THE FIRST TIME EVER I SAW YOUR FACE
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JK Rowling, I own nothing.
This is a response to the WIKTT 'first time SS sees his baby' challenge. Rated R for concepts and language.
I suppose I could ask Harry to be godfather. No, he's never around anyway. Quidditch practice, Quidditch games, promotional stuff. No, not Harry. And if I ask Ron, then every other Weasley will get their freckled nose out of joint. Oh look, I'm going to Ireland, oh look, I'm off to Germany. What a pain to be a woman with no visible means of support.
I wish the Hogwarts train didn't take so long, but the doctor said no Apparating after my second trimester. Maybe I can make it another twenty minutes before going to the toilet again. Why did I take a seat so far away from it? Why are there so many bumps on the rails?
Who would have thought that a quick shag against the dungeon wall would result in this? Stupid idea, getting drunk at the Graduation Ball. All time fantastic idea, Hermione Granger. It's a ludicrous situation to be in. Nearly nineteen, first year at university, and pregnant. Dad flipped his wig when I told him I didn't know who the father was. I could find out. There are spells. Not well known ones, but I am a witch with a brain the size of a planet, pardon me, Douglas Adams. I just prefer not to know. I couldn't look certain people in the face if I thought it were them. Still, if the baby's got dark hair and is kind of runty, I guess Harry will have to be told. Red hair would give it away also. I hope it's not either of them. Too awkward after all this time. No, couldn't be. Even dead drunk, I'd have more sense. Wouldn't I? What if it's got white blond hair and a bad attitude? Try to be positive and assume it's nurturing that shapes the child, not nature. Why do I spent every other waking moment, and quite a few sleeping ones, thinking about this?
Only a few weeks to go now.
Still, Hogwarts will be a nice change of scenery. Nice of Dumbledore to invite me back to talk to the seventh years about career choices. Good thing my robe hides everything. "Now you see, seventh years, getting pregnant is such a good move because you too can throw up during university lectures, and wake up at 3am wanting dark chocolate-coated raisins." Macgonagall would be thrilled to see me hand out that advice.
Damn, toilet time again.
*****
She's coming here, to Hogwarts. Today, this evening. If I just stay in the dungeons, I won't have to see her. How much does she remember about that night? Her mouth tasted of Gillywater and orange juice.
She tossed her hair back over her shoulders, and asked me to dance. As every Head Girl is bound to do, every year, at every Graduation Ball. Perhaps it's in their contract. They are mostly immature girls, half-drunk, stupid, dared on by friends.
She was lacking giggles and did not have the art for practiced flirtation. She was half-drunk, but white-hot intelligent, and I answered her with "No, you stupid girl, go away". She persisted, grabbed my hand, pulled me to my feet with surprising strength.
It was to be one dance to appease the masses. The students could say "The bastard is dancing", and "Poor Hermione". One dance to shut Albus up. "You must dance, Severus. Smile, man, the bad old days are over".
One dance, and I could leave. But her hand in mine felt soft, strong, and she tried to lead. If only Potter and Weasley had seen it all those years back. They had been led by her from the start. Her ideas, her figuring out. They were brawn to her brain. Now I believe both of them are putting their bodies to good use as Quidditch player, and beast-keeper. And she has taken her smarts to university.
I wish I could cease pacing. If she confronts me here, I have nowhere to go. But I have not heard from her since Graduation. Scarcely a girl who wants a relationship, then.
The music changed from a waltz to something slow, sultry, like candlesmoke floating on darkened air. I did not let her go. Seven years I had watched her turn from prissy youngster into blossoming woman. With Voldemort's defeat, I allowed myself to feel, to want. And I wanted her. My Hermione. It trips off the tongue, not as well as Lolita, but the analogy will serve. She would be surprised to know I read Muggle literature.
She pressed against me, Gillywater pouring through her system.
"Professor Snape, you smell wonderful."
And she breathed against me. I felt her breasts rise as she took a breath of my scent. She had taken me inside her, there on the dance floor. I could smell her hair, her perfume and let it ensnare me. She around me, my scent inside her. We were making love in full view.
