Arcana

By Emily Brunson

©2005

Chapter One

The very thought made him feel ill. Barbarism, complete and total barbarism.

And yet what could he do? The laws were not his to choose from; they applied to all equally, and to him no less. Or to the person perhaps even more affected to it.

Of course he'd been a child when it was all arranged. Ten years old, not even summoned to Hogwarts yet. He did vaguely remember the ceremony. There was a baby, and a lot of grownups who looked rather grim and not at all delighted to be there, or to see that baby. Which seemed harmless enough, since all it did was sleep and then cry a bit.

He also remembered asking his mother what that had all been about, after it was over.

"You'll find out when you're older," came her frost-rimed reply.

He'd thought about it, wondered about the funny feeling when the baby wrapped a chubby hand around his finger. But all in all, it had been rather dull. Just the trip to London, a lot of chanting and incense, and then back to the usual routine. Not even any time to see the sights.

His conversation with Dumbledore prior to his departure had been less than edifying.

"This is patently ridiculous," Snape remarked icily.

Albus shrugged, completely at ease, evidently. "Perhaps it feels that way, Severus, but it's not. It's rather important, in fact. Gummy worm?" He held out a bowl of limp plastic-y-looking somethings.

Gritting his teeth, Snape ignored it. "Important to whom, specifically?"

"All of us."

"Oh, please." Snape rolled his eyes and crossed his arms again. "I've already said I'd do my duty for Merlin and country, so don't try to woo me with tales of prophecy."

"But it is prophecy."

"Rubbish. It's divination, is what it is, and we know how well THAT works, too much of the time."

Albus sipped his tea. "This is quite good, you know. Try some."

And although there had been a bit more fuming, and a few more calm, dry remarks from the headmaster, make the journey he had, and now here he was. In the United States, a country he had never particularly desired to visit, and now that he was here, was even more certain that he no more belonged here than a Muggle did in his classroom.

Snape stared out the window of the somewhat smelly taxi and clamped down on the misgivings. None of that mattered. He was here to fulfill his duty, that was all, and once it was done, however distasteful, he could go back to his life, back to whatever that life held for him. And if this other -- person -- could not, well, what fault was it of Snape's? He hadn't asked for his own part in it, and he certainly couldn't be blamed for how people were born, or in what form. That, thankfully, was entirely outside his range of influence.

He felt almost calm once more by the time the automobile had conveyed him to his destination. Outside the inn, three people waited, two men and a woman.

"Thank you for coming," one of the men said in his flat American voice. His smile was shaky and somewhat awed. "I'm Randall Cunningham."

Snape gave him a short nod. "Severus Snape."

"These are my -- associates. William Johnson," Cunningham waited for the other man, a portly fellow of probably sixty years, to nod, before adding, "And Juliet Sanders." The woman, perishingly plain but for glimmering purplish eyes, smiled briefly. "Would you like a drink? We do have tea."

Snape regarded him without interest. "I have no intention of remaining here any longer than I must," he told the man icily. "Pleasantries are best kept for those for whom they hold appeal. Where is -- he?"

Cunningham's meager smile fell off his face with an almost audible plop. "Well, I can't -- See, it's not that --"

"What he's trying to say, sir," Sanders interrupted smoothly, "is that your -- partner -- isn't ready yet."

"And why is that?" Snape asked, holding onto immediate anger.

"He's been somewhat -- resistant. It's complicated."

"That is unimportant. He has his duty, as I have mine. Cold feet --"

"He's spelled himself," the second man -- Johnson -- said, in a gruff voice. His face was quite red.

Snape felt himself sneering, and didn't mind the sensation one bit. "In what way, may I ask?"

"To hide what he is. For years now. It's proving a difficult spell to break."

Snape hid his consternation beneath understandable surprise. "There shouldn't be any need for breaking," he answered coldly. "He must release the spell himself."

"He refuses," the woman told him in a soft voice.

"Then he breaks the law!"

"He doesn't care. He is adamant. He simply refuses."

Juliet gave Snape an anxious look, and then stood aside. "Mr. Snape. This is Nicholas Stokes."

Whatever he'd been expecting, this certainly wasn't it.

The boy -- man, most certainly, this was no boy -- was undeniably masculine. Strong jaw, clean of form, quite handsome. Although Snape could see almost immediately the minuscule flicker of enchantment about him; a glamour, yes, and a deft one. No Muggle, seeing him, would ever suspect the truth.

He met Stokes's eyes and wanted to recoil. Lovely dark eyes, but filled with rage, a cold fire barely held in check as the man stalked into the room.

"You have no RIGHT," he snapped in a voice icy enough to give Snape himself a run for his money. "I won't do it. I will NOT do it."

Snape made himself nod. "In that case we can force you to comply," he returned steadily. "The law requires it."

"FUCK your law!"

"It's yours as well, or have you forgotten that? Living here, so far from the source?"

Stokes paced away from him, glaring at Juliet until she shut the door behind her. With his back turned he hissed, "I don't recognize your law. I don't give a damn about it, or you!"

"Your parents did. Enough that they did what was required."

"I don't care." The man turned his pretty, snapping eyes back in Snape's direction. "I won't do it," he repeated furiously. "You can't make me."

"I can."

He watched Stokes draw himself up, shock as evident as anger in his expression. "You wouldn't."

Snape stood up, recognizing his far greater height as he did so. Stokes wasn't particularly tall, then. "I'd vastly prefer not to," he agreed in his most distant, formal tone. "But I honor the law, as do all wizards with a jot of sense in them. To do otherwise is to be banished. Is that what you'd prefer? Azkaban?"

Stokes went a little whiter. "I didn't ask for this," he said, taking a step back. "I don't want it, I never wanted it!"

And you think I do? Snape almost asked, but cut it off in time. "The law stands, regardless. We were bound to this arrangement when you were first recognized. There is nothing either of us can do to change that."

Stokes's cheeks flushed. "You make me sick, all of you," he said, shaking his head. "This makes me sick." His hand went to his belly, probably unconsciously, Snape thought. "This is my life! You can't make decisions for me, not even --"

"I didn't make this decision," Snape interrupted, somewhat tiredly. "And you know that."

"I -- I can't."

"You must."

Stokes swallowed. "Don't make me. Don't make me do this."

"Once it is done, you will be absolved of your responsibility. You may be whatever you choose to be. But for the moment, duty binds us equally."

"I won't -- I won't let it go." Stokes looked terrified at his own words, but that strong jaw jutted stubbornly. "You can't make me do that."

Snape sighed. "Then you make it worse than it has to be."

"Then it'll be worse!"

"Very well." He gave him a curt nod and went over to his valise.

"What's that?" Stokes asked, seeing what he took out.

"A potion," Snape answered remotely, shaking the vial. "Surely you've been told I'm a potions master."

A look of terrible fear flitted across Stokes's face. "Is that -- I won't take it. I won't." He backed away some more, until his back hit the door.

"Yes. You will."

Snape held out the vial, and Stokes shook his head wildly. "No! You'll -- I won't take it!" He spun around and grabbed for the doorknob. It resolutely did not turn. "Let me out! Let me out of here, you BAST --"

"I'd rather not force you. But I can compel you, if necessary. As you know."

Stokes turned slowly to face him. His handsome face was drawn with terror, eyes wandering oddly. "Please," he husked, pressing back against the door. "Please, please don't. Oh, please."

Feeling like the worst of any villains he'd ever had the misfortune to know – and there had been a number of those, so he felt he was reasonably conversant on the subject -- Snape said only, "I must." He held out the vial again.

Moving impressively fast, Stokes lashed out and struck the glass vial from his hand. It shattered on the tile floor, filling the room with the odor of herbs and cinnamon. "No," the man said crisply. "I told you. I won't."

So it was that way, then. Feeling tired, Snape nodded. "Very well, then. It will be as you require it to be." He drew his wand out from its hiding place inside his Muggle coat. "Transfixus."

Inside his valise he found another vial, twin to the first. When he faced Stokes again he marveled at the man's singleness of purpose. The spell held; of course, the man could not speak a counter-spell, but the struggle was obvious. He must know he could not possibly break it, and yet he tried. Eyes wide with terror and fury, cords standing out on his neck.

"Drink, and it will all soon be over." Snape unstoppered the vial and walked over to where Stokes stood, motionless and wild-eyed. "Drink."

The potion went down easily, once he closed Stokes's mouth over it, and he released the spell. Stokes staggered, falling to his knees.

Hating himself with a kind of tired familiarity, Snape remarked, "I've several more. If you vomit that up I'll simply give you another, until you keep it down."

Stokes only huddled on the floor, face hidden, body tight with dread. The spells he'd cast to conceal himself, to control his true nature, dissipated slowly. Even when he knew they were gone, Snape couldn't tell any difference. Not until Stokes finally looked up.

His features were only marginally different. No longer so carved, jaw softened a little. No Adam's apple anymore. That had been the illusion. This, here, was not a woman, but not quite a man, either.

Slow tears spilled from Stokes's eyes. "No," he whispered brokenly, shaking his head. "Oh, no."

Then he blurted a cry of pain and clutched his midsection.

Even as Snape darted to his side, the door flung open and their three sorcerous duennas rushed in.

"What is it?" Snape asked harshly. Stokes's face was contorted with pain, nothing of artifice about it. This was very, very real.

"We were afraid of this." Juliet knelt at Stokes's other side. "The glamour -- he's held it too long. His body is reacting to the loss."

