Chapter 1
Notes:
Who's ready for a new slow burn Drarry fic with added PrinceKiller because I stand on this ship inviting you to join me in the chaos.
Honestly this whole fic was sparked into inspiration by the Muppet Movie, specifically the following scene:
Kermit: You kidnapped Jack Black that's illegal.
Fozzie: But Kermit what's more illegal briefly inconveniencing Jack Black or destroying the muppets.
Kermit: Kidnapping Jack Black Fozzie!Which turned into...
Severus: You kidnapped Draco Malfoy? Barty are you insane?
Barty: Well you kidnapped Harry Potter. So I guess that makes you as crazy as me.
Chapter Text
1980
Barty Crouch Junior was never a Death Eater. His best friends talked him out of it. He wanted to join, not because he believed in their bullshit or thought Lord Voldemort was right but because he wanted to be there for Regulus and Evan, both manipulated by Lucius Malfoy into believing it would bring glory to their families. Regulus the second child who only wanted to please his parents, Evan the youngest Rosier longing to stand out against his older brothers. It was only when it was too late did they realise they’d sold their souls to the devil, the true meaning behind being a Death Eater and following the Dark Lord.
Now…
Evan was dead and Regulus was missing presumed dead.
And Barty Crouch Junior knew there was one person to blame. He stared at the announcement in the Daily Prophet; Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy are pleased to announce the birth of their son Draco Lucius Malfoy born at 02:54am June 5th. The smiling photo of a proud father and joyful mother holding a tiny baby in her arms. Lucius Malfoy had destroyed so many lives, he had manipulated and abused his position as a person of trust, yet he stood there proud and happy while others suffered.
A storm raged behind Barty’s eyes as he folded the paper, knuckles whitening with the pressure. The world spun on, indifferent to the devastation left in the wake of men like Lucius. The scent of ink and parchment clung to his hands, a reminder of how easily fate was recorded and rewritten in the wizarding world, how names could be announced with celebration while others faded into whispered tragedy.
He stood by the window, the faint morning light filtering through the grime-streaked glass of his flat. In the streets below, the city bustled, unaware of the war that was brewing beneath polite conversation and gilded announcements. Barty wondered, not for the first time, how many more would be lost before people realized monsters were not born, but made, crafted by fear, ambition, and silence.
He pressed his forehead to the cool glass. Somewhere, Narcissa was cradling her child; somewhere, Lucius was toasting to legacy and power. But Barty’s heart ached for the friends he could not save, for the innocence they all surrendered. And as he watched the day begin, he made a decision, a plan, he would show Lucius Malfoy a taste of suffering and perhaps save a child from a destiny of darkness.
The hour was ungodly, the sky pressed close and starless, as Barty crept through the winding hedgerows skirting Malfoy Manor’s ancient stones. Shadows stretched and recoiled around him, cloaking his movements in secrecy as he pressed on, each heartbeat thunderous in his ears. Every window gleamed with the pale glow of sleeping wards; but Barty had spent years learning the architecture of power, and with practiced hands he slipped past enchantments, silent as memory.
Inside, the manor was suffused with a heavy hush, perfumed with the scent of wax and old velvet. The moonlight painted shifting shapes against marble floors as he moved, gliding like a wraith through opulent halls. He paused, listening for the echo of footsteps, the murmur of Lucius or Narcissa roused from their slumber. But all was still, the house a cathedral of secrets and ambition.
He found the nursery at the heart of the manor, a sanctum gilded for the hope of a new legacy. Draco lay swaddled in the cradle, untouched by the darkness festering in his lineage. Barty knelt, his chest tight, gazing at the child whose mere existence was a headline, a promise, a warning. He could almost hear the whispers of futures written and erased, of destinies twisted by hands drunk on power.
With gentle arms, Barty scooped Draco from the cradle, careful not to wake him. The baby stirred, blinking up at this stranger with soft confusion, then settled against Barty’s shoulder, innocent and trusting. Barty’s resolve hardened. He was not a monster. He would not make one.
Every step retraced through the manor was a prayer for escape, a silent plea that he might slip away before the family awoke to grief and outrage. Outside, the night enfolded him, cloaking him in the hush of collusion and consequence. He vanished into the darkness with Draco, leaving behind a shattered sense of certainty and a legacy interrupted, a single act of defiance echoing against the walls of Malfoy power.
By dawn, the world would tremble at the news. But for now, silence reigned, and somewhere in the shadows between vengeance and mercy, Barty Crouch Junior ran, vanishing without a trace.
Barty took the baby to Ireland, settling in a small village, he cast many protective wards and untraceable spells, no one would find them. He sat in the living room with the baby in his arms. He had prepared the house ahead of time, set up a nursery, but the reality of raising a child weighed on his shoulders. Could he truly do this alone?
Draco looked up at him with steely grey eyes.
For a moment, Barty studied Draco in the muted, golden light, a child born to inherit empires, now swaddled in a woollen blanket, his only kingdom the edge of a battered sofa. The silence of the house pressed in around them, broken only by the gentle snap of the hearth and the soft, uncertain breaths of his charge.
A thousand memories flickered behind Barty’s eyes: shadows of his own childhood, rigid discipline and cold expectations, the things that had shaped him into a weapon. He reached for a lullaby, something half-remembered and wordless, humming as he gently rocked Draco, hoping to summon comfort for them both. The baby’s eyelids fluttered, and Barty felt a fierce surge of protectiveness, a promise he made silently to this child and himself.
He rose and paced the small parlour, glancing out beyond the fogged windowpanes to the sprawling, wild hedges that marked the edge of exile. The war, the Dark Lord’s ambitions, the web of alliances and betrayals, all of it seemed distant here, muffled by the hush of rural Ireland and the weight of his own exile. Here, there were no banners or oaths, only the steady thump of his heart and the need to keep the child safe.
Yet doubt gnawed at him. Barty’s hands, trained for curses and subterfuge, now fumbled with bottles and blankets. Draco’s tiny fingers curled around one of his own, and for an instant, the world felt unbearably fragile, each small sound a reminder of how easily safety could shatter.
“I am not your father.” Barty whispered, voice hoarse and uncertain. “But I will not let you become him, either.”
He tucked Draco into the cradle he’d bought in the village’s market, warded with every protective charm he knew. Sitting beside it, Barty watched the child’s breaths even out, eyes tracing the soft rise and fall of the little chest. At that moment, he made another decision, not one born of vengeance or fear, but of hope. He would teach Draco to be more than a legacy, more than a pawn in an old family’s game. And as the Irish dawn crept across the floor, Barty Crouch Junior vowed that, against all odds, he would give this child a chance at a different fate.
