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Chapter Text

It was early morning on the outskirts of the quiet town of Vézaley, in France, and the sky was the clearest and palest blue. Soft sunlight filtered through lofty beech trees and bathed a sprawling farmstead in a golden glow. Its driveway was set back from the main road and quite unremarkable. The eyes of those passing by seemed to slide over and instantly forget it, as though by magic. Which it surely is, mused the man now surveying the property with an appreciative eye.

He was a tall man in his fifties, with a strong jaw and a Roman nose. His short, silver-streaked hair was tousled suddenly by the breeze and he lifted a long, slender finger to brush it out of his eyes. Blue eyes, but they shouldn’t have been. They were as much a part of the glamour as the pale, unpuckered skin of his neck.

Tension tightened in his shoulders, and he tried to shake it off. He had weighed the risks of travelling here, they were relatively low, but decades of looking over his shoulder made relaxing impossible. Focusing his mind on the birdsong and rustling leaves above him, he allowed himself a sigh. There was a comforting pull to this place, this little bookshop masquerading as a private residence to those without magic in their veins. He had only recently learned of its existence while queuing to renew his Potions licence and work permit at the Australian Ministry. Two American wizards behind him had been discussing a rare fifth century codex they’d purchased from a small publishing house in France. They were complaining loudly that the proprietor had printed a limited run of the text, thus drawing (in their opinion) the unwanted attention of potential competitors. He’d wanted to turn around and lay into them – ready to point out that for two people desperate for secrecy, discussing their research at full volume in a packed visa office was particularly dunderheaded, especially as, from what little he’d overheard, their central premise was flawed anyway – but he bit his tongue. As a rule, he interacted with the public as little as possible and these idiots were not worth the breath it would take to cut them down to size. Instead, he had begun to make plans to visit the shop himself, in the hope of finding an obscure alchemical text which had eluded him for over a decade. He had searched everywhere else, after all, why not there?

Oh, I don’t know, perhaps because you vowed never to return to Europe? his conscience suggested spitefully. Because you’re a wanted man? Because you’ve done things that can never be forgiven? Because if someone were to recognise you– 

He set his jaw and brushed the concerns aside. He was a coward, he knew that; it was his daily refrain for the past nineteen years. And yet, remorseful though he was, he couldn’t find the will to voluntarily hand himself over to languish in Azkaban for the rest of his days. So, he had done the only thing a sensible Slytherin would in the face of such a prospect: he had fled. Fled the country, fled the continent, never to return. He’d traded the name Snape for Aspen, developed a convincing glamour for the few days a year he had to tolerate human interaction and otherwise laid low. Until now. This new lead would bring him the closest he’d been yet to the scene of his crimes but, he rationalised, he barely had any acquaintances in France and from what he could gather, the shop was miles from any wizarding communities. It will be worth it for the book.

He walked down the gravel path to a courtyard filled with flowers. In the centre, there was a black wrought iron bench and a flagstone with an inscription in Latin. He paused to translate: in loving memory of those lost. Flicking his eyes across the buildings surrounding the square, he identified his destination. The stone barn had been renovated to house a bright and spacious bookshop. He pushed the door open and relaxed despite himself. Merlin, but he loved the quiet hush of bookshops. Light streamed in through gloriously gigantic windows and illuminated the soft white interior. The bookshelves along the walls were double height, with rolling ladders to reach the uppermost ledges. The aisles were wide and welcoming, punctuated with neat armchairs and the occasional potted fern. A fireplace and a couch were situated to his furthest right and to his left, a spiral staircase leading to a mezzanine level thick with protective spells.

The shop was empty save for a young man in his teens who sat perched on a stool behind a counter in the centre of the vast room. He had heard the bell tinkling moments before but didn’t look up immediately, still reading as he stretched the book away from himself and reached for a pen to mark his place. Finally dragging his eyes up from the page, he stood. An easy smile graced his face and he leaned on the pale wooden worktop as his customer approached.

“Bienvenue,” he said, “Publier ou acheter?”

“Bonjour. Acheter, s’il vous plait.” Snape reached into his overcoat and pulled out a slip of parchment, sliding it across the space between them. “Je cherche ça.”

The bookseller read the title, written in spidery script, and raised an eyebrow. “Une minute,” he said, walking to a door behind him marked Raven Press Publishing House and opening it to reveal a long corridor. “Hero? Have you got a minute?”

“Go on then,” came the muffled reply.

“Do you know if Cheirokmeta is here or off on crusade?”

“The Zosimos? Gone with mum, I think.” It was a female voice. “Yes, almost sure it is!”

He grimaced and returned to his post. “Monsieur –” he began, but was cut off.

“You’re British?”

“You as well? Gosh, your pronunciation is excellent, I couldn’t tell!” He beamed. “I’m Sal, by the way. Salvador. We don’t get many Brits arriving in person, most just place an owl order. How’s the weather?”

“I couldn’t tell you; I haven’t lived there in almost two decades.” Snape’s deep voice rumbled with amusement – it had been a long time since he’d politely discussed the weather with a fellow Englishman – and he held out his hand. “Mr. Aspen.”

“Pleasure! Well, we have the text you’re after, but it’s dashed bad luck, sir.” Sal ran a hand through his short black curls. “It’s not actually going to be on the premises for another two weeks.”

“Because it’s ‘gone on crusade’…?”  Snape said, conceding a hint of curiosity.

Laughing, the younger man explained, “That’s just what we call it. Copyright crusade! We specialise in reprinting valuable texts that are either impossible to find, or afford, or both. But we’ve got to have the rights first. Or the closest thing to them. Our fearless leader has gone to procure the clearance needed for our next round of reprints… hopefully.”

Snape gave a small smile upon hearing the clarification. “But you possess it? And it is available to purchase – in two weeks’ time? I must admit, I have been searching for it for quite a while.”

“Yes, you can purchase the original, but I’ve got to warn you, you’re looking at several thousand Galleons at least. We have the only copy in Europe, that we’re aware of. Took mum years to get a hold of it. On the bright side, if you can wait three weeks, you can buy a reprint for about ten. Galleons, that is.”

“Quite the enterprise.”

“You’d be surprised how much demand there is. That entire mezzanine is our rare texts collection. You’re welcome to peruse them, but they’re under stasis, so you’d need to call one of us over if you wanted to look inside.”

“I may just do that.” He gave a curt nod of thanks.

The boy was already returning to his book, but added helpfully, “If it’s got green tape on the spine, there’s already a reprint.”

“Thank you.”

Sometime later, from his vantage point on the mezzanine, Snape stopped browsing to observe the young man who had helped him. Sal, he’d called himself. The teen was reading again, but had a scroll draped over the counter beside him and appeared to stop to dictate notes to his ballpoint pen every so often.

There was something about him, about his manner, that was strangely familiar. And he’s from the UK, he winced inwardly. So, I’ve probably taught one or both of his parents. He would have to be careful. This was his first return to Europe since the war ended. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself, especially not from those with ties to England. Really, if he was being honest with himself, he should leave. He could owl order the book at a later date. After years of waiting, a few weeks wouldn’t be impossible to bear. It would be reckless to linger.

But a whole collection of rare books, his curiosity countered, in a beautiful bookshop, practically deserted! And the boy said the owner was away…

His curiosity did get the better of him, as he knew it would, and soon an hour had passed, spent contentedly perusing titles.

“Find anything?” Sal was grinning up at him.

 “Yes, thank you. More than my vaults would allow me to indulge in, as a matter of fact. I jotted down three titles in particular that – while not relevant to my current research – intrigued me enough to merit further investigation. May I…?” He gestured toward the shelves and the young man vaulted the counter, wand in hand.

“’Course. Do you have the list there?” Sal was up the stairs in a flash. He took the parchment and Summoned the three thin tomes to a reading desk, releasing them from their protected state with a few tricky wand movements.

The table glowed slightly, a shimmering gold along the surface. “It’s enchanted,” the boy offered. “Keeps the pages oil-free and prevents any spills or tears and so on.”

Snape was only half listening. He had reverently picked up the al-Razi diary, a translation spell already forming on his tongue.

When he next looked up, three hours had passed.

Sal was hovering. “Can I ask what your research is on, Mr Aspen? Not to pry too much, if it’s hush-hush, but I’m fascinated by the legacy of Zosimos’ distilling apparatus on modern potioneering myself and I’d love to know your thoughts…?”

Snape gawped at him, a novel experience for a man rarely surprised. “How old are you, exactly?” he finally managed to ask.

“Eighteen,” Sal said. “Just graduated last month.”

“Hogwarts or Beauxbatons?”

“Hogwarts, thank Merlin!”

“In that case, the syllabus in Hogwarts must’ve undergone considerable change since my time,” said Snape, recovering somewhat. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone under forty who has read pre-Paracelsus alchemy texts.”

“You haven’t met our mother then! She’d tell us tales of the ancients as bedtime stories. Proudly raising us to be ‘insufferable know-it-alls’!” He laughed, missing the second look of shock that flittered across Snape’s face, and went on. “She home-schooled us until we were old enough for Hogwarts, and there’s not a lot to do in the French countryside, so we’ve read a good chunk of what’s here… Only problem is, I’ve read so much now that I can’t narrow down what to specialise in.”

Snape regarded him. “A challenge indeed, but not insurmountable,” he said. "You are fortunate to have found so many academic interests worthy of pursuit."

Sal tried and failed to sound nonchalant. “How did you choose Alchemy, sir? If you don’t mind the question?”

Snape tried to keep his expression from revealing that he would rather bolt over the balcony railing than discuss his own experiences.

“I had… less options available to me,” he prevaricated. The boy waited – he was obviously looking for more of an answer than that – so he went on, a slight note of weariness in his voice. “All I can offer is the advice I wish I’d had: whatever path you choose, know that it is not fixed. All experience is valuable, and what you do in these coming years need not be the template for your whole future. You could undertake four consecutive apprenticeships in completely distinct specialties and upon finishing the last, you would not yet be out of your thirtieth year. You are a free agent, Salvador. Do not allow your mind to tie you to one future.” He rubbed his face and gave the teen an apologetic smile. “A more philosophical answer than you were looking for, I’m sure.”

“No, that – that was really helpful, actually.”

Sal was looking at him strangely, so he decided to move the conversation along. “And as to your original question, I am researching the use of alchemy in… in soul magic. It’s early days and may yet come to nothing, but I am… hopeful.”

“When you say ‘soul magic’…?”

“Most of the wizarding world understands magic to be either light or dark. In reality, the magic we use on a daily basis would be better described as neutral. Truly light magic is extremely rare, as is documentation of its use throughout history. In the records I have unearthed, it appears to manifest as a burst of accidental magic, of which the caster was not consciously in control.” He took a breath and tried to stop himself from reverting to his old lecturing style. “Zosimos wrote of a brewable compound that could cleanse the soul, but only fragments of his writing remain, many of which were completely garbled by Muggle interpreters who didn’t understand what they had discovered.”

Sal’s eyes widened. “And you are searching for evidence of this – this compound?”

“As I said, my research is in the most preliminary stage.”

The teen was clearly running through all of the implications of such a potion in his mind. “Could an unrepentant soul, corrupted by dark magic, still–?”

A twitch of the lips was the only indication that the young man had impressed the researcher. “A valid concern, but no. As with all magic, intent is central. Light magic is an exercise in altruism. It is impossible to use it to improve one’s own life. I could never cast or brew my own redemption, for instance… but theoretically I could extend my own magic to do so for another, if my intent and my will were great enough.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Indeed.”

This topic of conversation had the distracting effect he was hoping for: Sal had a dozen follow up questions and the pair settled into a lively discussion of alchemy that lasted all afternoon.

As the sun started to slip in the sky, Snape seemed to realise that the day had disappeared. “My apologies, Salvador. I have monopolised too much of your time. I wonder if I might ask one more favour: can you direct me to a nearby inn?”

“There’s nothing wizard-owned…” Sal looked at him for a few seconds, then seemed to come to a decision and stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

When he returned, he had a witch by his side. “This is my sister, Hero. We had a chat about it and... you can stay here for the night, if you like. We have two writer-in-residence studios, those outbuildings across the yard. Hardly ever used in summer.”

The young witch was appraising him, Snape realised. He arched an eyebrow and appraised her right back. She was tall, though not quite as tall as her brother. She had a wild mop of the same black curls, scooped up and held in place by her wand. And where Sal had a relaxed, trusting manner, hers was distinctly more calculating. But otherwise, they were extremely similar. Twins, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“A pleasure to meet you.” He gave a slight bow. “Salvador and… Hero? Interesting names.”

“What can you do?” Her voice was light, but he felt that he was still under assessment. “We were named in honour of a war hero no longer with us. Can’t get much better than that.”

“Quite.” he said stiffly. “Well, I am very grateful for your offer. I had arranged an international portkey for three p.m. this afternoon but as you see by my continued presence, I found myself rather distracted by your book collection.”

“It is wonderfully distracting.” She smiled, and he wondered if his appreciation of books had redeemed him. “Come with me, I’ll reset the wards for you.”

An hour later, he found himself in a small but comfortable apartment, sitting down to a plate of chicken sandwiches and a large bowl of soup, courtesy of Sal.

From his chair, he could see across the yard to the kitchen window of the main house. Sal appeared to be singing into a spatula, and Hero was throwing popcorn at him, laughing. He stared for a few minutes, until they moved out of sight.

While he ate, he looked over his notes from earlier in the day, which included a few of Sal’s observations. The boy could hold his own, he thought, still surprised by his age. He put his head in his hands and tried to remind himself that he was relieved to no longer be surrounded by hordes of dunderheaded teenagers. Pull yourself together, man! His guard was down, dangerously so. More worryingly still, his mind was more interested in arranging another conversation with his hosts for the next day than obtaining a replacement Portkey.

Chapter Text

He had woken to find cartons of milk and eggs and a fresh loaf of bread on the doorstep.

By the time he made his way to the bookshop, Hero was already behind the counter, parcelling orders. She raised an eyebrow and grinned.

They exchanged greetings and he returned to the desk he had commandeered the day before. The books he had been studying were still there, stacked to one side. A roll of parchment and a self-inking quill lay beside them. The small kindness affected him more than he would have anticipated. He returned to his reading with relish, realising the time only when Sal called, “Lunch, Mr Aspen? Would you join us?”

They ate on the patio attached to the farmhouse, enjoying the sunny weather, with Sal conjuring a light breeze as needed.  

“Quite the charm,” Snape said appreciatively, the third time it was cast.

Hero hummed her agreement. “Our Herbology teacher invented it. Only thing that made the summer term in the greenhouses bearable.”

Snape hadn’t sought out news of Wizarding Britain from the twins, but decided he couldn’t help inquiring about his former colleague now that the opportunity had arisen.

“Professor Sprout taught you that one?” he asked lightly.

“Professor Longbottom,” Sal said. “Best teacher there, I already miss the chats.”

Snape choked on an orange segment. “Longbottom?! Neville Longbottom?”

“Yeah. D’you know him?” Sal asked with interest.

“I honestly can’t say that I do…” if he’s a professor, he thought derisively. 

“He’s published a few articles in Ars Alchemica, maybe you recognise the name from there?”

And he’s published. Wonders never cease.

The rest of the conversation revealed that Pomona was now only teaching first and second years, to free herself up to carry out a significant research study for the Ministry. Minerva and Filius were still firmly entrenched at the Hogwarts staff table though, he was happy to hear, especially as the former now held the role of Headmistress.

As they were finishing up, he asked a question he’d had since he’d first spoken to Sal, “Why Hogwarts and not Beauxbatons?”

Sal grinned. “Well, Mum would tell you it’s because she wanted to keep us close to the extended family. There were eleven of us there last year, it was a riot–”

“–but really, we reckon she wouldn’t have been able to face dear old McGonagall if she sent us anywhere else,” Hero finished.

“Mum and the Headmistress are really good friends.” Sal explained. “When we first moved here, she’d send us Hogwarts paraphernalia all the time, and even brought us to the school Quidditch finals over the years. It worked too; we were as determined that we were going to Hogwarts as she was by the time she delivered our letters!”

“Gosh, and when I think about it now,” Hero mused, “she probably had to pull all sorts of strings, because technically we’re international students.”

“You must’ve gotten away with murder,” Snape said, amused.

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Mr Aspen,” she countered lightly. “We were model students.”

They cleared the table and walked back to the shop in companionable silence.

Although it remained unsaid, there was now an assumption between the three of them that he was staying put until the book returned. There was no further mention of portkeys or alternative lodgings.

After a few days, Snape had become familiar with the quiet rhythm of the siblings. They were both early risers and often went jogging together before breakfast. They divided the work between them easily, alternating between running the printing press and processing owl orders. And each afternoon, they would shut up shop by four, as they had daily a Floo call with their mother in the main house.

From subsequent conversations over lunch, Snape – who was quite determined to avoid any probing questions into his past – discovered that the teens were impatiently awaiting their NEWTs results and preparing to leave for apprenticeships in the months ahead. Hero had secured a coveted place on the St Mungo’s Healers programme and Sal, who applied to over a dozen Mastery courses, had received a number of offers in the fields of Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Charms and Potions, but couldn’t decide which to accept.

The days, filled as they were with interesting research and light banter, were easily the most enjoyable he’d spent in years. He usually avoided company at all costs, but for some reason, he was utterly fascinated and –stranger still– not annoyed by the twins. It was a surprise to him then, when the daily pattern he’d become accustomed to was interrupted on Friday morning by the arrival of new customers. The rumble of the car engine was unmistakeable, and Snape looked up from his reading with a frown. Had the anti-Muggle wards failed? He glanced over to the counter to offer support in reinstating them, only to find Sal putting a finger to his lips with a grin and Hero racing into the room, transfiguring her robes.

The three of them watched a family of four walk into the courtyard. A girl of six or seven was tugging on her bewildered mother’s arm, while a man followed holding a two-year-old boy. They turned out to be on holidays from Ireland.

“I didn’t see the sign,” the mother said. “My daughter asked us to stop. I – I really thought we were trespassing… Until I walked in just now, I could have sworn…”

They gazed up at the beautiful windows in confusion as Hero crouched down beside the little girl, offering her hand. “Hello, I’m Hero.”

“Saoirse,” came the shy reply.

“Well Saoirse, you must be quite a book lover to have spotted our little shop. Let’s see if we can find the perfect story for you!”

She led the group away to the line of colourful shelves beneath the front window and Sal strolled over to Snape. “Muggleborn,” he grinned.

“The girl?”

“Yeah. It only happens once or twice a year, but Mum loves it. We all do. We’ve published Muggle-friendly copies of a few wizarding children’s classics. The pictures don’t move, that sort of thing. Fully approved by the Ministry, of course.”

They watched Hero and the young girl excitedly flicking through a book as they discussed dragons and fairies and magical adventures. Sal moved over to the parents then, offering paper and crayons to their son and chatting with them about the area.

Snape was at a loss for what to make of the whole scene and retreated, conscious of his own robes. The Muggles never seemed to look around themselves though. They smiled and chatted to Sal (albeit in a dazed sort of way) until their daughter returned to them, clutching a new book. Their offers of payment were shushed away, and Hero assured them that it was a fair swap: a book for a drawing.

Once they were safely back in their car and waved off, Sal said, “Let’s see it then!”

Hero held up a drawing featuring a cluster of little blue creatures and signed at the bottom ‘by Saoirse Conway, age seven and a half’.

“Brilliant, she can see pixies!” Sal chuckled and pulled out a box from under the counter, where he carefully stowed the artwork. “We keep them all,” he told Snape. “Just in case one of them becomes Minister.”

Later that day, after they had all settled back into their chosen activities, Snape suffered an even greater shock. He had been completely absorbed in transcribing an ancient Greek method for the purification of metals, when he heard two words that filled him with dread.

“Oi, Snape!”

The shout came from the fireplace on the far wall, which was now suddenly crackling with green flames. It wasn’t particularly loud, but it still had the power to stop the heart in his chest from beating. He sat frozen, hands gripping the table as he waited for a squad of Aurors to burst through the Floo.

How did they know where to find me?!

Instead, to his utter shock, Hero jumped up from where she had been lying on the counter reading a mediwizardry journal and gave a delighted squeal. She raced through the shelves but slowed just before she came into view of the fireplace. Strolling across to the flames with a sudden air of indifference, she drawled, “What do you want, Lupin?”

They both started laughing and the young man whose head was looking out from the grate asked, “Will you and Sal make it to the Burrow tonight? I know your Mum’s away, but I was still hoping…?” He trailed off, looking sheepish.

“I suppose we could make an appearance…” she winked, then sat cross-legged in front of the hearth. “Now when are you going to get a full weekend off and come and visit us, Teddy?!”

The rest of their conversation faded as Snape let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. No one was after him.

It took another ten minutes or so before his pulse steadied and he could string more than two thoughts together.

These siblings are named Snape? He frowned, trying to make sense of it. These black-haired, black-eyed, tall, academic, British siblings are named Snape…? Maybe it’s a joke. Maybe the girl and her friend were using nicknames… The horrible, uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach rather doubted this hypothesis.

Already, his mind was lurching to a conclusion he didn’t want to consider. Fuck no. It couldn’t be.

He needed to know.

Any hope of reading another sentence went sailing out the window, but he didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could get his question out at that moment, let alone manage a conversation.

She’s a Snape. She’s eighteen. That means she was born – they were born… Sweet Salazar.

He stumbled slightly on his way to the staircase and tried to compose himself. He smoothed his robes and neatened his hair. A coincidence, surely.

Hero was back at the counter by the time he reached it and was reading an article on anti-concussion charms.

“You are a… Snape?” he asked awkwardly, unable to think of any pretence for his enquiry. And you call yourself a Slytherin, his mind jeered.

“Yes,” Hero grinned, “Heard of us, have you?”

Sal walked up with the post at that moment and handed Hero a letter. “Heard of who?” he asked.

“The noble house of Snape, brother!” She threw an arm around his waist.

“And you said your father was a fallen war–?”

“Hero?” supplied Hero, with another wide grin. “Yes.”

“But we never met him,” Sal said quickly. “He was killed before we were born.”

He hugged Hero back with one arm around her shoulders and put a few more letters in a drawer with his free hand.

“We’ve seen all the memories, though. Everyone we know gave us their recollections of him; we watch them every anniversary.” Her good mood was fading, and she gave a wistful sigh.

He knew he was going to regret his next words, as much as he knew he couldn’t prevent himself speaking them. “But… Severus Snape – I presume you speak of Severus Snape – he was not exactly a war hero, in the truest sense…?”

Hero’s smile slipped and her eyebrows drew together as he spoke. She pursed her lips, her tone suddenly cool. “You don’t think so? Knew him personally, did you?” He started to reply, but she wasn’t finished. “Enlighten me then, sir. What part of living half of one’s life as a spy for the Light; staring down the darkest wizard in centuries and lying to his face; enduring the scorn and derision of those one is directly trying to protect; and ultimately sacrificing oneself to save them all regardless… is not heroic?”

“Alright, steady on Hero.” Sal squeezed her hand. “The man hasn’t lived in the UK for over twenty years or something. Just because we think about Dad’s sacrifice all the time doesn’t mean everyone does. I’m sure he meant no disrespect…?” He looked up for confirmation, his face uncertain.

“Quite.” Snape was white-lipped and tense, but he spoke smoothly now, “My sincere apologies, Ms Snape, Mr Snape. Your loyalty to your father’s memory is a credit to you both.”

All three stood in silence for a few moments, before Snape gave an abrupt bow and moved to collect his belongings. He heard the murmur of their voices below him but didn’t try to catch their words as he swept out of the building.

Dad? DAD?! What fresh hell is this?!

Chapter Text

He lay on the bed in the little room they’d given him. He didn’t need a pensieve to bring the awful memory from his final weeks as Hogwarts Headmaster rushing back to him. It made his stomach roil.

The moment Carrow had raced in, gleeful, demanding his attendance for the collection of blood and bone. A virgin sacrifice, the darkest magic. It still felt so real: flinging the ledgers aside, snatching up his mask and Disapparating with the sick feeling that he was being called upon to oversee the murder of a student, past or present, whom he had sworn to protect.

He had arrived before the Dark Lord and could remember the panic rising as he demanded to see the poor unfortunate under the guise of needing to prepare for the ritual. In the heavily warded basement, in the furthest corner, wandless and tiny but with her fists in front of her like a true bloody Gryffindor: Granger.

Fuck.

He could still feel the powerlessness of being unable to help her – a feeling he loathed more than anything – and it had made him furious. He had wanted to shake her for getting herself caught by Snatchers, but it would have changed nothing. As soon as the door clanged shut, he had thrown up wordless spells to ward the room and create the illusion, if anyone bothered to look, that he was still standing at a distance.

Closing the gap between them, he’d cut to the chase: “Miss Granger, we have no time and I must know; have you had sex?”

Her eyes had widened at such a blunt question, he could still see that shocked expression on his eyelids when he closed them. And yet she’d still had her wits and she’d whispered a soft, “No.”

Fuck.

“Even now, Death Eaters are arriving to this location. Within minutes, the Dark Lord is expected. He intends to invoke the darkest of curses and requires virginal blood and bone as part of the ritual.” He hated remembering the harshness of his words, and the effect they’d had on her. “I will soon be given instructions to collect your… your blood–”

He’d actually been able to see the last vestiges of hope drain from her face.

“Miss Granger, to prevent this we must act quickly.” He’d drawn a small bronze coin from his robes. “Listen closely: This knut is a portkey, it has been my reserve for many years, and it will work. Not down here, the wards are too strong, but as soon as you step off the top step of the stairs, it is operational. It will take you to the outskirts of Hogwarts and then you must apparate on to your safehouse immediately.”

“I – I have no wand, I’ve never apparated without it. If it doesn’t work and I’m caught before I –” She’d reigned in a sob, when another disturbing possibility occurred to her. “What if he comes down here to do the ritual? What if I – I never leave the basement?! Professor Snape, I’d never forgive myself if I was the reason–”

“You wouldn’t have the option because you would be dead, Miss Granger,” he’d snapped. Panic was threatening to strangle him with every second that passed. “There is no time for discussion–!”

“Sir.”

“It Is pointless to– The only way to prevent the thing entirely would be–” His voice had broken.

Fuck.

She’d closed her eyes and nodded. “You have to do it. I – I trust you.”

