warm.
“She told you. Just admit it,” he bit out, rounding on the pair, all seething anger and hurt. It had been inevitable of course, Poppy spilling his secret, but this . . . toying around it was too much. He’d much rather the whole thing just be confronted rather than left a dirtily hidden away secret – like everything else that involved the four original golden children of the house known as Gryffindor.
“Talk.” It was his turn to order, to demand – and after twenty years of being twisted and manipulated, the bitten off growl was catharsis.
“Perhaps a lemon drop and some tea before we speak, my dear boy?” Yet another soft order wrapped up in a softer request.
Angrily, he spun on his heel and glowered at them both. “A lemon drop? With its Calming Draught coating that I brew. I should think not, Headmaster.”
“Really, Severus. Just sit down. We can talk about this like adults,” Minerva stated, calm in the face of Severus’s hurt – learned through twenty years of close interaction, even more years of dealing with his moods. She appeared able to overlook the hurt, even as it coiled between them like a wounded snake, angry and ready to strike.
And it did – strike.
“What? About how I sullied one of the original Golden Children of Gryffindor?” He was seething, cornered and vulnerable – a dark creature caged in by their words. “Want me to tell you all the details – Merlin knows we’ve seen enough these last twenty years; what’s a little dirt amongst friends.”
“We’re worried about you, Severus,” Minerva finally shouted at him, her fingers gripping white-knuckled on Dumbledore’s desk. “You bloody idiot! Just fucking sit!”
Swallowing roughly, Severus sat – his entire body a tautly pulled cord. The nausea churned, rough and unforgiving. Minerva took the seat next to him, her hands reaching out and falling pitifully short.
“Oh Severus, did he hurt you,” she finally asked, as if she were admitted all the sins of Black and his lot in a single breath.
And he found he wanted to cry. It was too much all at once. Lupin, the pregnancy, the concern and care.
“No,” he finally bit out, chest tightening painfully as he remembered Lupin’s near worshipping touches.
“Poppy informs us you’re – ah . . . expecting,” Dumbledore said softly, his face nearly crumpling in its loving expression. “That you’ll be needing lots of care, dear boy.”
“I’ll manage,” Severus uttered drily, not at all keen on sharing his rooms with an overbearing house elf.
“It’s not about managing,” Minerva said, her voice sharp and just shy of a harpy’s pitch. “This is a miracle,” she said, her fingers gesturing toward his abdomen vaguely – which was entirely the opposite of he felt, as sitting there he began to feel as though the babe was really an abomination. “Severus, you should be cared for . . . loved,” she said finally. “Does Remus even know? You’re having his child, after all.”
It was spoken between them like a dirty secret, and he flinched.
“No, he doesn’t know,” he finally said, tongue much too thick for more of a remark. There was the mounting desire to tell them he didn’t want to tell Lupin – to see that Gryffindorish stupidity rear up and declare they marry, spend a life together, create a false reality for a baby neither expected nor planned for. He had spent his entire life attempting to avoid being a burden, only to propel himself thoroughly into that position after one night of stupidity. The thought of it crushed its way past his ribs, his sternum, and buried sharply in the damp walls of his chest – choking him.
Minerva was looking at him earnestly, and he was certain Poppy had confessed his secret to her and not Dumbledore. Her hand finally curled around his forearm, and she leaned forward just slightly. And Severus was suddenly he was cautious of the words that would spill from her lips.
“All right, that’s all right Severus,” she told him softly, pointedly ignoring the punched-out noise that Albus emitted. “Poppy and I will take care of you, then.”
“I think I’ll retire for the evening,” Severus said softly, suddenly more hurt than he’d been. Minerva and Dumbledore looked at him as though him leaving was the biggest mistake, but still he took his leave.
He hunkered down in the Dungeons and thought long and hard about the endeavor he was fixing to go on.