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Severus rarely recognised the songs his young wife would sing. Part of him always clenched painfully when he heard her voice drifting through the hallways of their little cottage: it emphasised the differences in their age, social class, and blood status, and in such comparisons he doubted he came out ahead. He was certain she wasn’t antagonising him on purpose - she hardly seemed aware that she was singing aloud at all - and surely she would stop if she knew how it made him feel.
She was…considerate, that was the proper word. She was considerate like that. And yet…she had a decent singing voice, and it was a sign she was happy, and despite his anxiety he found that he wasn’t willing to risk changing that.
Rather in spite of how Severus felt about former (and current) students, Gryffindors, associates of Potters, and other humans in general, married life agreed with him. Hermione had a way of luring him out of the hard, bitter shell he normally wore quite without him even noticing. One moment they would be sitting on their sofa, reading companionably; the next they would be going out to the local chippy, meeting up with her friends, and - inexplicably - carrying on an insightful conversation with Longbottom.
Yes, that Longbottom.
The first time it had happened he’d gone so far as to ask her if he’d gotten drunk. He hadn’t gotten drunk since his twenties. His wife had laughed and smacked him for his cheek.
After the third such encounter, Severus was forced to admit - only to himself, and to Hermione’s menace of a half-kneazle - that Longbottom had…grown up. The whole group of them had. Hermione was one thing - he hadn’t thought of her as a child in years; his marriage was testament to that - but Longbottom? Weasley? Potter?
No matter how often he privately resolved to not give in to her, inevitably he would find himself back at the pub with a collection of youngsters, somehow integrated - however imperfectly - into their clique.
It was during one of these gatherings that Potter grew stupid and tipsy enough to approach him on his own.
“What is it,” Severus growled.
Potter just grinned. “Y’know, that’s a lot less scary when you can’t dock house points.”
“No. Now I can simply hex you and be done with it.”
“Heh. If you were going to kill me, you would’ve done it years ago.”
“Quite - you’ve proven quite resilient, after all. You neglect to consider, however, that this could work in my favour. There are a great many things I can do to you that wouldn’t risk parting you from your…life.”
Potter laughed, as if he’d been more than half joking. “By the way, about Hermione…”
“Hmm?”
“Have you heard her singing?”
Severus scowled. Of course he had. He braced himself for some reference he wouldn’t understand, that would make him feel like an old perv. Again.
Potter grinned. “You…should listen to her. A bit more carefully.”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t think she’s noticed, and…well, I’m not sure how to bring it up. Just…listen to her, yeah?”
The idiot boy patted him on the shoulder - when had they gotten so familiar that such liberties were acceptable, exactly? - and tottered off to the loo or something. One would think, given that he’d recently become a father, he would have a touch more dignity.
“What was that about?” Hermione asked from beside him.
Severus glanced down at the top of his wife’s curls. “I’m…not quite sure,” he murmured. “Potter getting drunk, perhaps?”
She huffed. “Ginny will have his head if he splinches himself.”
“Certainly, but I rather thought she was interested in more than a trophy for her mantle. The girl gets her ruthlessness from her mother - perhaps she’ll be pleased either way.”
He smirked as his wife chuckled.
And despite Potter’s undeniable stupidity, the boy’s words wouldn’t leave Severus alone. Listen to her sing? Why would he need to do that? Was there a problem with Hermione? As far as she’d told him, she was happy (more or less) with her job at the Ministry and with helping him around his apothecary. They had discussed the possibility of putting her career on hold once her house-elf legislation passed, perhaps starting a family. She’d seemed thrilled with all of that.
For several days, Severus tiptoed around his own home in the hopes of catching his wife sufficiently unawares. She seemed almost preternaturally attuned to him, however: anytime he tried to slink off and leave her alone long enough that she might start absentmindedly singing, she elected to seek him out and curl up next to him.
It was maddening. On any other occasion, he would have been thrilled: more time with Hermione, plus not being constantly reminded that, in a sane world, they never would have been together? It should have been bliss.
And yet…Potter’s words haunted him.
He was working in his lab one afternoon when Hermione returned from work. He’d been trying to wrap up his potion early, but the moisture content in his fluxweed had been higher than normal. Frustrating as the extra ten minutes of simmering had been, the end result was just as good - if not better than - his usual supply. Something to keep in mind…
As he ascended the stairs, he heard it.
Hermione was singing. Finally he had a chance to see what Potter was on about.
It could be nothing, he reminded himself as he carefully crept up the stairs, heart in his throat. It was almost certainly nothing. When was the last time Potter had been right about anything, after all? The Battle of Hogwarts?
Hermione was in the kitchen, from the sound of it, but something was…off. He stopped, listened…
It sounded like there was a second voice, singing along with her.
Severus’ brow furrowed. He and Hermione had both warded their home. He would have noticed if she’d brought someone home with her, even someone friendly.
It had to be nothing. The radio, perhaps.
“Oh, Severus! There you are! How did your brewing go?”