Snape stared at her. "How long?"

"Most of his adult life. Perhaps longer, I don't know."

"But that -- That's terribly dangerous, and you let me give him --"

"There was no other way," she interrupted, glaring back at him.

The man on the floor uttered a hoarse cry of agony and clutched at his abdomen.

"Hold a glamour too long and the body begins to believe what's false is true," Snape said coldly. "He should not have been allowed to continue such a charade!"

"That was not my decision. Nor any of us. We did not know until recently."

Snape stared down at him. A glamour to confuse the eye was one thing. To make one not-see the faintly feminine aspects of the face, or disguise the line of the body. But nothing like this would happen with such a thing. This glamour had been a true disguising. With a cold sense of dread he took in Stokes's position, the way he held his belly. The silly git had tried to make himself TRULY male.

"Get my valise," he told Juliet curtly. "I can help him."

Oh, this was a real cockup. He wished furiously for his well-stocked laboratory at the school as he took out items he had hoped he would not need. "Leave us," he snapped, when Juliet bobbed back into view. "Now."

He held the new potion in one hand while with the other he reached out to touch Stokes's tense arm. "Drink this. It will help the pain."

Eyes bright with misery, Stokes made no objection. He made a face after quaffing the potion. "You think I'm an idiot, don't you?"

"Yes," Snape told him coldly, sliding an arm around him and easing him up to sit. "Fortunately for you it won't kill you."

"Better if it did."

"Rest now. Let your body readjust. The pain should not return; what I've given you will hold it until your body has restored itself."

"I hate you," Stokes breathed, eyelids fluttering tiredly.

"And I'm not at all fond of you," Snape shot back, but the man was already dozing.

Chapter Two

It was really amazing, what you could convince yourself of if you really tried.

Himself, for instance. It had been a long time since he’d thought about any of it. So long that it became sort of like a bad dream you had once, years ago. The kind of rare dream that you didn’t forget, but which also lost a great deal of its power over time. You thought about it every once in a while, took out the memory and marveled or wrinkled your nose at it, and then you put it away again, because it was long ago and unimportant, really.

Until two weeks ago, when he saw an owl perched on the roof of his brand-new Denali, and felt his entire body go ice-cold with shock.

Time. It’s time.

The letter, of course, was from the Ministry of Magic. The big one, the original one, the one in England. There had only been one other letter from the Ministry in his entire life, and he’d been three weeks old at the time, so it wasn’t like he’d seen it. His mother had kept it, and offered to show it to him once. That godawful day when he was thirteen and it was time to go back to school, and he looked at himself in the mirror and saw what he really was. Not a him at all. Not a her. Both.

"It’s what you are, Nicky," his mother said patiently, standing there looking as calm as if she really didn’t think he was the biggest fucking freak on the planet. "Miraculous. You’re special. You really are."

Special. Right. He was pretty sure the guys in his class would think he was REAL special when they saw the tits on his chest when they took a shower.

When she offered to get out the letter, he’d declined. He didn’t need to read a stupid letter. He already knew. Blah blah, once in a generation, important moment in magical history, blah blah, come to London for a ceremony and sign the kid’s life away, blah blah end.

But the second letter he couldn’t avoid. He could have tried, but there’d have been another the next day, and another after that, and eventually someone would have shown up to hand-deliver it, and he really, really didn’t want to see whoever that might be, so he took the letter and said thank-you to the owl, really pretty one actually, small, was that a tawny owl? and went inside to read it.

Short and sweet, very much to the point. It’s time to do your duty, freak-boy, or we’ll hunt you down like a criminal and banish your ass. Permanently.

Phrased a little nicer, maybe. But that was like gold-plating a set of handcuffs. You might prettify it, but that didn’t change the essential nature of the thing. No matter how much you might pretend it did.

He wasn’t fooled. And he’d wadded up that letter and chunked it in the trash, and decided to see just how serious they were about it. Because, really, you couldn’t force someone to have SEX. That, in the trade, was what was known as RAPE, and there were laws against that, too. Muggle laws, maybe, but he’d bet good money those would hold.

Now, staring at the ceiling of a hotel room he had once inspected for trace evidence after a REAL rape, he thought, Guess they really mean it after all.

He sighed, and closed his eyes. Even felt different now. Whatever that asshole Snape had given him to take, it had done a fast number on the pain, which was good, but now he couldn’t pretend any longer. Now he had to FEEL what he was, and that was a whole different kind of pain. The kind a stupid potion didn’t do jack for.

It wasn’t really the boobs. He didn’t have much in the way of breasts, never had, thanks to the potion that also kept him from menstruating. That was one potion he’d learned real well his third year in school. Didn’t much give a crap about the rest of them, but that one? He could make in his sleep, and it wasn’t third-year work, either. It was complicated.

So he’d kept from developing much in the way of tits, and aside from a couple of months when he’d still been learning the potion and it hadn’t worked very well, he’d never had a period. But there were other parts that just pretty much stayed the same all the time. And it was those parts, now, that made him curl up on the bed and cringe.

Never thought that the simple act of disguising yourself could feel so bad later. Okay, granted, not so simple, but then again it wasn’t as if he’d disguised himself as, say, a sparrow, or a rock. He’d stayed within in his species, after all. Just a few tweaks. He was really pretty proud of the work, when you came right down to it. Things like five-o’clock shadow. Never mind he’d never needed to shave a day in his life; it was the kind of thing people expected to see on a guy. And damn, but it was good work on his chest. Looked fine. Now if people TOUCHED it, well, that was another story, but then chest-touching went hand-in-hand with having sex, and he didn’t have much of that. Wanted it, sometimes wanted it very very much, but didn’t allow it except occasionally. Times when he felt his partner was less…judgmental, for example. Kristy hadn’t been judgmental. Of course she’d been a prostitute, and that sorta went with the territory, but still, she’d seen what he had and probably thought he had a little problem with man-tits, and then she died, so it wasn’t as if she had time to go around talking about Nick Stokes and his need for a training bra.

Had he even HAD sex since Kristy died? Well, if he couldn’t remember it, must mean he hadn’t.

He sat up, made a face at the low ache in his back. And now he was going to have sex again. Only this time, he’d be having a different kind of sex. The kind he’d never had before. Terra not especially incognita down there, but most definitely off-limits. But not for Snape, to whom in the eyes of the magical community Nick had been MARRIED since he was a month old.

With a deep sigh he went into the bathroom and gazed at himself. Didn’t look right. It wasn’t just other people he’d fooled; himself, too, and now he saw himself for what he really was.

Say it, you chickenshit. A hermaphrodite. Intersexed. Not a man, not a woman, but both in the same package.

And unlike Muggles, both your sexes work. You can make kids, you can HAVE kids, and it’s the latter that everyone wants. Your kid, the kid you’re going to make with Tall, Greasy, and Ugly out there. You’re just the incubator, and don’t forget it. Barely magical enough to rate an invitation to a third-rate school, got by because you were pretty good with animals just as weird as you and a damn good chaser, and because you were Special. Because there was a prophecy a few days after you were born, or hatched, or however it is that freaks like you come into the world, and that prophecy said that someday you’d have a baby that would be worth a shitload more than you ever were.

After that, well, you’re on your own, buddy. Or sweetheart, since well, having a kid means your old glamours aren’t going to quite cut it anymore. A lot harder to disguise a D cup. Not to mention a belly as big as Reno.

He stared hard into the mirror, and said, "Freak."

Eyes stinging, he turned away.

A day later, as Snape had predicted, Stokes’s physical discomfort was gone. In its place was a reality Stokes didn't even want to entertain, much less accept.

"I'm not a woman," came the mulish reply when Snape went into the bedroom to check on him.

Snape felt his jaw clenching. "No-one has said that you are."

"But that's the part of me you want." His voice was muffled as he hid his face in the pillow.

"I don't want any part of you," Snape informed the back of his head icily. "I do what is required of me, by law. As will you."

A pause, and then Stokes asked, "When?"

"The healer will examine you. If you're ready, as soon as possible." And then I'll be well shut of you, he thought about adding, but bit it back. No sense in reminding the -- man -- of what they both knew. Snape was just the donor, essentially. Stokes's life would be very altered. For a while, at least.

The healer, unfortunately, did not have the best of news. In the hallway, facing Snape's icy glare with absolute equanimity, she said, "He's not ready."

A muscle began to jump in Snape's jaw. "And so I've made this trip for nothing?"

"Not necessarily." She shrugged. "Free of the enchantments, his body is restored to what passes for normal for him. But there's no ovulation. Not yet. He can't conceive until that time."

"I see. And when might that be?"

"Now that you're here? Soon, I imagine. A day, a week, perhaps. He's responding to your presence, as he should." She cocked her head to one side a little. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but really, Mr. Snape, you can't rush nature."

"Muggles can. Why not --"

"You know the answer to that." She looked a bit ruffled. "It won't work on him. He's too different."

Worth a try, he thought darkly, but bit it back.

And Stokes was equally impatient, although for his own reasons. "I can’t just stay on vacation forever," he snapped late on the third afternoon. "I gotta get back to work, you know?"

Snape blamed his own combination of boredom and dread for the words he said in response. "If you don’t think that this is more important than tagging along after a few policemen all night, perhaps you should reconsider your priorities."

Stokes gave him a white-faced stare, and turned away. He didn’t say a word the remainder of the day, and Snape went out and paced the hallway a few dozen times, cursing his damnable temper.

