What to Expect When Your Husband's Expecting
Title: What to Expect When Your Husband’s Expecting
Team: Spy for the Order
Characters: Severus/Hermione
Challenge: Expecting Challenge
Word Count: 100 x 12
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mpreg
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, they’re J.K. Rowling’s. Alas.
Notes: The muse was very generous this week, so here’s a sequel to Backwards and in High Heels, as Severus and Hermione deal with the consequences of Polyjuice!sex. It turned out a bit less cracky than the original series--hope you don’t mind! Thanks also to camillo1978 for her creative solution about the birthing process.
The first signs were subtle, easily explained away.
When Severus felt ill in the mornings, he decided that the nausea and lack of appetite were due to professional stress. He brewed himself some Stomach Soother and thought no more on the matter.
When he became so exhausted that he nearly fell asleep at his desk, he blamed his insomnia and resolved to get more sleep.
When Hermione remarked that his complexion glowed and his hair was lustrous, Severus was pleased to know that brewing his own health and beauty aids had finally paid off.
Alternate explanations never occurred to them.
It was Phineas who first stated the obvious.
“Getting a bit thick around the middle, aren’t you?” he sniped.
Severus frowned self-consciously at the straining buttons on his coat, pulled tight across his abdomen. His belly had tended more towards the convex recently, after a lifetime of being admirably concave, but he dismissed that as a sign of impending middle age.
Perhaps the change was a bit worrying-it did make him feel rather awkward-but Hermione had voiced no complaints. Rather, she seemed fond of the new tummy, which she frequently claimed as a pillow.
He couldn’t deny her that.
It wasn’t until Severus fainted at breakfast that the truth was discovered.
The event was the talk of the school for days. According to the students, Severus had swooned like a consumptive heroine and collapsed, Hermione weeping over his body.
The reality was less dramatic: Severus had been whinging about the smell of kippers one moment and facedown in his porridge the next. Focused on her breakfast, Hermione hadn’t even realised anything was amiss until her husband’s litany of complaints had ceased.
As fainting scenes went, it lacked panache, but the drama that followed was more than enough to compensate.
Over the years, Hermione had seen Severus look furious, orgasmic and calculating, but she’d never seem him completely gobsmacked.
Until now.
She felt much the same. Worse yet, Poppy kept giving them looks that suggested she understood exactly how they’d got themselves in this mess.
“Pregnant,” Severus repeated. “Pregnant.” There were still traces of porridge on his face. Hermione removed them with a flick of her wand.
“Well,” Hermione finally said, biting her lip, “there’s one bit of good news.”
He stared at her. “What might that be?”
“You’ve made history. There’s never been a pregnant Headmaster of Hogwarts before.”
Severus smashed the front section of the Prophet down on the table, thin-lipped with anger.
The headline read: DEATHEATER HEADMASTER PREGNANT-DARK ARTS INVOLVED?
“How stupid,” Hermione snorted.
Severus pointed to another article: YOU-KNOW-WHO TO BE REBORN?
A wave of protective fury rose as she noticed the by-line. “That lying cow,” she hissed. “I’ll handle this.”
Two weeks later, Hermione delighted Hagrid by presenting him with a new beetle specimen. Coincidentally, Rita Skeeter took an unexpected sabbatical at the same time.
After that, the only newspaper articles about Severus’ pregnancy were in the Quibbler, which wondered whether Nargles were to blame.
Reactions to the Headmaster’s pregnancy varied.
Men recoiled in horror, crossing their legs and shuddering.
Women looked at Hermione with frank admiration and envy for having successfully farmed out the tedious task of childbearing. Severus was elevated to the status of an icon: the Perfect Husband, willingly bearing discomfort in the name of equality.
It was all a load of bollocks, naturally; if Severus were a perfect husband, he wouldn’t snore and pout childishly about silly things and put the milk back in the refrigerator when the carton was nearly empty.
Still, Hermione just couldn’t bear to crush their enthusiasm.
Suddenly, Severus went from podgy to visibly pregnant, triggering a moodiness more suited to Shakespearian tragedy than to an inability to button his trousers. The students didn’t dare laugh, terrified by his temper.
“Stop sulking!” Hermione snapped. “The Expansion Charms on your robes worked perfectly.”
His response was a poisonous glare.
It took a week to discern the true cause of his funk: his signature stalk had been corrupted to a distinct waddle.
“It’s only temporary,” she said gently. “You still have a sexy walk.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, quite the sexiest waddle I’ve ever seen.”
He snorted, but he stopped brooding.
Around the fifth month, Severus roused Hermione in the dead of night.
“What?” she growled. “It’s two in the morning!”
Mutely, he took her hand in his, bringing it to the firm curve of his belly.
To her shock, Hermione felt something fluttering beneath her fingers, foreign and fascinating and alive. She closed her eyes, filled with such a rush of wonder, fear and affection that she felt she might explode.
