Chapter Two
"Don't go!" Hermione blurted, clutching the bag of books to her chest. She tugged on Rosie's hand and the two of them flew down the stairs, chasing the descending figure of Severus Snape.
Professor Snape! Here, after all of these years! Severus Snape, a school of photography lanyard around his neck, staring at her in surprise and looking far too attractive for such a tiny little bookshop. Severus Snape, chatting amiably with her daughter, his charcoal eyes gleaming and elegant hands tucked behind his body. Hermione cursed under her breath, annoyed at herself – she'd taken one look at his striking face and all her mouth could do was open and close like a ruddy fish. Taking her reaction for disgust—or something worse—he'd said something to Ted about sending a disk (a disk? What disk?) in a fortnight and disappeared with a frown on his face.
It was all she could do to thrust enough pounds into Ted's waiting hand and jog out of the room. I should've worn something nice! Now he's seen me in this bloody god-awful cardigan and I haven't brushed my hair and Rosie's compared him to a ghost with a bloody haunted house and good lord, if I don't see him again then my life might as well be over because—
"Mum! Stop internalising. Hurry up, or he'll disappear!"
"Rose!" Then, "How on earth—"
"He's a wizard, Mum! Couldn't you tell?"
She stopped on the third last step. "I know him, love. Of course I know that he's—but how did you know?"
Rosie shrugged. "Just a feeling."
"Ah," said Hermione sagely, growling at her own slowness. "He's probably gone… Oh, we've missed him, I'm sure we have."
"No we haven't! Look!"
Mother and daughter stared at a man striding away down the street, his black coat whipping around him in the wind. For a moment, Hermione could only stare at the thin, older man. How many years had it been since she'd seen, and been in awe of, his commanding stride? Too many to count, if she wished to remain optimistic.
"All right. Are you ready to leg it?"
In response, Rosie took off down the street, her lanky legs propelling her forward at a run. "Sir, sir!" she called out, and Hermione ran after her, laughing into the wind at the people stopping to stare.
"Professor!" she yelled. "Professor Snape!"
"Snape, Snape!" Rosie called, having picked up on his name, waving her arms madly when the man in question slowed down and looked around, his face a comical expression of disbelief and confusion. "Professor Snape!"
Snape's jaw dropped. Rosie skidded to a stop in front of him and Hermione, chest heaving, folded over in half and let out a peal of laughter. He eyed them both warily, but his mouth was twitching at the corners – bemusement, she hoped, because condemnation would be far too upsetting to consider.
Thankfully, Rose stuck her hand out and grinned. "Hullo, again."
His flat mouth cracked, and Snape chuckled. Hermione looked away, lest he see how dazed and off-kilter she felt at noticing just how well his crooked smile looked upon his normally harsh features.
"Hello, Rosie," he said, his baritone voice slipping and sliding over the words. "We meet again." He took her hand then released it, a perfunctory gesture of politeness rather than a friendly shake. Still, it was something. He turned his face to her, and Hermione flushed at the undisguised note of interest in his dark gaze. "Hello, Ms. Granger."
"Hello, sir," she said breathlessly. In a fit of insanity, she held her hand out and when he took it, she stared at where their flesh met. His hand was warm and dry, and she smiled up at him, pleased beyond her own understanding. "I'm sorry about – about – uhm… Hello." One would think you've never spoken to someone of the opposite sex before, you idiot! She cast around for words, aware that he was staring at her unabashedly now. "It's lovely to see you. Again. It's lovely to see you again."
"Again?" he said silkily, arching an eyebrow.
Oh, god. Get it together! Get it together! "Well," she mumbled, "you know. We met up… up there, and now we're… eh… now we're down here and, erm… ah…" Shit!
Giving up, Hermione elbowed Rosie, who promptly said loudly, "We'd like to invite you for coffee, Mister Snape! Won't you come? Please?" To Hermione's horror, her ten year old daughter batted her eyelashes.
Snape seemed to have lost his ability to speak. To make matters worse, Rose leaned in and hissed into her ear, completely audibly, "Sink or swim, Mum!"
