We Can Work It Out

On Friday afternoon, Hermione sat in the sitting room of a Dr. Feldman with a twitchy, sulky Draco. Upon their arrival, a medi-witch who reminded Hermione strongly of Luna Lovegood, right down to the Quibbler she was holding, took her name and information, assigned them a number and instructed them to sit in the first two seats next to the door. They were the only two in the waiting room, but they’d been there for over thirty minutes and Draco was getting impatient. Every three minutes he would get up, walk around the room, stare at the posters on the wall in disgust and then sit back down with his arms crossed. Eventually, Hermione got annoyed.

“Here, read this,” she said, shoving a random magazine into his hands.

“’My Uterus and Me’?” he asked. “Granger, I really don’t need to know if the persimmon diet is the cause of my inability to carry a child.”

“I really need you to stop moving around so much! You’re making me nervous.” She huffed and turned her gaze towards the opposite corner of the room.

“I can’t help it! We’re the only ones here and she gave us the number four and she’s come in twice and called out for ‘two’ and ‘three’. The daft bird doesn’t realize that there isn’t anybody else here!”

“She isn’t daft, there are other couples here, we just can’t see them. We’re all under a disillusionment charm so that only the nurse can see us. Think about it, if you were a couple trying to conceive you might not want the world to know that you were having difficulties.”

Apparently Draco hadn’t thought of that so he sat down and read his magazine. “That’s stupid. According to ‘My Uterus and Me’ over thirty percent of all wizarding couples are having difficulties and over sixty percent of strictly pureblood couples are having difficulty. It seems a common enough problem.”

“Yes, well so is erectile dysfunction, but no one wants to talk about that either, so let everyone sit in privacy. We’re next in line, anyways.” Hermione sat back with her arms crossed before softening. “Thank you again, for coming. I don’t have anybody else to talk to about this, so your support really means a lot to me.”

“Well, someone had to bear witness to your destruction, since you obviously can’t be dissuaded. Bloody Gryffindor.” Hermione smiled at him and squeezed his hand. They spent the rest of the wait in silence.


Finally, the nurse called out their number and Hermione smoothed her hands over her skirt and stood up. Draco put his hand on the small of her back and gave a light push so that she stepped forward into the hallway of examining rooms. She felt like stepping through the door symbolized her dedication to seeing this through. There would be no turning back. Head held high, her purpose clear, she strode forwards into the hallway and into a white, sterile looking room with an examining table complete with stirrups.

“If you’ll just undress, ma’am, and put this gown on, Dr. Feldman will be in to see you shortly. Here is a catalogue of our donors for you to look at while you wait.” The nurse never stopped looking at her Quibbler as she spoke, handing Hermione a cotton, polka-dotted gown that was held together with ties and snaps. Draco took the catalogue.

Once the nurse was out of the room, Hermione became slightly uncomfortable. She didn’t want to ask Draco to leave, but she didn’t want to undress in front of him either. He solved the problem for her by sitting down with the book and facing the wall as he flipped through it. She grinned at the way their minds thought alike and changed into the examining gown. When he heard the paper on the examining table rustle as she sat on it, Draco brought catalogue over to her and sat next to her on the table.

“I’ve picked out three so far that would be suitable. There’s this one from Durmstrang, he’s got black hair and brown eyes, was well over six feet tall, played quidditch, excelled in potions, charms, transfiguration, defense against the dark arts and arithmancy, he became a barrister and he graduated from the Pechov University fourth in his class. He has no known genetic diseases and his ethnic heritage is French, Russian and Bulgarian.”

“I don’t know. He’s certainly successful, but it just seems so cold.” She didn’t know why she didn’t realize before this that picking a wizard’s sperm was far different from picking out new furniture for her flat.

“You’re right, someone from Western Europe would be much better. This bloke came from Beauxbatons, has blonde hair, blue eyes and he’s only 5’10, but that’s still a respectable height. He played quidditch, took ballet, whatever that is, and excelled in potions, transfiguration, astronomy, charms and herbology. He was Head Boy, with marks exceeding those of any other student in two hundred years. There are no known genetic diseases, he is pureblood and he apparently works in law enforcement.”

“I thought only girls attended Beauxbatons,” Hermione said.

“They did until the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Apparently enrollment was down so Madame Maxime allowed males into her precious school after visiting Hogwarts. This man must have been one of the first.”