For several long seconds, he’d been paralysed, horrified by what she was suggesting. Then the urgency of the situation had slammed into his consciousness again and he’d loomed over her, unable to meet her eyes. His conscience was screaming, clawing at him – but preventing the reality of her bleeding out over an altar was a more desperate need and he’d pushed his tattered morals aside.

“I need to look into your mind for this, to plant a false memory,” he’d muttered gruffly to her shoulder. “Don’t fight whatever develops in your mind’s eye, it must appear real.”

He’d entered her memories first, searching for what he needed... It was taking too long! … There. Finally. A summer day at the Burrow. She was lying along the edge of a stream with a book and the youngest Weasley boy was standing in the water a little bit away from her, trousers rolled up. He began to manipulate the scene; a sweet tousle in the hay, as it were. Weasley’s face instead of his, a gentle touch, soft kisses. A safe and loving replacement for the harrowing experience he was putting her through. And evidence for the Dark Lord to find, if he raided her mind.

Spent, he’d wrenched himself away from her mind and her body and whispered hoarsely, “Gods forgive me. I am so very sorry, Miss Granger.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks and she hadn’t spoken.

“I must not be found here,” he’d said, every sense heightened as he’d listened for a noise above to signal the Dark Lord’s arrival. “Remember: three thumb strokes along the edge of the coin at the top of the stairs. Be sure that no one is… touching you… when you do it.” An idea occurred to him. “And take a thestral from the woods beside the train station if you cannot safely apparate… It will work, Miss Granger. Hermione. Take heart.”

She was still lying on the floor, not moving, when he’d reached the door and glanced back.

Fuck.

He had been trying to save lives, not destroy them.

But after this? Hell would be too good for him.

The memories finally receded enough for him to realise that dusk had fallen. A glance outside confirmed that the bookshop was closed and there were no lights on in the main house either. He vaguely recalled that the boy in the flames earlier had mentioned plans for the evening. Is that where they were? A pair of Snapes completely at ease at a Weasley gathering, now there was a strange thought.

Oh Merlin, had she married a Weasley?! Had a Weasley raised his– his–?!

He felt sick.

They couldn’t know, could they? How could they show such pride in his memory if they did? But then what had she told them? Had she lied? He tried to remember more of her, but very little from before that night was forthcoming. It had been so long, and he’s studiously avoided any thoughts of her, in order to stave off the waves of guilt that came with them.

His mind, usually so quick to make connections and formulate a plan, seemed to sputter to a halt instead. All he could think about was how out of place he was here. They seem so good, so happy, so… unlike me. If there was one thing he knew, it was that nothing good ever happened to Severus Snape. Which meant all of this… whatever it is… was a train wreck waiting to happen.

He breathed heavily and cursed himself for not remembering to activate the bloody Portkey as planned.

Chapter Text

He’d stayed awake, pulled a little chair over to the window, waiting for a sign that they had returned safely. At about midnight, light flickered, and he saw Hero at the kitchen sink filling a glass of water. It seemed so obvious now, that she was his. His. She had Hermione’s – Miss Granger’s – nose and curls, but everything else about her appearance was inherited from him.

He watched the house, now bathed in moonlight, thinking about the teens he’d befriended even before he knew their relationship to him. That affability was an anomaly in itself – he had been accused of misanthropy his entire life and had rather believed the allegations to be true. Yet here he was, pathetically trying to find reasons to stay close to… well, his own children. The past few days had made it painfully clear that maintaining his solitary lifestyle would most likely not be enough for him any longer. Which meant that running was not an option. It had been his first thought; to leave during the night, just disappear as he’d always done. And yet he knew he couldn’t do it.

He could demand to see their mother...? Part of him wanted to have it out with her, to uncover the ridiculous story she’d obviously concocted to keep them from realising they’d lost out in the father lottery. He should be furious with her, but he instead he was baffled. Why did she care how he was remembered? He had the distinct impression that he’d feel too much shame to face her, if she actually turned up at his insistence.

Eventually, his rational mind made an appearance. There had been nothing to suggest that they had any idea who he was; he could bide his time. It would be infinitely preferable to say nothing and spend as much time with them as he could before Ms Granger returned. If everything went south – as he was expecting it to when the truth eventually came to light – at least he would have that many more memories to fall back on when they renounced him. He felt weak for admitting it, but that was what he wanted, more than anything; the chance to know them.

To do that though, he first had to repair the damage he’d caused earlier in the evening. Apologising was not his forte and he lay awake for hours, trying to find the right words to regain the easy camaraderie they’d had before.

He approached her early the next morning, sleep-deprived and still uncertain of the exact words to use but unwilling to wait any longer. She was sitting on the terrace angled away from him and eating a bowl of porridge, still in her jogging clothes.

“Hero?” he said stiffly.

She turned and looked at him and he was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. Those steady black eyes were his, but the shape… He could see now that the shape of her eyes, and the lovely heart shape of her face, was Hermi– Miss Granger’s. He closed his eyes, but his memory filled in the darkness with a flash of that face, tear-streaked and broken, after he’d– he’d–

“… Mr Aspen? Sir, are you alright?”

He snapped back to the present “Yes, I– I wanted to apologise for my poor choice of words yesterday. At this point in my life, I no longer believe that heroes or villains exist in such a binary form, however I… failed to convey that adequately and unintentionally insulted you.”

She looked at him for a long minute. “What would you call him then?”

He sighed. “A deeply flawed individual who found the strength to carry out a heroic act to atone for a villainous one. Heroism and villainy are two sides of the same coin, we all have the potential for both.”

“Seventeen years of heroic acts,” she replied, “but I take your meaning.”

“And my apology, I hope.”

She grinned and he was irrationally pleased. He tried not to let it show on his face.

“I do... Our mother always taught us that we are not our thoughts, we are our response to them. I won’t claim that he was perfect, but I do believe that my father became a good man, through his willingness to own and repair his mistakes despite the risk involved. I find that quite heroic.”

He felt distinctly uncomfortable by the admiration in her voice.

“But his actions towards your mother…” His hand swept the air as he allowed her to fill in the rest, rather than finish the sentence aloud.

“Not so out of the loop, are you?” That shrewd expression was back. “They did what they had to do to survive, both of them. My mother feels no shame over it. She’s never hidden it, it’s public knowledge. She would have died, he prevented that. The way she sees it, it was war. And in the fight to prevent death, they inadvertently created life.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes; those platitudes had Gryffindor written all over them. Still though, her words didn’t make any sense. “What do you mean, ‘public knowledge’?”

“Well, she gave us his surname and listed him as our father on our birth certificates. And she testified in the trial to clear his name. She didn’t give the Prophet an interview or anything–”

That was enough to shock him out of his cynical mood. “… She cleared his name?” He tried rather unsuccessfully to hide the urgency behind his question.

“Yes. It took a while. It was maybe ten months after the war ended?”

 “How?” He was leaning over the table now. “After what he did to her? To Dumbledore? How?”

“She gave evidence, so did Uncle Harry. And Dumbledore left a sworn statement with his brother; that came to light after the Final Battle. His portrait corroborated it.”

“So there are court records? She submitted memories?” He knew he needed to calm down, he was getting far too agitated, but Hero didn’t appear alarmed. She had her arms crossed and she was watching at him closely.

“At the time, yes; but there are no memories permanently on file. I’ve never seen them, only a closed session of the Wizengamot ever did.” She paused, debating whether to share more. In the end, she gave him a sad smile and said, “I don’t need to see them. She told us the most important fact was that we were conceived with love and I believe her.”

“It was rape.”

“It wasn’t rape–”

“It wasn’t love!”

“… Not romantic love, not eros, no. But agape, I think, is what she meant.”

He stood, breathing heavily, his hands clenched into fists.

“Look, I appreciate that you were… trying to apologise…?” She looked sceptical, given where the conversation had ended up, “but this is all very personal for me. I’d rather you were informed, I’d rather everyone was, but I shouldn’t have to repeatedly defend my family in my family home to someone who clearly doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.”   

That hit him like a ton of bricks. Sweet Salazar, what am I doing?! Harassing my own daughter for defending my name! Damn it all to Hades, as if he needed more evidence that he couldn’t do this.

“Hero, I– you’re right. I apologise. Again. I have completely– Please forgive me, I– I didn’t know–” He closed his eyes and managed to grind out, “Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman. She has faced incredible difficulty and borne it with grace, and her success is evident in her children and her home. I have overstayed my welcome and caused you pain. It was not my intention, but I will disturb you no further.”

She was shocked, and she stood as he retreated. “Mr Aspen, hey, you don’t – you don’t have leave over it!”

The door to the little studio slammed shut behind him without a response.

Chapter Text

He had little to pack, save a few rolls of note-filled parchment and two books – reprints – that he’d already purchased. He stored them in his briefcase with all of his other research, which he then reshrunk and returned to his pocket.

Slumping down onto the edge of the bed, he glanced around. There was nothing else in the room that belonged to him, no excuse to linger. He had to leave, he was intruding on their happy lives and causing harm.

Get up and go then, he admonished himself. But his legs felt too heavy. It seemed impossible to walk away, when he felt so hungry to know them.

Hero’s words were haunting him. Agape. Selfless love. Given without expectation of anything in return. She could hardly be delusional enough to think–

“Knock, knock?” It was Sal’s voice. “Mr. Aspen? May I come in?”

“It’s your property,” he snapped, regretting it immediately.

Sal stepped just inside the door and gave him a rueful smile. “Hero says she gave you a mouthful again. You really don’t have to go... We’re expecting Mum home early now, maybe even tomorrow. You should wait and get your book.”

“She said nothing undeserved.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I should go. I am trespassing on your hospitality at this stage.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“Anywhere else.”

Sal frowned. “You don’t even have a Portkey yet. And you haven’t given us an address for forwarding on the Zosimos reprint.”

“Salvador–” His son –my son!– was looking at him with a wounded expression and he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Just let us show you something, before you go,” Sal said. “Please?”

“What is it?”

Sal beamed and threw the door wide. “It’s up in main house.”

“I don’t think–”

“Come on, I promise you’ll find it fascinating.” He propelled Snape out the door and across the courtyard.

It was his first time to step foot inside the farmhouse. He gazed around at the beautifully bright, open plan interior. It appeared to have extension charms on the ceiling that, at his height, he particularly appreciated. There was no discernible colour scheme to the space, but the rugs, throws, lamps and cushions all seemed to blend together in complementary hues that reminded him of the Scottish Highlands. The furniture looked practical and comfortable and there was an entire wall covered in framed photos.

Sal didn’t pause, heading straight up the stairs and calling back when he wasn’t immediately followed. “This way!”

There were six doors at the top of the stairs, three on either side of the little landing. The door that Sal opened – the middle one, on the right – led into a small room with no natural light. When his eyes adjusted to the low lamplight from the corner, he saw that there was a gigantic pensieve in the centre of the room, with two armchairs flanking it. Hero sat in one of them.

She held up her hand when he opened his mouth to speak and said, “Don’t apologise, I’m not sure if I can handle another one!”

It was a tease, and he relaxed infinitesimally.

“Our mother made this room for us.” Sal explained. “She did a lot of research into attachment and identity when we were babies and decided we needed a way to connect to our dad.”

Hero indicated a cabinet behind the door. It was a large wooden box really; made of walnut, he suspected, and elevated on spindly legs to stand at waist height. It had a lid on top and hundreds of tiny drawers on each of its sides.

“This is our memory collection. Mum put out a call for memories of our dad and learned how to duplicate them, so that she could keep one here for us and return the originals to their owners too.” Her eyes were bright, and she said softly, “If you want to know about Severus Snape, this is the best place to look.”

It felt like an invasion of privacy – his privacy – but he couldn’t find it in him to be angry. Instead, he was utterly bewildered: What on earth could people have thought was worth sharing?

“These drawers–” she gestured to the front “–these are from his colleagues. Those at the side are mum’s and some from Draco Malfoy… Mum can’t stand him normally, but she was quite touched when he sent those on our eleventh birthday. Our dad was his godfather and used to take him out for walks, talking about life and giving advice, that sort of thing…” She opened one drawer, removing the tiny bottle inside and swirling it. “And it’s silly, but because the memories are from Malfoy’s perspective…”

“We could almost imagine he was giving the advice to us,” Sal finished.

Severus Snape was not a sentimental man, but that disclosure tested his stoicism. I should not be here. I’m not prepared for this, for them. I can’t live up to all of this. They want a father, not broken ex-Death Eater.

Hero was still talking, pointing to another row of drawers. “There were even a few people we’d never heard of who got in touch. Mostly Slytherins he’d helped as Head of House.”

“And the old witch from Astley’s Apothecary in Hogsmeade, remember?” Sal added. “She gave some to Professor McGonagall to pass along, but Mum kept them aside until last year. Those are hilarious!”

Sweet Merlin. He remembered that bawdy old witch. It amazed him that she was still around; he’d thought she was on her last legs when he was a lad in Hogwarts. She used to fill the school’s orders, and when he became professor, she’d begun flirting with him obscenely every time he crossed her threshold, just to roar laughing at his mortified expression. Over the years, he’d managed to overcome his embarrassment and learned to trade his own ribald retorts which amused her to no end. She would pat his arm as he’d leave and always packed a few surprise ingredients for his own use. All the same, absolutely not what he would want his children – or anyone else for that matter – to witness.

“You should look at some of the memories,” Hero said, “You’ll find it easier to believe me if you do.”

Sal moved towards the door. “While you do that, I’ll make tea.”

“This seems like a private family space–”

Hero carried on as though he hadn’t spoken. Without getting up, she plucked a vial from one of the centre drawers and allowed the memory to flow down into the bowl between them. “This has been one of my favourites over the last few months.”

He tried to push down his curiosity but couldn’t help himself; he had to know what he could have done that had found favour with her. Cautiously, he brought his face to the Pensieve and felt himself falling into the memory.

As the scene before him materialised, he realised that he was in Hogwarts. The Great Hall was cleared of tables and instead filled with individual brewing stations. Recognition dawned: his NEWTs. He was watching his Potions NEWT. His gaze swept quickly across the room until he caught sight of his younger self, on the right, towards the front of the hall. Seventh year Severus was walking slowly around his cauldron, seemingly oblivious of everyone around him. Where the other students sighed and winced and dashed to and from their prep tables, he was unnervingly calm. The examination was obviously well underway, he could see that the bulk of his ingredients were already prepared and laid out. He never took his eyes off the shimmering surface of his potion. At certain moments, he would speed up and perform several steps in quick succession. His movements were so sure and fluid, he could have been conducting an unseen orchestra.

He remembered the day, of course. Rosier had punched him in the arm afterwards, for declaring the exam to have been ‘a bit simplistic, but enjoyable nonetheless.’ Whose memory was this? He glanced around; he was standing just inside the main doors. To his left stood Slughorn and beyond him, Flitwick, perched on a spare desk in order to see over the heads of the students. Sprout was to his right and she glanced his way, giving him – or rather, the memory’s owner – an excited grin. It had to be Minerva. All of the staff were watching his younger self, he realised. The examiners too, were spending a great deal of time glancing in his direction. One in particular was staring at him outright and rocking on his heels with glee.

This was… bizarre. From what he could tell, his teachers were there to… to watch him succeed? They looked proud. He hadn’t realised any of them knew then that he was particularly proficient in the subject, beyond Slughorn of course.

The staff around him were now starting to tiptoe out of the hall, and the memory fizzled away.

“I tried to channel him during my practical,” Hero said with a smirk, “but I didn’t quite manage that level of composure.”

She didn’t seem to expect a reply, returning the memory to its vial and selecting another. “Here, this is the day he received his Mastery. Mum got it from Professor Slughorn, who attended the presentation.”

He watched another five memories, his mind reeling more with each one. There were memories of his Common Room talks, in which he met different year groups and discussed his expectations and resolved House issues, and others in which gave career talks to sixth and seventh years. Looking back from the outside, he noticed students taking notes, hanging back to ask questions, laughing at something droll he’d said. Even the rapt attention of the memory’s owner spoke volumes. There were also memories of his earliest interactions as a member of staff at Hogwarts. In his mind, those first meetings had not been positive; he recalled overthinking everything and feeling intense defensiveness as the youngest member of a staff made up largely of his own teachers – but Minerva’s memories showed a young Potions Master who was cordial and respectful. He’d acquitted himself better in their eyes than he would have thought.

This is how other people saw me?

Chapter Text

At a shout from Sal a while later, Hero put away the vials in her lap and hopped up with a stretch.

“Lunch, I think,” she told Snape, and the pair walked downstairs.

Sal had three bowls of piping hot shepherd’s pie laid out on the table.

“Thank Morgana for Mum,” he grinned, “or we’d have been eating sandwiches for a solid two weeks!”

It felt awkward to join a meal at the family dinner table, but more awkward to be the only person still standing, so Snape sat.

He was facing the wall of photos. Some were magic, some Muggle, but almost every single one featured the twins. There were chubby baby photos, Christmas morning photos, Hogwarts Express photos – and everything in between. Right in front of him, to the left of Sal’s head, was a photo of, presumably, the day they were born. He looked at the tired but pleased face of the teen holding them and felt his heart clench. She was too young. A child having children, how did she do it? She hadn’t even had the opportunity to enjoy her own childhood; war had taken that away from her. No matter what she told her children, she must hate him.

As he ate, Sal and Hero talked about the post – no NEWT results today – and the next Burrow meet up. They seemed to be giving him space to process what he had seen upstairs, and he was grateful for it.

His eyes landed on a recent photo, taken on Hogwarts grounds. Brother and sister had their arms around each other and were rolling their eyes at whatever the photographer was saying.

“You’re a Slytherin?” he said with surprise, unintentionally cutting across their conversation.

“Obviously,” said Hero, flicking her hair over her shoulder and smiling wickedly. “Couldn’t you tell? And Sal here was our fearless Gryffindor Head Boy.” She patted her brother’s cheek; he just shook his head at her.

“Head Boy? Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Sal said. “Any of the seventh-year prefects could have done the job equally well, my year were really–”

 “Oh stop,” Hero hushed him. “You and Gloria had it sewn up since first year! And quite right too, you are a match made in Headmistress Heaven.” She looked over to Snape and added, in a sly stage-whisper, “Sal is sweet on our equally fearless Head Girl, but he hasn’t told her yet.”

“Hero!”

“What? You need to tell her how you feel. Bring her here, seduce her with books! She’s a Ravenclaw,” she added, for their guest’s benefit.

“I didn’t want to distract her from the NEWTs… or influence her decisions for further study.” Sal said, defensively.

“Where’s your Gryffindor courage, brother? NEWTs are over, you have no excuse!”

“I applied for an apprenticeship with her grandfather,” Sal told Snape. “So I shouldn’t ask her out until I hear back one way or the other, right?”

Hero rolled her eyes. “Mr Ollivander isn’t going to know who his granddaughter is dating.”

“Well why don’t you ask Teddy out then?” Sal said.

He was rewarded with a withering glare. “Because Teddy and I are just friends, as you know full well. I’m wing woman in his desperate pursuit of the fair Victoire. Besides, I will make time for dating once I’ve become the youngest ever Lead Healer at St Mungo’s, not a moment before.”

Although he was completely out of his depth to offer advice when questions of this nature were directed at him, it was a bit of a relief to see them acting like the teenagers he remembered from his teaching days. They had seemed altogether too level-headed and mature up to now and it was reassuring to see them tease each other and talk of friends.

Almost twenty minutes later, his relaxed mood was shattered by the sound of the front door opening. A painfully familiar voice rang out from the hallway.

“Darlings, I’m home!”

Sal and Hero were at the door in seconds. They were so delighted to see their mother that neither noticed Snape’s terrified expression or rigid posture as they passed him.

Fuck. What do I do now?! She isn’t supposed to return until tomorrow.

His back was to the door, but he could see the family hug taking place behind him via the reflection in the glass of the photo frames.

She looked tiny next to her tall teens, but she had an arm around each of their waists and was beaming up at them.

“You’re early, Mum!” Sal sounded sheepish. “We… er, we haven’t tidied up properly yet, we were going to do it in a mad rush first thing tomorrow…”

“Oh, you can still do that, I won’t stop you!” She laughed and took their hands. “Everything alright then, you didn’t burn the place down?”

“We didn’t set any fires, but we did adopt a researcher,” Hero said, her voice full of mischief. “Come this way, Mum, you’ve got to meet Mr Aspen.”

He felt all of their eyes turn to him and without any idea what to do or say, he found himself getting to his feet and turning to face her.

His former student took a step further into the room and their eyes met. In that instant, he knew that she knew. Her gaze was locked to his as she walked towards him slowly; her eyes too bright and her smile too warm for a stranger. When she reached him, she gripped his hand with both of hers and said, “Mr Aspen, it is wonderful to meet you at last. I’m Hermione Granger. I am so very glad that you found our little establishment.”

He swallowed. “What you have built here is quite remarkable, Ms Granger.”

Her face lit up in delight at his words and she seemed unaware that she hadn’t yet released his hand.

“Sit down, Mum,” said Sal, pulling out a chair for her and breaking his mother’s reverie in the process. “We had shepherd’s pie just a while ago, can I heat you up a portion?”

“That would be perfect, thank you love.” She sat at the table and called after him, “While I’m eating, perhaps you’d like to peruse Journal No. 14?”

He was back in a flash, “You found a Wenlock journal?! Seriously?!”

“Seriously!”

They bantered back and forth about the Arithmancy secrets the text might contain, and it gave Snape an opportunity to observe her. She was very obviously the Miss Granger he remembered, but she was simultaneously completely changed. Her face had matured; she had tiny laughter lines crinkling her eyes. Her hair was shoulder length now and her curls more defined than before. Sitting with Hero leaning against her shoulder, she looked maternal and graceful and comfortable in her own skin.

No wedding band, his brain pointed out helpfully. He didn't know why that mattered to him, but it suddenly did. He felt guilty - he wanted her to have had a normal life and he supposed that included a romantic relationship - but he was glad that he didn't have to contend with a better man for his children's affection. Of course, that didn't necessarily mean that she was single, but at least there wasn't something... permanent. 

She ate and recounted stories from her trip, occasionally pulling books and exotic biscuits and cakes from her tiny purse. It wasn’t until she was giving a detailed description of the splendour of the Iranian ministry buildings that he realised Hero was watching him. Every few moments, her eyes would flicker to his, taking in his countenance and waiting for a reaction. He schooled his face into what he hoped was a neutral expression and gave her a small smile when she next glanced over. She rolled her eyes, conceding that she’d been caught, and pushed the opened packet of jalebi towards him.

Perhaps surprising all present, Sal and Snape did not immediately seclude themselves with the new texts now at their disposal. Instead, the group of four spent the evening playing several rounds of ‘enhanced scrabble’, which involved a complicated magical scoreboard and bonus points for a range of extras, including being able to provide the etymology of whatever word was played. Once again, he was caught off guard as the same teens who were earlier squabbling about love interests now gave detailed treatises on the Latin origins of everyday words.

At one point, Ms Granger and Salvador rose to put together a pizza for dinner and Hero watched him some more, calling out questions for him to answer from a box declaring itself the deluxe edition of Trivial Pursuit. He discovered that Muggle pop culture was not his strong suit, but managed to do quite well in the categories on History, Science and the Arts.

Eventually, after several slices of pizza and a silent discussion only twins could have, Sal and Hero said goodnight and made their way upstairs.

Ms Granger turned her gaze on him and smiled. “I’m going to get some air,” she said lightly. “Would you care to join me, Mr Aspen?”

He would really rather do anything else, but this wasn’t a conversation that could be avoided.

Chapter Text

Dusk had set in and the stars were scattered like glitter across the darkening sky. He walked stiffly beside Hermione as they descended the patio steps and crossed the courtyard, coming to a stop by the elegant bench. She sat first and he took the space at the furthest end.

“On summer evenings like this, there’s no place I’d rather be,” she murmured, taking a deep breath and exhaling softly.

He said nothing, but studied the engraving under his feet with intensity, aware of her eyes on him. She must have realised that he had no idea where to begin, because she didn’t wait for him to add his own pleasantries before speaking again.

“Severus?”

He jumped when he heard his name spoken aloud. It had been so long since he’d heard anyone use it, and her voice was so gentle.

“… May I call you Severus?” she asked softly.

He gave a short jerk of his head.

“And you must call me Hermione, of course.” She took another deep breath. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are alive, Severus.”

Gods, how could she possibly mean that? Deep discomfort set in and he scrambled to dissemble. His most reliable defence had always been sarcasm, so he arched an eyebrow and let the silence linger, trying to gain the upper hand.

“Clearly,” he said. “Though I must admit that you are the last person I’d imagined would build such a monument to my memory.”

She pressed her lips together. “Are you very angry?” she asked.

“Angry…?”

“Hero told me they showed you the Remembrance Room. You must be furious. I took liberties with your privacy, I know that, but please allow me to explain why.” She was speaking with such urgency, her body swivelled towards him, her eyes willing him to believe her. “You see, I had finally accepted that you were… gone. I would never be able to thank you, you would never know you were a father. All I could do was make sure that your children still knew you. I didn’t want them to experience a moment of doubt about who they were, Severus. If I hadn’t told them about you, they would have filled in the blanks themselves with rumour and prejudice and shame that they picked up from a cruel public who never understood you.”

He raised an incredulous eyebrow. “And you do understand me?”

“I wouldn’t presume to say so, no,” she admitted, somewhat abashed. “In all honesty, I knew so very little about you when I began all of this that I learned as much from watching the memories as they did.” She shook her head. “I knew I couldn’t give Sal and Hero the whole picture, but I could give them enough to see the truth and hold their heads high.”

“But why did you give them my name? When you could have used your own and protected them from public ridicule?”

“Nobody is going to force my family into hiding, Severus,” she said with a steely look in her eyes. “Never again.”

“The middle of nowhere in France isn’t hiding, then?” he jibed.

“This is my choice,” she countered. “Wait another two weeks for the booklists to come out you will see that this place is very much on the map.”

“Why France?” Being the one to ask all the questions calmed him somewhat, and he allowed himself to lean back into the bench.

“My parents came back from Australia but missed the sun almost immediately. They decided to buy a small winery thirty minutes south of here. Not that they know the first thing about the vinifying process, but…” She waved her hand as though dismissing that digression. “I wanted to be close to them and I wanted a bit of distance from the tabloids.”

“I rather thought you’d set your sights on becoming Minister before forty?” He wasn’t sure if he’d heard her say as much years ago, or if he was making an assumption.

“You’re not wrong, that was once the plan,” she grinned, “But things change. I changed.”