She opened her eyes to meet his intense gaze, a mirror of her own.
They lay silently for quite some time, hands intertwined, feeling the first proof of life.
Though Hermione loved Severus at any size, she sometimes wondered if he wasn’t snacking excessively, making up for lost time by stuffing his face now.
She suggested that consuming a pound of Cockroach Clusters every other day might not be essential to the baby’s nutrition. With coldly furious dignity, Severus waddled away, slamming the bedroom door behind him and warding her out.
After a week of sleeping on the sofa, Hermione admitted defeat. She had Winky fill Severus’ office with bags of Cockroach Clusters, covering every surface.
She returned that evening to an unwarded bedroom: a clear sign of forgiveness.
“What do you think of ‘Hugo’?”
Severus looked up from his reading. He was using his baby bulge as a book rest and his glasses were perched on the tip of his nose.
“Cloyingly romantic,” he said. “A brilliant poet, though.”
“Not Victor Hugo! The name-you know, for the baby.”
“Ah.” Severus considered. “It’s ghastly.”
Hermione lobbed a pillow at him. “Hugo was my grandfather’s name!”
“Then he has my sympathies.” Severus’ smirk faded. “I don’t want Him burdened with the names of the dead. He deserves something all His own.”
Hermione thought about this and smiled. “I quite agree.”
Poppy engineered a clever solution for the birth, though Severus found it less than ideal.
“Polyjuice caused this mess in the first place!” he exploded. “Isn’t there another option?”
Poppy was unfazed. “Not unless you can figure out how to pass a baby out of your ar-”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Hermione cut in. “You’re certain, Poppy?”
“Absolutely. He’s not equipped for it otherwise. It’s the safest option.”
“Safe?” Severus sneered. “Giving a pregnant person Polyjuice?”
“Safer than being carved like a turkey so I can root around your insides,” Poppy replied coolly.
Severus paled and stopped protesting.
The birth was messy and complicated even with the aid of Polyjuice, but it was mercifully short. Used to ignoring pain, Severus complained of nothing more than a backache, right up until hard labour hit. Heralded by an impressive and creative string of obscenities, their son was born.
As befitted the offspring of a Snape and a Granger, he possessed an opinionated wail, a definite scowl and horrible hair.
His parents thought him beautiful.
“Was it worth it?” Hermione whispered, admiring the velvet softness of her son’s skin.
“Absolutely,” Severus sighed, sweaty and exhausted. “But next time, it’s your turn.”
Team: Spy for the Order
Characters: Severus/Hermione
Challenge: Expecting Challenge
Word Count: 100 x 12
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mpreg
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, they’re J.K. Rowling’s. Alas.
Notes: The muse was very generous this week, so here’s a sequel to Backwards and in High Heels, as Severus and Hermione deal with the consequences of Polyjuice!sex. It turned out a bit less cracky than the original series--hope you don’t mind! Thanks also to camillo1978 for her creative solution about the birthing process.
The first signs were subtle, easily explained away.
When Severus felt ill in the mornings, he decided that the nausea and lack of appetite were due to professional stress. He brewed himself some Stomach Soother and thought no more on the matter.
When he became so exhausted that he nearly fell asleep at his desk, he blamed his insomnia and resolved to get more sleep.
When Hermione remarked that his complexion glowed and his hair was lustrous, Severus was pleased to know that brewing his own health and beauty aids had finally paid off.
Alternate explanations never occurred to them.
It was Phineas who first stated the obvious.
“Getting a bit thick around the middle, aren’t you?” he sniped.
Severus frowned self-consciously at the straining buttons on his coat, pulled tight across his abdomen. His belly had tended more towards the convex recently, after a lifetime of being admirably concave, but he dismissed that as a sign of impending middle age.
Perhaps the change was a bit worrying-it did make him feel rather awkward-but Hermione had voiced no complaints. Rather, she seemed fond of the new tummy, which she frequently claimed as a pillow.
He couldn’t deny her that.
It wasn’t until Severus fainted at breakfast that the truth was discovered.
The event was the talk of the school for days. According to the students, Severus had swooned like a consumptive heroine and collapsed, Hermione weeping over his body.
The reality was less dramatic: Severus had been whinging about the smell of kippers one moment and facedown in his porridge the next. Focused on her breakfast, Hermione hadn’t even realised anything was amiss until her husband’s litany of complaints had ceased.
As fainting scenes went, it lacked panache, but the drama that followed was more than enough to compensate.
Over the years, Hermione had seen Severus look furious, orgasmic and calculating, but she’d never seem him completely gobsmacked.
Until now.
She felt much the same. Worse yet, Poppy kept giving them looks that suggested she understood exactly how they’d got themselves in this mess.
“Pregnant,” Severus repeated. “Pregnant.” There were still traces of porridge on his face. Hermione removed them with a flick of her wand.
