AUTHOR'S NOTE: And after a three year hiatus...here we are. I've gone through and polished, rewritten, spruced up this story the way I've wanted to for years; I have five or six more chapters outlined and planned; and I'll (finally) be wrapping this thing up soon. (I don't expect you to take my word for it. It's been a long hiatus.)

TWENTY-TWO: The Naming Ceremony

"Are you ready?" Hermione's voice called from the sitting room.

Severus could hear in her tone that she was trying to be cheerful and carefree, as though she didn't expect a resoundingly negative answer to that question at all—but the strain was there, an undercurrent, and he knew she was wondering if he would beg off at the last minute.

He wanted to. Fuck, how he wanted to—but he said he'd go, and so here he was, brooding in front of his wardrobe, wondering how much longer he could put off the inevitable.

The click of her heeled boots approached the bedroom, and for a moment, he was distracted from his ruminating by her: the dark blue peacoat she was wearing in place of her cloak, the flash of a cream-colored sweater, her hair free around her shoulders, the funny little smile on her lips as she fastened a pearl in her ear.

"What?" she said.

He gave himself a vigorous mental shake; for the past few weeks, this sort of thing had happened near-daily, and it still caught him off guard. "Nothing," he said, and then amended, "you look lovely."

"Not nothing, then," she said, fastening the second pearl in the other ear. "We're going to be late if we wait much longer."

When he didn't answer, she crossed the room, sliding nimbly between him and the wardrobe. "Harry's so happy you're coming, you know," she said, resting a hand against his chest. He'd yet to adjust to these casual touches she gave so freely. "I am, too," she added softly.

He gave a beleaguered sigh. "There will be quite a few people, I suppose."

"I don't think so, actually. Just Ginny's family, their partners, and us. All right," she amended, seeing the look on his face, "I know there are a lot of Weasleys, but that's positively restrained for one of their gatherings. I once met every one of their second and third cousins—except for the accountant, they don't talk to him."

He snorted at the harassed expression on her face and leaned down to kiss her. She made a funny little noise whenever he did this—a sort of mmphf as her mouth parted beneath his—as though he'd surprised her.

"You're stalling," she whispered when he'd pulled back.

"I'm not looking forward to the looks on their faces when you turn up with me."

She took his hand; the warmth of her bled through her soft mittens. "I thought you'd find it funny?" she said, smiling a little, and then added, "But Harry's already told everyone who will be there. If they've got feelings about it, they'll be prepared to keep it to themselves."

He struggled with the emotion rising up in his chest; was it relief or apprehension, or perhaps indigestion from that third cup of coffee, drunk out of nerves?

"You told them?" he said.

"Harry seemed to think it was a foregone conclusion," she said, her mouth thinning. "He always did know me better than he let on. Now." She took a step back, surveyed him with a critical eye, and gave a brisk nod. "You're ready to go, so let's go."

He extinguished the lamps and followed her out. The gift burned a hole in his pocket. It was traditional—or so he'd heard—to bring a present for the child at a naming ceremony. The child could hardly appreciate it, he thought; it was only a week or so old. But he'd bought something nonetheless—harmless, trivial. As he walked side-by-side with Hermione through the Entrance Hall, listening to the chatter spilling out from dinner, on the way to a naming ceremony for Harry Potter's second child, he thought that he must be having a very surreal dream.

Neither of them ought to have survived, and yet—Potter was reproducing, and Severus was walking arm-in-arm across the Hogwarts grounds with Hermione, who was humming a Christmas carol under her breath.

They reached the gate and locked it behind them; her hand tightened around his. "I'll guide you," she said, and they stepped together into the pressing darkness.

They reappeared on a cobblestone path swept free of snow, though it was piled high on either side, leading to a low hedge. Lanterns drifted through the air of the garden just ahead, shedding light on the party below. He counted half a dozen redheads at first glance.

"Let's get in the warm before we get run over," Hermione said, tucking her hand snugly back into the crook of his arm.

He was seized by the wild impulse to pull away from her, to Apparate back to Hogwarts, to burn the gift in his pocket, but—it would be tantamount to abandoning her, as he'd already done too recently, and he could not, would not, put her through that again. Hermione came with friends, a family, whose lives she could not be apart from; he had to accept this if they were to meet any success at all together.

He could endure it. For her.

They stepped past the hedge that marked the entrance, and Potter spotted them immediately. Glasses flashing in the light, he broke into a grin and hurried over to them.

"So glad you're here," he said to Hermione, giving her a quick, hard hug. He stepped back to look up at Severus, and Severus could see how hard he was working to keep his smile small. "Professor," he said, offering his hand. "Thank you for coming."

Severus nodded, for he did not think that he could honestly say, "Thank you for inviting me," and shook the offered hand.

"Nearly everyone's here," Potter said, peering happily around the garden. "We're going to start in just a few minutes—you're at that end of the table there, with Bill and Fleur and Neville. Oh, here comes Ginny with Al."