“You should have been able to become any bloody thing you wanted. That your life was derailed by… that evening,” he grimaced, “is ultimately my fault.”

“Severus–”

He glared at her. “No. You must allow me to apologise for my horrific treatment of you. It was reprehensible and I will understand if–”

“What are you talking about…?” she said slowly. “I asked you to.”

“Because you had no other choice.”

She looked at him as though he was being deliberately dense. “Because I had the choice to give up or fight on and I chose to fight on, with your help.”

“Help?” he spat. “That’s what you call it?”

“Severus really,” she huffed. “I doubt any first sexual encounter of my own devising would have been as gentle as you made sure it was that night, despite the duress we were both under. It was so effective I couldn’t look Ron in the eye for weeks afterwards!”

His involuntary laugh had to be hastily disguised as a cough.

She frowned. “Perhaps I should make myself clearer. It was extremely awkward, obviously, and utterly terrifying to have my own virginity weaponised but… You didn’t hurt me. If you hadn’t squeezed my hand before you ended the false memory, I would never have been able to tell that it wasn’t real.”

“Didn’t hurt–?!” He was swallowing convulsively, the memory always made him feel sick. “You were crying, Hermione. I can still– You were distraught!”

“I wasn’t! I mean, I cried, I remember that – but it must have been an adrenaline release, or a side effect of the calming spell–”

“I didn’t cast a calming spell.”

“You did, I felt it.”

“No.”

“You must have, Severus. It was so strong.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped. “The only spell I cast was a contraceptive and that clearly didn’t work!”

She stared at him. He couldn’t read her expression at all, but he felt uncomfortably sure that she had the measure of him and it was unbearable. He wanted to push her away before she could do the same to him.

“Only a bleeding heart Gryffindor could twist a rape into something heroic–” That would do it.

She was on her feet and rounding on him before he finished the sentence, finally angry. He knew this was coming, maybe all it had taken was for her to talk to him again to realise she hated him. As she should.

“What do you want me to say, Severus? Do you want me to scream and call you a heartless bastard and throw you out? Is that what you imagined would happen? Would you find that easier than acknowledging that there is good inside you and you deserve happiness?”

Fuck. This was somehow worse than her quiet voice. “Stop.”

She didn’t. “You need to forgive yourself for being human and making a mistake. You were only a year or two older than Salvador is now. If he did something stupid – yes, even something that led a madman to kill innocent people – would you deny him forgiveness for the rest of his life? Because you are doing that to yourself, Severus. You suffered a great deal at the hands of Riddle, and even Dumbledore to an extent. To satisfy their demands, you had to do brutal things to your own soul just to survive... but you did so much good as well. You redeemed yourself.”

“Stop it. That’s not what we were discussing–”

She threw her hands in the air, frustrated. “It doesn’t matter, that’s where all of this is coming from. Your natural human need for acceptance and connection was manipulated, but you must believe me that not every relationship is transactional–”

“STOP!” His raised voice was effective enough to throw her off and she gasped when she realised what she’d said.

“I’m sorry. Gracious, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. We barely know each other and it’s not my place– but I’m just so angry! Not with you,” she clarified. “I’m angry that you’ve punished yourself all these years over the very thing I’ve wanted to thank you for.”

 “… Thank me.”

“Yes. Of course! You could have left me there, Severus. You were undercover, you risked everything.” He glanced up and studied her face for a few seconds, but she seemed genuine. When she caught his eye, she smiled. “You’re a good man.”

After a while, she sank back onto the bench. “I really didn’t think I’d be the one doing the ranting tonight.”

She kept surprising laughter out of him. And she noticed that time, grinning. "Can we just agree that neither of us is angry with the other?"

“I suppose,” he agreed wryly. After a few minutes spent trying to process her truce, he said haltingly, “I can understand why past experience would lead you to believe that I would… react badly to having my personal life on display… but after so long alone, it’s become easier to not feel… anything.”

That was more than he’d planned to share when this conversation began. She looked so sad at those words, as though she were personally responsible for his solitary post-war life. He looked away lest her expression start to resemble pity.

“Perhaps I’m also slightly confused,” he continued, looking down at his hands and tracing an old scar, “by your determination to give a more munificent account of my life to my… my children–” he swallowed at the reality that slammed into him as he claimed them out loud, “–than I deserve. I find I can’t be angry for what you did, when you could have told them nothing at all, or created a fiction, or married someone who could have better filled that role.”

She looked ready to give him all the reasons why she would hadn’t chosen those alternatives and it made him want to laugh again at how transparent her expressions were. It was quite fascinating to watch a person share her emotions so freely, as though the world wouldn’t use them against her at the first chance it got. How can one witch be so vulnerable and so strong?

Clearing his throat, he said, “It has come to my attention in recent days that my allegiance in the war was made public and I am not on any Aurors’ Most Wanted lists.

Her mouth was a perfect circle of surprise. “You didn’t know?”

“It was too hard to spare a thought for the UK after I left,” he admitted, simultaneously loving and loathing the honesty she was drawing out of him. “I needed a clean break if I was going to be able to stay away. For reasons of self-preservation, I didn’t interact with any wizarding population long enough to form relationships, and the lack of connection…” He rubbed his jaw and looked at her with all the intensity of a man who felt everything but showed nothing, “I now find myself… wanting to know them.”

“Them–? Hero and Salvador?”

“Yes.”

She clasped her hands together over her heart and beamed at him. “Severus, I – that is… wonderful – beyond wonderful! I hardly know what to–!” She took another of those deep breaths she was so fond of. “Please say that you will stay for the summer? They’ll be going away for further studies at the end of August, this really is the best time to–”

“Yes, alright. Yes.” He held very still as she half hugged him in jubilation.

It was as though she became another person; she almost vibrated with enthusiasm as she spoke about her children. “I’m so excited for you to get to know them, Severus! Hero is so like you; all snark and sarcasm with a heart of gold underneath.” Both of his eyebrows shot up at that description, but she paid no notice. “She is her own person of course, but she definitely inherited your mannerisms; she could arch her eyebrow just so before she could even walk!”

“And Salvador, he’s as Gryffindor as they come – but do try not to hold that against him! He’s so easy-going and conciliatory. He was the quieter twin growing up and he would watch everything; seeing things that others would overlook, drawing the right conclusions, understanding the bigger picture. I would call him a strategist, but that seems to miss the kindness part. He is so kind, Severus.”

She had her fingers pressed to her cheeks now, as though she couldn’t believe her own luck. The thought floated into his consciousness without warning: She’s beautiful when she describes them. No sooner had it occurred to him than he was immediately horrified. Because mothers should love their children, obviously, he rationalised. That is a beautiful thing. Anyone would agree.

While he wrestled his errant observations, she stood and smoothed out her robes. She had said something about the late hour that he’d missed. The realisation that she was bringing the conversation to a close for the night hit him and he panicked.

“Wait!”

She turned back and was altogether too close to him now, but at least that made it easier to quietly utter his biggest concern, “Hermione, I am not– I’ve never been– anything to anyone. I can’t be who they want me to be. I don’t know how.”

Night had fallen completely now. The breeze was picking up and it whisked her hair around her head like a halo bathed in moonlight. She smiled sympathetically at him and matched his low tones in response. “Spoken like a true parent, Severus. The secret is, it’s not about who they want us to be, it’s about who we let them be. Let them be themselves and just be present for it... Just do what feels right.”

“I don’t know what feels right.”

“I’m sure you’ve felt it this past week.” She searched his face and said, “I can share my parenting mantra with you, if you like?”

“Of course. Please,” he said. It came out as little more than a whisper and he hated how vulnerable he sounded.

“Since they were born, my rule for myself has been this: when I get the impulse to control or fix something about them, I shift my intention to support and model instead. In other words, listen to their thoughts, validate their emotions, don’t judge, don’t dictate. That’s all there is to it.”

That’s all?! “That’s rather a lot.”

“I know. It is a lot – until you see the benefit and then it becomes as natural as breathing.” She reached out and put a hand on his forearm, squeezing it lightly in what he supposed was meant to be a comforting gesture. “But they’re eighteen, Severus. They’re already fairly well-adjusted young people, that will make it easier. I really do think you’re equal to the challenge.”

There was a faint noise above them and they looked up to see curtains being yanked across an upstairs window. Severus felt his mouth go dry.

“How do I… tell them?” he asked.

She looked at him with amusement dancing in her eyes and broke the news gently. “I’m fairly sure they already know. Or at least, suspect.”

It took a full minute for her words to register. “What? How?!”

“Your voice, Severus. You didn’t alter your voice. I recognised it the moment you spoke.” She rubbed a hand over her heart, “And those two have been listening to your voice their whole lives, no doubt imagining how it would sound to hear you say their names.”

He had no reply to that and had to sit down again, breathing heavily for a few minutes. He tried to process the events of the week in light of this new information. “Why didn’t they say something?”

“They weren’t certain,” she said. “That first night, when they asked me if you could stay in one of the studios, they told me that someone who looked ‘Snape-ish’ had walked into the shop and started doling out fatherly advice.” She seemed heartily amused by the idea.

His mouth hung open. “Fatherly–?! I did no such thing! Nothing more than robust academic discussion–”

Her smile was unnerving. This whole conversation is unnerving! Miss Granger had rarely been able to remain calm in his presence, but this Hermione? She seemed to see through all his bluster. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice how much it discomfited him.

“Then last night, they weren’t so sure,” she said. “They wanted to know if you could possibly have had a distant cousin, or a half-brother of whom the world was unaware. They vacillated between theories, but I could see the hope in their faces regardless.” She dropped her hand and wrapped it around herself. “To be honest, I felt a wild surge of hope too.”

“… and that’s why you returned early?” he asked.

“Yes. I was rather intrigued every time they presented me with more ‘evidence.’ And really Severus,” she laughed, “Using an anagram of Snape as your alias?”

“Nobody’s questioned it these past nineteen years,” he sounded disdainful, but a tiny smile danced at the corner of his lips.

She laughed again but looked thoughtful. “I think they do know now,” she said. “They’ve never let another person into their Remembrance Room, not even their godparents. They brought you there this morning. They must know.”

They know.

They KNOW.

When they finally rose from the bench a second time, both winced at their stiff limbs. Severus felt as though his mind was still racing to catch up with all of the revelations of the past hour and was looking forward to an opportunity to re-examine her words alone. He nodded politely towards her by way of farewell and turned towards the little studio but was called back.

“Please, I have something I need to give you,” Hermione told him. “Please come back to the house for a minute.”

They retraced their steps across the terrace in silence, but the atmosphere was calmer now. Hermione crossed darkened living space and he waited while she lit a lamp and strode to a locked bureau. After turning the key and dismantling half a dozen wards, she pulled a hidden drawer from a seemingly solid side panel and held it out to him.

“What is this?”

She blushed. “I wrote to you. Every time they did something wonderful, which was all the time. I wanted to tell you about it. I’m sure some of it will seem painfully trivial but try to remember that I was only twenty when I started.”

He took the wooden drawer from her and glanced down at the brown leather notebook inside. There were vials beside it. “Memories too?”

“Yes, some of my favourites. No momentous occasions, just lovely ordinariness from their childhood. I tend to use them to cheer myself up, actually.”

He cleared his throat and nodded. “In that case, I look forward to viewing them. Thank you.”

“The guestroom is made up,” she blurted. “You should stay here. Please… you’re their family too.”

Gryffindor saviourism at its finest, his inner cynic scoffed.

“Hermione, you are not obligated to do all of this. The apartment is perfectly fine–”

She shook her head in annoyance at being understood. “It’s not obligation. You are… part of my children. I feel… Well, it’s complicated. I just think you should… be here.”

Hermione Granger, unable to explain something? He never thought he’d see the day. She took his surprise as agreement and he didn’t have it in him to demur further. He let her guide him up the stairs to the door furthest to the left, a utilitarian but tastefully decorated room accented with the same colours as downstairs: shades of moss and heather and rust and mud.

“There’s an ensuite through there, and my room is two doors up on this side if you need anything.” She looked at him as though assessing his likelihood to abscond as soon as she closed the door, but said nothing else. With a soft click, he was left alone.

He placed the drawer on the bed and stared at it for a long time. 

Chapter Text

Dear Professor Snape,

Today I had the absolute privilege of watching our daughter perform magic for what was, I believe, the first time in her life. I have included a photograph because her triumphant expression cannot be adequately captured with words. As you can see, Hero and Salvador were sitting at their little table, enjoying (or should that be demolishing?!) a morning snack of yoghurt and strawberries. Hero had watched me preparing the bowls and evidently decided that five chopped strawberries each was not enough, as she then proceeded to Accio the rest of the punnet from the counter, across the kitchen, into her outstretched hands! I was so unprepared for this that although I managed to snap a photo, I did not act fast enough to remove the box before they had slurped and squished the remaining berries.

By necessity, their midday activity was a bubble bath, and I have just spent the entirety of their nap Evanescoing sticky pawprints from the walls and doorframes – but I wouldn’t change it for the world! I can already see the little cogs turning in Hero’s mind and have no doubt that I will be ducking to avoid fruit and flying toys again in the near future. I am just so proud of her, and of Sal, for how quickly they are learning about and engaging with the world around them. They can say “Mumma!” now, which is both adorable (the first hundred times) and exhausting (when screeched at two in the morning).

I expected this past year (that is to say, my first year of motherhood) to be extremely challenging, but I didn’t realise how cathartic it would also turn out to be. At a time when so much of the wizarding world is in anguish and struggling to rebuild, I have been cocooned in the unlooked-for joy of our babies’ love and laughter and cuddles and innocence. It has made me realise that I want to capture these happy moments in a tangible way, here in these pages.

I still hold out hope that the disappearance of your body was not a cruel act of desecration by Riddle supporters (as the Ministry would have it), but rather, by your own brilliance in keeping yourself alive despite the horrific wounds you suffered. (If not that, then at the very least, I pray that your remains received the respectful burial they deserved). Should you, please Godric, ever return to us in the months or years ahead, know that I will happily share these letters with you, along with my undying gratitude for our children.  

Hermione Granger

It was midnight before Snape found the nerve to investigate the contents of the drawer on his bed. There were twelve little vials of memories lined up in rows of three, and a large leather journal, so much fuller than the manufacturer had intended that it was tied with piece of ribbon to keep the contents from falling out. There were hundreds of entries in the journal. Here and there, the occasional drawing or news clipping was folded between the pages. Snape had read the first letter several times. He was captivated by the magical photograph glued beneath it. It showed a chubby baby with a fluff of black hair holding her arms outstretched with great purpose. Moments later, the child’s eyes widened with glee as a cardboard container of strawberries hurtled towards her. On and on it looped, Hero’s determination and delight chasing each other endlessly.

That first letter, dated February 2000, was the only one that explicitly entertained hope of his survival. Later entries would mention him “looking down on them” and other veiled references to heaven, or someplace beyond. Further into the notebook, she began addressing the missives to ‘Severus’ and a sense of deep affection for him pervaded every sentence. It was intoxicating for a man who had never before received correspondence of this nature. He traced a finger over his name wherever it appeared, following the loops of her handwriting.

By the time he’d flicked through the whole journal once, it was after two in the morning. He had read quickly in his eagerness to see the twins’ progression through all of the photographs and was already planning to go over it all again in greater detail the next day. He was fairly certain he’d read it every day for the rest of his life.

He placed it on the nightstand with great care and lay down in the dark. Occluding his mind usually lulled him within minutes, but the glow of the memories in the uncovered drawer was too distracting for sleep.

The remembrance room is just across the hall, his curiosity pointed out. He knew it was not the done thing to creep around another person’s home after dark, but he also rather suspected that Hermione was expecting him to make use of the pensieve.

He padded across the landing quietly, with a handful of vials in the crook of his arm. He sent up a prayer of thanks to Morgana when the door to the memory room opened noiselessly.

It was too dim inside to read the labels on the vials, so he chose one at random and tipped it into the waiting bowl. It shimmered invitingly as he leaned forwards to experience it.

The memory-farmhouse that fizzled into place looked rather less carefully curated than its current counterpart. Noting that Hermione had viewed the scene from halfway up the stairs, he walked down to the foot of the staircase for a better vantage point. There were balloons and streamers hung along the walls and a cacophony of noise coming from the terrace. On the couch, all in black, sat a very young Hero.

A Weasley poked his head into the room and walked inside when he spotted her. “Alright Hero? How does it feel to finally be seven?”

“It’s not completely intolerable,” she said, trying to sound bored.

Weasley folded his arms and hid a smile. “Oh really? Good to hear.”

“Quite.”

Nodding to the pile of books and gifts beside her, he said, “Seems like you got a decent haul there; are those dragonhide boots?”

“Indeed.” The way she was blinking slowly gave Snape the distinct impression that it was taking all her willpower to remain this laconic.

“Come on then, don’t want you to miss your own cake.”

She arched a little eyebrow and somehow managed to look down her nose at Weasley, despite being three feet shorter. “Perish the thought!”

“… Been watching memories of your dad teaching again, have you?”

“Obviously,” she drawled witheringly, and held the glower for another couple of beats before breaking into a delighted grin. “What do you think, Uncle Ron? Mummy says I sound just like him and to be careful or I’ll give you a fright! Were you scared?”

Ron put a hand over his heart dramatically. “Bloody petrified.”

“Yes!” she cheered happily.

She hopped up from the sofa and grabbed his hand, just as Sal barrelled inside and tried to tackle him. Throwing the birthday boy over his shoulder, Ron swung the birthday girl’s hand in his and the little group headed back to the party. “Come on, I’m going to need some chocolate to recover. You can cut your favourite uncle the biggest slice.”

Their giggles were still ringing in his ears when he resurfaced.

He watched another; a lovely memory of the twins running into their mother at school unexpectedly, while she was delivering a large book donation to the library. He could see why she liked to revisit it, their delight at seeing her was infectious. They were young enough – perhaps third years? – but showed no sign of embarrassment at embracing her in front of their peers. He watched the trio sneak down to the kitchens to share lunch together before the memory faded away.

The next memory was different and opened with an altogether sombre scene. Hermione had been crying and a five-year-old Sal was trying to comfort her. Behind him, Hero stood looking down at a prone orange creature with a frown. The little boy patted his mother’s cheek and then gave it a wet kiss.

“Crooks’ body was too tired, Mummy?” he asked. When she agreed with a sob, he put his arms around her and suggested sweetly, “Daddy will mind Crooks now?”

That brought on a fresh wave of tears and both children eventually climbed into her lap on the floor, aware that Something Serious had happened and patiently allowing her to hug them tighter than usual.

Of the vials he’d grabbed, he had two memories left. A glance at the clock told him that he would very likely greet the dawn before becoming acquainted with the guest bed, but he felt the sleep was worth sacrificing. Pouring the penultimate memory in and following it quickly, his first observation was that this was not a domestic scene, or indeed any place he recognised. Hermione was sitting in a crowd in front of an open-air dais, listening to a Ministry official drone on. The banner behind the podium declared the event to be a remembrance service for the tenth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. It would appear that the speech had been going on for some time, as Salvador was slumped against her shoulder, fast asleep. The chair to Hermione’s other side was empty though.

After a minute, Hermione shifted Sal until he was snoozing against Potter’s side instead and surreptitiously crept to the end of the aisle. She was glancing around, presumably looking for her daughter. Once she escaped the Ministry’s ostentatious marquee, he could see where the event was being held. London’s premiere wizarding graveyard now boasted a gigantic memorial wall, next to the graves of several key players in the war. Hermione conjured a bouquet of white roses as she walked over, placing a rose in front of the Lupins’ graves and a few others. When she reached the symbolic marker that bore his name – though there was no body beneath it – she peered over the slab of granite to see Hero leaning against the other side, reading aloud from a book.

“Mum,” she said indignantly, when Hermione’s shadow darkened her page. “This is a private conversation!”

“Alright darling. I’ll wait for you by the trees. Ten minutes; I don’t want to lose sight of you when the crowds descend for the wreath-laying.”

Hermione left a white rose on the tombstone and retreated, watching from a distance. Hero re-joined her just as the throng appeared and the two hugged under the trees for the rest of the ceremony. He almost resented having to leave the memory.

Leaning back in the chair, he swirled the final memory in its glass bottle. He was beginning to understand why the tone of Hermione’s letters has grown so fond over time. When one saw moments in another person’s life like this, it changed everything. He hadn’t thought he could like Sal and Hero more, but he was wrong.

Conscious of the time, he moved onto the last memory he’d brought. At first, he thought there was a problem with it. He was surrounded by absolute darkness, waiting for something to materialise around him. Then, when his eyes had a chance to adjust, he realised that he was in a child’s bedroom, with only a sliver of light from the landing to illuminate the scene.

A young Salvador was lying in bed, his expression preoccupied. Snape estimated his age at approximately nine or ten. After a minute, the boy spoke. “What if we’re sorted into different houses, Mum?”

“Well, I rather expect you will be, sweetheart. You are different people, after all,” came Hermione’s reply. Snape was viewing the scene from her perspective, but when he moved a few steps away she materialised, sitting on the side of the bed. To his satisfaction, he found that he could now watch both mother and son interact.

Sal bit his lip. “Can I ask to be in the same house as Hero?”

“You can ask, darling, but I can’t guarantee the hat will listen.”

There was a long pause. “Hero wants to be in Slytherin.”

“Yes, she does.” Hermione ran her hand over his curls and laughed softly. “Her bedroom is a bit of a giveaway, isn’t it? Your uncle Harry called it a shrine to all things green and silver on his last visit!”

“I want to stay with her, but I…” The boy glanced away. “I don’t think I’m a Slytherin.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, giving him time to express his thoughts.

“Does that– I mean, am I not…?” He looked as though he might cry. “Would he have liked Hero better?”

She squeezed his hand tightly. “You think being in Slytherin would be a way to feel close to him, is that it? To honour him, even?”

“Yeah.”

“And if you weren’t in Slytherin, what are you worried might happen?” Her tone was even, her expression so calm. How did she know what to do in these situations? Snape felt sure he wouldn’t have the slightest clue.

Sal was speaking again. “Hero will – she’d have a connection to him that I wouldn’t have.”

“And that could feel uncomfortable?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to be left out of anything.”

“I hear you.” She was quiet for a few minutes, rubbing her thumb in circles on the back of his hand. “You and I have a different relationship than Hero and I have. How do you cope with that?”

He frowned and considered the question. “That’s different; you’re here. We can always find new things to share if we need to.”

Her face broke into a beautiful smile and she kissed the top of his head. “I think you’ve solved your own quandary, my darling.”

“… find new things?”

“Exactly. A different connection to him than Hero’s might be, but just as valuable. Let’s spend some time tomorrow thinking of ideas.”

Sal smiled at that. “Thanks Mum.”

“Thank you, sweetheart; for sharing your thoughts with me. I feel so honoured to hear them.” She paused and straightened his bedcovers, before asking him, “Can I tell you something you probably already know, but might still find helpful?”

“Sure.”

She took both of his hands in hers. “People place a lot of weight on the house system, including adults you know and love, but it’s not always a good idea. No one Hogwarts house can sum up a person’s entire personality, Salvador. Hero may not be a Slytherin–” she ignored his disbelieving look, “–and not every Weasley grandchild will be a Gryffindor, despite all your uncles’ jokes. Just remember that your father was a Slytherin, but he was also brave like a Gryffindor; loyal like a Hufflepuff; and extremely clever like a Ravenclaw. And more than that, he spent a lot of his life behind a mask, playing a role. I think if he were here, he’d tell you that the greatest honour would be to have a son who was brave enough to be his authentic self.”

“Even if I turn out to be a Hufflepuff?” he asked, but the trepidation was gone from his voice.

“You mean, even if you join the kindest house in Hogwarts? Yes, darling. He would be proud, and so would I.”

“Love you, Mum.”

She peppered his forehead with kisses. “Love you too, my sweet boy. Always.”

She moved to the door and closed it behind her. Darkness settled around Snape for a moment before he found himself sitting in front of the Pensieve again, his eyes rather wet.

A band of pink light was inching above the horizon by the time Snape’s head finally hit the pillows. He slept for a mere two hours, woken by the faint creak of the stairs. Knowing that his body, hypervigilant after years of espionage, would be unable to relax enough to doze off again now that someone was moving about, he rose and dressed. He took a few minutes to unshrink the rest of his belongings and store them in the appropriate places. He’d committed to spending another six weeks here, after all. As long as Hero and Salvador didn’t object. Would they object?

When he made his way downstairs, he found the living area was empty. The kettle was rumbling, so he knew someone would appear shortly. He rubbed his hands on his trousers and sat gingerly in the centre of the comfortable couch.

He was nearing the point of no return now; he estimated he had two minutes left before Sal and Hero appeared to go jogging. A large part of his mind was whispering that he would fail to live up to the fiction they’d built, urging him to escape the inevitable rejection now, to run. He stayed.

Soft voices and laughter filled the air above him for a few moments but faded to a sudden silence once feet hit the stairs. He knew the moment they realised that the glamour was gone. The stillness stretched and he couldn’t look up, couldn’t breathe in, couldn’t think–

And then they were there. Running, launching themselves over the back of the sofa on either side of him, arms around him, heads on his shoulders.

Something very tight inside him snapped and he became overwhelmed by feelings he couldn’t name. For the first time since his almost death, Severus Snape wept.

Chapter Text

It was a peculiar thing, falling in love with one’s children. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it had happened, but he felt very aware of it while tangled up in his first epic hug with them that morning. They’d held his hands, half-laughing, half-crying. He felt desperately awkward, but they were all awkward together and that made it bearable.

When their hunger had overtaken their need for physical closeness, they relocated to the kitchen. He kept one hand on Sal’s shoulder, Hero’s fingers still gripping the other. Hermione was standing there, blotting tears from her cheeks, having watched the whole thing with such focus that the kettle had boiled and gone cold again without her noticing. They sat around the table and he forced himself to make eye contact, reassured by the delight he found in both teens’ faces.

Hero brought levity to the whole situation by considering aloud what they should call him now that he was very obviously not Mr Aspen. “Father is too formal. Papa Snape?” she joked. She kept going, getting more and more ridiculous until suddenly, hearing himself called Dad sounded quite normal by comparison. So he was Dad.

They grilled him for information about where he’d been and how he’d survived, but in such an excited, haphazard fashion that quite a few questions got lost in the chatter. Hermione threw him a few looks early in the conversation that were clearly offering to extricate him from their enthusiasm if it was becoming too much.

