And Baby's Bound to Keep Me Warm

Chapter Three – And Baby's Bound To Keep Me Warm

Severus woke up on the morning of his birthday with a splitting headache and a firm scowl set upon his face. He had sat up for far too much of the night, rereading Joy’s contract and drinking himself boneless. Fifty-two. He was fifty-two now. As of 1:47am this morning, he was another year older; another year towards death, with nothing to show for it but a bad reputation, two Wizengamot trials for treason, and cheeky letters from a woman whom he’d begun to have a frightening amount of regard for; a woman he didn’t even really know. A woman who only needed him for his ability to spawn.

“This is a sick way to live,” he said, to his haggard reflection. There were far too many steel grey strands showing through the ebony hair for him to be indulging in such juvenile behavior.

“I agree, old man,” said the mirror. “But that’s what you get for drowning yourself in drink. You might want to think about sprucing yourself up a bit, and taking a potion or five.”

Severus pointed his wand half-heartedly at the mirror. “I could easily Stun you, you know,” he growled.

“Oh, that’s rich,” the mirror retorted. “Go ahead and Stun me; I’d be happy to let you go out in public with bits of parchment stuck to your neck.”

And so he did have parchment on his neck. Wobbly fingers reached up and plucked the ripped scrap from the juncture where his shoulder met his throat. Why in the bloody hell did he have parchment stuck to his neck? Had he taken that damn letter to bed with him? At this point, anything was possible, as he didn’t remember anything after sitting at his desk with Joy’s letter. He looked down at the scrap of parchment in his hands and sighed heavily.

Whether he’d chosen that particular piece of parchment to tear from her letter and take to bed with him or whether Fate simply hated him enough to have that particular piece tear off by accident, Severus couldn’t say. A blaze of anger rose up in him as he felt his heart squeeze at the sight of her signature. He had gone through this long ago. Most of the last year of the war blurred together in his memory, but he could still quite clearly recall falling to his knees in the childhood bedroom of his worst enemy, sobbing over a letter written decades ago, by the last woman he dared to care for on any level. Severus Snape was a fool. As he stood staring at that delicately scripted section of Joy’s writing, his mind played a horrible trick on him, superimposing Lily overtop of this woman. Is that how this would all end? With Severus alone and miserable yet again, having her flit off to raise a child with another man? A child that should be his?

Imagining the shadowy figure that he had put together in his head of what Joy looked like, he pictured her with another man, laughing and swinging his child between them. The image made another feeling wave up his body, even more powerfully then before. He just barely made it to the loo before the contents of his stomach made a grand reentrance into the world. Leaning his sweaty forehead against the rim of the bowl, he gave in and let it all come.

“Happy birthday, old man,” said the mirror.

Looking about as hale and hearty as he felt, Severus stalked to the head table and applied his attention to his breakfast, burying his protuberant nose in the Daily Prophet waiting for him on his chair. Though he didn’t look up, he could feel the eyes of his coworkers on him, clearly debating the safety of greeting him this morning. Severus didn’t typically take his birthdays with good grace, preferring them to be soundly ignored, and this morning was no exception. The only people who’d ever had the chutzpah to wish him happy returns were Dumbledore, who had special dispensation from his ire, Minerva, who was usually tactful enough not to mention it in front of others, and Hagrid, who was blissfully oblivious to Severus’s seething. But Hagrid was busy discussing Quidditch with Rolanda Hooch, and Minerva, with a quiet sigh, seemed to have decided that speech was not wise. There was a pause in conversation as the staff stared at him, gaping at his (even more) pale appearance; he looked up for just a moment, and everyone quickly reapplied themselves to their plates and conversations. Trying to keep himself to himself as much as possible this morning, he didn’t even look up when the mail winged its way into the hall, until a tawny owl dropped a large, rather lumpy package onto his plate.

