The Mating Game

Chapter Seventeen

Birth

The Welcome Feast seemed a bit surreal that year, no doubt because of the three babies in attendance. It seemed a bit odd to see Minerva reading the scroll of first years’ names while cuddling Leo in a sling. In past years, everyone had sat in rapt silence during Dumbledore’s speeches; this year, however, Charlie Weasley paced the length of the Great Hall, patting a whimpering Jason on the back, while the headmaster delivered his words of welcome. And then there was the fact that most of the teen boys were not looking at Fleur–somehow, most of them seemed to find her less attractive now that she was a mother.

When classes started the following day, Hermione found herself wondering, once again, how she was going to cope with a baby. Albus cared for Leo during Minerva’s classes; Bill and Fleur took turns with Persephone, since they never taught at the same time. Angelina didn’t even teach at all, making work-family juggling unnecessary.

Hermione was going to have a more difficult time. She only taught twelve hours per week, true, but Severus was unavailable to help with babysitting for ten of those twelve hours. She briefly considered asking Dumbledore to get a teaching assistant for Potions, but decided that her husband would never cede control over any aspect of teaching his favorite subject.

By this point, she had more or less forgiven Severus for not agreeing to take Quintus with him to class. It was the logical thing to do. She still stubbornly insisted, however, that she would not allow Peggy to care for the baby when she was teaching.

Things had a way of working out; she clung to hope and figured that a solution would present itself in time. Unfortunately, October eleventh came and went and no brilliant ideas had come to her.

***

Hermione took what she told herself was her last pre-birth look through the trunk of baby things. She was just checking to see that she hadn’t forgotten anything. Not that that was likely–she’d checked twice a day since the beginning of October. Three dozen times. Quintus Aurelius was now a whole week late. She wondered vaguely how many "last looks" she’d take before her child decided to grace the world with his appearance.

She shut the trunk with a bang, then–after a quick trip to the loo–tottered into her room and collapsed into bed.

She slept fairly well that night, considering that she had forty extra pounds tacked onto her abdomen; she didn’t wake for her nightly visit to the toilet until five in the morning.

She was a bit surprised when she pulled down her knickers; there were spots of blood in the crotch. Her books had warned her about "passing the mucous plug"…something about "mucous tinged with blood". This didn’t look like that at all. It looked like she was starting her period. Was something wrong? No sooner had she wondered this than she felt her uterus tense up. Ah, a contraction. Maybe she was in labor.

When Severus awoke at seven, she was busily flipping through her birthing books. "Hermione?" he said foggily. "Is something wrong?"

"I think I’m in labor," she replied. "My first contractions were a little after five, so according to this graph I should be dilated one centimeter. Quintus will arrive a little after lunchtime."

Severus peered over her shoulder. "This graph is for an average labor, love," he smirked. "You may not be average."

He was right. By three o’clock she was in despair. For the last two hours, the contractions had been coming three minutes, twenty-four point seven seconds apart. (Hermione had painstakingly calculated the median timing, complete with standard deviation. She’d had to do the math by hand, since calculators didn’t work at Hogwarts.)

According to the books, when the contractions were this close together, she should be progressing fairly quickly. And yet Madam Pomfrey had checked her with a diagnostic spell and proclaimed her to be only four centimeters dilated. "This is going to take forever!" she groaned. "I’m progressing at one-third the rate on the graph! I’m not going to have the baby until tomorrow!"

"Just walk around a bit; let gravity help your body," instructed the mediwitch.
"I’ll be in the sitting room. I’ll hear if you need me."

Hermione paced back and forth for fifteen minutes or so. Finally she stopped near her husband. "I’m going to go to the loo. I’ll yell if I need help, okay?" He nodded, frowning. He’d seemed tense all afternoon; evidently he didn’t like playing the waiting game any more than his wife did.

Hermione returned from the bathroom with a small smile on her face. "Boy, the books were right! The toilet does make a good birthing stool!"

Severus looked at her oddly. "Excuse me?"

"Well, my contractions in there seemed a lot more…effective, I guess, than the ones I’ve been having out here." She sat down on the edge of the mattress and folded her legs under her.

"You might want to rest, Hermione," he said quietly. "At the rate you’re progressing, it’s liable to be several more hours."

"Nonsense," she said with a smug expression on her face. "I’m in transition already. Look at my legs, I can’t stop them from shaking." Her whole body was shivering, in fact, yet she wasn’t cold at all.

He scowled at her. "Women aren’t supposed to be able to talk during transition, much less smile. You hope too much."

"But the books say…" her voice trailed off when she saw her husband roll his eyes at her.

Suddenly the feeling hit her. "Urgh," she said faintly.

"Hermione?"

"I…well, I need to use the bathroom again. Why now? I don’t think I can walk there. Too shivery." Her breathing was shallow and rapid now. I will not shit on the bed. I will not shit on the bed, she thought disconnectedly as she tried to keep from doing just that. Unfortunately the shit was very persistent. It hurt like hell to keep it in.

She must have cried out, because Poppy Pomfrey came running in from the sitting room, practically screaming the words of a diagnostic spell. "My word, you’re complete already! I thought so; you sound like a woman about to give birth."

"I told you I was in transition!" Hermione screamed at her husband.

Severus was staring at her, slack-jawed, at a loss for words for the first time in his life.

