The usual disclaimers apply.

xx

He took a deep breath – the parchments neatly folded in a pocket, Ginny by his side, little James, Al and Lily having already spotted their cousins Roxanne, Lucy, Molly and Fred, ran off towards the lawn.

"Why are you so nervous, Harry?" Ginny asked curiously, squeezing his hand and looking at him inquisitively.

"I'm not nervous," he replied and frowned when he saw the grimace she pulled.

"Your hands are sweaty," she replied coldly. "Will you tell me what's been bothering you the last three days or will you tell my mother first?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing. But I really should tell your parents and your brother. Ron is here, isn't he?"

"He's always on Monday night, Harry, you know that. We all are. Monday night is Weasley night," she sighed. "Only Bill and Fleur are not here but I told you that. Fleur didn't want to come alone and Bill is in Egypt at the moment."

He nodded dumbly.

"Harry, stop this moping! I've been asking you so often now and all you said was 'hmpf'. Why don't you tell me?"

"I will tell you," he replied testily. "But can't you understand that I only want to tell it once?"

"No, I can't, frankly," she huffed and pulled her hand away. "You've been impossible."

"Ginny, I..."

She shook her head and pushed the door open. The old house tweaked a little and let them in. Harry glanced quickly back at his children but they were already playing with the garden gnomes and chasing them around. They'd be safe there with their cousins. And what would be talked about inside was not for their ears in any case.

Truth be told – he didn't know how to handle those news himself. Of course he had gone up to the Registration Office, had checked both Ron's and Hermione's files and had made copies. And to be on the safe side – he had checked his file and even Ginny's file. But his children were normal. Quite the relief. But then again, all three of them had shown some accidental magic already. So that was fine. But his godson was a Squib. He had never, never even considered the possibility. Had considered a lot of things – had even gone so far as to imagine what would happen if one of his had some kind of disability (too many dark curses on him and on Ginny) but not able to do magic? It had never occurred to him.

He didn't know how to handle this. But he knew that Ronald had the right to know for sure and so did the rest of his family. And his own family. Of course he had thought about whether he should let Hermione tell them – but – he had decided against it. Not because he thought she shouldn't – but because he wanted to take the blow from her. He did not doubt for a moment that they would rant and be shocked. Just as he was. Only maybe a little worse.

He knew the Muggle world at least a little. Neither of them did. And Hermione would not allow her son to be educated away. Away from her, at least. Hermione knew that there were almost no possibilities for Squibs in the Wizarding World – why should she destroy every chance the boy had?

No – she wouldn't allow it and neither would she allow to let her children be separated. She would have to split it. Had to teach Rose all about witches and wizards and Hugo all about Muggles. Had to live her live in two worlds. And he felt with her. It would be difficult. Very, very difficult. And to be honest, Hugo couldn't do much with his cousins. And where they lived. He would be an outcast in their world.

And – yes – he was still a bit shocked but it was Hermione and it was Hugo. She had been right. He was just the same child. Probably. He wasn't sure. He would have to think about it longer. But inform the family first.

Even if Hermione was angry at him afterwards for telling them. He was protecting her from Molly's wrath and shock and confusion.

"Harry!" Molly came towards him as he still stood a bit lost in the door. Ginny had – apparently, already walked fully inside.

"Hullo Molly," he smiled weakly and as she did every Monday, she hugged him in greeting. He owed this family. His family. The people who had taken him in as a son.

Odd – that – Hermione had been accepted. But had never received the same warmth he had. Warmth, yes, but not the same kind he did. She was the daughter-in-law. And he had been – still was – another son. Difference. And no, probably he wouldn't endear her too much to them now. But – he had to. He just had to.

"Can we go in? I need to talk to all of you," he said softly.

"Did something happen, Harry?" Molly asked, concern written all over his face.

"Maybe," he replied cryptically and shrugged one shoulder.

"What...," she asked but he had pulled her into the kitchen. Almost everyone was there – Arthur, Charlie (a strange man sitting next to him...), Percy with his wife Audrey, George and Angelina, and Ginny, glaring at him. Only Ron was missing.

"Where's Ron?"

"Hey Harry," the person in question walked in – completely content, it seemed, with his new girlfriend on his side, and a handful of pumpkin flavoured crisps, wandering from his hand to his mouth.

"Hi," she said nicely.

He had not expected her – had not expected her at all. Still...