“What’s his ethnic make-up?”

“I would have thought French, but apparently he’s Austrian. On second thought, I don’t think I like this one. Someone with accolades as high as that and he’s in law enforcement? He probably has major power trip issues. I don’t want you raising some brainiac Napoleon twerp.”

“Well, maybe he’s an auror,” Hermione defended. She liked the sound of this one better than the last one.

“If he were an auror, it would say auror. As it is it just says law enforcement so that probably means he’s one of those creeps that monitors the use of magic. I hate those people. The next bloke apparently went to Hogwarts, was in Slytherin, had black hair, blue eyes and is six feet tall. He also played quidditch, excelled in potions, charms, Arithmancy, astronomy, herbology and divination. There no genetic diseases and he is one hundred percent Irish pureblood and is an Unspeakable at the ministry. He’ll do nicely.”

“An Irish Unspeakable that was in Slytherin? That would be too easy to figure out who he is and the whole point of this is for the man to be anonymous.”

“Granger, if he’s pureblood and comes from Ireland, that’s very old, very powerful magical blood.”

“I don’t care about how powerful the person’s blood is, I just want a healthy baby.”

“Fine. What about this bloke? He’s another Hogwarts student, in Slytherin, of course, with blonde hair and green eyes and a height of 6’1. He comes from one pureblooded parent and one half-blooded parent. He was captain of his quidditch team, excelled in flying, got top marks in arithmancy and excelled in potions, charms, herbology and defense against the dark arts. He got brilliant marks in med school and is now a healer at some undisclosed location. He’s absolutely perfect.”

“You’re biased because he’s in Slytherin. Let me see the catalogue.” Hermione took it and leafed through it a moment before pointing a specimen out. “How about this one? He’s good at herbology, divination, care of magical creatures and he took muggle studies so that means he was open minded because he comes from a pureblood background.”

Draco took the book out of her hands. “He was in Hufflepuff! Hufflepuff, Granger! Everyone knows that the people sorted into that house are essentially genetic leftovers with no discernable personality and random generic skills! For the love of Merlin, don’t do this to your child! Look at the courses he excelled in. None of them require that much skill with magic. If he was pureblood and in Hufflepuff, he was probably practically a squib.”

“Alright! No Hufflepuffs! Although, I am curious as to what you would say to my child if I did pick out a Slytherin donor and he or she was sorted into Hufflepuff.” Hermione couldn’t rage at him much longer because the door opened and a small, dark man entered the room.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Granger,” the small man said to her. He was bald with round, owl like spectacles enlarging his eyes and a wide grin.

“Actually, it’s Miss Granger,” Hermione said, almost feeling guilty.

“Of course, and you are?” he said, turning to Draco and extending his hand, which was rather large considering he was so small.

“Draco Malfoy,” he responded in a smooth, deep, business-like baritone causing Hermione to snort. Just five seconds ago he’d been screeching like a pixie.

The doctor stepped onto a small stool and told Hermione to lay back. He prodded her stomach at bit and used his wand to run several tests. He felt her hips and finally after Hermione felt like a mare on display at a horse show, he produced a clear liquid and asked her to drink it. About three minutes after she downed it, her stomach began to glow bright green under the gown.

“Malfoy, Malfoy…” the doctor tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, your mother was from the Black family, was she not? Your paternal grandmother was a Giacomo pureblood from the north of Italy and your maternal grandmother was a Prewett, another British pureblood, correct?”

“Yes, that’s all true,” Draco responded, a bit uneasy.

“Well, that explains it then. Miss Granger, you are perfectly capable of bearing children, in fact you are quite fertile. However, sterility within purebloods has become increasingly prevalent, especially when they try to breed with each other. It’s a simple component of genetics that the magical gene will try to spread and if it senses that an environment is too closely related to the one it comes from, it will not attempt to take root. All these fanatical ideals about purity and keeping muggle-borns out to protect our race has in fact become the very thing that threatens our race. Sometimes, as with a line as pure as Mr. Malfoy’s, the genes will completely give up and the body’s system does not come equipped to procreate. However, that is why we started our own fertility clinics. I see you’ve already looked through our list of donors. It’s small, but each one is guaranteed to be potent. All I’ll need is a copy of your marriage certificate and your signatures and very soon you’ll have your own bundle of joy. It takes a lot of guts to face what you’re undertaking, Mr. Malfoy and I want you to know that your inability to procreate does not make you less of a man. I’m sure you can find a donor with similar features to your own. Please sign here.”