It felt strange to talk about his past, and there were many elements he didn’t care to describe in detail. Now that the stark reality of his isolation was juxtaposed against the twins’ happy family life, he felt certain that they wouldn’t understand. When he described his means of maintaining an income, Hero nearly fell of her chair with excitement that he – or rather, Mr Aspen – had been an offsite Potions specialist for St MacKillop’s Mediwizardry Institute of Australia. He didn’t tell her that “offsite” really meant an abandoned research shack on the edge of the Daintree rainforest, completely cut off from society. He had been able to brew the hospital order in about a third of the time they allocated him and had spent the rest of each month time advancing his own research. He skimmed over the events in the Shack – he had barely allowed himself to think about it – instead explaining the cocktail of protective potions he’d been taking since Riddle had returned in that godforsaken graveyard. His audience were rather impressed that one in particular – his own creation: Aspen’s Anti-Venin – was now used across hospitals in Oceania.

The mention of his alias prompted a fierce debate between Hero and Sal over which of them figured out his true identity first. More accurately, Sal had a slightly different recollection of Hero’s grand claims of clairvoyance. There was a great deal of teasing and silliness and Snape revelled in it.

When Hermione and Sal moved towards the oven, arguing good-naturedly over which spell best achieved the right crunch-chew balance for French toast, Hero began to clear some of the extraneous dishes from the table. She reached past her father to pick up a plate and murmured, as though there had never been a pause in the conversation, “The only thing that threw me was how insistent you were that you had done the wrong thing. Whenever you need a reminder that you are the epitome of heroism, you know where to find me.”

Eventually, Sal and Hero headed back upstairs to change their clothes, their jogging plans having been thoroughly abandoned. Hermione excused herself to check the shop for any urgent business correspondence. It was quiet, and Snape’s thoughts became contemplative. His first morning of fatherhood was nothing like he imagined. The easy flow of kindness and banter was a far cry from what he’d experienced with his own parents. He rarely thought of the people who raised him, for the same reason that he had never imagined himself becoming a father; it was too painful.

Tobias Snape had been a violent man who had somehow managed to live his entire life in a permanent state of perceived victimhood whilst simultaneously bullying everyone he came in contact with. He was blind to his own vices in that convenient way that allows all abusers to absolve themselves of responsibility for their behaviour. He had been conscripted into the war and took up a factory job upon his return and felt nobody sufficiently appreciated his sacrifice or hard work, least of all his wife and good-for-nothing son. He spent most of his time lamenting his misfortunes down at the local, drinking his pay packet away, forever unwilling to do anything to improve his circumstances. His violent outbursts and psychological cruelty had successfully made a squib of his wife within three years of marriage.

When Severus’ magic had manifested at age three, he became Tobias’ favourite punching bag and was subjected to constant mockery and humiliation. He was a withdrawn child, on the radar of every teacher in his Muggle primary school. He received free breakfasts and lunches and a place in the afterschool programme, which kept him away from the dangers of his home life for the best portion of the day during the school year. When Tobias lost his job in ’68 and Severus (then eight-years-old) developed a tremor that affected his ability to write, the school chaplain had taken him out of classes once a week along with a few other children. They would sit in a circle in the little oratory, while the well-meaning old lady taught them breathing exercises to combat anxiety and told them that God would always love them. Severus hadn’t really understood what that meant, but he’d been afraid to ask.

He suspected his mother had loved him in her own way, but she had never actually said as much in words. She would protect her son from Tobias fiercely but when they were alone, she would snap at him over any small infraction. At first, he thought her criticism was an attempt to prevent him from provoking his father’s ire, but in later years, he wondered instead whether she was unleashing upon him all of the resentment she felt towards his father but was never brave enough to express. He only realised how emotionally anguished his mother had been after she died. He had spotted a poster on a Muggle bus stop when he was twenty-two that described the symptoms of gaslighting and urged women struggling with domestic abuse to call the Manchester Women’s Refuge for help. He donated his next month’s wages in his mother’s name and pushed all of the conflicting feelings about his upbringing into the deepest recesses of his mind, unable to process the enormity of its impact on him.

As a child, he had known that not all families were like his and the gulf had been great enough to prevent him from connecting with most of his peers as a result. However, those early experiences of shame were no preparation for living in close quarters with the wealthy purebloods of Slytherin House. That genteel set could destroy him with such impeccable civility, while offering just enough hope of future acceptance that he dared not speak against them. It wasn’t until third year that he began to earn their respect, using his natural ability for brewing to run a black market of sorts for potions that the hospital wing didn’t stock, and respectable scions of the wizarding elite could not be seen buying for themselves. Once his housemates realised his value, he suffered a new form of manipulation, in which friendships and favours were weighed and mentally tracked, to be held over one’s head should the scale tip too far off balance. The only genuine friendship he’d ever experienced had ended in a blaze of anger and regret during his fifth year, cementing a lesson he learned early in childhood: he was unlovable.

Now there existed a strange sort of tension inside him. He knew his strengths as an individual and on some level believed in his potential for goodness but he also remained deeply, painfully aware that when it came to relationships, he was simply not enough.

The twins’ return interrupted his melancholy and he moved to sit at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee while they paced around the patio outside, waiting for the post to arrive. He debated telling them that NEWT results were generally issued on the third Wednesday in July, which was another three days away, but decided against it as his information was almost two decades old, and they looked wound up enough as it was.

Hermione slid into the seat next to him, following his gaze. “I’ve never seen them so agitated,” she said. “I can’t wait for the bloody things to arrive so that they can enjoy the holidays.”

“They do appear quite anxious,” he agreed. “I was under the impression that they had already secured places for tertiary education?”

Sighing, she summoned herself a mug and poured the remainder of the cafetière into it. “They do, but their offers are based on predicted grades and are provisional until the NEWT requirements are met.”

“Ah.”

“Hero applied for exactly one apprenticeship: the programme at St Mungo’s,” she said. “She’s had her heart set on becoming a healer since she turned eight and I don’t think I’ll be able to relax until I see her in those hideous green robes.”

He took another sip of coffee for something to do. “Are you worried?”

“About her results? No. She’s quite brilliant. I’m worried about her ability to resist perfectionism.”

“The thief of joy,” he intoned dryly.

“Exactly.”

He turned to look at her for the first time since she’d joined him. “You speak from experience.” It wasn’t a question.

“With you as my witness.” She grinned in that rueful way Sal often did, shaking her head. “I was heading for burnout and couldn’t stop myself. I’m not sure I even realised it until I was trying to keep that pair from doing the same.”

He took a risk and quipped, “Are you finally admitting that an essay can, in fact, be too long?”

She let out a peal of laughter loud enough for Hero and Sal to send quizzical looks in their direction. “Yes! And I’ll even accept that I had my moments of insufferability.”

“No,” he said, instantly sobered. “That was cruel.”

“It’s alright,” she replied, bumping his shoulder with her own. “Long forgiven.”

They sat lost in thought for a few moments before he asked tentatively, “Did you take your NEWTs, in the end?”

“Now that’s a memory you should see,” she said. “I was ambushed by Minerva the week before the school reopened and sat them without any warning.”

He stared at her, then snorted a laugh. “That does actually sound like Minerva. I’m surprised you let her.”

“The Ministry official was already in her office when she informed me. She used my own courteousness against me.”

“Devious!” he declared. “Why that was practically Slytherin of her.”

“Do inform her of that when you next see her,” Hermione said, laughing, “and make sure I’m in the room at the time.”

“Dare I ask how you got on?” he ventured.

She gave him her best arched eyebrow. “Well enough.”

“You swept the board, didn’t you?” he said with a groan.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You didn’t even take your seventh-year lessons,” he complained. “It’s infuriatingly impressive.”

She took a mouthful of coffee, made a face and blasted her cup with a heating charm. “While I may have been ready to strangle dear Minerva at the time, it really was wonderful not to have to try to attend classes while pregnant. I’ve thanked her for that prudence ever since.”

“Did you go home to your parents then?” Her expression was enough to make him apologise. “You don’t have to answer that. It is only natural that they would react badly at first–”

She sighed, “That wasn’t the issue. It was my own fault that they weren’t there to go home to. It took me two years to create a counter-spell strong enough to bring their memories back.”

He looked stricken. “What happened to their memories?”

“Oh! I – for their own protection, I – I removed myself from their memories. All trace of me. I gave them new names and a strong compulsion to move to Australia.”

That explanation did nothing to improve his reaction. “Hermione, that sounds extremely hazardous… In fact, only that you’ve told me it’s already been done, I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

“Yes, I know. But I was desperate.” She looked tired, as though just remembering the situation drained her of energy. “I spent the entirety of sixth year developing it. I thought I had the reversal worked out as well, but when I tried to undo the spell shortly after the Final Battle, nothing happened. Thankfully, I’d incorporated a failsafe in the original incantation that I was eventually able to activate. It was a difficult few years.”

“How… how did you do it? What kind of failsafe?”

She blushed. “Oh, it’s a bit ridiculous really. Do you know what Muggle computer games are?” He shook his head. “No? Well, I won’t bore you with the inspiration then, but it relied on having a fixed point in their memories to return to, a time prior to the spell being cast, that I could almost… reset their minds to? In the same way that when a player fails a level, they return to the previously achieved goal and restart from there? Mum and Dad had an awful time discovering that they’d lost over three years of memories and that their home and practice were gone, and they suddenly had grandchildren instead… well anyone would, wouldn’t they? It was challenging, but we got through it. The alternative was so much worse, we all agreed.”

He took a few moments to process what she’d gone through. “Clearly you did what was necessary,” he said eventually.

“Yes, I suppose–” She gave him a pointed look. “Good people sometimes have to take desperate measures to protect those in danger.”

She was obviously not referring solely to her parents’ situation now, so he said nothing.

She pushed her mug away and rummaged in a drawer for a bar of Dairy Milk, breaking off a couple of squares and pushing the packet towards him. “Anyway, the Weasleys insisted I stay with them in the meantime, and it was quite lovely to have so many hands to help.”

When her own family couldn’t help her, she had a second family to step in, he thought, trying to comprehend what that sort of support system would be like. Just as he was beginning to conjure an image of daily roasts and bespoke knitwear, she outlined the reality of her Burrow years.

“It was then that I realised I had to get my act together and figure out how on Godric’s green earth I wanted to approach parenting. I only had Molly Weasley to turn to for advice regarding childrearing and while I adore her, and her help in the new-born stage was invaluable, I really don’t share her views on the wooden spoon approach to discipline.” If she saw the sudden flash of revulsion on his face at the thought of corporal punishment, she didn’t mention it. “You’ll be glad to know that I restrained myself from reading every parenting book on the planet… but only because I found what I was looking for quite quickly.”

“You must lend me a bibliography so that I may catch up,” he said, only half joking.

She beamed at that. “I really will, if you’re interested! It’s one of my most favourite topics of discussion. Poor Ginny never heard the end of it once she told me she was expecting James. I’ve managed to reign myself in now, mostly. For some reason sharing parenting advice with new parents is not particularly well received.”

“Even I know that,” he huffed in amusement.

“Well, I thought everyone should know! You see, the psychology behind it was all so incredibly eye-opening that I – I suppose you could say that I reparented myself, as I raised those two.” They both glanced up to check on the post owl vigil still in progress on the patio. Hero was now lying on the table, one arm flung over her eyes. Sal was still optimistically scanning the sky.

Hermione turned back to him, suddenly very serious. “Reading about healthy parenting practices made me realise how much of my own behaviour was based on patterns I’d unconsciously absorbed in early childhood that were no longer helpful. I love my parents,” she said in a low voice, and her eyes were imploring him to believe her, “and I have no doubt that they love me dearly and did their best for me, but their conventional parenting, with its focus on praise and bribery and distraction… it all led to my becoming a socially anxious young girl who needed external validation to believe in her own self-worth. I relied on the approval of the adults around me to gauge my success and I needed everything to be perfect. I don’t want that for Hero.”

This was exactly the kind of self-reflection Snape avoided at all costs. He stared at her like a deer caught in the wandlight and offered the only thought that came to him. “You are not your parents.”

She looked like she might cry for a moment but settled for squeezing his hand instead. “You’re right. I suppose none of us are. Perhaps that’s what adulthood is; deciding which bits of childhood to keep and which to walk away from.”

He sat and thought of his parents once more and wondered what destructive patterns he'd been clinging to over the years. His teaching methods jumped out as an obvious example. Could it be possible that this was something every adult had to confront? Could he really do as Hermione was suggesting and simply… let those patterns go? Undo the trauma that he had so long believed would define the rest of his life?

It seems preposterous… doesn’t it?

A short while later, the post did arrive, but it was obvious before the owls even landed that none of them were the Ministry-issue breed.

Sal jumped up at the sight of a little owl somersaulting in the air above them, but it flew to Hero instead. He frowned. “That’s Gloria’s owl, Hero. Give it here.”

Hero pulled the letter out of his reach. “It has my name on it.”

“Why is she writing to you?” he asked suspiciously. “What did you do, Hero?”

She feigned offence in lieu of an answer and backed towards the house.

“Let me see it at least!” – but she was gone. Sal followed her inside, pausing to enlist his mother. “Mum, can you tell her to stop interfering?”

Hermione gave him an apologetic smile. “They’re classmates too, darling. It could be about something completely innocuous.”

“It’s Hero. She couldn’t be innocuous if she tried.” He took off after his sister, shouting empty threats.

“So they do fight,” Snape said with surprise.

Hermione put a hand on his forearm, “Oh you poor man, you have no idea.”

Chapter Text

Their first day together as father and children had been a wonderfully lazy one, in which they primarily hugged and ate and hugged some more. The following day was Monday, which meant that hugs were slightly curtailed by the responsibilities of running a business. Severus decided that he could forego research for a few hours, to help out. If that put him in the vicinity of young hug enthusiasts, it was merely a coincidence.

It turned out that Sal was the avid jogger and Hero had decided to join him for company while their mother was away. Now that Hermione had returned, she and Hero resumed their usual morning yoga practice on the patio while Sal set off solo along the path behind the bookshop. He had thrown a hopeful glance at Severus before leaving but the older man, who looked exhausted and was reaching for coffee, had missed it.

They were all far too chirpy in the morning for Severus’ liking; he felt like a grouch in comparison. Still, it was nice to watch mother and daughter moving gracefully in unison as they lingered in their favourite stretches and raced through the bothersome ones. They stuck their tongues out at each other while in warrior pose, and their hands overlapped as they lay in Shavasana.

So as not to feel completely useless around such energetic types, he set out the breakfast things he could remember from the previous day and put the kettle on. When they traipsed in later, thanking him enthusiastically and descending on the stack of buttery toast like a pack of wolves, he felt a rush of affection for all of them and didn’t know what to do with it. Hero’s “Did you eat already, Dad?” almost undid him.

By half eight, they had all dispersed to begin their tasks for the day. Sal was on owl order duty at the bookshop counter, summoning books from the shelves and neatly marking each sale in the enchanted ledger by his side. He showed Severus their intricate variation on the featherlight charm which was cast on each parcel; it was set to cancel itself once the twine was removed by the recipient. Father and son worked comfortably next to each other for a time, until Hero arrived.

“We’re getting the Zosimos ready for print!” she declared, pulling him with her towards the door to the printing rooms. Neither twin talked to the other and Severus wondered whether they were still annoyed after the post incident from the day before. He hoped not, he had no idea how to resolve such a situation. He thought about saying something but couldn’t think what.

Instead, he followed Hero down the hall to a part of the building he hadn’t seen before. The main room was dominated by a beautiful antique printing press. Low cabinets with dozens of flat drawers lined the walls to his left and right.

On the back wall was emblazoned the Raven Press logo, which featured a stylised raven with the face of a boy and a girl on either side, incorporated into its wings. The large metal art piece was striking, and he wondered who had created it.

“Dean Thomas,” Hermione said. She had emerged from one of the rooms on the far side of the press, looking back to see what caught his attention.

“Pardon?”

“Dean designed the logo for me, years ago.”

“Ah.” He cast about for the right memory. “Quiet boy, shadowed Finnegan about the place?”

“That’s the one. He’s a sculptor now. Metal and glass, very avant-garde. Highly sought after too, I’m sure he could retire from Malfoy’s commissions alone.”

Severus rolled his eyes at the mention of another generation of Malfoys throwing their dubiously earned Galleons at whatever was in vogue. “Delightful.”

Hero laughed and he looked around puzzled, before remembering her seven-year-old self’s attempts to imitate the very caustic tone he’d just used. He shook his head in amusement and drawled, “Are you quite finished, Ms Snape? The rest of the class are here to learn.”

She doubled over, holding the table for support as she cackled. Hermione tried to look exasperated but lost the battle and dissolved into giggles herself rather quickly. For his part, Severus tried not to look too pleased; it would spoil the effect.

Once they had all composed themselves, Severus and Hero really did learn something. They headed into the back room, where Hermione produced the papyrus scrolls and used her magic to unfurl them on a table she’d extended earlier. The surface glowed gold, much like the reading desks on the mezzanine.

“Zosimos warded his work against duplication,” she told them. “But the spell is tied to the ink rather than the document as a whole, so when I scan and invert the ink and parchment, I can extricate the negative space like this,” the outline of the now parchment-coloured ancient Greek characters slowly lifted into the air with a complicated bit of non-verbal wandwork, “we can circumvent his spell and create our own blueprint, for lack of a better word.”

She anchored the ink shadow to a charm that that shone blue around the perimeter and sent that first section of text over to hover in the corner of the room.

“Is it the same process as we use for codices?” asked Hero. “I don’t recognise that last part of the incantation.”

“It’s very similar,” Hermione agreed, “but the format requirements are different. Best practice when reproducing texts for academic purposes is to keep the original layout, which means we’ll be printing this with a significant number of gatefolds. That requires modification at all three stages.”  

Severus watched in fascination as Hermione worked her way through each section of text, occasionally stopping to allow Hero to try her hand at the adjusted spell. By the time they stopped for lunch, Hermione had transferred all of the text to her so-called ‘blueprint’ stage and had both magically sharpened the quality of the original script and created translations in several languages.

When he discovered that she had developed a method to keep all of her blueprints carefully stored in the low cabinets under stasis, he wanted to know more.

“How in Hades do you maintain them indefinitely?”

“It’s a trade secret,” Hermione winked. “If I told you, I’d have to obliviate you.”

Once again, before lunch, Hero and Sal could be found waiting for the post. They were uncharacteristically silent this time. Severus watched them uncomfortably (because it felt wrong to see them ignore each other) but when a single, particularly dim-witted owl suddenly plummeted out of the sky into Sal’s lap, proffering a grubby letter, Hero thumped her brother on the shoulder and exclaimed, “You bloody git!” and they both shoved each other playfully until somehow, balance was restored.

What just happened?!

“What just happened?” he asked Hermione. She gave a long-suffering sigh and said, “That’s Teddy’s owl.”

Comprehension dawned.

“Such children!” he tutted, bemused by their juvenile behaviour.

“Your children,” she said, implying he bore some responsibility.

He grinned into his coffee cup.

Hermione managed to hold onto her air of mystery for another day before she shared her trade secrets with him. Her explanation didn’t exactly make things any clearer though. The magic didn’t follow the conventional approach to spell development that he remembered being taught in seventh year Charms. She tried to describe her process and he tried to grasp it; she claimed to deconstruct the magic into layers in her mind, adding what she needed and reassembling it until her goal was achieved. He couldn’t deny the effectiveness; by Tuesday afternoon, the first pages of the reprint were flying off the press, folding themselves in mid-air and stacking themselves neatly ahead of stitching.

She set him to proofread the English translation on Wednesday morning, but he could barely concentrate. By the time Hero and Sal arrived to take up their places on the patio, they found their dad already pacing in agitation.

“Do you know something we don’t?” Hero asked. Sal and Hermione were listening expectantly too.

“In my day, NEWT results were usually dispatched on a Wednesday,” he said. “It may not remain the case but–”

A loud screech caused them all to look up. Swooping gracefully towards them were two supremely haughty Eagle owls, unmistakably bearing Ministry envelopes. Severus found himself taking fortifying breaths as they came in to land.

Sal asked quietly, “Will you open it, Mum?” just as Hero thrust her letter into her father’s hands. He looked at her with some trepidation.

“It’s fine, just open it,” she told him, but seconds later she had stopped his hand. “I over-stirred on second phase of the Felicis,” she said, with the tone of one making confession. “I corrected before adding the Valerian root, but–”

She wrung her hands and he glanced over to Hermione for help, but the woman was already reading Salvador his results with a small smile.

“Stirring modifications are acceptable in that brew–” he promised, but that seemed to heighten Hero’s anxiety.

“Only an Acceptable?!” she moaned.

“No, I wasn’t referring to the grade–”

Hermione had now noticed Hero’s panic and seemed unsurprised, but Severus had no experience with the Granger habit of completely doubting one’s performance at the exact moment when nothing could be done about it. She and Sal moved over to stand behind Hero supportively and she mouthed to him over her daughter’s head, “Just open it!”

He broke the wax seal, feeling that perhaps their tentative father-daughter relationship should not be tested by something so potentially distressing this early in its infancy. His gaze flicked across the single piece of parchment, while three sets of eyes scanned his face for a reaction.

“Eight Outstandings,” he announced, and Hero crumpled in relief. Sal caught her and swung her around joyfully shouting, “We’re twins!” It took Severus a moment to realise that he was not referencing their blood relationship.

Hermione watched them, rubbing her breastbone in a way that suggested she hadn’t been as relaxed as she’d let on. He felt an intense urge to put his arm around her, so he went to make tea, because it seemed like the next best thing. Picking up the kettle, he overheard Sal say, “I’m going to write to Neville and tell him the good news! Mum, can I invite him to Snapetacular this year?”

Severus froze, water overflowing from the spout as he strained to hear the reply.

“We’ll see, darling. Maybe don’t mention it just yet until I finalise the sleeping arrangements.”

The twins were still squeezing the life out of each other on the patio when she came inside. “Such fuss,” she said fondly. “They’ll be no use to anyone for the rest of the afternoon, I may just send them off to the Burrow to tell Molly and Arthur now and then I can pop over to my parents with them a bit later.”

He wasn’t really listening. “What in the name of Nimue is Snapetacular?”

She bit her lip. “An extended-family holiday. It’s an annual thing. Held here. For the third week of August. I didn’t name it!” she said defensively, when she could see him ready to object. “We have to make very specific plans to see each other these days, because there are so many of us… For the sake of full disclosure, there’s also Weasleyfest, which is held at the Burrow for Christmas, and then we all pile over for Potterific at Grimmauld Place for New Year’s.”

“You are joking.”

She scrunched up her nose and shook her head. “It’s actually not as dreadful as you’re imagining.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

She didn’t try to answer him but nodded her head in the direction of the terrace instead. “They love it.” Blast.She doesn’t pull any punches, this witch.

“And who attends this ridiculous event?” he snapped.

“All of the Weasleys and Potters – and us of course. Sometimes the hosting family invites a few others for the welcome party on the first day. Minerva always comes to ours, occasionally a few of the twins’ school friends too. And Teddy of course, but he’s a Potter in every way but name anyway.”

“So the hoards will descend…?”

“On the twentieth of August.”

He felt slightly sick. Only four weeks from now. That felt too soon for this… whatever it was… to end. He’d been mentally preparing himself for Hero and Sal’s move to London on the tenth of September and now it felt as though three of those precious weeks of happiness had been ripped away from him.

This is an established family, he reminded himself, with traditions and history and… get-togethers obviously. I should have expected this. But he hadn’t and it hurt; he felt like an interloper.

“… and this could be Hero and Sal’s last chance to attend the full week of Sna– of the holiday for the foreseeable future, you see, as they won’t have much control over their schedules while they’re training.” Hermione was still talking, but he struggled to parse any of it.

She appeared by his elbow, and he hadn’t even noticed her crossing the room.

“I’m sorry, Severus. The last few days have been so lovely, I had completely forgotten about everything else.”

He wanted to snarl and deny that the news had any effect on him, but he caught himself. She wasn’t required to change her life to suit him. His actions had already changed it so irrevocably, after all.

He plastered a smile on his face when Hero and Sal came into the kitchen, and they continued the celebrations with a glass of champagne over a lovely lunch, but his heart wasn’t in it.

At three o’clock, Hermione shooed both teens into the Floo to share the good news with the Weasleys, whom she described as their honorary grandparents. Once the flames had disappeared, she took a mobile phone from her desk and excused herself. She was talking her parents on that contraption, he realised, as he watched her pacing circles around the courtyard.

She looked conflicted when she came back, but her Gryffindor spirit was strong and she came right out with it.

“Severus, my mum and dad want to take Hero and Sal out for dinner to celebrate tonight and I’ve said yes. You’re welcome to come with us, of course, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want to do. We haven’t really discussed it yet.”

“I think it better if I do not intrude,” he said evenly.

“It wouldn’t be an intrusion!”

“Nonetheless, I shall stay here.”

“Whatever makes you most comfortable,” she told him earnestly, “but you are welcome at all family celebrations.”

“I – thank you.” He turned from her and missed her frown.

“Can we make time tomorrow to talk about the rest of the summer? I really don’t want to foist any more surprises on you.”

“As you wish.” She tried to reach out to touch his arm, but he chose that moment to walk away, flinging angry cleaning charms towards the dishes in the sink for something to do. Gods, what is wrong with me?! Stop punishing her, you bloody fool!

Hero and Salvador arrived back from the burrow with new jumpers (Hero’s was that awful, lurid St Mungo’s lime), several tins of biscuits and an enormous bouquet for their Mum.

“Gran sent you these, Mum,” Sal said, setting the flowers down on the coffee table. “She says to tell you that you can exhale now…?”

Hermione laughed.

“Don’t eat too many of those,” she told Hero, who had already cracked open the fresh baked goods, the scent of their sugary goodness wafting through the room. “We’re going to L’Éternel with Nana and Grandpa in an hour.”

“Are we?” asked Hero in surprise.

“Yes. We need to be ready to leave ten minutes before.” She turned to Sal, “Perhaps you might wear the shirt they gave you for your birthday, darling?”

“Sure,” Sal said easily, but his eyes didn’t leave Hero.

“Is Dad going?” She looked between her parents.

“No,” said Severus slowly, as Hermione answered, “Not this time.”

“Mum, that’s not fair.”

“Hero–”

Hero resembled her father far more than her mother, but when her eyes flashed with anger nobody could deny that she was Hermione’s daughter. “I don’t want to go if he’s not coming with us.”