"Really, Harry?" Hermione said, exasperated. "Nicknames already?"

"It just came out," he said, very seriously, "and you know how these things stick—how is he?" he asked his wife as she stopped before them, a bundle of blankets in her arms. A tiny face peered from inside, eyes wide and bright green.

"Just fine," she assured him, "here, you take him, my arms are killing me—hi, Hermione."

The two women hugged, and then Hermione leaned over the bundle in Potter's arms. It was obvious how besotted he was with his child; now that it was in his arms, he had eyes for nothing else.

"Aren't you a precious thing," Hermione cooed. "He's got your eyes, Harry."

"He does, doesn't he?" Mrs. Potter said—it was hard not to think of her as Miss Weasley, even after years had passed. She darted a sideways glance at Severus. "Hi, Professor Snape," she said. She didn't seem the least bit intimidated by him, but then, she hadn't ever been. "Thanks for coming."

He nodded again. Perhaps he could go the entire evening without saying a thing.

"Now, if my brother would ever turn up—" she started, but just then, there was a faint pop beyond the hedge.

"That'll be Ron," Harry said, catching Hermione's eye, "he's the only one left."

"We'll sit down," she said quickly.

Mrs. Potter hurried off past the hedge to greet her brother—though by the look on her face, Severus thought it more likely that she would curse him—and Hermione tugged on his arm to lead him to the end of the long table.

They only had time to exchange greetings with the others already seated, and then the floating lanterns dimmed and brightened again. The little family stood in the middle of the garden, near the centre of the table—the baby once again in Mrs. Potter's arms, another child clinging to Potter's leg, staring around at all the people.

"Thank you all so much for coming," Mrs. Potter said; her voice was enough to carry over the garden to them all. "This'll be a short thing, really, because I know that all of us are really just looking forward to dinner, but—we wanted to introduce you to our new son."

"So," Potter said bracingly, as though he expected to be cursed very soon—he looked, in fact, very nervous, nothing at all like he had five minutes before. He caught Severus's eye, and there was something like an apology on his face. "Everyone, please say hello to Albus Severus Potter."

Severus thought: That is a terrible name.

"Al for short," Potter added, and a few people chuckled.

Severus thought, not for the first time: I am going to kill Harry Potter.

"Named for two great men," Potter went on, "who taught me, protected me, and most importantly—devoted their lives to making sure our children's future was a good one." He raised his glass. "To Albus Severus Potter."

The crowd repeated his name, and the baby's tiny fist flailed, and his brother said loudly, "Can we eat yet?"

The adults laughed, glasses clinked, and everyone started passing platters of food around. No one had done more than shoot a smile Severus's way, as though this had been entirely expected and not at all unwelcome. Hermione was giving him a very funny look—half-apologetic, but the corner of her mouth kept hitching up. She squeezed his hand under the table.

"You knew," he said.

"For months." Her voice was suitably contrite, at least. "Ginny tried to talk him out of it."

"It's a terrible name."

She snorted. "Well, he'll have a backbone, at least." She accepted a platter of chicken from Bill Weasley.

In all their preparations for this party, he'd never expected this. It was—it was irritating, and impertinent, and—

And Potter had made a meaningful gesture out of it. Severus could grudgingly admit that there were a dozen names he could have chosen from—people who had been kinder to him and still fulfilled the criteria—but he had chosen Severus for this, an olive branch to end all olive branches.

"He thought you might curse him," Hermione said matter-of-factly, now spooning potatoes onto her plate. "Had his wand up his sleeve and everything."

He scoffed. "He was standing too close to his children. It's not their fault."

"Good of you," she said, but she was smiling.

Overall, Hermione thought it had been a resounding success.

Severus had joined her conversation with Bill, Fleur, and Neville; she'd seen him discreetly leave a gift box on the table groaning with presents; and perhaps most astonishing of all, he'd spent more than five minutes talking to Harry, both of them clutching their goblets of wine for dear life, as if the world might end if one of them didn't insult the other soon.

And she'd even said a brief hello to Ron, who'd come without Pansy. The R.S.V.P. card to his wedding was tucked into the pocket of her peacoat, and she was no longer sure she wouldn't go.

It was going on eight o'clock by the time they returned to Hogwarts, wading through the snow arm-in-arm. Despite the cold, she felt pleasantly warm, flushed by the victory.

"Thank you for coming," she said.

He grumbled a little. "It was an ambush."

"I've been ambushed, and it was a lot worse than that."

He grumbled again, but she took this as his admission that she was, after all, right. She let go of his arm as they entered the castle.

He tipped his head, just slightly, toward the stairs; she nodded and followed along at his side, back to his quarters. Hogwarts was quiet, the halls dark, curfew approaching. He took down his wards and let her in, shutting the door behind him.

It was approaching now, the other thing she'd steeled herself to do tonight. Somehow, she was more nervous about his reaction to this than she'd been about the naming—for she had only been an accomplice in that, not the perpetrator.