"Hermione, are you feeling an urge to push?" asked Poppy seriously.

"I…I don’t know. I feel like I have to use the loo."

"Honey, that’s the baby coming out. Don’t hold back; just push next time you have a contraction."

"Oh," said Hermione. The books hadn’t described it quite like that. Well, now she knew.

"Severus, come sit behind Hermione and help support her," the nurse ordered.

He was sitting behind her now, forming the perfect backrest. She felt his arms surrounding her, holding her up as the urge hit her once more and she bore down with all her might. This went on for what seemed like an eternity. The pain was intensifying; her rational mind told her not to push, as it only made things hurt worse, but she couldn’t help herself.

"I can’t…I won’t make it," she managed to pant between contractions.

"Nonsense, said Poppy firmly. "Reach down. You should be able to feel the head." And she could. It was softer than she’d imagined (not surprising, she supposed, since the bones of the skull hadn’t fused yet). Her baby was there–right there, right about to be born.

Her uterus began tightening again, pushing the baby out. The stretching, burning pain was beyond all belief, but Hermione thought of the little one she was about to hold and pushed anyway.

"Okay now, stop pushing for just a bit," instructed the nurse.

Oh, heavens above,

thought Hermione as she fought to restrain her muscles’ instinctive reaction. Holding back was worse than pushing.

There was a weak wail from between her legs. She wanted to sit up more so she could see what was happening, but she didn’t think she could muster the energy.

Poppy was speaking again. "Hermione, Severus, reach down and get your baby’s shoulders," she instructed. Hermione reached down, Severus’s arms next to hers, and managed to grab hold of the slippery little body. She really didn’t have the strength to lift him at all, but Severus was helping her; there was a little bundle of flailing arms and legs resting on her chest now.

"Oh," she said, as she watched Madam Pomfrey expertly wrapping the baby in a warmed blanket. There were really no words in the English language to describe the rush of emotions that flooded through her as she held her little one in her arms for the first time. Behind her, she heard Severus sniffle a little; his arms hugged her close to his body, and he kissed the top of her head.

"Now we just need to wait for the placenta," said Poppy matter-of-factly, completely oblivious to the cuddling and sniffling going on next to her. Hermione looked down: the umbilical cord ran out of a fold of the blanket and down between her legs. She hadn’t realized that her baby was still attached to her.

Soon enough the placenta was delivered and Severus cut the umbilical cord. Hermione lay, propped against pillows, staring at the little creature nursing vigorously at her breast. Did I ever really consider not having children? she thought foggily. What was wrong with me? For she could not conceive of loving anything in the universe as much as she loved the baby she held in her arms.

***

By nine o’clock that evening, the Snape sitting room was packed with people: Hogwarts staff, the Grangers, assorted Weasleys, and a few friends. Hermione took her place at her husband’s right hand and watched as her loved ones gathered in a circle around them.

Then Severus, cradling his son gently in his arms, spoke the age-old words of the naming ceremony.

"Young one, fresh from Mother Earth and mother’s womb, I take you in my arms to give you a name and to call forth gifts upon your head. Those who love you have gathered here to strengthen you and bless you. May health and strength be yours all the days of your life. May the magic of the fire, the air, the water, and the earth be yours. May the love of your family and friends surround you and support you each day that you dwell on earth."

Severus paused and Hermione looked at him expectantly. They’d decided on a name weeks before, but she’d heard of men who changed their minds during the ceremony and gifted their baby with a name their wife hadn’t approved in advance. Since the naming ceremony triggered the magical Birth Recorder at the Ministry of Magic, such changes were basically irreversible.

Severus took a deep breath and continued. "Those of us who stand in this circle pledge to teach you, stand by you, support you, and love you. This we pledge to you, Theodore Conrad Snape."

"So we pledge," murmured the onlookers in the circle. Hermione relaxed. She hadn’t really expected him to change the name on the spur of the moment–Severus was hardly an impulsive person–and yet, for some reason, it was a relief to hear him speak the name they’d chosen aloud.

Everyone was crowding around her now, congratulating her and Severus. Ginny giggled over Theodore’s naming robes; Severus had insisted that an emperor needed to wear royal purple. Molly Weasley was touching a little hand and telling Severus how much she missed having little ones.

"Sit down, honey, you look exhausted," said Mr. Granger, who was now standing behind his daughter. He guided her to an armchair and knelt beside her with tears in his eyes. "My little girl’s all grown up," he said sadly.

"All grown up and all worn out," said Severus, who had evidently passed his son to one of the adoring women. "We need to get you to bed before you pass out."

Albus Dumbledore, who seemed to have heard this comment from the other side of the crowded room, announced suddenly: "Refreshments will be served in the Great Hall in five minutes." Hermione sighed with relief as her friends waved goodbye and left her rooms.

When everyone was gone she tried to stand up again, but suddenly felt light-headed. Her father took her arm to steady her. "You were never Named as a baby, but I would have promised to support you anyway," he said with a smile.

"Since I’m supposed to have and hold you for the rest of my life, I suppose I had better hold you now," remarked Severus as he caught a hold of her other arm. They walked into the bedroom together, followed closely by Hermione’s mother, who was cradling her first grandchild tenderly in her arms.

As Hermione drifted off to sleep a few minutes later, she felt a strange sense of connectedness–not just to her baby, but also to her husband and her parents.