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No one tells her that the second doesn’t always come as easily as the first.
They never talk about it. They never discuss it beforehand, don’t build it into any of their plans (because they don’t make plans). Things just kind of… happen.
Their first appears out of nowhere, all ten fingers and all ten toes, cloudy grey eyes and black ringlets. Ewan is a mirror image of his father and a complete surprise. She didn’t even realize she was pregnant until her bump had hardened enough that she recognized it wasn’t just a food baby, that she wasn’t just bloated.
And still, when they realize her bump is a baby, they don’t take it too seriously. The photo album is full of pictures of her and Sirius comparing bellies, pressing them together, Sirius growing softer in the middle through the years.
(“Happy soft” he always calls it, no longer starving in prison, wrongfully accused and convicted. No longer living in the shadow of his family or fearing for his godson’s life. Happy and content in the life that he has.)
No, they don’t take much of it seriously at all. They turn her bump into a pumpkin for Hallowe’en and regularly try to balance thing on the curve as she grows bigger.
Until, one night, Hermione is a mess of tears and hormones, staring into an empty room that’s supposed to be the nursery, just a week before she’s due to give birth. It isn’t anyone’s fault, they just don’t plan things, they wait for them to happen naturally.
To be fair, it’s not like things really change much once he’s born, either. They continue to be silly as always, marching to the beat of their own drum, raising their son the way they want to. She worries and keeps her boys in line, of course, but Sirius has mellowed her out over the years, introducing her to a life free from most anxiety.
They’re those wacky parents covered in tattoos who pull their son out of school when the weather is nice or if they simply want to spend the day together. They let Ewan choose his clothes and brush his own hair, let him decorate his room however he pleases.
And then a bunch of years later, still just the three of them, Ewan old enough that her chest aches sometimes for his little boy snuffles and his sweet milky breath, Sirius’ filthy vocabulary takes a turn.
They’re adventurous in bed and out of it. Their sex life is lively and fun and always pleasurable. They try new things, they stick to comfortable old things and they remain consistently intimate even with their son just down the hall.
Holding her down underneath him, hips slapping against her arse, hand wrapped around her wrists to hold them still at her tailbone, he grunts.
“Gonna fuck you full, honey,” he hisses, hips stuttering at his own words. “Gonna fill you so full you burst.”
Hermione’s breath stutters, hitching in her throat at the unfamiliar words, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He carries on, filth spilling from his lips, hips bumping furiously against her.
“Want to watch your belly grow,” he says around gritted teeth. “Then everyone will know just how I fuck you, huh? Hard enough, fast enough, often enough to knock you up.”
Hermione cries out, pushes back against him, feels her pleasure rolling through her belly, spreading out to the tips of her fingers, the heels of her feet and bridge of her nose. She realizes she likes it, loves it, thinking about this.
Flexes her fingers in his grip and whines, “Please, Sirius. I want that, I want it.”
“Gonna make your tits grow fat with milk, honey. For me, so I can taste you, so I can drink from you.”
His mouth is filthy, but it always has been. She’d been prim and proper before things between them had started, blushing over his language and playfully slapping a hand over his mouth. But she’s just as bad now, just as vulgar.
It makes him laugh, to see her use such language. Always wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing wet, messy kisses over her face, “Oh, how I have corrupted you so, bug. Such filth from those pretty lips.”
She knows he likes it when his free hand moves up her back to fist in her hair, yanking her head back just as she hisses, “Fuck me full of your come, please Sirius! I never want to be empty again.”
And while he has always come inside her, baby or no baby, contraceptive potion or not, trying or not trying, they’ve never made the act about conception, they’ve never let filthy words dribble from their mouths about this desire for her to be fat and full and dripping.
They don’t talk about it after, falling into a light doze as his come drips out of her, down her thighs and onto their bedspread. She rests her head against his chest and runs her fingers through the greying hair, tracing the runes and tattoos that live there.
But the front door bangs open downstairs and they hear the loud sound of heavy footsteps: Ewan, home from Diagon Alley with Harry and his boys. Hermione groans and stretches out, the feeling in her legs and tailbone nearly enough to make her come again.
Sirius throws his pants on and covers her up with the blanket, pressing a kiss to her forehead and a whispered, “Love you, bug,” against her ear, just as Ewan throws their door open. He has a big grin stretching his lips and bag of his favourite candy.
“Cockroach clusters!” Sirius celebrates, punching his fist in the air. “Good choice, mate.”
He scratches at his chest and throws her a wink — she hates cockroach clusters — before patting his palm on the back of Ewan’s head and pushing him out of the room.