Every face at the staff table was once again turned in his direction. Severus received so few packages – he didn’t have any family or loved ones to send him things – that most of the staff couldn’t remember him ever getting one, and the frequent letters he had been receiving recently had been so quickly pocketed that no one had the opportunity to ask about them. And now, here was this package. Severus gritted his teeth. Clearly everyone was waiting for him to open it. Severus was torn: if he did open the package at the table, the entire staff and a good portion of students would be watching him do it; if he didn’t open the package at the table, he’d have to make his way out of the hall with it, and that would be even more conspicuous than simply opening it at the table and risking nosy gossipers. What in the devil was in it, anyway? Any potions ingredients he required were ordered in bulk and delivered by a courier straight to the dungeons, given the temperamental nature of most ingredients. And he hadn’t ordered anything else, so he was flummoxed as to the contents. He turned the package over, absent-mindedly handing a slice of bacon to the owl that normally brought his letters from the post office in Hogsmeade. Severus’s stomach dropped away as he recognized the handwriting on the front of the crisp brown packing paper; it was her handwriting.

Mr. T. Reynard

Box #2134

Hogsmeade Village

Oh, dear God, she’d sent him a … something. Severus tried valiantly to mask the shaking in his fingers as he inserted one into the seam of the wrapping and pulled the package open. He almost laughed as the contents tumbled out across the table; the only thing that stopped him was the conscious awareness of the gawking eyes. Though he itched to touch the gifts that lay across the table and his lap, he restrained himself, opening the folded letter lying atop the pile.

Monday, January the 9th, 2012

Dear Tobias,

Happy Birthday! I told you in one of my previous letters that you’d regret telling me your birth date … Here’s the proof of it! Well, I know it’s probably strange for me to send gifts to you, but I couldn’t resist, especially when you told me how much you despise birthdays. I’d apologize for trying to convert you to a birthday enthusiast, but I wouldn’t mean it. I’ll make a celebrant out of you yet!

I hope you enjoy the books as much as I believe you will. Included is a copy of Heisenberg’s The Physical Principles of the Quantum Theory (you said that you didn’t own a copy … now you do!), and another fascinating work by Heisenberg called Physics and Philosophy: The Revolution in Modern Science. And because I just can’t resist contributing to intellectual obsessions (I have many myself), I couldn’t refrain from getting you the three anthologies of Rondat’s studies on high-temper brewing. … Looking back, I wonder if I haven’t overloaded you with books. I often forget that not everyone suffers from bibliophilia as I do. In any case, I hope you enjoy these; I can’t wait to hear your thoughts!

Yours,

Joy

PS – I truly hope you like the last present that I included. I didn’t have any idea of your favorite color; this was just a hunch. I made it myself (had to hurry, too … I just found out about your birthday a week ago!)

PPS – I hope you’re not allergic to Alpaca. I didn’t want to ask and ruin the surprise.

Severus fingered the soft length of knitted yarn in his hand, glancing down at it with a tiny smile when he finished the letter. Joy had knitted him an entire afghan. For all she knew, he lived in a tropical climate where he never wore anything heavier than cotton, and yet, she had knit him a blanket that was nearly as long as he was and warmer than the comforter currently on his bed. The innocent assumptions of her gift choice proved unexpectedly endearing. As he stared down at it, he noticed how fine the stitches were, how intricate the lattice-work pattern of the silver silk threads scattered through the deep green of the Alpaca wool, so dark it was nearly black; this was not a piece made by charmed knitting needles. The crafting charms he’d seen were good but were no substitute for skilled fingers; she must have done this entire piece by hand, and it must have taken her absolutely every spare second of the last week. The woman had knit him a very intricate blanket that screamed of Slytherin House and she didn’t even know it. He chuckled to himself, tangling the long tips of his fingers within the open work that made up the hem. Only just reining in the instinct to bury his nose in the material to inhale her scent – something he had wondered about but had not yet had the chance to experience – Severus settled for absent-mindedly stroking a corner against the sensitive skin at the inside of his wrist.

“My goodness, Severus!” Filius called out from a few seats away. “Looks like someone’s given quite a lot of time and thought to celebrating your special day, old man!”

