The Mating Game

Chapter Ten

Welcome Back

Hermione was still lost in thought as she packed her bags for her Christmas holiday at Hogwarts. Her conversation with Harry, though positive in tone, had disturbed her in a way she couldn’t quite understand.

She replayed the conversation in her mind over and over, trying to pinpoint the problem, as she folded her blouses and placed them neatly in the suitcase

"Is he a good kisser, then?" Harry had asked genially.

She’d shrugged.

"Not much basis for comparison, huh?" Harry said. "I understand. For me, there was only Cho, who was too weepy, and you–too gross–don’t take it personally, of course."

She had nodded, not in the least offended. Her own take on that kiss had been that it was weird or wrong or something.

"But Luna–well, wow! And she had no experience either." He’d started raving then about how wonderful Luna was and had gone on to mention that she was already expecting.

Originally she thought she’d been upset that Luna had conceived right away. But now she realized, as she began packing her skirts, that what had really set her off, subconsciously, was the conversation about kissing.

She’d never actually kissed her husband, except on her wedding day. He’d kissed her plenty–on the cheek, the top of her head, and–well–in lots of more sensitive places. She never kissed him, never even touched him unless she had to. Mouth-to-mouth kisses just weren’t an occurrence in their marriage.

This train of thought led her to realize that she never really even addressed him by his first name. She hadn’t called him "Professor" since their honeymoon–he’d objected to that–so she now referred to him as "Mr. Snape" or simply "sir". His first name, Severus, was reserved for letter writing.

She had a husband now; that was it. Harry had not just a wife, but a lover. Why couldn’t she have been so lucky?

She slammed the suitcase shut in disgust. "Well, Severus, here I come. I hope you’re ready for me."

A minute later she was in Hogsmeade, standing in front of the Three Broomsticks. Snape (no, not Snape, Severus! she thought) was waiting for her with an extra woolen cloak, which he quickly draped over her shoulders. "I didn’t think you’d be dressed appropriately for the weather," he said gruffly. "It’s been rather arctic here today."

They talked about her classes and exams as they trudged through the knee-high snow. She had particularly enjoyed Transfiguration that term.

"Are you certain that you want to continue at the university?" he asked as they passed through the Hogwarts gates.

"If I wanted to stay at home and do nothing, I would have married Harry," she said bluntly.

Snape scowled at her. "Hermione, you are thinking like a Muggle."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"The university is a relatively new development in the wizarding world. Apprenticeship is still a viable method of advancing your career. Some older wizards consider it the only ‘real’ method of further education."

"So, is your work piling up on you then? Is that why you want me as an apprentice? You know, I’d rather not specialize in potions," she snapped.

He opened the large front door for her and they stepped into the warmth of the entrance hall.

"I don’t think apprenticing with me would be a good idea in any case," he said seriously. "Most people would think that I’d let you off easy since you were my wife. And besides," he added, moving closer to her, "I don’t think I’d get much work done if I were always with you."

Hermione flushed. "Okay. But if not you, then who?"

"Minerva has a bad case of morning sickness," he said as they descended the stairs to the dungeons. "Albus was speaking of hiring another teacher to teach the younger Transformation students. An apprentice would fill the need nicely. She always thought very highly of you, you know."

"Hmmm. I’ll consider it. How soon would she need to know?"

He muttered the password to their chambers, then looked up and shrugged. "Maybe before the start of next term? I don’t know. After you, Mrs. Snape."

Hermione stepped into the sitting room and collapsed on the couch. "It’s not fair!" she said grumpily. "Even McGonagall got pregnant before me. I could have sworn she was menopausal, but no! She’s pregnant!"

"Witches age slower than Muggles, Hermone." Snape had lapsed back into his lecture voice. "The median age for menopause in witches is seventy-one. Minerva is seventy. She’s actually been in perimenopause for a while now–I should know, seeing as I’ve been making anti-hot-flash potions for her. But she hasn’t lost her fertility completely." He fixed Hermione with a serious gaze and deadpanned, "Evidently, neither has Albus."

"Oh, that is disgusting. Please don’t make me think about that again!" Hermione shook her head. "I still don’t understand why it is that she’s pregnant at seventy, but I’m not, even though I’m fifty years younger than her!"

"You are under a lot of stress. And in other ways your situation is quite different."

"Severus, I hate to say this, but, well, are you sure it isn’t you who’s the problem?"

"Actually, I did consider that," he said uncomfortably. "I went to Madam Pomfrey and had her run a few tests."

Hermione looked up at his face in shock. She had never seen him embarrassed before. "And?" she said impatiently.

"And there’s nothing wrong with my sperm, evidently. Quantity and quality are satisfactory." His face was beet-red by this point.

"Oh," said Hermione wanly. "Well, I just don’t get it then. I’m fine, you’re fine, I’m taking the stupid anti-stress potion. What’s wrong?"

Severus sighed. "Well, I ran across an article a while back. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to show it to you, and besides, it was pretty much impossible at that point, but…"

"Just show me the bloody thing!" snapped Hermione impatiently.

"Yes, dear," he said resignedly. "Just promise you won’t get mad at me, okay?"

Hermione snorted in response. She stood there, tapping her foot, while he dug through his desk drawers. At last he pulled out a Muggle scientific journal, turned to a bookmarked page, and thrust it into her hands. "Read."

She looked at the title. "What is this, the April Fool’s edition?" After scanning the rest of the article, however, she was forced to deduce that the authors were not kidding. Studies had proven that people who had intercourse daily were more likely to conceive than those with a less-active sex life. The science behind the conclusion seemed logical: frequent exposure to the male’s DNA kept the woman’s body from rejecting the fetus as ‘foreign material’. But still, she was somewhat disturbed by the article. "Are you suggesting that we need to shag like wild bunnies?"

He scowled at her. "I’m not sure I would have put it so crudely, but yes, that is what I propose. Do you have a problem with that, Mrs. Snape?"

"I can live with it," she sighed, and allowed him to lead her to the bedroom.