But on Thursday, five days after Snape’s reluctant arrival in this loud, painfully American city, Juliet announced that the time had finally come.

"So he’s ready?" Snape swallowed a sharp stab of trepidation.

"As he will ever be." Juliet regarded him with a severe look so reminiscent of Minerva McGonagall, Snape was a little taken aback. "He’s quite anxious. Perhaps –"

"Oh, for pity’s sake," Snape said tightly. "I won’t ravish him, if that’s what you’re suggesting. But I can hardly fulfill my part of the agreement from out here in the hallway, now can I?"

"One of us must stay," she told him quietly. "I'm sorry, but it's the law."

"I'm aware of the law. Can't we just get this over with?"

She colored slightly, but her resolute expression didn’t waver. "Of course. Well, then. Let’s get started."

It was his worst nightmare, and it was happening. After all this time, all the care he'd taken, the work he'd done to ensure no one, but NO ONE knew -- it really was happening.

He tensed when he felt the bed shift. "Nicholas?"

He couldn't say anything. The embarrassment was too much.

He heard Snape sigh. "I realize there's no way this can't be something of an ordeal for both of us, but can you at least look at me?"

Nick peeked at him. Snape was fully dressed, as severe and faintly greasy as ever, and as oddly attractive. "Well, it's an improvement," he remarked dryly. "Are you ready?"

"No," Nick whispered. "I'm not going to be ready."

Snape's mouth twitched. "This doesn't have to be a rape, you know," he retorted acidly.

"Then what else is it?"

"Responsibility."

Nick covered his face again. "Just -- get it over with. I don't care."

He tensed when Snape touched his leg, sliding the sheet away. "Please, try to relax," Snape told him quietly. "I have no intention of hurting you."

You already have, Nick thought bleakly, but said nothing. The sheet disappeared, and he cringed, feeling cool air between his legs. And then something else down there as well, a judicious touch, not at all hurtful but only cautious.

"You're a virgin," Snape murmured. "Of course."

Nick made a strangled sound when a slim finger slid inside him. Wet, he was WET, and he didn't even want this, couldn't imagine wanting anything in the world LESS than he wanted this. So why was it -- slippery down there?

"You know how this must be," Snape said, as if Nick had asked the question aloud. "A biological response. We're joined."

To his humiliation his eyes filled with tears. "I don't even know you," Nick whispered, turning his head.

"I'm sorry. I wish it were otherwise." The finger kept probing him, a horribly luxuriant feeling that kept his legs apart even while his mind was screaming to kick, jump off this bed, throw himself out the WINDOW if only it would make this STOP.

"Stop --" Nick said hoarsely, swallowing. "Stop -- doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Trying to make it better. It's not going to be better, all right? Just -- do it. Do it, damn it."

"Very well."

He expected it to hurt, and it did. He WAS a virgin, and now he knew what a woman felt when her hymen burst. Not an unbearable pain, but nothing to sniff at, either. And even in the midst of his brain screaming how WRONG this was, and his -- vagina -- sending out alarms, his body just wasn't on the same wavelength. The merest touch of Snape's penis against him sent a spasm of fiery joy arcing up his spine. No matter that he didn't want it; his body did, wanted it to the exclusion of all else, and he heard himself moan and couldn't even recognize the sound. That couldn't be HIM. No. Nonononono.

"Relax," Snape whispered, sliding further inside him. His hands were hot on Nick's thighs, stroking gently. "That's it. Relax."

And here he was, being RAPED -- impregnated by this complete stranger, against his will -- and yet he was hard, his crotch on fire with pleasure, the motion of the cock inside him absolutely fantastically wonderful. Even his chest felt odd: his tiny breasts somehow more alive than they'd ever felt, nipples hard. His vagrant hand slid down to brush his breast and Snape whispered, "That's it. Just let it happen, Nicholas. Let yourself enjoy it."

It WAS enjoyable, it was one of the most incredible feelings of his entire life. Even in the midst of loathing it, he couldn't not love it at the same time. Everything that was wrong, was also right.

He whimpered a little and moved urgently under Snape's lean body, and felt as if he might simply go insane from the collision inside his head.

Chapter Three

What made it even more shocking was, it no longer felt like a duty. It felt like something he truly wanted to do.

The realization filled him with utter astonishment. Never -- NEVER had he believed it, truly. Oh, he'd done what was required of him, both thirty-five years ago and now. Certainly. But it had never meant anything real.

Snape gazed down at Nicholas's body, the confusing mix of penis and vagina, the lean narrow hips and tiny budding breasts, and had to clench his teeth iron-hard to keep from groaning in pure bliss. The heat, the elastic kiss of Nicholas's body, were almost unbearably sweet. And regardless of all the harsh words, the distasteful things that had had to happen in order to see them here, it was clear that Nicholas too felt the connection. Not only the physical, but something else, something almost impossible to define. A ringing sense of rightness that made the hair on Snape's arms stand up, made him want to lean down and kiss Nicholas's open mouth, lick one of those hard pink nipples and see what Nicholas did in response.

No longer afraid he was hurting him, he thrust with more vigor, bewildered and gratified when Nicholas met him with the same flavor of startled eagerness. Strong legs locked behind his back, pulling him as deep as he could possibly go.

He came with a throttled cry, unable to help himself, only vaguely aware of the way Nicholas panted and jerked underneath him. In all his life there had never been an orgasm like this, so long, and obliterating, and almost unbearably sweet.

Some last jolt of awareness kept him from collapsing on top of him, instead holding himself on trembling arms while he caught his breath and reluctantly withdrew. There was blood on Nicholas's thighs, but not so much, and the smear of semen on Nicholas's chest spoke to his own pleasure.

With shaking hands Snape made himself reach down to grasp the abandoned bed sheet, pulling it back over Nicholas's body. For once no remark came to his lips, sarcastic or otherwise. He was utterly drained, in more ways than one, and it was all he could do to step back into his trousers and stagger to a chair.

"Don't sit up, Nick," he heard Juliet say, and Snape's eyes shot open at the reminder that she'd been there the whole time. He watched her pat Nicholas's leg. "You need to stay like this for a few minutes, all right?"

Nicholas still had his eyes closed, but his breathing was harshly audible. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Okay."

As quickly as it had started, the weird connection was gone. Suddenly Snape felt only exhaustion, and a deep sense of furtive disgust. Damn them. Damn them for not explaining how this would be, damn them thricely for all that they had never said. With an inarticulate sound he stood and made his way to the small en-suite bathroom.

Cleaned up and, if not exactly himself again, at least sufficiently composed, he emerged ten minutes later in time to see Juliet standing over the bed once more. Nicholas lay still, legs open under the sheet. Snape curled his lip angrily at the tendril of desire in his groin, and crossed his arms.

"What are you doing?" Nicholas asked the woman in a slurry voice.

"Checking," she replied absently, holding up the sheet to touch his abdomen. A pause, and then she put it back to rights again. She glanced at Snape and shook her head minutely.

"What?" Snape asked in a cold voice. "What does that mean?"

"He hasn't quickened."

Ignoring Nicholas's questioning sound Snape stalked over to stand nearby. "How can you possibly tell?"

"The same way any healing witch can." Juliet regarded him calmly. "It is my particular gift. And in this case, I tell you, as ready as you both are, it hasn't taken this time."

"Hasn't TAKEN?"

"He hasn't conceived."

Nicholas rolled over, his face terribly pale. "Wait a second." He sat up awkwardly, shrouded in a sheet no whiter than his cheeks. "It didn't work?"

The witch gave him a sympathetic look. "Not this time. I'm sorry. Perhaps --"

"You mean we have to do it AGAIN?"

"Yes, you must."

"Oh, CRAP," Nicholas whispered, and flopped back on the bed.

He should have thought of it himself. He’d watched Cabe and Marie try for years to have a baby, and he thought it’d be wham, bam, first time’s the charm? Not.

It didn’t much help. He ate the food Juliet brought him, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. On top of everything else, he was kinda sore down there. And just knowing the reason why felt like an out-of-body experience.

Snape sliced into his eggplant and said, "How do you feel?"

Nick shrugged. "How do you think I feel?"

The man regarded him impassively. "I don’t think," he said slowly, as if Nick hadn’t even spoken, "I believed it. Until today."

Nick fought down a bite of overcooked beef. "Believed what?"

"That it was real."

Fighting down the urge to snap something about how if he wanted to be sure it was real, try feeling it after you just got your cherry popped, Nick said briefly, "Well, it is. I guess. So." He placed his fork on the plate. Food just didn’t taste like anything but crap tonight. "When do we do it again?"

His brisk tone made Snape’s eyebrow arch upward. He wiped his mouth on a napkin and replied, "Whenever you feel you’re ready."

"Isn’t that up to them? I mean, it’s not like I have any say in it."

It sounded like whining to his own ears, and he saw Snape’s expression darken. "If you are physically uncomfortable," he enunciated, "we will wait until such time as that is no longer the case."

Abashed, and absolutely unable to apologize, Nick stared at his plate. "Then that’ll be forever."

Snape didn’t dignify that particular statement with a reply at all. No need.

Late that night, after a long sullen silence, Nicholas sank down on the bed and muttered, "So let’s get it over with, okay?"

Snape allowed a short nod. "If you’re certain." At Nicholas’s bleak assent, he went to the door and murmured a spell.

When he returned, Nicholas regarded him blankly. Without the sullen look, he was startlingly attractive. "Where's the -- Juliet?"