“Doesn’t Mummy want some?” Her son asks, trying to turn back around.
“Mummy’s busy.”
Hermione hides her smile and keeps her eyes closed, pretending she’s sleeping. Otherwise, Ewan will jump up on their bed and snuggle in and while she wouldn’t have minded when he was a baby, he’s old enough now that he’ll ask questions.
“What’s she doing?” He asks softly.
Sirius hums, “She’s making something.”
Hermione raises an eyebrow at that and her fingers press down a little bit harder on her belly.
“In bed?” Ewan questions, sounding incredulous.
“Oh yeah, mate,” Sirius tells him. “Best place to make something.”
So they’re trying, even if neither has actually come out and said anything. But they’re trying.
In the afternoons, when Ewan is at school, Sirius cuddles up at her side as she reads through papers for work and buries his face into her chest. He tugs her top down, she goes braless underneath, and his lips find her nipple like it’s instinct.
He suckles at her breasts constantly after talking about her tits getting fat with milk. He’d tried it a few times with Ewan, laid his head out on a pillow on top of her lap and sucked the last dregs from her.
(“It’s sweet,” he’d told her, lips smacking. “Like the milk leftover after a bowl of Frosties. No wonder Ewan goes crazy for your tits. ‘Course, so do I— maybe he’s just a booby man.”)
He snoozes sometimes, mouth lax around her nipple, cool breath on top of wet skin making her shiver. And other times she puts down her work and draws her index finger over his cheek and the seal of his lips.
He opens his eyes and stares at her, grey eyes twinkling, mouth still suckling like he’s adamant to get something out of her.
There’s no milk though, she’s not lactating. She hasn’t produced milk in a few years now since she weaned Ewan. It’s far too coincidental to not be connected to his newfound passion of knocking her up, though. It feels purposeful, like he’s making it very clear what he’s after. Not just her milk, not just her tits getting fat, but her belly too.
And for her it feels like another way of connection. It’s a comfort thing, something she’s missed with Ewan off the tit. It doesn’t hurt anyone, it doesn’t bother her, he’s not like a teething baby and he doesn’t bite.
Usually, he suckles at her quietly until she squirms and squeezes her thighs together, until she moves over him and tugs down her leggings. Until he pulls his own joggers down, then his pants, notching himself inside of her before she can ask.
“Should’ve kept sucking you,” he breathes, fingers pressing bruises into her hips as he helps her bounce on him. “Could’ve fed me instead.”
She wants to roll her eyes at the thought but her belly clenches instead, tightening at his words and he smiles knowingly. He takes control, pushes her up and down on his cock at a pace that’s far too fast for her to do on her own.
“You like that, huh, honey? Want to give me your milk-fat little tits? Everyone will know how full you are, that I did it to you,” he teases her, muttering filth into her ear. “That I got you in the family way.”
He puts on a posh voice and she snorts with laughter, tipping her head, breasts bouncing in front of his face. How he can be so silly and so filthy at the same time, she doesn’t know. But she wouldn’t trade it for anything.
“Gotta get real deep for that to happen,” she teases, fingers wrapping around the back of his neck. “Need to fuck me harder, deeper, to make sure your come stays there.”
He takes her words like an order, eyes closing as he pushes insistently against her cervix, like coming inside her womb is the only way he’ll be happy, the only way he’ll know it worked. Each bounce pushes a harsh breath and a whine out of her.
“You fucking asked for it,” he grumbles, fingers squeezing, thrusts sharper, more erratic. “My slutty little Mummy, begging for Daddy to get her pregnant.”
And that’s not a thing they’ve explored, just what they usually call each other in front of Ewan. They’re Mummy and Daddy still but she knows the day will soon come when they’re Mum and Dad.
It still makes her come, though, and her coming makes him come. He floods her and she can feel it dripping down her thighs and onto the material of his pants. He leans forward, forehead flopping down onto her shoulder and mouths at the skin.
“Merlin, you’re a dream,” he whispers against her skin.
She slowly, purposely, starts switching out her coffee and tea for decaf after that. It’s right next to the regular one she usually buys at the market and she throws it into her basket with a little flutter of her heart.
Starts to limit herself to a few drags off of Sirius’ cigarette after she finishes off her own open pack. Cuts down on her wine consumption, too. Heartbreakingly passes on the Camembert and Chevrot when Sirius makes them up a little cheese and charcuterie board one night.
Because they’re trying. They don’t usually plan for anything, but they’re planning for this.
