Chapter 3
Severus had never felt more haphazard in his life. He left his flat in Ireland so quickly he was surprised he hadn’t splinched himself. No, he was regretting that. He was walking towards another apperation point, clad in only muggle jeans and a deep burgundy jumper, one Minerva gifted him some odd years ago. No shoes adorned his feet, only his den slippers, he was sure he looked deranged. He simply couldn’t find it in himself to care.
A son and a daughter.
Children.
His children.
With Hermione Jean Granger.
How on earth had this happened?
Of course he knew, he mused to himself. Of course it had to be that night in Malloy manor, the timing added up perfectly. Well, that and the fact he had never touched the witch on any other occasion. He had been the last of three to take her, demanding his privacy for he planned to draw it out in lengthy torment for the years he had to suffer her. In truth, he simply wanted to be as gentle as possible with her. He knew there was no escaping the act of forcing himself upon her, he knew Bellatrix would check her for his magical signature, making sure he had well and truly used her.
But he had been gentle, apologized over and over. She gave no fight, only simple and curt nods, looking away from him, and thanking him for healing her as he finished. And the girl had the audacity to apologize to him herself, as if she had anything to apologize for, As if she knew that he wasn’t really fighting in the war on the side of Lord Voldemort. He had obliviated her. If she was captured again, she could not have recollection of this encounter. The Dark Lord would not take kindly to his treatment of the witch.
How on earth had he been so careless as to not cast a contraceptive charm. God, twins? Not an easy feet for even the most experienced of mothers. Let alone a woman barley out of leading strings. But then again, that was not the case, was it? Hermione Granger was something else entirely. Yes, she was young, from what he remembered she would have to be 19 now, 20 with the time turners years added on. Still, so young. Too young to endure bearing the children on a death eater who forced himself on her. Too young to have aided and fought and dare he say facilitated the success of a wizarding war, in a world she had only just entered into with no real acceptance.
Acceptance.
His blood ran cold yet again as he finally approached the apperation point. Would she be accepted in wizarding Society? He had heard nothing on the girl in the year he had been living in Ireland. Not a word of any achievements. Certainly no news of her pregnancy. No trial appearances, despite being featured in many articles of “support” for certain people. Not even a word of her from Harry bloody Potter. It was as if she had disappeared entirely, come to think of it. Maybe she had. He certainly couldn’t blame her. Being an unwed, teenaged, muggle-born witch so soon after the end of the reign of a megalomaniac blood purist with a god complex, the wizarding world was not quick for reform. Undoing the years of repression and treason would take time, when the wizarding world would catch up to the 20th century was truly beyond him, and she would suffer in society for it. As would his children.
Despite being recognized by wizarding law, and being magically bound to the Prince estate, they were still born out of wedlock, and as such could be refused the titles and finances they rightfully deserved. It was honestly preposterous to him, that just because he had not bestowed a ring upon their mother, their entitlement would come in to question. He would never deny them anything. Though he had planned to let the Prince bloodline die with him, he had no intention of financially abandoning them, or their mother for that matter. He would give them the support they needed.
Their mother.
Support.
Scoffing at himself, he decided there was only one person she would turn to. She certainly wouldn’t go to St. Mungos, after spending so long out of the public eye. She wouldn’t go to a muggle institution solely for the risk of exposure, she had to have known the children would not be squibs, they are both formidable magical practitioners. Both powerful, some would said they were magically equals. Or, at least, Albus had thought so her fifth year after the whole Ministry incident. She had trusted him explicitly then, just as she had the day he had taken her against her will. Always so trusting. Trust. That led one option. Harry Bloody Potter.
Of course, she may go to the Burrow, but then again she always seemed so uncomfortable at the meetings that were seldom held there. She wasn’t much for noise, or overbearing upon her person, despite basically mothering those two idiot boys from age eleven. No, she wouldn’t go to the burrow. Only would she trust Mr. Potter. Grimmauld place it was.