He felt his mouth tugging into a smile, involuntarily buoyed by her joy. “Quite well; I have some developments to test. And how was your day?”
She chatted on and Severus struggled to listen.
There was no radio playing.
There was no second person in the house.
Frissons of fear chased him through the evening. Hermione, knowing him as well as she did, could clearly see that something was going on, but he’d asked for time before telling her. He wasn’t sure, after all, what there was to tell.
A second voice, singing with her. Was it some form of possession? Was their home haunted? He’d seen no inclination of either. He was nearly inclined to believe he’d imagined the occurrence…but Potter, Potter had known something was wrong.
The thought kept him up all night. By the time he made his regular delivery of potions to the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, he felt drained.
“Severus?” Poppy looked him over carefully. “You look half-dead. Is everything alright?”
“Yes, of course.”
Poppy had always had this…look. Severus wasn’t sure if it was something taught to mediwitches or if it was her own invention, but he’d long ago been conditioned to obey it without question.
“It’s Hermione,” he admitted. “There’s something…unusual going on.”
“Oh? Is she alright? If you don’t want to take her to St. Mungo’s, I’m happy to look her over here; you know that.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m not entirely sure it’s a medical issue.”
“Oh?”
He described what he’d heard: the second voice, following along with Hermione’s. To his surprise, Poppy - solid, dependable Poppy - actually grinned at him.
“Ah. Yes. It’s an unusual side effect, but a fascinating piece of accidental magic.”
“She’s never done this before.”
Poppy’s grin grew even wider. “No, I imagine she hasn’t. I’ll let her tell you.”
“You…know what this is?”
“Yes. Calm down and trust her. Find some patience, as well; Hermione may not be aware of what’s happening just yet. It is completely normal, natural, and safe. And again, I extend the offer: I am happy to consult with her if she isn’t comfortable at St. Mungo’s.”
Safe…but requiring a healer all the same? Severus considered all the potion stores he stocked. There were plenty of conditions he helped to treat that fell into that category. Poppy’s assessment that Hermione wasn’t in immediate danger did calm his nerves…a little.
Two weeks went by without any new developments. He heard the strange double-singing twice more, but otherwise Hermione seemed normal. She caught a bit of a flu that left her with little appetite and a newfound appreciation for the loo, but she insisted she was fine.
She declined his offer to brew her up something, and she refused to ‘bother’ Poppy. Severus was determined to respect her wishes…at least while she was able to make them known. If her condition deteriorated, he was not above hauling her to Hogwarts immediately.
Then the day came when he arrived home from the apothecary to a quiet, empty cottage. Hermione should have been home hours before, but it wasn’t the first time she’d gotten caught up in work. Normally she informed him; they had both been guilty of forgetfulness on occasion.
He refused to panic. Panic wouldn’t help her.
There was, he discovered, a piece of paper sitting on the table. That was…highly unusual, to say the least.
Detection spells showed that it had been transfigured from something else, but the result of his diagnostic was…garbled. He’d never had Minerva’s skill with such things. Given that the paper was otherwise free of curses, he set it on the ground and cast a quick Reparifarge.
A tiny pair of shoes materialised with a quiet pop.
He picked them up carefully, smirking at the way his hands dwarfed the little things. They were far too tiny for even a child to wear. Doll shoes? Why would there be doll shoes sitting transfigured on his table?
There was something folded up inside one of the shoes, he found when he poked a finger inside. Extracting it, he read:
With arms wide open
Under the sunlight
Welcome to this place
I’ll show you everything
Severus frowned. Those were…music lyrics, probably some of the few he could immediately recognise. He and Hermione had heard the song playing on the radio, and she’d explained that it had been written to celebrate one of the band members learning that he was to be a father-
Like a bolt of lightning straight to the heart, Severus finally understood.
The tiny shoes were placed back on the table with shaking hands. The world suddenly seemed too large, too strange.
A child. He’d helped to create a child.
His legs would no longer support him, and he lowered himself awkwardly into his chair.
A child. With Hermione.
“Severus?” His wife peeked around the kitchen doorway. “Are you alright?”
He held out his arms helplessly, and she padded up to him.
Gently, carefully, he wrapped his arms around her and leaned his forehead against her flat stomach. Where their child was growing.
That was the answer to Poppy's riddle, he realised. Somehow, from his mangled description of the odd singing, Poppy had known that Hermione was…pregnant. Accidental magic, she’d called it. The baby was surely too small to have developed much magic of its own, but Hermione’s had recognised it.
They held each other in silence, Hermione stroking his hair and he occasionally touching her stomach.
Later, they would discuss all the little logistical concerns: who to see for prenatal appointments, how to tell their friends and her parents, what her work schedule would look like. Later still they would pass the magical moving ultrasound picture back and forth between them, in awe of what they’d created, bantering about names that all seemed too imperfect for their little miracle.
And eventually, Severus would hold his daughter as she screamed, loudly and uncontrollably, in protest at being forced into the bright, loud world.
He didn’t care. It was music to his ears.