Deja Vu
I’m in the same situation as I was this time last year, preparing to send my son to sleep-away camp. It doesn’t get any easier the second time around, except for the packing. To chase away the ebil demons of mommy angst, I've pulled out this fluffy piece I wrote a year ago, but added a few improvements. So without further ado, I bring you...
Camp Wildewizard
Striding through the brilliant green flames and dusting silvery Floo powder from his impeccably neat and dauntingly black teaching robes, Severus Snape sensed something amiss in his Hogsmeade home. The mantle clock chimed half past eleven the very moment he arrived, having just completed his scheduled rounds of Hogwarts, where he searched hallways and dark alcoves for rule breakers, teenaged lovers and assorted miscreants. As much as he enjoyed docking House points and assigning detentions - nowadays administered by Filch - to unwitting dunderheads, he would much rather spend a quiet evening at home with his bride, the former Hermione Granger Weasley.
Normally when he returned home on these late nights, he would be greeted by his brave, little lioness leaning seductively against the mantel in the lounge, wearing a flimsy negligee and holding a dry martini with pearl onion garnish in one hand, a bottle of massage oil in the other; soft jazz music would be heard in the background, playing faintly on the Wizarding Wireless. Severus could imagine no better way to unwind after a tension-filled patrol than this late night ritual. To tell the truth, he could imagine something better, and that usually followed the drink-and-massage routine.
But tonight total darkness and eerie silence suffused the lounge, and Hermione was nowhere in sight. With wicked quickness, Severus unsheathed his wand and began to look for his absent wife. He first searched the kitchen, dimly lit by the flame of a single candle, which stood sentry over an unopened bottle of Grey Goose vodka. Not giving a thought to the missing bottle of vermouth, he continued the fruitless, literal witch hunt into the dining room. No luck finding her there.
Next, he carefully peered into the guest bedroom, illuminated by the full moon shining through the sheer drapes. A quick scan indicated nothing out of sorts. Inside the room, he could see two figures, slumbering quietly in their twin beds; not Hermione, but her two children, sired by her ex-husband, the red-haired menace, Ronald Weasley. Everyone, including Severus, considered the wizard to be a pleasant, fun-loving chap with a reckless streak, a hex-first-ask-questions-later type of fellow at work and at home. The last thing Hermione needed was an overgrown, petulant child to raise. She desired a mate, an intellectual equal with similar interests, and Severus was the wizard for the job.
The hint of a smile ghosted his lips as he closed the door to the children’s bedroom. As a rule, he disliked children; he didn’t mind these two because they were Hermione’s own. He continued the search for his missing wife, finding their own bedroom empty, devoid of witch. It was much the same for the bathrooms and his study.
As he approached the last room on the ground floor, he heard muffled sobbing and saw light escaping through the gap between the door and the threshold. Severus turned the knob and slowly, quietly, pushed open the door to the utility room, lest he startle the occupants and alert them to his presence. Years of spying had taught him to tread lightly, allowing him the element of surprise, if needed.
This time, however, the use of stealth had been unnecessary. There he discovered Hermione, crumpled on the cold, tile floor, clutching a small, sodden, athletic sock and weeping uncontrollably. Strewn around her were tear-soaked character briefs, decorated with the images of professional Quidditch players and heroes of the Second Voldemort War, including Hermione and Severus as well as the boy-who-lived-twice, Harry Potter.
“Hermione,” he whispered as he sat down next to her and gathered his bride in his strong arms. “What’s happened? Why are you crying?” Severus rocked the weepy witch back and forth to gently soothe her.
She took a few deep, shuddering breaths to calm herself, then blew her nose with a pair of tiny, Victor Krum y-fronts.
“It’s Hugo,” she cried in despair.
“I just looked in on him. He seems perfectly fine,” Severus explained, his voice the epitome of calm amidst the storm. “What’s wrong with him?” He showed true concern, his face contorted with pain, sympathy and fear of the unknown.
Hermione looked up, viewing Severus from beneath a fringe of clumpy, wet eyelashes. She sniffled and said, “Nothing’s wrong with Hugo. It’s me. I’m a mess.” She paused to blow her nose again.
“I see that, but please tell me why you’re crying.” He was trying to be patient, but he was still in the dark about what had set her off on this crying jag.
