Title: Made-Up Lullaby #43
Author: fitofpique
Team: Dragon
Genre(s): Humour/Crack
Prompt(s): Baby Blues, Sleeplessness
Rating: NC-17
Warning/Kinks:*AU, EWE*
Word Count: ~20,500
Summary: People who say they sleep like a baby don't usually have one.
A/N: Thank you to all the amazing members of Team Dragon, to my betas, tarteaucitron, pippinmctaggart, and schemingreader, and to cindyjade for loving and nurturing this story from start to finish.

Made-Up Lullaby #43

The news that Severus Snape is not actually dead is at first a source of great disappointment to the wizarding world. Much to Severus' dismay, however, that happy state of affairs does not last. The day after Potter testifies at his trial, the Daily Prophet hails him as "The Man Who Lived". He has barely recovered from the resulting hangover when the press leaks lurid details about the upcoming Order of Merlin ceremony, the memory of which will haunt him for years to come.

Within a week of that ordeal, Severus cannot walk down Diagon Alley unmolested. Within a fortnight, he is living in self-imposed exile in Muggle London in a powerfully warded flat, constantly plagued with unwelcome attention from his new admirers, the occasional death threat from former acquaintances, and frequently issued invitations to tea from Hogwarts' new Headmistress. His life has become a living hell — a situation which, he long ago decided, is only moderately preferable to the real thing.

Severus does not bother to hide his disdain as he glances around the unspeakably over-decorated ballroom at the appallingly over-dressed attendees of the Ministry's Annual Remembrance Day Gala. His scorn for the entire affair and everyone present is writ large on his face. At one time, his stormy expression would have deterred people from approaching him but, five years after the war, his bad temper has been accepted as a charming eccentricity, a fact that makes him long for bygone days.

"Severus!" bellows an almost perfectly spherical wizard with a face as devoid of interest as a teaspoon, seizing his hand in two damp, meaty paws and shaking it with savage enthusiasm.

Severus wishes ardently to be elsewhere but is at a distinct disadvantage seated. "Good evening," he says, through gritted teeth, attempting to extricate himself from the man's sweaty clutches.

"It's absolutely brilliant to see you, old man. We weren't sure you'd make it. I was just saying to Rupert that it wouldn't be much of a bash without—"

On and on he drones. Severus stares at his moonface and indulges himself in a short but absorbing fantasy involving a variety of painful but not permanently crippling hexes and very deliberately does not let his gaze stray across the table. If he looks at Potter's undoubtedly smug face right now he might not be able to get through the evening without casting an Unforgivable. He slides his hand into the pocket of his best dress robes and strokes his thumb lightly down his wand. The answering vibration soothes him until he can recover his hand and his composure.

He takes a large swallow of the truly abysmal chardonnay on offer and distracts himself by wondering how they convinced the kneazle to piss in the bottle. One of life's many mysteries.

At the front of the room, a great rustling arises as the choir assembles itself. Robes and gowns are smoothed and sheet music shuffles and arranges itself ostentatiously in mid-air. He can feel Potter's eyes on him, a spot of heat on his cheek, but he deliberately does not turn.

The conductor taps his wand on his podium with a flourish and the choir begins to sing. Immediately it is apparent that the singers have been given a great deal of autonomy with regard to both lyrics and key. Severus represses a flinch at the memory that evokes and inadvertently locks eyes with Potter across the table. The one-time saviour of the wizarding world spears a walnut from his salad with a smirk.

"I read in the Evening Prophet that you received another honorary doctorate, Snape. The Royal Scottish Academy of Magical Arts, wasn't it?"

Severus suppresses a sigh. After his trial, Potter had got it in his otherwise empty head that he and Severus would become "friends". Severus had quickly disabused him of the notion and Potter had never forgiven him. He does his best to antagonize Severus whenever they are forced into company, in spite of the fact that Severus always beats him at his own game.

Potter never was one to learn from his mistakes.

Severus empties his wine goblet and signals for a refill before replying. "You of all people should be aware that one cannot believe everything one reads in the press, Mr. Potter." Potter opens his mouth to reply but Severus cuts him off. "Miss Weasley didn't accompany you this evening?"

Severus has quite enjoyed reading the papers' speculation on Potter's very-public split from Ginevra Weasley. He takes great pride in the almost imperceptible tightening of Potter's jaw when his barb hits home.

"Harry?" Hermione Granger has always been too perceptive for her own good. "Could you please pass the butter?" she asks, placing a steadying hand on Potter's arm. Potter does, and Granger whispers something in his ear that Severus is obviously not meant to hear. Potter nods and visibly relaxes.

"I'm afraid I'm on my own tonight, same as you, Snape. Though I have to admit to being a bit surprised about that — I've heard that you have hordes of admirers banging down your door." Potter's voice is steady, his expression composed.

The desire to wipe that bland look off Potter's face is overwhelming. "I'm not interested," Severus scoffs. "And you? Trouble in paradise?" he asks with mock-innocence.

Potter's hold on his cutlery tightens tellingly, and his expression turns peevish. He shakes his head. "You just can't help yourself, can you, Snape?" The edge to his voice pleases Severus immeasurably.

"I could," he responds, "but what would be the fun in that?"

"You're an utter prick," Potter says, fork screeching across his plate when he stabs a leaf of rocket with excessive force.

"Tut tut," Severus says, shaking his head. "You have no greater control of your temper than you did as a teenager, Potter."

Potter opens his mouth to speak then seems to think better of it. He takes a great gulp from his wine goblet, wipes his mouth, and proceeds to strangle his linen napkin into submission.

Severus has to repress the urge to laugh. Needling Potter is almost too easy to be enjoyable. Almost. "And how are things at work, Mr. Potter?"

Potter's face turns scarlet and he makes an abortive lunge across the table, knocking his water glass into the candelabra centrepiece and causing a dreadful clatter. All eyes turn to their table and there is a great flap of robes, wands, and napkins as Granger, another Ministry peon whose name Severus has already forgotten, and a tangle of waiters attempt to clean up the mess. Severus mentally awards himself a point and takes another swig of the wine. It no longer tastes quite as dreadful. In fact, it tastes like victory.

Suddenly Potter is standing beside him. Apparently he's had time, in between the cock-ups and scandals, to learn a few impressive Auror tricks. "That's it!" Potter hisses through clenched teeth, glaring down at Severus.

"I beg your pardon?" Severus asks. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Potter shakes his head. "Let's go outside," he says, in a tone that suggests he is used to people doing as he says.

"I don't think so, Potter." Severus no longer obeys orders.

Potter continues to loom over him, something that in any other situation would be impossible. Severus shrugs and eats a slice of pear with a smear of blue cheese in what he hopes is a cavalier manner.

"What's the matter, Snape?" Potter asks, putting a hand on the back of his chair and leaning in so that only Severus can hear his next words. "Haven't you've always wanted to give me a good thrashing? Here's your chance, if you think you're up to it."

"You want to duel?" he asks, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

Potter shakes his head. "Not duel, no."

Well, this is quite unexpected. It would seem he has finally pushed Potter too far.

Severus considers for a moment the wisdom of engaging in fisticuffs with an infuriated Potter, who doubtless fights like a terrier. He glances around the ballroom. The evening has been excruciating thus far, and it promises to be even more unbearable once the endless speeches begin, not to mention the inevitable dancing.

Perhaps, on this one occasion, he should not look a gift horse in the mouth.

The glow of his lumos shows Severus that this particular alleyway, adjacent to the hotel and several public houses, is a popular spot for indulging in the after-effects of overconsumption — biliousness, brawling, fucking — and as such he is reluctant to take off his robe and throw it carelessly on the pavement, filthy with broken bottles, rubbish, and slime of unidentifiable origin.

Potter seems to share the sentiment. He transfigures a splintered crate into a plain wooden chair and tosses his robe over the back before unbuttoning the cuffs of his pristine white shirt and rolling the sleeves to his elbow, revealing lightly muscled forearms. Snape hesitates a moment and then reluctantly sheds his robe as well, folding it and placing it neatly on the chair. He contemplates loosing a few buttons but decides not to bother. He is confident this confrontation will not last long.

"Wands?" Severus asks, taking care to sound as unconcerned as possible.

"On the chair as well?" Potter removes his from a pocket within his robes and waves it interrogatively.

"Very well." Severus sets his wand down and resumes his position, facing Potter at a distance of some three feet.

One moment Potter's wand is in his hand and the next it isn't. At Severus' questioning glance, Potter nods at his robe. "In the pocket."

At least the little show-off has the sense to look somewhat sheepish this time, so Severus decides to take his word for it. And then there is nothing but to wait for Potter to make a move. However, it appears that Potter is in the dark as to the finer points of hand-to-hand combat: he merely stares at Severus like an imbecile, his hands hanging loose by his side, his expression uncertain.

Severus can't conceal his impatience. "Take your time, Potter. I have all night," he snaps.

Potter's fists clench, true to form, and Severus has to restrain himself from summoning his wand and putting a prompt end to this stupidity. If Potter wants to fight him — like a Muggle, of all things — Severus will happily oblige him. But if Potter thinks Severus will fight fairly, he is as stupid as his hair looks.

Severus moves a step closer, hoping to unnerve his opponent, spur him to action, but Potter merely shakes his head.

"I hate you," he says, but the words lack the fervour they would once have had.

Severus sighs. "That was how I had interpreted the situation, yes. Now if you would be so kind?" He gestures between them to indicate his readiness for the forthcoming altercation.

"Right," Potter says, "of course. I'm ready." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and rolls his shoulders briskly.

Severus rolls his eyes heavenward at the utterly useless display and strikes before Potter has time to lift his fists. The blow hits him squarely on the chin and Potter staggers back, his eyebrows raised in astonishment.

Potter's shock turns quickly to avid, self-righteous fury. One moment Severus is forced to sidestep a right hook to the jaw and the next to let Potter land a glancing left jab to his nose — an obvious choice and therefore exactly what Severus is anticipating. It would seem that Potter, in the heat of the moment, utterly abandons his Auror training. How unsurprising.

Severus doubles over and covers his face with his hand, feigning a great deal more pain than he feels. "Merlin," he grinds out, taking care to sound grievously wounded.

When Potter the Predictable leans forward in concern, Severus grabs the fool's tie and lunges upward, smashing their foreheads together with a sickening crunch, a move he is sure hurts him only marginally less than it does Potter.

"Agh, you absolute bastard," Potter cries, wrenching his tie from Severus' grasp and cradling his head in his hands. "I should've known you'd fight dirty."

"Indeed," agrees Severus, and punches him twice in the stomach.

At that, Potter suddenly seems to recognize his impulse to engage Severus in a physical confrontation for what it is — likely the most rash, idiotic decision he has made in some time. He steps closer, depriving Severus of the opportunity to throw another punch, and then, with a savagery that catches him off guard, Potter takes a firm hold of his hair and introduces Severus' face to his upraised knee.

When Potter realizes what he's done, he steps back, heaving desperate breaths and looking overwrought, the very personification of misplaced guilt and regret, further incontrovertible evidence that he still cannot control his seething, irrational, adolescent emotions. And for the first time that evening, Snape moves beyond petty irritation towards actual anger.

Without letting Potter out of his sight, Severus bends over slightly, resting one hand on his knee and performing a cursory examination of his face with the other. Once he has ascertained that he has suffered at worst a cracked cheekbone and blackened eye, he takes advantage of his bowed position to ram his shoulder into Potter's unprotected belly, sending them both sprawling on the begrimed pavement. Potter tries to unseat him, but Severus has him at a disadvantage, which fact he celebrates by bashing Potter one in the face. However, mustering the force necessary for the manoeuvre requires Severus to assume a position that unfortunately exposes his ... vulnerabilities to the untender mercies of Potter's rock-hard thigh, a fact which Potter exploits, to Severus' great surprise.

It's enough to make Severus wonder if he managed to teach Potter one or two things after all.

Cradling his testicles with both hands, he collapses on his side, curls into the fetal position, and attempts to distract himself from the exquisite, sickening agony by mentally listing the contents of Potions Cabinet A-As: Abyssinian shrivelfig, acacia, aconite—

He's not whimpering precisely, but he's making a variety of small, pathetic noises that Potter would certainly ridicule if he weren't snivelling and carrying on as well. But he is, thank all the gods, so Severus bites his lip hard and continues his silent litany of ingredients — acromantula (scopulae, venom), agrimony, alihotsy, aloe resin, althaea, ambergris — and ignores the fact that Potter is prostrate on the damp ground beside him, alternately panting and exhaling long, shaky breaths as the fingers of both hands explore the damage to his face.