Barty formally adopted Draco through both muggle and magical forms, renaming him Draco Evan Crouch. No one would ever question that he was ever anyone’s but Barty’s.
Months wound onward, measured not in grand events but in quiet rituals and small victories. In the mornings, Barty would carry Draco outside, wrapped and snug, to watch the sun rise over the patchwork fields, the air damp and cool against their skin. The village was a world apart, its villagers wary but polite, never questioning the solitary young man and his child.
Barty grew adept at blending in, transforming himself into another face in the crowd at the market, offering coin for bread and milk, nodding with practiced indifference. Draco grew quickly, clutching at Barty’s fingers and laughing with the bright, careless joy of the very young, his eyes reflecting fireside stories and the promise of days untouched by war.
At night, when Draco had drifted off in his cradle, Barty returned to his books, poring over spell work and history, searching for answers that might grant his son safety. Each ward he cast around the cottage was a silent plea, every charm a promise to the child who bore none of the world’s guilt.
There were moments, too, when the past pressed close. On long winter evenings, Barty would feel the weight of names and oaths, the echo of old allegiances. The world outside still whispered the names of the lost, and sometimes, Barty would watch the candle gutter and wonder whether forgiveness was possible, or if redemption was always edged with secrecy.
But each time Draco stirred, reaching for comfort, Barty was reminded of the vow he’d made beneath the new Irish dawn. He gathered the child in his arms, whispering tales of heroes who’d chosen kindness over glory, of families built not by blood but by choice, and let hope be the spell that bound their nights together.
Spring approached, timid and raw, and with-it new sounds drifted through the open window: the lowing of distant cattle, the laughter of children chasing kites beyond the hedgerows. Barty watched Draco’s gaze follow the motion of clouds, his small hands clapping in wonder. These quiet joys, fragile as the first crocus on the verge, filled the cottage with a brightness that neither war nor loss could fully eclipse.
Occasionally, a letter would arrive from his mother, carried by owl and sealed with a crest Barty recognized too well. He handled each carefully, weighing whether to burn or answer, knowing every word written was both shield and risk. For Draco’s sake, he crafted careful replies, measured in their warmth, always mindful of the lines he could not cross. There were some who remembered, who watched, but in those days Barty’s devotion shaped their silence as much as their suspicion.
He taught Draco the names of trees and birds, tracing the veins of leaves and the patterns of feathers as though each were a charm against the old world’s cruelties. In the evening, they drew together on the hearth rug, Draco’s laughter tumbling through the cottage as Barty animated tiny wooden animals with careful flicks of his wand. The rituals grew, gentle anchors in the drift of time.
There was a day, blustery and gold, when Draco stumbled through his first steps, giggles tumbling from his lips with such delight that Barty felt his own heart catch. Pride and fear mingled, as always, but the moment was theirs alone. No one watched, no one judged. Barty scooped Draco into his arms, kissing his hair and holding him close.
Draco’s first word was Dada. Barty froze the first time he heard it; he stared at Draco who looked at him with big silvery eyes and held up his hands. “Dada.” He said again.
For a long moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The fire snapped and hissed, wind rattled the windows, but everything else faded. Barty knelt, hands trembling, caught between disbelief and an ache so deep it threatened to undo him. He smiled, tentative, as Draco reached for his face, fingers sticky with crumbs and wonder.
“Dada.” Draco repeated, softer now, as though testing the sound for magic. And perhaps it was, something fragile and transformative, a word that turned exile into home, uncertainty into purpose.
From that evening on, Barty found himself tracing the shape of the word in his mind while he worked: cleaning muddy boots, tidying up toys, stirring soup as dusk crept in. Each small act wove itself into a tapestry of belonging. Even the shadows that pressed close on starless nights could not break the quiet rhythm they had built together.
Outside, the world’s news came and went with the seasons, rumours at the market, the briefest flash of a familiar face in a distant lane, but within the stone walls of their cottage, life was measured in stories whispered before bed and the gentle rise and fall of Draco’s sleeping breath.
One morning, as mist rolled in silver waves across the fields, Barty watched Draco toddle toward the door, arms outstretched for balance, eyes lit with curiosity. He felt the old weight lift, just for a moment, carried away on the promise of a new day. In that light, the future, uncertain, uncharted, did not feel so forbidding. It was enough, for now, to gather these small joys, to let hope bloom again, quiet and persistent as wildflowers in spring.
1981
The war was over.
James and Lily Potter had given their lives; their infant son had somehow defeated the Dark Lord at fifteen months old.
Barty stared at the headline on the morning paper. It was over. The war was done. He shook his head, folding the paper and tossing it in the bin, scrubbing a hand over his face. Just like that.
He turned away from the rubbish bin, the kitchen suddenly too small, every surface echoing with memory. Draco was giggling in the next room, stacking wooden blocks into precarious towers, oblivious to the world’s seismic shifts. Barty lingered by the doorway, watching the boy’s concentration, the careful placement of each block, the way his tongue poked out at the corner of his mouth.
The hush in the cottage was different now, heavy, but not unkind. The sort of quiet that comes after a storm, when the air is thick with things unsaid and half-formed prayers. Barty moved to the window, fingers tracing the cold glass, heart thudding with the weight of history and possibility.
He remembered firelight and whispered plans, the way hope had felt like a dangerous luxury. Now, in this strange new peace, hope was something softer, stitched into their days, hidden in the crumbs on Draco’s cheeks and the way the little boy reached for him with absolute trust.
Outside, a magpie lit on the kitchen sill, cocking its head at Barty with black, gleaming eyes. He watched the bird, felt something shift inside him, an old wariness mingling with the fragile optimism that had begun to root itself in his chest.
Draco’s voice, bright and insistent, called from behind him. “Dada! Up!”
Barty turned, the world narrowing to this moment: his son’s outstretched arms, the sunrise pooling gold across the floor. He crossed the room and scooped Draco into his arms, holding him close, anchoring himself in the warmth and weight of this small, stubborn hope.
Tomorrow would come, with its questions and uncertainties, but for now, there was just this, soft morning light, a child’s laughter, and the promise that, somehow, they would find their way through the quiet after the storm, together.
That night Barty sat alone in the living room, a film playing on the tv he was barely watching, Draco fast asleep upstairs. He sighed sipping his red wine and stretched on the sofa.
A soft knock at the door made him sit up straight. He stared at the door, heart pounding in his chest. Who had found him? Were they here to take Draco back to Lucius? He gripped his wand tightly, moving cautiously to the door and checked through the view finder, his eyes widening by the man standing on the doorstep.