With such thick, heavy glasses, a person would have thought that Dr. Feldman would have been able to see Hermione’s mortified blush and Draco’s jaw drop in indignation. It hung open for several minutes and finally, Hermione spoke.

“Dr. Feldman, you’re mistaken. We aren’t married,” she tried, gently.

“Oh, well then a copy of your application for a marriage certificate will suffice.” The man was busy making notations and Hermione had to grab the catalogue out of Draco’s hands before he ripped it up in agitation.

“We aren’t getting married.”

“Oh, well this is highly irregular. I suppose then that I’ll need proof that the two of you live together and I’ll need a note to say that it will continue for at least the next three years. Honestly, I don’t see why people don’t just marry the way they did in the old days. Much simpler,” he muttered.

“Dr. Feldman, Mr. Malfoy and I are not a couple!” Dear Lord, was he honestly that thick?

“Oh, goodness! Does your partner know that he is here with you? You’re not one of those women who lives with her ‘girlfriend’, are you? It happens often, even with the pretty ones,” Dr Feldman said, his dark skin crinkling in understanding.

“Dr. Feldman, I’m single. There is no man in my life, no significant other, male or female. I’ve just wanted to have a child for quite sometime now and I have decided to do this on my own. Mr. Malfoy is a close friend who is here for support.” For the first time since he stepped into the room, Dr. Feldman seemed to zero in on Hermione as person.

“The two of you aren’t together, you won’t be getting married?” he asked as if he was waiting on her to burst out laughing and tell him she was joking. His next move came so quickly, Hermione thought he must have flown. Leaping across the room he grabbed the catalogue and prepared to leave. “I suggest, Miss Granger that you DO find somebody and get your baby the old fashioned way. My services are only for those in need.”

“You can’t deny her just because she isn’t married, that’s discrimination!” Draco had finally found his voice.

“Mr. Malfoy, I am a private doctor with a private clinic, I can choose to offer or decline my services to whomever I wish. Miss Granger here is one of the few witches fortunate enough to be extremely fertile and to be in possession of a body that will not make child bearing difficult. Everyday I see couples that will provide a stable, loving home to a child who are distraught because after years of trying, they can’t conceive. I only have so many donors because you both know the wizarding world in England is getting smaller, not larger. These specimens will be going to the women who truly need them and can provide a family, not a workaholic mother and her ‘friend’, even if they are war heroes.” Dr. Feldman was holding his catalogue of donors to his chest and shielding it with his body as if he thought that Draco and Hermione would steal his precious catalogue of donors or somehow taint them merely with their unmarried presence.

“Dr. Feldman, I find your morals questionable, your ideals archaic and your practice to be uninformed. You say you are different from pureblooded fanaticals, but you are trying to be the moral police for wizarding society. You cannot control the population. As it is, you are correct that you have a private practice and can deny services to whomever you wish. However, please be aware that I will be asking the Wizarding Medical Association to evaluate your practice and credentials.” Hermione stood up and with a wave of her wand, was dressed again. Behind her, Draco smirked evilly at the little doctor.

“I bid you both a good day,” Dr. Feldman said, scurrying out of the room with his darling catalogue clutched to his chest.

Hermione stalked out of the office and onto the street with Draco lighting after her. Once outside, she threw her purse to the ground and let out a cry of frustration. Picking up her bag, she began moving quickly down the street. Draco caught up with her.

“Don’t worry, we’ll try someplace else. His isn’t the only fertility clinic, I’m sure.”

“Yes it is! St. Mungo’s doesn’t have one and his is the only wizarding one in Western Europe. I looked up the ones in Russia and I’d rather go down Knockturn Alley looking for a fertility clinic than go to those places. Most magical people take care of the problem with fertility spells. I’m plenty fertile, I just don’t have anyone to be fertile with!” She groaned her frustration again and Draco pulled her into an alleyway.

“Alright, I know you had a back up plan, so what now?” If Hermione didn’t know better, she would have thought him to be anticipating her response.

“I can’t believe how forward thinking the wizarding world and how backward at the same time. If I can’t someone in the wizarding world to help me, I’ll just have to look in the muggle world. Time for Plan B.”