"Snape?" Potter's voice is thin and tremulous.

He groans. "Shut up."

But the fool doesn't listen. He never listens.

"Are you all right?" he asks, as though Snape had never spoken.

"Not now," he says through clenched teeth, all his attention focused on the raw, throbbing pulse of pain between his legs, the nausea twisting his guts, the damp grit under his cheek, the name of the malodorous resin he has used in innumerable potions...

When Snape finally salvages asafoetida from his memory, Potter has recovered enough to roll onto his elbow and dab delicately at his bloodied nose with the sleeve of his shirt. He summons his wand from his cloak and transfigures a crumpled beer can into an icepack and sets it on the ground between them.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Snape takes a few deep, calming breaths and replies, in what he believes is a reasonably steady voice, considering. "I'd have done the same to you if I'd had the chance."

"I know," Potter says, wiping a trickle of blood from his chin with skinned knuckles. "I'm still sorry."

Severus accepts the icepack as the conciliatory gestures that it is and places it gingerly where it will do the most good. Potter groans and collapses on his back again, covering his face with his hands.

"Buck up, Potter." Severus' tone is not as cutting as he would like, but at least he's making an effort.

Potter laughs. It's a surprising sound in a squalid alleyway in the aftermath of a fistfight. "Shut up, Snape."

Severus complies. For a time, the only sound is their laboured breaths and the distant noise of traffic.

The thin wail startles them both.

"What was that?" Potter pushes himself into a wobbly sitting position.

Severus summons his wand and struggles to his feet with some difficulty. He grits his molars and leans against the rough brick wall, running through the possibilities in his mind before replying with the most attractive option. "Rats."

"I've never heard a rat make that noise." Potter is on his feet now, swaying alarmingly. Severus grabs his shoulder to steady him. "Is it coming from that skip?" Potter gestures with his wand.

The shriek is more piercing the second time, and they both jump. "It seems to be," Severus replies, dryly.

Potter laughs again and shakes his head. He has picked a remarkable time to develop a sense of humour. They start to shuffle cautiously together toward the source of the noise, wands raised. When Severus realizes he's still clutching Potter's shoulder, he snatches his hand away. At Potter's sidewise glance, Severus straightens his sleeves as though that was his intention all along.

A steady squall is emanating from the bin now. "It could be kittens," Potter says, with false brightness.

"It could be an erkling," Severus replies.

"Ever the optimist," Potter mutters. "Do you want to—?" he gestures at the skip.

Severus shakes his head. "You go ahead. I'm allergic to cats."

Potter retaliates by attempting to blind him with a dazzling lumos. When Severus stops seeing spots, Potter is standing on the transfigured chair, wand held high, peering into the skip. The mewling stops suddenly. "Oh my God," Potter whispers.

"What?" Severus hopes Potter is too distracted to notice the slight tremor in his voice.

Potter ignores him, sticking his wand under his arm and leaning over the edge of the bin. He seems to be struggling with something.

"Potter, what is it?" Severus asks, dread prickling through him, raising the hair on his arms. He takes a step back and casts his own lumos.

When Potter straightens, he is holding something — something small and pink, wriggling and whining — at arm's length. When he turns, he is, absurdly, smiling.

Severus points his wand, clutched in trembling fingers, at the foul, loathsome creature. "Riddikulus!" he shrieks.

Snape is clearly out of his bloody mind. Harry turns away, tucking the baby protectively against his chest, wincing when his bruised knuckles collide with the skip. "What do you think you're doing, Snape?" he shouts back at him. "It's a baby!"

"Potter, how can you be sure?" Snape asks, sounding both anxious and exasperated at once. "You aren't even wearing your glasses!"

"What?" Harry peers over his shoulder at Snape. He's lowered his wand, but he still looks pretty tense, not that Harry's ever seen him look anything but. He's also developing an impressive shiner, which fills Harry with equal parts satisfaction and guilt.

Snape pinches the bridge of his considerably battered nose and huffs a frustrated breath. "Potter, for all you know, you could be clutching a nogtail to your unprotected heart!"

Harry reaches over and grabs the car seat out of the skip and sets it on the ground before turning slowly, still cradling the whimpering baby to his chest. "I have contacts, for sport and things," he explains.

Snape rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Potter, I care very little for your Quidditch acquaintances. Please try to focus, if it isn't too great a strain!"

And just like that, Harry wants to kick him in the crotch all over again. "What are you talking about, Snape?"

"I'm talking about our imminent deaths!" Snape shouts.

The baby jumps in Harry's arms and starts to cry in earnest. He jiggles it awkwardly, patting its back, his glowing wand still clutched in his hand. "Shhh, shhh, shhh," he soothes. He glares at Snape over the baby's shoulder. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he hisses, jiggling and patting, jiggling and patting. Babies may not be his forte, but he's not about to leave one in the rubbish because Snape is mental.

"What's wrong with me?" Snape whisper-shouts. "The only thing wrong with me is that I was foolish enough to let you lure me into a dark alleyway and now we're going to be devoured by a ... a ravening permutable quintaped!"

Harry looks down at the bawling baby, its damply scrunched red face under a tiny pink and white striped cap, and he can't help it. He starts to laugh.

"Potter," Snape says in a warning tone. His face is almost as red as the baby's. "This is serious!"

"I'm sorry!" Harry lowers the baby gently into her seat and then collapses against the skip, doubled over laughing. "I just didn't realize ravening permutable quintapeds shopped at Baby Gap."

"I don't know why you insisted on bringing the creature here," Snape says, looking around Harry's loft with a strange mixture of distaste and poorly disguised curiousity. "Assuming it is an abandoned child, shouldn't you take it directly to the Auror station? Aren't there forms you should be filling out? Agencies to contact? Other pointlessly bureaucratic hoops to jump through?"

He should and there are, but Harry's not about to admit that to Snape. "I won't just hand her over to a bunch of strangers, Snape." There is a small chance that Harry's response might reveal a little too much about his own issues, but that's between Harry and his Ministry-appointed therapist. He sets the baby seat on the kitchen island worktop and focuses his attention on unbuckling the many safety straps.

"In case you've forgotten, Potter, we are strangers." Snape strides around to the opposite side of the island, looking distinctly nervous. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Do what?" Harry asks, lifting the baby up and nestling her into the crook of his arm. Mercifully, she seems quite sleepy, her eyelids drooping, mouth soft and open. She's actually quite beautiful when she's not wet and crumpled and screaming herself scarlet.

Snape edges slowly away from Harry and the baby. "How can you be certain this isn't some kind of trap, Potter?"

Harry pulls off the baby's cap and ruffles her silky hair. "What do you mean?"

"Suddenly everything the Daily Prophet has printed about you seems much less difficult to swallow, Potter. I was given to understand that you are an Auror? Surely it's occurred to you that we should, at the very least, do some basic investigatory magic to rule out curses and dark magic? Honestly, I'm amazed you're still alive!"

The baby starts to fuss the second Snape raises his voice. "Shhhh!" Harry says, desperately. He has to do several laps around the island and a great deal more clumsy rocking and bouncing before the baby settles down again. On the plus side, it gives him time to do his anger abatement breathing, something he always forgets the instant Snape opens his sarcastic mouth. He will not let Snape get to him in his own home. "Okay," he says, "she's out."

"How do you know it's a girl?" Snape asks in a hushed tone, leaning against the fridge and crossing his arms. He face slips for an instant and he looks weary. Melancholy.

Harry has to bite down on the surprising urge to say something comforting. "I just assumed, because she's dressed all in pink," Harry replies. "Should I ... do you think we should check?"

Snape blanches. "I think you should examine her, to make sure she hasn't come to any harm. You did find her in a skip, you recall."

Harry rolls his eyes at him. "I recall, yes. But I don't think she was there for long — she was just kind of resting on top of all the rubbish in her seat."

"Which means that whoever put her there very likely wanted you to find her," Snape says, thoughtfully, lips curving into an unfriendly smirk. "Is this the real reason you and Miss Weasley are on the outs? Perish the thought, but could this be a little Potter?"

"What? No! Absolutely not." Of that, at least, Harry is certain. "Maybe they wanted you to find her, Snape. You're the darling of the wizarding world at the moment," he gloats. It's the ultimate turnabout, and Harry can't help that it gives him so much pleasure. His therapist calls it schadenfreude, but could anyone really blame him?

Snape sighs heavily, but the bitter comeback that Harry expects doesn't materialize. He must really be exhausted. "Potter, no one who feels even the slightest affection for me — or for infants, for that matter — would leave one in my care, which is one more reason we should take every possible precaution. We have no idea who or what she is or where she came from, and we are neither of us without enemies."

He's right, but Harry has to force himself not to argue. Disagreeing with Snape is a reflex at this point. Instead, he soaks a clean dishtowel under the tap, rings it out, and hands it to Snape. He repeats the process for himself and they both start wiping the dried blood from their faces.

The baby snuffles sleepily against Harry's chest and kicks one tiny slippered foot. "Maybe I should call Justin Finch-Fletchley," he says.

A clock ticks loudly in the silence. Snape lifts a quizzical eyebrow.

"He's a pediatric healer. We could ask him to check her over — make sure she's unharmed, healthy — and then we could work on ruling out magical interference."

Snape nods slowly, his expression mildly surprised. "That isn't the worst idea I've ever heard."

"That may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Snape." It's actually the only nice thing Snape's ever said to him.

"Don't let it go to your head, Potter." Snape folds the towel into a compress and presses it gingerly to his blackened eye with a hiss. "I am very likely concussed."

Justin does an exaggerated double-take when he steps out of Harry's floo. "Whoah! What does the other guy look like?"

Snape shimmers out of the shadows, just the way he used to at Hogwarts, and Justin nearly jumps out of his scrubs.

"Buggery fuck!" he yells, pressing his hand to his heart.

"Memorably phrased, Mr. Finch-Fletchley." Snape looks almost amused.

"Sorry about that. You startled me." Justin quickly recovers himself and his manners. He smiles and sticks out his hand. "It's nice to see you again, Sir."

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Snape replies.

Harry watches in wonder as they shake hands like old friends. Snape is capable of being civil? To Hufflepuffs? It comes as a bit of shock, to be honest. "Yeah, thanks mate," he adds. "I owe you one."

"Not at all," Justin says. "Where's the little one?"

Harry feels like a prat, hovering around, watching Justin's every move. Snape fled to the kitchen as soon as the nappy came off, the git, and it sounds like he's making tea. Will wonders never cease?

"Her temperature and reflexes are normal. No signs of infection," Justin says, some time later. "Eyes look good. Hearing seems fine." He touches the baby's head with his wand and mutters something unintelligible. "65 centimetres long and just under 8 kilos, which is in the right range for a baby her age."

"What age is she?" Harry asks.

Justin gives him a funny look. "I'd estimate she's around 6 months, give or take a week or two," he says, turning his wand sideways and running it from the top of her head to her bare toes. "She seems to be a perfectly healthy baby, Harry."

"That's great news." Harry bends over and tickles the baby's feet until she gives him a gummy smile and then yawns widely. "Listen, Justin. If you could keep this quiet, for the moment at least, I'd really appreciate it."

"Does she have something to do with a case?" he asks. He has a keen-eyed gaze that puts Harry in mind of Hermione. He probably doesn't miss much, Justin.

Harry swallows heavily. "Yeah, she might."

"All right," Justin says, worry lines creasing his forehead. He gets the baby back in her romper with practiced ease and hands her smoothly off to Harry. "Look mate, don't take this the wrong way, but I could arrange for a private nurse if you're in over your head."

It's a tempting offer, but Harry's instincts urge him to say no. Snape chooses that moment to sweep back into the sitting room, loaded tea tray floating behind him, and the significant look he gives Harry clinches it. "Thanks, but no," he says. "It'd probably be safest if we just muddle through on our own."

The baby rests her head on Harry's sternum and stares down at his loosened tie. She wraps her fingers around it and drools impressively before looking up at him again, her blue eyes wide. "Ba," she says.

"That's right," Harry says, grinning down at her. "Clever girl."

Years after the war, Harry still can't sleep for shit. It's even worse now that Ginny's gone. When he does manage to drift off, he wakes abruptly and often, at the slightest noise or for no reason at all, only his thoughts and the thumping comfort of his heart for company.

It's weird to lie in bed knowing that Snape is camped out on the settee in the sitting room, on the other side of Harry's not quite closed bedroom door. It's even weirder to wake and find Snape standing at the foot of his bed, looking down at the baby in her cot, formerly his much abused school trunk.

"Was she fussing?" he asks. He didn't hear anything.