Sirius obsesses over her belly more so than usual. It’s flat-ish, some bulges and scars, the white stretch marks still prominent near her hips and under her belly button. He worships her, lips working around the skin, plucks the few dark hairs she gets there and presses a kiss to the spot each time.
Cups her belly with a reverent palm as he ruts into her with a fury.
“Gonna fill this belly up, bug,” he groans into her ear. “Gonna make her stretch for me.”
(Bug. The stupid nickname that stuck, after beetle, bee, love bug, until simply: bug. The fascination with insects simply too mind boggling for her to understand.)
She pants into his shoulder, fingers clutching his hair, keeping his face down by hers and she begs, “Please, Sirius. Make me stretch, fill me, come in me.”
To be honest she’s amazed they haven’t done it yet, that it hasn’t taken. It’s been a month or two but she hasn’t gotten that feeling yet, not like with Ewan. That bloated, frustrated huff that something just isn’t quite right.
“Just want you round with it,” he groans, hand cupping her belly still. “Want you big and round and filled with me, growing something perfect for me. Want you stretching out my shirts and taking up the whole bed.”
She almost laughs but it gets caught in a moan. He’s less filthy that night and more… hopeful sounding. Wanting a state of her rather than just squishy milky tits, something tangible. Her, big, round, full, pregnant, happy.
But he seems to blink himself out of whatever reverie he gets lost in, his thrusts losing some of their rhythm and power. He presses a biting kiss to her lips and moves his hand to grip her hip, cock jabbing up into the spongey spot he helped her find all those years ago.
“Miss fucking you when you’re pregnant,” he says softly, almost too soft in her ear. “You liked it, didn’t you, honey? Fuck, you were such a horny little thing, hm? Desperate for me, already full and wanting more.”
“Yes, so desperate,” she pants, clenching down around him, feeling her orgasm rising.
He bites down on her clavicle, sharp, before he presses a wet kiss over the hurt and shakes his head, beard scratching her skin, “Gonna give you a baby, honey. Gonna give her to you.”
Her. A girl.
Hermione whines and pulls hard on his hair, still caught in her grasp. Drags him down to her lips by his neck and begs, “Give her to me, Sirius.”
His hips jerk and he holds her down, fucking into her hard and fast. He’s taking from her but she doesn’t care, doesn’t even want to come, just wants her.
They pant side-by-side until he pulls her to lay against his chest. His hand sneaks down to rub insistent circles against her clit, using his own come to make her slippery, because he never leaves her without an orgasm, no matter what.
She comes, thighs flexing, and he carefully scoops up the rivulets of his viscous come, pushing it carefully back inside.
“For safe keeping,” he jokes.
Hermione laughs, thinks about the muggle pregnancy tests under the sink.
Ginny’s pregnant again. Which is great news, they’re all excited. But her womb’s still empty and she wishes it wasn’t.
Ewan drags Sirius out in the back to play with the Potter boys and Hermione is stuck inside with her best friend’s wife. She likes the redhead well-enough, friendly with her, but they’ve never been best friends and it’s unlikely they ever will be.
They just don’t get on well, they never truly have. She doesn’t dislike the witch, just doesn’t think she’d be able to deal with talking to her day-in and day-out. But Harry likes people like that, happy and positive and willing to go that extra little inch to do something.
Hermione isn’t like that anymore, feels like she was pushed into it as a child. It’s not as if she really had a choice in the matter, it’s not as though anyone stopped to ask if she was OK with everything that was going on. It was just expected of her, that she had to take care of herself and her two best friends and hopefully find their way out on the other side.
(“They took advantage of your intelligence,” Sirius tells her one evening, shortly after they’d gotten together. “They took one look at my smarty-pants and thought: ‘yeah, sounds about right, children could win us the war!’”)
Harry chose to push further in his life, to make big changes in their world and Hermione chose… not to. She chose to get a job because she had to make money but there was no bigger reason, nothing further she wanted to accomplish. Sirius helped her realize she didn’t have to be that person, if she didn’t want to.
“We are so excited to have another little one on the way,” Ginny says happily, spinning around her kitchen, sundress flattering the small bump on her belly. “We always planned for three.”
It’s hard for Hermione not to feel the slightest bit inadequate in her stretchy bike shorts and ratty tee. But she chose this direction for her life, she reminds herself, couldn’t see herself becoming this Stepford wife that Ginny reminds her of: freshly baked cookies, sundresses, aprons, French twists, pearl earrings, red-painted smile.