Severus Snape was stood on his doorstep, a bundle in his arms.
Barty swallowed and opened the door; wand pointed at Snape. “What is my animagus form?” He asked.
Severus turned, black eyes trained on Barty and smirked. “A crow, you flew into a tree trunk the first time you changed and knocked yourself out.”
Barty let out a startled huff, the tension in his shoulders slackening just a fraction. “You didn’t have to include the tree part.” He muttered.
Snape’s smirk softened into something almost like concern. “I thought accuracy would be best to prove I am myself.” He shifted the bundle in his arms, a spill of wool, a glimmer of black hair, and the unmistakable weight of a sleeping child. “May I come in?”
Barty’s mind raced, questions tumbling over each other, worlds colliding in the late-night hush. But he nodded, stepping aside, wand lowering with a reluctant trust. “Of course. Quickly.”
Snape entered, his cloak trailing shadows, and closed the door behind him with a deliberate click. For a moment, the two men simply stood there, the hush between them thick with memory and something like relief.
Then Snape placed the bundle gently on the sofa, pulling back the corner of a blanket to reveal a sleeping toddler, fist curled under their chin. Barty’s eyes widened. “Is that Harry Potter? Tell me you didn’t kidnap Harry Potter.”
“All right I won’t tell you.” Severus smirked.
“He makes jokes. The world must be ending.” Barty pinched the bridge of his nose.
But the jest could not hide the seriousness flickering in Snape’s eyes. He crouched beside the sofa, one hand hovering protectively above the child’s head.
“He was in danger.” Snape said quietly, the edge of sarcasm giving way to something raw. “Dumbledore made the decision to place him with Lily’s sister of all people. I know Petunia, she never would have… I…” He broke off, lips pressing into a white line of frustration and grief. “I had to act.”
Barty knelt, examining the toddler, this impossibly small legend, lashes fanned against a smudge of cheek. “And now you bring him here. To me. How did you even find me?”
“You’re still wearing your ring.” Severus answered.
Barty looked down at the silver ring on his finger. “Fuck.” He breathed. “Can anyone else trace it?” He asked panicked.
Severus shook his head. “Only me.” He held up his own hand, a band of silver on his own finger.
For a long, splintering moment, neither spoke. The lamplight painted strange shapes on the floor, pooling around Harry’s tiny, socked feet. Barty exhaled, slow and hesitant, as if weighing the enormity of what Severus had done.
“So, what now?” he asked finally, voice low. “You’ve made yourself an outlaw. And me, apparently your accomplice.”
Severus’s mouth twisted, but there was no amusement left in him. “I had no choice. There are eyes everywhere, Ministry, Order, even among the Death Eaters. He was not safe. Not with them. Not with Petunia. And I trust you, more than any of them.”
Outside, a gust rattled the window. Within, the two men knelt beside the sleeping child, their old grievances overshadowed by the impossible task before them. Barty brushed a stray curl from Harry’s forehead, uncertain.
“I never thought you’d trust me with something like this.” Barty whispered.
“I wouldn’t.” Severus replied, his gaze steady. “Except I have to.”
For a moment, the weight of destiny pressed down on the shabby room: the future itself curled up in blankets, breathing softly. Shadows flickered as Barty reached for the edge of the sofa, resolve settling into his features.
And then a voice called from upstairs. “Dada! Dada!”
Barty cringed. “Be right back.” He hurried upstairs to find Draco sitting up in his cot, crying softly. He scooped the little boy up into his arms and kissed his cheek. “It’s okay, I’m here. Dada is here.” He held him close.
Draco’s sobs faded to hiccups as Barty paced gently, swaying as though the rhythm alone might ward off nightmares. He murmured soft reassurances, fingers tracing lazy circles on the child’s back. In the hush, the house seemed to breathe with them, timbers settling, floors creaking, a lullaby of age and secrecy. After a while, Draco’s small head drooped again, heavy with sleep, and Barty brushing damp hair from his brow carried him downstairs.
Downstairs, Severus barely moved, save for the restless flex of his hands. The silence pressed in, thick and uneasy, broken only by Harry’s soft, even breaths. Severus watched the boy as if memorising the shape of his hope: the way his fists curled in sleep, the faint flutter of dark lashes against tanned cheeks.
When Barty returned, his eyes met Severus’s, holding Draco close. He shifted from foot to foot. “Funny story.” He cleared his throat.
Severus Snape stared at the toddler in Barty’s arms, the pale blond hair and aristocratic features undeniable. He remembered just over a year ago, Lucius Malfoy holding a sobbing Narcissa in an empty nursery, begging for his help. “You kidnapped Draco Malfoy?” He exclaimed.
“Well, you kidnapped Harry Potter.” Barty shifted Draco in his arms.
“Are you insane?” Severus pinched the bridge of his nose.
Barty shrugged. “Jury is still out on that one.” He chuckled, sitting down on the armchair.
Draco stirred, pressing his face into Barty’s shoulder, a low whimper escaping before he drifted deeper into sleep. For a long moment, the room existed only in quiet breaths and the muted ticking of the clock on the mantel. Severus’s gaze flicked from Draco to Harry and back, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the gravity of their situation.
“So.” Severus said, voice low. “What’s the plan now? We start a crèche for wayward war orphans and kidnapped purebloods?”
Barty grinned, exhaustion softening the sharp edges of his expression. “Why not? Hogwarts can wait. We’ll raise a generation of children who know nothing but peace and questionable bedtime stories.” His thumb traced absent-minded circles on Draco’s back, comforting himself as much as the child.
Severus shook his head, but his voice was less brittle. “If the Ministry finds us…”
“They won’t.” Barty interrupted, a sudden, fierce confidence in his tone. “No knows about this place. I’ve got more wards and protective spells in place than Hogwarts, the fact you found me is nothing short of a miracle.”
Severus rubbed his jaw. “Why did you do it?” He asked.
Barty looked up at him. “Lucius Malfoy is a manipulative piece of shit, he would have used Draco as a pawn, raised him up to be a Death Eater, what kind of life is that? I watched Evan die and Regulus disappear; I was angry and… I wanted him to suffer.” He slumped back, the confession hanging heavy in the air, as if the walls themselves were absorbing Barty’s pain and anger, the ghosts of those lost haunting the shadows by the hearth.
Severus considered Barty for a moment, the lines of old grief etched deep around his eyes. “You certainly achieved it.” He mumbled and sighed. “So, I suppose we’re in this together then.” He rubbed his jaw.