"Ron, did you talk to Hermione again?" he asked.

He shook his head. "I was busy and actually wanted to take them on Sunday but Henrietta and me forgot about the time and..."

Harry shook his head. "Doesn't matter. You don't believe her, do you?"

"About...you know what? No, of course not. Don't be daft. It's just tactics on her end," Ron chuckled. "Wants to stay with her parents, Rosie even said they plan to build an annexe or something. She can't be serious. She just doesn't want me to have the children live with me, that's all."

"The children living with you?" Henrietta said at the same time that Molly gasped, Arthur cleared his throat and Charlie shook his head.

"Ron, stop," Harry tried to say but they all spoke at the same time. He heard only a bit – Henrietta obviously had not known that Ron wanted them to live with them and Ron arguing slightly with her about it, Molly thought it was a bad idea because children belonged to the mother and loudly expressed her opinion, Charlie explained to the man (lover? boyfriend?) that Hermione was Ron's ex-wife and that this was about the two children, Rose and Hugo, Ginny shrieked at Ron and at him for not telling her before, George and Angelina talked amongst themselves about children living with mothers or fathers, and only Percy, his wife and Arthur remained quiet. The latter got up and moved to stand next to him.

"What doesn't my son believe Hermione?" he asked gently.

Harry swallowed and pulled the two parchments from his pockets and, without saying another word, handed them to his father-in-law.

"Oh no," he said quietly. "Is this from the Registration Office?"

Harry nodded and felt Percy standing behind his father, reading over his shoulder. "Oh dear," he gasped. "Is this real?"

He nodded slowly.

"Merlin," Audrey shrieked loudly and – in a matter of moments, everyone in the room had fallen silent. Arthur wore a grave expression. Solemn. Not angry. Just – grave and serious. Not as if someone had died – but as if he had heard bad news and naturally, the entire family looked at Arthur and him and Percy and Audrey.

xx

She had found both of them, sleeping happily together on the couch, Ophelia snuggled onto his chest, his arms around her, his mouth open and he was snoring slightly, Ophelia drooling on the formidable man's shirt. She could see clearly that everyone who didn't know him very well could never imagine him napping with his girl. And to be honest, the person she had gotten to know over the years, every morning, was different than this. He had always been so cold – and now – nothing of that coldness was left. Not here, not with the little sweetheart and not with herself.

She had to admit that during the nights it was bad – horrible. And the worst in those nights was that she knew she never had a chance to run away into some form of – anything, really. She faced it every night almost. But it was alright, really. She knew she had to and come morning, things got simpler. Every single morning, around 6, or 6:30, depending on how she had slept, she would make her way from her coal flat up to the house, up to their flat and began making breakfast. Porridge and eggs and bacon, beans, toast, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, and lately, Ophelia had begun to like marmalade. So she prepared little marmalade-toast-soldiers for her. She usually had a cup of tea with them, ate a little – sometimes, made sure Ophelia got dressed and either went down to the apothecary with them or made sure everything was done upstairs – or probably prepared lunch or anything. She was useful and Severus let her be. He understood how important it was for her to keep busy. He never said anything about her reorganising his storeroom.

No – truth be told, she felt very comfortable almost living with them, she had someone to care of, Ophelia, and despite everything that he said and probably thought himself, Severus. Both of them had been too self-reliant for too long.

Severus, yes, he was a grown man, ten, fifteen years younger than herself, and he was supposed to to look after himself, but it was strange, really. At meals, the day before yesterday, for instance, she had put all the pots and pans (lamb chops today) on the table and he had put a lot of broccoli on Ophelia's plate, and had given her the nicest bit of lamb chop. Then he had waited until she herself at taken some and only then he had served himself. A little meat, a little potatoes, and almost not broccoli. No, he wasn't taking care of himself. Not the way he should. And she was adamant on making him live more healthy – and he should really get out, get some more sun, some more fresh air.

Maybe – with a little time and a little convincing, she could make him let her run the apothecary for a day or so. Take more than a day off every week. Well – time would tell.

But Ophelia, that was even worse. The girl dressed herself, the girl bathed herself, mostly, then girl did most of the things herself. Yes, yes, Severus helped her but it seemed deeply ingrained not to be used to help. She had observed this when Severus had helped her the day before, getting ready to go to this family they were invited to. He had stood there in her room and had wanted to help but he was a little unsure and she was just doing it herself. Got dressed, combed her hair, put her shoes on. But Mary had grabbed her – and had braided her hair and Ophelia had been all smiles and stood very long in front of the mirror, admiring herself.