Ginny’s gloating. Well, she’s probably not gloating, but it feels like it. It’s not as though anyone knows that she and Sirius are trying or that the subject is a sensitive one for her, at the moment. It’s not like they tell anyone much of anything.
But Ginny goes on and on about how much they hope it’s a girl after the two boys and for a second — a mean, dark second — Hermione is irate that they’re trying to take their girl. The one she and Sirius talk about.
She shakes her head and accepts the glass of lemonade — “No more caffeine for me!” Ginny laughs. — all the while telling herself that what she’s worrying about is impossible. She nods along and gushes about baby clothes, about the sweet toys available and how it feels to lay a baby on your chest.
“I miss it. The boys don’t need me as much anymore, not like that,” Ginny tells her softly. “I think they’ll love having a little sister.
Hermione hums and nods, stays quiet, reflective.
She taps her ring on the table (not a wedding ring but a partnership ring) and lets her eyes wander outside where her boys are tumbling around in the grass. They roughhouse constantly, no matter what she says, always coming back inside stained with grass and dirt.
But Ewan’s always so happy, grinning up at his father. He never asks for anything or causes them any trouble. Wants his hair long like his Daddy, wants to draw pictures on his arms like her and his belly like him. Always tells her that he’ll never, ever, ever leave.
(“I think I’m always going to live here,” he tells her one day, colouring in a picture after talking about Teddy moving back to school. “I never want to be apart from you and Daddy. Would that be OK?”
“Of course, my love,” she says softly. “You can stay with us for as long as you like.”)
“Are you two planning to have more?” Ginny asks, putting down a plate of pastries. “Sirius is getting up there in age.”
He’s 20 years older than her but wizards age differently. His beard might come in a little grey, a few streaks at his temples and a few fine lines have appeared around his eyes, but 50 is practically a teenager for them. He’s a good father, the perfect mix of playful and stern. He has this desire to give Ewan everything he didn’t have growing up: a loving family and choices.
His age is hardly ever a thought in her mind. Besides, she’s hardly 30. Her biological clock hasn’t yet started ticking.
Hermione sighs and shrugs her shoulders, “We don’t really plan for these things.”
And they don’t. They didn’t plan for Ewan, they didn’t plan for the ring on her finger or the dog tattoo on her bicep. Things just happen for them and they’re happy that way. And after so much planning and talking and researching through her childhood, she likes it this way. She chose it.
She likes to just wait and see what happens, to take things as they come.
So it’s odd for them to plan something like this, to be actively trying to have a baby, but they both want it so much, who is she to question it?
Sirius gets more vocal, more intense, as time goes by. He fucks her harder, more often, traps her against the kitchen counter when Ewan is playing in his room and sneaks into the shower with her in the morning.
“Have to be quiet while I give you what you need,” he groans quietly, burying his face in her neck. “Like taking your medicine, honey. You need it.”
Hermione bites down on her palm, keeping her noises inside as best she can because she does, she needs it. She begs him, “Please, Sirius. Please.”
“Your daily dose, right honey? Need it to grow a big, strong baby in that little belly for me. It’s alright, honey, I know.”
He bends her over every free surface and suckles at her tits more often than not. He’s always been a touchy person, always needed to hold her hand or touch her back, to cuddle her or hug her, to kiss her lips or her neck or nose or forehead. And this is… the same, kind of.
It’s the same, but the filth that he spouts, the way he holds her belly and ravenously sucks half her breast into his mouth is like an obsession. The way he fucks his come into her at least once a day, the way he nuzzles her tummy, the way he begs her for something she seemingly has no control over.
It turns into an obsession for her, too, but the wrong kind. She throws countless muggle pregnancy tests in the bin, their pink wrappers more than noticeable. She doesn’t make any effort to hide them. She knows that Sirius must see each and every single one. Feels a strange guilt twisting in her belly as they all show up negative.
And then one day it gets worse.
She goes down to the sitting room after putting Ewan to bed, stepping just past her partner when he pulls her down into his lap, pants already down around his thighs. It takes hardly a second for him to push her nightshirt up over her arse and her knickers to the side, slipping inside of her without a second thought.
Hermione likes riding him, likes the way he feels like too much inside of her, the way it feels like he’s pressing up into her stomach. And Sirius knows that, helping her bounce and grind against him the way she likes, brings her to orgasm after orgasm with the tips of his fingers and his mouth on her nipples.
Asks her to squeeze the come out of him, tells her—
“It’ll make the baby take, Mummy feeling good. All those contractions in your cunt will draw my come into your womb, honey.”