Severus glared at his diminutive colleague, but with a pile of books tumbling across his place setting and a soft, fuzzy blanket dangling over his lap, the effect was somewhat diminished.

“I didn’t realize you had such a doting benefactor, Severus,” Minerva said, fighting the quirk at the corners of her lips. “Tell me, who has sent you such lovely gifts?”

All eyes were certainly on him now. A light blush was painting his sallow cheeks, he knew it, but rather than allowing himself to be embarrassed, he embraced the unique chance to shock and intrigue his (rather gossipy) colleagues.

“My—” He stopped. The pause seemed purposeful but was, in fact, a chance for Severus to search for the correct way to describe Joy. “A lady friend of mine. She remembered my birthday.”

Nearly all his colleagues gaped openly at him as a slow smirk crossed his hawk-like features. While Minerva stared at him, her mouth working like a landed cod, and Filius sputtered with an astonished look on his face, Hagrid roared with laughter.

Clapping him hard between the shoulders, Rolanda Hooch said, “Snape, you old dog, I never knew you had it in you!”

The smirk deepened. “I have a private life just as much as the rest of you. Did you assume I was a monk?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “I assumed you were gay.”

“What?” he practically shouted, which only caused her to laugh louder.

Smirking now, Minerva quipped, “Well, you did spend quite a lot of time with Albus over the years—”

Severus sputtered, which caused a riot of chuckles to race up and down the staff table. With as much dignity as he could muster, Severus drew his wand, pleased that both Minerva and Rolanda jerked away as if they expected him to start hexing. In actuality, he simply reduced the gifts to a size that would fit in his pocket and strode from the Great Hall, bat-like robes flapping behind him. He didn’t have to take this abuse! He would sequester himself within his dungeon chambers, where he could relax … and bury his nose in the soft mound of delicate wool.

“All right, who is he?”

Hermione’s head whipped up as she stashed Tobias’s letter into the book she’d been pretending to read. A gently smiling Ginny Potter plunked down into the seat across from Hermione, wiping some crumbs from the last patron’s lunch onto the floor before leaning over the table to gaze at her friend. The glance she cast Hermione’s hastily-stowed letter was lightning quick, but Hermione caught the curious look.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked innocently, aware that her cheeks were reddening just a tad. “Who is who?”

“Hermione, you were staring blankly at whatever you were reading, smiling as if you’d just had a Cheering Charm cast on you, and you may actually have been humming to yourself. People only do that sort of thing if they’re smitten.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted quickly. A bit too quickly, obviously, as Ginny simply smirked. Hermione cleared her throat and attempted to regain some control over the conversation. “What brings you all the way out to the Ministry today? Aren’t you usually practicing out in Holy Head on Thursdays?”

“Had to file an incident report for something that happened at our last away match,” Ginny said. Ginny plucked up a carrot from her friend’s lunch tray, snapped the end off in her teeth, and pointed the remainder at Hermione accusingly. “And don’t think you can sidetrack me that easily. I’m not my prat brother, you know.”

“Isn’t that why I like you so much?” Hermione asked, sweetly.

A full laugh left the redhead. Nature seemed to invert itself for Ginny Potter: she’d only gotten lovelier with age. The figure that had, in school days, been whippet-slim and toned was now lush and curvy with the advent of child-bearing. Being a professional athlete had kept Ginny in shape and being a mother had kept her feminine. Hermione’s mismatched features seemed unspeakably plain compared to her friend’s. She absent-mindedly pulled her cardigan closer around her work robes.

“So honestly, Hermione, who is he? You’re doing all those silly, brainless things people do when they really fancy someone, and seeing as how you didn’t even do that with Ron, I figure it must be pretty serious.”

