FIC: A Blessed Event - Part 2 of 2
Title: A Blessed Event - Part 2 of 2
Author: Sylvadin
Pairing: Snape/Hagrid
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Sweet and Sour. Everyone else, please ask first.
Feedback: Yes. Constructive criticisms welcomed.
Beta: I have a wonderful beta - her name is Josan.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling is the goddess who owns these characters. I’m merely dropping by for a cup of tea.
Note: Chapter 19 in the Tango Lessons series. This is also the FINAL chapter in the Tango Lessons series.
~-~-~-~-~
I am seated on a cushion on the ground, my back braced against the apple tree’s trunk.
I have a unicorn who is about to deliver lying with her head on my lap.
I am also now missing my shoes.
This is not how I ever envisioned spending time at my wedding reception.
In olden times, amongst the less snobbish class of wizards, a beloved handfasting tradition was the passing of the bride’s shoes. The attendees would fill the shoes with coins and small blessing charms, giving the new couple a bit of good luck and money with which to start their life together. The Weasley twins have taken it upon themselves to revive this tradition.
Between Twinkletoes’ labour grunts, I can hear the twins working through the guests like sideshow barkers at a carnival.
“Oi, mate! You can give more than that! They’ve got a little one on the way...”
“Be grateful we’re only trying to fill Snape’s shoes. Remember, Hagrid could have been the bride...”
“Of course they’d like a good-luck charm for the baby...”
“Consider it recompense for all those cauldrons you blew up in class...”
Hagrid and Poppy are kneeling by Twinkletoes’ haunches, watching, and conferring between themselves about her progress. Meanwhile our guests have all become gawkers. Everyone is taking turns watching the proceedings. Such gawking also appears to require inane chattering and frequent visits to the buffet tables for fortification.
Twinkletoes seems oblivious to all the scrutiny. A new contraction makes her jerk her head. I catch hold of her horn before it can scrape my shoulder.
“Easy girl.” Hagrid strokes his hand across her back. “I know it hurts a bit, but it’ll be over soon.”
“Is that the truth or mere rhetoric?” I cannot help but ask. My lap is already drenched with more unicorn tears than I could use in ten years of brewing. “How long does this process take?”
“Normally? Half an hour. Often less.”
A jolt of panic surges through me. Surely it’s been longer.
“Relax,” Poppy says. “It’s only been twenty-four minutes. I’ve been timing her since her water broke.”
“Severus.” Hagrid remains irritatingly calm. “Yeh need ter keep in mind tha’ she’s a maiden--”
“A maiden?” I know I look dumfounded. I don’t care. “She’s having a baby! It’s rather delusional to start making claims of purity and chastity at this stage.”
The fact that my husband chuckles in reply gives me an odd reassurance.
“Maiden is the term yeh use fer a mare who’s never had a foal before. Sometimes they take a little longer ter deliver, ‘specially if the foal is large, which I expect hers is.” Hagrid pauses to brush his fingertips across my cheek before returning to stroking Twinkletoes’ back. “Nothin’s happenin’ that yeh need ter worry over. Jus’ keep pettin’ her muzzle like yeh have been. I’m sure she finds it a comfort.”
I crane my head to look. Beneath Twinkletoes’ tail I can see something slimy that looks like a lumpy whitish balloon poking out through her opening; Poppy is making pleased clucking noises over it. Hagrid too is making pleased noises.
“Good. Good,” he mutters while he pats Twinkletoes’ haunch. “Those little front legs are in fine position. Just a few more pushes. Yeh’re almost there, girl.”
I look about for anything to distract me. In the front row of guest seats, I see Dobby sitting. To my dismay, I see that his arms are empty of a certain wicker basket. With a crooked wave of my finger, I beckon the house elf.
“Sir?” Dobby stands next to me.
“Where are the nifflers?”
“Misters Fred and George. They…” He nervously tugs at his ears. “They borrowed them.”
“Borrowed? Exactly *what* are they doing to those poor creatures?”
“Playing a game, sir.”
“A game? What is this game?”
“Oh! Nothing terrible or dangerous, sir! It’s just a game they invented, sir.”
Somehow I am not reassured by his frantic head nodding. “Precisely why do they need the nifflers to play this game?”
“So they can play ‘Guess The Pocket Change’.”
My frown commands him to elaborate.
“To play, you take some coins out of your pocket and hide them in your hand. Then Mister Fred and Mister George take turns waving each of the nifflers over your hand. And the nifflers make these little singing sounds. Then Mister Fred and Mister George guess at what coins you have in your hand.”
That sounds innocuous enough. Then again, this is the twins we are discussing.
“What’s the catch?”
“Catch, sir?”
“The trick. The gimmick. The angle. What happens when they guess right, and when they guess wrong?”
“If they guess wrong, they give you a Knut coin. If they guess right, then you give them the change in your hand.” Dobby adds proudly, “Penny is very good at telling them how many Sickles someone is holding, but Mayhem is even better at counting Galleons.”
I must still be frowning because Dobby goes back again to nervously tugging his ears.
“Please, sir. Nothing bad is happening. Everyone who is playing is having a good time, sir.”
And I have no doubts that the twins are making a tidy profit in the meanwhile.
“Kindly tell the Misters Weasley that afterwards they had best return Knut and his family happy, healthy, and unharmed else I’ll make sure to render them permanently incapable of ever contributing to the Weasley family tree. Also tell them that they get no more than a fifty percent cut and that I expect them to empty Albus’ pockets before they finish.”
Dobby scurries off to deliver my conditions.
Twinkletoes makes a loud grunt, straining through another contraction. She rolls her eyes. I suspect if she could talk, her language would be far from ladylike.
“Hagrid.” In one terse word, Poppy’s tone has gone from playful banter to dire warning.
“I see,” my husband answers with an equal sudden seriousness.
I look. The slimy lump at Twinkletoes’ opening has grown, lengthened. As I watch, the lump’s whitish colour is turning red. Blood red.
“What’s happening?” I cannot keep the fear from my voice. They look too worried for it to be anything good.
“Bleeding in the placenta.” Poppy’s tone is all business. “It’s likely that the umbilical cord has detached prematurely.” She draws her wand to cast sterilizing charms over Hagrid’s hands. “I’ll help you time your pulls to her contractions.” She has already turned her attention back to my husband and the emergency at hand.
I squeeze my eyes shut while I continue to stroke Twinkletoes’ trembling muzzle. I know little of the exact processes of childbirth, but even my limited knowledge is enough to tell me how dire circumstances have turned. If the umbilical has broken, then the foal is no longer receiving oxygen...and it is still trapped in the birthing canal. Twinkletoes’ foal is suffocating.
Why did I challenge the Fates? Yet again an innocent is being punished for my hubris, for daring to want to claim a tiny bit of happiness and contentment for myself. I can feel Twinkletoes jerk as Hagrid tries to coax the foal from her body. I take one quick peek. Hagrid has his hands wrapped around stick-like legs. No head is yet visible.
Bleeding in the placenta. What if it turns to haemorrhaging? Do mares die from that?
I silently pray to whatever benevolent gods that might listen.
“Keep pushing, sweetheart,” Poppy urges. “One good push. One good push.”
Twinkletoes goes rigid beneath my hands. I can hear slurping wet sounds. A pause of silence is followed by the noise of something slick sliding and then a soft thud. Twinkletoes abruptly relaxes. I open my eyes and look down. To my relief she is not unconscious but open-eyed and merely exhausted.
I dare to look at the membrane covered mass now laying on the ground by her tail. Hagrid is ripping away at the red-streaked membrane, revealing a set of wet nostrils.
“Come on, little one,” Hagrid coaxes. “Time ter breath.” He wipes his fingers over the nostrils. “No quittin’ now.”
The mass remains motionless. I cannot bear to watch any longer. Leaning my head back against the apple tree’s trunk, I close my eyes and try to block out Hagrid and Poppy’s begging words.
My magic has reawakened but it seems the Fates will demand a sacrifice for its return. I take slow deep breaths, trying to bear the ache in my soul that bites as sharp as any Cruciatus curse.
