The MultiFandom MPREG Archive

A Nose for Magic

Chapter 1: OOOPS! or ... The First Trimester

by Darklady

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters and I have little hope of owning them in the future. (Well - there IS always the lottery. I COULD win. But it still wouldn't be enough to buy out JKR.) This story is mine. To my great sorrow, no one is planing to pay me for it. So - no violations intended.

Fandom: Harry Potter ( no spoilers)

Rated: PG

Slash?: Some.

Note: I was just considering how MPRG is universally considered an offshoot of slash - and then I realized that it didn't actually HAVE to be. If you know what I mean. So....

Second Note: This story is told in non-linear format. That translates as it jumps around in time. Shifts are indicated by the little flying owls. Follow them - you wont get lost.

Third Note: I think I got Pixi Pox from someone. (No - not literally! Scratches - just in case. ) I don't remember who- but my thanks. If you're here - drop me a note.

Archive: Here for now. Maybe elsewhere later. We'll see.

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He had been busy.

He had been distracted.

He had been... Snape snapped his robe sharply as he turned the corner back to his quarters... an idiot.

At first he had thought the small bump on his nose was an ensuiant wart.

How cliche. Not to mention that - while wicked - he was hardly a witch.

He had owled for a tube of Wart-B-Gon. ( Commercial crap, but he had been - as mentioned - BUSY. Much to busy to spend an hour brewing when Voldemort was poised for his final assault.)

It hadn't worked.

The wart cream, that is.

At his next glance at the mirror the blemish was bigger then ever.

No surprise. That had just confirmed his opinion that commercial potions WERE crap - but by then he had been in the middle of the Dark Lord's elaborate plan to infect Dumbledore with Pixi Pox, dispel the school wards, and... oh yes... kill the Potter brat.

Which - by the by - hadn't worked out either.

Potter 200 points.

Deatheaters 0.

Then there had been a two day stay in St. Mungo's being generally ignored, (Why the hell, Snape had wondered, did they call it observation when nobody came by to observe you. Or to answer the buzzer when you needed a drink. Or a better wart potion. )

Then two weeks brewing up potions for those *not* fortunate enough to escape the infection. His own House among them. Pixi Pox always hit purebloods worst.

Naturally the last thing on his mind had been his appearance.

So when the month of scratching and scabbing had quieted and the last student had been dispatched on holiday and Hogwarts had been quiet again?

When he had had a chance to look in the mirror?

The supposed wart was... clearly not a wart. More like a festering boil. What had been a small pea had bloomed to something the size of a large grape - and nearly as green. His already yellow skin was stretched over a ball of pussey fluid.

He had leaned closer, considering whether he should lance the boil or just pop it. Neither the best choice, Snape had conceded - given the obvious dangers of open wounds inside a potions lab - but better then looking like the cliche villain in a muggle fairly tale. While he was considering the point, he had noticed... something. Inside. Moving.

Panicked... make the concerned ... he had run... ahem... dropped by to see Poppy Pomfrey.

Snape remembered every minute as clearly as any Pensive.

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The school nurse watched with evident concern as Snape fingered the tender side of his nose.

"A remnant of the Infestus curse?" Unlikely. Even at it's most powerful, it tended to induce *minor* diseases. To wit and in situ - Pixi Pox. But there *had* been that infestation of toads back in 1262. Skin worms back in 412. Very well - that last was natural. And to muggles. Still....

"Perhaps." Pomfrey carefully not-argued. Which was more nerve raking then any plague. " The magic signature is..."

She waved her wand - and a tiny glowing fetus appeared in mid-air.

"Good Merlin!" Snape shot up from his chair. "How is that possible!"

Except? With a gut-sinking Snape knew.

Double Potions - about a month before the battle.

*That* he remembered too.

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"Fecundus Potion."

He hadn't even needed his usual inspiration ( Voldemort, first years, and how much more this year's idiot was making teaching the DADA class ) to get the tone of loathing into his voice.

"Normally a controlled substance, but today apparently a shower gel, thanks to Mr. Longbottom's clumsiness." If looks could kill - a certain Gryffindor would have been Kadavra'd on the spot.

Snape paused a moment, enjoying the sight of the seventh year boys trying to mop up the splattered mess without touching it - themselves - or anything else in the room.

"For the young ladies." He stepped back sharply as Bulstrode stumbled by. Life in Slytherin was complicated enough. "Blessedly there is an antidote." He shot a look at the dripping redhead who had tactically stepped behind a table. Out of reach. "Lord knows we don't need another Weasley in the world."

