BABY, IT'S YOU

Hermione felt a quick, pinging ache in her back, then it was gone. She sat up straight in her chair, and stretched, then hunched back down over her exam parchment.

"Not now," she told herself. "Not bloody now."

Her body obeyed her for a full twenty five minutes, long enough that she could excuse the next twinge, equally quick and barely there, as a need to go to the toilet.

She powered through her second essay parchment. One more essay to go, on her last exam at Hogwarts. She glanced at the large glass timer sitting on Macgonagall's desk. An hour left. She could do this. She recrossed her legs, and now felt the need in earnest to have a pee.

Not now!

She increased the rate of her scribbling. 'The Seventy Two Ways To Change A Person Using Only A Wand'. She could think of one more way, using a wand of flesh. Get them pregnant.

Another pain, longer this time, and making an ambitious journey deep into her abdomen. She twisted in her chair to ease the pain, then clenched her teeth to ignore it, and soldiered on.

Hermione deeply regretted that day thirty nine weeks ago at the start of the school year. If only the seventh year students hadn't had a slap-up dinner with the teaching staff. If only she hadn't had that sixth Vine liqueur.

All she could remember now was a dark head, and a pale body above her, between her legs, kissing along her torso. At least she could take comfort in the fact it wasn't Ron. She had a nasty suspicion it was Harry.

They'd never spoken of it. He was firmly within the clutches of Ginny Weasley. But all year, as her waist thickened, he'd defended her against all insults, all questions, and the initial howlers from her parents that had later become concerned letters.

Hermione scribbled on, her mind only half on the essay. She thought about Ron begging her.

"Go on, 'Mione, let me practice on you. I've done Harry so many times that if I even look at him, I feel ill. Let me please!"

"Oh, go on then." Maybe it was the pathetic look on his face, or the fact he was clinging onto her leg and making a spectacle of them both in the Gryffindor common room. Or maybe it was because she felt sick and had no defences left.

She let Ron practice his Divination skills on her. Seventh years worked with scrying smoke, flame, wind, sand, and the flight of birds. Ron let Hermione tip out a small bucket of sand on the floor. He squatted and was silent a long time. He looked back and forth between Hermione and the sand.

"Well?" she said, and crouched down beside him. "Do you see a trip to the beach? Or a desert, maybe?"

Ron shook his head and pointed into the mess of sand. Even Hermione could not miss the tiny screwed up face patterned there.

"Winston Churchill?" Ron puzzled. "What's that meant to mean?"

But Hermione knew. It all made sense. The sick feeling that was her constant companion. Sore breasts. And a period that had gone on holiday that she'd put down to stress.

Then Ron had caught sight of Hermione's pale face. "Hermione? What?……Oh. Oh. Uh-oh." He swallowed. "Who?"

And she burst into tears. "I don't know."

Ron licked his lips. "Was it the 7th year bash at the beginning of term? I'm kinda hazy about that night. Do you think….?" He drew Hermione gently to her feet. "I'll marry you, if you want."

Hermione hugged him, and through her tears, snorked on his shoulder. "Oh Ron, thankyou, but no. All I know is that it wasn't you."

Ron held Hermione like she was blown glass. "Doesn't matter," he said gruffly. "I'll still do it. I'm in line for a job as beast-keeper at Pellinor's Breeding Zoo, and-"

"Ron, it's okay. I'll manage. But thankyou."

For all their bickering over the years, and their failed romance in fifth year, Hermione suddenly knew what a friend she had in Ron Weasley, and later, in the whole Weasley tribe, when they found out. Ron was the only one who knew of her few blurred memories of dark hair, and pale skin. He had looked askance at Harry, Neville, Gwydion, and Crabbe all year. And Hermione loved him for it, even if she was almost sure he was wrong.

Hermione wrote faster as the pains came closer together. First a timeable twenty minutes apart, then slowly pulling into fifteen minutes, then twelve. She was onto her third essay, and now wriggled around in her seat as each pain became more distracting. She curled her feet inside her shoes, and pressed her free hand into her stomach, as though pressure could stop what her body had determined to do.

She had been summarily ejected from the Potions classroom once her pregnancy became known, and after her fourth month, broomstick practice was forbidden her. Like that was any hardship. But she griped mightily about missing Potions. Snape would not give way.

"You cannot be exposed to toxic substances, Miss Granger," he'd said, when Hermione had brought the matter before Dumbledore. "I won't have you endangering…anyone."

When she'd stared hard at him, willing him to change his mind, he'd dropped his gaze, but held firm on his resolve.

End of the argument, and Dumbledore upheld his decision.

She would still pass her NEWTs, as she had more than enough subjects, but lack of Potions would not see her into the post-graduate course she wanted. Not that any further study seemed likely anyway. Not with a baby to care for. No matter how much her parents, and the Weasleys offered their time and support, Hermione was not ignorant of the amount of time a baby took up. Studies would have to wait at least a year or two.