At least my life had been joy-filled and free of regrets for a few minutes...
I hear an odd bubbling noise.
“There yeh go. Tha’s it. Yeh’re gettin’ the idea.”
A wet wheezing sound is followed by a sneeze.
A gasp makes me open my eyes. I can see Molly Weasley is crying but there is also a smile on her face. Still I keep my gaze straight ahead. I wait.
I am afraid to hope.
Poppy comes into my line of view. She kneels before me. “You can look now,” she says. “A bit messy still but I think you’ll be pleased with what you see.” She helps me wriggle out from under Twinkletoes’ head. Between the support of the tree trunk and her assistance, I manage to stand. She guides me over to where my husband kneels. I look down at what lies before him.
How could such a large mass come out of such a small unicorn’s body?
Hagrid has stripped off his velvet robe. He is using it to briskly rub the dark lump that is still half covered with slime and bloody membrane. I cannot scold him for ruining his wedding robe, not when the lump lifts its head, blinks, and looks up at me with its mother’s chocolate brown eyes, and an expression of curiosity as to what all the fuss is about.
“A boy,” Hagrid tells me. “A fine little colt.”
“Is he...well?”
“Bit of a bump at the start. But he’s fine now.”
“And Twinkletoes?” Poppy is busy casting scans over her.
“Far as I can tell this mother is doing well also,” Poppy answers. “We’ll have to wait for the placenta to pass to be sure, but I suspect she’s over her difficulties.”
Hagrid smiles at me. “Cute little fella, isn’ he?”
I stare down at the colt who is little more than sharp angles, tangled match-stick legs, and the hair coat of a drowned rat. Yet already he is looking about, alert and eager, as if he finds this new existence a wondrous adventure.
“No,” I correct Hagrid. “He’s beautiful.”
~-~-~-~-~
The area beneath the apple tree has been declared a nursery. There Twinkletoes and her colt are being left to bond in some semblance of privacy. Fang is with them. He takes tail-wagging delight in licking the colt’s face and ears while Twinkletoes occupies herself with the equine equivalent of counting the fingers and toes on her new arrival.
Our guests still have not left.
Chairs have been drawn up to encircle the apple tree at a polite distance. There everyone takes turns to watch the new mother and her unique offspring; they stare like proud grandparents gawking through the maternity ward nursery window. Apparently, proud gawking also requires frequent bouts of sustenance; sizeable inroads have been made into the buffet table and now the cake.
Side by side, Hagrid and I occupy our mock thrones which are now positioned with the best view of what is happening beneath the apple tree. A happy murmur passes through the onlookers. I glance. Twinkletoes has stood, and her little one is now nursing. Though, by his enthusiastic suckling, I cannot help but wonder if our dear unicorn will be bearing bruises in tender places.
I return my attention to tastier matters. Hagrid holds a plate with a generous slice of our cake on it. He holds the fork. He insists on feeding me. One bite for me, a bite for him. Apparently, tradition claims that newly-wed couples must dine off the same plate together. I tried to disdain this tradition. I even tried to compromise by summoning my own fork. Hagrid negated my protests by the simple act of shoving the first forkful past my lips the moment I opened my mouth to make a cutting remark that I was already table-trained and knew how to use eating utensils.
Lemon sponge cake. Filled with a lemon custard icing that is liberally studded with sliced fresh strawberries. Rich. Tangy. Not overly sweet. Hagrid and I had left the details of the cake to Dobby’s discretion. I will have to thank him later for his wise choice. But he alone will answer to Pomona Sprout for I suspect the strawberries came from her private collection of plants secreted in greenhouse number four.
Hagrid smiles as he feeds me another bite. I have always been no more than lean of build in the best of times. The trials of the past months, to be honest, have winnowed my frame towards gauntness. Hagrid seems to find it his personal mission to put weight back on my bones. Sometimes I wonder if he unconsciously compares me to a bear cub that needs fattening up to survive the next hibernation. Merlin knows, he definitely acts like a mother bear at times, and has the girth and hirsuteness to match.
Someone settles onto the empty chair next to me. Matty Blaylock sits there. He is a senior healer at St Mungo’s and one of the people most responsible for helping me survive the Dark Lord’s final curse cast against me. He is a taciturn man with a dry wit and exemplary skills in his craft. I suspect he is also becoming a friend.
I elbow Hagrid to get his attention then point to the plate of cake and the fork Matty holds.
“See, our guests can feed themselves. Why can’t I?”
“Tradition.” Hagrid holds out another forkful.
At least this time he allows me to take the morsel from the tines at my own pace rather than shove the fork past my parted lips like a mother feeding a reluctant toddler a spoonful of mushy peas.
I suspect Matty finds my reticence quite amusing.
“You have a comment?” I challenge him.
“Excellent cake,” he replies. He takes a moment to savour his own mouthful. “Lovely bonding ceremony.” Matty’s smile is in his eyes when he looks at me. “Thank you, by the way.” He lowers his voice. “I’ve never before had the privilege of observing an adult Squib transition into a wizard.”
“Yeh saw wha’ he did?” Hagrid whispers.
“Aside from the unconscious charm that forced the apple tree from bud to full bloom? That bit of spontaneous self-levitation was most impressive.” He picks a strawberry slice from the cake and nibbles at it. “Pity that most of your guests won’t understand the significance of what you did today, Severus.”
Only a handful of people knew the side effect I suffered from being cured of the Dark Lord’s curse. Being reduced to a Squib was not a fact I wished to become common knowledge.
“I don’t understand why it happened,” I tell Matty truthfully, “but I am grateful that it did happen.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why my powers awoke when they did.”
Matty freezes, his fork stopped half-way to his lips. Eyebrows raised, he gawks at me.
“Remember?” His voice carries a hint of incredulousness. “Intense emotional response. That is what most often triggers the transformation of a Squib into a wizard.”
I know I’m frowning. “Still not an explanation. While I’ll admit to being nervous like any typical groom, nothing happened that terrified me. Far from it.”
Matty sets his plate down on his lap. He studies me, as if to discern that I honestly do not understand why my magic awoke. I do not. Matty lays a hand atop my own and gives it a gentle squeeze.
“Severus, if someone has known little happiness in his life, then a moment of sheer joy can be as overwhelming an experience as the average person would find being terrorized by near drowning or being thrown off a great height. Hide behind mocking retorts if you will, but don’t deny that truth. It’s why your magic came back to life.”
“Are you claiming that I’ve fallen into the trite adage that a *bride’s* wedding day is the happiest of her life?”
“No,” Matty releases my hand then reaches over to pat Hagrid’s arm. “I’m saying that the power of love, of finally realizing not in your head but in your very soul that you are loved and that you love in return is what restored your magic.” He smiles. “Rather a nice fairy tale come to life.”
I fall silent. Hagrid senses my discomfort at this revelation for he wraps an arm around me in a nurturing half-embrace. So, love has saved me and my magic. Today I feel happy. But I know there will be days when, as all couples experience, I find less than total delight with my partner. All relationships go through peaks and valleys. I am not so naive as to believe that there won’t be times in the future where I feel tempted to wrap my fingers around Hagrid’s neck and squeeze. What will happen when my euphoria ebbs to realistic levels?
“Do you believe my new condition will be permanent?”
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t.”
“Are you certain?”
“If it reassures you, I can run a number of diagnostic charms to confirm your status. In a few days from now. Nothing is guaranteed, but remember this. Once an adult Squib gains their magic, I’ve never heard of a single case where they spontaneously lose it.”
“None?”
“Cases where they were assaulted with magic-eating curses don’t count.”
I feel Hagrid place a comforting kiss atop my head. I need to see if he left any cake crumbs in my hair. Later.
“Always the sceptic,” Matty gently chides me. “Thankfully you now have a mate whom I’m sure will teach you the powers of optimism. Relax, Severus. Have faith and accept this as fact until proven otherwise. Your magic is back. The flame has been relit in your core. I don’t see any threat of it flickering out.” He winks, actually winks! at me. “Not when you still have your wedding night to look forward to.”