At this, the Professor's eyes were fit to bust and he threw his head back and laughed, a great, deep, bellow of a laugh that made Hermione sag in relief. To her consternation, it was also the moment that her previously quiet sex-drive chose to perk up and dust itself off. She didn't know what to do – it was surprising enough to find herself desiring her former Professor, but there was also the not inconsiderable fact that it had been weeks since she'd even attempted to shave her legs. She wasn't ready, she realised with a hint of panic. Not ready for desire, not ready for attraction – not ready for anything emotional, when she still had trouble believing that all men didn't have a penchant for emotional fuckwittage. Stay poised. Stay calm! Oh, but he's so lovely…
Snape shook his head and held his bag up, as if it were evidence of his hectic lifestyle. "Sorry – not today." Hearing his bluntness was refreshing, Hermione realised, and it brought her back down to earth. He was the same man – the same antisocial man, and of course she didn't have to form an emotional attachment with anyone at all, did she? Finding someone attractive didn't mean that she was in love. She hadn't seen the man in years – finding him sexy and scrumptious and delicious really didn't mean a thing at all!
With that, she managed to put some words together. "Oh, of course! We just wanted to – we just wanted to say hello, after all. You were obviously having a conversation with Rosie and I interrupted, and, it really is lovely to see you." Stop. Now.
He smiled faintly, his eyes roving over her face. She had the sinking feeling that he must believe her to be utterly mad, but his attention thrilled her nonetheless.
"I should be getting home," he said simply. Then, miraculously, his polite façade turned considering, calculating. "Although… I do believe that perhaps I will… return. To this place. The bookshop," he tacked on, as if unsure of his welcome.
Hermione, unable to restrain herself, gave him a smile from ear to ear. Rosie, too, was gasping, though neither girl nor woman really comprehended just why the stern looking man's answer inspired such happiness in them. In turn, Snape looked even more bewildered.
"Great!" said Rosie.
"Brilliant!" added Hermione.
Snape blinked. "Is it?"
"I'd like to think so," Hermione hurried to say, nodding quickly. "It's been such a long time. Are you well?" It was strange that she felt no discomfort at speaking to her former teacher. It had been almost twenty years since Hogwarts, and the seven years that she'd spent there were nothing compared to having a child, divorcing and living on her own. She'd experienced so much in her life that it felt like more of a pleasant surprise to come across Professor Snape on this windy afternoon.
He answered carefully, "I am well. As, judging by the appearance of you both, you are, too. But as I said, I should be—"
"Oh, right! Yes, of course. You've got work to do. But you'll…"
"You'll come back," Rosie demanded. "Won't you?"
Snape raised a hand to Hermione, as if to say that it was her decision. A wise choice, she thought approvingly, then fought off an inward squeal of delight. A sudden decision made her say, "We'll be here in a fortnight. Same time."
"Ah." He scratched at the back of his neck. "Perhaps I shall see you both, then."
With one last half-smile, the Professor turned and began to walk away again, only to pause before turning a corner. Hermione held her breath as he looked back over his shoulder. Beside her, Rosie waved and she raised her hand, watching with a beatific grin when he nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. To be the focus of his attention was thrilling and decadent, and she threw herself into it, holding his gaze until he mumbled something unintelligible to himself and loped off around the corner.
"He's important, isn't he?" asked Rosie. "He looks important."
"He was an important man, yes," Hermione said absentmindedly as she stared at the corner.
"No," Rosie huffed, dragging Hermione's attention back to her. "I think he's important to us."
"Oh," said Hermione. "Well… he might be. He could be."
Her daughter took her hand. "I hope so."
Harnessing her pragmatic nature, Hermione refrained from commenting, but within her heart, she felt warmth and a new, welcome pressure. She hoped so, too.
.
.
"I shan't go."
He threw his bag over his shoulder and marched out into the valley. "I shall not go. Bloody ridiculous. Making a fool of myself all over again. Bloody buggering bookshop. I'll go another day."
It was dark; the sun had not yet risen. He began the long walk to the surrounding hills, stopping every so often to take a long drink from the thermos filled with milky coffee. "Who needs a bookshop, anyway? Not that one. Filled with shite, I'm sure, judging by everyone's skinny bloody pants. Bloody poncy youth of today." Another drink of coffee. "I won't go. No. Not I."
As he watched the sunrise, Severus planned just where in his house he could place a framed picture from this morning's expedition. The shots were magical – the Dales always were – and the house was too big for him regardless.
"Should bloody well sell the monstrosity," he muttered darkly.
He'd bought the four bedroom original house on a whim – at least, that was what he'd told himself. In truth, he just wanted somewhere to retreat to. A haven. And he'd found it all right, but it was too big.
"Won't ever find someone to share it with me," he grumbled next, then spat out his next mouthful of coffee.
"No, no! No I bloody well won't. No, no. Ms hoity-toity Granger can stay in her castle with her lovely little lass and I don't want anyone in my bloody house at all. Too much mess, too much noise."