He reached past her to pull the catch that gave way to his sitting room, and he was close enough for her to lean up and kiss him. His hand slipped on the bookshelf; rather than opening the passage, his hands fell to her waist and pushed her up against the books. Her heart throbbed in the region of her throat.

"Now who's stalling?" he murmured against her mouth, slipping his hands beneath her coat.

She let out a shaky laugh. "You, I think," she teased. "Again."

His lips brushed the point just beneath her jaw that made her shudder; his teeth followed shortly after. "Is this about the box you've hidden under my couch?" he asked.

She gasped. "You didn't open it, did you?"

"You only put it there today; I haven't had time."

She smacked his shoulder. "Well, we'd better get on with it, then."

"Absolutely," he said, his hands drifting lower, fingers digging into her hips.

She reached for the catch herself, and the bookshelf opened to let them through. He grumbled again when she pulled away.

"So much complaining tonight," she said, rolling her eyes.

In his sitting room, she pulled the box from its hiding place. Luckily, he kept his quarters clean; it didn't have a trace of dust on it. Nervous again, she held it out to him. He took it as though it might explode at any moment.

"It's only a gift," she said, a little exasperation bleeding through her nerves. "For your birthday. Which, I have it on good authority, happens to be today."

He sat down on the couch, box on his lap, and looked at it.

"I'm going to die if you don't open it," she sighed, sitting down beside him.

His lip twitched. "So dramatic." He lifted the lid and sifted around in the tissue paper inside, finally coming up with a long, dark green scarf.

She'd gone back and forth on what to give him a dozen times; she had paused in the making of the scarf and considered other things, which meant that she'd barely finished it in time. Looking at it now, she wished she'd gone with one of those obscure Russian Defence texts instead. It was a little lopsided, and the bits of silver didn't show through properly in all the right places; she was out of practice.

"It's not much," she began, but he cut her off.

"You made this?"

A little red in the face, she nodded.

"For me."

Staring at her lap, she nodded again.

"Then I like it. Very much."

His long fingers tipped her chin up again, and for the briefest of instants, she saw the tender fondness in his dark eyes—all for her—and then his lips had parted hers and she saw nothing at all.

It was still new, touching him—tasting him—being with him—and her heart shuddered in her chest when he hauled her into his lap, brushing the box aside and half-crushing it. Her blood sang to have his body beneath hers, his warmth pressing up against her, his arms looped around her to pull her close, close, closer—

"Too many clothes," he muttered, pulling the hat from her head. He went back to the work he'd started on her coat in his office, slipping each button free, and she started to do the same to his shirt, her fingers fumbling.

He pushed off her coat, knocked it to the floor. She'd only managed one more button on his shirt when he tugged at the hem of her sweater, pulling it impatiently up and over her head. With a huff of exasperation, her arms freed again, she went back to his buttons while he reached around to slip the clasp of her bra free.

The shirt undone, she pulled him forward to strip it from his arms; his teeth found the crook of her neck, his hands spread wide and warm on the bare expanse of her back, and heat bloomed deep inside her, throbbing at the join of her thighs—

His shirt was flung off toward the coffee table, and then he bore her down to the couch, his fingers pulling at the button and zipper of her jeans. She tapped the small of his back with her heel, gasping, "Boots!" and he slid away down her legs to yank them off, dropping them over the back of the couch. He took her socks, too, pressed a kiss to the instep of each foot—she squealed—before returning to the task of removing her pants.

She was already wet, slick, and when she was finally bare, her legs spread for him to see, he sank down between them and drew his tongue slowly up, up—

He'd been merciless in his teasing, these past few weeks, bringing her close and then backing away, letting her suffer until she could no longer form words but simply keen for release; tonight, though, his tongue settled swiftly into the rhythm she loved best, worked at her diligently until she could only cry her pleasure, drawing closer and closer and closer—

He pulled away at the last moment—she cried out, her hips jerking up for relief no longer there—but then he was feathering kisses up the length of her body, over her breasts, hips settling between her thighs, the blunt head of him slipping easily inside her until he was buried there.

She strained up against him, gasping; he caught her mouth with his just as he drew back and thrust, the cut of his teeth on her lip. She groaned his name, and he thrust again, making sure to rock against her, perfect pressure against that spot—just there—

She quivered, broke apart, chased the last of that brilliant, endless sensation with her eyes shut tight.

She could feel the length of him, still hard inside her, as she relaxed into the couch cushions; he rocked against her more gently now, shallow strokes that stirred her arousal again. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her face, dark eyes fixed on hers.

"More," she whispered, her mouth dry. "Please—"

He pushed up from the couch and knelt between her legs instead, one hand gripped tight into her hip; he slid impossibly deeper and slowly, almost lazily, drew back. She clutched the cushions so hard that her fingers began to ache. He reached up to cup her breast, roll her nipple between his fingers, and sank into her again.

She'd lost the breath to beg; she raised her hips to meet his, and hoped it was enough.