According to Hinduism, Danu is the goddess of water; the name and legend is mostly lost to Irish mythology, which is where Severus had assumed Black had learned of the name. Some sources claim Danu to be the same figure as Anu, the mother of Gods. Others believe her to be The Morrigan, the Phantom Queen. Whether she be the mother, the maiden, and the crone, the goddess of all, the mother of Danavas, or the harbinger of doom, death, and victory, he did not care. It simply did not matter to him. Her namesake was before him, and she was everything. She is his world. His past, present, and future. Her name will forever be linked to his, possibly for the rest of eternity. She will go down in history as being the secret lover of Hogwarts most hated Headmaster, surpassing even her great-great-great grandfather, Phineas Nigellus Black. Severus couldn't bring himself to say her name, even in his thoughts, it felt sacrilegious on his tainted tongue. He had let it slip from his mouth only once, and even that had been too much for his conscious to bear.

Severus could not understand why she stood by his side after everything he had done to her, everything that he had shown her in her memories. They had, to be honest, been an attempt to soften the blow of his death for her. The final memory, the one in which he murdered Albus Dumbledore, was deliberate. He had wanted her to be left with that; the knowledge that it had been his hand. He had hoped that it would be enough to push her to move on, find someone good for her.

He had always struggled with their age difference, that was no secret. Now, however, he found himself struggling with it more than ever. She should be finding herself, living her life without a husband nearly twice her age and child weighing her down.

Severus could feel her slipping from him. The way she hid her body as she stepped from the shower, something she had never done before. He saw it in the way she averted her eyes and stiffened ever so slightly when he would place his hands on her stomach. She no longer initiated intercourse, stopped herself from weaving her limbs with his in her sleep, and no longer placed her hand on the arm of the couch for him to trace with his own. He knew, of course, how pregnancy hormones effected women, but this was different. He was losing her, he knew it. Felt it in his soul, it was only a matter of time before she told him to leave. Every night she lie curled with that damn cat in their bed, whispering to it the way she used to whisper to him in bed. She told the cat often how much she loved it, but not him. The words hadn't left her lips against his skin in so long now that it felt like they had been a dream. He wanted to of course he did, he loved being inside of her, feeling her body react to his touch, her breath on his skin, she had obviously grown to despise him, just as he had wanted her to. That was before though, before he could admit that he loved her more than life itself.

Minerva had come to see him, apparently she came often while he lie there unconscious. She hadn't come back since he had woke, didn't even come to his wife's baby shower that Molly had thrown for her. Severus had hoped that she would come during the holidays. He knew firsthand how strenuous being a Headmaster was, possibly more so now that the war had ended. He wanted to speak to her, beg for her forgiveness, yet he could not bring himself to write to her. Potter came often, though not as much now that the novelty of him being awake wore off. Draco had come to the baby shower but would not speak to him. The last time his godson had spoken to him was the day he yelled at him for being a bastard to her. Severus was thankful, of course, that they had all rallied behind his wife, ensured she was taken care of, yet he felt such an intense rush of loneliness. His life had always been solitary, he had only himself to rely on, now though, he felt lost.

As January draws to a close, so does her patience with this pregnancy. Her temper is short, and hormones are raging. She was having such a hard time staying awake during the day but could get no rest at night as she curled her back against his chest and he placed his hands on her firm stomach, feeling their child squirm and roll within. She would tense as he placed his hand there, part of him wanted to extract his hand and never touch her again, if that's what she desired so badly, but he couldn't. The tenderness and optimism he felt for the life growing within her was much too strong.

Severus enjoyed just watching her, he always had. Her stomach had dropped low, giving one the impression that it would just fall to the ground from beneath her blouse. She waddled, much like a duck, which he found to be only slightly comical. Tears were a frequent addition to their days, sometimes for no reason at all. When he would inquire as to why she was crying uncontrollably, she would only sob harder, before finally admitting that she, herself, had no idea why.

She hadn't mentioned Rose, had not said a single word about his finding her. He had thought that perhaps the following day, or even the day after, she would regret her decision and ask him to bring her back, to revive and alter her memory. Women often want their own mothers shortly before becoming a mother themselves, he thought she would as well. She has an obvious fear of abandonment, that much was clear, perhaps that was what was holding her back. Severus had briefly thought of going back alone, doing what needed to be done, and bringing Rose to their home, but with the way her hormones had been raging lately, he doubted that to be the best course of action.

The midwife, came every three days at this point. Checking her blood pressure, the child's heartbeat, and whether or not there were any signs of labor. She is a week overdue, miserable, and begging every night for the child to just get out of her body. At this point, they were both beginning to believe that this child would simply never come.

