I was a One Once, But Now I’m a We

This is a response to number #56 of the Anything Goes challenge: “She wants to have a baby. She's interviewing potential fathers. Who is she? Why is she resorting to this method? What questions is she asking in order to choose a father for her unborn child? Who shows up? Who does she choose? What happens next? She can be anybody.”

This took a tad longer than I wanted, but I hope you have as much fun with it as I did. The identities of Joy and Tobias are revealed in this chapter (not to each other, but to you). Also, you'll note that I actually tried to start with canon-accuracy (unlike my usual fair) and branch out into what one of my betas referred to as "much more real-world." I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Two – I was a One Once, But Now I’m a We

Monday, December the 19th, 2011

“Tobias,”

Thank you for your letter regarding my advert in the Daily Prophet. Before I decide to proceed in an arrangement with you – for which, I am certain we can draft up a contract with mutually satisfying stipulations – I would like to put some questions to you, to ascertain the suitability of such an arrangement between us. I have included a list of questions which I require satisfactory answers to before moving forward. If you would be so good as to answer them and return them with all possible haste, I would be very grateful to receive your responses.

Before you peruse my questions, however, I would like to address the points you made in your last letter:

- Let me first say that I find it somewhat ridiculous and more than a little hypocritical that you chose to ignore my alias, as you not only acknowledged the need for a ‘nom de plume’, but created one for your own anonymity. Physician, heal thyself.

- As to your “demonstrably” good health, I appreciate that you have offered your word; however, I will request that I receive a clean bill of health from Healer Levy at St. Mungo’s. I mean this as no disrespect to you, simply an assurance that any future child of mine will be in as excellent health as it is in my power to ensure them to be. I’m sure you understand that, in this day and age, we cannot be too careful.

- Your age is completely immaterial to me. In good faith, I will tell you that I am just past the age of thirty-two (this past September), in excellent health, and well within the ‘societally normative age’ of reproduction. As I said, your age is completely immaterial to me, so long as you are in good reproductive health.

- I’m actually quite relieved and pleased to hear that you are not emotionally or legally attached to anyone, as it would be quite a lot more complicated were you to be so constrained. That is not to say that it would be impossible, merely more sensitive and potentially disastrous.

Again, I appreciate your forthright reply to my letter, and I will certainly consider you as a candidate for fathering my future child. I look forward to your answers to the enclosed questionnaire.

Best,

Joy Bundle

Tuesday, 20 December

“Joy,”

An exam? You sent me an EXAM? Perhaps I should have referred to you as “Curse”? Honestly, woman, why on Earth would a man who is only serving the purpose of anonymously fathering your child need to answer questions regarding elementary Transfiguration, Potions, and Arithmancy in order to provide you with sperm? I must simply conclude that you are mentally unstable. Under no circumstances will my intelligence or pride be subject to your ridiculous benchmarks. Contact me again when you have regained your sanity.

Tobias

Tuesday, December the 20th, 2011

Tobias,

Stop whinging like a first-year.

Best,

Joy

Wednesday, 21 December

Joy,

Cease your denigrating attempts to cuckold me.

Indignantly,

Tobias

Friday, December the 23rd, 2011

Tobias,

Thank you for your kind letters regarding my questionnaire. As a result of your previous response, I can only conclude that you are either unable to answer the questions I have provided or are rather insecure about your intellect. Accordingly, I have enclosed another exam, this one much more difficult than the last. I have the desire (and right) to quality-control the men who could be the father of my future child; as such, I wish to ensure that their intelligence matches mine, in concordance with my rigorous standards.

If you still wish to participate in our possible arrangement, I highly suggest that you complete and return the test by next Friday at midnight. I will inform you as to the status of your eligibility once I have looked over your answers.

Happy Christmas,

Joy

Monday, 26 December

Joy,

You, Madam, are certifiably insane. You remind me far too much of a young lady I once knew who took a rather sickening amount of pride in being self-confident to a fault and intellectually overzealous to the point of lunacy. Despite the highly insulting nature of your request, I have decided to be the more mature of the two of us – which wasn’t much of an effort, given your last few correspondences – and actually answer the damn questionnaire. In honor of the memory of my insufferable former acquaintance, I have penned the answers to be as long-winded as I could possibly manage. I hope it takes you until New Year’s to mark.