.
.
"I wonder where they're living these days… Divorced, isn't she… Wonder when Rosie's going to Hogwarts…"
.
.
When the last good shots were taken, Severus ambled slowly back down the hill. It was a Sunday, so there were no morning commuters walking to the nearby train station.
He stopped in at the village shop and bought the weekend paper from Alan Allwick, an unenthusiastic man who ran the till when Jeannie went to church. The men bonded for a while over weather and the tourist numbers, before Severus strolled back home.
By the time he made it to his front gate and sighed at the pleasant sight that was his garden, he was fully convinced that Ms Granger and her daughter would be more comfortable if they were to meet in the Dales instead of the bookshop. Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't have his own rather substantial library. Rosie could probably borrow a few books.
Provided she didn't damage them, of course.
.
.
A fortnight later, Severus stood on the street outside the People's Bookshop. He was nervous, and he despised nerves. It made him feel tetchy and irate, but he was utterly perplexed when the feelings dissipated when he caught sight of the Granger girls walking towards him.
He stayed where he was. Hermione was saying something to Rosie, and the pair stopped while she rubbed at her daughter's cheek, inspecting it thoroughly before nodding with approval. Rosie was in her usual garb, jeans and warm looking jumper, but Severus spared all of his attention for Hermione. She was lovely, he thought, in functional brown skirt and flat black boots – boots, boots, knee-high boots hooked around my waist – with a black, soft-looking jumper covering her upper body.
He didn't know what to do, and he detested it. Should he… Should he shake their hands? Escort them inside? Ask them to visit his home immediately? Would they like it? It seemed vitally important that they liked the Rose Cottage a few miles out of Dent. He didn't know why it was so crucial, but suspected that it was something to do with how attractive he found the smile upon Hermione's lips, and how he wanted to talk again with her daughter, and with her. He simply wanted, and if the past was anything to go by, he wanted too many things.
Which could not be helped, if he were honest. Already he felt as if the pair anchored him in some way – he'd treated their absence over the last two weeks as something to be tolerated, rather than a natural space of time between meetings.
One stunted conversation, one awkward exchange of words, two shakes of his hand and a countless amount of honest, wideset smiles, and he was a lost man. Utterly, utterly lost.
.
.
They took the stairs one at a time. Rosie was bounding up them, her hair whipping around the banisters as she continued ever higher, but Hermione was lost. They were talking, she knew, about the bookshop and how she'd come across it in the first place, but she could barely manage to string words together. Severus was staring at her through his glasses, his serious black eyes on hers, and his hand was on the small of her back. She could feel the heat of it through the soft cashmere; could it be, that his palm was softer than the material? She could have sworn that it was.
The fortnight between visits had been fraught with insecurities, uncertainties and wine-induced rambling. She'd thrown herself into work and had even found herself chatting with the other mothers at the school each morning – anything to take her attention away from Severus Snape.
How on earth had it come to this? That she'd found him by chance in the bookshop, then managed to have him plan to see her again?
Had they organised a date?
Surely not, with Rosie there, she'd reasoned one weekend night while Rose was at her father's. Surely it wasn't a date – they had a chaperone! A red-haired Weasley chaperone, to boot! And she wasn't ready for dating.
Or was she? The subject was moot, she'd discovered later that same night as she lay in bed, her skin damp from stroking herself into sweet oblivion. She hadn't done it while imagining Ron's steady thrusts, nor had she summoned up an old image of Viktor, his hands shyly caressing her breasts, her thighs.
No, no. Hermione had trumped all of her fantasies and thrown herself into picturing Severus, his head of almost-grey hair between her legs, his sharp tongue lapping like a cat at cream.
It was marvellous; she was unprepared for her body's response, for her pounding heart and cries of completion. And now she had him here, in the stairwell, breathing the same air, hips touching as they climbed the stairs.
It was all she could do not to trip on the stairs, so distracted was she.
At last they reached the door to the bookshop. Ted looked up when the bell above the door rang and he smiled, a knowing, too-smug smile, yet it was second nature for Hermione to return it, cheeks flushed. It was as if she were a girl again – her thoughts were muddled, her breath was short, all due to how her body was responding to the man beside her.
Severus inclined his head and said, "Shall we go in?"
She looked up at him to see that he was watching Rose, not her, but he glanced down with soft ebony eyes. Reluctantly, Hermione made a sound of agreement (that sounded, to her ears, more like a love-sick sigh) and he frowned. Only faintly, a tiny crease that deepened the line carved between his eyebrows, but it threw her off enough to shake her head and clear her throat. "Yes, yes," she said hurriedly. "I'm sure Rosie already has an armful."