He leans towards me, and speaks loud enough for only me and Hagrid to hear. “Speaking of wedding nights, I did wish to give you a few words of advice as your healer. Remember that your body is still healing, Severus. Do show some restraint. Nothing too vigorous. No contortions or movements that place stress on your hips or legs. You and Hagrid have many years ahead of you. You don’t need to work your way through all the positions in the Gay Wizard’s Karma Sutra all in one night.”
I can feel the heat radiate from Hagrid’s body while he blushes.
“Any other bits of wisdom you wish to share?” I drawl.
“Only one. Use lube.”
My husband has chosen that moment to eat a bite of cake. It goes down his windpipe, not his gullet. Matty knows the charm to relieve his coughing. He actually smirks while he casts it.
A murmur rises amongst our guests. I look around. It is not Hagrid’s brief choking spell that has drawn their attention. They are watching Twinkletoes pass her afterbirth. The older women are excitedly chattering amongst themselves. The men are silent. Some of them wear the same grimaced expression as bachelors after a night of drinking who realize the next morning they don’t have a vial of Sober-Up handy.
Poppy is already standing beside Twinkletoes, watching the process that lasts only a minute or two. With a parting kiss, Hagrid stands. He goes to confirm that Twinkletoes has successfully completed this last stage of her delivery.
My Slytherins are gathered together close by me. Today, in my joyful mood, I shall not assume that they have been surreptitiously eavesdropping. Miss Greengrass’s face looks the colour of her name while she stares at the membrane mass that now lies on the ground.
“That’s what happens if a contraceptive charm fails?” She swallows. “No one is ever getting into my knickers.”
“At least no one with dangly bits,” Millicent Bulstrode offers. She drapes an arm over Greengrass’s shoulders. “There are certain advantages to being a lesbian.”
“What’s that, Millie?” Zabini teases. “You’re not going to bless wizardkind with a few of your own little sprogs?”
Bulstrode gives him a toothsome grin. “Neither will you, Blaise, if you ever again call me Millie.” She gives Greengrass a one-armed hug while she returns her attention back to Twinkletoes. “Never understood all the fuss made over babies. What’s to be all excited over something that’s pink and wrinkly and messy? Myself, I’d rather hold a slug than a newborn.” She nods towards Twinkletoes’ colt. “Him, on the other hand, I wouldn’t mind giving a cuddle. Now that he’s dry. He’s cute. Interesting too. Got that beaky nose, and those little wings.”
“And that tail,” Greengrass adds. I notice she is leaning into Bulstrode’s embrace. “Looks more like a lion’s tail.” She looks back over her shoulder at me. “It’s true, sir? He really is a hybrid between a unicorn and a thestral?”
I nod. “He is unique.”
“You can say that again,” Zabini mutters. “Oddest mishmash I’ve ever seen.”
For some reason I feel defensive. “I’ve observed that all parents consider their babies to be beautiful. It’s considered tactful to not publically disagree with that opinion, Mr Zabini.”
“I’m not criticizing, sir. Just stating fact. You can’t help but wonder exactly what he is when you look at him. But I agree with Millicent. He’s cute, in an unconventional way.” He studies the colt. “Always liked a thestral’s shade of black. It’s got that glossy purplish tint in sunlight.”
“Except he’s got hair rather than bare skin,” Bulstrode adds. “Myself, I’ve always thought thestral black looked the same shade as raven feathers when they’re wet.”
Greengrass is giving both of them a strange look. “He’s black?” She frowns while she stares at Twinkletoes’ offspring.
“Well, what other colour would you call it?” Bulstrode demands with a hint of exasperation.
“Silver. Sparkly pale silver.”
~-~-~-~-~
A quick survey amongst the crowd reveals two guests and one house elf who confirm my suspicions - the colt has acquired another trait from his thestral sire besides wings and a bony confirmation. Normally, thestrals can be seen only by those who have witnessed death. To those who have managed to avoid such an experience, thestrals are invisible. Twinkletoes’ little one has inherited an interesting twist on that thestral trait. To the few innocents in the crowd, he is not invisible but is instead the same silvery grey as a typical unicorn foal. To the rest of us war survivors he appears typical thestral black.
He truly is unique.
Poppy has vanished the afterbirth. Twinkletoes has been declared hale and hearty by my spouse.
Our guests are *still* eating and drinking.
I think I am developing bruises from all the congratulatory slaps I have received on my shoulders. Everyone is treating Hagrid and I like new fathers. I do not understand why we are the ones receiving all the praise. Twinkletoes is the one who should receive credit for her labour. Then again, her current attitude of pointing her horn at almost anyone who comes within arm’s reach might be responsible for discouraging such credit.
After another round of enthusiastic suckling, the colt now naps beneath the apple tree. Fang lays next to him, playing the part of a vigilant nanny.
Twinkletoes sniffs her offspring as if to confirm he is both well and asleep. Poppy and Filius cast cleaning charms on her earlier, so her coat is once again pristine white. Still, she looks a bit bedraggled. Her head droops, her tail drags. She has had a long day.
So have I.
Fatigue is catching up with me. Even sitting on a well-cushioned chair is no longer enough to keep my hips and legs from beginning to ache. I can tell I will soon need a dose of pain potion to keep the pain negligible. Even more noticeable is my exhaustion from so many hours of being sociable. Of being *pleasant*. I am rapidly developing the desire for solitude and a nap in Hagrid’s arms.
I watch Twinkletoes shake herself like a wet dog, as if she is trying to cast away her fatigue.
It’s time to depart the festivities.
I beckon Dobby. “Kindly collect Penny and her family. Tell the twins I also want my shoes back.” I remember that the twins have been using the nifflers to fleece the pockets of many of the guests. “On the other hand, just have the twins report to me. Now.”
Hagrid is milling through the still sizeable crowd, talking, laughing, shaking hands, and accepting well wishes. I’ll call him over once I have dealt with the twin terrors.
Fred and George Weasley are smiling as they approach.
“Wonderful little creatures,” Fred says while he sets the basket of nifflers on the empty chair next to me.
I count heads. All four nifflers look healthy and content. Though Penny is licking a smudge of chocolate from Knut’s cheek, and Mischief has cake crumbs in her whiskers. No harm done.
“Bloody brilliant they are,” George adds, “being able tell what’s in a bloke’s pocket. Would it be possible...”
“...for us to borrow--”
“No.” I lay a protective hand on their basket’s handle. “You may not borrow, rent, or buy them. Ever.”
They gaze at me with sad puppy eyes. Their silent pleadings I easily ignore. I know the twins. They are as innocent as a pair of hellhounds, and twice as destructive in the mischief they cause. They also have a ruthless business sense that will someday put Lucius Malfoy’s to shame.
“Now, as I recall, you were allowed to use the nifflers to play your ‘Guess the Pocket Change’ game only under certain conditions.” I hold out my palm. “Pay up.”
George hands me a drawstring bag. “Fifty, fifty cut. Per the instructions Dobby delivered from you.”
“How much did you connive out of the Headmaster’s possession?”
“Seven Galleons, fourteen sickles,” Fred answers.
Not a bad take. I can tell there’s far more than that by the bag’s weight. Still, these *are* the twins. “Do I need to count what’s in your pockets to confirm the accuracy of my share?”
The twins look honestly offended.
“A deal’s a deal. Besides, it’s bad luck...
“...to even think of cheating someone on their wedding day.”
I can read them enough to sense that on this issue they are sincere. The count in my bag is accurate down to the last sickle. If maybe not the last knut.
Fred elbows George. He nods towards the buffet tables.
Teenage boys. They have the appetites of starving wolves.
“You can return to eating later. I want the rest.”
“The rest?”
“My shoes?” I remind them. “The ones you pulled off my feet to pass around for the guests to fill?” I wait while they both glance away again at the tables. “Gentlemen,” I drawl in my classroom voice that demands attention.
