Chapter 5: The Long Winter

One day in November, we were thoroughly cleaning Lawford's cabin, model exiting tenants that we were, when one of Brady's buyers stopped in to say hello. Steven Wilby was a pleasant enough man whom I vaguely recalled coming out to fish with Lawford some years earlier. He had plenty of stories to share about their past exploits and regaled us with some rather embarrassing tales, most of which occurred before Brady met Marita. Then he showed us the official plans for the fishing lodge development and apologized for forcing us out of our home.

"I'm sorry that you had to move, Sebastian," he said, not looking a bit sad about it. "I know Brady thinks very highly of you."

"Don't be. We have our own home now, and it's quite comfortable. Things have worked out splendidly."

And it had. Hermione had worked both wand and fingers to the bone cleaning and repairing all of her thrift store purchases while I spent my time wrestling once more with Peace-and-Pepper in the new lab. It seemed that every time I walked into the cabin, I could hear 'Scourgify!' ring out. She'd even resorted to buckets of soapy water if repeated attempts using magic didn't meet her stringent standards. In the end, the results were surprisingly satisfactory. The furniture had been given new life, and if it didn't look pristine, it was at least was sound and spotless. Even the sofa slipcovers, which I expected would look hideous at best, fit well enough. Nothing matched, but everything went together in a pleasing sort of way.

We had also wrestled the balky crib into submission. When it was done, Hermione and I stood staring at the result of our combined efforts and tried to envision a baby sleeping there. The idea still seemed surreal to me, although according to my wife's ever-expanding figure, it would soon become much less so. After trying to make do with charms to alter her usual garb, Hermione finally made a foray into Thunder Bay for maternity clothing. Her body, she had discovered, was changing in ways she never expected.

"I knew I'd lose my waist in front, but no one told me I'd lose it at the sides!" she wailed one night as she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

"It's only temporary," I soothed, but I still remembered Neola's comment about never getting back the same body as before pregnancy.

Hermione seemed somewhat appeased, but glared over the injustice of my own body remaining intact.

...

Winter was spent debating baby names.

I had seen enough students over the years in my Potions classroom to have firm opinions on what name I would allow for my own child. I know that the wizarding world – in Britain, anyway – simply adore their classical names; if it hadn't been for the ancient Greeks and Romans, I don't know what they would have been reduced to using. Leonard Malfoy? Floyd Flitwick? Not to mention my own atrocious name, which Hermione timidly suggested in the event of a son.

"Are you mad? The world doesn't need two Severus Snapes!"

Weasley-associated names were out, of course, and Hermione knew better than to suggest 'Harry' as a potential choice.

"If it's a boy, what about naming him after your father?" I asked her.

"Hugh?" She made a face. "It would be all right as a middle name, I suppose, but Dad hated his name and I guess that made me not care for it either."

"Why didn't he like being named Hugh?"

"He said that he was teased a lot at school for being quite brainy –"

"Imagine that," I said drily. Hermione glared at me.

"Let me finish. Instead of calling him Hugh, the bullies called him 'Eww'. And apparently stretched it out into multiple syllables, at that."

"Inventive," I commented without thinking, "but you know that bullies can take just about any name and transform it into something revolting."

"True. What about girls' names? Would you like your daughter to be named 'Eileen', after your mother?"

I frowned. "Why would I wish to do that?"

I could tell by her expression that Hermione hadn't expected my bluntness. I tried to explain.

"You know that my mother was not very nurturing by nature," I reminded her, frowning. "She tried to be, but usually failed. And her worse sin was failing to stand up for me against my father. Of course, she never stood up for herself, so why should she stand up for me? I don't remember her fondly, Hermione."

Hermione shook her head. "I'm sorry. Forget I asked."

"Don't apologize. I came to grips with my parents' deficiencies long ago."

"I suppose we could name a girl after someone who was on staff at Hogwarts..."

"Who? Pomona? Poppy? Septima? Your owl is already named Minerva, and if you think I could bear another Sybil, you're wrong. Which reminds me: no flower names, please."

Assorted midwives made increasingly frequent visits, each time pronouncing Hermione in outstanding health. The most recent left a book for Hermione to read, entitled 'Giving Birth to Your Child: It's Magical!'. In addition, various Muggle books had begun turning up in our grocery bags when we returned from store in the general store, books which Neola and other women in town decided were of utmost importance for Hermione to read: 'What to Expect When You're Expecting', 'Your Baby's First Year', and 'Relaxation for Pregnant Women'. Hermione read them all before leaving them lying about the cabin as if hoping I'd take an interest and pick one up myself. I will admit to glancing through them, although much to my distaste, they seemed heavily slanted towards both mother and baby bodily functions. I also glanced at the relaxation book and wondered why they didn't have 'Relaxation for Expectant fathers'.