Taking my body inside her later, first languidly on my bed, and then later, frantically against a dungeon wall, she filled all my senses. And yet her eyes were unfocussed.
She knew it was me at the time. She sighed my name, gasped it, and her fingernails burned crescents into my shoulders. The next day, when all she had were sore muscles, and wetness between her thighs, did she remember?
She did not meet my eyes when she walked out that front door. Shame? Or simply no recalled reason to look at me at all?
I am still pacing. When I look at my hour-glass, I see it is only minutes until the train pulls in. A short carriage ride and she will be here.
I feel sweat on the back of my neck, and it is not from exertion.
*****
When I was a student, I used to strain my body towards the front of the engine, willing it to get to Hogwarts faster. There was so much locked away in the library, in the teachers' heads, that I simply had to ferret out.
Now the trip itself is to be savoured. And could be, if there weren't so many lurches and bumps along the way. First the train, then the carriage. There's a lot to be said for cars, especially nice new ones with good suspension.
I've arrived in time for dinner. I know the way well enough, and don't need greeting. I leave my bag in the foyer and make my way to the Great Hall. I can hear the yammer of students and the clink of dishes. There's the wonderful smell of roast chicken. I'm so glad my morning sickness is over. No need to make a grand entrance. I can make a quiet detour and come out behind one of the doors behind the tapestries, about halfway along the Gryffindor table.
From there, I wait until one of the teachers spots me. Snape of course, with his eyes that flick about everywhere. He sees me, stares hard, then leans forward to attract Dumbledore's attention. The Headmaster motions me up to the table. Heads turn, but mostly the students are stuffing their faces. I am given a chair at the end of the table, next to Sinistra. I feel like a ship in sail, and keep my robes around me as I sit. Sinistra strikes up a conversation about my studies that lasts through dinner.
Wish I could fit more in. Eat a little, enjoy the heartburn, eat a bit more, heartburn. How the hell does the baby get enough if it won't let me eat? I'm not showing a lot, even with only a couple of weeks to go, but inside it feels like an elephant.
If Sinistra notices I'm not finishing my dessert, she doesn't say. Dumbledore lifts his goblet to me and smiles. Macgonagall inclines her head. Snapes stares. Typical. No manners. Just like this baby, who will make me burp any second now.
I burp politely into my hand instead of letting out the sharp 'arrrup' I've been doing for the last month.
"Pardon me," I say.
Sinistra keeps talking.
Snape is still staring, but when I look in his direction, he looks away. What? What? Food on my face? Bogey? Wants the rest of my dessert?
Dumbledore stands. "Your attention please. It my pleasure to welcome Miss Hermione Granger back to Hogwarts. Many of you will remember Miss Granger as Head Girl from last year. She has returned to us upon my request, and will be giving talks to our seventh years about university, and career choices. Please make her feel welcome."
Round of applause for me. Hurray. I am forced to stand and acknowledge. Damn. Getting up isn't easy. I use one hand to push myself out of the chair. I am not careful. My robes slip back before I can catch them and my belly is exposed. I have on a stretchy long skirt, and a black top. There is a scarce quarter inch of flesh showing around my middle. My belly button has popped out. There is no hiding it now. Welcome to Hippo-land.
Madame Pomfrey is half out of her chair, both eyebrows as high as they can go. Macgonagall has that pursed-lips look. Dumbledore raises his goblet to me again. Snape is white. Not even yellow. Ghost white. It doesn't become him.
*****
She looks fatter around the face and I thought I could comfort myself with the thought that she'd gone to pudge in the intervening months. Then she stood up to a round of applause and her robe fell back. The small strip of skin between her skirt and top was pale, almost translucent and her navel seemed to poke itself right at me.
Pregnant. And unless she went straight from my arms to another's, the child is mine.
No word in all this time.
She either does not remember, or does not wish me to know.
She sits down, awkwardly, and plays with her dessert while Sinistra resumes talking. She is not eating.
My child inside her. Four words I never expected to use in that order. She doesn't look worried. A little tired around the eyes, but I have seen her that way before, during exams, making mischief with Potter and Weasley.