“Just can’t seem to shake you off, can I?” Barty grinned at him.
“I believe you were the one who told me I was stuck with you.” Severus smirked, gently stroking Harry’s hair.
Barty looked at them. “You sure you can do this? James Potter’s son?”
Severus stared down at Harry. “He’s Lily’s too and I made a vow to look out for him. I won’t let him be raised there. Not by a woman who hates magic with her very being.”
Barty nodded. “You can both stay here, there’s a spare room and Harry and Draco can share the nursery.” He offered. “We’ll figure this out together.”
A silence settled, not tense but thoughtful, layered with a strange, tentative hope. Harry’s breathing was soft, his head pillowed in Severus’s lap, and for a moment Severus allowed himself to believe that, just maybe, they could carve something gentle out of all this ruin.
Barty stood, stretching his arms above his head before crossing to the window and peering through a narrow gap in the curtains. “The wards will hold. We’re ghosts here. If we keep our heads, no one will think to look this far into the wilds.” He turned, his expression more open than Severus had ever seen, a flicker of youthful mischief returning.
Severus watched Barty, a strange comfort blooming in the quiet, improbable, but undeniable. In the curve of Harry’s lashes against his palm, in Barty’s easy offer of sanctuary, something fragile took root. There was little left to trust in the world, yet here, in this tucked-away cottage, there was enough.
Barty finally turned, the ghost of a boy he might have been glimmering through years of hard edges. “We’ll need supplies.” He said, his voice lighter. “And I suppose we’ll have to teach Draco and Harry to get along. Merlin help us.”
A small huff of laughter escaped Severus. “They’re children. It’s the adults I worry about.” His tone was dry, but there was a warmth beneath it, a quiet promise.
Barty shrugged, all casual bravado, but his eyes softened as they rested on Harry. “We’ll manage. I’ve seen worse thrown together with less.” He hesitated, then sat down across from Severus, the space between them not so wide as it once had been.
The hush returned, companionable this time, and for a heartbeat, the world felt less sharp. Severus let his hand rest on Harry’s back, steady and sure. He looked at Barty and, without words, acknowledged the messy bond between them, a fragile thing, frayed from history but real and not quite broken.
Outside, the wilds lay blanketed in fine mist, silent and watchful. Inside, something broken began, tentatively, to mend.
1976
Severus Snape dropped onto the damp earth by the lake. His ears ringing from the loud bang that had echoed ending Potter’s spell. He looked up to see Potter and friends on their backs and a hand extending to him, glancing further up into the face of Barty Crouch Junior.
For a moment, Severus hesitated, unsure whether to accept kindness from anyone, let alone Barty, son of a Ministry man, eyes sharp and mouth always curled with private amusement. The hand did not waver. Around them, the air pulsed with the aftershock of adolescent magic, the grass still bent from bodies and hexes.
Severus took the offered hand. Barty hauled him upright with an unexpected steadiness, neither jeer nor judgment in his expression. Behind them, the Marauders were already picking themselves up, raucous bravado returning as quickly as bruises faded.
“Come on.” Barty murmured, voice pitched low, almost conspiratorial. “Before they recover their wits. Or their tempers.” He held onto Severus’ hand and pulled him into a run back towards the castle.
Severus fell into stride beside him, an uneasy alliance forming their hands clasped together as they burst into the castle and into an empty classroom.
“You okay?” Barty asked him.
Severus nodded, brushing dirt from his sleeve, but a flush persisted high on his cheekbones. “I’m fine.” He muttered, defensive by habit, though something in Barty’s gaze made the words softer than intended.
Barty let the silence hang, his head tilting, considering. “You didn’t deserve that.” He said, tone matter of fact, as if they were discussing spells or weather. He moved to the window, peering out at the distant shapes on the lawn.
“I should find Lily.” Severus shook his head. “I can’t believe I called her that.” He put his head in his hands sinking into a chair.
Barty didn’t answer immediately, only watched Severus with a curious, unreadable expression. The quiet in the classroom, punctuated by Severus’s uneven breath, seemed to hush the world outside—the distant thunder of the hallway, the fluting squawk of a peeved Peeves, and the echoes of jeers that still stung beneath Severus’s skin.
“Lily Evans is clever.” Barty said at last; his words deliberate. “I doubt a single word could erase years of friendship. But Potter’s lot…” He shrugged, as if their malice bored him. “They don’t know half of what you could do. Their imagination ends at hexes.”
Severus dropped his hands, reluctant but compelled to look up. Barty was tracing idle patterns on the dusty windowpane, fingers leaving brief, looping trails that faded as quickly as they formed. The silence stretched again, but it was softer now, like the hush after a storm.
“You shouldn’t let them decide who you are.” Barty added, glancing back. There was something almost fierce in the steadiness of his gaze. “You know better spells.”
A bitter laugh slipped from Severus. “Spells aren’t everything.”
Barty’s lips twitched. “No. But they’re something. And so is choosing your company.” He paused, then, tone gentler, “You could do with a friend. Someone better than Mulciber and Avery. At least until Lily gives you that look that turns you to stone.”
Severus let out a shaky breath, the corners of his mouth threatening a reluctant smile. “I suppose you’re volunteering?”
“Depends. Do you hex your friends when they annoy you?” Barty’s eyes glinted with mischief, sharp, but not unkind.
Severus managed a smirk, the weight on his chest easing ever so slightly. “Only if they deserve it.”
Barty straightened, pushing off from the window. “That’s the spirit. Come on, let’s see if we can avoid detention, or at least find something stronger than pumpkin juice to toast our survival.” He offered a hand again, and this time, Severus took it with less hesitation, letting himself be pulled up and forward, steps lighter as they slipped out into the dim castle corridors, conspirators in their own small rebellion.
1981
Severus woke to the sound of children laughing and the smell of bacon. He rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed. He felt the weight of grief crush down on him. Lily, his best friend, gone. He’d never get to apologise, to reconcile. Any chance of showing he’d changed was gone. All that was left was her son. And he would do better, he would protect Harry, with everything he had. He would not fail him as he had failed Lily.
The world beyond his window was impossibly bright, sunlight glancing off dew-beaded grass and scattering gold across the worn floorboards. Severus pressed his palms to his face, as if by sheer will he could drive the ache away, could reshape the years and the choices that led here. But there was only the present, raw and inescapable.
Downstairs, he heard Barty laugh and music playing from a record player. He got up and walked down find Barty sat on the sofa making bubbles come out of his wand, the two toddlers eagerly chasing them laughing and clapping as they popped them.
