Disclaimer: As per the norm, I do not in any way, shape, or form own the rights to Harry Potter. That belongs to JK Rowling, Scholastic, Warner Brothers...whoever. I just have a very active plot bunny farm and the inclination to write.

Author's Note: I M Sterling owes me homemade candy for this fic, you know. I like girl fudge. (Boy fudge is the kind with nuts... yes, I made that joke.) I should say now that this is going to be written a bit differently than my normal work, as it's based loosely on a fairy tale. AND many hundreds of thanks to the fantastic Roz1013 for beta-ing this fic for me. Her work is wonderful.


Chapter 1

Flipping idly through the book on his lap, Severus swirled the half-glass of whiskey. He really shouldn't have gone to the Manor for the holidays. It was depressing to watch Lucius and Cissy with their son, who was courting his own bride-to-be.

Nauseating.

He was getting old, he knew. Well, perhaps turning forty-four in a week wasn't 'old', per se, but he certainly felt old. His friends had children, and their children were falling in love and would soon have children of their own. At least his godson would probably let him hold a babe when the time came, maybe even watch it overnight. He was good with babies.

Drooling little shite-makers.

It wasn't something anyone would expect from him, and he knew it – he was surly, taciturn, and a right bastard most of the time. It was a well-guarded secret that Severus Snape loved children, even longed for one or two of his own. But his dreams had died with Lily; children needed parents who loved each other, did they not?

Miserable bastard.

Oh, he hated dunderheaded children, make no mistake. His own childhood was abysmal, absolutely no template for parenting style. But his own children... if he could have them... he would read to them, play with them, teach them potions the way he had with Draco before Lucius had spoiled him rotten. In his fantasies he'd plant an ingredient garden with his children, and they'd come to love potions as much as he did. He'd have to have more than one, he thought, so they weren't alone like he had been. He'd be the opposite of his own arse of a father, and show his offspring his love for them.

Lonely old bugger.

He leafed through another chapter, maintaining the charm that kept the words from sliding back into old Norse. Draco and Cissy had been cleaning out Lucius's books, and found this rather rare tome on potions which they'd promptly wrapped as his Christmas present before Lucius could realise it was missing. And like any Slytherin, he'd gleefully zapped his blond friend with a mild Stinging Hex when he'd tried to get it back while his wife and son looked on with hidden smirks.

You lose, I win, Lucius.

Really, he should look into having children before this job killed him. Single parents functioned just fine, if the students in his classes were any indication. And Albus's portrait kept badgering him about looking for a spouse. The twinkling old bastard didn't seem to realise that finding a partner outside of a Muggle bar or a risqué service in Knockturn Alley was nigh impossible for Severus. If he was honest he wanted more than just a child; he wanted a family.

What's this?

Severus frowned and squinted at the book, then Summoned his reading glasses. It was a spell and potion combination promising a bit of tricky wand work, which was always a challenge. Further reading showed that the potion would show the brewer their ideal mate, and claimed a high success rate for a lasting love between the mate and brewer.

Interesting.

Levering to his feet and ignoring Albus's curious questions as the dotty wizard followed him from canvas to canvas, Severus strode to the lab and began pulling ingredients. He could do this. Sod it all, he would try it out. After all, he was one of the most brilliant Potions Masters the world had ever seen. The brewing was complicated and he chopped, diced, juiced and stirred in precise timing until the very first rays of dawn when he began to point his wand at the cauldron, incanting the spell while envisioning everything he wanted in a mate, a spouse, and only a spouse. A vision of a child, a family, passed through his mind unbidden, and the cauldron exploded.

Bugger!


"Oh, dear," Albus said, looking down at the figure swathed in black cloth of the laboratory floor. That had gone spectacularly wrong. The child wasn't moving beyond a restful breathing and seemed relatively unharmed, or as near as he could tell without being flesh and blood.

Clearly, he would require assistance. It was the holidays and no one was in the castle except the house-elves. Not that Severus would want this broadcast to any of the staff, not even Poppy, if he could avoid it.

It took him several minutes in the kitchen to attract the attention of the elves, and even then Dipsy was the only one willing to risk Severus's potential wrath as he made sure the child was fed and clothed appropriately. It was a harrowing day for the poor house-elf, following the quiet, wide-eyed boy around the Potions Master's rooms, keeping him away from the potentially-hazardous books and the decanter of whiskey.