Left and right. One and two. Mirroring each other, the twins each draw one of my shoes from the depths of their robes and set them down as a matched pair on my lap. I can see why they feel so heavy. The shoes are near overflowing with small charms, talismans, and coins. Lots of coins. Amongst the bronze Knuts, and silver Sickles, I can even see the occasional glint of gold. Though it is undoubtedly paranoia on my part, I wish I had a wand so that I could scan the contents of my shoes for any lurking jinxes or unpleasant spells. Not that any of the guests wish me ill but...
The twins have turned away. They are now openly gawking. I look to see what has claimed their attention. Twinkletoes has wandered over to the buffet table. She has her muzzle in the punch bowl. Apparently, giving birth is thirsty work. She is not merely drinking, she is gulping down the punch.
“Ah, Professor?” Fred starts. “Should she...”
“...be drinking that?” George finishes.
“It’s just mixed fruit juice. I can’t see where it would harm her.” Perhaps now that people are turning to watch her slurp out of the bowl, our guests will feel encouraged to leave.
Twinkletoes lifts her head and licks her lips. Her body makes an odd little jerk as she utters a staccato sound. I’ve never heard her make that noise before.
The twins exchange a grimace between themselves. I can see them come to some sort of rapid decision in their silent twin-speak. They appear far from relaxed when they turn to face me.
“You should know, sir...”
“...that the punch has a bit more than...
“...juice in it.”
Again, Twinkletoes makes that odd sound and movement. I realize what it is. A hiccup.
“What did you do?” I demand, though I already know the answer.
“We spiked the punch,” they chorus. “A lot.”
Twinkletoes chooses that moment to take two steps backwards. Two wobbly steps. On her third step, she decides to sit. Then, with a belch as loud as a fog horn, she topples onto her side.
“Hagrid!”
~-~-~-~-~
“No harm done. She’s jus’ relaxed.”
“She’s drunk,” I reply. “And she’s snoring.”
With matching tilts of their heads, Fang and the colt are gazing down at a thoroughly pissed unicorn. So are most of our guests.
The twins have done a good job of casting Notice-Me-Not spells on themselves. Not good enough. I know they are hiding underneath the cake table. Only Hagrid’s non-concern, the threat of Molly Weasley’s protective temper, and my current lack of a wand keep me from turning them into toads.
Hagrid places a hand on my shoulder and coaxes me to sit back down.
“We’ll jus’ take her home, an’ bed her down in her stall. She’ll have a nice little nap an’ be right as rain come mornin’.”
“And just how do you imagine you’ll get her home?” I snap. “Carry her?” I shut my mouth as I remember that Hagrid is strong enough that he might be able to manage that task.
“No need.” Filius Flitwick has appeared from somewhere. Poppy joins him. He smiles as he draws his wand. With a flick of his wand, Twinkletoes floats off the ground. She now hovers in the air, relaxed and secure as if she rested on an invisible mattress. Filius has always had a precise touch with levitation charms.
Poppy walks over. She eyes me for a few seconds. “Twinkletoes is not the only one who needs a nap. You’ve had enough festivities for today.”
~-~-~-~-~
We walk slowly back to the hut. Hagrid glances at me but makes no comment when I tighten my grip on his arm. I am exhausted. With each step I’m becoming less sure that my legs will last as long as my stubborn pride.
Poppy has taken charge of the basket with Knut’s family in it. Filius has cast a Mobilicorpus charm on Twinkletoes. She floats gently beside Filius, like a tiny snoring cloud, while her son trundles after her on wobbly legs. The foal stares at his dame with a most puzzled expression as if he senses by instinct that equines that fly should at least have wings. Fang walks shoulder to shoulder next to the colt. He gives a steadying butt with his head whenever the colt lists towards him. I have often teased Hagrid that Fang is the size of a small pony. That may be an exaggeration - but not by much. Side by side, I can see he is a full hand’s width taller at the withers than the foal and far broader in the chest too.
Hagrid smiles down at me. “I’m afraid this won’ be quite what yeh’ve ever imagined a weddin’ night should be.” He nods towards Twinkletoes.
I understand. Tonight Hagrid will keep vigil to assure that both mother and newborn are indeed well. He and I will have to wait for another day to share our first intimacies as spouses together.
Filius has noticed our exchange. “No one,” he says firmly, “is spending their wedding night in a stable.”
Poppy nods. “Don’t even dream of arguing. Filius and I discussed this earlier.” She reaches over to pat Twinkletoes’ head. “I know that neither of you will be at ease unless you know that this little lady is being watched over.” Twinkletoes lets out an especially loud snore. “Particularly in her current condition.” She waves away Hagrid’s protests with a brushing motion of her hand. “I promise, I’ll summon you if she has the slightest real problem. Otherwise, all that truly needs to be done is to monitor her while sleeps off her drunk. Same goes for her little one. I *am* competent enough to manage that.”
“No protests,” Filius insists. “Just consider our watching over them til morning to be a handfasting gift.”
I give him a nod and a small smile of thanks. In my momentary distraction, I step in a dip in the path. My knee buckles.
Hagrid does not merely hold me up, he lifts me up - into his arms.
“I’m not helpless.”
“No, but yeh’re tired, an’ it gives me a good excuse ter hold yeh. Which makes me happy. So stop complainin’.”
We have arrived at the steps to the hut.
“You can put me down.”
“Not until after I carry yeh over the threshold.”
“Yet another silly tradition?”
Poppy tsks. “It’s a romantic tradition. One almost as important as sealing the vows with a kiss.”
“Yes,” I reply. “But it’s brides who are carried over the threshold.”
Filius wears a mischievous smile. “If that’s your complaint, then I assume this means you plan on carrying Hagrid over the threshold instead?”
I glare at Hagrid. Who is grinning.
“Yer choice.”
“I suppose I can tolerate yet one more tradition.” In truth, my protests have been more a matter of habit. Hagrid’s arms are strong, his grip secure. I feel safe, nurtured, though perhaps a bit embarrassed by Filius and Poppy’s scrutiny.
“Have a pleasant night, you two.” Poppy sounds far too smug.
I hold in check a childish urge to stick out my tongue at her.
Hagrid and I watch her and Filius head towards the stable. Poppy still carries Penny’s family in the basket. Fang ambles alongside. I have no doubts that they will make sure that Twinkletoes and her little one are well tended to as well as the rest of our animal family. As to what Poppy and Filius will do while they wait through the night... Many an old hedge witch claims that going to a wedding has the makings of another.
Hagrid carries me to the top step. There, I can smell the faint scent of roses wafting from the hut.
“I believe Filius has been into mischief.” He had disappeared for some time during the reception. I can now guess what he had been up to during his absence.
“Why’s tha’?”
“Smell.”
Hagrid takes a deep breath. “Roses?”
I nod. “I suspect we will be sleeping on a bed of rose petals tonight.”
“Probably with candles all abou’ the hut too. Can’t say tha’ I’m surprised. If yeh didn’ know, Filius is fond o’ secretly readin’ Muggle romance novels.”
Oddly, I feel no rush to cross the hut’s threshold. Neither, it seems, does Hagrid. Perhaps he simply wants an excuse to continue to hold me in his arms. Or, perhaps, like me he wishes to honour the fact that we will be able to savour our moments together, now and for all our future yet to come.
“Look,” he whispers. He turns until we are facing west. The day has grown late. An orange sun is setting on a horizon coloured in brilliant pink and glowing fuchsia. I lean my head against Hagrid’s shoulder. In silence we watch while the band of bright colours grows smaller as the sky above shifts from blue to deepening purple.
Beautiful.
Such simple joys. Watching a sunset. Being held in a nurturing embrace. Knowing I am loved. Others may measure wealth in coins, but here, waiting to enter this simple hut, I am by far a richer man than any of them. My wealth is measured in a mate who knows my past, my flaws, my weaknesses which are so many. Yet he finds me, *me*, worthy of devotion. Of love. What price can be placed on such a gift?
As the sun slips behind the distant hills, I have a thought of perfect clarity.
“I know what the colt’s name should be.”
My beloved cradles me a little closer. “Wha’s that?”
One word. A word that symbolizes and encompasses all that I never dared dream yet, in this moment, I have attained.