"The duenna? She's not coming," Snape replied calmly, sitting down to unlace his shoes.

"But -- She said she had to --"

"I don't give a damn what she said." Snape pulled off a sock and turned to look him full in the eye. "This room is locked and warded. If their spells are insufficient, then so be it. But I'll not have onlookers again. No more."

The look on Nicholas's face was both shocked and relieved. "Th -- Thank you," he said in an awkward whisper.

"Don't," Snape said shortly. "Should never have let them in the first place. Bloody snoops."

"I'm glad they won't be -- watching."

Snape sat up. "Listen to me," he said with a calm he didn't precisely feel. "I can't explain to you all of what is happening. No one can, I don't think. But I -- have a thought. One I'd like to share with you."

Nicholas swallowed visibly. "Okay."

"For whatever reason, however -- arcane it is, I'm very attracted to you." Snape drew a deep breath, oddly off-balance. "And I'd very much rather do away with the clinical aspects."

"Go on," Nicholas whispered, his eyes rapt.

"I'd like to make love to you," Snape said hesitantly.

Nicholas gave him a slow nod. "Take -- Take off your clothes?"

Snape allowed himself a tiny smile. "Of course."

He undressed silently, aware of Nicholas's taut eyes on him. Nude, he sat on the edge of the bed and toyed with the edge of the sheet. "We're going about this rather backwards."

Nicholas nodded. "But -- I like this better. I think."

"As do I. Would you like me to kiss you?"

"Yyeah."

A part of his mind still irrationally expected to feel as though he were kissing a man. Had done that before, years ago, but this was nothing like that. Nicholas’s lips were soft, and there was no beard stubble; his skin was smooth, softer than a man’s.

Aware of the ache in his groin, Snape retreated a fraction, gazing down into Nicholas’s dark unfathomable eyes. "Better?" he asked gently.

Nicholas gave a slow nod. Biting his lip, he said, "I feel it, too."

Snape nodded. "I know," he whispered.

When he bent to kiss Nicholas’s tiny breasts, he heard his gasp of unbidden pleasure. And another, and small aimless movements while Snape explored Nicholas’s body, the flat planes of his stomach and knobby arch of hipbones, the half-erect cock and nearly hairless scrotum. And behind that overtly masculine symbol, the surprise of pink flesh, parting as Nicholas spread his thighs, uttering a shaky sigh.

Snape kissed the soft skin of Nicholas’s inner thigh and felt him trembling, relaxing a little, then shivering anew when Snape tasted those folds for the first time. Nicholas produced a high warbling sound, as much surprise as pleasure. Smoothing into a hoarse moan that held no fear or startlement whatsoever.

This time when he entered him there was no resistance, inner or outward, and he slid into Nicholas’s body with a sigh of his own, partly relief, but mostly eagerness. And the same bone-shaking sense of rightness suffused him. As bizarre as it seemed, as strong as his doubts had been, not to mention Nicholas’s, at least this part of the old prophecy was true. They were indeed meant to do this.

"I didn’t know," Nicholas said in a shaky whisper, his cheeks flushed. "I didn’t know it would – be like this."

Snape shook his head and bent to kiss his lips. "How could you? Or I?"

Nicholas arched upward for another kiss, his eyelids fluttering closed.

All too soon he could no longer resist, and once again Nicholas met his passion with equal fervor, writhing ardently beneath him and gasping when his climax struck. And just as he felt his own body tighten with his release, he heard something, far-off, like bells on a cloudy morning from miles away. Every hair on his body stood up, and Nicholas cried out harshly, eyes wide with terror and blazing joy.

He felt it, when Gareth was conceived. Not yet called Gareth, of course, but that moment when he came into existence. A microscopic split, one cell becoming two, and four. It felt as if his bones had shattered and been instantly repaired, singing with amazed strength.

For a very long moment Snape hung over him, lean body tense with pleasure and surprise. And then he let out a harsh gasp and sagged, long hair drifting to brush Nick’s face.

Not that greasy, Nick thought dizzily. Why’d I think that?

Breathing hard, Snape’s eyes met his own.

"I think we did it," Nick said fuzzily, and grinned.

With a short nod Snape slid free of him, and Nick couldn’t help a disappointed mumble as he rolled over to lie beside him.

"That," Snape said very clearly, "was not quite what I expected, either."

Nick frowned. "You don’t –"

"Much, much more." Snape’s head turned, his hand reaching out to touch Nick’s belly, a whisper of fingertips. "I suppose we should tell the duenna."

Suddenly sleepy, Nick yawned and rolled against him, throwing an experimental leg over Snape’s thighs and feeling him tense, then relax. "In the morning," Nick mumbled. "They can wait that long."

Snape’s arm curved around Nick’s back, fingers lightly stroking his skin. "They can indeed," he murmured.

Chapter Four

The next morning, staring at the backlit curtains, Snape said, "I can't just leave you. Not like this."

Nicholas stirred in his arms, turning to slide his hand over Snape's bare stomach. "Like what? Knocked up?"

Snape allowed a brief smile. "That, too." He pushed himself away enough to look at him. "What will you do now?" he asked, the smile slipping away. "Have you made any plans?"

Nicholas gazed at him, and then shook his head. "I wasn't -- I don't think I believed this would ever happen. Could ever happen. How could I plan for that?"

"Is there someplace you can go? For the duration?"

Nicholas appeared to consider it. "Home, I guess." His tone was doubtful. "They'd take care of me."

"Or?"

With a sigh Nicholas drew away, pulling up the blankets. "There isn't an 'or.' I'll think of something."

Hating himself a little, Snape laid a hand on Nicholas's flat belly. "You're with child now," he said baldly. "If the tales are true -- if what we've done here has been the right thing, and I think now we both believe it has -- then this child must be protected. There are many in the world who would stop at little to hurt you. Or it. Both of you."

"You don't think I know that?" Nick replied harshly, sitting up. "I FEEL it. You don't have to lecture me."

"Then come back with me."

He had no idea who was more surprised: Nicholas, at hearing it, or himself at saying it. "Come with you?" Nicholas echoed, staring at him. "To England?"

"Scotland, actually, but never mind. Yes. What better place?"

"You've got to be --"

"I'm not joking," Snape said sharply. He sat up himself, catching one of Nicholas's hands and clasping it tightly. "I would not see you hurt, in any way, because of this," he continued. "And at Hogwarts we can make sure you're safe. Dozens of wizards, witches, all manner of folk, all of whom know the meaning of this. Know how very important this is. You would be protected. And," he added, when he saw Nicholas draw breath to interrupt. "And there would be no foolishness of having to try to explain to all these damned Muggles how a handsome fellow like you just happens to have a bun in the oven."

A reluctant smile twitched the corners of Nicholas's mouth. "Good point," he conceded after a moment. "But I don't even know what -- how --"

"Ask for a leave of absence. They have such things in your country, do they not?"

"Of course." Nicholas's eyes narrowed a bit. "But not just because you decide you want one. There has to be a reason."

"Tell them you have to go abroad for family reasons."

"I'm not sure."

Snape waited a moment before saying softly, "You can't stay. You know that. Is -- Would you be willing to leave your position?"

Nicholas's face crumpled a little. "I don't want to," he cried in a low, hurt voice. "You want me to give up my whole life, and it's --"

"I don't want you to do anything, necessarily," Snape interrupted. "In Merlin's name, no. I only want to help, if I might."

Reaching up to rub his eye, Nicholas said only, "I need to think about it. I just -- I can’t decide this just like that."

"Understood," Snape whispered. "Of course."

When he opened the door, he found all three of his local benefactors standing outside, looking anxious and a little pissed off.

"Well," Nick said slowly. "We’re done."

Juliet Sanders’ eyes narrowed, and then a beatific smile lit her face. "Yes," she whispered. "You are, aren’t you?"

Cunningham cleared his throat officiously. And then, to Nick’s surprise and discomfort, he bowed deeply, a gesture immediately copied by his two companions.

"Uh, thanks," Nick mumbled.

When the trio straightened, he was shocked all over again to see tears in Juliet’s eyes. "Just think," she whispered, brushing her cheeks with both hands. "We were here to see it."

Johnson’s cheeks were very red, and he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder before giving Nick a look hardly less adoring than hers had been. "Well," he said in a heavily jovial voice. "Guess we’re all done, too."

Nick nodded cautiously. "So that’s it? I can go?"

"Of course, of course. I –" He paused. "You do have some sort of, well. Support, don’t you? Family? Friends?"

Nick swallowed. "I’ll manage."

"But what about pre-natal care?" Juliet now looked worried all over again. "You’ll need regular medical checkups. You can’t just –"

"Look, I’ve only been pr –" He faltered. "Like this," he mumbled, "for like, eight hours or something. I mean, I’m not gonna pop in the next thirty minutes, okay? There’s time."

"She’s right."

He flinched, hearing Snape’s even, rich voice behind him. Shrouded in his customary black once more, the man looked forbidding, and not anything like the guy Nick had just been in bed with half an hour ago. "A doctor’s care is not the only thing you will need in the next nine months," Snape continued slowly. "A protected environment, to name another."

"I said I needed time to think about it," Nick hissed.

"Then I will remain with you until such time as you’ve thought it over," came the immediate clipped reply. "Or do I not have some say in the matter, as the child’s father?"

Nick blinked at him. "Stay – here?"

An impatient look. "Here, in this city, yes. I’d prefer to find somewhat more spacious accommodations, but otherwise -- Right here."

