"Sit down, you impudent brat."
I see Hermione's mouth fly open, and I shoot her a reassuring smile as I hurry to comply, ceasing my pacing across the Granger-Weasley's kitchen floor and lowering myself into the nearest chair. Hermione, thankfully, closes her mouth, but does not cease her narrowed gaze, which flickers between me – concern, worry, confusion – and Snape – irritation, indignance, more confusion.
I'm grateful for the seat; my back and feet are aching, and sleepless nights have left me exhausted. The man beside me knows this. Hermione, for all her infinite book-smarts and above-average intuition, does not. Nor does she – or will she ever, I fear – truly understand Snape.
Eventually, Hermione tears her distrustful glare from her former professor and turns back to the kettle, now whistling merrily on the stove. "Ron will be home soon," she says, warily. Snape's hand, resting on the back of my chair, twitches almost imperceptibly. He may not be fond of Hermione, but he truly detests Ron.
"Good," I say, evenly, though I'm not sure it is. I know they both care; I know Hermione's tense shoulders and clipped speech are hiding a deluge of concern, and that Ron's quick temper and harsh words mask the protective instinct he hasn't felt since Ginny announced her engagement to the Slytherin Prince himself. Draco, as it turns out, is the softest, sweetest, most doting husband and father anyone could wish for, and even Ron has had to admit defeat – especially when his wife pointed out that his own skills in house-husbandry and romance leave room for improvement.
Nowadays, the Granger-Weasley home plays host to a gaggle of Weasleys and Lupins and Malfoys and Weasley-Malfoys every other Sunday. Sometimes, I go, because I love my little godson, Teddy, and my almost-nieces, Calista and Carina, who have their father's icy grey eyes but their mother's ginger hair. I enjoy some of the more outrageous tales told by Lucius of his – and Snape's – school days. I enjoy Narcissa's quiet mothering – of the children, of course, but also of me, because, to her, I will always be the scared, little orphan boy she glimpsed in Diagon Alley nearly two decades ago. I appreciate the good food, the easy laughter, the love and warmth and friendship that exists in abundance on those days. But I am always reminded of what isn't, and so, every time, I make my excuses and am the first to leave. I can't bring myself to regret that.
I haven't noticed the awkward silence that has descended on the kitchen until it is broken abruptly by the sharp sound of shattering glass. My head flies up, and I am already halfway out of my chair before my brain catches up to my body and I realise that its just a milk bottle.
I relax back into my chair before my eyes find Hermione's, and I stiffen again. Her face is ashen, her jaw tense; she is deliberately focusing on cleaning up the mess by hand, despite her wand resting on the table just inches away.
"Evanesco. Scourgify." The mess is gone without Snape even drawing his wand, and now Hermione has nothing to busy herself with. Reluctantly, her eyes meet mine, and I feel my stomach clench. Instinctively, I want to look away, but I don't. I meet her gaze unwaveringly, lest she interpret my unease for shame. Shame is the last thing I feel.
"Harry," she whispers, so softly I almost don't hear her over the pounding of my blood in my ears. I hold myself still, refusing to show any outward sign of either my physical or mental discomfort. The chair that had alleviated my pain just minutes ago now feels rock-hard against my aching back.
"May I suggest we reconvene in a more... commodious environment?"
My heart sinks when I see Hermione's shoulders tense, and I know that she hears denigration and aspersion in the words that, to me, convey nothing but concern. Not long ago, I would have flown into a rage at this; now, I feel nothing but bitter resignation. I gratefully take the hand offered to me, helping me out of my chair and guiding me into the living room to sit in the most comfortable armchair the room has to offer. It's not quite as soft or luxurious as the one I have at home, but it's close.
Hermione follows with the tea, and I make two cups. She raises her eyebrow but says nothing; she doesn't need to. I know she's silently judging Snape.
"Mrs Granger-Weasley."
I jump slightly, surprised to hear him speaking up; wary of what will come next, but grateful that he is saying anything at all.
"I am aware that you are," he pauses. Most would assume that he is unsure of how to continue, but I know he will have his whole speech pre-planned down to the last raise of his eyebrow or twitch of his jaw. "Less than pleased, shall we say, with both Potter's choices, and with my general existence."
Hermione opens her mouth to interject, but a wave of Snape's hand changes her mind. Her jaw sets mulishly, and her arms fold tightly over her chest. She looks him in the eye and dares him to continue. Most people feel a healthy dose of fear in the face of Hermione Granger-Weasley, but Snape is not most people.
"I have known you for long enough, Miss Granger, to be fully aware of both your immense pertinacity... and of your incredible intelligence." The fire that had flared in Hermione's eyes at being called by her maiden name was extinguished by the shock of being openly complimented by her former professor. "Surely, then, Miss Granger, you can see that Mr Potter is no fool."
I almost laugh when the sentence brings to mind the great many times that the man himself had informed me otherwise; Hermione, however, appears too astounded to appreciate the irony.
"Mr Potter would not tolerate disrespect nor misbehaviour from his students, and nor would he tolerate it from me. Nor would I ever even think to behave in such a way. In fact, Miss Granger, I have spent the last decade of my life seeking to do the opposite, and it is only through those endeavours that I have begun to consider myself worthy of Mr Potter's affections."
My jaw is on the floor. I'm about ready to hold the man beside me at wand point and dose him with Veritaserum. If it wasn't for the fact that I knew every word to be the truth, I would be assured that this was some kind of prank, perhaps a love potion slipped into the tea, courtesy of any one of the Weasleys. Hermione looks like she's been the victim of a particularly strong Petrificus Totalus.