An uncomfortable tension stretched between them as they waited for Hermione to reply. Both men fixed their gazes towards the ceiling, lest they be called upon for their opinion.

“I’m serious, Mum. It’s not on to just leave him here alone.”

“I appreciate that, darling. I also realise that your father needs time to decide when, or even if, he wants to engage with the rest of society and that is not something we can rush. He is welcome to join us, but he has chosen not to for now.” Hero started to argue, but Hermione held up a hand. “At the same time, I’m conscious that your grandparents don’t understand a lot about our world, but graduation and exam results are things they do recognise. I really think it will mean a great deal to them to be able to celebrate with you today. You’re allowed to be angry with me and you’re even allowed to stay here if you object that strongly, but I hope you’ll consider coming with us.”

Hero made a noise of frustration and turned on her heel, leaving them all for the sanctuary of her bedroom.

Hermione’s words seemed to have gotten through to her though, as she arrived down with Sal at the appointed time, wearing a knee-length dress in Slytherin green with a leather jacket over it. Her brother had also made an effort, wearing a grey shirt and black jeans and considerably tidier curls. Severus tried not to pay too much attention to Hermione’s dress, which enjoyed the benefits of her yoga-toned figure and floated around her waist in a rather flattering way.

Watching through the window as they walked to the apparition point, he returned Hero’s half-wave before she spun on the spot under the tall beech tree and disappeared.

Severus had viewed the remainder of the twelve memories over the previous nights and to his surprise, a clear favourite had emerged. He’d watched it several times in a row and cried every time, his emotions now well and truly asserting themselves after years of suppression.

He took the vial out again that evening, chastising himself for becoming so attached to it. Without hesitation, he dove into the memory as soon as it hit the basin. His chest tightened as he took in the now familiar sight of the St Mungo’s maternity corridor. He was in a little single room where a younger Hermione was sitting up in bed. He moved back to look at her and saw that bone-tired-but-delighted expression he’d seen once before, in a photo on the family wall downstairs. This was the day she had given birth. The room was lit only by low sunlight streaming through the window. She sat with her legs spread on the bed, two little bundles laid safely between them on the mattress. He moved close, as close as he could get, and looked down at the twins. They were so beautiful, he almost stopped breathing.

Hermione stroked their cheeks and counted their toes and whispered promises into their ears. One of the babies -they were both wearing white, so it was difficult to tell which it was – opened their inky blue eyes and mewled a response. The other twin flailed an arm at the sound and managed to find their sibling on the third try. They held on to each other and quietened. The scene continued on in much the same way for almost an hour, with memory-Hermione and Severus content to sit and soak up every tiny, snuffled snore.

When the memory finished, he felt bereft. He wandered downstairs and sat by the window with a book he hadn’t bothered to read the title of propped open in his lap. He told himself he wasn’t waiting, that it was just too early to go to bed, but that was a lie. He gave up when it got too dark to see and retreated to the guestroom.

He was still awake when they returned, a little after midnight. They didn’t linger downstairs, and he expected silence to descend once more, but instead he heard his own doorhandle rattle slightly. A splinter of light crept across his darkened room, and he feigned sleep.

“Is he still there?” he heard Hero breathe.

“Yes,” Sal whispered back.

There was a sigh of relief and the door clicked closed again.

Chapter Text

Despite her best intentions, Hermione did not find time to talk the following day, as a contingent of professors from an Austrian university had arrived with all the giddiness of those given free rein to spend the ‘library upgrade’ portion of the budget for the next academic year. Hermione had ghosted her fingers across the gaps left in the bookshelves as though bidding farewell to friends rather than inventory, but overall, was satisfied to be five thousand Galleons richer before elevenses. It took all four of them the rest of the day to catalogue, pack and deliver the gargantuan order to the faculty buildings at the Zauberinstitut. He had wondered, during the tranquil days of the previous week, how on earth she kept the business afloat. Now he understood.

When they had collapsed around the kitchen table, inhaling portions of lasagne and crusty bread, she had seemed about to suggest he join her for a walk, but Hero got in first with a suggestion that they introduce him to another of their endless collection of boardgames. Hermione charmed the kitchen clean while Hero and Sal talked him through the rules of the game they’d selected, in which they would need to earn points by completing the prompts on the card deck. They had to solve a series of riddles first, then build a house of cards at least three levels high, without magic. After that came the performance section, in which they had to mime various scenarios and come up with a jingle for a household object of their choosing. Severus’ Ode to Armchairs had them all in fits of laughter.

By the time they’d been instructed to draw a portrait of the person to their left, Hermione had bid them all good night and retired to bed. Severus hadn’t sketched anything in years, but he transfigured the stubby little pencil from the box into a stick of charcoal and managed to complete a passable likeness of Hero in the allotted time, smudging here and there to get her curls just right. Hero had drawn a caricature based on the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, featuring Salvador trying to woo Gloria down from Ravenclaw tower. It earned her an exasperated, “You’ve got to knock it off!” but her twin was smiling as he said it.

Sal was reluctant to show his, having had to sacrifice the finishing touches to be ready when the buzzer sounded, but Hero coaxed it out of his hands and declared it a masterpiece. The little comic strip featured four panels, in which a rather weedy Mr Aspen stirred a cauldron, dropped something suspicious into it, and had the contents explode in his face. In the final panel he had been transformed into a dashing Severus Snape, hands on his hips in a superhero pose, with fireworks going off in the background. They left the portraits on the table and played a few more rounds, but by the time they all went upstairs, each had managed to spirit their own likeness away to their room for safekeeping.

In the end, Hermione sent the twins to the Burrow by themselves on Friday evening and cornered Severus for a chat. She dragged him over to the couch and sat beside him, with a bundle of paper in her lap.

“I think we should both share our plans for the rest of the summer,” she told him, “to make sure that we’re on the same page.” She held a pen in her hand, poised as though she expected him to have a list.

“Very well. I intend to spend as much time with Hero and Salvador as they are willing to give me.”

She waited, and then blinked when she realised nothing more was forthcoming. “Of course. I’m sorry–”

“And yours?”

“I– Well, I’ve made a copy of my calendar, here. The shop is open Monday to Saturday so I’m obviously here during opening hours most days, but occasionally things will come up. I have meetings with two of my suppliers on Monday next, for example, so I’ll be gone for most of the day.” She tapped the colour-coded chart to indicate the day in question and went on, “We have Friday night dinners at the Burrow most weeks, but we can cry off when schedules clash. Every other Sunday, we go to my parents for the afternoon. The family gathering is a highlight of course, so I shut printing down for that week and bring in the sales assistant I usually employ during the school term to oversee the bookshop. I may still be needed as August is a busy sales month, but Sal and Hero will not be working in the shop at all that week. Oh, and I attend a book club with some friends the last Tuesday of the month, witches I met while planning a primary curriculum for Hero and Sal… I think that’s everything.”

“I see.” He was holding himself very stiff, braced for… he didn’t know what. What did she want him to say?

Her expression was becoming increasingly strained with every clipped response he gave.

“Have you… thought about what you want to do, going forward?” she asked gently.

“I would appreciate leave to remain here until their move to London…”

“Of course–”

“And then I will go… home.”

“Oh,” she said dully. “To - to Australia?”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Perhaps I could visit again over the Christmas holidays. Whenever you’re not busy with…” he sighed resignedly, “Weasleyfest.”

“Of course, but Severus–”

He glowered at her.

“–what do you want to do about the summer holiday?”

“I– I…” He had no idea. Leave? Hide in the guestroom until after dark each day? Find Muggle accommodation in the town? “I haven’t decided.”

“Can we talk through your options?” She reached to touch his arm, but he wrenched it back.

She looked offended for a moment. He was sure she was going to shout at him, but she closed her eyes instead and huffed a sigh. “This is not working. I want to understand, but I can’t do that if you won’t talk to me.”

“We are talking. We have been talking now for–”

“You know what I mean! What are you concerned about, specifically? Please?” she added, when he looked determined not to answer.

How could he tell her that the three of them had become addled by too many strolls down pensieve lane? That he couldn’t bear to see that fondness stripped away when the rest of the world enlightened them to the truth?

She took one of his hands and carefully unclenched each finger until she could hold it properly. “There is nobody in the world who could replace you in their lives, Severus, if that’s worrying you. Nobody has even tried. They held that place for you, even before we knew you lived.”

“I’m not worried–” he said weakly. I’m terrified.

“Please.”

He wanted to close his eyes against the hopefulness in hers. Stalling, he adjusted his shirt collar and ran his free hand over the scar on his neck defensively.

“I realise,” he started, haltingly, “that maintaining a… relationship with them… will require my continued existence to become public knowledge.” She nodded encouragingly, squeezing the hand she had captured as though she could force more words out of him that way. “And I find that I don’t miss solitude as much as I…” It was horrifying to be making such an admission to her. “–I dread the infamy. I know my past will always be one of ignominy, but I dread carrying it into my future. Their future.”

And yet if I choose to participate in their lives, I will taint every happy occasion: birthdays holidays, mastery ceremonies, weddings and every ordinary moment in between… They may want me there, but what of the angry mob in my wake, protesting my every move? How long until they tire of that?

She was biting her bottom lip and frowning, but she didn’t look surprised. “I realise our positions are not the same at all,” she said, “but I can empathise on some level. When people – strangers! – think that they know you, that you owe them something, that your life can be discussed and dissected in the media– Well… I moved country, didn’t I? I don’t blame you for wanting no part in it.”

 “You accept that there will be repercussions?” He searched her face, not sure what emotion he wanted to find there.

“Of course–” She had a sudden moment of enlightenment and she gasped. “Oh, but it’s not going to – We won’t be swayed by any of it! Do you know what they write about me? It’s so vile that if there was a word of truth to it, my children would have been taken into care. My character has been attacked six ways to Sunday, Severus. You would only be joining the club.”

“They insinuate that you are a bad mother?!”

That earned a roll of her eyes. “There’s no insinuation, it’s blatant accusation! Even Harry’s influence doesn’t stretch far enough to soften the vitriol.”

He was aghast. “You are an excellent mother. Excellent–”

“Thank you,” she said, and her eyes crinkled at the edges, and he wanted to hug her to him and list every positive thing he’d catalogued since his arrival. Do not take advantage of this situation, he warned himself, and gently disentangled his hand from hers.

“Are you very attached to your job with the hospital?” she asked abruptly.

“It’s fine. A means to an end.” He hadn’t thought of work since he wrote to them to inform them that he was taking a leave of absence. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“You could stay here. Long term.”

He stared at her.

“I’m going to be rattling around this big empty house on my own soon enough, and there’s plenty of space. You could have the whole attic to conduct your research. You would be… away. From the mobs with pitchforks.” Her face fell at his lack of reaction. “It’s an option, will you just… consider it?”

He nodded but felt instantly suspicious. She just kept giving him things. He thought she might find a way to give him the moon, if he asked for it. What was she going to demand of him in return? The debt was mounting. He wished she’d just tell him.

“Perhaps we should talk to Hero and Sal as a family, about how best to approach upcoming events? Initially I thought it best to leave that for you to decide alone, but if their reaction is a deciding factor, including them would make sense.”

“I don’t know…”

“They will be honest with you,” she promised. “It might help to hear from all the stakeholders, so to speak.”

He gave a faint smile, “I didn’t think anybody actually held family meetings.”

An answering smile lit up her face at the hint of light-heartedness, “Well, we don’t take minutes, more’s the pity – just think about the stationery I could justify buying then! – but we do hash a lot of things out together.”

“I will add that to my list of things to consider,” he quipped.

She hummed happily. “If we’re making a list, would you… would you also consider joining us for dinner with my parents some Sunday before the holiday? To see how it feels? It might help you decide. Just consider!”

“I’ll sleep on it.”

“Do!” she said, giving his arm yet another squeeze. If he ever had a conversation in which she didn’t paw his arms, he would consider himself forever cast from her good graces. Merlin save me from touchy feely Gryffindors!

Severus soon realised that agreeing to consider a suggestion from Hermione was akin to agreeing to postpone the inevitable by several days. They did indeed hold a family council, in which Hero and Salvador fell over themselves to assure their father that they couldn’t care less what the world thought of him. Hermione was painfully blunt about everything, but he conceded that it was a relief to know their expectations. It was decided that Sal and Hero would only work mornings for the rest of the summer, and Severus would continue his research during that time, so that the three would have the afternoons to themselves to spend as they saw fit. Hero drew up a list of ideas, the first being ‘Brew with Dad.’

Over the next week, he taught them both how to brew some of the infusions he’d developed for St MacKillop’s and fielded dozens of Hero’s questions about dosage, cross-reactivity and anything else she could think of that might benefit her ahead of her apprenticeship. On another afternoon, they walked into the town to see the Abbey and admire the famous tympanum. By Muggle standards, it was quite impressive. Then Sal suggested a nearby waterfall and brought Severus by side-along apparition, where the trio hiked around and got themselves quite lost before apparating home for tea. Some afternoons they baked, sprawling on the couch to read while their pains au chocolat rose in the oven and burning their tongues when the pastries were finally ready to taste. On others, they brought him to the Remembrance room and showed him some of their childhood memories.

All in all, Severus was utterly, unreservedly happy for the first time in his life. He couldn’t even concentrate on his own work, which had never been a problem for him before. It turned out that the attic space Hermione had mentioned was fully renovated and had once served as a school room for the twins, pre-Hogwarts. By twisting the small sculpture of a kneazle on the opposite side of the landing, a spiral staircase would descend from the loft. At the top, there was a small kitchenette and bathroom and beyond those, a gigantic empty space with only a few desks and shelving units pushed up against the back wall. He agreed that it would make an excellent temporary research spot and he settled in quickly. The Cheirokmeta was not an easy document to decipher, however. He had uncovered a full ingredient list by working out the ancient alchemist’s cypher, but it was torture trying to pick out steps of the brewing procedure. So much of the text was allegorical or simply magically out of date and there were references to things long disappeared from modern potioneering.

He tossed the reprint aside before it gave him a headache. He’d spent five days pouring over it and needed a break. Taking out his own files, he opened the one labelled ‘Potential Incidences of Spontaneous Soul Magic.’ Feeling pained, he forced himself to look at the first page. Lily had used soul magic; he was quite sure of it. His notes on her case were brief, but he knew what had happened. As though she hadn’t already been the purest part of his childhood, even her soul was worthy enough to take down a dark wizard by willingly sacrificing herself for her son. He was in awe of her. Enough! He shook his head and tried to focus. According to witness statements recorded by the first Aurors on the scene, residents of Godric’s Hollow had observed a sickly green glow followed by a pulse of blinding light in quick succession. One onlooker went so far as to compare the latter to the sun momentarily reappearing during the night. There was no magical residue remaining when the Aurors swept the place, however.

Poppy Pomfrey had assessed the baby before Dumbledore had had him spirited away to the Muggle world. She didn’t realise who the boy was at the time, but connected the dots later when the wizarding media released sensational information about the newly-dubbed ‘Boy Who Lived’, including the presence of a lightening scar on his forehead. She had documented that in her meticulous notes, which she amalgamated with his school file when he arrived as a first year. She was a thorough woman and liked to have all the facts. It worked to Severus’ benefit, as he had been able to read the report of that night when he reviewed Potter’s file for allergy warnings prior to brewing Skele-Gro for him after the Ponce Who Shall Not Be Named had thoroughly deboned the little terror's arm. According to the chart - physically at least - she had given the one-year-old Potter a clean bill of health. However, she had also described what she termed a mild trauma response – the boy had cried silently “as though in mourning” for some time, stopping only when bundled into Hagrid’s arms. Severus rolled his eyes at a healer putting such sentimental drivel into an official medical report.

He flicked on to other case notes. Most suspected incidents of soul magic were between lovers or close family members, but there were a few cases of soul magic between strangers. A case in Central America in the 1970s, in which a Muggle-born wizard had saved the lives of four children during a military coup, had even led to Muggles in the area nominating the wizard in question for a sainthood. The wizard had died in that instance, but all four children had survived. Severus’ cases were divided evenly between incidents in which the caster of the spontaneous soul magic died and in which they suffered some form of magically depletion. When a life was saved at the last minute, the witch or wizard invariably died. In other scenarios, in which a person’s sight was restored for example, the caster was merely incapacitated for a short period, as their magic was able to regenerate itself with rest and time.

He threw his quill down in frustration and gave up for the day. Hero and Sal were taking him to a farmer’s market that afternoon. A very ordinary Muggle one, but they had waxed lyrical at breakfast, spending over ten minutes describing incredible cheeses available there. Perhaps the ridiculousness of watching them wheedle samples out of the poor cheesemonger would be enough of a distraction that he would have fresh eyes to return to this tomorrow. Or perhaps they would eat themselves into a dairy stupor, all three of them, and get no work done at all. Either way, it suited him just fine to shove his notes back into his briefcase and get on to the best part of his day.

“Dad, you dark horse!” squealed Hero.

They had all just arrived safely at the farm’s apparition point after his first Sunday dinner with the Grangers.

“She’s right, Severus, that was wonderful!” Hermione said, looking pleased.

Sal glanced between them and threw out a wager. “Bet you a galleon Nana calls first thing tomorrow for more advice?”

“You're on!” Hero said, and they shook on it.

“Why didn't you tell us you were an amateur vintner?!” Hermione asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, I am not.”

“You sound like one.”

They bundled into the kitchen, where he put down the box of leftover cake and turned to find them all looking at him expectantly. He rolled his eyes.

“Lucius Malfoy fancied himself a wine connoisseur for a summer back in the eighties; a temporary diversion from the boredom that comes with having more money than sense. But Helga forbid he actually lift a finger in the process. According to his questionable logic, brewing wine and potions were practically the same thing and he enlisted my help to train his elves in the mechanics. In those days, one did not say ‘no’ to a Malfoy.” He surveyed them; all three were listening with fascination, as they always did when he discussed his past. “Vastly less exciting than whatever you were imagining, I’m sure.”

“Well Godric bless your recall ability,” Hermione said, “And your patience! Even I was able to follow you and I haven't understood a word Mum and Dad have said about it in all the years they’ve lived here.”

“I’m glad,” he said genuinely.

“So you spent summer in France then?” Hero asked with interest. Where?”

“Bordeaux.” He shook his head. “You know, the most galling part of the Chateau de Malfoy experience was that when Lucius got bored and packed it all in, what little wine he had managed to produce became an overnight exclusive and he still managed to make a small fortune even whilst trying to waste the one he already had.”

“Typical,” Hermione tutted, reaching for the kettle. Once she got close enough to speak quietly, she asked, “Are you alright? They can be so shy with new people, but I think they really warmed up to you.”

“I am fine,” he promised. “Happy to have had something to contribute to the conversation.”

She squeezed his arm and he huffed a laugh.

“You know, Dad,” Sal said from behind them. “I think Percy Weasley has started a bit of a wine collection. Something you could bring up, in case he corners you next week and you need to change the topic from annual Floo fees.”

He could sense Hermione hold her breath; he hadn’t committed to attending the family gathering yet. She looked up, waiting to see how he would respond. There was no expectation in her eyes; he got the distinct impression that she was simply readying herself to support him either way.

“Or better yet,” Sal continued, unable to see the tense exchange. “Just tug on your ear or something like that, and I’ll come and extricate you.”

Severus turned back to his son and made a decision.

“I shall expect you to answer that signal no matter which Weasley has accosted me,” he warned. “And make sure you have a convincing emergency ready!”

“’Course,” said Sal, in his easy way. “I’ve got better excuses than the whole of the Muggle Communications Office!”

“Good.”

“Great!” Hermione beamed at them both.

Three, two, one…

She squeezed his arm as she passed by with her tea.

Bloody predictable Gryffindors.

Chapter Text

Severus had not thought that there could be a downside to all of the extra time spent with Hero and Salvador, but he was wrong. Hermione had been picking up the slack while her two summer employees were off adventuring with him, and she no longer had time to slip away for tea and a chat. And yet, she didn’t seem to mind. She was often already in the kitchen when they apparated back in the evenings, putting together dinner for them all and enthusiastic to hear about how they had spent their afternoon.

He was extremely annoyed to realise that he missed her.

Specifically, because he wasn’t allowed to miss her. He was very carefully not allowing himself to think of her as anything more than a (vastly superior) co-parent. His mind had been unhelpfully widening that perspective without permission, however. He tried to rationalise the feelings, but it was no use. He had no rational reason to miss hearing her sing off-key as she wandered around the house mid-afternoon on a quiet sales day. He had no logical motive to miss seeing her face light up when he would arrive in the printing rooms with tea and chocolate. He could still do that in the morning, he supposed, but he would have to give a reason as to why he wasn’t engrossed in research and the only one he could think of was that he was more interested in her. He couldn’t even admit that to himself aloud yet never mind anyone else.

He had worked very hard to keep himself from becoming a burden during his stay and had insisted from the outset that he make a financial contribution to the living costs that would accumulate over his remaining weeks. He was also planning to provide funds for the twins’ living expenses while studying away from home, but he hadn’t found an opportunity to inform her of that yet. On top of that, he’d been meticulous in ensuring that he performed at least his half of the daily upkeep of the house, if not more. He had all but claimed breakfast and lunch as his domain and was inordinately pleased with Hermione’s blissful reaction to seeing her favourite meal already prepared, especially on busy days when her lunch break was, by necessity, shorter than she would have liked. When she would rush off afterwards, he felt forlorn. Honestly! As though he hadn’t spent years eating alone.

All in all, he was extremely embarrassed with himself. Especially as the only reason she wasn’t around as much was because she was giving him what he wanted. Expecting any more from her would be a shameful exploitation of her kindness.

Thankfully, during the two days preceding the family get-together there were plenty of excuses to spend time with Hermione. She had brought in an eighty-year-old witch name Agnès to manage the bookshop both for the duration of the gathering and the two days prior, to allow for necessary preparation. Agnès was a spry old witch from Hermione’s book club, with a sharp tongue and a penchant for the crossword in Le Monde Magique. To Severus’ delight, he found that she had no problem ejecting Hermione from the shop when said proprietor seemed unable to stop working.

There were a million things to do around the farm ahead of the Weasley invasion. Hero and Sal were set to work transfiguring extra chairs and tables to put around the courtyard, as many meals would be alfresco. Hermione and Severus took a writer’s studio each, blitzing them with cleaning spells and adding any items that might be needed. They went through the ‘junk drawer’ in the kitchen, where Hermione pulled extra kettles, spatulas, teaspoons and a dozen other such necessities from its magically extended depths.

When she began baby-proofing the ground floor of the main house, it dawned on him that he had no idea who half of the guests (guests whom he was soon to share a house with for a week) actually were. Most of these unknowns would be children and young people whom he had blessedly never taught, but it still gave him pause. Besides the obvious discomfort of seeing everyone’s reaction to his survival and hearing their thoughts on the matter, he was extremely conscious that everyone invited knew his children – and Hermione for that matter – better than he did. He didn’t like that he had no knowledge of the nature of the relationships between them all. He stewed over it for a day, and then broached the topic with Hermine the evening before the reunion began.

They were transfiguring beds for all of the guests and had just finished adding three sets of bunk beds to Sal and Hero’s now-expanded bedrooms, which would be used to accommodate the male and female cousins respectively. They were now heading up to transform the attic space together, trailed by a pot of tea and chocolate biscuits.

They had barely begun when his brain decided it couldn’t wait any longer to have the conversation that had kept him up until all hours the previous night. A large part of him – the contrary part of him that kept missing her when she wasn’t around – really didn’t want to hear her answers, but forewarned is forearmed and all that.

“Have you been alone all this time?”

The bluntness of his question caused her to open her mouth and quickly close it again, as she tried to decide how to respond. She finished the air freshening charms she’d been casting and then turned to look at him. “Of course not, I’ve been surrounded by friends and family–”

“I meant romantically,” he clarified.

She gave him a look of exasperation. “I know.” she said.

“You don’t wish to discuss it with me.”

“I–” She waved her arms about as though she could pluck inspiration from the air. “There’s nothing to discuss. Nothing significant. I dated a few people years ago… but in each instance, when it came to introducing them to my children, I found I didn’t want to. There wasn’t much point in continuing on once I realised that. I haven’t been romantically involved with anyone in a long time.”

He rubbed his chin slowly and debated whether she’d hex him for pushing the topic. “You must resent that.”

“I must do nothing at all,” she huffed. “I keep telling you, Severus, I’ve made choices. Choices! Based on what I want – and yes, what I want for my children too. I don’t regret choosing what is right for my family.” She frowned at him. “I think… correct me if I’m wrong, but it feels as though you’re imagining some Hermione from another life and assuming that she would be disappointed with this one. And maybe she would. But I’m not her and I don’t want any other life than the one I’ve lived.”

That was a perfectly sensible answer. She pretty much had the measure of him. Best to just let it lie now.

“… What about Weasley?”

She quirked an eyebrow against him, the master of eyebrow quirks. “Ron?”

“When you were in school… It was assumed–” He coughed, trying to make his voice sound indifferent. “That is, Minerva was convinced–”

She looked away and flicked her wand, sending the crate that she had just transfigured into a double bed over to the far wall. When she turned back, it was to make a beeline for the tea. She poured herself a cup and nibbled a biscuit before she answered.

“I love Ron,” she said simply. “And I love Harry, of course, but Ron in particular was a great support to me after the war. I told them both what transpired at the Malfoy Estate as soon as I managed to reunite with them, but I didn’t realise I was pregnant until almost two months later.” Severus, sensing by now that this would be a long conversation, prepared his own tea, nodding to show that he was still listening. “I quite expected Ron to fly off the handle when I told him about the babies, I would have staked my Order of Merlin on it actually… but I suppose the reality of what could have happened at the Manor, on both occasions… Well, he just seemed grateful I was alive and was willing to listen.”

She smiled at some memory that he was half-irritated, half-glad he couldn’t see and went on, “He and Molly were with me in St Mungo’s, you know, when the twins were born. And he lived at home during his Auror training, so he was always around to help. He could have stayed with Harry, but he didn’t. He adores Hero and Salvador – he’s Sal’s godfather, in fact – and… and we did tiptoe around the idea of something more for a time… but we both held back. I knew that he wanted to have his own children too and I didn’t want to keep that from him.”

Something more… He tried to ignore the fact that his mind was reacting to the news as though it were an active threat to his happiness. Get it together, man!

“… You didn’t want more children?” he asked, as blandly as he could muster.

“I… couldn’t have more children.”