Hermione caught the inside of her right cheek between her teeth and bit down, an age-old nervous habit that no longer even occurred to her while in process. Until this moment, staring back at her only real girlfriend, Hermione hadn’t realized how very much she wanted to tell someone about Tobias. Someone who would listen and understand how much she enjoyed his conversation, how she felt as if he were really there talking to her when she read his letters, how much she wanted his friendship. How lonely she was. How sad she would be that the pregnancy – the thing she wanted so much it pained her – would be the end of something that had made her the happiest she’d been in years. Somehow, Hermione believed that Ginny would understand. Perhaps it was wishful thinking or perhaps it was the truth, but Hermione really believed that Ginny would.

Well, Hermione thought, you can tell her the truth without telling her every detail. “He’s just … a new friend.”

One of Ginny’s thin, arched eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “No offense, love,” she said gently, “but you don’t go anywhere or do all that much that would allow you to meet new people. At least, I highly doubt you’d be this giddy about someone you met at one of those War Orphan Relief Project committee meetings.”

“I … put a personal advert in the Prophet,” said Hermione.

Far from the cringing or critical response Hermione had expected, Ginny’s face pinched in sadness, and she laid her small hand over the one Hermione was currently using to clutch the spine of her book. “Are you really that lonely?”

“Yes,” Hermione said simply.

Ginny bit her lip and fought the tears welling just above her eyelashes. “Love, I’m so sorry,” she began. “Harry and I, we haven’t been attentive enough; we’ve just been terrible friends, not having you over, and—”

“Gin,” Hermione said with a small smile, “it’s all right. Really, it’s fine. You and Harry are busy; you have a family and very active careers.” Ginny opened her mouth to protest, but Hermione held up a hand. “Besides,” she said overtop of the beginning of Ginny’s sentence, “that’s not what I meant. Not that I don’t adore you and Harry and all, but it’s … it’s just not … not really—”

“The kind of company you’re lonely for?” Ginny said, a small smile on her lips and her face sympathetic.

Hermione heaved a sigh of relief. Not that Harry and Ron weren’t spectacular, but it was nice to have a mate who was a girl and would understand these kinds of feelings. She never should have doubted that Ginny would understand.

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “It’s just been so long since I had that sort of companionship, that I just wanted … I don’t know; affection maybe?” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but this was the furthest she’d stretched the truth so far.

“So who is he?” Ginny asked, and now her face was lit with interest.

“Just a pen friend, right now,” Hermione answered. She avoided Ginny’s gaze as she spoke. “I placed the advert in the Prophet, he was interested in what I was looking for, so we’ve been talking for a few weeks now.” Hermione clutched the letter as she talked; something about it calmed her, as if she were holding Tobias himself.

“Yes, but who is he?”

“I don’t know, actually,” Hermione said with an apologetic smile. “We decided that it was best to stay anonymous and use a penname just for now. In case it … doesn’t work out.”

Ginny nodded, her face an obvious show of interest in this shadowy new man in her friend’s life. “Probably best,” Ginny said thoughtfully. “I mean, he may be good conversation, but really, you never know who answers these things, do you?”

And therein lies the problem, Hermione thought wryly. “Right,” was all she said.

Ginny was quiet for a long moment as she and Hermione both nibbled on the carrots and bag of crisps that Hermione was finishing from her lunch. After some obvious thought, Ginny asked, “You really care for him, don’t you?”

“I—” Hermione had a denial on the tip of her tongue, something to lighten the mood and keep her friend away from pesky questions that could lead to trouble, but she found herself both excited by the prospect of discussing Tobias with someone else and completely weary of the endless secrecy. “Yes. Yes, I really do.”

Again, Ginny’s face coated with concern as she put out her hand and clasped Hermione’s. “And how does he feel about you?”

Hermione sighed. “I don’t know. Our letters back and forth are lively and exciting, and he’s so intelligent and witty and brusque and,” Hermione broke off to snicker, “dastardly.” At her friend’s disbelieving look, she laughed harder. “I know that’s a silly word, but sometimes he just seems like the villain from a melodrama. But in a good way.” Hermione let another sigh escape her. “It’s just so wonderful to talk to someone the way he and I talk. And I’m just so confused.”

To her horror, a few tears leaked from Hermione’s eyes. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her old jumper.

