Work Text:
5:00 am
Pregnancy, I have discovered, is simply another form of alchemy. One feeds, one measures, one waits. One prays the experiment does not explode.
Harry insists on calling it a miracle. I remind him that, strictly speaking, miracles are unexpected events that cannot be explained by logic. My pregnancy was neither. Yet I, too, sometimes stare at my stomach and wonder if I, of all people, am deserving of this blessing. I do not voice these thoughts out loud because my husband has a habit of scolding me if I say such things.
I am happy, I truly am, and I know the day our child graces this earth will be the happiest day of my life. Yet I do have some complaints, not at the child, but at the nature of the pregnancy.
Because, as I often find myself these days, I wake to find myself not draped over Harry. This is unacceptable.
I am seven months along now, and my stomach has grown so that it is impossible for me to be in my preferred state: wrapped around Harry like a boa constrictor.
I attempt to roll atop him anyway. Harry makes a startled “oof” and pushes at my shoulder.
“Sev—careful, you’ll squish the baby,” he mumbles.
I freeze, filled with guilt that I did not think of the baby first, and turn away. My hormones are absurd these days, and so my eyes blur right away.
Harry must have noticed, because he pulls me gently so that my back rests against his chest instead, his arm circling my waist, palm spreading over the swell beneath my nightshirt.
“It's alright, I know you are always careful. I am sorry for moving away during the night,” he says, kissing my neck the way he does when he wants to coax me into something.
I pout but let him. My breathing evens, and a second round of sleep pulls me under.
8:00 am
I wake once again with a startle, Harry still wrapped around me, his warmth enveloping me like a blanket. I turn to press a quick kiss on the mop of unruly hair and miss. My nightmares fade as I feel the movement of his chest and soft tufts of air on my skin. He is warm. He is breathing. On this foundation, all else can be built.
“Morning, love,” he whispers after a while as I start to play with his hand perched on my belly.
“Mmph,” I reply, which is Slytherin for I would perish without you; please do not interpret my silence as anything but awe.
He chuckles and says, “Coffee?” at which point I perform a calculation: probability of Harry returning to bed with coffee versus probability of Harry being distracted and forgetting to return.
I decide to go with him.
8:45 am
Harry insists on brewing coffee the way Muggles do, with steam and patience and a metal device that hisses like a polite snake. I sometimes wonder if he can talk to it, because it has never once brewed for me as obediently as it does for Harry.
I cannot bear to be away for very long, and so I follow him around the kitchen at a deliberate, waddle-inflected pace, one hand on the small of my back and the other trailing along his sleeve. If he dares to walk more than two steps without me, I catch at his robe like a duckling catching the tail feathers of its mother.
“Severus, you’re going to trip.”
“Then slow down,” I counter. “You are making breakfast, not running a race.”
Sometimes I wonder when he will get annoyed, get grumpy, and tell me to stop bothering him or let him work in peace, but as always, he smiles fondly and exasperatedly and leans to kiss my lips.
“Please sit down, my love. Your back will start hurting too much,” he says as he directs me to my new, almost cloud-like chair and lets me hold on to his robe while he plates my breakfast.
I still pout, as I can no longer pull him into my arms as I sit, but he brings breakfast and sits right by me, looking at me as if I hung all the stars of the universe myself, and I forget all else but pulling him into a kiss.
I could catalogue every freckle on his nose and still find new ones when the light shifts.
10:00 am
Neville arrives with another basket of “strengthening tonics.” I dislike them all on principle, but Harry beams at him, and I allow myself to be bullied into drinking one. It tastes like compost.
“You’ll thank me,” Longbottom says.
“I doubt it,” I reply, but the truth is I am secretly grateful. My hands are not as steady when I brew these days. It matters more than I care to admit that he cares enough to do this for me. I know my sins against these two boys, and I wonder how Neville, especially, could forgive me.
Harry watches the exchange, trying not to laugh. Later, when Neville departs, Harry presses me into the sofa and says, “See? You’re well loved.”
I sniff. “He is just here because we let him use our garden.”
He kisses me until I stop pretending.
12:00 pm
It is September, and so it is neither warm nor cold, so we attempt a walk on the grounds once more. Well, in my case, I shuffle with the grace of a walrus.
After my pregnancy began, neither of us had the energy to take care of it, so we let Neville and Luna take over.
Neville uses the forest and greenhouse to experiment with cultivating rare plants, while Luna has taken over the flower garden and the orchard for her new business venture, Fragrant Bodycare for the Wizarding World. It is unknown what she has done to the plants, but the whole grounds smell wonderfully of peonies, roses, lavender, gardenias, tulips, and herbs.
It has been a blessing for me, as it has served well to keep me calm with the smell and the beautiful sight on days I cannot walk down from my bedroom.