With a pull to his naval, he was standing outside the Black ancestral home. Willing away his hesitance, he strode to the door, only to be immediately repelled. Clearly, the boy hadn’t reset the wards since the war. Shaking his head in irritation, he sent a patroness through the barrier demanding to be let into the home.
Very quickly, he felt a ripple in the wards, and as he approached the door, he once again paved in shock and horror. There at the entrance was not Harry Potter, But Minerva Blasted McGonagall, holding a small, black haired bundle in her arms. His steps faltered, his heart was beating so erratically he was sure it’s burst. Her glare cut through his apprehension and he pushed forward, nearly a foot away, his eyes never leaving the small babe in her arms. The infant couldn’t be more than six pounds, small, very small, just like their mother. Taking in the appearance, he noticed a full head of black curls, a pink but paling complexion. A small, pointed l, button nose adorning a cherub like face. Small and chunky, he decided. Before he had even realized it, tears were freely and quietly falling from his eyes. Startled, he raised hand to wipe them away.
With a ever softening expression, Minerva moved aside, signaling he was welcome, but he was frozen in place desperately trying to reign in his emotions.
“Oh, my dear boy..” her Scottish drawl thick with emotion as she waved him inside, turning her back and willing him to follow. Numbly, his feet began to move inside, an odd feeling weighted in his chest as he took in the room. Kinglet Shavklebolt was sitting on the settee, seemingly attempting to comfort a very distraught Molly Weasley, Young Ginerva was on the sofa adjacent holding the other small bundle, more curly black hair, with a darker tone set on flesh. Yes, this one would surely have the sun kissed skin of their mother. He couldn’t get a good look at the babes face, unable to move his body as he stood in the middle of the sitting room, taking in the atmosphere. It seemed… incredibly forlorn for such an event as childbirth, especially with the Weasley women involved. And, especially Minerva, who had no children of her own. Despite the slashing he knew he would get for impregnating her cub, no matter the circumstance, he knew very well she considered him as her own, Hermione even more so.
Kingsley had a somber expression, Ginerva was silently crying, blankly staring down into his childless closed eyes, while Molly was freely wailing, shaking violently, incomprehensible utterances leaving her sputtering mouth. Turning his head, Minerva too was wearing an expression of grief, anger and remorse marred within her eyes. As he let himself to another eye-sweep of the room, he noticed two very important people missing from the scene. Harry James Potter, the host of the home, and Hermione Jean Granger, the mother of his newly birthed children.
Newly birthed.
Mother.
No.
Suddenly, he was frantic, feeling an unfamiliar, feral desperation as his body began to move and words left his mouth before he could comprehend them.
“Where is she?” He began, though he gave no one time to answer as he began down the hall, opening doors violently, desperately hoping to find an alive and recovering witch behind any door. Alas, door after door was empty. A closet, a den, the offices, the main floor library, the kitchen, he circled back through to the main sitting room right off the entrance of the home. As the cries of his twin babes reached his ears, he found Kingley’s eyes, pleading once again.
“Where is she? Where is Hermione?”
He shifted, his eyes moving to the left, where a small servant stock was. The door was cracked open and he felt cold encompass his body. He stood still, eyes leaving Shacklebolt’s, glancing back and forth between his twins in the arms of others, to the door where he knew in his bones their mother was. She would be insistent on them not leaving her sight, he KNEW that. She would be so insufferable about them being closer, about getting skin on skin, she would be a complete lioness when it came to them. So why was she behind that door.
Of all people to break him from his stupor, it was the youngest Weasley who approached him, not a wary bone in sight. She held him in no fear as she was now face to face with him, silently offering the baby into his arms. Softly, as his arm twitched, desperate to hold his child, she spoke.
“This, Is Regulus.” She started in a gentle voice, a tear escaping her as she graced him with a small, reassuring smile before gesturing to Minerva, “that is Isobel. She preferred McGonagoll over me, so we switched, but I’m sure they would prefer their father right about now.” Tilting her head slightly at Minerva, she signaled for her to walk over. Severus looked down upon the small, tanned skinned bundle awkwardly cradled in his arms and he simply could not believe it, would not believe it if his body had not been having a visceral reaction. His son. His sweet, sun-kissed, chunky cheeked son. A humorless chuckle escaped him as he allowed his thumb to swipe over his brow, amazed at the softness of his skin. Apparently, that muggle expression was well founded.