“Ah. Oh.” He immediately regretted asking. “Were there… complications? During labour?”

“No.” She hesitated, looking slightly surprised to be having this conversation with him, but soon seized her Gryffindor courage and ploughed on. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I endured over an hour of the Cruciatus curse only weeks before the night we... Well. It was unrelenting; wandtip direct to the abdomen the entire time. I suffered violent aftershocks for days afterwards, the boys were scared silly. I was too, but I think it was worse for them looking on, unable to do anything to help.”

He gave a grunt of disagreement with her on that point, but she just smoothed out her robes and flicked away an imaginary speck of dust. “When I went to St Mungo’s to confirm my pregnancy suspicions after the final battle, they told me I couldn’t possibly be, because their preliminary diagnostic spells declared my ovaries to be almost entirely scar tissue. They told me I could never have children. Then the midwitch arrived to test for pregnancy and found that I was expecting twins…” She stared at him, her kind eyes barely blinking. “They wanted to write a paper, Severus. They called it ‘unheard of’ and even bandied the word ‘miraculous’ about.”

He frowned. “Did you seek a second opinion?”

That made her laugh, though he hadn’t meant it to. “I didn’t have to; they came to me. Every appointment I had was populated by healers from across Europe. Dozens of tests, all with the same conclusion as the first.”

He was intrigued despite himself, all thought of past paramours forgotten. “But the pregnancy was normal?”

“Normal enough. I didn’t get a sudden urge to eat coal, or anything like that…”

She was hedging, he could tell. “… But?”

“Well, it was the strangest thing… Do you know how the developmental check charms are performed? The babies appear in a sort of Patronus form in the air above the womb and diagnostic spells can be performed to ensure that everything is progressing normally?” He hadn’t known that at all, but he nodded for her to continue. “When I had my first check charm at twenty weeks… my womb glowed. I didn’t know much about magical pregnancies at the time, but that was not common. At all. Or ever recorded before, actually.”

She sipped her tea and watched for his reaction over the rim of her teacup.

“… I beg your pardon?”

“It was opaque, and it glowed the entire time. The Patronus scan, that is. We should have been able to get a glimpse of their little faces,” she said wistfully, “but the healers couldn’t see anything at all. The results of the diagnostic spells were fine and there were two clear heartbeats, so we all just… waited. To see what would happen when they arrived.” She rubbed a hand over the place where her bump must have been. “After their birth, follow-up consultations revealed my uterus to be as damaged as my ovaries. If I hadn’t had the babies in my arms, if those same healers hadn’t been present throughout the labour, nobody in that room would have believed I’d carried twins to term.”

“What did they say caused it?” He cursed his lack of expertise in female anatomy. If he had to name one extreme failure in modern Potions apprenticeships, it was the lack of adequate training in brewing for witches’ health issues.

“They didn’t know. One Healer thought my body was going through a trauma response but couldn’t give a reason for why it started, or why it stopped.” She shook her head, as though still annoyed by that non-answer. “I spent years researching it myself, but there was… nothing. Literally nothing in any medical literature that I could find. And I hunt down obscure texts for a living.”

He was standing now, and pacing. “And it only happened during that developmental check?”

“No, that was just the first time. It happened at every check after that. It was still there when I was assessed in early labour.”

A sharp stab of worry made him stop mid-stride. “But the children…?”

Her worry melted away and she beamed at him. “Born without complications, completely healthy. Sal was seven pounds, Hero was six-eight. Both decidedly not glowing.”

“Thank Merlin for that… Does the damage remain?”

“Yes.” He studied her face, but she didn’t appear to be disappointed. Perhaps a little resigned. “My entire reproductive system. My pelvic bone was significantly weakened too, and I had some kidney damage, but those responded to treatment, as mediwizarding research has historically taken far greater interest in body parts that men also share. Witches’ health matters were largely ignored until the early seventies, which is an absolute disgrace.”

“It is shocking, we have the same issues with calculating dosage,” he said distractedly. “Think of the benefits the medimagical community would reap if even a quarter of the Ministry-sponsored research and clinical trials were not solely comprised of thirty-year-old Pureblood wizards.”

“That’s what I’ve always said!” She was looking at him in surprise, clearly unused to people indulging her digressions. “Anyway, that was probably more about my precarious ovaries than you wanted to know and not at all the point of the conversation.”

He tried to reassure her that in such things, he was hardly squeamish, but she just smiled at him and said, “Ron married Natalie Fairbourne five years ago – do you remember her? Gryffindor, two years behind us? They have a little girl and boy, Roslyn and Hugh, and another baby on the way. They are perfect for each other. You’ll see what I mean tomorrow.”

He stared at her in confusion, until he remembered how the conversation had started. “I’m sure I will,” he muttered.

They transfigured a few more beds and Hermione spaced them out carefully. Once happy with her configuration, she walked around the room, marking lines on the floor with a stick of iridescent purple chalk. She chanted an incantation that saw strong, thin walls rise up from her carefully sketched floor plan. They worked together to secure them with reversable sticking charms and a half dozen other safety spells for good measure. Conjuring doors in the right places, she labelled each one: Bill & Fleur; Charlie; Percy & Audrey; George & Angelina; Harry & Ginny; Neville.

“Done, thank Godric!” she announced. “Thank you so much for your help, Severus.”

He brushed off her thanks, insisting she had done the lion's share (pun intended) and gestured for her to proceed him downstairs.

By nightfall, Hermione finally collapsed onto the sofa and declared the place ready for visitors. Hero and Salvador were upstairs in their rooms, casting last minute air freshening spells and shoving inessential items into their wardrobes.

“Tea?” asked Severus.

“Please,” Hermione replied.

“Dairy Milk?”

She grinned tiredly at him, “You’re a quick study. Go on then!”

He arranged a tray while he waited for the kettle to boil and then carried everything over to join her on the couch.

“Hermione…?”

She had fallen asleep. He put the tray down and shook her shoulder gently, but she didn’t wake. As he retrieved his hand, she moved her head and her necklace tumbled out from under her blouse. He’d seen glimpses of that antique gold chain many times over the past few weeks but hadn’t set eyes on the pendant before now. He leaned over to examine it and inhaled sharply.

A very familiar bronze knut hung from the chain. He checked the reverse to be sure and yes, there it was; minted the year he swore allegiance to the Order. Rotating it between his fingers, he remembered the day he had turned it into an unofficial (and extremely illegal) Portkey, and then the day it had saved a life. Three lives. It glinted in the light, and he saw a tiny inscription along the edge: Take heart.

She’d had his words engraved.

Chapter Text

There was a large orchard, quite hidden behind the bookshop, which Severus had not explored before preparations began for Snapeta– No, for the family get-together. It was outrageously overgrown, save for a tiny beaten path that Sal used as part of his jogging route. And yet, inexplicably, it was the site that Hermione had decided the evening barbecues should be held. She had told him, days before the weeklong event was due to commence, that she was going to ask Neville to stop by early and help her clear the vegetation away. To which, just as inexplicably, Severus had heard himself say that he would do it, despite having absolutely no idea whether those sort of landscaping spells even existed, or how he would go about mastering them if they did.

It had taken him a morning of skulking in the shop’s Herbology aisle and another, far more exhausting morning trying to put the results of his skulking into action, but he had done it. Mostly. He wouldn’t necessarily call it neat, but it was definitely safe, and spacious enough for their thirty-odd guests. His success was compounded by the discovery of a thicket bursting with blackberries along the back of the grove. Hermione loved blackberries.

It was only afterwards, when he had collapsed on the ground under one of the pear trees, that his bravado claimed responsibility for the whole endeavour. His mind started crowing that Ha! Longbottom can find some other witch to help, because mine is most assuredly not in need of his services. 

And then his logic caught up with his swagger.

… Oh. Wait. Fuck.

Three gloriously golden blackberry pies sat cooling on the kitchen windowsill on Sunday morning, waiting to be shared out amongst the soon-to-arrive visitors. An army of kettles were whistling on the stovetop and teacups were floating in single file out to the patio tables. Despite the flurry of activity, the kitchen’s occupants were more or less relaxed. Severus put himself squarely in the ‘less’ category.

“Are you ready to meet your namesake, Dad?” Hero asked with a smirk, hurrying the last teacup onwards with a jab of her wand.

He raised an eyebrow curiously. “I thought we’d already met,” he replied, “and agreed to disagree about the use of the word ‘hero’ in reference to my person?”

“I’m not talking about me!”

“Who then?”

“I thought Mum would have mentioned it…? Uncle Harry named his second son after you!” She cackled at his expression, clapping her hands.

“That’s absurd. Hermione–?” He looked around for verification.

She was dusting each pie with a sprinkle of icing sugar and met his gaze guiltily. “Sorry Severus, I must’ve forgotten–! Goodness, it will be interesting to see how that introduction goes though, won’t it?!”

He snorted in disbelief. “Do you really mean to tell me that there exists in this world a child named Severus Potter?”

“Albus Severus Potter!” Hero amended with glee.

Severus’ eyes had widened incrementally with each disclosure and now threatened to fall out of his head completely. “That’s worse. Dear gods, what was Potter thinking?!”

“He was trying to honour you.” Hermione said apologetically.

“Can you regret something before it happens?” he wondered aloud. “He hasn’t even arrived yet and I’m already dreading that conversation.”

Sal tugged his ear at his father with a wink.

Hermione had loosely suggested midday as an arrival time for their guests but had warned Severus that punctuality was not likely and to expect families to appear over the course of the afternoon. As such, the attendees travelling via scheduled portkeys were the first to appear.

Sal was putting sandwiches on trays laden with stasis charms when he happened to glance outside. It was too early for the portkey from Hogwarts bearing the two invited professors, but there was already someone there.

“Gloria’s in the courtyard,” he said in a strangled voice. “Why is Gloria in the courtyard?”

Everyone looked at him in surprise.

“That’s where the Portkeys–” The panic in her son’s voice tipped her off and Hermione glanced between her children. “…You didn’t know that she was invited? Hero? Hero. You told me–”

Hero threw her hands in the air and Severus was willing to bet a wordless shield charm had gone up with them. She was also strategically retreating towards the patio.

“I tried to tell him, but he kept cutting me off,” she said, as though that absolved her of all guilt. “It’s not my fault that he assumed I was talking about Teddy–who is also going to be here, by the way, because I’m not afraid to ask him.”

“Because he’s been at every family event since before either of us can remember, Hero! For the last bloody time, it’s not the same!” Severus felt the atmosphere in the room change and understood why. Salvador never moved past annoyed. Seeing him angry felt wrong.

“Well, you weren’t ever going to tell her…”

“And your brilliant solution,” he said, flatly, “is to invite her to a week-long holiday with my entire family, so that when I make a fool of myself, I have an audience? Thank you, Hero, you think of everything.”

“No, I–” Hero’s indifferent expression faltered slightly. “I’ll go and–”

“You’ve done enough,” he snapped. “Stay here.”

He raked a hand through his hair and took a breath before heading out into the courtyard.

Hero raced to the window to watch, and Sal must have anticipated this, because he shot a quick glare in her direction and took the patio steps two at a time.

When Severus reached the window over the sink, he could see Sal greeting a young woman with golden brown hair and pale green eyes. She looked delighted to see him and hugged him easily, as he took her bag and gestured towards the house.

Hero, it seemed, had noticed their approach and made herself scarce.

Hermione moved to stand beside him and bit her lip. “I should have known to check with Sal myself…” she said softly, her lovely voice filled with regret.

“Come now,” he replied, with confidence he didn’t feel. “It will blow over. How would you like to handle it?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, looking up at him with such worry that he felt compelled to resolve everything instantly, if only to see her smile again. “It’s supposed to get easier when they’re of age, Severus.”

“Nothing worth having is ever easy,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. “And you have reinforcements now.”

“I do?”

“You do,” he promised. “I may not have your parenting expertise, but we are a team. You may count on my full support at any time.”

For a moment, he thought she might melt against him, but they were interrupted by Sal and Gloria.

“Mum, Dad, this is Gloria Ollivander,” Sal said, sounding his usual relaxed self. “Gloria, my parents, Hermione Granger and Severus Snape.”

If Gloria was surprised to be introduced to a dead war hero, she hid it well. “Ms Granger, Master Snape, thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“I’m just going to show Gloria where she’ll be staying,” Sal said, and the two disappeared upstairs.

Any hope of further private conversation with Hermione was quashed by the sudden appearance of the Hogwarts Headmistress, who seemed to be in the company of a chiselled underwear model.

“Minerva! Neville!” Hermione called with delight and raced outside to greet them.

Upon seeing her throw her arms around the paragon of manliness now adorning the courtyard like a Greek statue, Severus had never felt more grateful to have spent five hours wrestling stubborn thorn bushes into submission earlier in the week. The idea of Hermione spending any time alone with this new unrecognisable Longbottom made his stomach turn.

Severus knew that Hermione had informed all of the guests of his existence in the week prior, but the initial interactions with so many people from what felt like a past life were awkward, nonetheless.

He was horrified to have come very close to seeing Minerva cry when they first spoke.

“Severus.” She put a wizened hand to his face and just kept saying his name. “Severus. Oh Severus, I–”

“–did the best you could with the information you were given? As did I, Minerva. I hope you will forgive me as well.”

He prevented any further emotional declarations by putting a cup of tea in her hands as quickly as possible.

At half twelve, Ron’s little family were the first Floo arrivals to tumble out of the fireplace and the house was instantly filled with giggles and shrieking and more mildly uncomfortable introductions. Ron’s wife Natalie looked, in Severus’ opinion, about ready to go into labour on the living room carpet at any moment, but her conversation with Hermione seemed to suggest she was only six months along. Little Hugh clung to his mother’s legs at first, until he caught sight of Sal, who had by that time returned downstairs and now cheerfully swung the boy onto his shoulders and took off around the room. After Roslyn had demanded and been given her turn, Sal took the four of them across to one of the studios to settle in, while Gloria spoke with the Headmistress.

George and Angelina arrived with their teens, Freddie and Roxanne, who clearly knew the drill and tore up the stairs with their bags after the briefest of hellos to the adults present. Charlie came through next, followed quickly by the Potter contingent. It was then that Severus got his first look at a full-bodied Teddy Lupin, having seen only his head previously, during a Floocall with Hero in the bookshop. The young man favoured his mother more than Lupin, he thought, feeling a pang of melancholy at the memory of the fallen Order members. Teddy glanced around until he caught sight of Hero leaning languidly against the kitchen counter. The pair grinned at each other, and she beckoned him over to help her slice and plate the pies. Severus felt a sudden urge to go over and stand in between them. To help, of course. With the plates.

Instead, he was dragged off by Hermione to meet Bill and Percy Weasley’s families. Molly and Arthur followed through after them, having stayed back just long enough to ward up the Burrow. Much to Severus’ dismay, both Molly and Arthur saw fit to hug him and inundate him with questions about where he’d been, something their children had had more sense of self-preservation than to do, no doubt due to having experienced his wrath in the classroom. Thankfully, Hermione extracted him from their excessive familiarity by inviting everyone outside for a light lunch, throughout which she remained right by his side.

Hero and Salvador had done an excellent job of decorating the outdoor spaces. There was bunting strung in every direction across the courtyard, with paper lanterns and balloons added at strategic points, bobbing in the breeze. The afternoon was spent leisurely catching up with one another and eating a great deal of food. Hero, Teddy, Victoire and Freddie were all trying to one-up each other, casting spells to entertain Roslyn and Hugh. What began as a simple bubble charm had morphed to become giant glittering green bubbles which burst in a shower of sparkles over the heads of the awed children. Severus watched Salvador giving Gloria a tour of the bookshop. If his instincts were correct, his son had nothing to worry about. Despite being Hero’s invited guest, Gloria had yet to leave Sal’s side.

That evening, everyone headed around to the orchard where three magical barbecues, deftly managed by Ginny and Bill, were preparing food for the thirty-odd people in attendance.

Little jars of electric blue fire were everywhere; marking the edges of the path, hung from the trees and dotted along the tables.

“You know, I have a deep dislike of bluebell flames,” he confided to Hermione quietly, as they walked into the clearing.

“Really?” she asked innocently, her eyes dancing. “I can’t think why…”

"Hazardous to my cloak collection,” he elaborated, and she had the good manners to feign contrition.

Hermione walked past several tables until she found two seats next to each other. She beckoned him over and they sat together again. Whether by Hermione’s design or Severus’ good fortune, they were at the opposite end of the row from Percy and directly beside the wine selection. The food was delicious, and he was surprised to find himself having a fascinating conversation with Charlie about the extraction process of dragon’s blood and scales for Potions purposes.

People swapped seats over dessert, and everyone moved between conversations easily. While the constant noise and good-natured jostling of an event such as this was not normally to Severus’ taste, he could see why this week meant so much to the people gathered around him. There were so many reminders of the war: Bill’s scarred face, George’s missing ear, Arthur’s limp, Hermione’s carved arm. Even his own unsightly neck, which was more scar tissue than healthy flesh. He didn’t miss the way Molly Weasley occasionally squeezed her grandchildren to herself with troubled eyes, as though contemplating how close she had come to never having had the opportunity to hug them. So many reminders of what they almost lost. It made sense to stop and savour moments like these.

By the time the evening meal had concluded, Severus felt utterly drained by a full day of social niceties and needed space. Rather than join one of the groups now settling in for a chat on the patio, he took it upon himself to banish the dishes back to the kitchen, where he oversaw the clean-up effort. Each time he strode past the window, he allowed himself a moment to watch Hermione as she sat deep in conversation with Potter and Weasley. She was laughing and waving her hands animatedly. At one point Potter put an arm around her and pulled her in to his shoulder, affectionately. Severus tried to imagine what it would feel like, to have her pressed against his side, relaxing into him. A mug smashed in the sink, and he pulled himself together. Not allowed. Not. Allowed.

He repaired the ceramic easily and retreated to his room. He could hear the buzz of a dozen teens talking over each other in one of the twins’ rooms. The occasional scrape of chairs and clink of wine glasses from the patio was still faintly audible. He wanted to cast a silencing spell on the room so that he could relax, but if he did that… What if something happened? If one of them was hurt? If he was needed?

He had resigned himself to night of intermittent sleep and was just about to turn off the light and climb into bed, when there was a knock at the door.

“Severus? Can I come in?”

It was Hermione, one of the blankets from the patio still wrapped around her shoulders. She kept her eyes on his face as she spoke, and he realised that she hadn’t seen him in pyjamas before. He always dressed before leaving his room, unsure if the lounge pants and t-shirt he wore for sleep would be too casual for the rest of the house. Hero and Sal wore the strangest articles of clothing to bed and to breakfast, but they were teenagers. That was to be expected. He, on the other hand, felt the need to play it safe.

“Is everything alright?” he asked. “Do you need me for something else?”

She leaned against the doorframe and smiled. “No, I just wanted to thank you for everything today. You were right, we are a good team.”

A good team. A good parenting team, obviously.

He inclined his head and murmured, “Of course.”

She took a step inside the room then and closed the door. “And I… I wanted to make sure that you’re doing well. It was a lot, seeing everyone today. Do you want to… talk about anything?”

Talk about anything? I want to talk about everything. I want to thank you for seating us together at dinner. I want to tell you how beautiful you are when you laugh. I want to hold your hand again. I want you to believe me when I say that your blackberry tarts are the best thing I’ve ever tasted … I want to know if you’d taste even better.

He winced and closed his eyes. Merlin forgive me. “Thank you, no. I… I have survived worse. Although Percy Weasley really did try to lecture me about Floo fees.”

She laughed her beautiful laugh and sat next to him, completely unaware of what the proximity was doing to him.

“Poor Percy is awfully miffed that I was granted an international Floo connection by the French Ministry,” she explained. “For personal use only, mind, but he doesn’t approve.”

Severus couldn’t think why, but it was hard to concentrate at that particular moment. She was close enough to reach out and hold. He forced himself to focus on the conversation. “Is it very uncommon?” he asked.

“Depends on which country you want to connect to. Most countries don’t allow it. Ireland and the UK share the same network, actually. A remnant from the occupation, when Irish wizards were occasionally mistaken for priests and hunted down. The French Ministry allowed connections to the UK for a decade in the forties, for those fleeing Grindelwald. They shut it down but didn’t remove the magic and now families can petition for a private connection in certain circumstances.”

He rolled his eyes. “Such as a friendship with the Chosen One?"

“Circe no! They couldn’t care less about Harry here! No, Fleur and I may have worked together to emphasise the deep and lasting friendship between our families. She’s a very persuasive woman,” Hermione said fondly. “The Ministry officials didn’t stand a chance.

“I can imagine.” He smirked at the mental image; an officeful of wizards rendered helpless at the merest flick of the French witch’s hair.

Hermione rubbed her cheek and gave him that familiar rueful smile. “Goodness, now you’ve been bored silly with Floo talk twice today! I won’t keep you,” she said, apologetically.

Her eyes were still carefully trained on his head and nowhere else. She got up without touching him. No arm squeezes.

“Good night, Hermione.”

“Sweet dreams, Severus.”

Chapter Text

Severus had spent a significant portion of the night worrying about the lack of arm squeezes, only to find them back in force the next morning. He didn’t understand at first, but it dawned on him as he washed his hands after breakfast. He felt sick when he realised. She touched him when he wore his usual full-sleeved shirts, but last night he had been wearing a t-shirt. It must have been the Mark. She couldn’t bear to touch it, or even look at it. Obviously, he thought bitterly. What horrors it must remind her of. He dried his hands and dragged his sleeve back down, angrily berating himself for daring to hope that she might one day touch him.

He filled his mug with strong coffee and went outside to find some peace. George and Angelina had made breakfast for everyone and placed it under a stasis charm so that people could help themselves as they wandered in and out. After Sal and Freddie oversaw the clean-up, a large group gathered in the courtyard to form teams for a Quidditch tournament. Severus was entertained to find that while his children were gamely joining teams, neither of them seemed particularly enthused by the sport. He and Hermione had both demurred when invited to participate in some capacity; their answers as predictable as Ron and Harry’s synchronised eyerolls upon hearing them. The day passed without much inconvenience, as he was able to enjoy some peace and quiet while the group took to the sky over the orchard.

After dinner that evening, Bill and Fleur brought out a gramophone and the courtyard became an impromptu dancefloor. Molly and Arthur had yet to sit down and were dancing rings around their children. Harry and Ginny were swaying together for every song regardless of the tempo and Percy had clearly imbibed more than intended, as he was snogging his wife enthusiastically with each attempt to dip her over his arm. None of the younger generation wanted to stick around for that, so they liberated several tubs of ice-cream and disappeared off into the house.

Severus watched as the couples rotated to the music. Hermione and Neville were holding hands and twirling and laughing. They were too far for him to hear their conversation, but Hermione was clearly delighted with whatever witticisms Longbottom had managed to spout. At that moment, the only other person still sitting on the patio with him decided it was time for a chat.

Ron threw an arm over his shoulder in an affable way and whispered loudly, “Neville’s got a girl!”

Severus didn’t reply, but even his angriest glare could not deter a drunken Weasley.

“Wassir name ’gain?” he asked the air around them. “Helga? Harmony…?”

“Hermione,” Snape ground out, flooded with resentment at having to confirm the suspected relationship aloud.

“Nah mate,” Ron said with a guffaw. He knocked on the side of his head, as though to dislodge a stubborn thought. “Helena? Hestia? … Hannah!” he declared triumphantly. “Hannah!”

Ron waved over to the dancing couple and Neville and Hermione waved back in amusement.

“Great girl, Hannah. Great cook. Makes the best Yorkshire puddings I’ve ever tasted.” Ron breathed a blissful sigh, then looked around guiltily and said in another loud whisper, “Don’t tell the wife I said that!”

How drunk must Weasley be if he can’t get his best friend’s name right? Severus wondered. He was trying not to think too much about the fact that in all the time he’d been at the farmhouse, Hermione had never once made him Yorkshire puddings. Instead, he looked around to signal to Potter for help, or Weasley’s wife, or anyone who could take the blathering idiot off his hands, but Potter’s eyes were resolutely closed and Natalie was putting her children to bed.

Ron swayed by his side, watching the dancers twirling. Then he clapped a hand on Severus’ back and gave him a hard look.

“Hermione’s a bloody genius, you know.”

Well thank Circe for small mercies, Severus thought, as Weasley finally got her name right. He should probably still get the man a Sober Up tonic though.

Ron wasn’t finished. “She built this place out of nothing. Raised those kids… we’re all better parents just from watching her.”

It appeared he expected a verbal response to that, so Severus agreed. “I have no doubt.”

“She’s happy here, mate.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“Took her a long time to find her happy place.”

“Mm.”

“Knows her mind, does Hermione. Always right, ’s bloody annoying.” Ron had an indulgent smile on his face. “But if she knows what she wants… None of us have a problem with it.”

Severus watched Hermione and Neville attempt the quickstep and closed his eyes. “I should hope not.”

“We won’t let anyone stand in her way, neither.” Ron’s voice was thick with meaning. “Mightn’t understand it, but we’ll support her.”

“Yes, message received, Weasley,” he snapped. “I will do nothing to jeopardise Hermione’s happiness. You have my word.”

“Well good,” Ron said gruffly. “That’s the main thing. Never liked thinking of her lonely… You should go cut in, mate.”

Severus stared at him. “I doubt that would be appreciated.”

“Suit yourself,” Ron grumbled. They watched as Ginny stole Hermione away and the two witches hugged and swung each other around while their previous dance partners shook their heads good-naturedly at the silliness. “Fierce affectionate, our Hermione. Loves a good cuddle.”

“And an arm squeeze,” Severus muttered, rolling his eyes.

Ron stood suddenly. “I shall go and find my good wife and cajole her onto the dancefloor,” he declared with great affection. “Knows every monitoring spell in existence, and she still can’t tear herself away from her babies. Witches, eh?” He sauntered jauntily across the square to the studio and tiptoed inside.

Severus sat alone for a few more minutes but withdrew to his room when the music changed and sultry, soulful chords began to play, unwilling to watch the slow dance that was about to start.

When Hermione knocked at the door a short time later, he pretended to be asleep.

“’Morning Severus.”

He turned from the sink to see her standing at the bottom of the stairs in her bare feet, wearing black leggings and a floaty blue top. Ready for yoga, he surmised.

“Good morning.” Nodding in her direction, he asked, “I presume you won’t want coffee until you’ve finished?”

Hermione padded across the room until she was right in front of him. “I didn’t get the chance to dance with you last night.”