Defiantly,

Tobias

Tuesday, December the 27th, 2011

Tobias,

I thoroughly enjoyed reading your answers to my exam. I know that you probably assume that I am either teasing you or being facetious to raise your temper, but in earnest, I am not. It is rare that I receive intellectual stimulation to my level of comprehension (which, I suppose, could be part of why I am addressing conception in this manner), so I found it a rare treat to read the thought processes of someone so intelligent. Though I know that it is a bit too early to be one-hundred percent certain, I believe that you will make a very suitable candidate for an arrangement.

Before we begin those preliminary stages, however, I hope it is not too much to ask you to discuss some of the answers you penned? As I said, I don’t often get the sort of challenge you provided me, especially not in a Ministry job, so I would very much enjoy conversing, if only for a little while, to discuss your answers. I realize that given the nature of our possible future arrangement that such a conversation may be awkward, so please do not feel obligated to indulge me.

Regardless of your desire, or lack thereof, for conversation, please send to me in your next correspondence a list of any requirements, stipulations, concerns, etc., that you may have regarding the arrangement, so that I may begin to draw up a contract, of sorts.

Best,

Joy

Severus stared at the most recently letter he’d received from “Joy.” He had thoroughly enjoyed the banter of the earlier letters, despite his caustic replies, but this latest one had hit him closer to the heart than he’d imagined. This letter was not from the pen of the fastidious but spunky woman who’d been daring enough to send a test reminiscent of his O.W.L.s to an anonymous wizard who was, in essence, no more than a rented pair of testicles that she would use to achieve her maternal ends. The words in front of him screamed of a very intelligent but very lonely woman so desperate for company of her intellectual stature that she would seek it from a complete stranger. A stranger who would impregnate her and then vanish from her life. This woman had sat down during the Christmas season to beg to discuss Potions with a stranger via parchment. As he stared down at the letter, his brows pulled together tightly, creating a long line of tension between them. He had a very disconcerting feeling that despite their twenty-year difference in age, this woman was very much like him. Only a short glance around his very quiet, very empty dungeon chambers gave him the answer he needed regarding her ‘indulgence.’ In a move that he felt was completely against his better judgment, Severus picked up his quill and, instead of writing a short, succinct list of his stipulations, began to compose a detailed discussion of his views on the latest advancements in Potions research that she had referenced on her ‘test.’

Tuesday, 27 December

Joy,

I confess myself quite surprised that the questions you sent were just as much of a test of your own mental acuity as mine. Although I find the method in which you approached this a bit bizarre (you could simply have inquired as to my intellectual and professional pursuits), I am pleased that my answers have intrigued you. Though, my pride obligates me to mention that I do still find it insulting to be given a test, as if I am an insolent first-year in detention.

Regardless, I’ve no objection to discussing the recent theories that I had addressed in my answers. It is not often that I find a conversation partner who has any interest in Potions, let alone has read extensively enough to be well-versed on the effect of physics on advanced potion making. It is not terribly well-known in the wizarding world, but I believe if you are familiar with Heisenberg’s Principle of Uncertainty, you’ll find that Rondat’s study on the effects of physical phenomena on temperamental brewing allows for the possibility that—

Hermione stared at the letter with a dropped jaw, born of pleasant surprise. The wizard, whomever he was, had been barbed and sarcastic in those first few letters, and she found herself completely baffled that it had amused her. It certainly felt liberating and youthful to be able to banter with someone who could stand up to her intellectually. This letter, though, had been very different. True, the natural dry sarcasm that seemed bone-deep in Tobias infused the entire letter, but the pages and pages and pages covered with his spiky, scrawling script were filled with intelligent, thought-provoking discussion on everything from Potions theories and physics to animagi Transfiguration and magical creatures. He had even made a joking reference to one of her favorite classic films from the 1940’s. She had smiled, puzzled over dilemmas, even laughed out loud as she read the letter over again. It felt like talking to a friend. Which, she found, she’d been lacking in quantity lately. Strangely, she hadn’t felt the lack of it until she’d begun to read this letter from Tobias and felt she wasn’t lacking anymore.