Everyone in Trapper's Bay was dying of curiosity about the new cabin, of course. Every time we went into town, I could count on at least one thinly-veiled hint from someone wanting to see our new home. Hermione proposed holding an open house, which I resisted vehemently; I did not want anyone traipsing around on our land unless they had been personally invited. She pointed out that the purpose of the open house was to invite people to traipse around, and presumably once everyone had seen it, they would be satisfied.

I finally relented, and Hermione posted a notice on the General Store Community News Board that anyone who wished could come to visit our new home the third Saturday in January between the hours of twelve and two. And then I put hefty Disillusionment and Muggle-repelling charms on the Potions lab.

I should have expected that more was required than merely letting people peek in the door for five minutes. Hermione spent the morning in a frenzy of making sandwiches and filling our few odds-and-ends of bowls with snacks for the visitors. I wondered if this was typical for an open house, but since my entertainment skills are truly nonexistent, I chose to keep quiet and help my wife cut the sandwiches into small portions and line them up on our four mismatched plates. It began snowing heavily, and I rather expected that all these preparations would be for naught; surely no one would be silly enough to take us up on our invitation in this weather. But at five minutes before noon, I heard the sound of multiple cars, trucks and snowmobiles approaching. Within ten minutes, it seemed that everyone in town had shown up, although Hermione estimated that the number was closer to forty. Our food disappeared in short order and we finally resorted to cutting into a chocolate cake that Neola had brought as a house-warming gift.

"You're a lifesaver, Neola," Hermione told the woman as she sliced the cake into tiny servings. "We didn't say anything on the advert about snacks being served. I can't believe everything's virtually gone already."

Neola chuckled. "You forget I see how much food disappears from my store shelves every week. Plus, people just assume that if there's a get-together of any kind, there will be food."

The remnants of my cynical side agreed; people would show up for anything if free food was involved. On the other hand, I had to admit that everyone seemed genuinely interested in our new home and – quite unnervingly – in us as well. I had never been more than coolly reserved during my dealings in town, business-sort of arrangement that it was, yet the townspeople were always cordial toward me. And when Hermione had arrived, with her unending curiosity about the Ojibwa culture, she was also well-received. It had never occurred to me until this Saturday afternoon that I had long ago been accepted into the community as something more than the odd, intense man who bartered his potions at Neola Dorsey's store.

By the time two o'clock arrived and the miscellaneous vehicles had all trundled back to town, we had received an offer of assistance in building a dock come spring, baby-sitting for what I was told was a very reasonable price, and all the hand-me-down baby items we could ever hope to need.

In what was a monumental shift for me, I decided that perhaps keeping my land warded and Muggle-protected was, quite possibly, overkill.

….

As winter marched towards spring, an explosion of knitting began.

Hermione found a pattern book in town along with needles and yarn, and before long we were awash in booties, sweaters, caps and blankets of all kinds. I was intrigued.

"Were the stories true? Did you actually knit hats for the house-elves?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Then donated baby items began arriving in a steady stream. I had expected a few items of clothing, perhaps some rattles or stuffed toys. Nothing prepared me for the onslaught of baby-related items that appeared every week.

One cold February day, I was walking back to the cabin from the lab when Stanley Dorsey pulled up in his red pickup truck. A young woman climbed out of the passenger side while Stanley headed for the back of the truck.

"Mr. Snow? I'm Tabitha, Stanley's niece. I own Twice is Nice, the resale store in Sioux Lookout."

"How do you do?" I said. I probably should have told her to call me Sebastian, but the woman lived fifty miles away. It was enough to be on a first-name basis with the locals.

Just then, Stanley handed me the large box he'd retrieved from the truck. It overflowed with what were, judging by the bright primary colors, more baby things.

"What now?"

"Essentials," Stanley said. "I hate to be the one to break it to you, Sebastian, but babies need more gear than the Army, Navy and Air Force combined."

"Why? They're tiny."

"Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you?"

"I've been keeping an eye out for things for you," Tabitha told me, looking quite pleased with herself. "Someone just donated a large load of baby stuff to the shop the other day. I picked out the best pieces."

I pulled a multi-colored, plastic four-legged item off the top of the pile. "What in the world is this for?"

"It's a baby gym. Oh, there's Hermione. Hi, Hermione!" Tabitha suddenly spotted my wife, who had just come out onto the porch. She headed in that direction, leaving Stanley and me to wrestle with the mysterious contents of the box.

"Why would a baby possibly need a gym?" I spluttered.

"Entertainment. And it stimulates their brains or something," Stanley shrugged. "What you do is, you place this frame thingy over the baby when he's lying on this mat, –" he rummaged around in the box and pulled out a brightly-colored blue pad, " – and see, there's little gizmos on it for the baby to play with." He poked a finger at a yellow rattle suspended from one of the legs.

I prodded a stuffed elephant, also suspended from a leg, feeling utterly at sea. "And it's necessary for babies to have this?"

"Well, it is if you want fifteen minutes to yourself. On the down side, once babies start sitting up and crawling, they're too big to use it."