"Whimpering a bit," Snape says, after a long pause. "She's asleep again now."

Harry props himself up on his elbows. "She must really be exhausted. Justin said she'd likely wake for a bottle in the night."

Snape looks up at him, taking in Harry's bare chest before averting his eyes. "She might still. I'll hear her if she does. Go back to sleep."

"What about you? Don't you sleep?"

In the murky dim, Harry can barely make out Snape's face.

"Yes and no. Mostly no," Snape says. He turns, robes swinging out like a banner in a breeze, and stalks out of the room.

"Are you sure you don't want me to call Hermione?" Harry asks, stuffing his arms into his coat and bending over to pull on his trainers.

He stands up in time to see Snape pull a face.

"Potter, I am quite capable of looking after a single child for a few short hours."

But the way Snape is holding the baby doesn't do much to inspire confidence. He's stiff-armed and awkward, and the baby's lips are wobbling ominously. She opens her mouth and lets out a single pathetic squawk.

"You have the list?" Snape asks, adjusting his grip on the baby so she's straddling his hip. He joggles her experimentally and she closes her mouth.

Harry pats his pocket. "Yeah, right here." He can't help asking again. "You're sure you'll be okay?"

"Potter, go!" Snape says.

The baby's face scrunches up and she shrieks piercingly as Harry turns and throws a handful of powder in the floo. "110 Phoenix Street!" he says, in a clear voice.

"There, there," Snape monotones, as Harry steps out into nothing.

Harry pokes around the alley for a quarter of an hour before he finds it. It's damp and smudged and barely legible, but he can puzzle out a few things. The words "absolutely mad", "baby", "will kill me", and "war", none of which is terribly reassuring. Bizarrely, "thanks a million" is scrawled messily above the illegible signature at the bottom.

He tucks the letter into his pocket and apparates to the Ministry.

There aren't many around the Ministry on Sundays so, with the judicious application of the Disillusionment Charm, Harry manages to slink into his office unnoticed. It takes a bit of time for him to go through the wizard and Muggle missing persons reports without attracting unwanted attention. He's too worried about Snape and the baby to think much about why he feels relief and not disappointment when the baby doesn't turn up on either. He sends an inter-departmental memo to Kingsley to let him know he won't be in for a few days, gathers up some files, and heads to Diagon Alley to stock up on supplies.

"Potter!" Snape whispers harshly, the second he steps out of the floo. "What took you so bloody long?"

Snape is standing at the kitchen island, stirring a steaming cauldron. He looks like absolute hell, in spite of the fact that he has healed the worst of his cuts and bruises.

Harry drops his load of carrier bags down on the floor with a thud and says the first thing that comes to mind. "I have a cauldron?"

"Shhh!" Snape says, brandishing his dripping ladle threateningly. "I just got the baby to sleep, you thundering oaf."

"Was she fussy?"

"Only for three straight hours."

No wonder Snape looks so frazzled. "I'm sorry. I was as quick as could be."

Snape shrugs and extinguishes the flame under his cauldron. Harry peers inside. The contents are pale lavender and smooth. "What are you making?"

"Draught of Living Death."

He stares at Snape, open-mouthed. The baby must have been very fussy indeed.

Snape sighs and shakes his head. "Potter, honestly. Must you make it so obvious that you learned nothing in my class? It's a simple Calming Draught."

Apparently Harry is going to have to lay down some ground rules. "Snape, you can't just drug the baby whenever she cries!"

"It's for me, you simpleton." He pours a ladleful into a teacup and raises it in Harry's direction. "Your good health," he says sarcastically, and drinks it down in three gulps.

Harry's tempted to ask for a dose for himself. Instead he takes a few deep, calming breaths. "I'm going to go check on her. And then we need to talk."

The baby's asleep in her cot — face a little flushed, a faint wrinkle between her fine brows, fingers curled loosely by her open lips — wearing a plain white bodysuit that Harry thinks may have formerly been one of his best towels. He wonders briefly what happened to her pink romper and then decides he doesn't want to know.

He reaches out and smoothes the frown line on her forehead with the tip of his finger. When he looks up, Snape is standing next to him wearing an unfathomable expression.

They walk through to the sitting room without discussion. Harry hands the note to Snape and collapses on the settee. "I found this in the skip."

Snape settles himself gingerly at the opposite end, extracts a pair of reading glasses from somewhere within his robes and puts them on, glaring pre-emptively at Harry. He reads the letter in silence and then sighs. "Well," he says, "that is not precisely illuminating." He wrinkles his nose and hands back the smutchy paper.

"No," Harry agrees. "But it seems pretty clear she's in danger."

"Perhaps." Snape looks at him askance. "Potter, I think now would be a good time to explain why you haven't handed her over to the Aurors."

Harry slumps forward, elbows on knees, and rests his head on his folded hands. "I can't."

"I had gathered that, Potter. What I would like to know is why you can't. "

He shakes his head and then turns to look at Snape. "No, I mean I can't explain. It just — it feels wrong."

Snape leans back on the sofa, his expression thoughtful. He's holding himself in strange, almost careless way, and Harry can't help staring. It's surreal to see Snape ... lounging, for lack of a better word. It must be the Calming Draught.

Harry crosses his arms tightly over his chest. "Look Snape, if you just want to leave, I'll understand. I never meant to drag you into this."

Snape gapes at him. "Not everything is about you, you self-centred little sh—" He doesn't finish the insult, though the effort seems to cost him. He covers his eyes with his hand and appears to be attempting to will himself calm. "This missive, and the baby, could have been left for either one of us, and I'm not leaving until we figure this out." He uncovers his eyes and gives Harry a hard look. "I always see things through, Potter."

Harry returns the look with interest. "I know. And so do I, Snape."

Snape sighs and rubs his eyes, slumping back on the settee. "Well, that's one thing we have in common."

The baby starts to cry in her cot, softly at first and then with increasing urgency. "And that's two," Harry says.

They spend hour upon fruitless hour at research. There is no trace of magic, dark or otherwise, no magical signatures, on the baby or her things. The note is likewise untraceable. And so they move on to suspects, littering the sitting room floor with piles of parchment. They compile lists of every imaginable enemy, living and dead, and sub-lists of those individuals who might have a singularly twisted notion of how to go about exacting revenge (which were distressingly populous). They catalogue any friend or ally who might be likely to reach out to them for help, every admirer whose correspondence betrayed a hint of mental instability, and then, when desperation sets in, every other person with whom either of them has even a fleeting acquaintance. The entire process is unpleasant in the extreme.

On top of everything, the baby demands constant attention.

Potter is lying on his belly on the Turkish carpet in front of the fireplace, making a stuffed lion caper about and turn somersaults to entertain her. His eyes are ringed with dark circles and his hair is sticking out in mad tufts. He looks for all the world like something the cat dragged through the hedge and deposited on the front mat.

Severus is certain he looks quite as bad, if not a great deal worse. He is sprawled in Potter's sole arm chair, pretending to read Everything You Need to Know About Your Magical Baby, from Birth to Age Two, by Yesenia Heathcote, and struggling to keep his bleary eyes open. Sometime in the middle of what was decidedly one of the longest nights of his life, the baby was sick on his robes, so he is dressed only in shirt sleeves and trousers and smells faintly of sour milk. He should have asked Potter to pick him up a fresh set of clothes when he was buying out Diagon Alley.

When Severus looks up from his book, Potter is staring at him intently. "What is it?" he snaps.

The brat shakes his head. "Why don't you just go to sleep? You look like shite."

Severus refuses to appear weak in front of Potter, of all people. "Thank you very much for your concern but, I assure you, none is needed. I am fine." He sits up straight and deliberately flips to the next page of his book.

"Whatever you say, Snape," Potter says, apparently too tired to argue. He rolls onto his side and yawns and stretches luxuriously. The stuffed lion collapses beside him, similarly in need of Pepper-up. The baby is the only one among them who still looks lively.

"Potter, why don't you turn in? I'll give her a bottle and try to put her to bed."

"You're sure?" Potter asks, but he's already hoisting himself up from the floor. He deposits the baby and her toy in Severus' lap and yawns again. "Don't forget to burp her. And wake me up if you need to."

Severus listens to Potter stagger to the other end of the flat and keel over onto the bed. When he's certain the coast is clear, he taps the lion on the nose with his wand. "Vipereus," he whispers.

The lion transforms into a coil of green toy snake, and the baby soils her nappy in shock and delight.

Snape struggles out of his chair, holding her at arm's length, and makes his way into the kitchen. He lays her in the middle of the island, casts a Bubble-Head Charm on himself, and sets about changing her nappy. She tends to get overwrought when Severus speaks sharply, so he takes great care to keep his voice light and pleasant. "You smell like a nogtail, you know," he says.

It takes some effort to conceal his perturbation when the little terror, who has demonstrated a disturbing predilection for getting her clothes off, kicks her bare legs exuberantly, overturning the open canister of powder. The ensuing mayhem causes great hilarity. "Ma," she declares, laughing triumphantly.

"Is that where you learned this behaviour?" Severus asks in the same child-pleasing voice, vanishing the powder with a flick of his wand. "Well in this house, we wear clothes."

Easier said than done. Wrestling her into a fresh nappy and pyjamas is not unlike trying to dress an Acromantula, Severus imagines — it involves a great deal of saliva, outraged squealing, and limbs flailing everywhere. She manages to kick him squarely in the chest with one chubby foot, but he has suffered much worse treatment. He fastens the popper under her chin just as the spelled alarm chimes time for her bottle. He tucks the baby, still wriggling and making a racket, into the crook of his arm, takes a bottle out of the fridge, and warms it up with a few taps of his wand.

It's a relief to settle back in the arm chair and miraculous how a bottle puts an immediate end to her fussing. She latches on with unparalleled enthusiasm, taking the baby milk in great gulps with a look of complete rapture on her face.

Severus frowns and shakes his head. "You drink like my Uncle Edmund."

Severus is woken rudely from his favourite dream. In the dream, he is walking through a vast, empty library, trailing his fingers along the spines of shelf after shelf after shelf of books. In reality, he is sitting in a less than comfortable arm chair, neck irreparably cricked, a warm bundle in his arms that someone is currently attempting to make off with. He convulsively tightens his grip and opens his eyes.

Potter is standing in front of him — shoeless, shirtless, wearing an uncertain expression. "I was just going to take her so you could lie down. I didn't mean to wake you." He shrugs apologetically.

Severus pries open his other eye and looks down at ... oh, yes. The baby. He lets Potter lift her out of his arms in the hopes that he'll leave and let Severus go back to sleep. He doesn't. It's exceedingly awkward, and Severus feels pressed to say something. "I wasn't asleep."

"Okay," Potter says, looking at him strangely. The baby starts to squirm and fuss in the cradle of his arms, so he rocks her back and forth. "I'll just put her in her in her cot so we can both get some sleep then. Good night," he says, waving awkwardly at Severus with the hand supporting the baby's bottom.

"Good night." Severus closes his eyes again but his lap feels cold and he desperately needs to piss, so he reluctantly hauls himself out of his chair and follows Potter across the flat to the bathroom. He empties his bladder and subjects a yellow plastic duck to a robust scourgify before transfiguring it into a toothbrush, meditating on how extraordinarily odd it is to use Potter's toothpaste and soap.

When he opens the door, Potter is leaning against the doorjamb waiting for him, the same hesitant look on his face. "I was just wondering if you wanted to borrow some pyjamas," he finally says in a rush.

Severus opens his mouth to say something biting and then closes it again. The truth of the matter is that the idea of spending another night in the same clothes is a singularly disgusting prospect. It is only pride and a lingering suspicion about Potter's motives that makes him hesitate. He takes a deep breath. "Yes," he says, and then, as an afterthought, "Thank you."

"You'll have to extend the sleeves and that," Potter says apologetically, producing a pair of navy pyjamas with a thin red pinstripe from behind his back. He half-smiles. "I didn't have any in plain black."

Severus' face feels hot and tense. It takes a moment for him to recognize the unfamiliar sensation as the urge to smile back. At Potter.

Perhaps he put too much kava in the Calming Draught.

The walls of the flat, what few there are, are thin, and Potter is singing somewhere nearby. His steps scuff closer and in the pre-dawn gloom Severus sees him shuffle past the sitting area on the way to the kitchen. The baby is grousing in his arms and he is serenading her in a soft, inoffensive voice.

Bludger, bludger, quaffle, snitch
This is how we play Quidditch
Up above the world so high
On your broomstick in the sky
Bludger, bludger, quaffle, snitch
We need them all to play Quidditch.