In those moments, more out of her mind than in it, hovering somewhere between pleasure and near-pleasure, she pleads with him to give her everything he says. Nothing sounds better, just wants to be filled with come for the rest of her life, wants to fatten up with his baby and milk.
“Let me take it,” she mumbles nonsensically, as though he isn’t. “Please let me have it, Sirius.”
He huffs wet breaths against her collarbone, “I’ll give it to you, so you can make me a daddy. Make me a daddy, Hermione.”
He picks her up nearly as soon as he comes, keeping his softening cock inside of her as he hurries up the stairs to their room. They’re completely naked and there’s ever possibility that Ewan will wake and see them in the hallway. But he doesn’t.
Lays her down on the bed and moves between her thighs, methodically pushing his come back inside of her for close to an hour. He presses it inside with a focus he usually doesn’t posses, at least not one he shows for anything else.
Hermione worries as she lies there, worries that maybe something is wrong with her. It should have taken by now, she’s doing everything to help it along. With Ewan, she smoked a pack a day and drank wine by the bottle until she realized she was pregnant. It was frankly a miracle that her perfect little boy had taken root inside of her.
But now, consciously treating her body better, making it the perfect little vessel, and nothing.
Sirius starts to use that phrase more often when they have sex: make me a daddy.
When he fucks hard into her cunt, growling, “Make me a daddy.”
When he licks into her cunt after they’ve had sex, he whispers against her folds, “Make me a daddy.”
When he rolls his hips against her from behind, chest pressed along her back, he pants into her ear, “Make me a daddy.”
It makes her tense up, when he says it, and not in a good way. In a guilty way, in a worrywart way. Starts to feel like maybe she isn’t trying enough, maybe she isn’t doing enough.
They sneak off for a quickie one afternoon, about ten minutes before Ewan is set to come back from spending time with Remus. He cups her belly and squeezes her tits, tells her about the filthy dreams he has at night, her milk-filled tits dribbling as he fucks and squeezes her.
He works her clit and begs her, again, “Make me a daddy, honey.” She gives him an uncomfortable, hardly satisfying orgasm as his hips stutter in their thrusts. She feels his come flooding her cunt, tenses her belly as if she can suck it up into her womb.
Sirius sighs happily, sated, against her neck and presses small kisses and whispered praises to her skin. She tunes out the praise, doesn’t feel like she deserves it.
But she puts on a smile when he kisses her lips and fixes her knickers and leggings just as the front door bangs open. He races down the hall to greet their son and she leans back against the wall. Her thighs twinge and her knickers are soaked.
Hermione sinks down to the floor and curls around her knees, tears rolling down her cheeks. Feels guilty that she can’t give him what he wants, what he begs for most.
Harry finds her curled up on the couch one night, appearing through her floo while Sirius is out with Remus at the pub. Ewan is fast asleep in his bed, cuddling the stuffed Kapa he’d chosen years before. She’s sneaking a glass of wine and bummed one of Sirius’ cigarettes before he left, lit between her fingers.
She’s not expecting her oldest friend, giving her an awkward smile, his glasses forever crooked on his face. Harry looks much the same as when they were kids: still clean cut, with a short hair cut and his ever familiar round glasses. His scar has slowly faded as the years have gone by but she can still make out the jagged edges on his forehead.
Hermione tries to inconspicuously wipe her face of tears and give him a smile, but she knows her face is blotchy and warm and swollen. Her eyes hurt, too.
Greets him, instead, with a warbled, “Hi Harry.”
“I knew something wasn’t right,” he says softly, sitting down next to her. “Yesterday, you didn’t look yourself. Tell me what’s going on.”
She shrugs her shoulders, “Nothing, Harry. Just emotional, just felt like crying.”
“Bollocks,” he says, rolling his eyes, but doesn’t push her to explain herself.
Her friend hums and sits back against the couch, pulling her free arm over to rest against his lap. He draws his finger over her forearm, a habit of his, tracing the tattoos there and focusing in on her newest one. It’s a smaller version of the Yr rune on Sirius’ abdomen, representing the yew tree, for her little Ewan.
“That’s new,” he says, changing the subject. He follows the branches down to the trunk and asks, “When’d you get that?”
She shrugs, “Sirius did it, it’s like his.”
“You let him tattoo you?” He asks incredulously, eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses.
Hermione rolls her eyes, sticking her cigarette between her lips, and unfolds her arms, showing him the dozens of little scratchings that exist on her skin. Some are lyrics to their favourite songs, some pictures of little animals or cartoon characters that Sirius has sketched. There’s even a mottled smiley face on her wrist from the first time Sirius held a muggle tattoo gun.