As she talks with Sinistra, she puts one hand over her belly and pushes slightly with her fingers. Sinistra must have asked a question, for Hermione's eyes drop, then raise, and she smiles an answer, poking again with her fingers, as if something is poking back. Someone.
She is still not eating. I find myself worrying. Stupidity.
When dinner is over, the students go back to their dormitories, and most teachers retire for the evening. A few go to the Common Room to chat, discuss students, read the newspapers. Hermione declines her invitation and is shown to guest room. Do long journeys tire pregnant women?
I wait until she is settled and knock on her door.
"Come in," she says.
I open the door. She is settled in an armchair by the fire, her feet on a stool. She has taken off her robe, and her form is outlined by the flames. A small woman clad in black, literally barefoot and pregnant.
She glances at me. "Professor Snape?" She does not rise, but gestures to herself. 'I'd get up, but-"
I shake my head. "Stay where you are." I take two mean steps into the room.
She cocks an eyebrow at me. What do I want? Good question, as were all of hers in Potions.
"Are you comfortable, Miss Granger?" Idiot.
She bursts out laughing. "My ankles are starting to swell, I can't get out of my chair with any grace, and I look like a hippo. Madame Pomfrey's given me something for the heartburn, but nothing's going to make Jack here lay down and be still." She tapped her stomach.
"Jack?"
"It's a name."
Now, make the leap. Into the fire. Say it. "You would not consider 'Severus'?"
She starts to laugh, stops, issues a faltering smile and raises her eyes to mine. Slowly, she turns pale, and covers her panic with bravado.
"Well, I suppose it's a nice enough name, but I'm not even sure I'm having a boy. Thankyou for the suggestion. No doubt tomorrow Professor Dumbledore will suggest 'Albus' and-"
"Hermione." My voice has always had the ability to stop her mid-sentence. No small feat.
She will not look at me. I squat beside her chair, suddenly unable to remember if Humbert Humbert ever got Lolita pregnant.
"Who is the father?"
She stares into the fire, her toughness burning away. "Well, that's just it, you see. There must be a star over Bethlehem because….. I don't know." She is holding back tears, her voice shaking. "At this moment maybe three of Madame Trelawney's friends are on their way here with gifts." She folds her arms over her belly, tries to shift away from me. She is slow. I take her hand in mine. She is still as soft, as strong as ever. She has a small callus on the palm of her hand, the same place I have one, from grinding herbs for potions. I have been pestle to her her mortar.
"Hermione, do you know who the father is?" My other hand turns her face to mine.
She shakes her head and salt rain floods my fingers.
"What do you remember of the Graduation Ball?"
"Dinner, dancing. I danced with you, I think." She looks down at our hands, feels my calluses, and frowns. She runs her fingers over them. "I did dance with you. And-" She swallows, a small sound in the silent room. A log cracks in the fireplace. She jumps. Her eyes are big.
It is like taming a wild bird. Slowly, I let go of her fingers and put my hand on her belly. This is more than want. At fifteen, Lolita was an ageing mistress. Hermione is just coming into her womanhood at nineteen, and I find I want to be there to watch her bloom. It is a frightening thought. It is all risk.
*****
Bits and pieces come back to me. The feel of his hand on mine, then a gap, and the memory of his hand on my bare skin, supporting me against a wall. I remember the wall, it grating into my back. I have always remembered that, and the feel of passion riding me. But until now, the face of the man was hazy.
Slimy Snape, the Potions Professor. Severus is a damned awful name.
He picks me up from my chair. It is not easy. He carries me to the bed.
"Go to sleep, Hermione," he says. "I'll be here when you wake."
I want to think things over, but Jack has other ideas. I am a tired mother-to-be. I sleep.
When I wake during the night for one of my rambling toilet trips, he is there in my armchair, alert, watching me.
"Do you need help?"
"Thanks, no. I can pee on my own."
At least I'm alone in the toilet. Snape is the father. I list all the disadvantages in my head. He'll want visitation rights. He'll want a say in the upbringing. In the name. He'll interfere. And over that, a bubbling voice saying "Now you know who the father is, you don't have to do this alone."
But I want a sign. Some sort of indication that he isn't just here out of guilt.