"But your job –"

"—Can be handled by someone else in my absence. Somewhat adequately, one hopes," Snape added darkly. "My concern is you at the moment."

"I’ll be fine," Nick snapped, even though, well, was that true? After all, now he was

PREGNANT

and what the hell did he know about fine?

Snape’s dubious expression said he was thinking along the very same lines. "Be that as it may," he said in a calm, faintly annoying voice, "this pregnancy changes everything. Until such time as you are better – situated, you understand."

"We can help you, Nick," Juliet told him, her hand warm on his arm. "In fact we’d be honored."

"You don’t see this sort of thing every day," said Cunningham. An awkward, honest smile creased his features. "Once in a lifetime. You can depend on us."

"Absolutely," Johnson mumbled. "No doubt about it."

Glancing helplessly at Snape, Nick caught his uncertain look. "I want to go home," Nick blurted. Shocked, he realized he was about half an inch from bawling his eyes out. Too much, too fast, way too intense. Didn’t even feel like he could breathing, suddenly. "Can I do that?"

Everyone babbled at once, about of course, and Merlin’s name, and is your bag ready. Snape said nothing, his dark eyes filled with doubt.

Nicholas lived in an apartment, the sort of thing Snape vaguely recollected being called a condominium. Not as large as Snape’s own set of apartments at Hogwarts, of course, not nearly, but considerably better than a cramped, impersonal hotel room.

Nicholas set his bag on the floor and glanced at him. "Want something to drink?"

Snape lifted his chin. "You have no fireplace."

"Huh? Oh." Nicholas’s eyebrows lifted. "I don’t floo much. My old place had one, but not this one."

"You apparate instead?"

The open look on Nicholas’s face shuttered a bit. "Not much."

"Then how do you travel? Surely you don’t confine yourself to Muggle –"

"Airplanes aren’t so bad. You should try it sometime."

Snape allowed a delicate shudder. "Out of the question."

Nicholas shrugged and walked into the kitchen. "Do you drink beer?"

"I could, yes."

"Cool."

While he got the drinks, Snape walked slowly around the living area. Comfortably furnished, and not a magical article in sight. In fact, it felt as if he’d been plopped into the middle of mainstream Muggle life. If he hadn’t known from the start that Nicholas was in many ways as magical as he was, there certainly would have been no way of telling from this residence. It was as bland and ordinary as paper.

"Here you go."

Snape turned, accepting the chilly bottle Nicholas held out. The ale tasted rich and dark, and he lifted an eloquent eyebrow before saying, "Do you hate magic that much, then?"

Nicholas blinked, meeting his inquisitive eyes briefly before glancing away. "I don’t hate it," he muttered.

Seating himself on the broad divan, Snape shrugged. "But you refuse to use it. By all appearances, at least. I find it curious."

Nicholas sat opposite him, tense in an overstuffed chair. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, and with a slow sense of worry Snape registered the immense tiredness in his eyes. "It’s not that intentional," Nicholas said slowly. "Or it wasn’t. I work with Muggles. My parents are Muggles, all of my family. I’m the only one in my family with any magic at all, since my uncle. It just didn’t feel – right to use magic when nobody else could."

"But here, in your own home –"

"I wasn’t ever really that good at it," Nicholas mumbled. His cheeks had gone distinctly red. "I mean, I barely passed my O.W.L.s. I’m like, a magical retard or something."

Snape gazed at him. "But you -- You’re –" He clamped his lips over the startled half-questions, distantly annoyed with himself.

"I know." Nicholas produced a tired, self-deprecating smile. "All this, and I can barely apparate. I mean, if I hadn’t been born this way, you know, freaky, I think they’d never have invited me to go to wizard school."

"You aren’t freakish," Snape said severely. "Unique in your generation, perhaps. Definitely. But not freakish."

Nicholas gave a limp shrug. "Whatever." He sipped his ale.

"Should you be drinking that? Under the circumstances?"

Nicholas regarded both him and the bottle with equal surprise. "Oh. Crap."

Snape shifted and shook his head. "Nicholas, I must say –"

"Call me Nick. Okay?"

Snape gazed at him, and he added, awkwardly, "Nobody calls me Nicholas. So – formal."

"All right, then. Nick. Would you be more comfortable calling me Severus?"

Nick mouthed the word, and grinned. "It’s a mouthful. Sure."

"Nick, then. I feel less than reassured. You’re woefully unprepared for any of this, can’t you see? The care that must be taken, both physically and magically. This isn’t something you can simply forget about for the next nine months. It won’t –"

"I’m not forgetting about it!" Nick flared.

"Even so." Snape regarded him soberly. "Do you know what happened to your predecessor?"

Nick stared at him, then ducked his head. "He died."

"He didn’t just die, Nick. He was killed. Murdered. Quite viciously."

"I know that," Nick muttered.

Fighting down an urge to snap at him, Snape said, "Then you understand my concern."

"I’m gonna be fine."

His control faltered. "That is precisely the mindset I am trying to address," Snape said fiercely. "Without certain safeguards in effect, you will NOT be fine. Nor will the child. It is a risk I am unprepared to take!"

"I’m not your wife," Nick snapped, going tense. "I’m not gonna stand around barefoot in the goddamn KITCHEN for the next year! I have a LIFE, Sn – Severus! I’m not just a freakin’ INCUBATOR!"

"No one has said that you are," Snape returned just as tightly. "No one. But you must – you MUST – find some sort of compromise!"

"And I will! Just – give me some time to THINK!"

"Think all you like! Just make sure your cogitation doesn’t leave you open to attack!"

Nick drew back a little. "No one’s going – to attack me," he said unsteadily. "There’s no reason."

Allowing a sigh of pure frustration, Snape said, "That is precisely my point. There is confidence, Nicholas, and then there is outright stupidity. What you’ve just said is one of those. Care to hazard a guess which?"

"But who?" There was no real anger in his voice any longer. He sounded quenched, far less certain. "Who’d want to do that? It doesn’t – make sense."

"It isn’t required to make sense," Snape said coldly. "It simply is. The last individual like yourself died choking on his own blood. For whatever reason, his existence – the existence of the child he carried – was perceived as a threat. And that threat was eliminated. I would very much prefer NOT to see you meet the same fate. Is that clear?"

"But –"

"Listen to me, Nicholas." Injecting every bit of compassion into his voice he could, and wishing bleakly it weren’t so difficult for him, Snape continued, "Folk like yourself have always been born. One per generation, always carrying children with immense power. Need I remind you of historical precedent? Few of those children have ever survived to be born. The last one to live became a very important person, but his siblings, in that particular sense, were rarely so fortunate. This child – OUR child," he added fiercely, "MUST be protected. And you are no less important, do you understand me? Whether or not you admit it, you are unique, and valued, and it is not only because of the life you carry but because of who you ARE."

Nick’s mouth opened and closed, but he said nothing. His dark eyes were filled with fear, and bleak understanding.

"Merlin," Snape muttered, leaning back on the divan. "If it’s all the same to you," he said tiredly, lifting the empty bottle in his hand, "I wouldn’t mind another of these."

"Yeah," Nick agreed hollowly. "Me, either."

"Perhaps you should confine yourself to a bit of pumpkin juice instead."

"I got orange."

"That will do."

Sitting up again, Snape said awkwardly, "I’m sorry to be so blunt. I’m afraid it’s a – tendency."

The exhaustion in Nick’s features had intensified. He nodded. "It’s okay," he replied dully. "I don’t -- I’m not sure what to do."

"Be careful," Snape whispered. "For starters."

"Yeah. Okay."

Chapter Five

A week later, he was back at work, and very, very close to murdering the father of his child.

"Would you quit WATCHING me?" Nick snapped early one morning, glaring at Severus.

"Pardon me," came Snape’s icy reply. "Difficult to avoid the spectacle of someone making an utter and complete dolt of himself."

Nick snorted and went back to juicing oranges. "I don’t see you contributing anything. Why don’t you go back to your precious Hogwarts and make a potion or something? Maybe one that gives you something approximating a real human personality?"

"You know, if someone were to attack you right at this very moment, I would give serious thought as to whether or not to render assistance."

"Fine. If I’m dead, at least I don’t have to deal with YOU anymore."

"That could be arranged."

"Eat me."

"What?"

Keeping his back turned, Nick fought down a grin. "Stuff it. Get lost. Floo your complaining over-watchful ass back to Neverland."

"I can’t floo; there’s no fireplace. And Never –" A moment of silence. "Mockery is a last bastion of small minds, Nicholas."

"Call me Nicholas one more time and I’m stuffing this orange where the sun don’t shine."

"Continue to act as you are, and I will sneak a potion into your dinner that will give you breasts the size of –"

"You WOULDN’T."

"My darling dear, light of my life, bearer of my unborn progeny – I most certainly would."

"Asshole."

"WHY must you do this the Muggle way?" With an impatient huff Snape walked to the breakfast bar, standing over him like some kind of supercilious raven. "The simplest of spells, and observe." Where a bowl full of oranges had sat, patiently awaiting their turn through the juicer, there now stood a brimming pitcher of bright orange juice. "Even you can master that. Surely."

Nick stared at him. "That’s cheating."

"That’s MAGIC! An art to which you, too, are most definitely inclined, if you would only –"

"What? If I would only what? Be like you?" Nick snorted. "I want my bowl back."

"Conjure it yourself."

"Hey, YOU made it disappear! YOU do it!"

"Prove to me you can, and next time I will."