Severus' hand finds my shoulder and squeezes gently. I know the gesture is more for him than for me; being so verbally demonstrative must have cost him greatly, but I am deeply grateful. Nothing I could say would weigh half as heavily as the words from his own mouth.
We have remained in silence for nearly half an hour by the time Ron announces his arrival with the slamming of the door and a cheerful "honey, I'm home!". Hermione, who's expression has morphed from shell-shocked to deeply contemplative, immediately breaks into a heart-warming smile and turns to greet her husband. It's not until she whispers something softly to him and gestures towards us that Ron even notices our presence. His face goes stony almost instantly, and my heart drops painfully in my chest. The cautious elation I had begun to feel after seeing Hermione's reaction to the speech is replaced immediately with cold dread. Ron will not be so simply convinced. It took years of seeing both words and actions of open love and devotion to thaw his hatred towards Draco; something I know we simply cannot give him.
Hermione takes Ron's hand gently in hers, meets his eyes, communicates silently with him in a way I would not have thought him capable of until I saw them together. The tension in Ron's jaw eases almost imperceptibly, and his eyes lose some of their icy hostility. Eventually, he nods slightly, and places his arms around his wife, pulling her back firmly against his chest. Protective, but not defensive. Severus' grip on my shoulder softens. It's time.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself, wishing that I could ask someone else to do this for me, but knowing that Severus has said more than enough on our behalf already today.
"Hermione. Ron. Severus and I have something to ask you. A favour, of sorts."
I begin wishing we had chosen to ask Ginny and Draco, instead. It would have been far easier. Far simpler. But after night after night of endless discussion, we kept returning to the same conclusion. It had to be Ron and Hermione. Perhaps, next time, if there even was a next time, we would ask Ginny and Draco. But, this time, it had to be them. It had to be the two people who stood at my side and stared death in the face without flinching. The two people who would have died for me then and, despite everything, would do the same for me now. The two people who had, putting all personal feelings and risk of danger aside, saved Severus' life while I walked to my own death in the Forbidden Forest.
They watch me, expressions solemn but understanding, as I search for my infamous Gryffindor bravery to say the next words.
"Severus and I would like to ask you, Ron and Hermione, if you would do us the honour of being godparents."
The room falls silent. I don't think anyone is even breathing. I know I'm not.
"Harry... you're pregnant?"
The voice is soft, reverent, and for a minute I almost think it's Hermione. But then Ron reaches out one shaking hand towards my stomach, and I stand up.
"Yeah," I whisper back, as if speaking too loudly will bring us all crashing back down to the reality where Hermione disapproves of our relationship and Ron hates the father of my child. "Yeah, I am."
And in that second, reality shifts. Ron's left hand finds my stomach, and his right reaches out towards Snape. "Congratulations, sir," Ron says, as my husband accepts his handshake and his felicitations with an almost inaudible but undeniably genuine 'thank you'.
Hermione pulls me into a teary hug, whispering that of course she'll be a godmother and how proud she is and how wonderful that I'm going to be a mother. I hug her back tightly, crushing Ron's hand between us, and soon he joins the hug, adding his own acceptance of our request, and murmuring a gruff 'love you, mate', and if his tone betrays how close he is to tears, none of us mention it.
Eventually, they let me go, releasing me with soft smiles that speak of acceptance, and Hermione turns to Snape, holding out her hand. "We humbly accept your request, and offer our sincerest congratulations," she says, her soft voice carrying the authority and power bestowed upon her in her office as Minister. Then, before Snape can move to prevent it, she pulls the man into a bone-crushing hug reminiscent of Molly Weasley. To everyone's astonishment, Severus gently returns the hug, and his eyes are soft when they find mine. He knows how much this means to me, and, for that, he is willing to sacrifice.
Circe, I love this man.
Elijah James Snape-Potter is born in the Hogwarts Infirmary at 1:31am on the ninth of March, 2009.
The students of the school are thrilled for their favourite and least-favourite professors, and each year group have pooled together to buy enough gifts for little Elijah to fill an entire playroom. Molly and Arthur arrive the next day to meet their newest grandchild because, of course, that's what he is to them, blood be damned. Ron and Hermione come to see their godson bearing no gifts, save for a wizarding photo of the ridiculously large nursery the have built for Elijah in their own home 'for when we babysit'. Minerva brings Dumbledore's portrait with her when she visits, so they can fuss over the completely adorable offspring of their two favourite men together. Winky the house-elf brings a clumsily-wrapped gift, and Harry bursts into tears when he reads the note: To Master Harry Potter's first Little Potter. Love from Dobby. The gift, predictably, is a dozen pairs of knitted socks perfectly sized for the newborn; though, they later find out, the socks are enchanted to never wear out, and to grow with the baby right through to adulthood.
Visits from Ginny, Draco and their twins, Lucius and Narcissa, Hagrid, Andromeda and Teddy, and the various Weasleys occur over the week Harry spends in the infirmary; every one of them is absolutely enchanted by little Elijah, and the boy has enough toys for one hundred children. Harry and Severus weed out the duplicates and send them anonymously to Wool's Orphanage, hoping that the laughter and brightness they bring to the children might somehow prevent any child growing up to be like the little boy who lived there some eight decades previous. The child who became the man who destroyed so many lives and caused so much misery.
Now, though, back in their own quarters, looking down at the life they created, they both come to the same conclusion. It was worth it.