Severus leant in the doorway, watching the moment with strange unease at something so simple and joyful, feeling a stranger to such things. Scared his presence might destroy it.
He hovered at the threshold, half-inclined to retreat, certain the laughter would subside if he crossed into their sunlight. But Barty spotted him and grinned, lifting his wand in a lazy salute. “Morning.” He called.
Harry, dark-haired and determined, toddled towards Severus, offering a fistful of shimmering soap bubbles, which disintegrated against his fingers. The child stared up at him, waiting, trusting. Severus’s throat tightened. He crouched, uncertain, and reached out a tentative hand, awkward but gentle. The little one giggled and darted away, chasing the next glimmer.
Barty watched, eyes soft, not mocking. “You look like you could use some breakfast.” He said, patting the spot beside him. There was music, bacon, easy warmth. Severus hesitated just a breath longer, then stepped into the room, letting the laughter and the music fill in the cracks, letting himself be stitched, however roughly, to the moment.
He sat, not quite relaxed but not wholly apart. The room was bright and ordinary and alive. For a little while, the ache receded, replaced by the quiet possibility of something almost like hope.
Barty handed him a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs and toast. “I thought we could go into the village today, get some supplies. I conjured Harry a crib, but it won’t do for long, you know how those spells are.”
“We’ll need to disguise the children; we can’t risk anyone recognising them.” Severus nibbled of a piece of toast.
Barty nodded, his gaze flickering toward the window, where sunlight pooled on the sill. “I made some glamour charms. Freckles, new haircut, that sort of thing. The old woman at the shop’s half-blind, but I’d rather not test her memory.” He spoke with a kind of offhand cheerfulness, but Severus saw the tension beneath it, a man used to trouble, wearing ease like a borrowed coat.
The toddlers, oblivious to these quiet strategies, had abandoned the bubbles for a plush owl, now subject to an enthusiastic tug-of-war. Severus watched them, the way their faces lit with triumph and indignation by turns and felt the unfamiliar edge of a smile threaten his composure.
“Will you manage a list?” He asked, forcing practicality into his tone.
Barty snorted. “We need nearly everything, food, nappies, a decent blanket. Not to mention something less embarrassing than that hat you put on Harry yesterday.”
Severus arched an eyebrow. “It was functional.”
“It was tragic.” Barty’s lips quirked; he looked younger for it, almost reckless. “We’ll go together. Safety in numbers.”
Severus considered. The village would be bustling at this hour, bright faces, watching eyes, questions. But he could see, too, the way Harry’s arms reached for the window, the way even now the child pressed his cheek to the cool glass as if hungry for the world beyond.
“We’ll all go.” Severus decided, quietly. “A glamour for both children.” He scooped up a forkful of eggs. “These are surprisingly good. I had no idea you could cook.”
Barty smirked. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me Sev.” He winked at him. “I’m going to grab a shower, if you can watch the boys.” He pushed himself to stand.
Severus nodded. “I think we’ll manage.”
Barty left the room, heading upstairs. He stepped into his bedroom and stripped off, walking into the ensuite and started the water, letting it heat up before stepping under the spray and closing his eyes, let it drum onto his face. He was still uncertain that this wasn’t a dream. Severus was here. After years of silence, they were together again. It was strange to think about. Barty didn’t know how to act around him. All the old feelings were fluttering in his chest like a swarm of butterflies.
The steam filled the small room, curling around the edges of the mirror, blurring away the sharp lines of the present. Barty pressed his palms against the tiles, breathing in the clean scent, willing the tension to unravel from his shoulders. He let the water mask the quiet tremor in his hands, the echo of vulnerability that came with letting someone back in.
Downstairs, Severus listened to the muffled sounds of water overhead, his gaze drifting between the children and the half-cleared table. Harry had taken possession of the owl, cradling it in triumph, while the other child regarded him with a mixture of grudging respect and the beginnings of camaraderie. The kitchen, for all its unfamiliar clutter, a bottle here, a stack of battered recipe cards there, felt unexpectedly safe.
He caught himself tracing the rim of his mug, wondering at the gentle absurdity of the moment. Outside, morning light crept across the floorboards, promising a day that would demand masks and measured words. But for now, with soft laughter and the scent of eggs lingering in the air, Severus found himself almost daring to believe in the possibility of peace.
A thump from upstairs signalled Barty’s return to reality, and Severus straightened, setting his mug aside and preparing for whatever came next. The children, sensing the shift, quieted, two pairs of eyes fixed expectantly on him, trusting, unguarded, and perhaps, for the first time in a long while, at home.
They stepped out of the cottage in weak wintry sunshine, the boys in prams bundled up against the cold, Barty leading the way into the village. He kept up a steady stream of chatter, pointing things out to the boys, flowers, birds, animals. Severus watched him with a small smile of amusement.
Their first stop was the local second-hand shop where they were able to get a second crib which the woman said she’d have the afternoon boy deliver up to the cottage.
They thanked her, and Barty slipped a couple of notes onto the counter with a conspiratorial wink. The woman, catching the gesture, offered a knowing nod and assured them the boy would be careful with the delivery. As they left the shop, the air seemed lighter, every breath tinged with possibility.
On the street, Severus turned his collar up against the chill and watched as Barty paused to greet an old man with a spaniel. The dog nosed at the prams, tail wagging in lazy circles. The children giggled, Harry reaching for the soft ears, his laughter carrying, quick and bright, more honest than Severus had heard in years.
They wandered further, past a bakery whose window fogged with the promise of fresh bread, past children shrieking as they chased each other over the frost-bitten grass of the common. Barty talked to everyone, a nod here, a word there, weaving them into the rhythm of village life. For Severus, each interaction was a gentle reminder of all the ordinary things he'd missed: the smell of baking, the slap of boots on slush, the slow, unhurried pace of a morning spent doing nothing more than belonging.
When the sun crept toward noon and the boys began to fret, they turned homeward, arms laden with treasures, stuffed animals, clothes, a book of fairy tales, a battered tin toy, knitted scarves. The cottage welcomed them with its quiet warmth and the promise of tea. The afternoon boy delivered the crib, placing it in the hallway with a note tucked into its side, and even this small kindness seemed like a benediction.
Settling the children for a nap after lunch, Severus caught Barty’s eye across the room. In the hush of returning, with the fire crackling and the weight of winter held gently at the window, something unspoken passed between them: not forgiveness exactly, but the tentative beginnings of trust. Outside, a few flakes of snow began to fall, slow and deliberate, as if the world itself were giving them permission to start again.