Albus had the poor elf prop the book up where he could read it and searched for what could have gone wrong. It was odd – Severus had clearly brewed the potion correctly, and he didn't recall the man making a mistake in the spell or wand-movements he saw illustrated here.

A sound came from the bedroom, and Albus moved into the landscape in the night-darkened bedroom. Severus stirred in the sheets with a groan.

"Goodness, that was an adventure."

"Water," Severus rasped, pulling his wand from somewhere and Summoned a glass. "How long was I out, Albus?"

"That, my boy, is a very curious question. You have no recollection?"

Black eyes glared at the portrait. "Obviously not."

"Very troubling." Albus watching as Severus drained several glasses of water.

"I remember brewing the potion; I remember just who it showed me, then the explosion. I assume you had an elf in here to put me to bed." The last was said with a sneer.

"Well, yes, considering you were about three or four years old and in no state to do it yourself."

That raised both eyebrows. "You must be joking."

Severus untangled himself from the sheets and shoved his feet into battered slippers before hurrying into the lab.

"At least you kept them from tidying this," he muttered.

"I only had them move the book – I cannot find a part that went wrong."

"Hrmm." Deft hands began the meticulous clean up of the potion, testing for contaminates. Judging by the thunderous frown on the man's face, it was perfect. He reached next for the book.

"Severus, if I may -"

A pale hand waved him to silence, eyes darting across the pages, then turning.

"Ah. Well, then." Severus sank into his desk chair, defeated.

"Did you find something, my boy?"

A harsh bark of laughter escaped him as he tipped his head back, black hair falling over pale shoulders and revealing the scarred neck.

"How funny you should call me that, Albus. I seem to have cursed myself."

"How so?"

Severus's lips parted, then closed with a growl. "I cannot say. Suffice to ask, how is your knowledge of children's tales not written by Beedle?"

"Quite good, I should think. I was always an admirer of 'Hansel and Gretel.'"

"You just liked the notion of a candy house." Albus didn't deny the accusation. He'd also quite liked Bearskin, if only for the notion of the clothing Severus would no doubt term 'garish'. "How about Norwegian stories?"

"A few."

"'White-Bear-King,'" Severus groaned. "Or perhaps 'East of the Sun and West of the Moon', Albus. Regardless, I am quite doomed. I've doomed myself with -" Hands balled into fists and pressed to his eyes.

"Surely, you are not." Albus peered at him over his spectacles. "As I recall, the spell is easily broken when no troll-bred witches are involved. It would most likely require true love's kiss, unless you go the route of using a caretaker like in the stories."

"Where would you think I would find a woman to fall in love with me as a child, Albus?" The tone was scathing. "I'll be trapped as a child for a year. Helpless. What if someone finds out?"

"Only during the day. And you know as well as I that it could be a shorter sentence, given that you will be a child, and not an animal." Severus sighed. "What of the woman your potion showed you? Anyone suited to you would be clever and powerful enough to protect a child... surely she could learn to love you?"

"What would you have me do? Leave myself on her doorstep in a basket with a letter? Write her love notes? You've gone senile – I don't think your canvas was cured properly, you're clearly off your rocker."

"That's it exactly, I think. We can enlist Dipsy to keep her from seeing you at night – a few drops of a mild sedative would be all it takes." He sat back in the painted chair. "Who is the lucky young woman, Severus?"

"We'd need to sedate her, if only to avoid her curiosity," he muttered. "It's Hermione Granger."

"A perfect match; you've fancied her for ages." He beamed at the man he considered almost a son. "Write a letter, Severus. I'll have Dipsy find a basket. Oh, and write a letter to Minerva, as well. Tell her you'll be back in a year. I'm sure Horace won't mind coming in to cover for you."

Severus groaned but did as he said. "I do not fancy know-it-alls who date red-headed imbeciles or empty-minded Quidditch players, Albus."

He just twinkled down at him.

"I swear on Merlin's saggy arms, Albus, I will brew that paint-stripper if you don't stop that. You're not helping."


"I need more ice cream," Hermione told Crookshanks with a sniffle. Her eyes were swollen and she looked a fright. "Or an International Portkey."

The cat glared at her as if to say 'stop feeling pathetic for yourself'.

"I know," she moaned, dropping her spoon to the coffee table. "I'm a grown woman who doesn't need her mummy when a boy dumps her for someone else and she loses her job in the same day. But I can eat ice cream, Crooks. Even you can't stop me."