She was on the last third of the essay, and now had her legs tucked up under her. She'd squirmed so much that Macgonagall had noticed. She had sidled down the aisle of the examination room and surveyed Hermione. Hermione forced herself to stillness and did not look up. Macgonagall stood there some considerable time, but finally moved back to her desk at the front of the room. After than, Hermione kept her movements to a minimum and instead clutched at the side of the desk, knuckles white.

Her pregnancy had been uneventful, apart from the constant declarations from the male population of Hogwarts.

"It wasn't me." Seamus Finnigan.

"Not me, you're not my type, no offence." Paul Anthony, and his 'friend' Mark.

"I'm saving myself for marriage." Good grief, are you, Neville?

"Who'd touch a mudblood?" Malfoy.

"I woulda crushed you, Hermione." Hagrid.

Finally, she'd gone to Dumbledore and begged for a spell. He'd patted her on the shoulder and explained that no spell could unfog a mind sozzled with alcohol. He seemed particularly unhelpful, and she uncharitably thought that perhaps he only did his all-seeing, all-knowing Grandfather act for Harry. As much as she'd asked, cried and despaired, his message was always one of dealing with the present, of lying in the bed she had made.

So, she'd endured not knowing, but suspecting Harry, who suspected himself, and their friendship was strained. Instead of him being the moderator between her and Ron, now Ron stood between the two of them, chivvying them past half-reproachful looks and into good humour.

The last line of the essay. She slammed the full stop home and dropped her quill on the floor. Then she stood and waved at Macgonagall. The older witch looked up, and saw Hermione lean into a contraction. She nodded, and Hermione lumbered from the room.

Ron half-rose from his seat to follow, but Macgonagall shook her head. Ron forced himself to sit again and resume his essay. One of his best friends was giving birth. Who the hell cared about bloody essays? But he wrote on. In the next seat, Harry had briefly ceased writing and was frozen in place. Ron wondered if he was reliving memories he had not shared with anyone, maybe of the night Hermione's baby was conceived.

Hermione staggered against a wall, not sure where she was in Hogwarts. She'd taken one turn, then another, but couldn't remember now which way. The pains were close together now, maybe five minutes apart. She was sweat-soaked. She sank down and struggled off her shoes and socks. Her clothes were strangling her, although some months before she had exchanged her fitted school uniform for loose grey overalls with Gryffindor buttons. As the months progressed, she'd undone one side button after another until now all that kept them on her body were the two large buttons on the shoulder straps.

She pulled the overalls away from her body, trying to give herself more room. She was sitting open legged on the cold stone floor, leaning forward over herself as another contraction rocked her.

"Miss Granger, this is scarcely the place to be sitting-" Snape stood over her, arms folded. He saw what was happening to her. "Hermione?" He squatted. "Are you in labour?"

It struck Hermione as funny. No, you stupid git, I'm baking a cake. No, idiot, I'm soliciting for sexual favours.

He put his hands under her elbows and lifted her. She felt every movement of the tiny muscles in his hands. Her skin was tissue paper, even the seams of her clothes rasped at her.

"I'll take you to the Infirmary. Come along, walk now."

She tried to pull out of his supporting arm. "Don't touch me! I can't walk!"
"Walking is good. It will help your labour."

No doubt the big twit had read that somewhere. She tried to pull away again. Snape held her fast.

"You will walk, Hermione, and I will help you."

They made an unlikely couple as they traversed Hogwarts halls, she supported and sheltered in his arm, half under his robe, both of them stopping every few minutes while she sobbed and gasped through another contraction.

Her waters broke outside a classroom. There would be no comfortable hospital bed for her. Her knees turned to jelly and she sagged against Snape. He caught her up in his arms and nudged open the classroom door.

Second year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were diligently cutting up maggots. The stench made Hermione gag, then vomit over Snape.

"Not here, then," Snape muttered.

His own rooms were not far from here. He half-carried her, half dragged her down a flight of stairs and into his rooms. Why did everyone assume he lived in the dungeons? He worked there, but who wanted to live near their work?

Snape dumped Hermione on the bed and left her while he quickly changed out of his stinking clothes. He came back in time to see Hermione writhing on his bed, handfuls of bedspread scrunched in her hands, and a huge wet stain underneath her. Her waters had flooded further.

Snape summoned Poppy Pomfrey via the floo, who arrived and shoved Snape out of the way. He was awkwardly mopping Hermione's brow. She didn't want it and kept batting him away.

"Don't touch me!"

Mop, mop.

"Leave me alone!"

Wipe, wipe.

"Touch me again and I'll shrivel your dick!"

Pause, then another swipe with his handkerchief.

"Get off! Don't even look at me,not ever again! Your eyes are hurting me!"

"Oh, come now, Hermione-"

She rose off the bed and punched him neatly in the face. Poppy arrived and hauled him away.

"Maybe you'd like to make us a nice cup of tea now, Professor. Hermione's a little upset at the moment."