A thick grin crossed her face as she pulled out a large sheaf of parchment. By the end of the evening, she’d gone through two different quill nibs and a half bottle of ink.

Friday, 30 December

Joy,

I’m quite surprised to find that only a few weeks have gone by since our first correspondence. Perhaps it has been the regularity of our letters, perhaps it is that my career has picked up speed again, but it seems that I have known you for much longer than I actually have. Being a naturally reticent and private man, I find it strange to know that I talk to you – so to speak – more in a few days than I do to most of my colleagues in an entire month. And, depending on the colleague, sometimes more than a month. Some people are simply intolerable idiots. I’m sure you sympathize, given what I know about your intellect and the stories you’ve told me about your colleagues. How in the world does someone with short-term memory loss from spell damage manages to hold down a career working with record-keeping? Perhaps your superior (ha!) should be terminated. Permanently. I could arrange it, I’m sure …

But as amusing as it is to verbally abuse your colleagues and mine, I should return to the original point of this letter. It occurs to me that the idea of a “contract” being drafted between us in regards to the arrangement that first prompted our correspondence got lost when we began letter-writing for intellectual pursuits. As such, we should most likely return to the issue at least for a little while, as I’m certain you would like to proceed with the insemination process as soon as possible. Perhaps you should send me a list of your expectations, and I shall review them and address anything that concerns me. I shall respond with any stipulations of my own immediately.

Before we discuss those details, however, I’d like to take a moment to address something that has … been on my mind since we first began this process: I would like to thank you. It seems bizarre, I know, to thank a woman who’s merely using me as a sperm donor, but I feel it must be said. As my fifty-second birthday approaches (this coming Monday), I had previously found myself increasingly dismayed that I have made no lasting impression on the world that will outlive me when I pass. Aside, I suppose, from the memories I have imparted to those I have worked with, but they are most certainly not an accurate impression of the man I am. Or, at least, of the man that I believe that I am at the core. So when the opportunity to assist you presented itself, it seemed to me to be a perfect opportunity. Even knowing that the child will never become acquainted with his (or her) father, a part of me will continue; more than that, though, this child will have a chance to rise above my mistakes and be a better person than I ever could. And that, Joy, is an invaluable gift.

I’m not certain what it is that makes me so maudlin as I pen this letter, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling …. Quick! Send a reply saying something inane, so that I may ruthlessly trounce you and regain my status as a heartless bastard.

In anticipation of my regained brutality,

Tobias

Hermione sat fingering the letter she’d just received. The days when she saw the tawny owl from Hogmeade’s post office winging its way past Aida’s perch to deposit the day’s takings in the post box at the front of her cottage, she felt as if she could fly off to the letter writer, so giddy was she at the arrival. Reading what Tobias had to say, whether the deep and serious intellectual discussions or the amusing recitations of his frustrated dealings with his colleagues, always made her feel as if he were right there next to her, sharing a cup of tea or warming the forest green plush cushions of her couch. Apparating onto the front stoop of her cottage and seeing the parchment wedged inside the mouth of the little box shaped like an otter cleared away whatever fuzzy gloom or frustration had accumulated over the course of the day, and she had made it a ritual that she always sat at the dining room table with a cup of peach tea to read his letters, just as she had the first day she received one. Her hand traced over the script fondly, her heart picking up just a bit as she gazed down at his signature.

This was a very dangerous thing she was doing.