"For the gentlemen, or at least the Y chromosome remainder of this assembly, the matter is less reparable." He glowered at Draco, who had one finger raised and was gazing consideringly at Hermione Granger. "You will have to wait for the effect to wear off. Which means for the next 24 hours you are more fertile then a Weasley in heat."

Snape caught the redheaded boy's unvoiced objection. He mentally deducted two points from Gryffindor. "Do not touch your quondam girlfriends. Or boyfriends." He shot a sneer at Zambini. Mostly just because he could. "Do not - this I most clearly stress - touch *yourselves*. If possible - and in view of your adolescent impulses I add this as a futile gesture - even *think* about sex."

"In the hands of a strong potions master." Snape preened slightly. "Which we must for once be thankful Mr. Longbottom is historically *not*." Another look from Weasley. Another two points from Gryffindor. "Wish fulfillment `virgin' pregnancies have been noted to occur."

Normally at the will of equally powerful Wizards, and as the outcome of a convoluted series of near-Dark incantations, but as adolescent emotionalism had it's own unpredictable force?

"Finally." His eyes swept carefully over the entire room. "As you will have no*social* distractions tonight?" Snape waited - giving time for the edge of dismay to sink between the ribs of a Friday date-night. "Group detention in the library - where you will each write three feet on the dangers of unplanned sexual activity." He cut off Goyle's unspoken witticism. Likely something crude about being willing to plan for it anytime. "Due by curfew. After which you will be locked into your dormitories until breakfast."

By which time - one hoped - the bungled potion would wear off. Rendering the need for the academic exercise.... academic.

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The small section of Snape's mind not occupied with gibbering and/or denial was rather proud of the calm tone in which he recounted those events.

"But you..." Now Pomfrey really *did* look worried. "You were outside the splash zone. My scan cleared you."

Snape nodded. He had been. Not to mention that he had changed his clothing anyway, down to the skin, and sent even his shoes to Hogsmeade's finest de-hexing laundry. In addition to the fact that he *never* forgot to set his personal anti-disaster wards. So how?

Damn!

Parchment.

Rolls of parchment. Rolls of parchment that would have been in book bags that would have been under desks that would have been *soaked* by the Fecundus potion. Even as had their owners.

Rolls of parchment that wouldn't have been replaced or even noticed - but that would have been used for the next assignment . An assignment that was... also well remembered.

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Snape leaned back , scratching his nose. That had been a prime rant... Not his best -the language was a bit lacking - but pure rage had made up for it.

Of course? Snape shifted the pile that cluttered his desk. Now he had to grade all these papers. Perhaps he should have just taken points? No - because Crabbe had been Longbottom's partner in the Fecundus disaster, and Snape extracted point from his own House as willingly as he would have extracted one of his own teeth.

Not to mention that Slytherin was ahead, for once, and while he had no doubt the Potter brat would turn that around at the end? Well - no need to provoke Minerva into any premature retaliations.

Besides - writing papers had kept the hormonal little beasts under his and Flitch's eye - and out of trouble. Which would hopefully keep them out of *trouble*.

As a House head, Snape had dealt with his share of youthful parents. Then the parents of youthful parents.The resultant screaming, tears, and threats were not conducive to a peaceful dungeon.

Of course. He scratched his nose again. Neither was the prurient near-porn these brats managed to scrawl. Dipping his quill, he scrawled `Not even if you could levitate, which your Charm grades assure me you can not' - over a particularly contorted bit of description.

He scratched his nose again.

Really. Purple ink would suit these better then red.

Snape gave thanks that he had been out of the splash range. And - with slightly less gratitude - that it likely wouldn't have been a problem anyway. The schedule of a double agent put paid to ones social life, and after a triple session of Voldemort, Dumbledore, and brats? Even Mother Thumb wasn't all that attractive.

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Regrettably - and this specific moment would likely be the first and only time that Snape did regret it - disinclined was nothing like disabled.

In the end? Even without... emphasis... there was always *some*... discharge. That was a rule of basic biology.

A catalyst can remain in effect after its substance has been removed. That was a prime rule of potions.

Anything that can go wrong will. That was the first rule of the life of Severus Snape.

Which brought him back to the present.

Could points be deducted retroactively? Or would it be simpler to wait until Longbottom returned and bury his broken body in one of the more isolated sub-basements. Certainly Dumbledore would understand.

Drawing in a deep breath, he turned to the medi-witch.

"I'm pregnant."