“Miracle. His name should be Miracle.”
*************************
Author: Sylvadin
Pairing: Snape/Hagrid
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Sweet and Sour. Everyone else, please ask first.
Feedback: Yes. Constructive criticisms welcomed.
Beta: I have a wonderful beta - her name is Josan.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling is the goddess who owns these characters. I’m merely dropping by for a cup of tea.
Note: Chapter 19 in the Tango Lessons series. This is also the FINAL chapter in the Tango Lessons series.
~-~-~-~-~
I am seated on a cushion on the ground, my back braced against the apple tree’s trunk.
I have a unicorn who is about to deliver lying with her head on my lap.
I am also now missing my shoes.
This is not how I ever envisioned spending time at my wedding reception.
In olden times, amongst the less snobbish class of wizards, a beloved handfasting tradition was the passing of the bride’s shoes. The attendees would fill the shoes with coins and small blessing charms, giving the new couple a bit of good luck and money with which to start their life together. The Weasley twins have taken it upon themselves to revive this tradition.
Between Twinkletoes’ labour grunts, I can hear the twins working through the guests like sideshow barkers at a carnival.
“Oi, mate! You can give more than that! They’ve got a little one on the way...”
“Be grateful we’re only trying to fill Snape’s shoes. Remember, Hagrid could have been the bride...”
“Of course they’d like a good-luck charm for the baby...”
“Consider it recompense for all those cauldrons you blew up in class...”
Hagrid and Poppy are kneeling by Twinkletoes’ haunches, watching, and conferring between themselves about her progress. Meanwhile our guests have all become gawkers. Everyone is taking turns watching the proceedings. Such gawking also appears to require inane chattering and frequent visits to the buffet tables for fortification.
Twinkletoes seems oblivious to all the scrutiny. A new contraction makes her jerk her head. I catch hold of her horn before it can scrape my shoulder.
“Easy girl.” Hagrid strokes his hand across her back. “I know it hurts a bit, but it’ll be over soon.”
“Is that the truth or mere rhetoric?” I cannot help but ask. My lap is already drenched with more unicorn tears than I could use in ten years of brewing. “How long does this process take?”
“Normally? Half an hour. Often less.”
A jolt of panic surges through me. Surely it’s been longer.
“Relax,” Poppy says. “It’s only been twenty-four minutes. I’ve been timing her since her water broke.”
“Severus.” Hagrid remains irritatingly calm. “Yeh need ter keep in mind tha’ she’s a maiden--”
“A maiden?” I know I look dumfounded. I don’t care. “She’s having a baby! It’s rather delusional to start making claims of purity and chastity at this stage.”
The fact that my husband chuckles in reply gives me an odd reassurance.
“Maiden is the term yeh use fer a mare who’s never had a foal before. Sometimes they take a little longer ter deliver, ‘specially if the foal is large, which I expect hers is.” Hagrid pauses to brush his fingertips across my cheek before returning to stroking Twinkletoes’ back. “Nothin’s happenin’ that yeh need ter worry over. Jus’ keep pettin’ her muzzle like yeh have been. I’m sure she finds it a comfort.”
I crane my head to look. Beneath Twinkletoes’ tail I can see something slimy that looks like a lumpy whitish balloon poking out through her opening; Poppy is making pleased clucking noises over it. Hagrid too is making pleased noises.
“Good. Good,” he mutters while he pats Twinkletoes’ haunch. “Those little front legs are in fine position. Just a few more pushes. Yeh’re almost there, girl.”
I look about for anything to distract me. In the front row of guest seats, I see Dobby sitting. To my dismay, I see that his arms are empty of a certain wicker basket. With a crooked wave of my finger, I beckon the house elf.
“Sir?” Dobby stands next to me.
“Where are the nifflers?”
“Misters Fred and George. They…” He nervously tugs at his ears. “They borrowed them.”
“Borrowed? Exactly *what* are they doing to those poor creatures?”
“Playing a game, sir.”
“A game? What is this game?”
“Oh! Nothing terrible or dangerous, sir! It’s just a game they invented, sir.”
Somehow I am not reassured by his frantic head nodding. “Precisely why do they need the nifflers to play this game?”
“So they can play ‘Guess The Pocket Change’.”
My frown commands him to elaborate.
“To play, you take some coins out of your pocket and hide them in your hand. Then Mister Fred and Mister George take turns waving each of the nifflers over your hand. And the nifflers make these little singing sounds. Then Mister Fred and Mister George guess at what coins you have in your hand.”
That sounds innocuous enough. Then again, this is the twins we are discussing.
“What’s the catch?”
“Catch, sir?”
“The trick. The gimmick. The angle. What happens when they guess right, and when they guess wrong?”
“If they guess wrong, they give you a Knut coin. If they guess right, then you give them the change in your hand.” Dobby adds proudly, “Penny is very good at telling them how many Sickles someone is holding, but Mayhem is even better at counting Galleons.”
I must still be frowning because Dobby goes back again to nervously tugging his ears.
“Please, sir. Nothing bad is happening. Everyone who is playing is having a good time, sir.”
And I have no doubts that the twins are making a tidy profit in the meanwhile.
“Kindly tell the Misters Weasley that afterwards they had best return Knut and his family happy, healthy, and unharmed else I’ll make sure to render them permanently incapable of ever contributing to the Weasley family tree. Also tell them that they get no more than a fifty percent cut and that I expect them to empty Albus’ pockets before they finish.”
Dobby scurries off to deliver my conditions.
Twinkletoes makes a loud grunt, straining through another contraction. She rolls her eyes. I suspect if she could talk, her language would be far from ladylike.
“Hagrid.” In one terse word, Poppy’s tone has gone from playful banter to dire warning.
“I see,” my husband answers with an equal sudden seriousness.
I look. The slimy lump at Twinkletoes’ opening has grown, lengthened. As I watch, the lump’s whitish colour is turning red. Blood red.
“What’s happening?” I cannot keep the fear from my voice. They look too worried for it to be anything good.
“Bleeding in the placenta.” Poppy’s tone is all business. “It’s likely that the umbilical cord has detached prematurely.” She draws her wand to cast sterilizing charms over Hagrid’s hands. “I’ll help you time your pulls to her contractions.” She has already turned her attention back to my husband and the emergency at hand.
I squeeze my eyes shut while I continue to stroke Twinkletoes’ trembling muzzle. I know little of the exact processes of childbirth, but even my limited knowledge is enough to tell me how dire circumstances have turned. If the umbilical has broken, then the foal is no longer receiving oxygen...and it is still trapped in the birthing canal. Twinkletoes’ foal is suffocating.
Why did I challenge the Fates? Yet again an innocent is being punished for my hubris, for daring to want to claim a tiny bit of happiness and contentment for myself. I can feel Twinkletoes jerk as Hagrid tries to coax the foal from her body. I take one quick peek. Hagrid has his hands wrapped around stick-like legs. No head is yet visible.
Bleeding in the placenta. What if it turns to haemorrhaging? Do mares die from that?
I silently pray to whatever benevolent gods that might listen.
“Keep pushing, sweetheart,” Poppy urges. “One good push. One good push.”
Twinkletoes goes rigid beneath my hands. I can hear slurping wet sounds. A pause of silence is followed by the noise of something slick sliding and then a soft thud. Twinkletoes abruptly relaxes. I open my eyes and look down. To my relief she is not unconscious but open-eyed and merely exhausted.
I dare to look at the membrane covered mass now laying on the ground by her tail. Hagrid is ripping away at the red-streaked membrane, revealing a set of wet nostrils.
“Come on, little one,” Hagrid coaxes. “Time ter breath.” He wipes his fingers over the nostrils. “No quittin’ now.”
The mass remains motionless. I cannot bear to watch any longer. Leaning my head back against the apple tree’s trunk, I close my eyes and try to block out Hagrid and Poppy’s begging words.
My magic has reawakened but it seems the Fates will demand a sacrifice for its return. I take slow deep breaths, trying to bear the ache in my soul that bites as sharp as any Cruciatus curse.