The man was merely a sperm donor. Hermione had to keep telling herself that every time she received a letter from him. He wasn’t really a friend, and he wasn’t really the boyfriend that she missed having and secretly craved. He was an anonymous man – a man whose real name was still a mystery to her – who was going to give her a child and then vanish from her life. She couldn’t keep doing this to herself. Every letter, she would tell herself to pull back, to calm down, to bring it back to a professional coolness and not let this get any more out of hand than it already had. This was about getting her dream of having a baby of her own, not flirting with a man she didn’t even know. She told herself that very strictly every letter. It had long since stopped working. Because she did know him. Whether his name was Tobias or Henry or Jerry or Elliott didn’t matter. She knew him, and he knew her, more than anyone had known her in quite a long time. Harry and Ron were still a part of her life; she went to Sunday dinners here and there, spent holidays with the now-gigantic Weasley clan or the ever-expanding Potter family. But with James and Al and now little Lily, Harry and Ginny were constantly buried under a mountain of nappies and childcare, and after what had happened with Ron, she didn’t feel comfortable being with him and Lavender for all that long a time before she needed to make her excuses and head home. That was the only thing she hadn’t told Tobias, her one big shame. Her one big secret. She was a thirty-two-year-old divorcee in a world that barely believed divorce existed.

Ron had proposed to Hermione so soon after the war that she had accepted joyously and without thought. Riding high on relief and adrenaline and bright, rosy dreams of the future, they had planned their wedding believing that the forever brand of love was in their grasp. And it had been, for a time. Her life with Ron had never been unpleasant, really, but it had never been exactly what she wanted. It had taken two years for the ‘honeymoon’ to end, four for the marriage to crumble. Her twenty-fourth birthday party had been the beginning of the end. A huge celebration had been thrown, with all of their friends from Hogwarts attending to help Hermione celebrate the occasion. Food and drink had been passed liberally at the Burrow, another one of Molly’s fantastic soirees. But Ron had lost his head with drink, it seemed. She had come across him rather loudly disparaging their private bedroom life with Harry, Neville, Seamus and a crowd of other equally inebriated young men. When she had pulled him aside and demanded he stop revealing their personal details, he had called her a prude. She had slapped him. He didn’t come home that night. Or any of the next two nights following. She had received an owl by the end of the week from Molly, saying that he’d spent those days at the Burrow, and she was terribly sorry that she hadn’t owled Hermione earlier; she’d assumed Ron had let her know. Hermione had not cried. She merely owled Molly to thank her and told Ron not to rush; she could take care of the flat herself. In the days following Molly’s owl, Hermione had simply started putting belongings in boxes. It hadn’t occurred to her right away what it was she was doing – preparing and packing up her life; at first, she had told herself that she was just getting rid of the clutter. Miscellaneous things laying around the flat that they didn’t really need or use anymore, so she packed them away. Two weeks later, after thirteen solid nights of sleeping next to Ron as if he were her brother, it occurred to her that the only items packed were her own. And that Ron had not made one single comment about the boxes. Then she counted the words they had said to each other in the past two weeks; she was brought to tears when she realized that she could count the words. Fifty-eight. Their thirteen-year friendship and four year marriage had been reduced to fifty-eight words in two weeks, thirteen of which had been “Goodnight,” and twelve of which had been “G’morning” (she didn’t really count it as two separate words, as he never bothered to enunciate clearly). It was then that she knew it was over.

The conversation they’d had that ended their marriage was surprisingly calm, given Ron’s natural temper. He had listened quietly as she had said that they were in a downturn, that the fight they’d had on her birthday wasn’t the beginning of the issue, it was simply the mirror that had been held up in front of their faces so that they could see the problem. He’d nodded silently as she’d said that really they made better friends than they did a couple, that though they loved each other, they weren’t really meant to be married. The way their life had gone the last few weeks was testament to that. He’d just nodded and quietly agreed that she was probably right. In a fit of pique and anguish that he couldn’t think of something more potent to say – even if he chose to fight with her, it would be easier than this bland acceptance, as if their love had meant nothing at all – she yelled at him, demanding he must have some distinct feelings. He let a single tear slide down his cheek as he hoarsely declared that he’d always loved her and probably always would, but that he didn’t think it was enough anymore. And then he’d just let her go.