"Like her mother," he commented. She almost stopped in her tracks then, hearing the tender note that he placed on 'mother'. She thought it would have put him off, her having a child—him, of all men, given his taste for petulance and spite—but the way he said it made it sound like she had done something grand, something wonderful. She wanted to protest; she'd only given birth, she'd say, all the rest is Rosie. And yet she took his words on, allowing his unsaid praise to settle into her mind.
He likes that I'm a mother. He isn't intimidated or envious or insecure. He likes that she's my girl, that she is of my body.
She saw him anew then, and grinned. "Come and see the travel section," she said, not courageous enough to take his hand but directing with her chin to the left. "There's one in particular that I think you'll like."
"Oh?"
"I hope so," she said, biting down on her lip to stifle a pleased smile. It felt intimate, this act of recommending a book – she'd bought it for her coffee table at home in Lancaster, one of the first indulgences she'd allowed herself in years. Sharing it with him felt like she was guiding him into her sitting room instead of a dusty corner of the bookshop, and her finger pointed to the thin hardback with photographs of the North Yorkshire Moors. "I mean, of course it's not for everyone. It's a bit dour really… Might not be your cup of tea, but I find that all of the heather is just stunning…"
Severus turned it over in his hands, studying the back cover. His expression gave nothing away. He looked up at her and arched an eyebrow. "Do you?"
"Do I what?" she asked, staring at his mouth.
He gave a little huff. "Do you think that the heather is stunning?"
"Oh." Hermione grinned, two spots of pink on her cheeks. "I do – I love it. I've only been once, to the Moors, but I'd like to go again. Actually, there was a blurb on the back about there being another." She held her hands out for the book. "I'll show you, they're planning another, in the—"
"—In the Dales?" he finished amiably, tapping his fingers on the cover. "I know."
"Oh!" she said, dismayed that she seemed to have sacrificed verbosity for little sounds that conveyed her interest in him far too obviously. His words slot into place soon after she realised that he was apparently waiting for her to speak next. "How do you know?"
"Ah," he said, pushing the book back to its rightful place. "Some of my photographs will be in it."
"Your photographs?" demanded Hermione, aware that her opinion of him had just kicked up a few notches. Silently she compiled a list: Single, intelligent, good with Rose, attractive, creative, published! "How wonderful!" she continued, reaching for his sleeve. "It must be fantastic to have that sort of recognition."
He glanced down at where she'd grasped the fabric at his wrist, stopping just short of touching his skin but indicating her desire to simply be closer. Shyly, she withdrew, though it warmed her to watch him turn his hand over, as if he were examining some physical evidence of her proximity. Had he felt her nearness, she wondered? Had his skin tingled?
"It was a competition," he muttered, downplaying his part. "The person who runs the photography classes is the one putting the book together."
Suddenly breathless, she turned her head and searched for Rose, finding her over near the biographies. "I'm happy for you," she said, when she returned her attention to him.
Wonderingly, Severus opened his mouth to speak then closed it. His eyes darted to their feet and back to her face. "Yes," he said slowly, cautiously, "you do seem to be." It puzzled him, she saw, and she smiled.
"Genuinely, yes. I am."
He did not question her – he didn't seem to wish to, and it thrilled her, that he took her words and gave them truth.
"Well," he said next, a slow sideways smile on his mouth, "shall I show you a book?"
Without thinking, she blurted, "You've never been here before! What on earth could you show me?"
His strong, slim shoulders rolled. He smirked and said, "Oh, I'm sure I can think of something. Come on, then."
He took her hand, and his skin was warm.
.
.
"And then," Rosie said, spooning more cream into her mouth, "I fell into the water!"
Hermione spluttered and stared with eyes fit to bust at the quietly chuckling man sitting beside them on the bench. He'll think I'm a bloody harpy! "Rosie!"
Her daughter paid her no mind. "So Mum got down a little bit on the edge of the rock and held her arms out—"
"—Rose!"
"—and fell in, too!"
Shit. Double shit. Any shreds of composure that he thought I might have are, surely, gone. She groaned, mortified. "It was windy!"
Their companion stared at her from over Rosie's auburn head. With a chip halfway to his mouth, Severus shouldn't have been able to make her feel like a girl in trouble again, but his arched brows managed to do just that. The only comment he made was a light, "And did both maidens survive such an ordeal?" before popping the chip between his lips.