Snape hovered uncertain in the background.

"Make him stop looking at me!" Hermione shrieked. "He's got no business in here. His nose is hurting me!"

Poppy turned, and shrugged at Snape. "What can I say, Professor? She's very frightened, and-"

"I've every right to be here, Poppy. This is my room, and-"

"Hermione? Are you alright?" Ron Weasley, tagged by Harry, burst into the room.

Hermione made some unarticulate noise and turned her face away, all the while scrabbling to move her exposed nether regions away from the line of sight.

"Out!" shouted Poppy, pushing them all to the door. "The only other person who has a right to be in here is the father." She glared from one man to the next. They quailed under her frown, but Ron stepped forward.

"I'm willing to own up," he said.

"You're the father?"

"Yes." He dropped his gaze and Poppy raised an eyebrow. "No, but I'll stand by her."

Poppy shook her head. "That's nice, Mr Weasley, but I really do think-" She heard Hermione whimper and shut the door in their faces.

The three men looked at each other. Ron glared at Harry.

"Why don't you own up, you arse?"

Harry started. "I'm not….I mean, I don't think I am. She doesn't want me anyway, any more than she wants you."

Ron swallowed. "Dark hair, Harry. That's all she can remember from the seventh year party. She told me."

Harry felt like a creep for saying it, but his mouth opened of its own accord. "It could be anyone, not just me."

Ron shaped up before Harry. "You utter dick. Hermione's going through this alone, and-"

"It could be me."

Both boys turned and looked at Snape. He looked supremely uncomfortable.

"I had hoped I was wrong, that one of you abysmal boys would come forth and boast, or come over all contrite, even have a flashback. But no." He sighed. "All I know is that I drank too much at the seventh year party, and the next morning, I had a hangover, and the feeling in my body I'd had sex. I remember very little besides…. Well, what I remember is none of your business."

"I'll fucking kill you!" Ron said.

"Mr Weasley, I am your teacher!"

"Not any more, you son of a bitch! The exams are over." But Ron's arm, raised against his Potions teacher, shook. He couldn't do it. Seven years of ingrained obedience, however reluctant, had their way with him.

Harry was more used to breaking rules. He king-hit Snape.

"You said nothing to her! You let her go through this alone. You could've gone to her, said something like you suspected it was you."

"As you could have done, Potter." Snape shook his ringing head and let go a wallop to Harry's midsection.

Harry countered with a right cross to the jaw. Snape reeled.

"I've seen your face when you look at her," Snape said, coming around with a hook under Harry's chin. "You wonder if it's you. But all year you've said nothing."

Harry head butted Snape in the stomach. Both men went down, brawling in the hallway, and shouting insults. Ron stood back. He wasn't going to stop this. Hermione deserved men to fight over her, after all she'd been through. He folded his arms and watched the upper cuts fly. Pity neither of them thought to use their wands.

Hermione pushed a small boy-child from her body. He was long, thin and had dark hair. She cradled him in her arms and could see her jaw in his, and her eyes, but the rest was a mystery. He looked nothing like Harry, Ron, or any other boy she knew. She kissed him. It didn't matter now. He was all hers and she would love him no matter who the father was.

Poppy smiled at her. "One more push, dear, and you'll be done." She pressed on Hermione's stomach gently.

Hermione was barely aware of delivering the placenta, and being tidied up. Her son was in her arms, his brown eyes glaring up at her, his top lip sucked into his mouth in an expression of extreme disapproval. So this was the big, wide world. To hell with that.

The door opened slowly, and Professor Dumbledore peered around the corner. "Miss Granger, may I enter?"

Hermione no longer cared. She couldn't take her eyes off her baby. Dumbledore came in, carrying the Sorting Hat. Ron followed, and then Harry and Snape. The latter two looked worse for wear. Harry sported the beginnings of a black eye, and Snape held an ice pack to his nose. Both had hangdog expressions of the type that suggested Dumbledore had threatened them both with something dreadful if they didn't stop fighting. Ron was grinning. He raced to Hermione's side.

"Wow! 'Mione, you did it. What is it? A boy? Fantastic. Bloody brilliant. You okay?" He crowded her with hugs and kisses. She was too weak to fend him off.

"If I might, Mr Weasley," Dumbledore said and moved forward.

He placed the Sorting Hat over the baby.

"Isn't he too young to be Sorted?" Hermione asked, startled.

"Watch, and wonder," Dumbledore said.

The Sorting Hat came to life.

"Hmm, not too tricky at all. It's all there. The pale skin, the long fingers, the temper. This baby is….Snape's!"

Harry turned, gave Snape a roundhouse kick up the arse. Snape didn't feel it, stunned as he was. Ron jumped off the side of the bed and made towards Snape, ready to thump him. Hermione fainted. The baby slid from her arms, and Dumbledore caught him.

Dumbledore held him out to Snape. "I believe this belongs to you," he said.

***** *****