“Hermione,” Ginny said, all seriousness. “I know that you’re a grown woman and you can take care of yourself, but I’m worried about you, love. You obviously have feelings for this man, strong ones, and yet, you don’t even know who he is, let alone how he feels about you. I’m just afraid that you might be getting in too deep.”

A nearly-hysterical laugh escaped. “You don’t know the half of it,” said Hermione.

“Tell me, then. Tell me all of it.”

Something about Ginny’s part-quizzical, part-worried look ambushed Hermione and she just couldn’t stop herself. She had to tell someone the truth – someone who would attempt to understand and at least try not to interfere.

“All right then,” Hermione said, heaving a great breath. “But before I do, you have to assure me that you recognize that this is my life, my choice, and you’ll have to promise you won’t try to get in the way or stop me.”

Something very like panic stole behind Ginny’s eyes, but she capped it almost immediately. The stony, determined look that Hermione had last seen at Dumbledore’s funeral all those years ago settled on Ginny Potter’s freckled, heart-shaped face.

“You have my word,” she said firmly.

Nodding, Hermione took Ginny’s hands. “The advert that I said I placed in the Prophet,” Ginny nodded when Hermione paused, “wasn’t for a pen friend.”

Ginny said nothing, simply nodded for Hermione to go on.

“It wasn’t for a pen friend or a date or even a lover.”

Hermione had just primed herself to blurt out what she’d done when the color slipped from Ginny’s face. “Oh, Hermione … oh, love, tell me that wasn’t you. Tell me it wasn’t you who advertised for … for …”

“For a baby?”

“For a gigolo!” Ginny said, clearly horrified.

“Gin, for God’s sake, lower your voice,” Hermione hissed, looking around the canteen swiftly. “I wasn’t advertising for sex. In fact, I specifically said no sex. I just want a baby.”

Ginny put her hands to both of Hermione’s cheeks. “But, love, there has to be a better way of going about this. It’s just so unwise. What do you even know about this man? It could even be unhealthy!”

“No, no,” Hermione said, now eager to convince her friend. She had to have someone on her side. “I’ve got it all worked out. You see, in the Muggle world, there are these things called sperm banks—”

“Ugh,” Ginny said. “That sounds disgusting.”

Hermione glared, but continued. “—so I’ve modeled it after what they do. I’ve worked it all out with St. Mungo’s: Tobias,” Ginny flinched at the name, “has to have a physical with Healer Levy to prove that he’s in top health. Then he … donates,” Ginny cringed, “anonymously at the hospital, they run all the necessary tests to ensure that everything is as it should be, and I get inseminated the next day. He and I are drawing up a contract to make sure there are no misunderstandings; I’m asking nothing from him once the pregnancy is viable, and he is donating of his own free will. I’m thinking of giving him some sort of monetary compensation, but I haven’t worked out a sum yet.”

The explanation was sound and accurate, but something about it felt so hollow to Hermione. To hear her relationship with Tobias summed up in such empty words – especially by Hermione herself – left a bad taste in her mouth and a dull ache somewhere in her chest. Ginny seemed to sense that something was amiss with Hermione because she stayed silent for a long few minutes afterwards, just studying Hermione’s face.

Eventually, she said, “And you’ll just be able to walk away with the baby, will you? No muss, no fuss, no attachments, emotional or otherwise?”

Hermione studied the pitted table top. “Yes,” she whispered.

After a beat, Ginny answered, “Liar.”

“I know,” she answered, a watery smile on her face. “I’m rubbish at it; always have been.”

Hermione looked up when Ginny brushed the tears off her face with her thumb. She gripped Hermione’s hand tightly.

“You’ll be a great mum. Just,” Ginny hesitated, squeezed harder, “just be careful, will you? It can turn you inside out, if you let it.”

Hermione knew that she didn’t mean the pregnancy. Her heart ached dully again, but she smiled. Holding onto her friend’s hand in the middle of a canteen in the Ministry of Magic, Hermione knew that she had at least one person on her side.