At least my life had been joy-filled and free of regrets for a few minutes...
I hear an odd bubbling noise.
“There yeh go. Tha’s it. Yeh’re gettin’ the idea.”
A wet wheezing sound is followed by a sneeze.
A gasp makes me open my eyes. I can see Molly Weasley is crying but there is also a smile on her face. Still I keep my gaze straight ahead. I wait.
I am afraid to hope.
Poppy comes into my line of view. She kneels before me. “You can look now,” she says. “A bit messy still but I think you’ll be pleased with what you see.” She helps me wriggle out from under Twinkletoes’ head. Between the support of the tree trunk and her assistance, I manage to stand. She guides me over to where my husband kneels. I look down at what lies before him.
How could such a large mass come out of such a small unicorn’s body?
Hagrid has stripped off his velvet robe. He is using it to briskly rub the dark lump that is still half covered with slime and bloody membrane. I cannot scold him for ruining his wedding robe, not when the lump lifts its head, blinks, and looks up at me with its mother’s chocolate brown eyes, and an expression of curiosity as to what all the fuss is about.
“A boy,” Hagrid tells me. “A fine little colt.”
“Is he...well?”
“Bit of a bump at the start. But he’s fine now.”
“And Twinkletoes?” Poppy is busy casting scans over her.
“Far as I can tell this mother is doing well also,” Poppy answers. “We’ll have to wait for the placenta to pass to be sure, but I suspect she’s over her difficulties.”
Hagrid smiles at me. “Cute little fella, isn’ he?”
I stare down at the colt who is little more than sharp angles, tangled match-stick legs, and the hair coat of a drowned rat. Yet already he is looking about, alert and eager, as if he finds this new existence a wondrous adventure.
“No,” I correct Hagrid. “He’s beautiful.”
~-~-~-~-~
The area beneath the apple tree has been declared a nursery. There Twinkletoes and her colt are being left to bond in some semblance of privacy. Fang is with them. He takes tail-wagging delight in licking the colt’s face and ears while Twinkletoes occupies herself with the equine equivalent of counting the fingers and toes on her new arrival.
Our guests still have not left.
Chairs have been drawn up to encircle the apple tree at a polite distance. There everyone takes turns to watch the new mother and her unique offspring; they stare like proud grandparents gawking through the maternity ward nursery window. Apparently, proud gawking also requires frequent bouts of sustenance; sizeable inroads have been made into the buffet table and now the cake.
Side by side, Hagrid and I occupy our mock thrones which are now positioned with the best view of what is happening beneath the apple tree. A happy murmur passes through the onlookers. I glance. Twinkletoes has stood, and her little one is now nursing. Though, by his enthusiastic suckling, I cannot help but wonder if our dear unicorn will be bearing bruises in tender places.
I return my attention to tastier matters. Hagrid holds a plate with a generous slice of our cake on it. He holds the fork. He insists on feeding me. One bite for me, a bite for him. Apparently, tradition claims that newly-wed couples must dine off the same plate together. I tried to disdain this tradition. I even tried to compromise by summoning my own fork. Hagrid negated my protests by the simple act of shoving the first forkful past my lips the moment I opened my mouth to make a cutting remark that I was already table-trained and knew how to use eating utensils.
Lemon sponge cake. Filled with a lemon custard icing that is liberally studded with sliced fresh strawberries. Rich. Tangy. Not overly sweet. Hagrid and I had left the details of the cake to Dobby’s discretion. I will have to thank him later for his wise choice. But he alone will answer to Pomona Sprout for I suspect the strawberries came from her private collection of plants secreted in greenhouse number four.
Hagrid smiles as he feeds me another bite. I have always been no more than lean of build in the best of times. The trials of the past months, to be honest, have winnowed my frame towards gauntness. Hagrid seems to find it his personal mission to put weight back on my bones. Sometimes I wonder if he unconsciously compares me to a bear cub that needs fattening up to survive the next hibernation. Merlin knows, he definitely acts like a mother bear at times, and has the girth and hirsuteness to match.
Someone settles onto the empty chair next to me. Matty Blaylock sits there. He is a senior healer at St Mungo’s and one of the people most responsible for helping me survive the Dark Lord’s final curse cast against me. He is a taciturn man with a dry wit and exemplary skills in his craft. I suspect he is also becoming a friend.
I elbow Hagrid to get his attention then point to the plate of cake and the fork Matty holds.
“See, our guests can feed themselves. Why can’t I?”
“Tradition.” Hagrid holds out another forkful.
At least this time he allows me to take the morsel from the tines at my own pace rather than shove the fork past my parted lips like a mother feeding a reluctant toddler a spoonful of mushy peas.
I suspect Matty finds my reticence quite amusing.
“You have a comment?” I challenge him.
“Excellent cake,” he replies. He takes a moment to savour his own mouthful. “Lovely bonding ceremony.” Matty’s smile is in his eyes when he looks at me. “Thank you, by the way.” He lowers his voice. “I’ve never before had the privilege of observing an adult Squib transition into a wizard.”
“Yeh saw wha’ he did?” Hagrid whispers.
“Aside from the unconscious charm that forced the apple tree from bud to full bloom? That bit of spontaneous self-levitation was most impressive.” He picks a strawberry slice from the cake and nibbles at it. “Pity that most of your guests won’t understand the significance of what you did today, Severus.”
Only a handful of people knew the side effect I suffered from being cured of the Dark Lord’s curse. Being reduced to a Squib was not a fact I wished to become common knowledge.
“I don’t understand why it happened,” I tell Matty truthfully, “but I am grateful that it did happen.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why my powers awoke when they did.”
Matty freezes, his fork stopped half-way to his lips. Eyebrows raised, he gawks at me.
“Remember?” His voice carries a hint of incredulousness. “Intense emotional response. That is what most often triggers the transformation of a Squib into a wizard.”
I know I’m frowning. “Still not an explanation. While I’ll admit to being nervous like any typical groom, nothing happened that terrified me. Far from it.”
Matty sets his plate down on his lap. He studies me, as if to discern that I honestly do not understand why my magic awoke. I do not. Matty lays a hand atop my own and gives it a gentle squeeze.
“Severus, if someone has known little happiness in his life, then a moment of sheer joy can be as overwhelming an experience as the average person would find being terrorized by near drowning or being thrown off a great height. Hide behind mocking retorts if you will, but don’t deny that truth. It’s why your magic came back to life.”
“Are you claiming that I’ve fallen into the trite adage that a *bride’s* wedding day is the happiest of her life?”
“No,” Matty releases my hand then reaches over to pat Hagrid’s arm. “I’m saying that the power of love, of finally realizing not in your head but in your very soul that you are loved and that you love in return is what restored your magic.” He smiles. “Rather a nice fairy tale come to life.”
I fall silent. Hagrid senses my discomfort at this revelation for he wraps an arm around me in a nurturing half-embrace. So, love has saved me and my magic. Today I feel happy. But I know there will be days when, as all couples experience, I find less than total delight with my partner. All relationships go through peaks and valleys. I am not so naive as to believe that there won’t be times in the future where I feel tempted to wrap my fingers around Hagrid’s neck and squeeze. What will happen when my euphoria ebbs to realistic levels?
“Do you believe my new condition will be permanent?”
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t.”
“Are you certain?”
“If it reassures you, I can run a number of diagnostic charms to confirm your status. In a few days from now. Nothing is guaranteed, but remember this. Once an adult Squib gains their magic, I’ve never heard of a single case where they spontaneously lose it.”
“None?”
“Cases where they were assaulted with magic-eating curses don’t count.”
I feel Hagrid place a comforting kiss atop my head. I need to see if he left any cake crumbs in my hair. Later.
“Always the sceptic,” Matty gently chides me. “Thankfully you now have a mate whom I’m sure will teach you the powers of optimism. Relax, Severus. Have faith and accept this as fact until proven otherwise. Your magic is back. The flame has been relit in your core. I don’t see any threat of it flickering out.” He winks, actually winks! at me. “Not when you still have your wedding night to look forward to.”