He meowed at her and promptly sat on her arms.

"Crooks!" She struggled but he had long-perfected the ability to magically increase his weight by simply not wanting to be moved. She sighed and bent awkwardly to nuzzle his fur. "Oh, Crooks... I'll be okay, honest."

"'Miooooooneeeeee," her hearth sang out as the fire flared emerald. "Let us through, will you? Bit cramped in here."

She spoke the password to her fireplace in an undertone, allowing her two best friends to tumble out in a tangle of limbs.

"I brought some of Mum's pie, I'll get plates," Ron said by way of greeting, rushing into her small kitchen, nodding as Harry hollered after him to include forks.

"Hey, 'Mione." She gave Harry a watery smile. "Spectacular way to get fired, I have to say."

"It's okay. I think I was more upset about getting dumped for an air-headed bimbo than the job." She gave him a curious look. "Does Molly know you're both here with her pie, or am I going to get another Howler?"

"She should – it was Gin's suggestion actually, as Percy regaled us with the tale and Mum didn't say we couldn't," Ron replied, dropping heavily onto the couch despite Hermione's frown. Crookshanks hissed and darted off her lap to the armchair. Squeezed as she was between the two boys, she barely managed to lift her fork to her mouth. "Krum's a tosser, Hermione. Been telling you for ages."

"I know," she choked out. It didn't help. "But... he was..."

"Shh," both boys said, holding her and each other as she cried. She missed Viktor, his smooth voice and dark, gawky looks. She missed reading quietly with him, and she even missed the cuddling after mediocre sex, now that she realised it hadn't happened for months. He had been a good companion, tolerating her long hours at the Department for International Magical Cooperation.

And now she knew he'd been using her, using her status, the entire time. Instead of waiting for her at home, he'd been out with other women and found her frigid. He'd made that perfectly clear, so she'd hexed his bollocks off.

Literally. He'd find them eventually, if he ever bothered to sleep in his own bed rather than with one of his air-headed twats.

"It's okay, 'Mione." Harry pressed a kiss to her curls and pulled back with a rueful grin as Ron carefully saved his glasses from the tangled mass. "You deserve someone better than him."

"I know." It was muffled in Ron's armpit, but they heard it nonetheless.

"C'mon, describe to us your perfect man," Ron said cheerfully, poking her until she giggled. "We're Aurors, we can find him for you!"

"With my luck, he's married or dead," she said morosely. "Someone..."

"Intelligent!" Harry offered. Ron snorted.

"He'd have to be, for you, 'Mione."

"And tall, so he could lean over you all sexy-like. That's always hot," Harry told her. She rolled her eyes.

"With a big -" Ron started, before Hermione elbowed him in the gut.

"Ronald!" She flushed, aghast. "No! I mean, well, yes, that would be nice, but it's not necessary!"

Harry grinned and poked her knee. "So tell us what you do want."

She huffed. "Someone intelligent, yes, thank you, Harry. Taller than me, at least. Who listens to me. Who doesn't mind sitting and reading. Who's loyal. I want... I want a man to worship me for me. I want him to love me, to put me first. And for him... for him, I'd do anything."

"Oh, you've gone dreamy-eyed," Ron teased, pulling her into a hug.

"Have someone in mind, 'Mione?"

"No." But she looked at the pattern of Ron's shirt guiltily so Harry wouldn't see. She wanted a certain man, tall and lean with a wicked mouth, a quicksilver mind, and clever hands and dark hair who would never, ever look at her twice and who Viktor could never hope to even compare to.

"Right, then." Ron said, patting her. "Harry, did you bring that wine? I think we need to cheer her up a bit more. Maybe some more pie."

She managed a weak laugh. "You'll never change, will you, Ron?"

"Not 'til the Cannons win," he told her seriously. "And even then, I might wait a few seasons just to make sure it's not a fluke."

"That's a 'no', in case you still don't follow Quidditch," Harry said with a wink, rising. "Where do you keep the wine glasses?"

"They were his," she said in a small voice. "I don't drink much wine."

"Coffee mugs it is, then!" Harry leapt over the back of the couch, landing lightly, with three horribly mismatched mugs, gifts from her parents' various trips, in hand. "White or red?"

"I don't care."

And she didn't. Right now, getting horribly drunk with her two best friends, sandwiched between the two of them and basking in their love while eating far too much of Molly's best apple pie sounded like the most wonderful thing in the world.