Nick narrowed his eyes. "What, you think I can’t? Is that it?"

Snape gave a delicate shrug.

With a muttered obscenity, Nick spun on his heel and walked into the bedroom. Somewhere, in the chest, maybe. He pawed through sweaters and his old yearbooks. No. Closet? One of the boxes. Maybe.

When he returned twenty minutes later, brandishing his slightly dusty wand, Snape was calmly sipping orange juice. Mustering himself, Nick murmured a spell.

The glass in Snape’s hand gave a tiny leap, and became a very alarmed, very live fish.

"Merlin!" Snape yelped, flinging the startled fish into the sink.

"I said ‘glass,’ not ‘bass,’" Nick whispered. "Damn it."

With a muttered few words the terrified fish vanished, and Snape turned to regard him with cold eyes. "That," he enunciated, "is precisely why."

Nick stuck his chin out, but inside he was a little alarmed. So he was rusty. Didn’t use magic any more than he had to, and since he left Dallas that wasn’t much. Wasn’t any, actually. Crap, he hadn’t even known where his wand WAS, much less have much practice with it.

But damn. A FISH?

"I believe," Severus added, "that my point has been adequately demonstrated. You are hopelessly out of practice. You must – MUST come with me to Hogwarts."

Casting a dirty look at his wand, Nick sighed. "I told you what I decided, Sev." He laid the wand on the counter and slung himself onto a bar stool. "I’ll go when the time is right. All right? Until then, I’m staying here. Doing my job."

"I truly believe you may be the most insufferably, intentionally exasperating, monumentally –"

"You warded the house. Right?"

Snape gave a stiff nod. "Of course, but –"

"And you put that spell on my truck."

"Work that would not have been necessary had you only –"

"Juliet checked me out yesterday. I’m fine, the baby’s fine."

"That was yesterday. What about –"

"So I’m staying here, until I start getting to be about the same SIZE as my truck. And then I’ll go stay in Scotland, or wherever." Nick stared at him. "We AGREED to all that. Or was that just a bunch of crap?"

Lips tight, Snape said, "And if you’re attacked?"

"They can’t attack me here."

"Your workplace is completely unwarded. Anyone, at any time, could –"

"They haven’t. And I don’t think they’re gonna. But if they do, man, we talked about this, too. If something happens, then yeah. I’ll go. But it’s not gonna. I’m gonna be okay. We’re both gonna be okay."

Snape’s expression was utterly unconvinced.

"Look, you’re driving yourself crazy here." Nick reached out and touched Snape’s black-clad arm. "You’re driving ME crazy. You don’t have anything to do, you’re sitting around making me miserable and yourself, and you don’t NEED to."

"You may need me," came Snape’s surprisingly unsteady reply.

Nick crossed his arms. "You know what you are?"

"I believe the most recent term was ‘asshole’ –"

"You’re sexist."

Snape’s mouth opened, and after a moment he huffed, "I most certainly am NOT."

"You are an asshole. A sexist, chauvinist asshole."

"You –"

"If I were really a guy? You’d have said good luck, owl me if you need anything. Wouldn’t you?" Nick demanded.

Snape’s cheeks had gone an alarmingly purplish shade. "Of course not!"

"Liar. Well, go ahead. Go! Because I AM still a guy, in case you’d forgotten, all right! I can take care of myself! AND the baby!"

Apoplectic, Snape said something inarticulate, and then gave a slow, over-controlled nod. "Do you really want me to go that badly?"

Nick stood with his own mouth open, gazing at him. Did he? Snape was annoying, that much was definitely true. Aggravating, oh yes. Pretty much an asshole, and the sexist part wasn’t that off the mark, either.

But really leave? As in don’t come back, don’t call me I’ll call you?

He sighed, and shook his head slowly. "No," he said after a very long moment. "Not really."

Snape stood very still, drawn up to his full height, a tall lean crow figure still marvelously out of place in Nick’s living room. "I apologize," he said clearly, "if I’ve offended your sensibilities. I am concerned, Nicholas."

Relenting, Nick walked slowly over to him, ignoring the touch-me-not veneer and leaning against him. He waited until a reluctant hand whispered over his shoulder, and mumbled, "Just let me do my job, okay? While I still can. All right?"

"Very well." Stiff, but not as freeze-dried as a few moments ago.

"And I’ll practice. I will. You can help me with that, right?"

"Of course."

"And everything’ll be cool."

"Possibly."

"It will."

Snape’s lip curled eloquently. "Compromise?" he said hesitantly.

Nick grinned. "Now you’re talkin’."

"You’ll have me driving that infernal automobile of yours next."

"You know, that reminds me…."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He didn’t particularly care for the current arrangement in the lab. Oh, from a professional standpoint it wasn’t without some basis in logic: split shifts meant broader coverage, more overlap, that sort of thing. But from a personal point of view, he felt critically isolated.

Plainly put, he missed his guys.

Take this evening. He had no idea what Warrick or Nick had been up to. It wasn’t supposed to matter, after all. Catherine had things well in hand. And yet Gil felt like asking. So, anything interesting today? Tell me what you’ve been doing.

Would either one perceive that as professional courtesy, or rather prying? Checking up on them, or just touching base? He couldn’t tell. And the uncertainty kept him from asking, even when he felt almost sure neither man would mind it in the slightest.

Tonight, the lab felt quiet. Nothing huge, then, in the early evening. He wouldn’t only have been told; he’d have felt it. Ratchet the tension high enough, and even he noticed. So there were no big cases to hand off to night shift.

So instead of hunting down Warrick or Nick, just to be friendly, he went to his office and pushed papers, and wished a little forlornly for someone to drop by.

Gratifyingly, they both did.

"Easy night," Warrick proclaimed, commandeering the chair across from Gil’s desk. "Hope you brought some cards."

"Hey," Nick said indignantly. "Not THAT easy."

Gil took off his glasses and found a smile on his face. "I take it you disagree, Nick?"

Warrick grinned. "He’s just bitching because he had to get his feet wet."

"Try soaked, man." Nick perched on the edge of the table against the left wall of Gil’s office. "Coulda told me ahead of time I’d need waders."

"Like I said," was Warrick’s complacent reply. "Bitching."

Gil lifted his chin. "Weren’t you on vacation?" he asked Nick.

"Yeah." Nick’s expression turned opaque.

"The OTHER reason he’s bitching." Warrick hadn’t stopped grinning.

"When did you get back?"

"Couple days ago."

"Go anywhere?"

Nick crossed his arms. "Nah, had some visitors," he said briefly.

Still studying him, Gil felt his smile slipping. Nick’s usual carefree nature was noticeably damped tonight. Bad visit? Who could say? "I see," Gil said uncertainly.

"Aw, come on." Warrick stood officiously. "Let’s go grab some food."

Nick didn’t look particularly mollified. "Okay, but you’re buyin’."

Warrick shrugged. "Long as you don’t want filet mignon, man."

"Actually –"

"Not EVEN."

Nick grinned. "Paco’s?"

"That’s more like it." Warrick glanced at Gil. "Wanna join us?"

Gil put his glasses back on. "Unfortunately, for some of us the night is just beginning."

"All right. Later, man."

Nick looked at him and made a sympathetic face. "Have a good night, Grissom."

"You, too, Nicky," Gil said quietly.

~~~~~~~~~~

He didn’t think much about it after that. Shifts were the way they were, and if he missed working with Warrick and Nick, he didn’t mind those he did work with. Greg’s skills were improving, along with his confidence, and Sara had never been short on either. If there was no real equivalent with his former coworkers’ easy banter, there were enough positives to balance out.

So when he went to visit the john, about two weeks after his last friendly chat with his erstwhile colleagues, he was not at all prepared to find Nick sitting fully dressed on the single toilet, sobbing his heart out.

"I." Gil stopped short, jaw sagging. "Nick?"

Nick floundered, a fast horrified look before he visibly gathered himself, using toilet paper to wipe his nose. "Hey, sorry." His voice was clogged with tears, but he cleared his throat loudly as he stood, depositing the soggy paper in the toilet and flushing it. "It’s all yours, man."

"The – door wasn’t locked. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…." Gil trailed off, feeling desperately uncomfortable.

"Nah, it’s okay. Musta forgot." Nick gave a fast, game smile that didn’t involve him actually looking Gil in the eye. He went over to wash his hands, and Gil saw his fingers trembling.

Gil leaned against the wall, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You want to talk about it?" he asked helplessly.

Nick gave a brisk shake of his head. "No, man, thanks. Just – one of those nights, you know? No biggie."

Taking in Nick’s terrible pallor, Gil frowned prodigiously. "Nicky, what’s going on? I know we don’t work together very much any longer, but my door is always open. Always."

Nick splashed water on his face and fumbled for a paper towel. "Yeah, thanks, I ah. Appreciate that." He threw the towels in the trash and sniffed. "I better, you know. Get back to it."

"Did something happen?"

An odd, bitter smile came and went, leaving Nick paler than before. "Just some crap," Nick muttered. The next smile was bigger, and falser. "Don’t worry about it. Hey, but thanks."

"Any time," Gil murmured, as Nick brushed past him and walked rapidly away.

~~~~~~~~~~~

But he watched after that. Much more closely than before. Not that it was easy to do. He flat-out had no excuse to see much of Nick, not on their adjusted schedules, and so it took arriving a few minutes early, lingering in areas he really had little business occupying.

What he saw only added to his increasing sense of wrongness.