The tune Severus recognizes as Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, but the words are obviously Potter's own outlandish invention. He drags himself up into a sitting position and prepares to deliver a scathing review of Potter's performance.

"You're awake," Potter says, and waves the baby's chubby hand at him.

You're a dreadful singer and an even worse lyricist, Severus thinks. But he cannot, to his consternation, say it out loud. He can't even bring himself to applaud sarcastically. The Calming Draught has been out of his system for several hours, but perhaps lack of quality sleep has robbed him of his gift for derision? Or maybe he is simply out of practice.

There must be some logical explanation.

"Did you get everything?" Potter asks, the moment he steps through the floo.

"Yes," he says, taking his carryall from the pocket of his robes, restoring it to its original size, and setting it beside the sofa.

"What do you think of these?" Potter asks, pulling a pair of tiny pink frilly knickers from the pile of clothes he'd picked out for the baby and waving them at him.

Severus stares at him in disbelief. Potter is obviously going around the twist if he thinks Severus is going to proffer an opinion on the baby's frippery. He brushes the ash from his robes and cleans the carpet with a muttered, "Tergeo."

Potter is using an end table to change and dress the baby. Or, more accurately, to blow raspberries on the bottom of the baby's bare feet which, if her laughter is an accurate indicator, is high comedy. He hopes Potter is smart enough to have used some kind of sticking charm, as Severus has noticed that the baby's head seems to be on the soft side. Yesenia Heathcote assures him this is normal.

"You're getting her all worked up," Severus cautions.

"She loves it," Potter says, redoubling his efforts. "Look at her!"

Severus looks. "Potter, she's frothing at the mouth!"

His petulant expression takes Severus straight back to the Potions classroom.

"You're such a spoilsport." Potter finishes dressing the baby in a knit dress and matching cap and holds her up for Severus' inspection. "Isn't she adorable?"

He refuses to dignify that with a response. "She should be wearing slippers," Severus says. "She'll catch cold."

Potter produces a pair of pink ankle socks and matching pink leather slippers with butterflies on the toes. Severus has never seen so much pink in his life. It's nauseating.

"Kingsley sent an owl," he says, handing the baby to Severus. "I've got to go in for a meeting this afternoon. Follow up on a case."

Severus can see in Potter's eyes that he's expecting another cheap shot and, once again, he cannot bring himself to rise to the occasion. It's getting ridiculous.

"The baby and I have plans anyway," he says, turning on his heel and stalking away, robes billowing behind him in a very satisfying manner.

The baby seems to fancy herself household despot and Severus a poor excuse for a vassal.

"You cannot be serious," he tells her, "you simply cannot."

In response, she continues to cry, as she has off and on, but mostly on, for the past two hours.

He jiggles the baby's bouncy chair, one of Potter's many purchases, with his foot and jots another sentence down on his roll of parchment. Bawling proceeds apace. Severus jiggles the chair more energetically and produces a rattle shaped like a Common Welsh Green but perplexingly pink in colour — verisimilitude appears to count for very little as far as the makers of children's toys are concerned. The baby accepts the toy, slobbers on it for a moment by way of examination, then drops it to the floor. She looks up at Severus, tears glistening on fair lashes, lower lip protruding fearsomely.

"I am not Potter," he says, "I refuse to act like a buffoon to keep you entertained."

The baby's face turns an alarming crimson shade and she screeches, kicking her feet and arching her back, straining against the belt keeping her safely in the chair. Severus sighs. He picks her up and walks the length of the flat, gently patting her back and trying to duplicate the jiggling motion Potter uses to soothe her. The crying subsides slightly.

Severus adjusts his hold on the baby so that she's facing forward, her back pressed to his chest, and turns and retraces his steps, staring longingly at the dining table, his stack of books and his parchment and quill. "You aren't hungry," he says, continuing to pace. "I can only assume you aren't sleepy. You aren't wet or noxious smelling, mercifully. And you aren't ill, if Finch-Fletchley is to be believed." He comes to a stop in the sitting room, lowers the baby to the settee, and kneels down so that he can look her in the face. "What would you have me do?" he asks. If anyone were around to hear him, Severus might be embarrassed to be seen pleading with a baby, but he's at his wits' end.

She looks at him as though he has committed a grave betrayal, takes a deep breath, and resumes wailing.

Potter's alarmed, "Hey!" almost causes him to lose his grip on the baby. "What's all this?" Potter asks, charging into the kitchen.

Severus ensures he has the baby in a firm hold before putting a dollop of shampoo on her head and using his palm to smooth it over her scalp, taking care to keep the suds from running into her eyes. "I realize you were raised by animals, Potter, but surely you're at least familiar with the concept of a bath."

"I'm reasonably certain I never had one in a Number 3 copper cauldron," Potter says, shucking his coat and rolling up his sleeves. "For a second there, I was afraid you had her on a low simmer."

Severus looks at him, an eyebrow raised, until Potter flushes and looks down. He picks up the flannel sitting next to the cauldron and rinses the shampoo from the baby's head.

"I will admit that at times I was sorely tempted," Severus says, when the silence between them stretches out uncomfortably.

Potter meets his eyes again. "Did she give you a hard time?" he asks, absently rubbing a bar of soap over the baby's shoulders then letting water trickle through his fingers to rinse it away

Severus shrugs. "I think we're done." He lifts the baby out of the cauldron and Potter fetches her towel and wraps her up snugly. He leans close to tuck a corner of the towel over her head and his hair springs up, feathering against Severus' jaw and lips. He shivers involuntarily and tries to tilt his head out of the way, but Potter's hair decides to follow.

"Potter, your hair is preposterous!"

"Yeah, it has a mind of its own sometimes." He smiles apologetically and tries unsuccessfully to smooth it down with one damp palm.

"Well, that makes one of you," Severus says gruffly, handing the baby over.

Instead of taking offense or flying off the handle, Potter just laughs and nudges Severus with his elbow chummily.

Severus turns away to get fix the baby's bottle, thoughts in disarray. He can count on one hand the number of people who have elbowed him chummily ... and lived. He's quite at a loss as to how to respond to such familiarity — would hexing Potter be de trop?

Potter, oblivious as always, dries the baby's hair with his wand. They get her dressed in a clean nappy and pale yellow footy pyjamas, and she latches onto the bottle with her customary ardour. The refrigerator hums. Potter's owl wakes up and starts to make muffled scratching noises in its covered cage. Severus puts the kettle on for tea and then crosses his arms across his chest, leaning back against the island.

"She has quite an appetite, doesn't she?" Potter laughs again, and leans in so his arm is pressed warmly against Severus' own.

It's all very peaceful and domestic. Severus feels an irresistible compulsion to say something to ruin it, but he cannot for the life of him think of anything properly scathing, and he doesn't dare risk encouraging Potter to commit further acts of bonhomie.

If Potter tries to hug him, he's going to get a severe case of jelly legs.

Harry feeds the baby a spoonful of cereal with one hand and stirs milk into his tea with the other. He congratulates himself on his ability to multitask when his head seems to weigh three times as much as usual, his eyes feel as though they've been removed, coated with hot sand, and replaced in his head, and he is strongly suspicious of being run over by a lorry — repeatedly — during the two or three or four frequently interrupted hours he managed to sleep last night.

Across the table, Snape is eating porridge and hiding behind the Annual Report on the Progress of Potions, Volume 1.

Desmond flutters in and drops the Daily Prophet and a smattering of feathers onto the breakfast things. "Thanks, boy," Harry says, reaching out to rub the top of his head.

He offers the baby another mouthful of cereal and unrolls the newspaper, skimming the headline. "Uh oh."

Snape lowers his journal just enough to peer at Harry over it. "What?"

He turns the paper around so Snape can read it. A picture of Harry leaving Diagon Alley weighted down with carrier bags and the caption Promiscuous Potter Expecting Love Child? takes up two-thirds of the front page.

Snape snatches the paper from Harry's hands.

Harry rubs his burning eyes and goes around to lean on the ladder back of Snape's chair so he can read over his shoulder. "You're rubbish at sharing, you know. Sets a bad example."

"Shut up, Potter." Snape straightens the paper with a violent shake.

"Git," Harry mutters under his breath.

Snape's posture is impeccable, even at the breakfast table, and he smells pleasantly of soap and Earl Grey tea. Hard on the heels of that observation comes the realization that it was a very weird one. Harry muscles the thought from his mind and turns back to the Prophet.

The damning article enumerates Harry's purchases, speculates wildly on possible new paramours, and rehashes his recent public disgraces, personal and professional. His head throbs at the indignity.

"Bugger," Snape says, dropping the paper to the table.

"Ba!" the baby agrees, banging both hands on the tray of her highchair.

"Little pitchers, Snape," Harry says, nodding at the baby.

Snape looks at him like he's gone mad. "What in Merlin's name are you talking about, Potter?"

Harry crumples into his chair, takes off his glasses, and surrenders his burdensome head to gravity. The tabletop is refreshing against his flushed cheek. "It doesn't matter," he says. "What are we going to do?"

"I'm afraid the damage is done." Snape's voice is chilly enough to raise the hair on the back of Harry's neck. "You could release a statement saying that you were shopping for a friend, but the secret is out, Potter. We should strengthen your wards."

It shouldn't come as a surprise that Snape would turn on him as soon as he made a mistake — most people do, in Harry's experience — but that doesn't make it any less unpleasant. Harry sits up and braces himself for the inevitable, reluctantly putting on his glasses again, blinking as Snape's face comes into sharp focus. "All right. Let's just get this over with."

"What do you expect me to say, Potter?" Snape turns to him and the look on his face, cool and knowing, chafes Harry's already raw sense of pride.

It's too much. Harry knows, intellectually, that the anger blazing through him, testing his self-control, is actually misdirected guilt. But Snape has always had a gift for scraping Harry's nerves, his patience, his emotions raw, and he can feel his self-control slipping like a hot knife through butter. "Oh, I don't know, Snape. How about, 'What a stroke of luck that you needed only a death wish and a massive martyr complex to defeat the Dark Lord, Potter! If the survival of the wizarding world had depended on your intellect, on careful application of reason, forethought, and discretion, we would most certainly have died horrible deaths! You've put us all in danger with your recklessness. I hope you're happy.' Does that sum things up? Did I miss anything?"

The baby bursts extravagantly into tears. When Harry makes no move to comfort her, Snape lifts her out of her high chair and walks to the window, peering through the slats of the blind. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking, as usual.

Snape still has his back turned when he says, "I don't believe it's productive or salubrious to dwell on the things we were compelled to do during the war, Potter."

His quiet words steal the outraged wind from Harry's sails. He shakes his head. "I don't understand you."

"Salubrious means healthy," Snape explains.

That startles a painful laugh from somewhere deep inside Harry's chest. "That's not what I meant."

Snape turns slowly to face him and a smile flickers across his face and settles in his eyes.

"I know," he says.

"What are you working on?" Harry asks, after he's put the baby down for her morning nap.

Snape is sitting at the dining room table, a book floating at eye level in front of him, his quill rasping over a length of parchment. He doesn't reply.

Harry stretches out on the settee, hands clasped together behind his head, eyes closed. "Is it a new book?"

"Who are you talking to?" says someone who is not Snape.

"What?" Harry rolls over to face the fireplace and overshoots his mark, bellyflopping off the sofa. When he manages to struggle to his feet, Ron has already climbed through the floo.

"Am I going to have to kick your arse?" he asks by way of greeting.

"Good morning to you too," Harry says. "Cup of tea?"

"Wouldn't say no," Ron replies, following him into the kitchen. He pulls a badly crumpled Prophet out of his robes and smoothes it out. "What in the name of Merlin's sweaty sports cup is going on, Harry? Mum firecalled the shop this morning. Apparently Ginny's been crying and smashing things all day."

Harry stalls for time, heating the water with his wand, steeping the tea with a silent imbuo. He hands Ron a cup with milk and one sugar.

"Ta, mate. Do you have anything to eat? I'm half-starved."

Harry takes down a box of biscuits, dumps some on a plate, and sets it on the island. He stirs milk into his tea and wonders where to start.

"Why yes, I would love a cup of tea. Good of you to ask." Snape stalks into the kitchen with a scowl plastered across his face and helps himself to the teapot.

Ron's mouth falls open and his biscuit falls into his cup, splashing tea down his robes. "What the—?" He looks from Harry to Snape and back again, eyes and mouth wide.

"Good morning, Mr. Weasley," Snape says, taking a biscuit from the plate and sliding onto a tall stool on the opposite side of the island.

"Ron, Snape is ... well, he's helping me out with something," Harry says, still uncertain exactly how much of the story to tell. He knows from experience that Ron's rubbish at keeping anything from Hermione, and Harry really isn't looking forward to that conversation.

