Severus woke slowly this morning, smelling breakfast in the air and feeling chilled on one side.

Hermione was up.

Stretching, he tried to hold on to what was left of last night's dream and wound up clinging to just one image—a pair of big dark eyes.

He swung out of bed, hissing as his toes touched the floor, and hopped around to find the sweater Hermione'd given him their first Christmas.

They lived together, now.

Which is nice, Severus thought as he rummaged through their dresser. Christ, where are my clothes?

"The toast, Severus," Hermione called as the toaster beeped, glancing over her shoulder as he came downstairs. He did his duty and sat, watching appreciatively from the table as Hermione sashayed around the room. She set his plate down and smiled glowingly at him.

"Excellent, Hermione." He leaned up to place a kiss on her lips. Then, Severus looked down at the table. Something was missing… "Love, where're the mimosas?" They had them every Sunday; it was odd—

"Oh, I didn't feel like one. Yours is in the fridge."

Severus stared incredulously as she stood shakily to get it. If there was one thing he was sure about Hermione, it was that she never passed up the opportunity for alcohol. "Hermione?"

Suddenly, she burst into tears.

He stood and scooped her into his arms, stroking her hair. Crying woman! Crying woman! What to do!? "What's wrong, dear one?"

She sobbed something unintelligible into his chest. He grunted inquisitively. "I'm pregnant," she repeated, louder.

Severus' surprise formed into incredulity as she wiped her nose on a sleeve. "Why the hell are you crying?"

She wailed, burying her head in his neck. "You hate children," she sniffled.

Suddenly, Severus went rigid. "What?"

"Oh, Severus, what are we going to do?

--

"I can't… give it up," she said miserably, cradling her flat stomach.

"Who said you should give it up?" She looked up at him with big, watery eyes, and his dream came back with veritable force—those eyes, young and wondrous—a child's eyes. "I don't want you to give it up, Hermione. And frankly I'm hurt that you would just assume that I hate children."

She snorted, cocking an eyebrow.

"I hate Gryffindor children," he clarified. "There is a difference. And our child will most certainly not be Gryffindor."

"…You mean I can keep it?"

"For Heaven's sake, it's not a damned puppy and I'm not asking you to abort a fucking baby!"

She looked stricken.

"Sorry, that was crude. I'm just surprised, is all, that you'd think so little of me… that I wouldn't want a child. My own child," he said softly. "Our child."

With that she dove into him and smothered his face with kisses, a mirror of their first meeting at Spinner's End. He smiled widely, lifting her off her feet, spinning them around in the cramped kitchen, depositing her on the counter. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"What?" she asked, tapping the tip of his nose.

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "We'll have to move."

"Oh, thank God!"

"Get a nice little cottage in Scotland," he continued. "With rosebushes and a big backyard."

"And a swing-set?"

Severus sighed, attempting 'put-upon'. "If you insist."

"Hmm..." She smiled mischievously. "D'you know what else I insist?"

He squeezed her round the middle.

"I insist that you take me back to bed and ravage me completely. In celebration, of course."

"As you wish, dear one." He grinned as she sped up the stairs, happy once more, and patted the black box in his pocket.

Soon, he thought.