Getting up from the table that very minute (she didn’t think she could stand to sit there in the resigned quiet any longer), Hermione had shrunk the boxes she’d packed, stowed them in her old school trunk, and left. Unable to bear the thought of living with her parents like a child, Hermione had gone directly to Harry and Ginny’s house in Godric’s Hollow, tearfully begging them to use their guestroom for a little while. They’d welcomed her in as happily as could be imagined under the circumstances, but it was clear to Hermione that the situation could not last long. Ginny had just discovered her first pregnancy – little James was on his way! Would she please be his godmother? – so her days there were numbered. She didn’t want to overtax them anyway. The divorce papers came to her two days later, at work; she had locked herself in the loo and cried for nearly an hour. Six months later, she read about Ron and Lavender’s engagement in the Daily Prophet. No one, not even Ginny or Molly, had bothered to owl her to tell her the news. That was the day she stopped crying herself to sleep every night; she went out that very afternoon on her lunch hour and put a down payment on the little cottage she’d found. The rest, as they say, was history.

The nearly six years she’d spent here had been happy enough … never truly unhappy, at any rate. But her life was emptier than she wanted it to be. Being divorced in the wizarding world was practically worthy of the scarlet letter – she didn’t know of any other people who were divorced, beside her and Ron – so dates were fairly thin on the ground for Hermione. Add to that her status as a war heroine, which seemed to be more intimidating than attractive to most men, and her rather formidable intellect, and her status as a love pariah was complete. So she poured herself into her work and charitable volunteering, picked up a few new hobbies (her knitting had improved greatly, and she now knew how to crochet, cross-stitch, AND play the piano), and became an excellent and involved godmother; her life felt busy again. Busy, yes, but still not full. She needed someone to love, she decided, and as men were not immediately accessible, it seemed that the easiest and most sensible thing was to go on to her dream of motherhood. No sense in waiting her whole life for a love partner that may never show up. Being a single mother as well as a divorcee would basically guarantee spinsterhood in addition to motherhood, but she was strong enough for it. Hermione Granger and her child would get through just fine. And now, it actually seemed like it would become a reality.

The only sticky wicket that cropped up was that she was falling in love with the anonymous father.

Saturday, January the 7th, 2012

Tobias,

Forgive me; I have been quite remiss in addressing the issue of the contract. I seem to have gotten so carried away with our intellectual delights that I’ve completely forgotten your whole purpose for indulging me for so long. You are too good, putting up with my prattle week after week.

Included below is the list of my expectations. You may note that they have changed somewhat from my initial advert (nothing drastic, I promise!), but I have confidence that you will not object so much as to conclude the arrangement. Please feel free to include any concerns, amendments or other additions you may have, so that I may deal with them without delay.

A contract between the party of the first part, being hereafter known by the alias Joy Bundle, and the party of the second part, referred to by the alias Tobias Reynard, concerning the exchange of private services for the conception of a child.

Joy Bundle states that, in exchange for semen (for means of reproduction) provided by Tobias Reynard, she:

- Retains the right to request written proof of a clean bill of health for Mr. Reynard, the physical examination to be conducted by Ms. Bundle’s personal care attendant, Healer Euterpe Levy of St. Mungo’s Hospital of Magical Maladies in London, UK. The results shall be submitted under the previously-stated alias, Tobias Reynard.

- Retains the right to continue contact with Mr. Reynard until successful conception of a child has been verified by Healer Levy.

- Retains the right to request subsequent donations of semen from Mr. Reynard if initial samples are not deemed viable or do not result in conception.

- Will submit written verification to Mr. Reynard, via Healer Levy, that Ms. Bundle is not currently using any form of contraception or any other methods that would prevent successful conception.

- Agrees that all donations of semen will be channeled specifically through Healer Levy at St. Mungo’s and that all donations will be strictly anonymous.

- Agrees not to seek any immediate or future monetary compensation in exchange for the semen or for the child resulting after successful conception.

- Agrees not to seek any immediate or future monetary compensation to provide for the life of the child resulting after successful conception.

- Will seek no direct contact with Mr. Reynard that is not first solicited by him or agents of his choosing regarding the child in question or other matters.

- Will seek no direct contact between Mr. Reynard and herself, or Mr. Reynard and the child in question, unless first solicited by Mr. Reynard or agents of his choosing.