He looks to Snape for help, but the bastard just takes a sip of his tea and shrugs.

Ron looks at them with abject horror. "Tell me you're not serious," he says, colour draining from his face.

"About what?" Harry asks. He still feels slow and sleepy and he has no bleeding idea what Ron's on about.

"You and Snape," Ron says. His pale face crumples into a grimace.

"Snape and I ..." Harry says, motioning for Ron to continue with his free hand.

Snape sets down his teacup and starts to cough, shoulders shaking, hand over his mouth.

Ron drops his chin to his chest and shakes his head. "I can't believe you didn't come to me with this, Harry," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "We could have worked something out."

Harry has a very strong sense that he's missed something crucial to the conversation, but he hasn't the faintest idea what. He fills a glass from the tap and hands it to Snape, who's still coughing. "What are you talking about, Ron?"

Ron blushes violently and busies himself lifting the soggy biscuit out of his tea. And it suddenly occurs to Harry that Snape isn't coughing — he's laughing. Snape!

Harry slams his teacup on the worktop with a clatter. "Seriously, would someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on here?"

Snape clears his throat and stares fixedly at a something just over Harry's left shoulder. "I believe Mr. Weasley has wildly misinterpreted the situation."

"Okay," Harry says slowly, still completely in the dark. "Why don't you fill us both in then."

"I prefer not to speculate on the exact nature of his conclusions, but I believe Mr. Weasley's under the misapprehension that you and I are planning to attempt to ... reproduce." Snape still won't meet his eyes.

Harry shakes his head. "Reproduce what?"

"Procreate," he says, clearly exasperated. "Breed. Be fruitful and multiply." Snape finally looks at him. "He thinks we're going to have a child, Potter!"

Ron slumps against the island, his expression a bizarre mixture of relief, disgust, and mortification.

"What ... together?" Harry asks. "But we're both men! That's impossible."

"You're both wizards, Harry. Nothing's impossible," Ron says, affecting a shudder.

Snape puts his elbows on the island and rests his sharp chin in his hands. "I disagree. I find it impossible to imagine that I, under any circumstances, would agree to bear Potter's child."

"Harry could do it," Ron suggests.

"Hey!" Harry says. No bloody way is he getting pregnant.

Snape ignores his protest and gives him a slow, thorough looking over that makes Harry's cheeks burn and fills him with an almost irrepressible desire to flex muscles he probably doesn't even have.

"Don't worry, Potter. I don't think you've really got the hips for it," Snape says, helping himself to another biscuit.

Fortunately, Harry is not at all disappointed by this news. Not even a little.

"What d'you call her?" Ron whispers, staring down at the baby in her cot.

"Um. We call her 'the baby' mostly," Harry says sheepishly.

Ron touches her cheek with surprising delicacy. "Harry," he pauses, frowning. "You do know you can't just keep her, don't you? Eventually, you're going to have to tell someone."

"I know. Just ... not yet."

"You know Hermione'll weasel it out of me."

Harry nods. "Yeah."

Ron looks at him, his expression perplexed. "You and Snape actually seem to be getting on all right."

Harry considers this. They aren't beating the seven hells out of each other, which is a marked improvement. And Snape has actually been surprisingly unhorrible. A few times, he's even been something approaching nice. "I guess," he says, and shrugs.

The baby opens her eyes and blinks up at them.

"Hello, baby girl," Ron says.

She yawns hugely and then smiles.

The flat's under siege.

It has been a trying day. Reporters from all the major wizarding papers have been camped in front of the building for hours. A parliament of owls with undelivered messages has gathered on the small balcony off the kitchen. The sound of discontented hooting is faintly audible through the windows, which are closed in spite of the pleasant, early September weather. Harry's mobile has long since been switched off and the floo locked and soundly warded.

He and Snape are hunkered down on the sofa drinking a second round of gin and tonics, heavy on the gin. The baby is wedged between them chewing sleepily on a teething ring.

"I think we should name her," Harry says.

"I think that would be most unwise."

Harry sets down his drink and turns to face Snape. "Why?"

"You've already become far too attached—"

Harry looks pointedly Snape's hand, resting proprietarily on the baby's head. "And you haven't?"

"I don't get attached to people," Snape says, dismissively.

Harry shakes his head and laughs humourlessly. "If you wanted me to believe that, Snape, you should never have shown me your memories."

Something in Snape's face closes smartly, like a blind lowered over a window or notebook flipped to a blank page. "You believed what you wanted to believe," he says, his voice tight. "You believed what you had to believe to do what was required of you, which was my goal. Do not make the mistake of thinking it was anything more than that."

"So you weren't in love with my mother," Harry says, flatly.

Snape looks away. "I refuse to have this conversation, Potter. I will tolerate a great deal, but I will not—" He pinches his lips together in a tight line and shakes his head. "You don't know me."

"But not because I didn't try!" Harry says. Why is it that Snape can always get to him? It's like he has an enchanted map of Harry's mental and emotional sore spots and makes a point of poking at them at every opportunity. He squeezes his eyes closed and breathes deeply. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, Harry, he chants to himself. One embarrassing outburst a day is more than enough, mate.

"Potter, what the hell are you doing?"

Harry opens his eyes just in time to see the baby somersault off the sofa.

"Pendeo!" they shout in unison, suspending her a hand's span above the floor for an instant before floating her up and onto the sofa. The baby is serene and unruffled, but both he and Snape are panting.

"That was close."

"Uncomfortably so. Potter—" Snape begins.

Harry lifts his hand. "Can we not do this tonight, please? I'm absolutely knackered and I just ... I can't."

Without waiting for a reply, he rises unsteadily to his feet, hoists the baby onto his hip, and heads into the kitchen to fix her bedtime bottle.

Harry wakes at 3 a.m. to a strange silence. He crawls to the end of his bed and peers into the cot.

It's empty.

He throws back the covers, casts a featherweight charm on himself, more force of habit than anything else, and makes his way silently through the flat.

Snape is sitting in the armchair with the baby tucked into the crook of his arm, a bottle in her mouth. She is holding onto her own foot with both hands and looking up at him with huge, fascinated blue eyes, by all appearances absorbed in this month's Journal of Defence Against Dark Arts Education.

"Schwarz presents material in a non-standard order, choosing to address hexes and curses often avoided in introductory DADA courses, and introducing theory and concepts as needed to explain the deep structural principles or organizations that govern the theoretical and practical application of magic. He wisely includes a module on the interpretation of magical texts, pointing out the implications of language, cultural systems, including ideologies and symbols..."

Snape's soft, dark voice sends a shiver up Harry's spine. He wraps his arms around himself and tries to turn around and go back to bed, but he's mesmerized, as rapt as the baby cradled in Snape's arms.

"I refuse to call her Lily," Snape says mildly.

It takes Harry a moment to realize that Snape is talking to him. "Wh-what?" Harry asks.

"I won't call the baby Lily." He turns to look at Harry.

He feels dazed. "Um, okay."

Snape takes the baby's empty bottle gently from her mouth and hands it to Harry. "She's finished," he says, unfurling himself from his chair. "I'll put her back in her cot."

"Okay," Harry repeats stupidly.

"What about Daisy?" he asks, spooning cereal into the baby's open mouth.

From behind the paper comes a terse, "No."

"Heather?"

"No."

"Hyacinth?"

"No."

"Marigold?"

"No."

"Magnolia? Peony? Rose?"

"No, no, and no! Do you imagine I don't realize what you're doing, Potter?" Snape folds the paper in half once and then again and slaps it down on the table.

"Do you have any suggestions, or are you just going to shoot mine down?" Harry snaps.

"The latter."

Harry glares across the table.

Snape sighs. "What about Celandine?"

"That's a poisonous plant!"

"Belladonna?"

"Poisonous."

"Lobelia?"

"Snape!"

"Fine. What about ... Jessamine."

Harry tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. "I'm sure it's poisonous too, but ..."

"But?" Snape says.

"I like it. Jessamine," he says, experimentally. "What do you think?" he asks the baby.

She stares at Harry for a second, mouth open, then looks longingly at the bowl of cereal on the table in front of him.

Harry spoons out some more and holds it in front of her. She opens her mouth wider. He moves the spoon up and then down. She lifts and lowers her chin.

"I think that's a yes," Harry says, popping the spoon into her mouth.

"Um-um-um," Jessamine says, dribbling cereal everywhere.

The corner of Snape's mouth twitches minutely. "Little savage," he mutters fondly.

Potter has been looking at him strangely all day. Potter is, in fact, looking at him strangely this very moment. Severus can feel his eyes boring into the back of his head.

It's unsettling, to say the least.

"What is it?" he finally asks, without turning away from his notes.

"I was just wondering," Potter says, voice trailing off uncertainly.

"Yes?" Severus prompts, turning around to peer at him over his shoulder.

Potter is standing over the kitchen sink soaking an assortment of rompers, vests, knickers, and sleepers in a solution of a Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover and water. Fortunately, he had the foresight to purchase the extra large bottle. "I'm going to go into work Monday, I think. Talk to Kingsley," he says after a long moment. "Explain things."

Severus doesn't know how to respond. He stacks his books and parchments in a neat pile and rises from the table.

Potter watches him closely as he walks into the kitchen and then looks down at the clothes in the sink, swirling a pale yellow sleeper half-heartedly through the suds. When he looks up, his eyes are two bruises and his dark hair is all over the shop. "Do you want to come with me?" he asks, pushing his fringe out of his eyes with the back of his hand.

There aren't many people who surprise Severus, but Potter does so with annoying regularity. He considers for a moment the many possible reasons Potter might have for asking Severus to accompany him when he makes the official report about the events surrounding the strange appearance of the baby: to corroborate his story, to take a share of the blame, or to take all of the blame. After that, Severus' imagination fails him.

"Forget I asked," Potter mutters, turning back to the sink and knocking the bottle of Mrs. Skower's into the sink, sloshing water everywhere. "Fuck!" He looks down at his soaked t-shirt for a heartbeat, then shrugs and pulls it off.

"Potter," Severus begins, but the rest of that thought dries up along with his mouth as his eyes travel perforce up Potter's torso — from narrow waist to the ladder of ribs, modest expanse of chest, tracery of collarbones. The tight curve of his throat, jaw set and stubbled, cheeks flushed, his familiar green eyes strange — shuttered and dark. "I don't..." Severus says, but again he falters. What in Merlin's name is wrong with him?

"You're right," Potter says, looking down as he wraps his t-shirt tightly around his fist. "It's a stupid idea. Someone has to stay here and look after Jess, right?" He swallows hard and shrugs, looking younger and more vulnerable than Severus is apparently able to bear.

"We could take her with us," he says, much to his own amazement.

"Yeah?" Potter asks. If the height of his eyebrows is any indication, he's more surprised even than Severus.

Severus nods and Potter smiles — an absurd, extraordinary smile.

"Thank you," he says, ducking his head and looking at Severus through his eyelashes.

For a moment Severus is certain Potter's going to hug him. He slips his hand into his pocket and grasps his wand in readiness.

The ensuing silence is strained. Potter crosses his arms and shivers. "Brrr," he says. "I'm just going to go get a jumper, then I'll clean up."

He walks by Severus, close enough that their hips bump gently. "Sorry," he says, steadying himself with a hand on Severus' forearm, just above the wrist.

When he's gone, Severus looks around the capacious kitchen, measures the distance between himself and both exits, and concludes that the contact was unquestionably avoidable.

"Clumsy ass," he says, to the empty room.

Some time after Jessamine's post-midnight feeding and before her seemingly unprovoked three o'clock screaming jag, Severus is woken by a small epiphany.

Potter is playing him.

He struggles out of the twist of blankets on the cramped settee and tries to ease his aching back by taking a brisk turn around the flat. Ten seconds later, Severus is back in the sitting room fumbling through the contents of the side pocket of his carryall. He finds the bottle of Calming Draught, lets himself have one swallow, and then starts to work through the problem in his usual methodical and dispassionate way.

The only possible explanation for Potter's recent behaviour — smiling at Severus, touching him, hanging over his shoulder at the breakfast table — is that he's up to something. And when Severus considers his most recent hijinks, disrobing in the kitchen and parading around half nude, shooting Severus coy, provocative looks like a desperate tart, it seems unquestionable that it's something perverse.

He sits hunched on the sofa, one leg folded beneath him, chin resting on his fist, staring into the darkness. Potter could not possibly sincerely wish to seduce him: the idea is laughable. But what would he stand to gain from such pretense? Blackmail material is the obvious answer, and ergo the correct one. This is Potter, after all.