"You mean it's only good for a year or so?"

Stanley guffawed. "As if. Six months, maybe. Then you need more stuff to take its place."

I must have looked stunned, for the man's grin stretched even wider. "Don't worry, Sebastian. You'll find out."

'You'll find out' seemed to be the ongoing theme. Any time I was in town and someone mentioned the baby, there were knowing grins all around, as though everybody in the world, save me, was in on a vast secret. Hermione noticed it as well.

"It's not that they're unkind about it," she said. "It's just annoying. Of course we have no idea what to expect when the baby comes, do we? I wish someone would just sit us down and say, 'Look, here's what it's going to be like'. At least Ginny doesn't come across like that in her letters."

Until sixteen months ago, Ginny Potter and her mother had been at odds with Hermione, separated by misunderstandings that occurred when my wife divorced the ailing Ronald Weasley and moved to Canada. Ginny and Hermione had mended the fences when Hermione returned to Britain for Weasley's funeral, but Molly was bitter still. The only thaw in the frosty relationship with her former daughter-in-law was the gift of a jar of homemade jam some seven months ago.

"She doesn't 'come across like that' that you know of," I pointed out. "For all you know, she may be smirking every time she puts quill to parchment."

"No, I don't think she is."

Ginny's letters, with her hints about pregnancy and birth and childcare, cheered Hermione every time they arrived. Lately, however, my wife had become a little more pensive after each one.

"You miss your friends," I deduced astutely.

"Well, yes. A little. Some."

"What, then?"

Hermione looked at me with worried eyes. "Severus, I love our life, you know that. And I'm so excited for the baby to come. It's just that I feel really lonely sometimes, like I'm the only pregnant witch for miles around."

"You probably are." The words were out before I could stop them, and I could immediately see that they were in no way helpful.

"That's just it," she agreed. "I wish I had another witch to talk to. It feels like Ginny's my only lifeline to that world."

"You went to Thunder Bay for that lecture about preparation for childbirth, the one the midwife told you about. You met other pregnant witches there, surely."

"I did, but it was hard to get to know someone before or after class. It seemed like everyone rushed in at the last minute and left just as quickly when it was over."

"There is more than one class, isn't there?"

"Yes, there's another one next Tuesday."

"Perhaps you'll have more time then," I said.

"Perhaps." She didn't look convinced.

The following week, Hermione returned from the lecture to report that refreshments were served before and after class, and that she had diligently used the time getting to know some of the other mothers-to-be.

"Well, there you are then," I said, pleased. But my wife still looked troubled.

"But none of them live around here. It's not as though we'll be getting together for tea and playtime once the babies arrive."

My patience was beginning to wear thin. "Hermione, what do you want? We don't live in an area where there are wizards and witches on every corner. There are barely any corners to begin with!"

"I know that," she snapped.

"What, then? There may not be an abundance of witches, but aren't there any pregnant women in town? And surely Stanley's niece Tabitha can put you in touch with young mothers in Sioux Lookout, the ones that donate all that – that stuff that's stacked up in the nursery. You're perfectly capable of making friends!"

With that, Hermione's eyes filled with tears. She marched out of the cabin, slamming the door behind her.

I cursed inwardly. The Hormone Thing had reared its ugly head once more, and we still had six weeks to go before the baby arrived. If I had to look forward to another month and a half of mood swings like this… Life would settle down when the baby came, I told myself, and decided to let Hermione stew for five minutes before I went looking for her. I found her at lake's edge, hunched miserably on a fallen log.

"Hermione, it's cold out here and you have no coat on. Come inside."

She looked up at me with reddened eyes. "Do you know what I feel like?"

I hated guessing games. "No, what?"

"I feel like I did my first two months at Hogwarts, when I couldn't make friends to save my soul."

"Don't say that you memorized the childbirth books and showed up those other women in class," I tried to joke.

"Very funny!"

I ignored her look of filthy disgust and and sat down next to her on the log. No, humor was not sufficient at this point. I chose to use cold reason. The old Severus Snape would not have bothered, period.

"I can't believe that they mean to be unfriendly. Perhaps they're merely so absorbed in their own pregnancies that they're not much interested in reaching out," I said, then added: "which is their loss, of course."

Hermione sighed and sank her head onto my shoulder. "Is that what I am? Absorbed in my pregnancy?"

I entwined the fingers of one hand with hers. "Of course you're absorbed, and rightfully so."

"I miss my mother, Severus. I wish I could call her for advice, or just to talk."

I thought of Hermione's parents, ruthlessly targeted and murdered by Death Eaters in the final year of the war.

"I know she would have been here for you, had things worked out differently." Which was more than I could have said of either of my parents.

"Yeah." Hermione brushed a tear away. "I'm sorry I've been so emotional lately. I know I'm a mess. You've been more patient with me than I could have ever dared hope."

"Your hormones are probably all over the map right now. As long as you don't kick me out of the house, I'll consider myself a lucky man."