Harry has a basket, harvesting fruits to use in his next batch of baking, and I hold one to add fresh flowers to our vase as I waddle along and pluck flowers with my wand. I do not know how Muggle women do this without a wand.
He walks too far ahead once, and I start sulking as I try to waddle slightly faster to catch up.
“Sev, you don’t have to keep pace. I’ll come back for you once I finish picking these,” he teases.
“I refuse to be left behind like a… spare turnip,” I inform him with a pout.
He bursts into laughter so bright that the birds take wing. I pretend not to be pleased as I cross my arms, and of course, immediately, he comes over to take me in his arms.
“Of course not. Here, let’s do it very slowly, alright?” he says as we walk at the pace of a snail.
1:00 pm
After walking, he leads me to a beautiful gazebo I designed in the garden. It is inspired by old castle grounds, but I hope one day I can sit here and read as our children run around.
The air smells of Luna’s latest products, peonies and rosemary drifting together like spells.
He eases me down first, then sits beside me with the basket. I arrange myself half against his chest, awkward but close, my head tucked beneath his chin.
He starts massaging my lower back with slow, steady circles, murmuring to the child about all the things they will do together: flying, brewing, and planting apple trees. His voice is low and steady, like a charm. I find myself breathing easier with every word.
“You’re clinging like a sea turtle now,” he teases softly. “Trying to wedge yourself under my shell.”
“Turtles are ancient and dignified,” I reply.
“Dignified, yes,” he murmurs, “but still adorable.”
I pretend to scowl but lean into his hands.
4:10 pm
We read on the sofa. Ordinarily, I would sprawl across his lap, but my current condition renders this impractical. Instead, he has stacked pillows and molded the sofa so I can lie half-across his lap, my head on his shoulder.
He is now reading books about pregnancy, mostly about what is suitable to eat and what sort of meals he should be preparing as my due date gets closer.
I tell him that anything prepared at home and with so much love ought to be healthy, but he only scolds me for trying to flatter him in order to increase my sugar intake. It might or might not be true. These books really suggest the most heinous of substitutes for my favorite treats, and I cannot refuse them when Harry bakes them for me so enthusiastically.
Then, I fall asleep once more for my evening nap.
7:30 pm
I wake up to voices and open my eyes to three shining figures above me.
Well.
I had not expected company beyond the living today. Yet, the air shimmers.
Death herself appears in black velvet, serene. Beside her, Magic in austere robes, sharp as a blade. And trailing them, smiling like a trickster, is Life—radiant, golden-haired, Her presence like morning sunlight.
Death and Magic are somewhat regular visitors at our abode, but it is my second time seeing Life personified.
The first time was six months ago, when she had placed a hand on me and congratulated us on conceiving. I was so surprised that I had started crying; after all, I had not expected the potion to work that early. I had anticipated another year before it worked.
Harry summons chairs for them, although they are more like thrones of flowers. Life always makes me nervous, even though I have been told he does not control fate—another being entirely.
Life chuckles at seeing me tense, sitting with my hand over my belly. “Severus, you have always been so dour. But now look at you. Brooding like an octopus over your egg,” she says, and for some reason reminds me of Lucius.
Magic places a hand over my stomach, power humming like a chord struck in the air. “She will be brilliant,” he says softly.
Death does not touch her, but it looks like she wishes to.
I close my eyes. Harry squeezes my hand until the world steadies.
A daughter. We are having a little girl. I already know what we will name her.
Life beams. “Keep brooding, Severus Snape. It suits you.”
“Please stop teasing my husband,” Harry admonishes Life, and sometimes I wonder if I actually died that day in the Shrieking Shack, and this is all a mirage in the moment before death. It is just so impossibly surreal.
But I am reminded that this is indeed true when my little girl gently kicks me and I wince, then chuckle—just like her father, bringing me back to earth from my overthinking every day.
9:15 pm
The guests, mortal and immortal, have gone, leaving gifts, blessings, and an air of benediction.
Harry helps me settle, fussing with pillows, coaxing me to lie the way Poppy recommended. I tolerate it for fifteen seconds and then begin my usual campaign to climb him like a vine.
I arrange myself awkwardly but determinedly across him: one leg over his, arms half around his chest, head buried in his shoulder. It is not elegant, but it is close enough.
He chuckles and draws me close, kissing my forehead. “I love you, Severus.”
Even after all these years, blush finds me easily. “Love you,” I mutter back, and his laugh grows. “Still so shy uttering those words, my love? You’re too precious.”
No, I want to say, I could never be as precious or radiant—
I wince. Yes, child, I get it. Can she hear me from there? How bossy, like her father. I roll my eyes at both as my husband’s hands find their way over my belly.
“Good night,” he says to me and to our little girl as my eyes close.
The sleep pulls me under, but I know another beautiful day will be waiting for me when I emerge.