He leans towards me, and speaks loud enough for only me and Hagrid to hear. “Speaking of wedding nights, I did wish to give you a few words of advice as your healer. Remember that your body is still healing, Severus. Do show some restraint. Nothing too vigorous. No contortions or movements that place stress on your hips or legs. You and Hagrid have many years ahead of you. You don’t need to work your way through all the positions in the Gay Wizard’s Karma Sutra all in one night.”
I can feel the heat radiate from Hagrid’s body while he blushes.
“Any other bits of wisdom you wish to share?” I drawl.
“Only one. Use lube.”
My husband has chosen that moment to eat a bite of cake. It goes down his windpipe, not his gullet. Matty knows the charm to relieve his coughing. He actually smirks while he casts it.
A murmur rises amongst our guests. I look around. It is not Hagrid’s brief choking spell that has drawn their attention. They are watching Twinkletoes pass her afterbirth. The older women are excitedly chattering amongst themselves. The men are silent. Some of them wear the same grimaced expression as bachelors after a night of drinking who realize the next morning they don’t have a vial of Sober-Up handy.
Poppy is already standing beside Twinkletoes, watching the process that lasts only a minute or two. With a parting kiss, Hagrid stands. He goes to confirm that Twinkletoes has successfully completed this last stage of her delivery.
My Slytherins are gathered together close by me. Today, in my joyful mood, I shall not assume that they have been surreptitiously eavesdropping. Miss Greengrass’s face looks the colour of her name while she stares at the membrane mass that now lies on the ground.
“That’s what happens if a contraceptive charm fails?” She swallows. “No one is ever getting into my knickers.”
“At least no one with dangly bits,” Millicent Bulstrode offers. She drapes an arm over Greengrass’s shoulders. “There are certain advantages to being a lesbian.”
“What’s that, Millie?” Zabini teases. “You’re not going to bless wizardkind with a few of your own little sprogs?”
Bulstrode gives him a toothsome grin. “Neither will you, Blaise, if you ever again call me Millie.” She gives Greengrass a one-armed hug while she returns her attention back to Twinkletoes. “Never understood all the fuss made over babies. What’s to be all excited over something that’s pink and wrinkly and messy? Myself, I’d rather hold a slug than a newborn.” She nods towards Twinkletoes’ colt. “Him, on the other hand, I wouldn’t mind giving a cuddle. Now that he’s dry. He’s cute. Interesting too. Got that beaky nose, and those little wings.”
“And that tail,” Greengrass adds. I notice she is leaning into Bulstrode’s embrace. “Looks more like a lion’s tail.” She looks back over her shoulder at me. “It’s true, sir? He really is a hybrid between a unicorn and a thestral?”
I nod. “He is unique.”
“You can say that again,” Zabini mutters. “Oddest mishmash I’ve ever seen.”
For some reason I feel defensive. “I’ve observed that all parents consider their babies to be beautiful. It’s considered tactful to not publically disagree with that opinion, Mr Zabini.”
“I’m not criticizing, sir. Just stating fact. You can’t help but wonder exactly what he is when you look at him. But I agree with Millicent. He’s cute, in an unconventional way.” He studies the colt. “Always liked a thestral’s shade of black. It’s got that glossy purplish tint in sunlight.”
“Except he’s got hair rather than bare skin,” Bulstrode adds. “Myself, I’ve always thought thestral black looked the same shade as raven feathers when they’re wet.”
Greengrass is giving both of them a strange look. “He’s black?” She frowns while she stares at Twinkletoes’ offspring.
“Well, what other colour would you call it?” Bulstrode demands with a hint of exasperation.
“Silver. Sparkly pale silver.”
~-~-~-~-~
A quick survey amongst the crowd reveals two guests and one house elf who confirm my suspicions - the colt has acquired another trait from his thestral sire besides wings and a bony confirmation. Normally, thestrals can be seen only by those who have witnessed death. To those who have managed to avoid such an experience, thestrals are invisible. Twinkletoes’ little one has inherited an interesting twist on that thestral trait. To the few innocents in the crowd, he is not invisible but is instead the same silvery grey as a typical unicorn foal. To the rest of us war survivors he appears typical thestral black.
He truly is unique.
Poppy has vanished the afterbirth. Twinkletoes has been declared hale and hearty by my spouse.
Our guests are *still* eating and drinking.
I think I am developing bruises from all the congratulatory slaps I have received on my shoulders. Everyone is treating Hagrid and I like new fathers. I do not understand why we are the ones receiving all the praise. Twinkletoes is the one who should receive credit for her labour. Then again, her current attitude of pointing her horn at almost anyone who comes within arm’s reach might be responsible for discouraging such credit.
After another round of enthusiastic suckling, the colt now naps beneath the apple tree. Fang lays next to him, playing the part of a vigilant nanny.
Twinkletoes sniffs her offspring as if to confirm he is both well and asleep. Poppy and Filius cast cleaning charms on her earlier, so her coat is once again pristine white. Still, she looks a bit bedraggled. Her head droops, her tail drags. She has had a long day.
So have I.
Fatigue is catching up with me. Even sitting on a well-cushioned chair is no longer enough to keep my hips and legs from beginning to ache. I can tell I will soon need a dose of pain potion to keep the pain negligible. Even more noticeable is my exhaustion from so many hours of being sociable. Of being *pleasant*. I am rapidly developing the desire for solitude and a nap in Hagrid’s arms.
I watch Twinkletoes shake herself like a wet dog, as if she is trying to cast away her fatigue.
It’s time to depart the festivities.
I beckon Dobby. “Kindly collect Penny and her family. Tell the twins I also want my shoes back.” I remember that the twins have been using the nifflers to fleece the pockets of many of the guests. “On the other hand, just have the twins report to me. Now.”
Hagrid is milling through the still sizeable crowd, talking, laughing, shaking hands, and accepting well wishes. I’ll call him over once I have dealt with the twin terrors.
Fred and George Weasley are smiling as they approach.
“Wonderful little creatures,” Fred says while he sets the basket of nifflers on the empty chair next to me.
I count heads. All four nifflers look healthy and content. Though Penny is licking a smudge of chocolate from Knut’s cheek, and Mischief has cake crumbs in her whiskers. No harm done.
“Bloody brilliant they are,” George adds, “being able tell what’s in a bloke’s pocket. Would it be possible...”
“...for us to borrow--”
“No.” I lay a protective hand on their basket’s handle. “You may not borrow, rent, or buy them. Ever.”
They gaze at me with sad puppy eyes. Their silent pleadings I easily ignore. I know the twins. They are as innocent as a pair of hellhounds, and twice as destructive in the mischief they cause. They also have a ruthless business sense that will someday put Lucius Malfoy’s to shame.
“Now, as I recall, you were allowed to use the nifflers to play your ‘Guess the Pocket Change’ game only under certain conditions.” I hold out my palm. “Pay up.”
George hands me a drawstring bag. “Fifty, fifty cut. Per the instructions Dobby delivered from you.”
“How much did you connive out of the Headmaster’s possession?”
“Seven Galleons, fourteen sickles,” Fred answers.
Not a bad take. I can tell there’s far more than that by the bag’s weight. Still, these *are* the twins. “Do I need to count what’s in your pockets to confirm the accuracy of my share?”
The twins look honestly offended.
“A deal’s a deal. Besides, it’s bad luck...
“...to even think of cheating someone on their wedding day.”
I can read them enough to sense that on this issue they are sincere. The count in my bag is accurate down to the last sickle. If maybe not the last knut.
Fred elbows George. He nods towards the buffet tables.
Teenage boys. They have the appetites of starving wolves.
“You can return to eating later. I want the rest.”
“The rest?”
“My shoes?” I remind them. “The ones you pulled off my feet to pass around for the guests to fill?” I wait while they both glance away again at the tables. “Gentlemen,” I drawl in my classroom voice that demands attention.