He’s a good artist, creative and imaginative in his drawings, and she’s always been a willing canvas for his art. The black dog tattoo on her bicep is the biggest one he’s put on her skin, the most detailed. It’s Ewan’s favourite too for how much it resembles his Daddy in animagus form.
“I’ve let him tattoo me for 11 years now, Harry.”
He nods his head and traces the script along the notch of bone where her wrist meets her forearm that reads love me two times, The Doors song they adopted as theirs years ago. If they ever feel the desire to have a wedding, that will be their song.
“I can’t believe you’ve been together for 11 years,” he says, shaking his head. “I was just saying to Gin the other day that it’s crazy Ewan will be seven already. It feels like just yesterday you were puttering around, refusing to wear a shirt that covered your belly.”
Hermione plucks the cigarette from her lips and scoffs, “Fucking societal double standard.”
“He’s so much like you and Sirius,” Harry continues, winking at her but otherwise ignoring her interjection. “Down to his mannerisms. Sometimes I feel like I’m talking to Sirius.”
And Hermione bursts into tears, thinking about her poor son, so grownup. Thinks about the potential age difference between him and a child that doesn’t seem to want to enter the world with Hermione and Sirius as her parents.
She sobs and Harry sighs softly, pulling her into his chest. He lets he soak his t-shirt with tears like the best friend that he is, rubbing her back and stubbing out her cigarette lest she burn one of them. He holds her and waits, lets her find the right words.
“Sirius wants a baby,” she mumbles into his shirt, sniffling.
Harry frowns against her head, she feels it, “You don’t want another one?”
Huffs, “No, I do.”
Leaves it at that, waits for him to understand what she’s saying. Once upon a time it was like they could communicate without words, sending signals to the other’s brain just with thoughts and feelings. They got really good at reading each other, had to, to survive.
“Ah,” he says suddenly, understanding.
Hermione snorts and rubs her snotty nose with the back of her hand, “Yeah. Ah.”
But Harry shakes his head and rubs his hand clumsily along her back, “I can’t imagine that Sirius would want a baby to the detriment of your happiness.”
And she has nothing to say to that because she doesn’t know how to tell Harry that Sirius doesn’t know how sad she is. That he doesn’t know she cries to herself in the privacy of the loo when she goes pee or when she walks to the market on her own. He has no idea how much it’s hurting her.
So she sighs and shrugs, “He really wants a baby. So do I.”
Harry shifts uncomfortably underneath her, “Have you been… trying long?”
“Almost a year.”
Harry hums and nods, fingers still moving the length of her back. It’s quiet for a while, just the crackle of the fire and the sound of the floor settling upstairs. She calms her breath and clears her nose as they sit there.
“How long did it take with Ewan?” He asks.
Hermione pulls back and wipes the last tracks of tears from her cheeks, shaking her head, “We weren’t trying, it just happened. We were just happy and in love and without a care in the world and I was forgetful and— one day, I was pregnant.”
His thumb taps her shoulder softly, comfortingly, “Maybe that’s the way to do it then. Maybe you should stop trying and just… let it happen.”
And, thinking about it, she wants that desperately. She wants to forget about all of this, doesn’t want to be so purposeful anymore in their attempts. Wants to be free and happy and enjoy having sex again.
Hermione stomps out of the loo that connects to her bedroom and whips the plastic pregnancy test at Sirius. She likes the muggle ones, likes to feel the test in her hand and see the physical proof. The spell appears out of thin air and disappears just as fast, doesn’t make things feel real.
She loved the way Sirius had stared at her dumbfounded when she’d given him the positive pregnancy test all those years ago, proof that what she thought was a food baby was actually his baby. He, of course, had no idea what it was until she explained how it worked.
They also sting when you throw it at someone and Sirius yelps, clutching the side of his head as it glances off his his skull.
“What the fuck, bug?” He asks, whining, eyes wide in surprise as he throws down his sketchbook on their bed.
He’s not even angry, just confused. So typical of her partner. She’s never met someone so difficult to anger before, someone able to remain so calm despite the frustration of a situation. They’re nothing alike when it comes to anger.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she blurts out, voice shaking, unhinged in her misery.
“Do what? What are you talking about?” He stands and approaches her, hands out in front, cautious, like he’s approaching a wild animal.
He is. That’s what she feels like, like she’s liable to lose control at any moment. To attack him or attack herself, to go wild in her anger and frustration. She feels like she’s kept everything in for so long that it has nowhere to go but out.