Chapter Text
1976
Barty looked up from his book as Severus dropped into the empty chair at his table at the library and put his head in his hands. “Evans is still mad.”
“She’s never going to forgive me.” Severus shook his head.
“Just give her time. I’m sure she’ll come around.” Barty gave him a small smile. “Summer is almost here.” He reminded him.
Severus sighed. “Don’t remind me.” He muttered.
Summer was sure to be a lonely affair without Lily there to break up the nights of screaming matches and the lick of his father’s belt. He was not looking forward to going home, wished he could hide in Hogwarts and spend the summer in the potions lab.
Barty hesitated, then closed his book with a soft thump. “You could come to mine for a bit.” He offered, voice careful and almost shy. “My parents will be off at the continent for most of July. There’ll be no one to mind if you want to stay. No rules, just…” He shrugged, self-conscious. “We could do nothing together. Maybe work on that potion you mentioned. I’m going to try and become an animagus.”
The library air seemed suddenly less heavy, the dust motes spinning in the shafts of sunlight like embers of possibility. Severus looked up, uncertain. “Are you sure?” His voice was small, almost lost.
Barty nodded, a touch of colour in his cheeks. “We’ll eat toast every morning and burn things in the garden. I’ll even let you have the good pillow. Evan and Regulus usually come and crash for a bit when things get shitty at home for them. It’s a small bonus having absent parents, I get to provide sanctuary.” He tried for a joke, but Severus only managed a wane smile, eyes shadowed with more than just fatigue.
Across the room, Madam Pince coughed pointedly, and they both ducked their heads, books and parchment suddenly fascinating. A moment passed, soft as moth wings. Then Severus spoke, so quietly Barty had to lean in to hear. “I’d like that. I…think I’d really like that.”
Outside, the late spring sun crept over the lake, and the world continued, but for the first time in days, Severus felt the smallest spark of hope catch inside his chest.
1982
Raising toddlers with Barty Crouch Junior was not something Severus had thought would be on his life’s bingo card but here they were. They fell into a strange rhythm and routine. Barty cooking meals, Severus teaching the toddlers words and arranging activities for their motor skills and development.
There were mornings when the kitchen would be bright with sunlight, the air filled with the scent of toast and marmalade, and the delighted peals of laughter from small voices echoing off the walls. Severus would sometimes pause, teacup halfway to his lips, quietly amazed at the ordinary magic of domestic life—of Barty humming some Muggle tune as he stirred porridge on the stove, of small hands reaching for his own, sticky with jam.
Some afternoons, the garden would become a world of their own invention, a place for potions brewed from flower petals and mud, for secret clubhouses under hedgerows and the slow, steady growth of green things. The children darted like sprites among the dappled shade, and Barty, always irrepressible, would chase them until everyone collapsed, breathless and beaming, in the grass.
And at night, when the house was quiet and the little ones finally asleep, Severus found himself confessing dreams and disappointments in the soft hush of the sitting room. Barty would listen, sometimes teasing, sometimes serious, but always present in a way that made Severus believe, for once, that perhaps some futures were allowed to be gentle.
They were not a family in any ordinary sense, but the shape of their days was one Severus had never dared imagine for himself. It was, for as long as it lasted, enough.
On June 5th, Barty baked a cake and blew up balloons to celebrate Draco’s second birthday. A modest pile of gifts waited for the toddler and Harry sat on Severus’ lap, chewing on the tip of the wing of the stuffed toy bat, Barty had bought for the little boy that first day in the village. Severus had rolled his eyes at the gesture but something warm had filled his chest.
Memories of a peaceful month of summer at the Crouch house, studying, attempting and finally succeeding in becoming animagi. Four boys, from battered homes with ambitions to become more. A black cat, a crow, a fox and a bat. It was the last time Severus had known peace, before his world imploded.
Afterwards, time seemed to loosen, spilling forward in weeks and seasons measured less by calendars than by the subtle changes in laughter and the shifting sunlight across the kitchen table. Draco grew taller, Harry's curls tumbled ever more unmanageable, and the house settled into a tapestry of shared stories—fragments of songs, ink stains on the carpet, and the slow accumulation of inside jokes that required no explanation.
The world outside buzzed with distant troubles, but inside these walls, Severus learned the peculiar skill of hope, the quiet anticipation of tomorrow’s breakfast, the comfort of knowing the kettle would be whistling when he descended the stairs. Barty would sometimes catch his gaze and, with a crooked grin, hold out a cup already sweetened just so, proving again that care could be learned, even by those who’d once known only survival.
It was a fragile peace, and Severus felt its delicacy keenly, the way a summer storm might rattle the windowpanes, or an owl swoop with a message that threatened the rhythm of their days. Still, he found himself collecting moments: Harry and Draco watching a Disney film under a blanket fort, Barty scribbling lists of groceries and potion ingredients on the backs of old receipts.
What would come, Severus could not predict. But for now, the evening air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle, the garden glowed with fireflies, and the four of them lingered together.
1976
A car crash.
His parents had been killed in a car crash. His father had been raging about something as they drove to some meeting for the industrial workers union. Something had darted into the road, and he’d swerved, sending the car into a tree.
Severus could still hear the sound of crunching metal as he was thrown in the back seat. He remembered the pain, the horrible silence that followed impact, the wheezing last breaths of his mother.
He’d laid in that hospital bed, listening to the doctors tell him sadly that his father had died on impact, his mother had succumbed to her injuries in the ambulance. His leg was broken in three places, his ribs cracked, his left hand broken and he had a severe concussion. They were trying to locate his next of kin, but Severus knew there was no one. Not a soul left who would care.
But then a woman had appeared at his bedside, grey hair swept into a tight bun, hand lightly resting on a polished cane with a tight-lipped smile. She was his grandmother, his mother's mother, and she was here to bring him home. To show him what it meant to be a Prince.
The hospital light cast a pale halo around her, and Severus, blinking through pain and grief, could not at first reconcile her presence with any memory. She did not offer platitudes or sympathy; instead, her gaze appraised him as though weighing a rare and precious stone that had been long lost and unexpectedly found. With a briskness born of both habit and duty, she spoke with the muggle doctors and made arrangements.
She visited every day, telling him stories about his family, their history and achievements. The Prince Family did not care of wizarding world politics, they kept to themselves, working hard to achieve breakthroughs in magic that most wouldn’t dare to dream about.