Left and right. One and two. Mirroring each other, the twins each draw one of my shoes from the depths of their robes and set them down as a matched pair on my lap. I can see why they feel so heavy. The shoes are near overflowing with small charms, talismans, and coins. Lots of coins. Amongst the bronze Knuts, and silver Sickles, I can even see the occasional glint of gold. Though it is undoubtedly paranoia on my part, I wish I had a wand so that I could scan the contents of my shoes for any lurking jinxes or unpleasant spells. Not that any of the guests wish me ill but...
The twins have turned away. They are now openly gawking. I look to see what has claimed their attention. Twinkletoes has wandered over to the buffet table. She has her muzzle in the punch bowl. Apparently, giving birth is thirsty work. She is not merely drinking, she is gulping down the punch.
“Ah, Professor?” Fred starts. “Should she...”
“...be drinking that?” George finishes.
“It’s just mixed fruit juice. I can’t see where it would harm her.” Perhaps now that people are turning to watch her slurp out of the bowl, our guests will feel encouraged to leave.
Twinkletoes lifts her head and licks her lips. Her body makes an odd little jerk as she utters a staccato sound. I’ve never heard her make that noise before.
The twins exchange a grimace between themselves. I can see them come to some sort of rapid decision in their silent twin-speak. They appear far from relaxed when they turn to face me.
“You should know, sir...”
“...that the punch has a bit more than...
“...juice in it.”
Again, Twinkletoes makes that odd sound and movement. I realize what it is. A hiccup.
“What did you do?” I demand, though I already know the answer.
“We spiked the punch,” they chorus. “A lot.”
Twinkletoes chooses that moment to take two steps backwards. Two wobbly steps. On her third step, she decides to sit. Then, with a belch as loud as a fog horn, she topples onto her side.
“Hagrid!”
~-~-~-~-~
“No harm done. She’s jus’ relaxed.”
“She’s drunk,” I reply. “And she’s snoring.”
With matching tilts of their heads, Fang and the colt are gazing down at a thoroughly pissed unicorn. So are most of our guests.
The twins have done a good job of casting Notice-Me-Not spells on themselves. Not good enough. I know they are hiding underneath the cake table. Only Hagrid’s non-concern, the threat of Molly Weasley’s protective temper, and my current lack of a wand keep me from turning them into toads.
Hagrid places a hand on my shoulder and coaxes me to sit back down.
“We’ll jus’ take her home, an’ bed her down in her stall. She’ll have a nice little nap an’ be right as rain come mornin’.”
“And just how do you imagine you’ll get her home?” I snap. “Carry her?” I shut my mouth as I remember that Hagrid is strong enough that he might be able to manage that task.
“No need.” Filius Flitwick has appeared from somewhere. Poppy joins him. He smiles as he draws his wand. With a flick of his wand, Twinkletoes floats off the ground. She now hovers in the air, relaxed and secure as if she rested on an invisible mattress. Filius has always had a precise touch with levitation charms.
Poppy walks over. She eyes me for a few seconds. “Twinkletoes is not the only one who needs a nap. You’ve had enough festivities for today.”
~-~-~-~-~
We walk slowly back to the hut. Hagrid glances at me but makes no comment when I tighten my grip on his arm. I am exhausted. With each step I’m becoming less sure that my legs will last as long as my stubborn pride.
Poppy has taken charge of the basket with Knut’s family in it. Filius has cast a Mobilicorpus charm on Twinkletoes. She floats gently beside Filius, like a tiny snoring cloud, while her son trundles after her on wobbly legs. The foal stares at his dame with a most puzzled expression as if he senses by instinct that equines that fly should at least have wings. Fang walks shoulder to shoulder next to the colt. He gives a steadying butt with his head whenever the colt lists towards him. I have often teased Hagrid that Fang is the size of a small pony. That may be an exaggeration - but not by much. Side by side, I can see he is a full hand’s width taller at the withers than the foal and far broader in the chest too.
Hagrid smiles down at me. “I’m afraid this won’ be quite what yeh’ve ever imagined a weddin’ night should be.” He nods towards Twinkletoes.
I understand. Tonight Hagrid will keep vigil to assure that both mother and newborn are indeed well. He and I will have to wait for another day to share our first intimacies as spouses together.
Filius has noticed our exchange. “No one,” he says firmly, “is spending their wedding night in a stable.”
Poppy nods. “Don’t even dream of arguing. Filius and I discussed this earlier.” She reaches over to pat Twinkletoes’ head. “I know that neither of you will be at ease unless you know that this little lady is being watched over.” Twinkletoes lets out an especially loud snore. “Particularly in her current condition.” She waves away Hagrid’s protests with a brushing motion of her hand. “I promise, I’ll summon you if she has the slightest real problem. Otherwise, all that truly needs to be done is to monitor her while sleeps off her drunk. Same goes for her little one. I *am* competent enough to manage that.”
“No protests,” Filius insists. “Just consider our watching over them til morning to be a handfasting gift.”
I give him a nod and a small smile of thanks. In my momentary distraction, I step in a dip in the path. My knee buckles.
Hagrid does not merely hold me up, he lifts me up - into his arms.
“I’m not helpless.”
“No, but yeh’re tired, an’ it gives me a good excuse ter hold yeh. Which makes me happy. So stop complainin’.”
We have arrived at the steps to the hut.
“You can put me down.”
“Not until after I carry yeh over the threshold.”
“Yet another silly tradition?”
Poppy tsks. “It’s a romantic tradition. One almost as important as sealing the vows with a kiss.”
“Yes,” I reply. “But it’s brides who are carried over the threshold.”
Filius wears a mischievous smile. “If that’s your complaint, then I assume this means you plan on carrying Hagrid over the threshold instead?”
I glare at Hagrid. Who is grinning.
“Yer choice.”
“I suppose I can tolerate yet one more tradition.” In truth, my protests have been more a matter of habit. Hagrid’s arms are strong, his grip secure. I feel safe, nurtured, though perhaps a bit embarrassed by Filius and Poppy’s scrutiny.
“Have a pleasant night, you two.” Poppy sounds far too smug.
I hold in check a childish urge to stick out my tongue at her.
Hagrid and I watch her and Filius head towards the stable. Poppy still carries Penny’s family in the basket. Fang ambles alongside. I have no doubts that they will make sure that Twinkletoes and her little one are well tended to as well as the rest of our animal family. As to what Poppy and Filius will do while they wait through the night... Many an old hedge witch claims that going to a wedding has the makings of another.
Hagrid carries me to the top step. There, I can smell the faint scent of roses wafting from the hut.
“I believe Filius has been into mischief.” He had disappeared for some time during the reception. I can now guess what he had been up to during his absence.
“Why’s tha’?”
“Smell.”
Hagrid takes a deep breath. “Roses?”
I nod. “I suspect we will be sleeping on a bed of rose petals tonight.”
“Probably with candles all abou’ the hut too. Can’t say tha’ I’m surprised. If yeh didn’ know, Filius is fond o’ secretly readin’ Muggle romance novels.”
Oddly, I feel no rush to cross the hut’s threshold. Neither, it seems, does Hagrid. Perhaps he simply wants an excuse to continue to hold me in his arms. Or, perhaps, like me he wishes to honour the fact that we will be able to savour our moments together, now and for all our future yet to come.
“Look,” he whispers. He turns until we are facing west. The day has grown late. An orange sun is setting on a horizon coloured in brilliant pink and glowing fuchsia. I lean my head against Hagrid’s shoulder. In silence we watch while the band of bright colours grows smaller as the sky above shifts from blue to deepening purple.
Beautiful.
Such simple joys. Watching a sunset. Being held in a nurturing embrace. Knowing I am loved. Others may measure wealth in coins, but here, waiting to enter this simple hut, I am by far a richer man than any of them. My wealth is measured in a mate who knows my past, my flaws, my weaknesses which are so many. Yet he finds me, *me*, worthy of devotion. Of love. What price can be placed on such a gift?
As the sun slips behind the distant hills, I have a thought of perfect clarity.
“I know what the colt’s name should be.”
My beloved cradles me a little closer. “Wha’s that?”
One word. A word that symbolizes and encompasses all that I never dared dream yet, in this moment, I have attained.
“Miracle. His name should be Miracle.”
*************************