I finish peeing and go back to bed, giving him sideways glances as I go.
"You don't have to do this alone," he says.
"No, really I do. Peeing is such a personal thing-" Wait for a sign. I've turned into Trelawney.
He looks exasperated. "Don't be obtuse. I will help you in any way I can." There is something in his voice, something held back. Time for a full-powered Hermione glare. He slumps. "I want to."
"You want to what?"
He grinds out the words. 'Help you. And the baby. What do you want me to say, Hermione? I'll be there at the birth, if you want me to. I'll marry you, if you think that will help. The child can have my name. I'll-I…..I want you."
I raise an eyebrow. As signs go, it was interesting. Hermione Snape. Lord and Lady, no. I motion him over to the bed. We could at least see if we can sleep together.
Neither of us sleeps, rigid on our own side of the bed, listening to the other breathe. I need most of the bed anyway, to accommodate my stomach and my leg cramps. He is still fully clothed. It is ninety minutes before I have to get up again. As I come back to bed, he is watching me.
"Does your back hurt?" he asks. "You keep holding it."
"Uncomfortable. Jack presses on my backbone. He likes to play Quidditch in there."
He waits until I am in bed, then reaches over and pushes his knuckles into the small of my back, rubbing gently. It feels good. I cannot lie on my stomach, so he massages me on my side through my nightie. Finally, his hand slides around me to hold my stomach and Jack obligingly lunges against his warmth. He spread his long, bony fingers against me and feels our baby swim like a big, fat dolphin inside me. He doesn't speak, but his touch is delicate. When Jack decides to sleep, his touch becomes exploratory and what began as a massage becomes something more sensual, liquid.
When his mouth finally closes over mine, I remember.
*****
Hermione is an early riser out of choice. I find this disgusting in anyone. If I didn't have to, I would not rise before ten. When I open my eyes, she is all ready showered and dressed, this time leaving off her robe to show a red top and brown skirt. Both hug her tightly. Gone are the days when women hid their bodies during pregnancy. I remember Macgonagall sporting a kaftan during her pregnancies. There is half an inch of belly showing. I reach for her, run my hands over her stomach. She smiles. Tentative.
"I'm giving my first talk this morning," she says. "If you've time, perhaps you'd like to come hear it."
"I have a meeting with Professor Sprout this morning," I say. "But I'll stop by afterwards." In fact, I have no doubt my meeting will be with Albus. As with most things in my life, I have to wonder how much he engineered the 'coincidence'.
I have not woken up in a woman's rooms for eight years. It takes some getting used to. The room smells female, even after one night. Overlaid with the tang of sex and woodsmoke.
She does not kiss me before leaving. I suspect both of us would have found it too domestic.
*****
So much for massage. My lower back's still sore. And other bits of me. No, think about the lecture. Not last night. Rest of my life to think about last night. Not now. The students are filing into the room, taking seats. When they finish shuffling, Macgonagall introduces me. I stand up. There is tiny bubble pop inside me, and the astonishing feeling of velvet soft hot water trickling through me. Seconds later, there is a gush between my legs, and my shoes are soaked. I look down. My skirt clings wetly to my legs.
Then the monster back pain hits, and I want to bend myself backwards to stop it. I grab on to the lecturn. It falls and I follow. Students jump up, and I hear Macgonagall shout: "Get Madame Pomfrey. Now!"
I want to push down, all the way from my nose to my toes. Down, out. I struggle to sit up. Macgonagall is supporting me. I lean back into her.
"Hermione, listen to me," she says. "Do you want to push?"
I nod, too busy to speak.
"Someone inform Professor Dumbledore. Students, out, all of you. Except you, Miss Weasley." I had forgotten Ginny was a seventh year now. "Get her skirt and pants off."
Ginny holds back.
"Miss Weasley!"
She is jolted into action and starts pulling my skirt off. It is cold now. She tugs off my shoes and with delicate fingers, starts on my knickers. Her hands brush my stomach, which sets off a contraction.