There was no more crying, at least not where Gil, or to his knowledge anyone else, ever saw. But Nick’s haggard appearance did not appreciably improve. He looked tired, and often vaguely ill.

And one night, watching Nick furtively from the ell next to the fibers lab, it occurred to Gil that Nick looked different. Truly different, in ways Gil wondered at in the same moment he saw them. His sharply chiseled features were the tiniest bit softer. Weight? Nick didn’t look any heavier, but there was no question his jaw wasn’t quite the heroic lantern it used to be. Everything about his face seemed just the least bit – softened.

The next time he saw him, the impression was gone. Nick looked perfectly ordinary. With a stab of sharp uncertainty, Gil frowned. Now you see it, now you don’t? Just a few pounds’ fluctuation? What else could it be?

Shaking his head, he cast a long look at Nick’s restored jaw, and went on with his work.

Chapter Six

Eventually he and Snape reached an agreement they both could live with, at least for the moment. Snape promised to stop getting on his case about prophecies and threats and muttering about how the climate in Scotland was very lovely this time of year and I admit the castle’s just the tiniest bit drafty, and well, the ghosts are annoying at times, yes, but wouldn’t you prefer that to, well, DEATH, and Nick promised to stop being bullheaded about denying there WAS any threat and admit that yes, it’s true that the last person like me met a really gross fate and was sort of stupid in assuming he could fight off all attacks, and Vegas is tacky and loud and way too hot, and I’ll call you if I need anything. At all.

In the meantime, Snape would be staying weekends, and probably popping in during the week at times, too, and that was that. Glowering at him, Snape extracted an additional promise that sometime in the next month he’d come to Hogwarts for a visit, meet the folks, that sort of thing. Nick rather suspected it was a ruse, and Snape intended it to be proof that Nick belonged with wizards and witches and lots of kids with no better magical skills than he had, but he was willing to offer the benefit of the doubt. Marginally.

"Here," Snape said gruffly one afternoon, handing him a crude medallion. "Take this."

Nick examined it curiously. Heavy, obviously gold. "Wow, is this real?"

"Very real, and very old. Please do take some care with it; it’s been in my family for a great number of generations."

"Doubloon?" Nick considered biting it, and thought again. "So what’s it for?"

With a gusty sigh Snape replied, "It’s a portkey, and don’t be thick."

"Oh."

He put Snape’s portkey in his pocket, with the assurance that yes, he was quite aware of how to use it, and would if the time seemed right. Snape gave him a lingering, uncertain look, and vanished.

And it wasn’t like he really missed the guy. Although it was nice having someone to come home to. Well, nice when that someone wasn’t bitching at him about something. But two days later Snape scared the shit out of him by suddenly apparating into the living room, and after Nick’s palpitations eased up, they had a nice dinner – breakfast, really – and Snape told a dry, utterly hilarious story about some kid at the school named Neville and his amazing exploding potions, and all of a sudden Nick felt a hot, tight sensation in his belly that had nothing at all to do with the parasite in his abdomen and everything to do with the proximity of Snape’s elegant black-clad form.

After Snape left, Nick sat nursing his pumpkin juice – found a place downtown that stocked it, although he pretty much doubted the store was on any Muggle shopping lists – and thinking about the fact that he’d really like to see what it was like to have sex with Snape without anyone watching over them or waiting.

Maybe even, you know. Girl-part sex.

He went to bed, alone and horny, and had dreams about long-fingered hands.

~~~~~~~~~~~

About two months after he returned to work, he started noticing a few things. The first was in a lot of ways the biggest, and yet for whatever contrary reason he dealt with it the easiest: He started throwing up. Morning sickness, gotta love it, and his struck with dismal regularity. About an hour after he got up, well, time to hork.

It came and went fast, though, usually, and even if a few times he threw up at work, or out in the field, it didn’t happen that often, nor did he think anyone noticed. If they ever did, he reasoned, he could always say he’d had to work with something especially gruesome. He didn’t have a rep for barfing at the sight of blood or body parts, but it sure wasn’t out of the question.

And for the first time in his life, he was aware of being female. Not too hard to figure, right? After all he was

PREGNANT

which was just about the ultimate expression of femininity, period. But knowing that was one thing; feeling it, another.

For one thing, his boobs hurt. They weren’t much bigger, fortunately, but man, they were tender. Strapping them down was physically painful, and he was never so relieved as when he got home and could undo it all. Even his damn SHIRTS hurt.

Not to mention he peed all the time. What was up with that? Thought that only happened later, but he took so many leaks it really WAS something other people would notice. People like Warrick, who one evening stunned him by asking flat-out if he had some kind of infection. No, Nick thought dizzily, just another one of the many joys of being preggo, man. It’s the gift that keeps on giving, doncha know.

And the ensuing spate of hysterical laughter was bad, because it was part of the freaking emotional rollercoaster he was on these days. Crying one minute, ten-minute laughing jag the next. Clocking out one night, Catherine looked at him funny and said, "You know, if you were a woman I’d assume it was that time of the month."

That laugh lasted nearly twenty minutes. Nothing like going for an all-time best.

This was no rollercoaster; it was the goddamn Hormone Express, and this particular ride wasn’t gonna let up anytime real soon.

Which led him to the third thing, and compared to that the other two were cake. Because Grissom caught him bawling in the john one time, and after that, it was like being under the microscope every night.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t know he was taking some risks. A part of him – a heavily Snape-influenced part, no doubt – said, Shoulda gone to Scotland, Nick-eee. Hide decently. Sure, no matter where you go there are gonna be people staring, because hello? Pregnant man? Yeah. Never mind you aren’t a man; you still look enough like one to pass – mostly, for the moment at least – and that’s plenty. But at least in Magicville there are other weird things, a lot of ‘em so weird you’d be cake by comparison.

Another part dug in its heels and said, In my own damn time, and no sooner. Because he didn’t want to leave. This was home. This was familiar, this was safe. Or sort of safe, at least.

But when the lights were low and there was nobody around but himself and the marble inside his stomach, well. He could admit the real reason, the bedrock-deep reason he put up such a struggle against the idea of leaving Las Vegas. Going meant leaving people. People he cared very much about. Oh, it wasn’t like he was protecting anyone; they’d be perfectly fine without him around. Not that. No, this was more about himself. As in, he wasn’t completely sure HE would be okay without THEM.

Specifically, Gil Grissom.

Hard enough when the shifts got jacked up. He loved Catherine, really did, but she was flat-out the supervisor from hell a lot of the time, and he wished he had a dollar for every time he’d thought about telling her to take one of her high-heeled shoes and stick it. Hello? Had she forgotten the fact that not so long ago she and Nick had been elbow-to-elbow in the goddamn trenches? Or that even more recently, it had been HIS name up for promotion, and the only reason he hadn’t promoted was some bureaucratic butt-fucking behind the scenes?

So right, the current shift structure was less than perfect. Way less. But he’d stay, probably stay if Ecklie himself were to decide to take over swing shift. Because staying meant being within hailing distance of Grissom. And that, after all was said and done, was what it was all about.

Except now he was starting to wonder about the wisdom of that. Because it might take a two-by-four to make Grissom see interpersonal things. He skated happily along the top layer of relationships, professional ones at least, and blithely didn’t see a hell of a lot that was right in front of his eyes.

But Grissom was sharp as NAILS when it came to evidence. And whether he wanted to or not, Nick had given him something to look at.

Bad enough that Grissom chose the worst possible moment to barge in on him in the bathroom. That was rank stupidity on Nick’s part; if you’re gonna have a meltdown and bawl your eyes out in the john, at least lock the damn door before you do. But it had been a crap shift, lots of uncomfortable domestic-disturbance shit, and he couldn’t stop thinking about his OWN bizarre arrangement with Severus Snape and the kidlet he had baking in his oven, and for the first time he thought, I’m gonna have to squeeze this thing out of my BODY one of these days, and it’s gonna HURT, and I’m SCARED.

So when the express came roaring through, he sat in the john and cried, didn’t have much choice about the crying part and at least it was solitary. Buckets of tears, fountain of snot, the whole enchilada, giving Grissom a real eyeful when he walked in.

Covering was pretty much impossible. He did the best he could, and beat it, and hoped for the best while realizing, coldly, that he might just have let the cat out of the bag with that miscalculation.

Still might have flown. But Grissom was watching, paying attention, and Nick had never been so suddenly glad that they worked different shifts now, because Snape’s vigilant regard was one thing, but Gil Grissom had Snape beat hands-down in the figuring-out-the-puzzle competition. Once he DID notice something, he couldn’t rest until he’d figured out its secrets.

And there were things to notice. Because for the first time in his adult life, Nick was having trouble maintaining his seamless glamours. Maybe it was physiology; maybe it was lack of focus; maybe something wonky was happening to him as a result of being

PREGNANT

and it meant he had to tweak the works, restructure the way he formatted his particular trick-of-the-eye spells. Whatever, he was catching glimpses of himself in mirrors and glass walls and seeing he had no beard stubble, or his invented Adam’s apple was missing, things like that. And one of these days, Grissom was going to see that. See it, because he was looking for shit, looking for clues, and Nick was giving them to him.

Getting ready for his shift one afternoon, he gazed at himself sternly in the mirror and thought, No fuckups allowed, Stokes. Get it right, or don’t bother at all. This was your idea, this staying thing. Make it work, or make Snape happy and disapparate to Hogwarts, because it’s either/or. No shirt, no shoes, no service.

