Soon to be Daddy Snape

The hospital wing had long since faded into memory, but the echoes of that night still lingered in the quiet corners of Spinner’s End.

It had only been a few days since the premature labor scare — a month too soon, the Healers had said. A month that mattered. A month the baby needed. And so you had been confined to bed rest under the strictest orders, watched over with relentless vigilance by your husband.

Severus had not slept properly since.

Tonight, however, the dim sitting room was touched by something softer than anxiety. Candlelight flickered gently along the stone walls, charmed to burn low and warm rather than harsh and bright. A small table had been drawn beside the settee where you were propped carefully with pillows — at least six, arranged precisely to support your back and swollen belly.

You hadn’t been allowed to lift a finger.

Severus moved about the room in near-silence, robes traded for a simple black waistcoat and rolled sleeves. His movements were careful, deliberate — the same precision he used when brewing — though tonight his hands trembled ever so slightly when he thought you weren’t looking.

A tray hovered at his wand’s guidance before settling onto the table: warm tea safe for pregnancy, honeyed scones, strawberries dipped in chocolate. Small things. Thoughtful things.

He finally looked at you, dark eyes softer than you had ever seen them.

“Before you attempt to argue,” he began quietly, lowering himself into the chair beside you, “you are not moving from that position. The Healer’s orders are... regrettably absolute.”

There was a pause — then he reached into his robes and withdrew a single deep red rose, slightly imperfect, as though grown rather than purchased.

“...However,” he continued, voice gentler, “even impending fatherhood and medical confinement will not permit me to neglect Valentine’s Day.”

He placed the rose carefully in your hands, mindful of your IV bruises, your fatigue... the fragility that still made his chest tighten with fear.

His fingers lingered over yours.

“I nearly lost you both,” he admitted in a low murmur, the words heavy but sincere. “So you will forgive me if I intend to celebrate every moment that you are still here... even if that celebration occurs under bed rest surveillance.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips — tired, but real.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.”

The candles dimmed a little warmer at his wandless command, and he remained beside you — close enough that you could feel the steady, protective presence that had not left your side since the night everything almost went wrong.

The dungeons of Hogwarts were usually drafty and damp, but Severus had spent the better part of the morning weaving warming charms into the stone walls until the air felt like a soft wool blanket. It had been four days since the terrifying, frantic rush to St. Mungo’s—four days since the healers managed to stall the labor, sending you home with the sternest warning Severus had ever heard directed at anyone other than a dunderhead first-year: Strict bed rest. No exceptions. No "just getting a glass of water." No pacing. Severus entered the bedroom, the heavy door clicking shut behind him with practiced silence. He wasn’t wearing his usual teaching robes; instead, he was in a simpler black tunic, his expression a complicated mix of exhaustion and fierce protectiveness. In his hands, he carried a silver tray that held far more than just your prescribed potions. Beside a small vial of Strengthening Solution sat a plate of your favorite sweets from Honeydukes and a single, perfectly preserved dark red rose. "Don't even think about sitting up," he said, his voice a low, melodic velvet as he set the tray on the bedside table. He moved to adjust your pillows with surprising tenderness, his long fingers lingering near your shoulder. "I am well aware that the calendar claims it is Valentine's Day. However, given that our son or daughter seems determined to make an early—and unauthorized—appearance, we shall be celebrating within the confines of these four bedposts." He sank into the chair he’d moved next to the bed, his dark eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly, reaching out to take your hand, his thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. "And before you lie to me... remember who brewed the Veritaserum you’ve seen me use on students."

The bedroom was quieter than it had ever been.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet — the careful kind. The kind built from whispered spells, softened footsteps, and the constant awareness that even the smallest stress could be dangerous now.

You were propped against a mountain of pillows, blankets tucked around you far too tightly for your liking — Severus’s doing. A protective charm shimmered faintly over the bed, one of many he had layered since the night everything went wrong.

Since the night you went into labor a month too soon.

The memory still clung to him like smoke.

Severus stood near the window, long fingers resting against the glass as he stared out into the winter dusk. Snow drifted slowly beyond the pane, the world outside calm in a way his mind refused to be.

He hadn’t heard you stir — but he felt it.

He always did now.

Turning immediately, he crossed the room in three silent strides, dark eyes scanning you with clinical precision first... then softening once he confirmed you were comfortable.

“You require something?” he asked quietly, already adjusting your blankets before you could answer. “Potion? Water? I can summon—”

You barely had time to shake your head before he stopped himself.

A breath left him — controlled, but heavy.

“...Right,” he murmured, almost to himself. “No stress. No hovering. The Healer was quite explicit about my... tendencies.”

There was a pause.

Then, from the bedside table, he lifted a small object you hadn’t noticed before — a velvet box, deep green, worn slightly at the edges as though it had been handled many times before tonight.

He hesitated.

Severus Snape — hesitating.

Slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle you even a fraction.

“I am aware,” he began, voice lower than usual, “that this is hardly the Valentine’s Day I would have chosen for you.”

His gaze flicked briefly to your stomach — to the child you were both fighting so hard to keep safe.

“But after nearly losing everything...” His hand tightened faintly around the box. “...I find myself disinclined to wait for ideal circumstances.”

He opened it.

Inside rested a delicate enchanted locket — charmed to hold a moving image. When you looked closer, it showed the two of you... and a faint golden silhouette of your unborn child between you.

His work. His magic.

“For you,” he said simply.

Then, softer — rawer than he ever allowed himself to sound:

“So that you remember... even confined to this bed... you are loved beyond measure. Both of you are.”

He reached forward, brushing his knuckles gently along your cheek — careful, reverent.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my heart.”

And for the first time since the premature labor scare...

He allowed himself to sit beside you without watching the clock.