If these stipulations meet with your approval, let me know, and I will have it printed into a signable document that will keep the signatures visible only to Healer Levy, who will be conducting all of the physical examinations and my insemination. If you have any concerns, additions, etc., I will, of course, review and add them as necessary.

Oh, and if you really feel the need for something to criticize me for (I don’t mind your sarcasm, but if you feel it gives you power, far be it from me to deny you), how’s this: I’ve already started knitting a baby blanket. Is it too early to make it red and gold? I feel undeniably certain that you were not a Gryffindor, so I’m sure this will give you plenty of ammunition.

Yours,

Joy

PS – You’re very sweet to offer to kill my supervisor. As soon as I come up with a fool-proof plan, I’ll owl you.

Sunday, 8 January

JB,

Very busy week upcoming; lots to get done. No time for a long letter now. Will review contract as soon as I am able.

What sort of woman knits a blanket for a baby she doesn’t have with a man she hasn’t met? You must be a Gryffindor. More insults soon.

TR

Severus stared at the short missive for a moment before handing it over to Radames and sending him on towards Hogsmeade. It was the first time he’d flat-out lied to Joy. His week was completely empty, aside from the typical hall patrols and one detention on Wednesday night which he was certain would be completely brainless for him. The simple truth of it was that he just didn’t want to review her contract right now. He was stalling for time, and he knew it. It was lowering to admit, but there it was. He was stalling. Something inside of him just didn’t want to apply thought to the contract because it would mean that the conception process would move along as soon as they’d sign it, and then his time with Joy would be over. She’d made that fairly clear. She’d stated plainly that she would “seek no direct contact with Mr. Reynard” once she had the child she wanted. A large portion of him was unreasonably angry at this, at being treated like the hired help, until he realized that was exactly what he was. But the bigger part of him wanted to believe, stupid as it was, that Joy still wanted talk to him. Still had interest in him. He wanted to believe, foolish as it was in his increasing age, that he mattered to someone, even if it was a witch he’d never met who would have a child of his that he’d never see. One long-fingered hand strayed back to the parchment on his desk, the one bearing her neat script. Yours, her closing had said. He certainly hadn’t missed that change of salutation. Down in his chest, something ached; the cynic in him sneered and said that it had been a flippant whim. No woman would have him; hadn’t Joy made that clear in her contract? Not daring to write the same as she (what if it had just been a thoughtless statement?), he had left his letter without a closing.

Yours.

A fool living in his brain wished it were true, that this high-spirited young witch who sent him amusing letters written in an elegant hand that didn’t fit her practical personality was really promising more to him than just a future of silence. Something seemed to be leaking from his eyes; he swiped at it with the hand not currently curled around his tumbler of Firewhiskey. Bloody birthday was making him too damn sentimental.

A/N - a note and mid-stream edit here: I've gotten a few reviews remarking that I have made mistakes with Severus's and Hermione's ages and I wanted to address it, in case anyone else was tempted to do so. To set the record straight:

In Severus's case, I'm sorry to say that's not so. His age is, indeed, 51 in December of 2011. His birthday has been stated as January 9th for several years, but it is only with the advent of book 7 that we find out what year. Lily's grave said that she was born on January 24, 1960. This would have made her almost 21 at the time of her death, on October 31, 1980. Since Severus was in the same year as Lily (as evidenced by The Prince's Tale) it is reasonable to assume, even if we're not implictly told, that his birthday is January 9,1960, as he is effectively the same age as Lily. As such, in December of 2011, when the story starts, it would be just before his fifty-second birthday on January 9, 2012.

As far as Hermione is concerned, I hang my head in shame and admit that everyone who pointed out the flaw in her age is 100% correct. I had been basing my calculations off the birth year of both Harry and Ron, being 1980. Unfortunately, I failed to account for the fact that she was born in September of the PREVIOUS year, 1979, making her just past her thirty-second birthday in December of 2011. I thank everyone who pointed it out, and I have made the necessary changes.

Normally I'd let such nit-picky details slide, but I do appreciate that everyone is reading so closely! Thanks again to all my reviewers and readers. I'm thrilled you're enjoying it as much as I am!