~~~~~~~~~

With a sigh, Gil leaned back in his chair. Going to be one of those nights, one criminalist short. Sara, on a long-scheduled trip to Chicago to present a paper, an absence he had completely forgotten to notate. Greg was capable, and certainly a hard worker, but two people would have trouble handling a full shift by themselves, no matter how much experience they had between them. Just a hard fact.

Offered double callback, Warrick turned him down flat. "Got plans, man, sorry. Can’t break ‘em."

Or didn’t want to, for mere cash, Gil thought glumly.

Nick, on the other hand, shrugged and said, "Sure. I mean, I’m already here. What you got?"

Relieved, Gil leaned against the door jamb. "Greg’s up to his ears in evidence on the Horton case; I don’t want to pull him away from that. Time-sensitive. Care to join me for a hit-and-run?"

Nick grinned. "Be like old times."

Gil snorted and nodded.

The scene was an understandable shambles. Made infinitely worse by the tender age of the victim: a ten-year-old girl, darting away from her parents’ care to chase after a cat.

The sobbing mother was no help, but the father kept it together long enough to explain that their family pet had been killed less than a year ago, run over by a car. The girl, sadly named Angel, had had a soft spot for animals in jeopardy ever since, but no, he’d never thought she’d get out of the car to help one, and not in traffic.

"Didn’t even save that damn cat," Mr. Lopez blurted, and burst into tears.

He’d left Nick to photograph the body. Now, as the coroner’s van rumbled away, Gil caught up with him, frowning at Nick’s drawn appearance.

"I don’t think charges will be filed," Gil said evenly, with a glance at the shaken driver now being gruffly questioned by officers. "Misadventure. Sad, but it happens."

Nick gave a slow nod. "Girl just wanted to help a stray cat," he murmured. "Guess she wasn’t thinking."

"No. You all right, Nicky?"

"Yeah." Nick drew a fast breath. "I’m on it."

He kept an eye on him anyway. He’d worked with Nick a long time; the man had a soft heart, one thus far not irreparably dented by the grisly, often tragic nature of their work. Gil devoutly hoped that day would never come.

And once started, he couldn’t stop watching. Because the sense of subtle difference was back. Could chalk it up to time, his memory exaggerating Nick’s appearance, his demeanor. But he didn’t think that was it. The tickle he reluctantly recognized as instinct told him this was something else. Something far odder.

For one thing, Nick looked good. Granted, he’d always been a handsome guy, and Gil had never been completely immune to that fact, no matter how often he’d told himself in the past that it was irrelevant. Now, though, Nick was, well.

Glowing.

Even sobered by the Lopez girl’s untimely death, there was an…aura about him, one that Gil couldn’t quite define but most definitely recognize. And it was far more noticeable in the stronger light of the lab. Nick looked healthy, substantial, VITAL.

It was a quite devastatingly good look for him, and Gil clamped down a bit wearily on the part of himself that whispered, Good enough to eat, and sighed.

Nick glanced at him, eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Are you taking vitamins?"

Nick sat up, his open expression visibly shuttering. "Vitamins?" he echoed dubiously.

Gil produced a rueful smile. "You look different. I couldn’t help noticing."

"I take vitamins, yeah," Nick said. His cheeks had gone pink. "Guess they’re doing their job, huh."

With a sharp, icy shock, Gil realized Nick’s Adam’s apple was gone.

"What?" Gil whispered.

"What?" Nick asked breathlessly.

"Nick. You really do look different." A cold curl of new alarm rippled down Gil’s spine, and he sat up straight. "You have no Adam’s apple."

Nick’s color ebbed away before his eyes, and he watched Nick touch his throat gingerly. "Yes, I do."

"No. You don’t. And that’s impos –"

Nick put his hand in his lap. The missing Adam’s apple was right there. Plain as day.

"But," Gil said.

"Maybe you’re tired," Nick said, although his smile was ghostly, as evanescent as fog.

"It wasn’t there," Gil told him huffily. "And then it was."

"Want some coffee? Maybe you need to eat something. Low blood sugar?"

Eyeing Nick’s untrustworthy smile – and the amazing now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t Adam’s apple – Gil shook his head. "That’s not it."

"I’ll go get you a sandwich."

When Nick stood, Gil did, too. "I know what I saw. How is that possible? Nick, what’s going on?"

Nick’s smile faltered and fell. "Nothing," he said urgently. "I promise. I’ll be right back."

"I don’t want a sandwich, I want an explanation!"

"Crap." Nick’s color was ghastly now, and Gil flashed immediately on that odd moment weeks ago when he’d happened across Nick in the john. Crying, and he looked about an inch from it right now. "It’s – nothing," Nick stammered, eyes wide and beseeching. "Really."

"I don’t believe that," Gil said harshly. "Not for a moment. Nick, are you ill?"

Nick clapped his hand over his mouth and fled.

Chapter Seven

One fact was very true, in the magical world and in the Muggle one, as well: When you were sick, it was really hard to focus on anything else. That meant you didn’t work, or talk, because you were too busy throwing up.

Which was why, he thought later, at a time when he most needed every obscuring skill he possessed, they all failed him at the same time. He couldn’t not throw up, and unless he wanted to yark all over the lab, he had to do it in the bathroom. And that was where Gil Grissom found him, far too soon after he’d started.

Without any glamours whatsoever. His real self.

"Here," Grissom muttered, crowded in alongside him and sliding him a damp paper towel. "God, Nicky."

Nick took the towel and held it, and his stomach turned over and he closed his eyes.

When it was done, he wiped his mouth and made himself meet Grissom’s pitying eyes. Which widened, staring at him with a totally flummoxed expression.

"It’s gone again," Grissom said hoarsely.

Without replying, Nick hauled himself to his feet and wiped his mouth, bending over to sip from the faucet and rinsing. He could no longer tell if he had any glamour working at all. He felt too sick, and too tired to care.

"I’m taking you to see Robbins."

There was something charming in Grissom’s voice then: some strange and lovely assurance that a doctor could explain all this. To Grissom, everything had an explanation, even the weirdest things. It was all a matter of deduction. Process: theory and hypothesis and proof.

Nick gazed at his flushed, beardless, too-soft face in the mirror. "It won’t help," he said bleakly.

"But –"

"I’m not sick, Grissom." Nick wadded up the towel and threw it in the trash.

"Obviously you are," came the aggrieved reply.

"I’ll be better in a few minutes."

"I’m not sure I believe that."

"Believe what you want," Nick said wearily. "Won’t make any difference."

When he glanced at him, Grissom’s face was set in familiar, imperturbable lines. "Let’s let Al be the judge of that," he replied.

"Is that an order?"

"I can make it one."

Nick gave a listless shrug. "Suit yourself."

Oh, Snape was going to FREAK.

He wondered what the Ministry would have to say about this, as he let Grissom lead him down the hallway.

~~~~~~~~~

Al Robbins was in his office, typing away, and gave them a distracted look over his glasses. "Gentlemen? Got something for me?"

Gil gave a tight nod. "Something, but it’s Nick here."

Robbins glanced at Nick, who hadn’t said a word since Gil dragged him down the hallway to the elevator. Nick shrugged, and Gil added, "He’s not feeling well. I hoped you could have a look." And tell me you see what I’m seeing, please. Because if you aren’t, I may need you to have a look at ME next.

"Well, certainly." Robbins stowed his glasses in his pocket and reached for his crutches. "Not that often I get a live patient. Adds a little spice."

Normally Gil would have waited for Nick to make some sort of crack about not getting any bright ideas once he got near that steel table. But this strange version of Nick just sighed.

Twenty minutes later, it was Robbins’ turn to shrug. "Well, Nick, your blood pressure’s a little high, and you’re a little thinner than I’d like, but otherwise? Seemingly in perfect health." He gave Gil a look. "Now would you two like to explain what I might actually be looking for?"

Gil turned to Nick. "Maybe Nick’s the one to ask," he said shortly.

Nick didn’t meet his eyes, or Robbins’, either. "I told you, I’m fine," he muttered.

"Half an hour ago you were so sick you couldn’t stand up on your own. That’s not fine, Nick."

"I’m fine now."

"All right, so." Robbins lifted his eyebrows. "What are we talking about? Emesis?"

Gil gave an impatient nod. "Look at him! Doesn’t he look…different to you?"

After a moment’s consideration, Robbins said slowly, "A trace of edema, perhaps. But nothing…."

"His Adam’s apple is gone!"

Nick sighed, while Robbins took that in. "How many times in your career," Gil continued tightly, "have you seen a spontaneous regression like that? What could cause it? Hormonal imbalance?"

Nick flinched, and then uttered a high giggle.

"What?" Gil snapped.

The giggling became laughter, Nick waving his hand and shaking his head vigorously.

Robbins wasn’t smiling. "Let me see, Nick," he said calmly.

"Do – Doesn’t matter," Nick gasped, reaching up to wipe tears of mirth from his cheeks. "It’s okay, Merlin’s name."

Gil blinked. "Merlin?"

"I mean, swear to God." Nick hiccuped a couple of times and bubbled another laugh before sobering a little. "Really," he said with another sigh. "I never had one, okay? It didn’t disappear. It was never there to start with."

"Never had one?" Robbins looked as if Nick had suddenly grown an extra eye. "All men have an Adam’s apple, Nick. Some more pronounced than others, granted, but –"

"Not me." The ghost of a giggle escaped, and Nick visibly clamped down on it. "Never did