But if Potter thinks Severus is desperate and foolish enough to take him up on whatever he's offering (What is he offering? Severus wonders), he is in for quite a surprise. Potter's charms, however ample some might find them, are at most a slight distraction. A slight, pale, sculpted, and under-dressed distraction.

Severus takes another swig of Calming Draught and lies down to reminisce about how much simpler things were when he and Potter were attempting to beat one another into a puree.

"Did your parents divorce?" Potter asks out of the blue the following afternoon.

Severus marks his place on the page of What to Expect the First Year, Wizarding Edition, with his index finger and peers at Potter over his reading glasses. "No. My father died."

Potter pauses in the middle of changing Jessamine's nappy, a smudge of baby powder dusting his chin. He looks mortified. "I'm sorry."

Severus shrugs and turns a page. "I wasn't."

"Okay. I get that. What about your Mum?"

"She died a few years later."

"I'm really sorry."

Severus shrugs. "It was a long time ago."

Potter dresses the baby in her bodysuit and romper much more easily than he might have even a day or two ago and picks her up from the makeshift change table. "I wish we could go for a walk," he says wistfully, peering through the window at the thinning group of journalists loitering in front of the building. He starts to pace around the room.

Severus turns back to his book, relieved the interrogation is over.

"Have you ever thought about getting married?" Potter asks from somewhere behind him.

Severus closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "No," he says, closing his book with a slap.

After a short pause, Potter asks, "If you had a child, would you consider it? Getting married, I mean?"

"Potter, enough! What is this?" Severus barks.

"I'm just making conversation! But if you'd rather sit around staring at each other in complete silence—"

"I would prefer that, thank you."

Potter shakes his head and turns away. He lies the baby on her belly on the carpet and surrounds her with brightly coloured toys, telling her in a quiet voice what each one is, occasionally giving things silly names, smiling in delight when she laughs.

Oh, bliss. Severus opens his book and starts to read once more. This time he manages almost an entire paragraph.

"But if you did have a child..."

It's just not to be.

"... how would you feel if he or she was magically challenged?"

Severus lifts one eyebrow. "That's new."

Potter shrugs. "Hermione," he explains. "It's more PC."

"Ah," Severus says.

"Well?" Potter prompts him.

"I imagine raising a non-magical child would be difficult," Severus says. "But my own father was cruel and heartless, and I always swore I'd never be like him, no matter how trying the circumstances." It feels strange to be forthright but he can't think of any reason for evasion or deceit. Potter has seen his childhood memories. Somehow, it doesn't nettle the way it once did.

Potter bites his lip and nods. "Me too."

Jessamine starts to cry listlessly and Potter lifts her into his arms, patting her back, pressing his cheek against hers. When he looks up, there is a flicker of anxiety in his eyes.

"She's really warm."

"How long has she been crying, do you think?" Potter asks, flopping back on his bed and flinging one arm over his eyes.

"A hundred years?" Severus says, lifting Jessamine into an upright position with her head resting against his shoulder. He rubs soothing circles on her back with the palm of his hand, but she's disconsolate.

Potter lifts his head from the bed. "Should we take her to St. Mungo's, do you think?"

Severus starts to pace beside the bed, rhythmically jiggling the baby as he walks. He's so tired it's an effort just to put one foot in front of the other. "Finch-Fletchley said not to worry unless she stops taking her bottle or gets a temperature of more than 101 degrees."

"I know, I know," Potter says, pulling himself into a sitting position and running his hands through his already chaotic hair. "I just feel so helpless. Do you want me to try again?"

"All right," Severus says. He hands the baby over and collapses on the bed.

Potter sings as he paces around the room.

Hush a bye baby, snug in the flat,
When the wind blows, you're safe in your cot;
Who leaves a baby, asleep in a tree?
They must be crazy, don't you agree?

"Flat and cot don't rhyme, Potter," Severus says.

Potter rolls his eyes and continues his pacing. When the baby continues to whimper and fuss, he pulls a pink plastic dummy from his pocket and offers it. Jessamine refuses, bursting into desolate sobs.

Potter's forehead is creased with worry. "I'm going to get the book. Take her for a sec," he says, depositing the baby in Severus' arms and darting from the room.

Fat tears glisten on the baby's cheeks and her tiny face is scarlet and scrunched in despair. Severus touches his lips to her forehead. She's hot but not alarmingly so. "Shh shh shh, Jessamine," he says.

Potter returns with his nose in the book.

"What does Ms. Heathcote have to say on the subject of inconsolable babies?" Severus asks. "I'm starting to fear for my sanity. Not to mention my hearing."

Potter frowns and holds up one finger. He turns the page. "It's too soon to give her another dose of potion," he says, "and we've already tried a bath."

In his arms, Jessamine squirms in protest at Severus' stationary state. She inhales deeply and then attempts to communicate her immense displeasure by screaming. Severus struggles to his feet and resumes pacing the floorboards.

"Okay!" Potter says. "We haven't tried this yet."

"What?" Severus asks.

"Skin-to-skin contact."

"What?" Severus repeats, eying Potter warily. Surely the brat isn't depraved enough to use this as another opportunity to get naked? He'd have to be heartless. Or a crazed exhibitionist.

Potter casts a warming charm and takes the baby from his arms. "Take off your shirt."

"This is hardly the time, Potter," Severus says testily.

"Funny," he says, but his tone that suggests it is anything but. Potter lies the baby on the bed and begins to undo her pyjamas.

Severus stands there watching him.

"Evanesco" Potter says, and Severus' shirt and vest disappear.

"Potter!" Severus protests, crossing his arms across his chest.

"This is no time to be missish," Potter says sternly. He lifts the baby, now clad only in a nappy, and holds her out.

Severus sighs and takes her, cradling her to his bare chest and rocking her gently back and forth. "Shhhhh," he says, kissing the top of her sweet-smelling head. "You're all right."

Potter is staring at them, biting his lip, his face hopeful.

Severus isn't certain if the baby's cries are tapering off or if he actually is starting to go deaf.

"It's working," Potter says, smiling. "Are you warm enough?"

"Mmm hmm," Severus murmurs. Jessamine's whimpers are flagging, the tension ebbing slowly from her body. "She can hardly keep her eyes open," he whispers.

He sits down on the bed and leans against the headboard. The baby hiccups weakly and snuffles against his chest before finally closing her eyes, and Severus sags with relief.

"Is she asleep?" Potter whispers.

"I think so," he says. "I'll hold her a little longer just to be sure." He lets himself slump against the headboard, still stroking the soft skin of the baby's back.

Potter goes round the other side of the bed and sits down, but facing Severus, and proceeds to stare at him fixedly. Severus is too drained to try to parse the look on Potter's face — the tender, wistful gleam in his eye. It's likely some sort of madness bought on by sleep deprivation and prolonged exposure to screaming. Severus lets his own eyes slide shut, but still he can feel the weight of Potter's gaze on him.

"What is it, Potter?" he finally asks, reluctantly opening his eyes.

"Nothing," he replies, too fast.

Severus flexes a brow and Potter looks away.

"The two of you ... you look good," he says, a flush spreading across his cheeks.

"Rubbish," Severus scoffs. "I think you need new glasses, Potter."

"I just got these ones three weeks ago," Potter says, and he smiles, a slow, hesitant smile that suffuses Severus' body with heat. Oh, no.

Potter holds his gaze for a few agonizing seconds before hoisting himself up off the bed. "Let's get her in her cot," he says, lifting Jessamine from Severus' arms.

"Give her an extra blanket," Severus says, rising from the bed and standing beside Potter, looking down at the sleeping baby.

Potter turns so that they're face to face, or would be if Potter weren't a head shorter than him. His hair is standing straight up in crazed tendrils, almost as though he's had a shock, and it seems almost to be reaching out, stretching toward Severus like some plants follow the sun. The tension in the air between them is thick. Severus imagines he could reach out and squeeze it between his fingers, read the shape of it, the shape of wanting. Potter tilts his chin up and Severus knows, with heart-stuttering certainty, that he is going to be kissed.

"Severus," Potter murmurs, swaying toward him.

The sound of his name on Potter's lips snaps Severus out of his stupor. He rocks back on his heels as though struck.

Potter stares at him (confused, reproachful), and the realization of how shamefully easy it would be to fall for his manipulations is sobering.

"Good night, Potter," Severus says, turning on his heel and hurrying from the room.

Harry closes his eyes, but he doesn't sleep.

He thinks about Snape and the baby — the sight of his hands cradling her, gentle and clever at once, the way he talks to her when he thinks Harry isn't listening, the sound of his voice reading to her in the wee hours of the night — and an almost sweet ache rises in him. He thinks about the jolt that shook through him when he saw Snape in his bed, the way his heart tried to beat itself inside out when he thought for a moment that something was going to happen. Something could have happened, is what he thinks.

He wishes something had.

Harry feels stunned, like he's been hit in the back of the head with a bludger and the pain hasn't yet filtered through the shock.

He rolls onto his stomach and tucks his hands under his chest, but he can't stop shaking. He presses his face into his pillow and imagines himself walking out into the sitting room and asking Snape to ... what? Harry can't even imagine.

But he can imagine Snape's response easily enough, and that keeps him in bed until morning.

Snape is up and dressed in full robes when Harry and the baby make their way to the kitchen for breakfast.

"You're leaving?" Harry says, voice embarrassingly high-pitched and surprised. The realization that Snape could leave at any time is like a fist in the gut.

Snape flinches, and the movement is so slight Harry almost misses it. "I have a meeting with my publisher that I shouldn't postpone," he says, his voice rough and overused. He takes a sip of tea, clears his throat and gets up from his chair.

Harry can't stop himself from asking, even though he knows it's pathetic. He's pathetic. "When will you be back?"

"After lunch, I should think," Snape says, walking over until he's standing in front of Harry. He touches the baby's head and looks at Harry like he's going to say something, then purses his lips and turns to the floo. "Lock this behind me," he says, and then he's gone.

Harry stares at the fireplace until Jess starts to chew on his shoulder in desperation. He makes her a bottle and himself a bowl of cereal and then sits at the table and looks at the empty place that is already somehow Snape's and wonders why everything in his life always has to be so impossibly difficult, why he never wants anything easy or simple. It's probably another of his many deep-seated psychological issues, so he decides to save it for therapy and floo over to Grimmauld Place and take Jessamine for a walk in the park.

A couple of hours and a brisk tramp through Elthorne Park with Jess in a baby sling later, Harry is back at home with a plan. He puts Jess down for her nap, rouses a cranky Desmond from his, and sends him off with a note for his lawyer. Nicholas shows up at the flat within the hour and they have a long chat about the legalities of child custody that leaves Harry confused and terrified and elated all at once.

He can't believe he's thinking about doing this, but he can't imagine doing anything else.

The only question is whether Snape feels the same way.

Nicholas is just about to floo back to his office when Snape steps through the fireplace with a face like one of Shakespeare's tragedies — the one where everyone dies.

Harry jumps. "Severus! Hi. You're home early."

Snape looks at him, face creased suspiciously. "Am I?" he asks in a dangerously quiet voice, eyes darting toward Nicholas.

"Oh, sorry. Severus, this is Nicholas Rowell, my lawyer. Nicholas, this is Severus Snape."

"It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Snape. I hope you'll excuse me for dashing off. Harry, I'll send you those papers as soon as they've been drawn up, and you can owl me if you need anything at all," Nicholas says, throwing a handful of powder into the floo. "Law offices of Sterling, Noble & Crane, 22 Regent Street," he says clearly, and steps through.

"How was your meeting?" Harry says, looking at his hands.

"How was yours?" Snape replies, in the same soft, deadly tone.

"Oh, unexpected but fine. Just tying up some loose ends," Harry lies, still avoiding Snape's black look. "Did you have lunch? I could make toasted cheese sandwiches. Do you like lentil soup? I make brilliant lentil soup." He squeezes by Snape and into the kitchen without looking to see if he's being followed.

Harry takes the cutting board from beside the sink and collects an onion, a tin of diced tomatoes, and dried red lentils from the pantry. There's a bottle of chicken stock, some curry paste and a lemon in the fridge. He starts dicing the onion and tries to ignore the fact that he's breathless, heart mercilessly punching his ribs. He knows without looking over his shoulder that Snape is leaning against the island, arms crossed, face set in a scowl, but he's afraid that if he turns and looks his mouth will start running like a broken tap again and he isn't ready to explain things yet. Even if he were, Snape very likely isn't ready to hear it. They both need a bit more time. Harry just hopes they've got it.

A chime sounds. The baby's awake.