She let herself be carried along by his obvious enjoyment of the afternoon. It both delighted and tormented her – that he could accept their company without batting an eyelid, when she herself was filled to the brim with images of herself swooning and following him around like a deranged puppy. The book he'd suggested for her, a slim volume about the Orkneys, was digging into her hip, a reminder that he'd thought of her, considered her. Following his lead, Hermione had another bite of fish. "Thankfully it was summer in Dover; we were fine. The only thing hurt was my pride."
Rosie put in gleefully, "And Mum swore that we'd never go fishing again. Do you fish, Severus?" She made a little slurping sound as she worked on finishing the iced chocolate.
Severus snorted. "I do not. I am not… outdoorsy."
"Besides your photography," Hermione said.
"There is that." Snagging another chip, he shrugged. "Walking is fine, hills are, at times, bearable, but I have some…" He bounced his right knee up and down. "…troubles with anything faster than a ramble."
Forgetting herself, she asked quickly, "I didn't know that you still had lasting problems from the war – why haven't you—ah. Sorry." Expecting him to take offence at her blatant curiosity, Hermione was pleasantly surprised when he merely shook his head.
"Magic can't fix everything," he said blandly, his lips forming a flat line of acceptance. "It's only a knee, after all."
Rosie looked up at him, smiling widely. "That's what Mum always says! Magic can't fix everything. We don't use it," she declared, "so we know a lot about that."
"Oh?" said the Professor, nodding when Hermione offered him a few tissues to wipe his hands. Determined to ignore how the nerves knotted within her at where the conversation was leading, Hermione stared resolutely at the river. She didn't want to talk about Rosie's magic – didn't want to know if another man had problems with it, or felt threatened by something abnormal in their society. The Professor Snape that she knew (had she really ever known him? Probably not) in the past might have insulted Rose, or ignored her entirely. Then, blinking, she realised that she had entirely missed the exchange that she'd been attempting to ready herself for.
"You aren't magical, then," said Severus, glancing at Hermione from under his black lashes. She met his eyes and made no comment. Don't ruin this, not now, she pleaded silently. I've only just found you – don't make me give you up…
"Not at all," Rosie answered. "There's nothing. And it's all right, you know."
He looked down at the young girl, frowning. "Is it? Is it all right with you?"
It was an interesting turn of phrase, Hermione thought, but it warmed her all the same. Rosie sighed. "It's rather disappointing. But there's nothing I can do – I don't have magic, and that's that."
"Hmmnnn," said Snape, leaning back on the bench. "Curious."
Rosie chose that moment to tip the rest of the drink into her mouth and snatch a handful of chips before she rose and wandered over to look at the trees. Hermione stayed where she was, unsure of herself. Would he want to talk? Surely not – they'd only just—
"Your daughter's situation is unfortunate."
"Yes," she allowed, swivelling around to fold up one knee in order to face him fully. He was preoccupied with cleaning his glasses.
"She's very young for you to be so sure, is she not?"
"No. There was a test released about seven years ago that is very reliable; Rosie was tested when she was almost five. At Ron's insistence," Hermione tacked on, frowning. "But I knew. I've always known."
Directing his words to the soft black cloth that he was rubbing over the lenses, Severus said lowly, "And I assume that you have done your share of crusading on her part."
The line was delivered with such nonchalance that she could only snort, then clap a hand over her mouth. He looked up at her and cocked an eyebrow, urging her on. "Oh," she said, waving a hand in the air. "Just a divorce. And a sea-change, so to speak. And a change of occupation. But really," she pressed, laying her palms on the bench space between them so she could push forward slightly, increasing their proximity, "it's not crusading. It's different, this… this parenting, being a mother. She's not a cause."
"No," he agreed, screwing his mouth up. The befuddled expression made her give a little huff of pleasure – he looked, for lack of a better word, adorable. Sitting together on the bench, her daughter meandering around, the older man beside her mulling over the state of her magic, Hermione felt… relaxed. Comfortable.
"I didn't know," muttered Severus, clearing his throat with a 'herrrrmmph.' "About her magic. If I'd known, I wouldn't have asked."
"I know! It's nothing to be ashamed about. There's nothing wrong with her."
Bristling, he said, "I'm not suggesting that there is. Christ, she doesn't have magic – like the majority of the rest of the damn world. She's not normal, she's not wrong – she just is. She exists. Why would you even assume that I'd think there was something wrong?"