And in all the tragedy, one small consolation was it brought Lily Evans back to him. The girl slipped into the hospital room, her eyes wide and shining with tears, a bag of grapes in her hands. “My dad heard about the accident.” She croaked. “Oh Sev, I’m so sorry.” She rushed over, perching on the edge of the bed.
Severus had not expected her; in truth, he hadn’t expected anyone. The room felt smaller, the antiseptic tang of the air and the weight of his bandages suddenly less important than the warmth in Lily’s trembling voice. She awkwardly placed the grapes on the bedside table, fingers lingering as though she might reach for his hand, but hesitated at the last moment.
“I brought you these,” she whispered, as if the softness of her tone might soften the jagged memory of what had happened. “Mum says fruit is good for healing.”
He did not trust himself to speak. There was too much in the silence—the echo of distant laughter, his mother’s perfume, the hum of a life uprooted. But Lily filled the emptiness with gentle stories: of school, of her sister’s latest drama, of their meadow at Spinner’s End just coming into bloom. She had always been able to bring light to dark places, even ones as shadowed as his.
His grandmother watched, silent and impassive from her chair in the corner, and Severus wondered if she understood the comfort Lily offered. When visiting hours ended, Lily squeezed his uninjured hand and promised to return. He watched her go, the echo of her kindness lingering long after the door clicked shut.
That night, as the hospital settled into a hush broken only by distant footsteps and the soft beeping of machinery, Severus stared at the ceiling and tried to remember the sound of his mother’s laughter, the warmth of her touch. He tried, too, to imagine what came next, a future uncertain and uncharted, but no longer entirely empty.
1984
Debate sparked between Barty and Severus about sending the boys to school. Barty was for it, the boys had their glamour bracelets, no one would know them as anything different that their sons, Draco Evan Crouch and Harrison Severus Prince.
Severus, nursing both old wounds and new uncertainties, found himself drawn into the argument with an intensity that surprised him. The prospect of sending the boys to school was as fraught with possibility as it was with risk. The glamour bracelets, fine, silvery things, woven with secrecy, would render their identities as ordinary as their names suggested, cloaking bloodlines and histories too tangled and dangerous for young shoulders to bear.
Yet Severus’s voice, always measured and cautious, lingered on the edge of doubt. “It’s too dangerous.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “If anyone even suspects, you do realise everything we’ve gone through would be for nothing? The Ministry would throw us in Azkaban quicker than we could blink. Lucius Malfoy would call for you to receive the Dementor’s Kiss or simply kill you himself.”
Barty crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not going to happen, there isn’t another magical family for miles, the boys would be safe, they deserve to go to primary school, to socialise with other children.”
Severus regarded Barty for a long moment, the weight of sleepless nights and the echo of his own fears pressing down on his shoulders. He stared out the window, at the world beyond their fragile sanctuary, where ordinary children tumbled through summer grass and gossamer clouds drifted in a sky free of secrets. There was a longing in him, a tired ache, for the kind of simplicity the world never seemed willing to grant them.
“It’s not just Malfoy,” Severus said, voice raw. “It’s anyone who might be watching. You can’t trust the Ministry, you can’t trust the neighbours, you can’t trust Dumbledore. One slip, one wrong word, and it won’t matter how clever our charms are. The boys would pay for it.”
Barty’s jaw set stubbornly, defiance flickering in his eyes. “You’re underestimating them. Both the boys and the wards. We’ve poured every ounce of skill and desperation into keeping them safe. Are you really going to keep them hidden forever? What kind of life is that?”
The fire in Barty’s words stoked an old grief in Severus, a memory of faded childhood dreams and the injustice of always being left at the window while laughter happened elsewhere. He wanted to shield Draco and Harry from the world’s cruelties, but he knew, deep down, that a life spent in hiding was no life at all.
He sighed, letting his hand drop from his face. “I don’t know.” Severus confessed. “I just…” He broke off, searching for words that didn’t exist, then met Barty’s gaze with weary honesty. “I want them to have a chance. I just don’t know how to give it to them without losing everything.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched between them, taut with the weight of love, fear, and impossible choices. But somewhere beyond the walls, a child’s laughter rose on the breeze, a reminder that hope, however fragile, still found ways to endure.
Barty closed the space between them, cupping Severus’ face in his hands. “I’m scared too. I don’t want to lose them, lose this life but if we never dare to try, we’re never going to live.” He breathed.
For a moment, Severus allowed himself to lean into the familiar warmth of Barty’s touch, his eyes closing against the tide of emotion threatening to break him open. The room was quiet but for the soft crackle of the hearth and the distant, sunlit echoes of childhood beyond the glass.
When Severus finally spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. “I am so tired of fear ruling every decision. I want to believe what you’re saying. I want to trust the magic we’ve wrought is enough.” His hand found Barty’s wrist, grounding himself in the reality of his presence, the steady beat of hope beneath the surface.
Barty’s breath hitched, a flicker of relief, or perhaps gratitude. “Then let’s take tomorrow one step at a time. We can practice with the glamour, test the wards, see how the boys do in the village in short bursts. We don’t have to decide everything today.” There was an unexpected gentleness to his words, the sharp edges of argument softened by love.
A tentative peace settled between them, shaped by compromise rather than certainty. Severus nodded, a fragile resolve blooming in the shadowed garden of his heart. “We’ll see. For their sake, we’ll try.”
Outside, the laughter had faded, replaced by the quiet hum of wind in the hedgerows. Yet in that hush, Severus felt something shift ever so slightly, a pinprick of light against the gloom, the faint promise of a future not wholly surrendered to fear.
Together, they stood at the window, hands intertwined, watching the world and wondering what, if anything, might finally be possible.
Barty finally agreed that they would not take the risk, and the boys would be homeschooled for now. Severus spent hours sitting at the kitchen table, making lesson plans and working out a routine for the boys. It wasn’t perfect but it was safest. Barty sat with him, helping to craft fun lessons and activities to keep them engaged.
Some evenings, when the world beyond turned pale and shadowed, Severus would pause over his notes, his gaze drifting to where Barty arranged coloured paper and paints in anticipation of tomorrow’s lessons. The quiet domesticity settled around them like a ward of its own, fragile but fiercely held.
The boys, curious, bright-eyed, would tumble in from their bedroom, voices trailing laughter and questions. Severus listened, half amused and half anxious, as Barty conjured small illusions to illustrate their stories, sunlight spinning in the air above their heads. Fear lingered, a persistent thrum beneath their days, but sometimes, in the gentle riot of colour and sound, it receded.