"Don't fucking touch me!" I shriek. "Get away. No one touch me!" I can hear myself yelling, understand the words, but I can't stop them. "Tell that fucking bastard if he ever touches me again, I'll kill him." I push and I push and I am stretched beyond all reasoning. "He did this to me." I grab Ginny's hand. "Get him. Get him. I need him." Push. No time for breathing. This baby wants out, now.
Ginny struggles her hands out of my reach, rubbing her knuckles. "I don't know who he is, Hermione. Tell me, and I'll find him."
Push, get it out of me now. Got to push got to push got to push.
"Snape," I gasp and am lost in the underworld again, unable to speak. I can hear everything around me, but it's too unimportant to bother with. All that matters is this pushing and falling over the edge and pushing. A door bangs open.
"Where is she?" Madame Pomfrey cries, and hurries forward.
Ginny squeaks an answer and is shoved out of the way. I push and push.
The door crashes open again and someone runs silently to me. I know his smell. I reach blindly for his hand. He takes mine in his, allows me to crush. I want him to die of pain, like me, and I want him to save me.
I push and push and now there is no pause. My legs are pulled apart, here, half sitting on the cold steps of the main lecture hall.
*****
She is all intent. I am not sure if she knows I am here. Blood streaks her legs and the veins behind her knees stand out. She is laved in sweat, her pretty red top rucked up under her breasts. Her vulva bulges and Poppy says: "I can see the head. Next contraction, try to hold back so you stretch. Don't rush it."
"Fuck you!" Hermione's voice is quivering but she does as she is bid, writhing against Macgonagall to not push.
"Next contraction, you can push, honey," says Poppy.
She lets out an animal shriek. There is something small between her legs. Poppy turns it. A small, wizened face, with slicked curls of black hair. I don't feel Hermione break my skin with her nails. Another push and the body slides out, wet and smooth like a seal, coated in white and red.
A girl. She opens her mouth and screams. She goes red in the face with effort. Hermione raises herself against Minerva, looks at her…our daughter. Her smile is past exhaustion, but she reaches out her arms. Poppy expertly cuts the umbilical, and there is a tiny girl-child, on her own in the world. The thought frightens me and I reach out to protect her. My hand touches her at the same moment as Hermione's. We both draw her up into her mother's arms.
Poppy busies herself delivering the placenta. She will keep it until such time as Hermione and I can bury it together. Unless Hermione prefers the sterile Muggle way of simply disposing of it like waste. I realise I know nothing about her. She is a blank slate to me, as is our daughter.
I remember the first time I saw Hermione's face, staring fierce at me from under bushy eyebrows, almost demanding I teach her.
Now I have another first. The first time I saw our daughter's face, screwed up, indignant at being in the world, even though she was in Hell's hurry to be here.
Hermione cradles her. Minerva motions to me to take her place. I slide in behind Hermione and let her lean against me. I can see why Minerva wanted to get up. The steps are hard, cold and sodden. She rubs her knees and they crack as she stands. Her robes are damp and bloody in places.
I look over Hermione's shoulder. My daughter opens her eyes. They are smoky blue. Blue? Can she be mine after all?
"All babies have blue eyes," Minerva says, casual, almost talking to the wall. "Then they change."
I feel Hermione relax against me, as if a final question has been answered. Black hair, blue eyes. Surely, she didn't think it was Potter? Thank the gods my mother's red hair didn't out. That would have given her conniptions.
Poppy is making Hermione comfortable, all the while saying that we'll have to be moved to the Infirmary. Minerva is taking Miss Weasley outside for fresh air. By the set of her jaw, Miss Weasley wishes to make straight for the owlery. I suppose I can expect either nauseating sentiment from her family, or a howler.
"Another future student for Hogwarts," comes an overly-familiar voice. Albus is bent over the baby. "What is her name?"
We have not discussed names, I realise.
"Susan," Hermione says.
This is perhaps carrying the 'SS' thing too far.
"Susan Granger."
Ahh. I see.
Hermione shifts against me. "If this is the miracle of life, you can keep it," she says. But her voice is soft, and I dare to touch Susan's black hair.
Hermione and I speak at the same moment.
"Not Slytherin," says she.
"Not Gryffindor," I chime.
*****