Why indeed, Granger? And to think – you were worried about him putting his foot in it, when you've done that spectacularly on your own! You've buggered it now. She blinked, feeling weak in the face of his passion, for she saw it now: this trait of being quick to anger, of slipping into blunt language. Severus Snape was passionate. The discovery was positively electrifying.
Barely managing to organise her thoughts, Hermione mumbled, "Sorry. It wasn't about you, not particularly anyway. I'm just…"
He squinted then growled, shoving his glasses back on as he shuffled closer. "Used to it."
"I suppose."
They stared at each other. She registered the atmosphere between them, her belly twisting with satisfaction when he frowned and reached forward to bat away strands of her unruly hair from her face. His frown then turned on her, daring her to comment on his forwardness. She did so silently, granting him a blissful grin. Awkwardly, Severus scratched at his neck. "It is getting late."
"Oh." Disappointment slammed into her and her shoulders sagged. "Of course."
"That's not what I meant," he grumbled, standing abruptly. Scowling, he demanded, "I'd like you and Rose to come over for tea. Now. At my home. Tea." He turned around and hissed a quiet, "Bollocks!" Hermione chortled, suddenly feeling shy.
He whipped back to face her and thrust his hand out. As if it were second nature, he called out, his eyes never leaving hers, "Rosie! We're going."
"But I haven't even agreed!" she protested laughingly, still caught between giggling at his obvious ineptness and squawking at his presumption. The giggles won out though, and Rosie sidled up to them, looking up importantly at Severus.
"Where are we off to, then?"
Severus said nothing. He looked at Hermione, tilted his head, and reached for her again. She grinned, dazed, and said to Rose, "Very well. We're going to Severus'. For tea. Would you like that?"
"Oh," breathed Rosie, bending to grab her books from the bench. "May I see your library?"
"How'd you know I had one?"
"Just did," she shrugged, winding one arm around her mother's waist. "Why else would we be going to your house?"
"Ahherrmmm…" Severus broke off and grabbed Hermione's hand. "On three," he said, allowing one quick smile to spread over his lips. "One, two…"
.
.
"…three."
My house is full, he thought, staring at the two young women. They had arrived behind his makeshift laboratory in the garden, a small former outhouse that he'd spent a few weeks in, making it new again inside. He often chose to Apparate here when returning home; no matter what kind of day he'd had, he could always look up at his home and dismiss any negative cards that fate had dealt. In addition, it would keep the Pardoes next door from keeling over – their neighbour popping into existence might just be a bit too much for the elderly couple.
And, he reasoned, if it made Hermione give a tiny little, "Oh!" and Rosie squeak with surprise, then that was wonderful. He looked over at the witch, still hardly believing that she was here – how had they gone from the disastrous days of the war, to stumbling upon each other close to twenty years later? How had he managed to ignore the girl that wore knee-high socks and both lived for, and was terrified of, his attention and praise? Surely she was there, buried within this quietly self-assured woman, but he didn't even care.
It surprised him, this lack of self-made obstacles. He could've looked at her face that afternoon a week ago and returned home to drink himself into oblivion, cursing the reminder of the war.
Truthfully, such a thing had not even entered his mind. The thrill of her closeness, the slow, languid delight he felt at the easy acceptance of his person by her daughter, could not be ignored.
Severus liked children. Or rather, they did not particularly concern him; they were simply there, and sometimes, like a treasure chest, they'd open their mouths and the most interesting little things would pour out. Children intrigued him, though he knew that he'd never know how it felt to have one of his own, to watch his woman's belly ripen. He'd mourned that, long ago, though not for many years now.
Teaching had been far more sufferable than he'd led others to believe. If he'd been able to do things differently, live differently, he might have been a respected teacher, rather than a feared one. Oh, it paid to keep an austere, rigid environment within Potions, and a teacher that fronted the DADA classroom and didn't instil reality in his students was a failure, but he would've been less… Less. He would've been less.
Rosie wasn't a chance to do things better – she wasn't an experiment, a test. But she was here, and her mother was here, and he liked the way the Granger girls linked arms and looked up at him with trusting eyes. More than that, he liked that they were here, in his garden. For all of its strangeness, its newness, it felt comfortable.
"Shall we?" he said, filled with the sudden and unexplained hope that they might choose to just never leave at all. He tried to imagine how quiet the big house would be when they left, but found that he couldn't.
Hermione nodded and they headed through the cared for garden, pausing at the door to the original stone home. He let them in with a key, one hand on the witch's elbow to guide her through the wards.
My house is full.