No, Ophelia was too self-sufficient for her age and – when all was said and done – her history was a little mysterious too. Severus had only said that her mother had died and while she had grown up there, after her death, he took care of her.

Only – she had the suspicion, by how close they were, how much they so obviously loved each other, that the love of her father was the first real parental love she had experienced. But Mary wasn't sure of course.

Still – she had decided to do a little, discreet digging.

And now was just the right moment. Severus was still down in the apothecary, closing up and she had taken Ophelia upstairs to do the cooking. The little one was very, very sweet and very interested in everything. She loved chopping things (because, as she said, Daddy let her chop ingredients for potions) and she loved watching how meals were cooked.

"Sweetheart, could you bring me the big pan from over there?" she asked gently and Ophelia smiled and rushed over, bringing her the heavy pan.

"There, Mary," she beamed.

"Thank you," she smiled back and put it on the cooker. "Did you ever cook with Mummy?"

Ophelia shook her head. "No, Mummy never cooked. Madame Sylvie sometimes made scrambled eggs but only Daddy really cooked and showed me a little."

"He did a good job. You're a very good little cooking assistant," she helped Ophelia on the stool so she could see what was happening. "But who's Madame Sylvie?"

Ophelia sighed. "She was the woman who looked after me when Mummy worked and when Mummy didn't have time."

"Did Mummy work a lot?" she asked and when Ophelia nodded simply but didn't look at her, kept her eyes on the sausages in the pan, sizzling.

She nodded. "She always did."

"Do you know where she worked, sweetheart?" she asked, leaning over her and flipping the bangers.

"At home or where Madame Sylvie lived," Ophelia replied in a little voice. "Or sometimes she went somewhere but I don't know where."

Mary Kelly groaned inwardly. This child was sometimes too literal-minded. Or maybe she was just avoiding the question. Or didn't know. "And what kind of job did she do? Do you know?"

Ophelia shook her head. "But she was always very colourful."

"What does that mean, sweetheart?"

"She had so many colours in her face and she wore very short skirts," Ophelia shrugged.

"Did she use a lot of make-up?" she asked and a rather strange idea blossomed in her head. Ophelia's mother – a -

No.

Severus resorting to get a child from a -

No.

"Yes, Missus Kelly," she suddenly heard him. "Exactly what you think."

She turned around rapidly, her eyes open and her mouth open. "But – why should you resort to that sort of thing? And how...?"

"Why?" he asked, and he kept his anger – his obvious anger at her well in check. Oh – she had destroyed it. Stupid her for asking too many questions.

xx

For a moment, there was absolute silence. There had never been, as far as she could remember, absolute silence in the Burrow. And she had lived there as long as she and Arthur had been married. Forever. And there had never been that kind of eerie silence. Not even when you-know-who had been at large.

And this – those two parchments had silenced the entire family – plus spouses, girlfriend and new boyfriend. And herself.

Hugo Weasley. Squib.

That was all she could see.

She bit her lip. This could not be happening. Her Hugo not being able to...no. No. Hugo was supposed to be a brilliant wizard. Hugo was supposed to go to Hogwarts, get into Gryffindor like the rest of the Weasleys, be a prefect, maybe, because he was such a good little boy, play Quidditch. Just be a wizard for the sake of Merlin.

Poor Hugo. Poor, little Hugo.

"It's...I ca...I have to," she muttered and, without even thinking about it, without looking at someone, she knew what they looked like in shock, she stormed out of the Burrow – ran, just ran.

Poor Hugo. She had to make sure he was alright. Had to make sure that he was okay. That he felt – felt – she wasn't sure. But she had to go there. Had to. Poor Hugo. Had to console him.

Had to comfort him.

She knew when she could apparate. And she did. The garden. She didn't remember it well, but well enough. And she needed to see Hugo. Definitely.

A pop and she was there. She exhaled sharply. Hugo.

Hugo playing with Rosie in the garden. Just a few feet of where she had landed. They both looked up and Judith and Jonathan sat there, watching them and Hermione was there and watched too – and all were suddenly looking at her but she barely noticed – she dashed forward and within a second, Hugo was enveloped in her arms.

"My poor boy," she whispered and felt the tears stinging in her eyes. "My poor, poor boy."

xx