Shifting his eyes, his breath hitched. She was indeed, so small. Little Isobel. His daughter. Cradling Regulus to his chest with one arm securely, he reached out and repeated the action upon his daughter. A pale complexion graced her features, much like his own. She had more curls than her brother, and she had her brows pinched in slumber in a way that reminded him of himself. Glancing between the two, he felt a sinking feeling in his bones. There was a definitive response in his soul. He would do anything for these children. Be anything they needed.
He had come here to offer Hermione financial support, any and all access to the claims of his estate, regardless of their age. Anything they needed, he would provide. Childcare, clothing, food, housing. Education. Anything. He would leave his involvement in their lives to her. But now, looking down at them, he knew it’d be impossible not to be involved. He couldn’t be expected to limit his capacity in their lives. He sure as shit had no idea how fatherhood worked, he never expected to procreate, he couldn’t stand children. He thought back to the way he treated their own mother and felt ill. He would learn. He would learn and he would be the father he never had. He would do this for them.
Them.
Hermione.
Looking back at the ominous door, he let a shaky sigh escape him as Minerva gently thrust Isobel into his empty arm with a knowing look.
“Just hold them for a moment lad.”
“Is she..” he could bring himself to finish his question, once again feeling ill, his eyes shifting back to his sleeping babes, willing himself to focus on the fragile balls of warmth in his arms. Swallowing harshly, he could feel her shake her head.
“No, not.. not dead. A lot of blood was lost, she hadn’t been expecting twins.. No one knew she was expecting and no one was prepared to be delivering children in the wee hours of the morning. She was bleeding when she arrived, she had been in labor for about two days according to young Mrs. Potter.”
Looking up, he spared a brief glance at Ginerva, who had apparently wed the young mister Potter at some point over the last ten months. How they evaded the press with that one, he couldn’t be sure. Turning his attention back to Minerva, he could practically hear her thoughts escaping her mind.
“I didn’t-“ He choked out, “I didn’t know, I-I..” He swallowed air, his throat and mouth suddenly dry as his shell-shocked brain absorbed the information. He wasn’t used to feeling so much. He was sure he looked a sight, he sounded foreign to himself. He didn’t care. She had been in labor for two days. She had waiting until the very last moment to seek help. She hadn’t known she was carrying twins, which meant she was not recovering magical or muggle prenatal care. She hadn’t used any medi-witch spells on herself, it would have been traced by the Regulation of Maternal and Child welfare within the ministry. She had no reprove, and she did this all alone.
‘No one knew..’ he replayed Minerva’s words.
Where had the girl gone? Where had she fled to, and more importantly, why? Why leave and flea and hide away until she was in such a desperate conditions. Why hide? Especially if she had intended on giving them his last name to begin with? Why hide away from Wizarding society, from HIM, if she was going to acknowledge him at all? So many questions ran to his mind, halting to a stop, his head filled with silence.
The door opened.
Harry James Potter exited the room, and stood as still as the time seemed too, his face blank, clearly occluding. He stared not at Severus, but at the babies in his arms, and something in Severus broke. Without a word, he handing each child to the women who were holding them before. With double steps, he walked passed Harry, into the room where she lay. Ashen, sallow, far too thin for a girl who had just been nine-ten months pregnant, naked under only a thin sheet, covered in blood. He staggered, but pushed through, approaching her with heavy steps.
And there she was and his knees buckled. Because she was a horrid sight. His soul aches, his throat tightened, he felt sick, he could hardly bare to look at her. So young, so beautiful, so destroyed. But as he drew in a breath, pinching his eyes shut for a brief second, raising his hand the clasp hers, he felt it. The weakened pulse beneath his fingers. Snapping his eyes open, he trained them on her sunken face. Her lips were parted. He chest was rising softly.
She was breathing.