“Well,” Hermione finally said, biting her lip, “there’s one bit of good news.”
He stared at her. “What might that be?”
“You’ve made history. There’s never been a pregnant Headmaster of Hogwarts before.”
Severus smashed the front section of the Prophet down on the table, thin-lipped with anger.
The headline read: DEATHEATER HEADMASTER PREGNANT-DARK ARTS INVOLVED?
“How stupid,” Hermione snorted.
Severus pointed to another article: YOU-KNOW-WHO TO BE REBORN?
A wave of protective fury rose as she noticed the by-line. “That lying cow,” she hissed. “I’ll handle this.”
Two weeks later, Hermione delighted Hagrid by presenting him with a new beetle specimen. Coincidentally, Rita Skeeter took an unexpected sabbatical at the same time.
After that, the only newspaper articles about Severus’ pregnancy were in the Quibbler, which wondered whether Nargles were to blame.
Reactions to the Headmaster’s pregnancy varied.
Men recoiled in horror, crossing their legs and shuddering.
Women looked at Hermione with frank admiration and envy for having successfully farmed out the tedious task of childbearing. Severus was elevated to the status of an icon: the Perfect Husband, willingly bearing discomfort in the name of equality.
It was all a load of bollocks, naturally; if Severus were a perfect husband, he wouldn’t snore and pout childishly about silly things and put the milk back in the refrigerator when the carton was nearly empty.
Still, Hermione just couldn’t bear to crush their enthusiasm.
Suddenly, Severus went from podgy to visibly pregnant, triggering a moodiness more suited to Shakespearian tragedy than to an inability to button his trousers. The students didn’t dare laugh, terrified by his temper.
“Stop sulking!” Hermione snapped. “The Expansion Charms on your robes worked perfectly.”
His response was a poisonous glare.
It took a week to discern the true cause of his funk: his signature stalk had been corrupted to a distinct waddle.
“It’s only temporary,” she said gently. “You still have a sexy walk.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, quite the sexiest waddle I’ve ever seen.”
He snorted, but he stopped brooding.
Around the fifth month, Severus roused Hermione in the dead of night.
“What?” she growled. “It’s two in the morning!”
Mutely, he took her hand in his, bringing it to the firm curve of his belly.
To her shock, Hermione felt something fluttering beneath her fingers, foreign and fascinating and alive. She closed her eyes, filled with such a rush of wonder, fear and affection that she felt she might explode.
She opened her eyes to meet his intense gaze, a mirror of her own.
They lay silently for quite some time, hands intertwined, feeling the first proof of life.
Though Hermione loved Severus at any size, she sometimes wondered if he wasn’t snacking excessively, making up for lost time by stuffing his face now.
She suggested that consuming a pound of Cockroach Clusters every other day might not be essential to the baby’s nutrition. With coldly furious dignity, Severus waddled away, slamming the bedroom door behind him and warding her out.
After a week of sleeping on the sofa, Hermione admitted defeat. She had Winky fill Severus’ office with bags of Cockroach Clusters, covering every surface.
She returned that evening to an unwarded bedroom: a clear sign of forgiveness.
“What do you think of ‘Hugo’?”
Severus looked up from his reading. He was using his baby bulge as a book rest and his glasses were perched on the tip of his nose.
“Cloyingly romantic,” he said. “A brilliant poet, though.”
“Not Victor Hugo! The name-you know, for the baby.”
“Ah.” Severus considered. “It’s ghastly.”
Hermione lobbed a pillow at him. “Hugo was my grandfather’s name!”
“Then he has my sympathies.” Severus’ smirk faded. “I don’t want Him burdened with the names of the dead. He deserves something all His own.”
Hermione thought about this and smiled. “I quite agree.”
Poppy engineered a clever solution for the birth, though Severus found it less than ideal.
“Polyjuice caused this mess in the first place!” he exploded. “Isn’t there another option?”
Poppy was unfazed. “Not unless you can figure out how to pass a baby out of your ar-”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Hermione cut in. “You’re certain, Poppy?”
“Absolutely. He’s not equipped for it otherwise. It’s the safest option.”
“Safe?” Severus sneered. “Giving a pregnant person Polyjuice?”
“Safer than being carved like a turkey so I can root around your insides,” Poppy replied coolly.
Severus paled and stopped protesting.
The birth was messy and complicated even with the aid of Polyjuice, but it was mercifully short. Used to ignoring pain, Severus complained of nothing more than a backache, right up until hard labour hit. Heralded by an impressive and creative string of obscenities, their son was born.
As befitted the offspring of a Snape and a Granger, he possessed an opinionated wail, a definite scowl and horrible hair.
His parents thought him beautiful.
“Was it worth it?” Hermione whispered, admiring the velvet softness of her son’s skin.
“Absolutely,” Severus sighed, sweaty and exhausted. “But next time, it’s your turn.”