"Would you mine getting her while I finish this?" he says.

There is no reply but Snape's quiet footsteps down the hall. Harry drizzles olive oil into a stockpot, adds the onions and turns on the flame. By the time Severus emerges with the baby, the soup is simmering on the hob and Harry's got the bread and cheese sliced.

"Did she need a clean nappy?" he asks.

"She did indeed. She is a horrid, smelly little beast," Severus says, tickling her round belly. "No wonder she was living in a skip." The baby clutches a handful of his hair and stares up at him with a delighted, drooly smile.

Harry can't help but laugh.

The knock at the door is so unexpected that for a moment Harry wonders what it is.

"Who could that be?" he wonders aloud.

Snape shrugs and tries to free his hair from the baby's clutches, to no avail. "Some variety of Weasley?"

"They all use the floo," Harry says over his shoulder, as he rushes through the sitting room to the front door. He pats himself down, looking for his wand. In the kitchen, Snape sighs heavily. Harry closes his eyes and visualizes his wand in the palm of his hand and feels it settle there. He raises it and cracks opens the door.

And blinks.

"Dudley?"

"—back to France a year and a half ago for a holiday like, to visit my mate, Jean. I met him when we stayed there during your ... thing. Anyway, he took me to one of your big Cribbage matches, and France won, kicked the Swedes' arses, and they were all mad with excitement, drinking and celebrating and there were fireworks, bleeding brilliant fireworks, mate, dragons and all, and I met this girl and," he shrugs one huge, muscular shoulder and points at the baby sitting on Severus' knee, "Bob's your uncle." He eyes Severus nervously and wedges himself more tightly against the arm of the sofa.

"But ... who was this girl?" Harry asks, staring at Dudley in shock and amazement.

"She was a witch." The last two words are barely a whisper.

"One with exceedingly poor judgment and hypermetropia," Snape says under his breath.

Harry frowns at him. "And what happened to her?"

"Well, I only saw her the once," Dudley says sheepishly. "And then a couple of weeks ago she shows up in Little Whinging with the baby and says..." he trails off. "Well, that's sort of the problem. I don't speak much French, do I? She shouted a lot and waved her arms around, shattered Mum's favourite vase and then put it back together with her wand thing, cried a bit, shouted some more, kissed the little one, handed her and her things over and legged it. Luckily Mum and Dad were in Majorca on holiday. Dad would have gone off his trolley."

"So she just ... abandoned her child?" Harry says in disbelief.

"I waited all day for her to come back," Dudley says, shaking his head and rubbing his hand over his by all appearances freshly shorn hair. "The baby cried for hours. I was close to tears myself a few times. So we got a train to London to see Piers — d'you remember Piers Polkiss?" he asks, as though Piers were one of Harry's old school friends and not someone who once came up with the brilliant idea of tying him up and emptying the inhabitants of Dudley's ant farm over his head.

Harry nods.

"Right, so we stayed at his for a few days. He's a banker, if you can believe it, doing very well, already married and sprogged up. He and his wife pitched in and helped me out while I sorted out what to do."

"And that was what, exactly?" Snape says, acidly. "Leave your daughter in a skip to be raised by rats?"

"What?" Dudley looks scandalized, an expression that sits very strangely on his usually inexpressive face.

"We found this baby in a rubbish skip in a filthy alley," Snape says in an eerily calm voice.

"That's not ..." Dudley scratches his head. "I mean, I was looking for Harry. I found out about that party—"

"How?" Harry blurts out. It's hardly his biggest concern, but he doesn't seem to be in charge of the things coming out of his mouth at the moment.

"I called Mrs. Figg to ask how to track you down, and she said she'd be surprised if I didn't find you there." Dudley looks quite proud of this bit of detective work.

Harry polishes his glasses on the hem of his shirt. "Go on."

"Right. So I went to the address she gave me, but it was abandoned, really creepy," he shudders and crosses his arms across his massive barrel chest.

"Anti-Muggle charms," Severus mutters.

"I walked around outside for ages but I didn't see anyone, just a few drunks from one of the pubs stumbling home, until I stumbled across the two of you in the alley," he hesitates, biting his lip into weird shapes, "you know."

Harry wrinkles his forehead. "What?"

"You were ... you know!" Dudley says, turning brick-red and avoiding Harry's eyes.

"Fighting?" Harry asks, face screwed up in bewilderment.

"Okay," Dudley says slowly, stretching the word out, affecting great interest in the two massive meathooks resting in his lap.

Harry turns to Snape and is taken aback by the horrified look on his face. "Severus—," he begins, but Snape just shakes his head and rubs his forehead like he's getting a headache. Not surprising. Harry turns back to Dudley. "So you saw us in the alley," he repeats.

"Right," Dudley says, "and it seemed pretty obvious I had arrived at a bad time, yeah? But the thing was, I'd already booked my train tickets, and I had to be at ATR Bassingbourn the next morning for basic training, so I wrote you a quick letter and left the baby where I knew you wouldn't be able to miss her."

"You joined the army?" Harry stares at Dudley, mouth hanging open like a proper idiot. He closes his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts and a horribly vivid image of Dudley in fatigues carrying a machine gun pops into his mind. His eyes fly open.

"Yeah, The Royal Regiment of Artillery." Dudley cracks his knuckles thunderously. "Look, Harry," he says, spreading his hands and showing his palms. "When we were kids, I was a bit cruel to you."

"Really?" Harry asks. It's a struggle to keep a straight face.

But Dudley's expression is as serious as Harry as ever seen it. "Yeah, I was an utter shit. But you saved my life. You saved all our lives. I'm not brave like you, Harry, so I couldn't understand it at first but I think I might be starting to. And when I thought hard about who would do right by this little scrap," he nods at the baby, asleep in Snape's arms with her bottle still in her mouth, "I thought of you."

Snape snorts dismissively, but it's by far the longest speech Harry's ever heard Dudley make, and he's actually a bit moved the sentiment. "Thank you, Dudley. That means a lot."

"And since your lot can't have kids," Dudley says, gesturing first at Harry and then at Snape with a rueful grin, "it's perfect, isn't it?"

Harry scratches his head. "Wizards can have kids, Dudley," he says, frowning.

Dudley's eyebrows shoot halfway up to his hairline. "Yeah, of course, but not ... not two wizards."

"Oh," Harry says. "Oh! You think that we're ... oh." He looks at Snape to find him glaring not just daggers at Dudley but an entire personal arsenal. "Dudley, Snape and I are n—." The protest turns to dust in his mouth. He licks his lips and struggles to find the words. "That's really thoughtful of you, Dudley. Thanks."

"So you'll keep her?" Dudley says, smiling widely.

"Yeah." Harry nods, but Snape's expressionless stare, which tells him more than any sneer or scowl ever could, fills him with cold dread. He's going to have to explain things. Today. "Yeah, I'll keep her."

Harry closes and locks the door behind Dudley and collapses against it, resting his forehead against the wood. His mind is positively swirling. The whole situation is unbelievable. Impossible. It's all a bit overwhelming, which means tea, so he heads into the kitchen and puts on the kettle.

He piles a tray with the tea things and floats it into the sitting room. "I wasn't sure if you might want a sandwich, since we missed lunch."

Snape doesn't look up from his ... packing? His movements are jerky, just this side of violent, and his face is creased with concentration.

Harry sets the tray on the end table and clears his throat. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Snape snarls.

Harry throws his hands in the air. "Fine. Why are you packing, you unbelievably stroppy git?"

Snape laughs cruelly. "You must be an absolute terror in the interrogation room, Potter."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Harry asks, stirring milk into both teacups.

Snape looks at him, disbelief etched plainly on his features. "What's wrong with me?" he says, ripping a cover off one of his books with an overly enthusiastic stacking spell. "Fuck!"

"Okay, what's wrong with me then?" Harry asks, settling himself on the sofa and crossing his arms.

"How much time do you have?" Snape replies, shrinking the stack of books and putting it in his carryall.

Harry drops his head into his hands and groans. "You are such an arse."

"Then you should be happy I'm leaving," Snape says, closing and fastening his bag.

"Are you always this impossible when you miss a meal?"

The look in Snape's eyes makes Harry's hair stand on end and sends a frisson of true fear through him, the likes of which he hasn't felt in many years. Jokes are out then.

Snape takes a pinch of floo powder from the ceramic bowl on the mantle.

The sight of him standing there sends a sharp spike of panic through Harry. "Severus, you don't have to leave!" he says. "This doesn't change anything."

Snape clutches the handle of his bag tightly. "Potter, it changes everything."

Harry grips the edge of the settee to stop himself from lunging at the floo, blocking it with his own body. "You're just going to leave then? What about Jessamine?" he says. What about me? he thinks, but he cannot bring himself to say it.

"What about Jessamine, Potter? You're her uncle. You're her blood. And if your moronic cousin doesn't change whatever it is that passes for his mind, you'll soon be her father. But what am I to her? A stranger who once cared for her, nothing more than that," Snape says, with extraordinary bitterness, throwing powder into the fire.

Harry stands up and takes a step toward him. "You know that's not true, Severus."

Snape holds up a hand as though to ward Harry off and edges closer to the fireplace. "Don't complicate things unnecessarily, Potter. You should be delighted. Once again, you've come out of an impossible situation with a perfect resolution. Congratulations," he says, and disappears into the green flames.

In the bedroom, the baby wakes from her nap and starts to cry.

Up until very recently, Severus would have said that he was almost entirely content with his life. Yes, it presents certain frustrations — the usual irritations, compounded by his relatively recent fame — but overall he is not dissatisfied with his lot.

He has told himself this every day since he arrived home. You are content, he tells himself when he wakes, before he even opens his eyes, in the hope that it will stave off the deep melancholy that rolls over him even as the sun rises in the sky.

Actually, it has rained almost every day for a week, which suits Severus' mood very well, but apparently self-pity makes him poetic and prone to hyperbole.

Severus makes a point of luxuriating in his bed each morning. He tells himself he does this not because breakfasting alone is a hardship, but because his back is only now beginning to recover from a week on Potter's settee. He tells himself he enjoys his solitude, that he's too set in his ways to surrender it in exchange for companionship. That he is too old to forsake comfort for chance.

This is a lie, and not even a very convincing one, which is surprising considering that Severus has been perfecting the art of lying (to others and himself) all his life. It has always been safest for him to immerse himself in his fictions, to wrap them around himself, mind and body. What better protection? And it has been many years since this means of coping with life's difficulties failed him.

It would seem there are limits to human invention after all.

Severus wakes suddenly in the night and rises without thinking, shoving his feet into his slippers and crossing the room. When he realizes where he is, he stops short, clenching his hands into fists and pressing them into the doorframe. Oh, damn.

He sits on the edge of the bed. In the dark of night, the effort required to keep regret at arm's length is too great, so he lays back and lets it come. It fits like his oldest pair of dragonhide gloves — not precisely comfortable but exceedingly familiar. But, unlike every other action or inaction in his life that he regrets, Severus can do something about this one, so it's difficult to fully immerse himself in his brooding.

There have been times when Severus has wondered if Potter could find his own arse with his hands tied behind his back. He consoles himself by envisioning Potter at home alone with the Jessamine, struggling with her care and feeding, her moods and fussing, her desire be naked and stay up all night like a rowdy teenager, all on his own. She's a handful. Too much for one person. Severus wishes there were some way he could just slip into Potter's flat undetected to see what state things are in.

He sits bolt upright in bed and slaps himself on the forehead, happy there is not a soul around to observe that particular cliché. It's embarrassing how easy it is to occasionally forget one is a wizard.

The object of interest is in an old trunk at the foot of the bed in the spare room, as he knew it would be. Potter is not the only one with an invisibility cloak.

He slips it on and heads for the floo.

Severus had imagined that Potter's flat would be warded to the heavens. That there would be specific jinxes to keep him out. Instead, he breezes straight through and finds himself standing on the Turkish carpet in Potter's dark sitting room without expending any effort at all. It's a bit anticlimactic really.

All seems quiet, he thinks, standing stock still and straining his ears. But then, from down the hall, a faint cry that squeezes his heart in a not unpleasant way. He moves so that he is in a deeply shadowed recessed area to the right of the fireplace, where normal people might house a bookcase and Potter leans an expensive looking racing broom and some other piece of sporting equipment, a flat paddle-like bat. Severus shakes his head.

Potter shambles down the hall humming quietly, babe in arms, and goes into the kitchen. Severus waits. A moment later he emerges, bottle in hand, and settles himself on the settee, uncomfortably close by. Of course he's invisible, but Severus knows better than anyone that a wizard attuned to his surroundings would still sense another presence. He takes in Potter's heavy eyes, his mussed beyond belief hair and wrinkled pyjamas, and concludes that he's safe.