He spins around to look for the object that hit him, bending over to pick it up. He looks up at her, confused, “Am I supposed to take this?”
Hermione rolls her eyes in exasperation, “No, you’re not supposed to take it! I already did! Just another fucking stupid negative test.”
Sirius narrows his eyes and studies the object before tossing it back down to the ground and approaching her again. This time, he grabs her arms and makes her look him in the eye, holds her close to his body.
“I’m confused, bug. Why are you taking those?”
“To see if I’m pregnant,” she says, frowning.
His eyebrows lift high on his forehead, “Are you?”
She immediately turns to violence, flattening her hand and slapping it against his arm and his chest. Sirius curls in on himself with a yelped, “Ow!”
“Did you even look at it? I just told you: it’s negative!” She says loudly, turning around to pace.
She can see Sirius out of the corner of her eye rubbing his chest and shaking his head. He huffs, “So what?”
“What do you mean, ‘so what?’ We’re trying to get pregnant! It’s been a year and-and nothing!”
His mouth clamps shut, lips pressed into a tight, thin line. His eyes change, too, as her voice shakes and a tear spills down her cheek.
“You could have told me that we were trying.”
And Hermione laughs, almost hysterical at how obtuse he’s being, “You’ve only been begging me to make you a daddy for months now. Tugging on my nipples like you’re trying to make me lactate again! Talking about having a daughter!”
Sirius blanches, face going white and hand shaking as he pushes his fingers through his hair, “I-I thought we were just— having fun.”
Hermione goes still, trying to understand what he’s saying. Trying to understand why he’s pretending to be confused, pretending like he hasn’t been pushing her for months to have another baby.
He speaks again before she can, “I thought it turned you on, bug. I wasn’t trying to… to force anything. It just makes me hot to think about it. I thought it made you hot too, that’s the only reason I kept it going.”
Hermione trembles at his words.
“Fuck, bug,” he whispers, shaking his head and scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look at you, you’re shaking.”
Sirius wraps her in his arms, holds her tight against his chest, and Hermione breaks down in tears. She presses her face into his t-shirt and sobs. Could it have all just been a misunderstanding? This entire time?
“I thought you wanted it,” she cries, words muffled in his shirt. “I thought you wanted it so badly, that you needed to get me pregnant. I-I stopped drinking caffeine, I stopped smoking— what about the tests? Didn’t you see them in the bin?”
He huffs over her head, breath blowing her curls, “Fuck, I noticed. I did, I just thought they were those trampon things when you’re on the rag.”
“Tampons,” she corrects, rolling her eyes. “I don’t even use tampons, Sirius!”
He laughs and groans, “Well, I don’t know! I let you do your thing, you’re always changing things and doing things differently. I just thought you liked decaf tea better now, that you didn’t feel like smoking. I just— follow along.”
He sighs then and lifts her chin until they’re locking eyes. She knows hers are bloodshot and filled with tears, her nose probably snotty.
“I am happy with any direction our life takes us, as long as I’m with you. If we only have Ewan, I’m happy. If we get pregnant again, I’m happy. If we… I don’t know, adopt a fucking— pygmy puff, I’m happy,” he chuckles. Then, “I thought we didn’t plan things.”
Shen groans, wiping her face, “We don’t. I thought you’d changed your mind or something and I just went along with it.”
“Well that’s what we get for being so mellow,” Sirius says, shaking his head and cupping her face, pressing a big, sloppy kiss on her forehead. “I swear to Merlin, bug, I’m going to spank the shit out of you for throwing that muggle plastic shit at my head, but I’m going to do it with all of my love and adoration. Throw those stupid fucking tests away. If it happens, it happens.”
Hermione lets out a heavy sigh of relief, “And if it doesn’t, it doesn’t.”
The baby and breeding talk slows to a stop, but Sirius keeps sucking on her like she’s actually going to feed him. She doesn’t mind, likes it actually, the connection it fosters between them. Instead of whispering about her belly or putting a baby into her, he calls her his little slut and ties her wrists together at the headboard.
She sinks into this new playtime as easily as she slips into the bathwater in the evenings. Her mind slowly strays away from getting pregnant and focuses on enjoying the way Sirius plays with her body, the way he floods her with pleasure.
“You’re a slutty little thing, aren’t you?” He asks rhetorically, staring down at her as she sucks his cock. “So desperate for it, desperate for my come, for my attention.”