Severus was momentarily caught off guard, both by her words and her physical closeness. “No need,” he assured her, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You weren’t lacking in dance partners, after all.”

She was still gazing up at him with those golden-brown eyes that rendered him incapable of intelligent conversation. Had she even blinked? He didn’t think so.

“May I have the pleasure now?” she asked, offering her hand.

Merlin. Where is this coming from?

Did she feel sorry for him? Probably. But could he deny her anything? Doubtful.

He took her hand and stared as she flicked her wand at the wireless until she found a gentle tune and placed her other hand firmly on his shoulder.

Oh dear.

Only muscle memory from the rigorous dance lessons of his Slytherin days got him through the fog that overcame him as he danced with her in the middle of the kitchen.

He felt the chill of the tiles on his socked feet and sent a wandless heating charm to the floor, thinking of how her uncovered toes must feel. If she got too cold, she might let go sooner.

She didn’t let go. In fact, she leaned her head on his chest as they swayed softly.

He tried not to panic but he knew she must be able to hear his heart beating wildly. She must know what this was doing to him–

A blur of colour in his periphery caused him to lift his chin from her curls. Hero had come down the stairs noiselessly, carrying her wand and dressed for yoga. She froze at the unexpected scene she had stumbled upon and a long pause hung in the air between the two of them, until she raised both eyebrows and crept back up to her room.

Severus would never have claimed the kitchen to be his favourite room in any house, but after a week of Weasleys, he distinctly missed being able to sit in Hermione’s airy kitchen and think a thought through to its conclusion without being interrupted or jostled or shooed away. There certainly could be no opportunity to sit and daydream about that perfect early morning, those perfect, perfect dances… Hermione couldn’t know the significance of dancing with one partner three times, could she? It was an old Pureblood tradition, she couldn’t know. But she knows everything… No. She couldn’t. Could she…?

The kitchen had been overrun all week; there were always at least two adults cooking up the next meal. After a few days of observation, he noticed that there seemed to be an unspoken system in place in which each couple took turns preparing meals and corralling everyone for group activities. There was no rota and no haggling, but the end goal was very clear: Arthur and Molly were not to lift a finger. They all rose significantly in Severus’ estimation after that. He was also rather pleased to realise that when Hermione decided it was her turn, she brought him along with her to help. She didn’t even ask, unless you counted the tilt of her head and the purposeful spark in her eyes.

The young people were also more useful and less irritating than he’d braced himself for and he had even gotten to know a few of them, much to his own astonishment. He discovered that Percy’s daughter Molly was a keen photographer and had a camera with her at all times. Each morning, new photos of the previous day’s events would appear in a box on the coffee table, with enough duplicates for each family to take a set. Severus asked her about the process behind photo development and spent the ensuing conversation marvelling at how friendly and relaxed and interesting a child of Percy’s could be. Not only that, but Percy enjoyed talking about his daughters even more than broomstick speed limits, so several meals were salvaged with a simple switch of subject.

Potter was something of an annoyance though. He had spent the first two days following Severus around, trying to bond with him over their shared connection to Lily. The man also tried to take responsibility for Severus’ self-imposed exile and berated himself loudly over it. But by the third morning, he seemed to have gotten the message that these were unwelcome topics of conversation – or more likely, Hermione had enlightened him to the fact. Severus chose to avoid the Auror as a rule, but on the few subsequent occasions in which he was required to engage, Sal had quite expertly inserted himself into the exchange and kept the discussion focused on safer topics, such as the Potter boys’ progress at Hogwarts thus far. Once, when Potter had caught him right after a particularly strong cup of coffee, they did discuss the steps required to overturn Severus’ death certificate and have him legally declared alive and kicking once more, but that was a necessary evil, he supposed.

Evenings were spent either in the orchard or the courtyard, playing ridiculous games. Arthur had devised a table quiz, which Severus and Hermione would have won, if either of them had been able to answer even one question from the Quidditch round. Another night, George and Angelina’s contribution to the entertainment was a Mr & Mrs competition. Hermione and Charlie volunteered to play hosts so that George and Angelina could join in, while Neville and Severus sat on opposite sides of the courtyard, the only two adults not participating. Severus played along in his head for the first few questions.

“How do they take their tea?”

Assam blend. Water first, allow the leaves to seep for a full minute, then a splash of milk.

“Their favourite book?”

Hogwarts: A History. She had a copy of every special edition; he’d seen them in pride of place on the bookshelf across from the couch.

“Their favourite place?”

Right here, in this courtyard, with her family all around her.

“Where was your first date?”

Reality crashed over him. Two children, no first date. Nothing about their situation was normal enough–would ever be normal enough–to apply to a relationship game.

“That boy is in love with her,” Severus muttered darkly, staring out the kitchen window.

It was the penultimate day of Snapetacular and he and Hermione were preparing lunch for the masses, who were due back from their hike at any minute. Four of the teens had decided to stay behind and it was towards them that he directed his glare.

“Who?”

“Hero.”

“Which boy?”

“Lupin’s son.”

 “Oh Severus, they’re best friends!” She joined him at the window, but he could tell she didn’t see the wistfulness in the boy’s face.

“You can be friends with someone and fall in love with them, trust me.”

“I’m sure you can, but Hero has told me herself that they’re just friends.”

“Look at him for five minutes when he’s around her and you’ll see it; it’s a clear as the nose on my face!”

Hermione couldn’t contain her laughter at the unexpected joke and looked as though she might bestow a kiss upon the distinguished nose in question but settled for an arm squeeze instead.

“Go and call them in for lunch, will you?”

He acquiesced and strode out the door. Teddy, Freddie, Victoire and Hero were lying on the grass by the gates to the courtyard. A heap of daisy chains lay forgotten beside them, along with a collection of empty mugs. None of them seemed inclined to move enough to greet him, let alone haul themselves back to the house, so he put his newfound knowledge of Hero to good use and announced, “There’s fresh pavlova on the patio.”

Hero and Freddie were on their feet in an instant, while Victoire just laughed and followed them at a more civilised pace.

“Mr Lupin.” Severus said, appraising the last teen standing.

“Sir.”

“You are not a fan of meringue?”

“Hero’ll save me some.”

They both looked in the direction of the terrace, where said witch was passing around plates. She allowed herself a happy dance before taking her first bite of dessert, no main course in sight.

“When are you going to tell her?”

Teddy looked over at him sharply, but after a moment his shoulders slumped, and he sighed. “The day after she becomes Master of St Mungo’s, I reckon.”

Ah. “Very noble. And what will you do if another suitor disregards Hero’s timeline and makes a declaration before she achieves her goal?” He raised an eyebrow and was pleased to see the boy look rattled.

“I… I… She’s too ambitious to let someone side-track her plans.”

“Are you sure?”

“…Yes?”

“Then why are you asking me, rather than telling me?”

“I…” Teddy ran both hands through his hair, which had faded to a dull brown. “How did you know?”

“How does everyone else not know?”

“She’s on a mission to find me the perfect witch.”

“It does seem to be a hobby of hers,” Severus agreed, thinking of Sal and Gloria.

“…and she hasn’t volunteered herself for the job.” Teddy shook his head. “For some reason, Victoire seems to be her idea of the ideal candidate.”

“You disagree.”

“Well, no. Victoire is beautiful. And she’s smart and she takes no prisoners. She probably is ideal in a general sense. But she’s not…”

“Hero?”

“Yeah…” Teddy said. That wistful look was back again, and Severus eyed it with distrust. “She thinks she’s not kind and sweet and even-tempered enough to be girlfriend material. But she saved for two years and bought me a pensieve of my own when she was nine–nine!–because I mentioned once that I wished I had a memory room like hers. She gets me cake twice a year, on my parents’ birthdays, and lets me vent all my anger and frustration and disappointment while we eat the whole thing. She understands how it feels to be adrift and missing a part of yourself… She’s not friends with easy-going Teddy Lupin who keeps the peace and is always fun to be around. She’s friends with every version of me, no matter what I’m going through. I didn’t even understand how I felt about that until seventh year, and now… How do you tell someone that textbook romance is meaningless once you meet a witch who can see all of your rough edges and still wants to stick around?”

Teddy glanced over at Severus again and suddenly seemed to realise who he was talking to.

“Merlin’s balls,” he groaned. “Why am I telling you this?! Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve– It’s just been going around in circles in my head. Nobody else knows… Oh Godric, this is mortifying. I’m– I’m going to go now. Sorry sir.”

Severus stood stock still as the young man walked away. He was extremely aggravated to find himself sharing a dilemma with Teddy Lupin of all people. ‘A witch who can see all of your rough edges and still wants to stick around…’ He did feel as though he could tell Hermione anything and she would still be there, listening and understanding. As a friend, his mind pointed out.

Merlin’s balls indeed.

The last night of Snapetacular–he had caved and started using the ridiculous nickname, but only in his mind–was slightly subdued. Conscious as they all were of the goodbyes that would take place the next morning, the group seemed reluctant to hasten the moment by going to bed. They sat out in the orchard long after the last of the desserts had been enjoyed. Charlie led them in a raucous sea shanty, which gave way to a string of other party pieces from talented individuals – and those who had been too liberal with the wine that night. Arthur and James played the spoons together tolerably well and the toddlers in attendance clapped with delight and waved their own spoons above their heads. Fleur and her younger daughter sang a French ballad, J’attendrai, arm in arm and got very weepy. Lily Potter (the second) wanted to tap-dance and brought her father with her for moral support. Only weeks ago, Severus would have viewed the scene with mild derision, but he felt a degree of respect for Potter now. He could relate; if Hero’s secret talent was shooting flaming arrows at an apple on his head from point blank range, he’d probably allow it.

Ron moved to the front of the group and played a melodic instrumental piece on the guitar, before offering it to Salvador. Severus watched, wide-eyed, as his son hesitated for a moment and then walked to the clearing and took the seat his godfather had just vacated. Sal adjusted the capo and conjured himself a plectrum, closing his eyes as he played the first chords. The notes were light, and his voice was strong, and Severus was so astonished to hear him sing that at first, he couldn’t process the words. When the lyrics finally filtered into his consciousness, his jaw went slack, and goosebumps chased their way across his skin. The boy may as well have been giving voice to the ever-constant struggle of Severus’ soul.

“…I've been living with my demons, they've been eating at me every day
Like chains 'round my neck, most nights they get the best of me.

And I'm ashamed, I'm amazed, I'm afraid of the wicked I need
And I'm sure there's silver lining, and I'm trying, but I cannot see:

Why you put good into my heart, then teased me with evil since the day I was born?
Guilty and confused, I rip myself apart, when you always knew I'd be a civil war…”

Salvador had sung with his eyes closed but opened them to look directly at his father on the final verse. A hush fell over the group as the song faded. Sal gave a bashful smile and was about to put the guitar down when two-year-old Hugh ran up to request Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. The toddler belted out the words as his older cousin accompanied him and indulgent laughter and clapping broke out.

A breeze whipped up then, cold enough to bring the performances to a close, and Severus reached his son’s side as people began to drift back towards the house. Neither said a word, but Sal leaned over and allowed Severus to wrap an arm around his shoulder as they walked back, side by side.

Later that night, Severus lay awake replaying the sound of Salvador’s voice over and over as his mind raced. Hermione had been right. Quiet, kind, humble Salvador saw things that others missed. The young man understood something about his father that Severus had never acknowledged to himself. His whole life had been a civil war. He’d been punishing himself for the wickedness he knew he was capable of, but had somehow failed to recognise the goodness that had consistently won out since the night he had learned the price of evil. Maybe the constant trying counted for something? There would be no final battle for his soul, but perhaps the little daily struggles of trying to be better than he was the day before were enough? Could he give himself that? The weight of his guilt was crippling. Could he really lay it down?

He thought of Hero’s vocal defence of him, and Sal’s silent solidarity. His children saw goodness in him. He was going to choose to see it too.

Chapter Text

Longbottom was the first to leave the next morning, heading back to Hogwarts via return Portkey to prepare for the new school year. The entire group surrounded him, sending him off with hugs and piles of food. Severus hung back scowling as Salvador thanked his former professor profusely for attending and promised to owl to arrange a catch-up soon. Hermione was shrinking several books and a bottle of wine and stuffing them into Neville’s pockets and everyone was talking at once.

“See you in a few days, Professor!”

“Thanks again for the advice, Nev, I’ll let you know if I manage to salvage the crop.”

“Do come for dinner soon, dear, and bring Hannah! Arthur and I are dying to meet her!”

“Yes, give Hannah our love!”

“And tell Minerva I’ll owl her by Friday, will you?”

“Make sure Hannah can get time off next year, so that she can join us!”

Hannah? Hannah… Hannah! His brain, steeped as it was in petulance and misery, took longer than it should have to understand. There really was a Hannah, and she and Hermione were distinctly separate witches.

He could have hugged Longbottom at that moment but restrained himself and offered a firm handshake instead. Nonetheless, the elation he felt seeped out in other ways, and it was fair to say that he was almost jovial as he distributed Floo powder and wished the rest of the group all the best. He used the word ‘Snapetacular’ twice without noticing, held a toddler for a few moments and even thanked Percy for sharing his insight on the inner workings of the current Ministry.

By lunchtime, Sal was saying a private farewell to Gloria on the patio and Severus had the kitchen to himself once more. He and Hermione celebrated with two large mugs of tea and a bar of Dairy Milk, angling their chairs to provide the couple outside with at least a semblance of privacy.

Gloria–the final guest to depart–peeked through the double doors, lightly flushed and beaming. “Thanks again, Hermione, Severus! I look forward to seeing you all soon.”

She tapped a half-chewed Muggle pencil with her wand and disappeared in a whirl of colour. Salvador wandered in, grinning madly.

“I think I’m in love,” he declared, flopping down onto the couch.

“I told you!” Hero crowed, bounding over to hug him.

“You did.” He lifted his head and wagged a finger at the others in the room. “Always listen to Hero.”

Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a letter. “Also… Mr Ollivander has invited me to discuss the possibility of an apprenticeship.”

Hero whooped and Hermione jumped up, pulling Severus with her until they were all caught up in a four-person hug.

“It’s not an offer!” Sal called, from somewhere in the jumble of arms. “I could still end up in Berlin studying Arithmancy.”

“Oh stop,” Hero hushed him affectionately. “You’ll knock his socks off like you do everybody. We’re going to London, Sal!”

After a lunch of leftovers, during which Sal agonised over his chances of becoming Britain’s next leading wandmaker, the twins headed off to compose a list of items they’d need when they moved out.

Severus turned to Hermione and considered her. She had been obviously engaged and actively listening to Salvador over lunch but hadn’t given the boy any answers of substance at all.

When he asked her about it, she laughed and said, “That’s another parenting philosophy of mine. I don’t give any solutions if I can help it. After all, you saw how well spoon-feeding answers to Harry and Ron worked out for me. I needed a new approach!”

She gave him an arm squeeze and added, “His decision will be stronger if it’s entirely his own. He knows he can talk to me–to us–about it, and that we’ll support him, but knowing that we trust in his ability to decide his future is more important, don’t you think?”

She left then too, unaware of his awestruck gaze following her, and headed towards the bookshop–presently closed, as it was a Sunday–to check that everything was in order before she opened again the following morning.

Severus, now suddenly alone for the first time in a week, went up to his room and studied the photos stuck to his wall. Young Molly had captured some incredible candid moments of Hero and Salvador over the past week. It dawned on him how much more he had learned about his children through observing their interactions with their wider family. He had nearly missed all of it, because he didn’t want to tolerate past pupils. How foolish.

How long would it have taken to discover that Sal was musical otherwise? That his usually perceptive daughter was oblivious to romantic overtures while his usually reserved son was far too good at making them? When would he have found out that Hero was so woeful at wielding a bludger bat that she nearly took out half the local bird population when dragged into a game of Quidditch? Or that she was so adept at yoga that she could lead her cousins in an impromptu class with no warning? Would he have noticed the way mother and son put an arm around each other whenever they found themselves standing side by side, regardless of an audience of Sal’s teenage peers? There was so much still to learn about them all, but he didn’t want to forget a thing.

He watched Hermione’s bright smile flash in a loop and an idea occurred to him. He summoned his briefcase and took out a blank notebook. Affixing a photograph of Hermione blowing a kiss to her children as they headed off to join the Quidditch tournament to the first page, he began to write.

By five o’clock, he put down his quill and returned to the kitchen. Hermione had mentioned making a stir-fry for dinner, so he began to dice vegetables in preparation.

Hero wandered through with a letter, heading towards the owlery.

“Roll up your sleeves,” she said lightly.

“Pardon?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.

“Just a serving suggestion.” She winked and headed out the door.

He stared after her, utterly bewildered. If he rolled up his sleeves, the Mark would be visible. But if he didn’t, he wouldn’t get an explanation for Hero’s cryptic advice. After fierce internal debate, he did eventually fold his sleeves back, if for no other reason than frank curiosity.

When Hermione came into the kitchen a while later, after warding up the shop for the evening, she glanced over at him and turned pink.

Oh. Oh.

He waved the knife at the chopping board and said, “I made a head start.”

She squeaked out a high-pitched, “Great!” and went to wash her hands at the sink.

Severus decided to test his theory further. He reached over her to take a few jars down from the spice rack and watched her watch his arms until they left her field of vision.

That was unexpected.

He left his sleeves rolled up throughout dinner and made sure to reach around her when he cleared her plate. She bit her bottom lip.

Hermione Granger has a thing for forearms. My forearms. It was the discovery of his lifetime.

Severus was grateful for the warm weather, because he had no intention of wearing any of his shirts with their sleeves down until Christmas, if he could help it. At the same time, he lamented the lack of opportunities to chop firewood in August. If ever there was a task that accentuated both one’s arms and one’s manliness to great effect, it was hacking a tree to pieces with an axe. Magic was wonderful, obviously, but didn’t always lend itself to displays of physical prowess.

Still, he had a number of other tests he could run to ensure his hypothesis was correct. He developed a sudden habit of taking things down from high shelves whenever Hermione was around. He fixed a shelf in the pantry while she was there, collecting flour and eggs for crêpes.  She had a harder time than usual finding what she needed and searched for almost five minutes, which he took as a good sign. He even joined Sal for a couple of morning jogs, suddenly grateful for the long days he’d spent combing the Daintree rainforest for potions ingredients. Afterwards, he made a mental note that a tight t-shirt seemed just as effective as rolled sleeves.

He counted how many times he could make Hermione blush in a day. He was up to nine by Wednesday. He’d even gotten bare arm squeezes; Dark Mark be damned.

Now if only he could figure out what to do with all this valuable information.

He wanted complete confirmation of his results before acting on them, but the only way to gain such a thing was to ask, and Severus was useless at talking about such delicate matters. When she looked at him with that little smile, he wanted more than anything to be able to read her mind and be sure that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself.

He would never do it.

Severus had not used Legilimency since the war ended. It had been a necessary skill throughout his time as a double agent and he had seen it as a means of survival above all else. In order to occlude, he had to understand the invasion he was trying to block, so he had applied himself to the study of both and excelled. It became quite easy to use Legilimency with rank-and-file Death Eaters, skimming information without detection. Even as Headmaster, he had used the skill to monitor the Carrows and prevent too much abuse of power. He hadn’t thought twice about doing it.

It hadn’t been until he’d ripped through Hermione’s mind in his haste to build a memory there that the full weight of the act hit him. Throughout his years within the Dark Lord’s ranks, he had taken solace in the fact that he had never murdered and never raped. Then, in the final year of the war, he had been forced to do both. He had been confronted by the sickening reality that there was very little difference between violating a body and violating a mind.  

He would never do it to her again.

Which left him with the daunting task of having to ask her, a grown woman, if he, a grown man who shouldn’t be so terrified of such things, could kiss her.

Merlin’s balls, he couldn’t do it.

Life went on, as Severus continued to torture himself (not to mention poor Hermione). The decision was made that all four of them would travel to Diagon Alley on Friday afternoon and attend dinner at the Burrow afterwards. In order to avoid a scene and a front page spread on the Daily Prophet, Severus decided to don his glamour once more.

He slid his copper bracelet onto his wrist as they gathered by the fireplace, and Hero and Sal gaped at him.

“Is your glamour attached to that?” Hero asked. She took his hand and slid the bracelet off and on again, watching the illusion disappear and return, flickering for a second before settling into place.

Sal was fascinated too. “How does it work…? Hang on, is that why your glamour doesn’t shimmer? I’d been wondering.”

“A temporary glamour hovers over the skin and moves slightly as the body moves, creating the shimmering effect.” Severus explained. “However, I chose to anchor the spell to the cuff, which stabilises the magic. It’s quite an intensive process, but once anchored, it can last years.”

“Brilliant!” Hero and Sal breathed in unison.

He shook his head in amusement and gestured to the fireplace. “Come along, there are wandmakers to impress and apprenticeships to secure.”

They spent a pleasant afternoon browsing the Alley while Salvador attended his interview with Mr Ollivander. Severus especially enjoyed wandering the alchemy aisle of Flourish & Blotts with Hermione, as they wordlessly passed each other books they found interesting and whispered withering indictments against authors they deemed incompetent.

When Hermione ducked into the Weasleys’ joke shop to speak with Ron and George, Severus wandered on, taking in the new shop fronts. The street was flourishing; peacetime was evidently good for business. A narrow ginnel next to Gringotts had been expanded into a second vibrant shopping district, Vertic Alley. The shop on the corner – more of a studio really, he mused – had a storefront painted a cool silver-grey, with a floor to ceiling window to display a colossal glass sculpture of a cresting wave. Metal was woven into the spray to breath-taking effect. Severus didn’t need to glance up at the minimal ‘dt’ on the fascia to know exactly whose business it was. He immediately understood why Draco would invest so heavily in pieces like these. Checking his watch, he decided he had time to spare and stepped inside.

When he stepped out again half an hour later, his bank vaults had taken a significant blow – and that was only the deposit.

Chapter Text

The bookshop became steadily busier as August faded into September. Severus avoided the courtyard during opening hours as much as possible. He returned his attention to deciphering Zosimos’ ambiguous discourses but wasn’t getting very far. The mornings were agreeable all the same, as Salvador would join him occasionally and had even begun scribbling out a few of his own guesses for brewing stages.

One morning, as he glanced over his father’s files, he asked, “Dad, the Galanthus root. It needs an alkaline base, doesn’t it?”

Severus was absorbed in a chapter on common translation errors and answered distractedly.

“Hm? Yes, there are several bases we could use, going by the current ingredient list. I expect it will require some trial and error.”

Sal was running his hand through his curls repeatedly, his eyes boring holes through the pages in his hands. “What if… What if it’s not one of those ingredients?” he said slowly. “What if it’s… tears?”

Severus swivelled to face him properly now, looking slightly guilty for his inattention. “Pardon? I don’t think I got all of that. Tears…?”

“I know, it sounds mad, but all of these cases…” Sal dropped the file on top of the translation guide and tapped a particular paragraph on the first page, then the second and third. “The people cried. All of them. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

Severus flicked through the notes slowly at first, then with increasing intensity. Rising to his feet, he charmed the pages so that they hovered in front of him as he compared them. Salvador was right, it was everywhere: “cried for an hour” … “wept silently despite being reassured that the threat was neutralised” … “carried on a normal conversation while crying freely” … “wept calmly, very unnerving” … Tears? Not unheard of in brewing but…

How could he have missed this?

Upon reflection, he knew how. Crying felt dangerous to Severus, and he didn’t cry often. Having learned early that it was a weakness that could be exploited, he preferred to keep such vulnerabilities to himself. He had compartmentalised his emotions for most of his life, rarely allowing himself to experience any feelings other than those he was unable to stave off: shame, anger, resentment. He gathered that crying was something other people did quite regularly but considered himself ill-equipped to understand it in any way.

He had no tolerance level for other people’s distress, especially if he was the cause. He had only realised this after watching more memories of the twins’ childhood. He had commented to Hermione about how well-behaved they were in the first set, and she had laughed, and given him another dozen which had opened his eyes to the reality of parenting. The tantrums had been wild, and he had been astonished to watch Hermione in the middle of it all, soothing and waiting, radiating calm and acceptance. It hurt to watch; he’d had to leave some of the memories early the first time.

Hermione had explained that children are not born with emotional regulation, that it is a learned skill. When a child becomes emotionally dysregulated, parents need to model regulation until the child can learn it for themselves. It could take years, she’d said. And only parents who were aware of their own emotions could pass it on to their children. She’d had to teach herself a great deal, she said. Well, if her sheltered middle-class childhood hadn’t adequately prepared her, he sure as hell hadn’t stood a chance.

Any time he had expressed what adults perceived as a “negative” emotion, it was shut down, either by violence, when he was battered by his father; denial, when his mother would insist that his version of events was untrue; panic, when his Muggle teachers would try to hush him before they heard something they had to report; distraction, when Hogwarts professors didn’t want to move against his Gryffindor tormentors; or bribery, when Dumbledore offered sweets, and then steadily larger prizes, to control his behaviour. He had absolutely no memories of an adult acknowledging the pain of his reality. Just the constant barrage of shame. It had taken its toll.

When students would cry, or show any signs of distress, he felt so uncomfortable with their show of vulnerability that he lashed out to make it stop or make them leave.

When he had read about the tears in each of the reports, his eyes had skipped over the words as he pushed down waves of sympathetic embarrassment for those involved.

When Hermione had cried that night in Malfoy Manor, he had lost every shred of self-respect he’d had left.

When Hermione had cried…

He took a step backwards, colliding with the desk.

The crying. He could use any of these other narratives to describe her tears that night. She hadn’t sobbed or gasped. Her face hadn’t been contorted in any way. She had been completely still, tears falling without a sound, without any movement at all on her part.

His eyes darted wildly as he reached for more connections. No. It was impossible. Impossible.

Salvador had taken his arm and guided him back into the chair. “Dad? What’s wrong?”

“Does your mother have the transcripts from my trial?” His voice was gravelly, and he tried to wet his lips and slow his heart.

“I – I don’t know.” Sal frowned. “Probably? She keeps everything. She even had her medical records going right back to her first year of school.”

“Go and ask her,” he said. “Now, quickly. Ask her to bring any documents she has on the court case.”

Sal was halfway across the room when he turned back. “What’s going on? What have you figured out?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Severus was rubbing his temples now, willing his mind to work faster. “I need to – I must confirm a few more suspicions first.”

“Right. I’ll get Mum then.”