"The first ones are never eager to come." The midwife chuckles as she removes her sterile gloves and presses her wand sharply into his wife's stomach, their daughters heartbeat echoes throughout the room. "I'll give you a drought next time, if babe's still in no hurry to get here."

Mallory leaves, and she once again starts crying.

"I'm so tired of being pregnant!" She sobs into her hands as he strokes her back gently.

"I know." Severus soothes, at least, he tries to.

"No, you don't!" She snaps, her eyes fix on him in an accusing manor. He backs down, not willing to argue, not wanting to further upset her.

Severus had finished the nursery weeks ago. The white cot he had bought to surprise her stood proudly beneath the window, to the left, where his mother's bed had been, is a matching white changing table. The vanity that belonged to his grandmother remained in the room, the broken mirror now repaired, and a fresh coat of paint upon its century old wood. Tiny pale yellow, white, and grey outfits line the white chest of drawers on the right side of the room; its top filled with strange stuffed toys. Molly had made a pale yellow quilt, which lay folded over the cots rail, inside is a very ugly stuffed hippogriff his wife had seen in a shop and fell in love with. Next to the cot is a rocking chair with soft, pale yellow cushions. He had insisted on pink, or even emerald green, but she would not budge. She still stubbornly had it in her head that they were having a son, her mind could not be swayed.

He stands there in the room for a moment, running his hand over the smooth wood of the cots railing, imagining, as he had every day for months at this point, the tiny person who will lie in this very cot any day now. Fantasying about what their daughter would look like, who she would grow to be. A sense of pride runs through him at the thought of her being a Slytherin. His cauldron, well, now her cauldron, sits proudly on a shelf near her cot, waiting for the day he can finally teach her to brew.

—

Saturday, sixth of February, Severus wakes to an empty bed shortly before five in the morning. Making his way downstairs to investigate his wife's absence, he is met with her figure hunched over the back of the sofa in the glow of firelight. She sways slightly back and forth on either leg while her forehead rests on her arms that are draped over the sofas back. He approaches slowly and carefully reaches one hand out to rest on her shoulder. She's trembling like a leaf; a slow, rhythmic tremble of someone in a great deal of pain. She does not jerk away from him, nor does she lean into his touch, she simply allows it to happen as if she were completely unaware of his presence. A low moan escapes her throat and reverberates into the hand he held on her shoulder.

"How long?" Severus asks after he allows her to ride out the contraction and relax her back which had tensed considerably as the wave of pain undoubtedly coursed through her.

"All night." She replies, her voice muffled due to her head still being buried in her arms.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"I wanted you to rest. You need sleep."

"I could have brewed th—"

"No." She cuts him off, her voice stronger than it had been at the start of the conversation. "They won't work. Missus Weasley already warned me. She told me not to even bother with them, said they only make you tired."

"Perhaps I could brew—" he begins, searching for an alternative. He, of course, had no idea the pain she was in, but remembered the howls of Narcissa Malfoy the night Draco had been born; the howls that continued no matter the potion he brewed her.

"No. Just—please just rub my back." She begs just before she begins to moan once more.

Severus does as she asks as she rocks back and forth on her feet and grips the back of the sofa so tightly he briefly wonders whether the ancient fabric will withstand many more hours of abuse.

Time blurs and fades as the day progresses. Everything moves painstakingly slowly, yet speeds by at the same time. Severus is there physically, smoothing the hair from her sweat dampened face, massaging her lower back, holding cups of water to her lips as she gulps greedily, and answering questions from the seemingly ever changing midwives present in the tiny house. Mentally, however, he is not there. If one had asked him his name, or his even where he was at that moment, he doubted he would be able to answer. His mind swarmed with fear, doubt, guilt. The thought of something going wrong, something happening to her, or the child, paralyzed him. Women still died in childbirth; his own grandmother was proof of that. Children, of course, still died in childbirth as well, though, he did not know anyone personally who had experienced that, and at the moment he was thankful, for if he did, his mind would be fixated on the matter.

She is tired and losing strength. He can see it in the dark circles beneath her eyes, the way her face has paled and somehow reddened at the same time. Her eyes roll back in her head between each wave of pain that courses through her body. Half-moon indentions litter his arms and hands from her fingernails digging into them, but he does not care. The sun has long set and risen again; she has been at it now for almost thirty-two hours. Severus watches as she paces, pants, bends, stretches, and crouches; doing anything possible to escape the intense pain controlling her body. If she were lucid, he would guide her to use her mind to block the pain, to control it and use it as strength, but nothing anyone says to her at the moment is decipherable in her state.