“Well, I wanted to prepare Hugo’s gear for sleep-away camp before I welcomed you home with my usual patrol-night routine. I didn’t… I just… I didn’t realize that labeling Hugo’s name on little socks and underpants would set me off like this.” She let loose a pitiful wail, although a bit subdued, not loud enough to wake the children or alert the neighborhood dogs. Her sobbing began once more, but lacked any intensity. Silent tears streaked her cheeks as she rested her head on his chest.
Severus ran his hand over her unruly locks. “I still don’t understand why undergarments would upset you so,” he said quietly in his deep, rich baritone. “You’re aces when it comes to laundry charms, my love. Hugo will have the brightest, cleanest underpants in all of Camp Wildewizard.”
“You’ve just hit upon my issue, Severus,” Hermione spoke sadly. “He will be gone for ten days. However will he manage? I know he’s nine years old, but he’s never been away from me for more than a weekend, and even then he’s always been with family.” She referred to the custody arrangement with her ex-husband. The children visited Ron every other weekend at the Burrow, where they were often surrounded by an overabundance of cousins.
“Hermione, look at me,” he said, lifting her chin with his long, elegant fingers. “You have raised a fine young man in Hugo. Not only is he book-smart, but personable, too, with more common sense than the average prepubescent boy. He plays well with others; he will be fine at camp. Besides, the staff know how to manage homesick children.”
Moments passed and no words were spoken as she considered his reasoning.
She sighed. “I know you’re right, but I’m having a hard time letting go of my little boy. He’s growing up and doesn’t need me as much as before,” she lamented.
“He’s still a boy, Hermione,” Severus reminded his young wife. “He will need your help and guidance for years to come. Rose still needs you as well. I need you, Hermione. I’m lost without you.” His black eyes bore into her with a passionate intensity she could barely withstand. Severus then rewarded his witch with a rare smile and bestowed a kiss upon the top of her head.
Hermione finally relaxed. She toyed with the many buttons of her husband’s frock coat and mused, “You know, if this works out for Hugo, maybe next summer we could arrange for Rose to visit the Burrow while he’s at camp. Then we can enjoy a second honeymoon. What do you think of Las Vegas?” She batted her eyelashes a bit to punctuate the query.
With his trademark smirk and arched eyebrow, he replied, “It’s as if you are reading my mind. Since when did you master Legilimens?”
FINIS
Disclaimer: JKR owns it all. None of her original characters were harmed in the writing of this story.
Special thanks to kittylefish for giving this the once over.
Camp Wildewizard
Striding through the brilliant green flames and dusting silvery Floo powder from his impeccably neat and dauntingly black teaching robes, Severus Snape sensed something amiss in his Hogsmeade home. The mantle clock chimed half past eleven the very moment he arrived, having just completed his scheduled rounds of Hogwarts, where he searched hallways and dark alcoves for rule breakers, teenaged lovers and assorted miscreants. As much as he enjoyed docking House points and assigning detentions - nowadays administered by Filch - to unwitting dunderheads, he would much rather spend a quiet evening at home with his bride, the former Hermione Granger Weasley.
Normally when he returned home on these late nights, he would be greeted by his brave, little lioness leaning seductively against the mantel in the lounge, wearing a flimsy negligee and holding a dry martini with pearl onion garnish in one hand, a bottle of massage oil in the other; soft jazz music would be heard in the background, playing faintly on the Wizarding Wireless. Severus could imagine no better way to unwind after a tension-filled patrol than this late night ritual. To tell the truth, he could imagine something better, and that usually followed the drink-and-massage routine.
But tonight total darkness and eerie silence suffused the lounge, and Hermione was nowhere in sight. With wicked quickness, Severus unsheathed his wand and began to look for his absent wife. He first searched the kitchen, dimly lit by the flame of a single candle, which stood sentry over an unopened bottle of Grey Goose vodka. Not giving a thought to the missing bottle of vermouth, he continued the fruitless, literal witch hunt into the dining room. No luck finding her there.
Next, he carefully peered into the guest bedroom, illuminated by the full moon shining through the sheer drapes. A quick scan indicated nothing out of sorts. Inside the room, he could see two figures, slumbering quietly in their twin beds; not Hermione, but her two children, sired by her ex-husband, the red-haired menace, Ronald Weasley. Everyone, including Severus, considered the wizard to be a pleasant, fun-loving chap with a reckless streak, a hex-first-ask-questions-later type of fellow at work and at home. The last thing Hermione needed was an overgrown, petulant child to raise. She desired a mate, an intellectual equal with similar interests, and Severus was the wizard for the job.
