HP fic: Made-Up Lullaby #43, Part 1 (REPOST)
Harry Potter | Snape/Harry | NC-17 | ~20,000 words | AU, EWE, kidfic (not mpreg)
People who say they sleep like a baby don't usually have one.
Made-Up Lullaby #43
1.
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, it turns out, 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 will not take 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 Potter squarely on the chin and he staggers back, 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.
"Augh, 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 - the most rash, idiotic decision he has made in at least an hour. He steps closer, depriving Severus of the opportunity to throw another punch, and then, with a savagery that catches Severus 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 toward 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 recovers asafoetida from his memory, Potter has rolled onto his elbow and is dabbing 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 robe 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 hideous 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 inevitably finds necessary whenever he tries to have a conversation with Snape. But 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. 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.
The 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," Snape says. "Mostly no." 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."
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 their 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 a 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.
[Part 2]
People who say they sleep like a baby don't usually have one.
Made-Up Lullaby #43
1.
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, it turns out, 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 will not take 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 Potter squarely on the chin and he staggers back, 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.
"Augh, 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 - the most rash, idiotic decision he has made in at least an hour. He steps closer, depriving Severus of the opportunity to throw another punch, and then, with a savagery that catches Severus 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 toward 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 recovers asafoetida from his memory, Potter has rolled onto his elbow and is dabbing 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 robe 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 hideous 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 inevitably finds necessary whenever he tries to have a conversation with Snape. But 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. 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.
The 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," Snape says. "Mostly no." 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."
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 their 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 a 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.
[Part 2]