Nobody, Not Even the Rain
Title: Nobody, Not Even the Rain
Team: Order of the Phoenix
Characters: Severus/Hermione, Margot (OC)
Challenge: Expecting, Child
Word Count: 100 x 6
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, they’re J.K. Rowling’s. Alas.
Hermione knows that it's different for Severus.
It isn't that he doesn't share her enthusiasm for parenthood. There's no mistaking his appreciative expression when he gazes at Hermione's full breasts and ripening belly, nor the look in his eyes as he stands in the doorway of the recently completed nursery, drinking in the sight whenever he thinks nobody else is watching.
The difference, she thinks, is that beneath his joy, there is always the fear. Outside the faint, fragile bubble of his hope, the demons are always threatening, potent and paralysing.
He cannot trust such happiness. He cannot trust himself.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
His memories of childhood are not like hers.
Severus never knew the comfort of an indulgent smile or impulsive embrace. He never basked in the glow of parental praise. He has no family traditions that he desires to pass down to a child of his own.
And yet he worries that he will pass them down, all the same. Hermione senses the doubt within, the quiet, unvoiced questions: can his wounded heart hold enough love for more than one person? Will his child reject him, as others have?
Is there anything inside of him capable of nurturing, rather than destruction?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Hermione longs to erase his doubts.
She longs to tell him that he is worthy of love and loyalty, that he is a good man who will be a good father. But Severus wouldn't believe her; he knows how weightless words can be, how easily twisted. Words prove nothing.
Instead, she pulls Severus into a tight embrace, the warmth of her body pressed close to his as their unborn daughter dances within her, fluttering tiny fists and feet against him in a silent salute.
Here is proof, Hermione wills him to understand. Here is love, and it is all yours.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Margot possesses a dictatorial wail, a nose that is already a shade too large for her reddened face and eyes so huge and deep and dark that they seem to hold a universe within them. She arrives arse first, apparently determined to be as contrary as possible, and she scowls in every photo.
Clearly, she is her father's daughter.
Hermione adores her with dizzying intensity and wastes no time in declaring their daughter perfect.
Severus approaches the cradle more cautiously. This is a moment he has dreamed of and dreaded for nine long months.
It's time to meet his daughter.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Severus cradles Margot carefully, awkwardly, but with tenderness. He is not accustomed to fine, fragile things; he has never held anything more delicate, more vulnerable, more remarkable than the squirming bundle in his arms.
Hermione hardly dares to breathe for fear of sullying something sacred.
Margot reaches for Severus, tiny fingers tickling his face. She pauses for an infinite instant, gravely considering him… and then she smiles.
The look on Severus' face is so rare for him, so startling and strangely beautiful, that Hermione tries to engrave it in her memory.
It's clear that he has fallen in love-unconditionally, irrevocably.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Margot's head fits neatly in the cradle of Severus' hand. His fingertip traces the slope of her nose, the dimple of her chin, the rosy-pink bow of her lips. He marvels at how helpless, how exquisitely tiny she is.
"She needs you. She trusts you to take care of her," Hermione whispers.
His dark eyes fix on her for a moment, warm with the love he never believed he could give, before returning to the sight of Margot's impossibly small fingers, opening and closing and grasping at the air.
"Yes," Severus murmurs, his voice hushed and reverent. "Yes. Always."
Note the second: This set is dedicated to my dear sc010f, for the obvious reason, and posted here with her permission. The inspiration and the title come from E.E. Cummings's somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond, especially the line, "nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands." The poem is about an extraordinary, humbling love and is usually interpreted in a romantic way, but I think that most parents, having fallen head over heels for their children, might feel a certain resonance with it. *g*
Team: Order of the Phoenix
Characters: Severus/Hermione, Margot (OC)
Challenge: Expecting, Child
Word Count: 100 x 6
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, they’re J.K. Rowling’s. Alas.
Hermione knows that it's different for Severus.
It isn't that he doesn't share her enthusiasm for parenthood. There's no mistaking his appreciative expression when he gazes at Hermione's full breasts and ripening belly, nor the look in his eyes as he stands in the doorway of the recently completed nursery, drinking in the sight whenever he thinks nobody else is watching.
The difference, she thinks, is that beneath his joy, there is always the fear. Outside the faint, fragile bubble of his hope, the demons are always threatening, potent and paralysing.
He cannot trust such happiness. He cannot trust himself.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
His memories of childhood are not like hers.
Severus never knew the comfort of an indulgent smile or impulsive embrace. He never basked in the glow of parental praise. He has no family traditions that he desires to pass down to a child of his own.
And yet he worries that he will pass them down, all the same. Hermione senses the doubt within, the quiet, unvoiced questions: can his wounded heart hold enough love for more than one person? Will his child reject him, as others have?
Is there anything inside of him capable of nurturing, rather than destruction?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Hermione longs to erase his doubts.
She longs to tell him that he is worthy of love and loyalty, that he is a good man who will be a good father. But Severus wouldn't believe her; he knows how weightless words can be, how easily twisted. Words prove nothing.
Instead, she pulls Severus into a tight embrace, the warmth of her body pressed close to his as their unborn daughter dances within her, fluttering tiny fists and feet against him in a silent salute.
Here is proof, Hermione wills him to understand. Here is love, and it is all yours.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Margot possesses a dictatorial wail, a nose that is already a shade too large for her reddened face and eyes so huge and deep and dark that they seem to hold a universe within them. She arrives arse first, apparently determined to be as contrary as possible, and she scowls in every photo.
Clearly, she is her father's daughter.
Hermione adores her with dizzying intensity and wastes no time in declaring their daughter perfect.
Severus approaches the cradle more cautiously. This is a moment he has dreamed of and dreaded for nine long months.
It's time to meet his daughter.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Severus cradles Margot carefully, awkwardly, but with tenderness. He is not accustomed to fine, fragile things; he has never held anything more delicate, more vulnerable, more remarkable than the squirming bundle in his arms.
Hermione hardly dares to breathe for fear of sullying something sacred.
Margot reaches for Severus, tiny fingers tickling his face. She pauses for an infinite instant, gravely considering him… and then she smiles.
The look on Severus' face is so rare for him, so startling and strangely beautiful, that Hermione tries to engrave it in her memory.
It's clear that he has fallen in love-unconditionally, irrevocably.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Margot's head fits neatly in the cradle of Severus' hand. His fingertip traces the slope of her nose, the dimple of her chin, the rosy-pink bow of her lips. He marvels at how helpless, how exquisitely tiny she is.
"She needs you. She trusts you to take care of her," Hermione whispers.
His dark eyes fix on her for a moment, warm with the love he never believed he could give, before returning to the sight of Margot's impossibly small fingers, opening and closing and grasping at the air.
"Yes," Severus murmurs, his voice hushed and reverent. "Yes. Always."
Note the second: This set is dedicated to my dear sc010f, for the obvious reason, and posted here with her permission. The inspiration and the title come from E.E. Cummings's somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond, especially the line, "nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands." The poem is about an extraordinary, humbling love and is usually interpreted in a romantic way, but I think that most parents, having fallen head over heels for their children, might feel a certain resonance with it. *g*