The hint of a smile ghosted his lips as he closed the door to the children’s bedroom. As a rule, he disliked children; he didn’t mind these two because they were Hermione’s own. He continued the search for his missing wife, finding their own bedroom empty, devoid of witch. It was much the same for the bathrooms and his study.
As he approached the last room on the ground floor, he heard muffled sobbing and saw light escaping through the gap between the door and the threshold. Severus turned the knob and slowly, quietly, pushed open the door to the utility room, lest he startle the occupants and alert them to his presence. Years of spying had taught him to tread lightly, allowing him the element of surprise, if needed.
This time, however, the use of stealth had been unnecessary. There he discovered Hermione, crumpled on the cold, tile floor, clutching a small, sodden, athletic sock and weeping uncontrollably. Strewn around her were tear-soaked character briefs, decorated with the images of professional Quidditch players and heroes of the Second Voldemort War, including Hermione and Severus as well as the boy-who-lived-twice, Harry Potter.
“Hermione,” he whispered as he sat down next to her and gathered his bride in his strong arms. “What’s happened? Why are you crying?” Severus rocked the weepy witch back and forth to gently soothe her.
She took a few deep, shuddering breaths to calm herself, then blew her nose with a pair of tiny, Victor Krum y-fronts.
“It’s Hugo,” she cried in despair.
“I just looked in on him. He seems perfectly fine,” Severus explained, his voice the epitome of calm amidst the storm. “What’s wrong with him?” He showed true concern, his face contorted with pain, sympathy and fear of the unknown.
Hermione looked up, viewing Severus from beneath a fringe of clumpy, wet eyelashes. She sniffled and said, “Nothing’s wrong with Hugo. It’s me. I’m a mess.” She paused to blow her nose again.
“I see that, but please tell me why you’re crying.” He was trying to be patient, but he was still in the dark about what had set her off on this crying jag.
“Well, I wanted to prepare Hugo’s gear for sleep-away camp before I welcomed you home with my usual patrol-night routine. I didn’t… I just… I didn’t realize that labeling Hugo’s name on little socks and underpants would set me off like this.” She let loose a pitiful wail, although a bit subdued, not loud enough to wake the children or alert the neighborhood dogs. Her sobbing began once more, but lacked any intensity. Silent tears streaked her cheeks as she rested her head on his chest.
Severus ran his hand over her unruly locks. “I still don’t understand why undergarments would upset you so,” he said quietly in his deep, rich baritone. “You’re aces when it comes to laundry charms, my love. Hugo will have the brightest, cleanest underpants in all of Camp Wildewizard.”
“You’ve just hit upon my issue, Severus,” Hermione spoke sadly. “He will be gone for ten days. However will he manage? I know he’s nine years old, but he’s never been away from me for more than a weekend, and even then he’s always been with family.” She referred to the custody arrangement with her ex-husband. The children visited Ron every other weekend at the Burrow, where they were often surrounded by an overabundance of cousins.
“Hermione, look at me,” he said, lifting her chin with his long, elegant fingers. “You have raised a fine young man in Hugo. Not only is he book-smart, but personable, too, with more common sense than the average prepubescent boy. He plays well with others; he will be fine at camp. Besides, the staff know how to manage homesick children.”
Moments passed and no words were spoken as she considered his reasoning.
She sighed. “I know you’re right, but I’m having a hard time letting go of my little boy. He’s growing up and doesn’t need me as much as before,” she lamented.
“He’s still a boy, Hermione,” Severus reminded his young wife. “He will need your help and guidance for years to come. Rose still needs you as well. I need you, Hermione. I’m lost without you.” His black eyes bore into her with a passionate intensity she could barely withstand. Severus then rewarded his witch with a rare smile and bestowed a kiss upon the top of her head.
Hermione finally relaxed. She toyed with the many buttons of her husband’s frock coat and mused, “You know, if this works out for Hugo, maybe next summer we could arrange for Rose to visit the Burrow while he’s at camp. Then we can enjoy a second honeymoon. What do you think of Las Vegas?” She batted her eyelashes a bit to punctuate the query.
With his trademark smirk and arched eyebrow, he replied, “It’s as if you are reading my mind. Since when did you master Legilimens?”
FINIS
Disclaimer: JKR owns it all. None of her original characters were harmed in the writing of this story.
Special thanks to kittylefish for giving this the once over.