The only sound in the room is the baby drawing on her bottle. Potter stares down at her and strokes her head tenderly, and Severus wonders if he too has the sensation that some nameless thirst of his own is quenched whenever he puts the bottle to her lips.

When she's through, Potter lifts her up and pats her back in smooth circles until the desired result is achieved. He tucks the baby back in the crook of his arm and starts to sing her to sleep.

Hush little baby, it's time to sleep
Snug in your bed, you won't make a peep
And if you wake before the dawn
I'll sing you another song.

"That one does rhyme," Potter whispers, as if arguing against some invisible audience.

"Ba," Jessamine says, looking up at Potter with her enormous baby blues and clutching the collar of his pyjama top.

"I know," Potter says, staring myopically at Severus' hiding spot. "I miss him too."

Back at home, Severus paces around his flat and tries to decide what to do. Potter clearly knew he was there. Should he just go on as though nothing unusual has occurred? Or should he return in the morning and suffer the indignity of delivering an apology?

He pours himself a large brandy and makes himself comfortable in his armchair, but he cannot relax. The whole situation is obscene. That he should be worrying about what Potter thinks of him! It's unconscionable. Under no circumstances will he allow himself to be ruled by a reckless, irascible, stupid-haired prat.

After giving the matter some thought, and liberal application of brandy, Severus is willing to concede that Potter may indeed have developed a misguided romantic attachment. It's far from unimaginable given that he and Severus have recently shared a stressful, emotionally intense experience, in close quarters and somewhat isolated from the world. But in Severus', admittedly limited, experience, these kinds of infatuations invariably do not (cannot) last.

Even if Severus were interested — unlikely in the extreme, he reassures himself — a connection of any description between he and Potter could never, ever work, for this and a million other reasons. He refuses to subject himself to the inevitable torture of having a relationship sour, particularly this one, where more than his own pride, and heart, are at risk. It would be unfair in the extreme to allow Jessamine to become accustomed to his presence only to be abandoned yet again. He simply cannot allow it to happen.

He decides to send Potter an owl explaining everything tomorrow, when he's feeling more sober. And less honest.

When Severus wakes in the morning, he is folded painfully in his armchair with a headache like smashed glass and a feeling of foreboding deep in his aching bones. He peels open one eye experimentally.

Potter standing in front of him shifting from foot to foot, like someone waiting for the Knight Bus. He draws a breath and parts his lips to speak, but Severus lifts one finger to forestall him.

"If you'll excuse me for a moment," he says, voice a pained rasp.

Potter nods, and Severus heaves the great burden that is his body out of his chair and walks from the room with as much dignity as he can muster, which in this instance is negligible. He locks himself in the bathroom, downs a double dose of headache potion, and brushes his teeth with punishing force before sitting down on the edge of the bathtub with his head in his hands.

Hard to believe he's got himself into another bloody awful mess. Being compelled to admit his trespass to Potter in person is unpleasant in the extreme. But what is even worse, what is utterly unbearable, is the feeling that came over Severus when he opened his eyes to find Potter standing in his sitting room. The subtle shift that took place somewhere in his chest, squeezing hope and something else he doesn't care to name into his heart. The knowledge of his own idiocy fills him with deep self-loathing. He makes a painful noise that is somewhere between a groan and a laugh and struggles to his feet.

Potter is leaning against the mantle biting his lip when Severus returns to the sitting room, washed and dressed. "Ron and Hermione are watching Jessamine for me," he says.

"I see," Severus says.

Potter stares at him, a peculiar expression on his face. "I know what you're going to say."

"Do you?" Severus asks. If so, he is the only one.

"Yes. You're going to say that the things I'm feeling aren't real. That I'm just ... infatuated, or whatever, because of what we've gone through together. You're going to say that it would never work between us. That we shouldn't even risk it, because of Jessamine," he says sadly, looking at his hands.

Severus inclines his head in agreement. "Exactly so," he says, lowering himself into his armchair with a sigh.

"Well," Potter say, biting his lip again and looking worried. "I think you're wrong."

"Why am I not surprised?" Severus asks.

"I think you're just afraid," Potter says.

"Potter," Severus cautions, voice low and hard. They've been down this road before and he does not care for a repeat journey.

Potter huffs out a breath and tugs at his own hair in frustration. "I knew you'd be a stubborn git about this."

"How astute of you."

"What are you really afraid of?" Potter asks, his tone a combination of belligerence and exasperation. He removes his robe and tosses it on the sofa before unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

Severus frowns. "What are you doing, Potter?"

"What does it look like, Snape?" he says, flicking open the button at his throat.

"It looks like you're about to make a fool of yourself," Severus says, rising from his chair and taking a step toward Potter in the hopes of putting an end to his charade before it goes too far.

Potter's shirt joins his robe on the sofa in short order and then he just stands there, hands hanging at his sides, expression uncertain. Severus shakes his head.

"Severus, it's just ... I ... I want you," he says, and the intensity in his eyes, the earnest throb in his voice, makes heat charge to Severus' face.

"Potter," he says.

"Harry," Potter says, in a stern tone.

"Harry," Severus sighs and shakes his head. "This is a terrible idea," he says, but even to himself it doesn't sound convincing, and when Potter thumbs open the buttons on his trousers and pushes them down (no pants, Severus' mind supplies helpfully), his prick is suddenly, shockingly, hard.

Potter toes off his shoes and socks and kicks free of his trousers. Without his permission, Severus' gaze travels down Potter's naked, hungry-looking body, memorizing the curve of his shoulders, the pale porcelain of his chest, the pink nipples, the hard prick straining up toward the cup of his belly, his strong legs and neat-looking feet, walking toward Severus, crowding in between his own.

"Severus," Potter says, and without further preamble leans up and kisses him. His mouth is warm and soft and wet, and Severus' hands reach for his hips and pull him closer. They kiss and kiss and kiss, blind and heady and fierce, tasting one another's mouths as though the secrets of the universe are contained therein. Potter whimpers against Severus' lips and presses even closer, thrusting and trembling, rubbing a damp spot onto the front of Severus' trousers.

Potter pulls away, one hand on his chest to hold him in place, and leans back on his heels, studying Severus' face intently, lip between his teeth. He must find whatever he sees encouraging, because he immediately manhandles Severus into his armchair and drops to his knees in front of him, hands fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. When he finally gets the cursed buttons open, Potter lays one hot palm over Severus' twitching prick, still covered by the thin material of his pants.

"All right?" he asks, his green eyes wide.

It's a little uncomfortable, to be exposed in this way, but Severus can only nod and let his eyes slide closed. When Potter tugs at his trousers and pants, he obediently lifts his hips so he him pull them down.

Severus experiences a sharp spike of panic when he is revealed, in his splendour, to Potter's greedy gaze, but when Potter slips his wet mouth over the head of Severus' fully erect prick, his eyes fly open and he suddenly ceases to care about anything but this: a gentle hand cupping his balls, a tongue stroking the underside of his cock, the soft, almost gentle, press and pull of lips as Potter sucks him.

Potter's erection bumps eagerly against Severus shin, leaving a smear of wetness in its wake that feels odd and erotic, and his pulse trips frantically under Severus' fingers when they slip over the silky skin of his throat. He pushes Potter's disheveled hair out of his eyes and strokes his brow and the hard bones of his cheeks before resting his fingers on swollen red lips. Potter smoulders up at him from under his eyelashes and sucks harder, smiling around Severus' cock, and Severus realizes, as his hips flex involuntarily, as his hands slide down to grasp Potter's hard shoulders, that he has not felt this good in some time. Upon further reflection, he realizes it's more likely that he's never felt this good in his life.

His balls tighten in the hot sweaty cup of Potter's hands and he shudders and groans, thrusting up without warning and coming in long, luxurious waves down Potter's throat. Severus digs his nails into the arms of the chair and bites down on the words that try to fight their way through his clenched teeth.

Potter swallows once, and again and again, before he pulls away, eyes watering, chest heaving.

"Sorry," Severus gasps, when he is capable of speech, laying a trembling hand on the top of Potter's hair.

"Don't be," Potter says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Severus hauls Potter into his lap, wincing at the catch and drag of Potter's prick against his own too-sensitive flesh, and pulls him into a clumsy kiss, lips sliding from Potter's open mouth down to his chin when he grinds against Severus with savage determination.

He pinches Potter's nipple hard to get his attention and then circles his prick with his thumb and first finger, stroking it slowly, contemplatively, staring into Potter's face. Potter groans and lifts his hips impatiently, arching and thrusting into Severus hand. His face and prick are a matching shade of red and his forehead is wrinkled in concentration as he tries to force Severus into a faster rhythm.

"Oh please, oh fuck," Potter says, writhing against him when Severus refuses to comply. He wraps a hand around the nape of Severus' neck and pulls him into a rough kiss. Their teeth knock together, and Potter's hips surge forward, his prick jabbing into Severus' belly in a way that should be painful, but Potter just rubs his stubbled cheek against Severus' jaw and cries out, voice cracking with what Severus hopes is pleasure.

Severus kisses him again, deep and wet and hungry, nudging him back in his lap so he can work one hand under his arse, and Potter bites his tongue and bucks up, thrusting desperately into Severus' fist, every muscle in his body straining toward the inevitable. Severus is certain that he need only press the tip of one finger inside Potter's arse to push him over the edge.

He is correct. Potter's ejaculate hits him in the belly, where his shirt is rucked up, and in the chest, where it is not, but surprisingly Severus does not mind. It's hard to work up any indignation at all when Potter is plastered against him, panting, head tucked under his chin, knees pressed tight against Severus hips, arms around his shoulders.

"You're brilliant," Potter says, his voice muffled by the collar of Severus' shirt.

Severus' chest throbs and he has the sudden, overwhelming desire to say something, something that he will very likely live to regret. He stifles the impulse and presses a kiss against Potter's incredible hair. "I was wondering when you'd notice, Potter," he says tartly.

Potter laughs and unfolds himself from Severus' lap, tucking him back in his trousers and buttoning them carefully. "Are you coming?" He looks at Severus like he's the most amazing thing since sex and holds out his hand.

Severus lets his lingering reservations fall away and clasps Potter's hand. "Apparently so," he says, and lets a grinning Potter pull him out of his chair.

Six months later

Severus and Potter lean against the island, waiting for the kettle to boil and listening intently to the happenings in the sitting room. Dursley is ostensibly watching Jessamine but Severus' is less than satisfied with that arrangement, though he pretends otherwise for Potter's sake. He walks around the island and peers out at them. "Biscuits?" he asks, casually.

"Yes, please," the bottomless pit says, much to Severus' complete lack of surprise. He is sitting on the carpet in front of the fireplace, driving a maddeningly noisy motorized toy car in circles around Jessamine, who is chewing enthusiastically on the butt of a plastic machine gun.

Severus returns to the kitchen, sighing and rubbing his temples in a vain attempt to keep a burgeoning headache at bay. "That's all going in the rubbish as soon as he leaves."

"Of course," Potter agrees, filling a tray with milk and sugar and biscuits.

"Harry!" Dudley shouts, sounding extremely alarmed.

They both race into the sitting room.

"I think she needs a clean nappy," Dudley says, screwing up his face horribly.

Severus picks Jessamine up, holding her at arm's length. "Have you seen your owl lately, Potter?" he asks. "I think it might have crawled into the baby's diaper to die."

"Severus! You're going to give her a complex," Potter says, taking the baby out of his arms and kissing her on the head. "Oh, Jess," he winces. "That really is very, very bad. Let's get you changed, sweetheart."

When Potter disappears down the hall, Dursley suddenly looks very nervous. He lumbers to his feet and edges slowly away, as though Severus is a snake reared to strike. Severus smiles, filled with nostalgia for the days when he was universally feared. Harry sweeps back into the room and deposits the baby back on the carpet before fetching the tea things.

Potter pours for everyone and hands the biscuits around. "So," he says, perching on the arm of Severus' chair. "What's new, Dudley?"

"I was talking to Mum the other day," he says, in between biscuits two and three. "She said she's been thinking of paying you lot a visit."

Jessica shrieks and drops her digestive biscuit to the floor. Severus considers doing the same. Potter sets his teacup in its saucer with a clatter and takes a deep, shaky breath. "Really?" he asks, face stricken.

"Yeah," Dursley says, returning his attention to the biscuit plate.

"We're moving," Severus says under his breath.

Potter nods and squeezes his shoulder. "Tomorrow."

THE END

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