As Sal ran off, Severus forced himself to remember that night once more. She had said there was no pain, that she had been crying due to… overwhelm? Or – a spell? Yes, she’d mentioned a calming spell, but he hadn’t cast one. She felt calm, cried in a way that was consistent with his research… But there had been no light! Unless… he’d been in her mind, he wouldn’t have seen it if there was.

Fuck. This is madness. Impossible, vainglorious madness.

Hermione rushed into the room minutes later. “Severus? Sal said you needed me, that it was urgent? What’s the matter?”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Hermione, I need to see the memory of your 20-week development charm, if you will allow me?”

“Of course. Now?” She put a hand to her mouth, “Oh! Do you– have you figured it out?”

“I don’t know – I don’t know!” The warmth of her shoulders steadied him, and his voice was calmer when he asked, “Do you have court transcripts – your witness statement? Anything from St Mungo’s would be valuable as well.”

She nodded. “It’s all in my desk, I’ll fetch it for you… What does your court case have to do with my pregnancy?”

He just opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Right, sorry, not the time for explanations yet. I’ll be right back.” She gently manoeuvred herself out of his grip and rushed downstairs.

Impossible. Impossible.

While he waited, he thought back to his mental state, his intentions, that night.

The memory still jumped to mind unbidden and in horrifying detail at the worst times, but his thoughts were a mystery. What had he been thinking in that moment?

He’d been focused on creating the memory, imbuing it with feelings of love and safety, but beyond that, it had just been a stream of frustration and anger and desperate pleading. The exact words eluded him.

Leaning back in the chair, he forced himself to stop his racing thoughts and breathe slowly. He kept his eyes closed and tried to feel, rather than think. Desperation. He followed that feeling, allowing himself to feel it batter against his heart again. Desperation that she would not be traumatised by the experience. Desperation that their actions would not be in vain. Desperation that she would survive. Heal. Find peace, strength, safety. That she would be able to love and accept love in spite of such a violation.

He had wished, desperately, that he could undo all of the pain.

He had wished, so very desperately, that she would live, and have something to live for.

“Severus!” Hermione was calling, and he stumbled downstairs towards her voice.

She stood in the door of the Remembrance Room, her arms full of parchment.

“Memory or records first?” she half-whispered.

“Memory,” he said uncertainly. She dropped the documents on one of the chairs and put her wand to her temple, slowly extracting the silver whisp containing the fateful hospital visit.

He watched it swirl in the bowl for a minute, almost afraid to move.

It’s not possible. My soul is black. I’ve killed in cold blood. To even dare to think– But the bitter thoughts jarred and Hero’s voice drowned them out. Agape. Selfless love. Agape. Agape.

He had to know, one way or another. A small hand slid into his and he took strength from it.

They fell together into the memory, hands still clasped as a small examination room at St Mungo’s materialised around them. A young Hermione lay on a bed, her whole body shivering with excitement as the midwitch began to cast the developmental check charm.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Severus had to jerk his head away for fear of damaging his eyesight. She had said her womb had glowed. She hadn’t said it pulsed with such a blindingly white light that the healers could barely look at it.

The midwitch gasped and called for help. Healers were streaming in the door, the air around Hermione became thick with diagnostic spells. Questions and theories were being shouted over each other, punctuated by the sound of two impossibly fast little heartbeats.

Severus continued to watch, but his mind was elsewhere. Other details were starting to click into place. He’d been exhausted in the weeks before the final battle. He’d attributed it to the deteriorating situation at Hogwarts, but even his recovery took longer than his most pessimistic predictions. In hindsight, it was almost certainly magical depletion. He’d perfected anchoring spells years before, preparing his escape. He could anchor his magic to anything, for extended periods of time. Perhaps even… a womb?

The memory was dissipating, and his composure followed suit. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, leaning heavily against an armchair. Hermione was beside him, her wide eyes filled with concern.

His shoulders shook and his voice was ragged when he finally spoke.

“I didn’t hurt you.”

Her arms were around him, pulling him close. “You didn’t. You didn’t,” she crooned, stroking his cheek. He laid his forehead on her shoulder and cried.

In his darkest days, he had performed the lightest magic. He may not have raised Hero and Salvador, but he had kept them safe for nine months; he had wrapped them in his own magic.

“I didn’t hurt you.”

“You didn’t. Best of men, you didn’t hurt me. You saved me.”

Chapter Text

Severus didn’t have the energy to explain to Hermione what he had discovered, but she and Salvador seemed to have put their heads together and figured it out all the same. She would watch him adoringly when she thought he wasn’t aware. He would have regarded this as a wonderful development, except that when combined with the impending departure of the miracle babies in question, the poor woman had become quite weepy.

She was increasingly prone to dissolving into tears at the sight of her children. She would hold their faces and tell them stories they knew by heart about the day they were born. As they packed, she would pick up random items and hug them to her chest and list all of the things she would miss, until she became worried about burdening them with guilt and moved on to apologising profusely for her sentimentality.

Eventually, she would retreat to Severus’ side and swipe at her eyes and mutter, “This is ridiculous, honestly! They’ve been gone for nine months of the year since they started school, I don’t know what’s come over me!” – only to cry into his shoulder again minutes later, thanking him profusely for making motherhood a possibility for her in the first place. It made Severus’ own plans a little difficult to execute. His knowledge of relationships was rather limited, but he was quite sure that one didn’t kiss a crying woman.

As expected, Salvador had charmed the socks off Garrick Ollivander and a contract arrived by owl a week after his interview, for him to review and return if he chose to accept the offer. Sal immediately settled in to conduct a proper examination of the terms. He sat at the kitchen table and poured over the neat handwriting while Hero and Severus started lunch preparations. They obligingly oohed and ahhed with enthusiasm when he read sections aloud to them. Several paragraphs into the document, he discovered that Mr Ollivander was proposing a traditional apprenticeship, which included room and board and a monthly stipend.

“Gosh, you mean you’d be living above the shop, that sort of thing?” Hero asked, as she washed salad leaves.

“The exact location isn’t mentioned, but it rather sounds like it, doesn’t it?” Sal replied, adding another question to his list. It seemed that no son of Hermione’s would sign a document without thoroughly interrogating every ambiguous phrase. “That would scupper our plans to share a flat though.”

“Don’t worry,” Hero said, twisting her hair into a bun and charming a knife to chop the assembled vegetables. “If you take the apprenticeship, I can move in with Teddy.”

Severus barked a laugh as he laid out the plates.

“What are you going to do, sleep in the bath?” asked Sal, grinning.

“Hardly! His roommate is moving out at the end of September, so he’ll need to find someone to take the other room regardless.” She looked between them with an arched eyebrow. “It wouldn’t bother me.”

“You are not sharing an apartment with that boy,” Severus said, still amused.

Hero was not laughing. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times before answering. “It’s not… appropriate.”

“Not appropriate? He’s my best friend.” She thought for a second, and then added, “Other than you, Sal.”

Salvador rolled his eyes.

Severus got the uneasy feeling that he was getting out of his depth. “Have you spoken to your mother about these plans? I think she would have some… concerns also.”

“I don’t think she would,” Hero countered, her arms crossed now as she stared him down, unblinking. “She loves Teddy. Everyone loves Teddy.”

“Perhaps there will be another trainee Healer on your course looking for a roommate and you could find an apartment together,” he suggested, in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone. “Similar hours, and so on.”

She frowned. “And some random guy would be better than one I’ve known all my life because…?”

“I’m sure there will be other witches on the programme.”

Sal’s pen clattered onto the table at that statement and Severus chanced a glance at him. His son’s eyes were wide, and he was shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

“So, I have to share with a girl, is that it?” Hero’s voice was pure sweetness, completely at odds with the fury flashing in her eyes. “You think that I just wouldn’t be able to help myself otherwise? That a witch and a wizard couldn’t possibly live together without having sex?”

“Hero,” he started, only to realise that he had nothing else prepared.

“Do go on,” she said, in a tone that suggested going on would be dangerous for his health. “Explain to me how my life will turn to ruin if a wizard sleeps in the room next to mine. I’m all ears.”

“That’s not at all–”

She tapped the side of her cheek in mock contemplation. “What if I’m gay and I fall madly in love with the nice little witch you'd deem appropriate for me to share with? What if I’m straight and said appropriate female roommate and I choose to host orgies every Thursday after study group? Will you be relieved that at least I haven’t been exposed to the horrors of occasionally seeing a boy walk out of the bathroom in a towel?”

“Now wait–”

“The only thing I’m going to wait for is an apology. Believe it or not, my goals and aspirations can withstand the temptation of cute boys. I’m going to revolutionise the magical community’s understanding of witches’ health and then I’m going to become Head Healer of St Mungo’s. That’s been the plan for ten years and a whole castle full of strutting wizards didn’t derail it, so it’s probably about time for a bit of trust.”

“Just calm down–”

Salvador put his head in his hands and groaned. Across the counter, Hero cancelled all of her spells and walked away.

At the foot of the stairs, she turned around and said, “I am calm. I am calmly reminding you that I’m the only person who gets to decide what I do with my body and my life.”

She went upstairs without looking back. Sal winced as a door slammed above them. “Feminist household, Dad.”

After a few minutes, music blared and a muffled scream could be heard.

“I’m going to go check on her.” Sal took a deep breath and said, “Witches deal with a lot of rubbish you know, especially the assertive ones. We need to take our cues from her… not the other way around.”

Severus opened his mouth to protest his innocence, but he was still so shocked that he struggled to transform his thoughts into coherent sentences.

Salvador gave a lopsided smile and tried to soften the blow. “Just promise me you’ll never call her, or any female in her presence, a ‘good girl’, okay? Neither of us would survive that one.”

The tall teen took the stairs two at a time, leaving his father alone in the kitchen.

Severus’ knuckles were white around the cutlery still clutched in his hands and he dropped them with a clatter that sounded oddly detached.

What was that? What the bloody hell just happened?!

Obviously, she couldn’t live with a boy–a man–who was pining after her. That was obvious, wasn’t it? If she knew what he knew, about how Teddy felt… But the more he replayed the conversation in his mind, the more uncomfortable he became. It really wasn’t a witch’s job to take responsibility for a wizard’s feelings or actions. He felt so protective of her though. Maybe he should find her a single-room apartment instead? But he didn’t want her to be lonely either… was it safe for a witch to live alone? Merlin, was that sexist too? Fuck.

He paced up and down the living room, straining to hear what was going on upstairs. He knew he needed to apologise, but he wasn’t quite sure what he was apologising for and didn’t trust himself not to make it worse.

For Circe’s sake, why can’t I think straight?!

He needed space. If she came downstairs now, he might alienate her completely without meaning to. Especially if she kept saying "sex" to the one man who never wanted to imagine her having any. Was she trying to give him a heart attack? Better to clear his head first. A glance at the clock told him he had two hours before he had to pick up his purchases from Mr Thomas. He might as well head to Diagon Alley early and use the time to find a book on feminism in Flourish and Blotts. Merlin knew he needed all the help he could get.

It was dusk by the time he arrived back through the Floo. He removed the glamour as he stepped out of the grate, only to be knocked backwards by the weight of a body crashing into him.

“Where were you? I thought–I thought–!” Tears streamed down Hero’s cheeks as she tried to find words. “I’m so sorry! Please–! I won’t move in with Teddy, I won’t move at all, just please don’t leave!”

She slumped against him until he had to hold her up and half-carry her over to the couch. Sal watched on, white-faced and silent, as Severus held her in his lap and stroked her hair while she cried.

“I won’t leave, I won’t leave,” he promised over and over, at a loss for what could have happened to shake his intensely resilient daughter.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled into his shirt.

“You have nothing to be sorry for–” he began, but he paused at a noise from outside.

Footsteps could be heard running across the courtyard and then Hermione’s breathless voice floated in through the patio doors. “I checked again and he’s definitely not in the printing rooms, Hero, but I really don’t think–”

She broke off at the sight of them, her expression a mixture of worry and relief. She moved over to Sal and put an arm around him, trying to communicate something indecipherable to Severus with her eyes.

Hero eventually lifted her head. “Please don’t leave,” she whispered. “We’ve only just found you. I–I won’t argue with you anymore, I swear I won’t, please–just don’t leave.”

“You thought I left because of our disagreement at lunch?” he asked in confusion.

“Didn’t you? You disappeared afterwards and nobody knew where you’d gone. Even your b-briefcase was g-gone!”

He pulled her close again and held out his other arm to Sal, who joined them. Hermione hovered by Hero’s other side, rubbing slow circles on her back.

“Hero,” he began slowly, trying to choose the best words to explain. “I – Forgive me, Hero, I am not in the habit of alerting people to my departure when I have business elsewhere. For so long, I had no one to tell.” He felt awful; he had been reading The Feminine Magique over some excellent Yorkshire puddings in the Leaky while she had been here in absolute distress. “It had nothing to do with our disagreement. I wasn’t leaving you. I’m not leaving you.”

She looked so forlorn. He could see that sad little five-year-old in her, the one who had stared down at a dead cat and struggled to understand where the life had gone and why she couldn’t bring it back.

He smoothed her hair back and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I had to collect an order from Diagon Alley. I brought my briefcase because I needed to pay for the items and I was unsure how much identification would be needed to access my Australian account, so it was easier to bring all of my documents.”

Hero’s breathing was becoming steadier, and she choked out, “Really? You weren’t–?”

“I promise you; I will never leave you. I’m so sorry to have worried you – all of you.” He took a risk and reached over to give Hermione an arm squeeze.

“You really just–went shopping?” Hero asked incredulously.

“Yes, I went shopping of my own accord. Don’t die of shock,” he teased, his voice tinged with amusement. “In fact, allow me to show you my purchases. I was planning to save these for the day you moved out, but now is as good a time as any.”

He released Sal and shifted slightly to gain access to the pocket of his robes, from which he withdrew the missing briefcase. The others watched with open curiosity as he enlarged it and removed two green velvet boxes. He held them for a moment, before speaking.

“I deeply regret that I was not here to present these to you both on your seventeenth birthday. Please accept them now as a token of the love and pride I feel for the exceptional young people you have become.” He squeezed Hero’s hand and met her eyes, “Young people I trust, and have a lot to learn from.”

Salvador took his gift carefully and opened the box to find a sterling silver pocket watch inside. It bore a rather modern crest based very closely on the logo that represented Raven Press, Hermione’s publishing house. So closely, in fact, that they all leaned closer, and Hermione gasped, “Severus did you–did you commission Dean to make this?”

Severus had done exactly that, and it had cost him a small fortune, but he considered the final product to be worth every Galleon. He had instructed Mr Thomas to use the shape of the original raven to partition the crest into four, as per the structure of many traditional coats of arms. The lower sections remained as they were in the original logo design, bearing the faces of a girl and boy, Hero and Salvador. For the upper sectors, he had added himself and Hermione. The final result was a somewhat abstract family portrait.

“It was my pocket watch,” he told Salvador. “Given to me by my mother on my seventeenth birthday. Only the panel on the front cover has been replaced. I… I was not particularly fond of the man who bestowed on me the Snape family name, and the original coat of arms meant just as little. I felt it best to create a crest more suited to our family, of whom I am infinitely proud. A–” he grimaced good-naturedly, “–Snapetacular family crest.”

“Thank you,” Sal said, his voice thick with emotion as he removed the pocket watch from the box and ran a finger over the fine carving.

Severus placed the second velvet box in Hero’s hands. A smaller version of the same crest hung from a dainty chain with a simple bar brooch, bearing the engraving ‘Healer Hero Snape’ in printed letters. She turned the crest over and found an uncovered clock face on the other side.

Cleared his throat slightly, Severus explained, “The Healers at St MacKillop’s wear their timepieces on lapel pins attached to their robes. It’s not a common practice in St Mungo’s, so I shall not take offence if you choose not to wear it, but I thought it preferable to a standard watch, given the noble profession you have chosen. It can, of course, be altered any way you prefer.”

The clock face on Hero’s lapel watch revolved smoothly inside its case, so that no matter which way it was held up, the correct time could be easily read.

“It’s p-perfect,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have j-jumped to conclusions but I– I was so s-scared that I’d never s-see you again!”

He looked at the uncertainty in her eyes and felt a wave of guilt rise up inside him. He would walk through fire for her. He would give away every Galleon; fight a thousand dark lords; he would die for her.

And she didn’t know.

Neither she nor Salvador had received any definitively declared assurances from him, he realised now, despite several months of closeness and affection. He had reconciled himself to this because he considered himself a man of action. Words failed him in most situations; he found it much easier to show what he was feeling through thoughtful gestures. He had hoped that it would be enough to show them how much he cared, but he was wrong; they needed to hear it. For goodness sake, he was still waiting for a verbal indication from Hermione to convince him of her affection and felt paralysed without it. How must they feel, to have his potential departure hanging over them all this time?

It should have been torture but the words rushed out of him smoothly, as though his heart had been waiting for his tongue to catch up all this time. He said what he needed to hear as a child, but had never been told. He left no room for doubt.

“I am so sorry,” he said, taking one of their hands in each of his. “I should have been forthright with my feelings for you both as soon as I realised them. It was an oversight on my part not to tell you with absolute clarity and conviction that I love you and I will never leave you. Either of you.” He looked between their faces, searching for understanding. “Nothing could keep me away; nothing you could say or do will ever change the way I feel. You are more than I deserve and better than I will ever be, but I will try each day to prove to you that I love you. You will be sick of the very sight of me!”

They laugh-sobbed and nodded and he pulled them close.

In that moment, Severus understood the advice that Hermione had given him that first night in the courtyard. They didn’t need him to have the answers for every situation; they needed to know that for every situation, his answer would always be the same: “I love you.”

He kept telling them, from that moment until the day they moved out. Every time he left a room, he told them where he was going and how much he loved them. They were mortified. He didn’t care.

Hermione cried more than ever.

Moving day dawned sooner than either parent would have liked, but Hero and Sal’s buoyant enthusiasm was contagious and for once, no tears were shed. They were ready, they would be fine. Better than fine. Snapetacular.

As they left the Ollivanders’ and walked through Diagon Alley to Floo to the Burrow and then home, Severus remembered a detour he needed to make. “You go ahead, I need to collect something.”

He stepped through the Floo ten minutes later to find her sitting on the couch waiting for him.

“I’ve brought you an early birthday present,” he said awkwardly, and walked closer until he could drop a ball of black fur and claws into her lap.

“Her name is Champion. I thought you might like something to hug, now that… well, she’s very huggable.”

Hermione looked down at her lap and back at him in astonishment several times, before her surprise passed enough for her to react.

“Oh, she’s just darling!” she said breathlessly, burying her face into the soft fuzz of the tiny kneazle’s fur.

He basked in the satisfaction of a grand gesture well executed and moved to make tea, because that's what he did. When he wanted to kiss her, he made tea. When he wanted to put his arms around her, he made tea. When he wanted to pin her to the wall and ravish her, he made fucking tea. But Hermione looked up at him then, with an expression he knew well. She only set her jaw like that whenever she made a decision.

Her eyes were telling him it was an executive decision.

“Severus,” she said playfully, almost coquettishly, drawing his name out as though it tasted sweet on her tongue. “You do realise that I’ve lost two of my regular hug suppliers? There’s still an opening left.”

He stared at her, watching her teeth trap her bottom lip until a small smile set it free.

Bundling the kitten close to her chest, she stood up, an arms-length away from him. “Would you like to… interview for the role?”

His brain tried to assess the situation and provide a response in real time, but she had never spoken to him like this before.

Is this flirting? This has got to be flirting, hasn’t it?!

She was getting closer, looking up at him from under long, golden lashes. “It’s a permanent position, Severus.”

She was definitely enjoying the cadence of his name. It sounded sinful and he loved it.

She’s flirting, man! Catch up!

He coughed slightly. “Is there room for… growth within the organisation?”

“Oh yes,” she said with a wicked grin. “There are plenty of opportunities for promotion. Someone of your skillset… Well, you’re probably already equipped to take on night manager duties.” 

Fuck.

He choked, feeling his cheeks burn and wondering how she could say all of this with a straight face. But there was fire dancing in her eyes, and it lit something in him too.

“I presume there are perks to accompany such a jump in responsibility…?”

She was pressed against his chest now, and he allowed one arm to circle her waist. Her fingers walked up the buttons on his shirt as she enumerated. “New accommodation for one thing,” she murmured. “Room service on Sundays, access to the jacuzzi…”

Fuck.

Her tongue kept darting out to wet her lips. He knew, because his lips moved in synchronicity every time hers did.

“The interview process is… rigorous.”

He inclined his head with a smirk. “It’s a coveted position, I would expect nothing less.”

“There’s a practical element, of course…” She was daring him, and he knew it.

He moved a hand to her jaw and mapped every detail of her face, of that blissful smile just for him.

Champion leapt onto the couch for safety.

Everything about the scene was the same as every other day they’d spent under this roof together: the walls, the furniture, the clothes, the woman. And yet somehow everything was utterly changed, none more so than the witch in his arms. Solid, steady, wonderful-mother-and-friend Hermione was gone, replaced by a seductress who knew how to sway her hips and lower her voice in a way that might kill him. He sent up a silent petition to every sorcerer of old for this evening to remain uninterrupted. He intended to savour every single second.

“I’m going to kiss you now, Hermione.”

She didn't reply. She didn’t have time.

FIN

Chapter Text

~Several months later~

It was early morning on the outskirts of the quiet town of Vézaley, in France, and the sky was the clearest and palest blue. The winter sun cut through bare beech trees and cast harsh morning light across the farmstead’s master bedroom.

Severus propped himself up on one elbow and gazed fondly at a swathe of wild curls escaping from under the bedsheets to his left. After a few minutes, the witch to whom they belonged gave a sigh and a stretch and pushed back the covers.

“Merry Christmas, lovely man,” she murmured and rolled closer to him, ostensibly to block the sun from her eyes. If it also happened to put her within kissing range, so much the better.

She hummed contentedly as Severus pressed his lips to her forehead… her temple… her cheekbone… her jaw. He had just started to trail kisses across her shoulders when she remembered.

“Hero and Salvador are home,” she said, eyes wide.

“Mm,” he acknowledged, unwilling to interrupt his journey south.

“Severus really,” she huffed. “We were supposed to make a plan weeks ago, but you’ve been far too distracting!”

“A plan?” he asked her collarbone.

“How do we… tell them?” she elaborated, tugging his head up so that she could see his face.

He looked at her with amusement dancing in his eyes and broke the news gently. “I’m fairly sure they already know. Or at least, suspect.”

It took a full minute for his words to register. “What? How?!”

“Your voice, Hermione. You have been downright giddy for the past three months, and it has made your voice is two octaves higher than normal. And those two have been listening to you every other weekend, no doubt trying not to imagine why you’ve started using that voice when you say my name.”

“Why didn’t they say something?”

He arched an eyebrow. “I doubt it’s a conversation either of them wants to have with their parents.”

“They couldn’t know,” she frowned, not ready to accept this new information. “I haven’t even touched you around them yet!”

“Hermione, darling, light of my life, you are many things. Subtle is not one of them. You haven’t needed to touch me to give it away. Salvador sounds like a strangled cat every time you leer at me.”

“I do not leer!” she gasped indignantly.

He leaned back against the headboard with a satisfied smile. “You leer quite adorably, and your son is emotionally scarred by it.”

“Merlin, I thought I was doing so well!” Her hands flew up to cover pink cheeks.

“I’m sure you did,” Reaching out, he pulled her to him in a single smooth movement until her back was against his chest and he could wrap his arms around her and never let go.

“We still need to confirm it with them officially though,” she winced.

“Before we do that,” he said into the curls concealing her ear, “I wanted to discuss our business arrangement…”

She grinned salaciously at the use of her favourite euphemism.

“Are you still miffed that Champion won employee of the month?” she teased, tracing swirls across his forearms.

“Not at all, she has the rather unfair advantage of being infinitely cuter than I am,” he conceded with equanimity. “However, I rather think it might be time to consider… making me a partner.”

Her fingers stilled. “Oh?”

“I have a thorough proposal, should you need convincing.”

“A proposal?” Her voice hitched.

“Yes. And a timeline.”

“When… when did you think–? Um. Ah.”

He craned his neck to see just what Hermione Granger looked like when stunned into silence.

“I thought we could sign the contracts in August. Perhaps the third week?”

She turned to face him so quickly that her curls whipped across his cheeks. Straddling his hips with the blanket over her shoulders for warmth, she searched his face to assess the authenticity of his suggestion.

“Severus, you would never–” she said incredulously. “A Snapetacular wedding? Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“With Weasleys there?”

“And Potters, certainly.”

“But–but–” she began, before realising that she really didn’t want to dissuade him at all. “Yes! Yes!”

She leaned her forehead against his and he swept her tears away with his thumbs.

“We could elope,” she whispered. “You don’t have to–”

He knew that. And it was tempting, but–

“They’re your family.”

She gave a pleased little sob. “Yours too now.”

“Merlin help me.”

He combed his fingers through her hair and after a few minutes, she settled against his chest. The heat of her body, the realness of her there with him, threatened to overwhelm him, just as it had every morning since their first. She wanted him. She loved him. She wanted to keep loving him. It was intoxicating.

“Would you like to open your gift here or downstairs by the tree?” he asked.

“I thought you gave it to me already?” she said in that suggestive tone she considered subtle. “I distinctly remember removing some black” –she nibbled his ear– “silk” –traced a finger down his chest– “wrapping paper last night” –and threw a leg over his hips– “and thoroughly enjoying what I found.”

Dear gods, she’d be the death of him. She would, and he would go happily.

“You are incorrigible,” he declared later, after she had once more explored that unofficial present to her satisfaction. “But I do have a gift for you.”

Twisting until he could reach the drawer of the bedside locker, he drew out a narrow notebook tied with a ribbon.

“What is it?” she asked, taking the book and holding it, unopened, in her lap.

He scowled. The whole point of grand gestures was that you didn’t have to explain them.

“Letters,” he said, gruffly. “I wrote back to you.”

Her lips parted and she took a deep breath. “If I read these, I’ll cry, won’t I?”

“I have it on good authority that crying is a natural response to deeply felt emotion and should be encouraged, in children and adults alike, as an essential part of the human experience,” he drawled, quoting her perfectly.

“Yes well,” she sniffed, her eyes already bright. “I’m bit of a disaster when I cry.”

“My disaster.”

“Always yours, Severus,” she whispered, a tear already escaping as she squeezed his arm and flipped open the cover. “Always.”