Severus stands from his seat and slinks out of the door, hopeful that she does not notice. Two midwives are tending to her, mopping her forehead with a damp cloth and whispering words of praise in her ear as she sways at the foot of the bed and grips the foot board so tightly her hands go white. He has to get air; the room is hot and crowded and his heart pounds so fast in his chest it begins to pain him. He hadn't smoked since the night he had been bitten, hadn't had a single craving. Tonight however, he reaches for the do doubt stale pack of clove cigarettes next to his heavy amber ashtray on the bookshelf in the parlor, and steps out into the crisp, cool night air. Hs head swims deliciously as the nicotine rushes through his bloodstream and he is finally able to relax his jaw. He had been clenching it so tightly he felt as if every tooth in his head might snap. Closing his eyes and leaning back against the cool brick of the old house, he listens as tiny ice crystals bounce off of the newly frozen over snow on the ground. It is a disgusting, bitterly cold night. Not a night one would expect to be welcoming their first child. It should be sunny and beautiful, a perfect spring day where the ground pushes fourth new life and birds chatter overhead. That should be the day waiting to greet his daughter, not this. Perhaps it is an omen, a sign that her life will be as dark and dreary as his own. No, it can't be. He pushes those thoughts from his head and stubs his cigarette out beneath his foot, his wife's cries from above filling the night air. A few yards away, nestled amongst the winter-bare rose bushes is his mother's grave. Severus makes his way to it and runs his fingers over the rough, ice cold stone.

"You'll be a grandma tonight, mum." He whispers, his heart pounding in his chest at the thought. A single tear falls from his eye, he reaches up and flicks it away quickly, should she actually be able to see him from wherever or whatever afterlife there may be. "I wish you were here, mummy. I miss you."

As dawn breaks on the morning of Monday, eighth of February 1999, Severus watches in awe as a midwife pulls a tiny, slick body from its mother's womb. A single loud squeal fills the room as the wriggling little being is placed on his wife's chest. She cups the babies elongated head in one hand, while the other still clutches the bed sheets as if her life depend on it. Her head is thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut, a look of pain and terror still etched on to her face. Finally, she opens her eyes and looks down just as the room fills with the sharp, high pitched scream of their daughter.

Lorna is a sight. Her skin is slick and pink, her toothless mouth opened in a scream, a head full of pitch black hair slick on her elongated head. Her mother cups the back of her head and stares at her, Lorna stops screaming instantly and stares back into her mother's eyes. It felt as if he were intruding on a private moment, two lost souls finally meeting after a lifetime apart, yet he could not look away. He was fixated, obsessed with the sight before him.

"What's her name, love?" A midwife asks. Severus sneers at her for interrupting the scene before him.

"Her?" She asks, her eyes never leaving the child's.

"Her." Severus repeats, his eyes also glued to their daughters tiny pink face.

"Lorna. Her name is Lorna Eileen Snape."

Severus freezes, one hand lifted to smooth the hair behind his wife's ear. He hadn't thought, hadn't imagined. He had believed, even expected, that she would call her Lorna Rose, perhaps even Lorna Iris. Never, not in his wildest dream, had he expected her to name their daughter after his mother. A strangled sob escapes his lips, he struggles for a moment to prevent the tears from streaming from his eyes. He stands from his chair and towers over his wife, catching a proper sight of his daughter for the first time as she clamps her mouth onto her mother's breast a suckles greedily. Her eyes are still opened, gazing up at her mother as if she were the most important person in the world; and to her, well, him as well, she is. Lorna's eyes are blue, a hazy, milky color that seemed unnatural.

"She's got your fingers." His wife whispers as she takes the child's clenched fist between her fingers. "And your hair. She's got my ears, though."

Lorna does, in fact, have her mother's ears. Her fingers, however, reminded him more of hers. They each have long, elegant fingers, though hers are slightly different. Her fingernails are long and slender on her finger, while his are short and wide. The hair is all his, all his mothers.

"Her eyes are blue, though." His wife whispers as their daughter continues to feed at her breast.

"They'll likely darken with time." A midwife replies, interrupting their family bonding. He already wishes they would leave and let them be alone.

Severus reaches out and rubs a curled finger down Lorna's cheek, she scrunches her brow and tucks her face further into her mother's breast before her eyes flutter shut. It has been a big day for her. He couldn't image being forced into life was an easy feat, even if she weren't the one doing any of the work. A sense of pride and blind terror fill him to the brim. She is here, she is perfect, and she is safe.