Be careful what you joke about—you might just jinx yourself.

The sitting room of the Potter home was unusually full that evening, packed with friends and family celebrating the newest addition to the ever-growing Potter-Weasley clan. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, its glow casting flickering light over the room, mingling with the steady hum of conversation, the occasional clink of glasses, and the soft, intermittent fussing of the newborn at the center of it all.

Gifts were stacked in the corner, some still wrapped, others torn open with ribbons and bows strewn about in the aftermath of Ginny's efficient unwrapping. She sat comfortably on the sofa, examining each gift with a mix of amusement and gratitude, while Harry hovered nearby, looking overwhelmed but content.

Sirius Black had made himself at home in an armchair, feet propped on an ottoman, swirling a butterbeer as he lazily watched Teddy Lupin—currently mid-lecture—animatedly explaining something about baby names to Andromeda. Across the room, however, stood Severus Snape, arms crossed, radiating the distinct air of a man who had been tricked into attending his own execution.

And, in a way, he had been.

Dragged here by Sirius's sheer persistence and irritating smirk, Severus had resigned himself to a torturous evening of saccharine nonsense, insipid small talk, and the unbearable weight of sentimentality. He had intended to keep his contribution to the gathering minimal—silent, unimpressed, and lurking near the least offensive bottle of whiskey he could find.

That plan unraveled the moment Minerva McGonagall cleared her throat and raised her glass.

"To little Albus Severus Potter," she announced warmly, lifting her goblet in a toast. "May he grow to be as brave and clever as the men he was named after."

Severus nearly choked on his tea.

There was a beat of stunned silence before he set his glass down with deliberate finality, as though continuing to drink would somehow be condoning this atrocity.

"Absolutely not," he said flatly.

Minerva arched an eyebrow. "It's already been decided, Severus."

"Then undecide it," he shot back, his glare shifting from Ginny to Harry and back again, each pass carrying more visible horror. "Surely there is still time to reconsider this appalling lapse in judgment."

Harry, barely concealing his amusement, gently rocked the baby and replied with infuriating calm, "Actually, Albus's name is already in the Hogwarts admissions book."

Minerva nodded, a smirk playing at her lips—one Severus found particularly offensive. "Indeed. As Headmaster, you should know that the moment a child's name is decided, the quill records it. There's no changing it now."

Severus's expression darkened. He turned sharply to Harry. "You did this on purpose."

Harry shrugged, entirely unapologetic. "I wanted to honor the two bravest men I've ever known."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled slowly, as if reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment. "I do not—and I cannot emphasize this enough—want to share a name with Albus Dumbledoreor any Potter"

"Technically," Sirius interjected, grinning like Christmas had come early, "his middle name is Severus, not his first. So, most people will just call him Albus Potter."

Severus turned a withering glare on him. "This is not the comfort you think it is, Black. His name is still Albus Severus Potter."

Then, as though personally affronted by the sheer audacity of it all, he turned back to Harry, crossing his arms even tighter. "If you were so determined to honor Albus too-many-names Dumbledore, why not go all the way? Name him Albus Godric Cedric Regulus Fabian Gideon Potter—squeeze in every so-called 'brave' soul you could think of and leave me out of it."

Sirius snorted. "Fabian and Gideon? What, no Remus?"

Harry, entirely too amused by the situation, simply shrugged. "Well, we wouldn't want to confuse Teddy. Besides, Fabian and Gideon are already reserved for the first set of twins in the family."

Severus closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, the look of a man facing insurmountable foolishness.

Harry's amusement dimmed just slightly as he adjusted the baby in his arms. His voice softened, quiet but sure. "I know you don't like it, Severus. But it means something to me. I didn't just do it because of the past—I did it because of the man you are now. Because you mattered."

Severus inhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around his sleeves. "You expect flattery to make this tolerable?"

Harry just met his gaze, steady and unyielding. "I expect you to understand why I did it."

Severus scowled. "This is emotional manipulation."

"And yet," Minerva said dryly, sipping her drink, "there's nothing you can do about it."

A long silence followed.

Severus's glare could have peeled paint, but Harry held firm, unwavering. Sirius, meanwhile, was watching like a spectator at an excellent duel, clearly reveling in the drama.

Then Ginny, who had remained quiet through the exchange, spoke up, her voice calm but certain.

"Al has Harry's eyes."

It was a simple statement. Not meant as an argument or a plea—just an observation.

Severus stilled. His expression remained unreadable, but something flickered in his dark eyes—something brief, nearly imperceptible, but undeniable.

Ginny, perceptive as ever, didn't press. She simply adjusted the baby slightly in Harry's arms and murmured, "You can hold him, if you want."

Severus didn't move at first.

Then, with measured reluctance, he stepped forward. Hesitated. And, with the kind of careful precision usually reserved for handling volatile potions, reached out.

Ginny gently transferred the tiny bundle into his arms.

The baby stirred, face scrunching briefly before settling again, soft and warm and impossibly small against the black fabric of Severus's robes.

And Severus, despite himself, looked down.

The resemblance was unmistakable—the same green eyes, bright even in infancy. The same eyes that had haunted him for years, had looked at him with fury, with grief, with accusation.

And yet.

These eyes held no anger. No pain. No judgment.

Just quiet curiosity, blinking up at him, unaware of the weight they carried.

Harry said nothing. Neither did Sirius.

Severus exhaled slowly, a careful, measured breath. His grip was firm but gentle, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"This is still an appalling decision," he muttered at last.

Harry grinned. "Duly noted."

Sirius clapped Severus on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Snape. One day, that kid's going to be old enough to ask why he was named after you, and you get to decide how you answer."

Severus considered that for a long moment.

Then, to everyone's surprise, the faintest smirk ghosted across his lips.

"Very well," he said dryly, eyes glinting just slightly. "But if he grows up to be insufferable, I reserve the right to say I told you so."

Sirius laughed. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

Still scowling but no longer resisting, Severus handed the baby back to Ginny with a huff. "I'll be retired long before any more Potters or Weasleys infest Hogwarts," he muttered.

And if, later, when no one was paying attention, he found himself staring into the tiny, too-familiar green eyes once more—his fingers ghosting over the child's hand, just for a moment—well.

That was between him and Albus Severus Potter.

Notes:

I wrote this after the scene where they joked about Harry naming his second son after Severus—so what if it actually happened, just like in canon? lol