And she is, desperate for it. She loves the way he uses her mouth and focuses on his own pleasure, realizes quickly that making him feel good, makes her feel good.
“That’s alright honey, I’ll give you what you need. Keep that mouth and throat full, keep you on your knees until you leave that little head of yours.”
Didn’t think she’d enjoy being objectified, being degraded, but falls into it hard.
Ewan grows another year older and asks to cut his hair short. Sirius cries but says yes, of course, yes, you can do anything you want. They both cry when he blows out the candles on his cockroach cluster cake, their little boy now seven-years-old.
He falls in love with his new cousin, little Lily, and asks to hold her ever chance he gets. For a second, her chest tightens as she looks on at them, her mind supplying a different scenario, one she’s tried hard not to think about.
But Sirius is there to rub his hand down her back and flash her a loving smile, whisper in her ear that he can’t wait to get her home and fuck the everliving shit out of her. He makes things easier, makes the ache in her chest ease.
He still sneaks her into closets and folds her over countertops. He wiggles his fingers in her cunt when they cuddle on the couch watching a movie and pulls her away to an empty room when they visit their friends, tugging down her top to attack her tits with kisses and licks.
Taps her bum with his palm on the days he works a plug into her bottom, making her jump and whimper. Whispers in her ear, “Filthy girl, stretched wide on my plug. Just thinking about my cock, aren’t you, honey?”
One evening, determination set in his features, he drags her leg onto his lap and sketches out a tattoo on the front of her thigh. It takes him hours but still, neither are able to go to sleep until they’re both sated, the pen marks smudged with sweaty fingers.
“Fuck, sorry, honey,” she mumbles, looking down at the ruined tattoo. “Do you have it in a sketchbook?”
He shrugs his shoulders, lazy smile on his face and cigarette lit between his lips, “No, but I can do it again.”
Sits still for him a few days later as he tattoos her with the chicken scratch drawing of the Hogwarts castle, wrapped around her thigh. A special place for them both, something fun. Maybe her new favourite tattoo.
She flashes her bare bum at him during a picnic at the park to celebrate Lily’s birthday, only when she’s certain no one is looking. Sirius narrows his eyes at her and disillusions them both behind a tree until her bum smarts under his hand and her cunt drips with come. He pulls her knickers up to keep it inside.
She squirms at the picnic table later that afternoon, wrapping her lips around a hot dog as he watches. Waves off Ginny’s offer of lotion when she notices how often she scratches at her upper thighs, Sirius’ come now drying on her skin.
And then… she pukes, a few weeks later. And then again the next day. Smiles to herself but ignores it for the time being.
They take Ewan on a trip to Hogsmeade, Sirius showing him Honeydukes and Zonko’s, a proud daddy. They point out the Shrieking Shack in the distance and Hermione falls into bubbles of laughter when Sirius tries to tell their son it’s where they had their first date.
Rolls her eyes and smacks his chest with the back of her hand, “Do not listen to Daddy. We had our first date at a muggle arcade. I destroyed Daddy in Mrs. Pac-Man, don’t let him tell you any different.”
Feels her back start to stiffen and her leggings dig into her waist. Complains of bloating and gas more often than not until she presses against her belly and feels a hard bump.
She takes Ewan with her to the muggle chemist and picks up a box of the pink-wrapped pregnancy tests and a bag of caramels that Ewan likes. They walk back home finishing nearly the entire bag of sweets.
Takes the test in the toilet in their room and grins to herself at the result. Hears the front door bang open, Sirius loudly greeting their son and accepting a thrown caramel. Flies down the stairs and launches herself at her partner of more than 12 years, thrusting the shitty plastic test into his hands.
“No fucking way,” he laughs, ecstatic, reading the test. “No fucking way, bug!”
Hermione nods excitedly and tugs her shirt up to show off the hard little bump that he must have noticed over the last few weeks but never mentioned. Laughs uncontrollably when he yells for Ewan to get the camera, pulling up his own shirt and pushing his belly out to meet hers.
“I bought a pygmy puff,” Sirius mumbles, pressing a sweet, soft kiss to her lips.
“A pigmy puff?” Ewan repeats, a grin stretching his features. “Can I see?!”
Hermione poses for a photo with Sirius that their son takes, bellies pushed out and touching, before Sirius pulls out a fluffy little ball of fur and hands it off to their son.
“Why’d you get it?” She asks, smiling as she watches their son pet the little guy.
Sirius shrugs his shoulders, “Saw it in a window. Figured, why not?”
They don’t make plans, because they’ve never made plans, but things still work out for them in the end.