They marked each new accomplishment, a word spelled correctly, a new piece of art created, a maths problem solved, a triumph, no matter how small. Barty kept a chalkboard list of the boys’ discoveries, each mark a quiet celebration. Severus, watching them work, felt the old ache of uncertainty ease just enough to let hope flare.
Late at night, when lessons were finished and the house was still, Severus would find Barty by the hearth, both of them tracing plans for the future in hushed voices. Perhaps one day, the wards would be unnecessary. Perhaps one day, the boys could run freely through the village. For now, they built what safety they could and filled their home with the soft, steadfast magic of love and learning.
It was an ordinary day that Severus Snape realised he was in love with Barty Crouch Junior. That perhaps he had never truly stopped loving him. They were in the kitchen washing up after dinner and Barty was singing along to the radio, head bopping to the music, making his hair bounce.
The song was nothing special, some airy pop tune drifting in from the wireless, words half-muddled by static and distance, but Barty sang as if it were gospel, his voice warm and careless, transforming the kitchen into a chapel of small joys. Severus watched him, the messy sweep of his hair, the way he laughed at his own tonelessness, the way he nudged Severus with a foam-covered elbow, eyes crinkling at the corners. A shaft of twilight filtered through the window, catching on the soap bubbles that drifted from the basin, casting rainbow ghosts across the floor.
It was in that gentle, unremarkable moment, the clatter of dishes, the hush between verses, Barty’s hummed refrain, that Severus felt his heart surrender to something uncomplicated and whole. The kind of love that demanded nothing yet gave everything. Time seemed to stretch and still, holding them in a pocket of quiet, far removed from the world’s hard edges.
Barty caught his gaze, pausing with a soapy plate poised above the sink, and something passed between them. A question, an answer, an old promise renewed with nothing more than a look. For a heartbeat, Severus forgot the trembling uncertainty of tomorrow. All that mattered was here: the warmth of Barty’s hand, the echo of laughter, the safe harbour they’d made against the storm.
And as the song faded, Severus let himself lean in, just for a moment, his lips brushing against Barty’s.
It was a delicate thing, a half-whispered wish in the hush of evening, but in that luminous instant, Severus realised just how deeply the quiet rituals of their life had woven themselves into him. He tasted the tang of possibility, bittersweet and bright, and the world outside, the shadowed roads, the distant rumours, fell away.
Barty grinned, surprised and breathless, and for a moment they simply stood there, hands tangled together over the suds, the music all but forgotten. The walls held their laughter, old fears receding further than ever before. The boys would be asleep soon, the house settling into its nighttime rhythm, but Severus knew that something had changed, not with fanfare, but with the gentle certainty of spring returning after a long winter.
They finished the washing up in a kind of reverent silence, each movement slow and deliberate, as if the act itself were a blessing. Later, when the stars pressed their silver faces against the windowpanes, Severus wrapped an arm around Barty and drew him close, letting the quiet stretch between them like a promise. He spoke little, but his hands said what words could not, here, now, in this circle of light and safety, he would choose love, again and again, no matter what storms might gather outside.
Tomorrow would bring fresh uncertainties, another round of cautious lesson planning and whispered hopes. But tonight, in the flicker of the hearth and the soft cadence of Barty’s humming, Severus allowed himself to believe that happiness could be this simple, and this true.
That night Severus found himself walking into Barty’s bedroom, curling into bed with him, holding him close and knew he would never leave it again.
1976
Violet Prince was a formidable woman, she had a dry wit that would make Severus smirk, and she loved Barty, who visited the old Prince house every other day, doing his best to cheer Severus up or just sitting with him in his grief. Lily became a presence again, orbiting the two of them like the sun. Severus watched as she and Barty got into heavy debates about Charms.
Sometimes Severus would sit by the kitchen window, mug of tea cooling in his hands, listening to the echoes of their laughter drifting through the old house. He’d never thought his life would fill up this way, slowly, tenderly, like rain seeping into dry earth. Violet gave him gentle prodding, insisting he come to supper or accompany her into the tangled garden, Barty at his side, all three of them moving about the hours with an intimacy that required no explanation.
He found himself quick to smile, sometimes even to laugh, caught off guard by Barty’s irreverent jokes or Lily’s clever retorts. The air in the Prince house, once heavy with memory and mourning, now carried the scent of baking bread, the bright spice of hope. Severus learned to welcome the chaos of Barty’s boots by the door, Lily’s scarf tossed over the banister, the hum of quiet arguments and the comfort of shared silence.
In the evenings, the three of them would gather around the worn sitting room table, books and letters spread before them, the future uncertain but the present achingly real. There were still shadows at the edges, Severus felt them sometimes, a chill along his ribs when dusk pressed too close but they receded in the company of those who chose, again and again, to return.
It was in these small, ordinary days that Severus discovered how grief could soften and yield, making room for joy. He watched Barty’s hands moving over a chessboard, saw the way Lily’s eyes lit with challenge, and he let himself believe that they could build something lasting, even here, even now.
Outside, the world remained unsteady. But inside, in the circle they’d made, Severus found himself reaching for hope, one morning, one evening at a time.
1985
A letter sat on the kitchen table, the formal crest of the Prince family sealing the envelope closed. Severus stared at it. He hadn’t spoken to his grandmother in years. Another complicated relationship. As it seemed all his relationships were.
Every day, Harry grew, the truth that lay silent and unspoken became more evident. Harry looked like his father, and it wasn’t James Potter he resembled.
Memories of a single stormy night, Severus drunk and depressed, missing Barty. Lily confused and grieving the loss of her friend, Marlene. Drawn together in a single night before Lily left to get married and Severus continued on in his solitude.
Barty never asked him about it. About how Harry grew more and more to look like him. Severus sometimes wondered if James Potter ever knew the truth, if Lily had confessed it to him one night. If she had it hadn’t broken them apart, or maybe it just hadn’t had time to do so. He couldn’t imagine the James Potter of his childhood being able to accept and love a child that wasn’t his own.
Severus drew his thumb across the edge of the envelope, feeling the weight of old expectations settle around him like a shawl. The Prince name was sharp and brittle in his mouth, conjuring up images of high-backed chairs and cold, unyielding eyes, rooms where love was measured in silence and approval in degrees of absence. He wondered what his grandmother wanted now—after so much time, after all the lines had been drawn and redrawn, after he had built something resembling peace on the ruins of what once was.
Outside, a sparrow tapped against the windowpane, the grey morning light fracturing across the tabletop. The house was quiet, for once; Barty had taken Harry and Draco out to the pond, leaving Severus with the company of memories and possibilities. He weighed the letter in his palms, contemplating whether to break the seal or let it sit, a mute witness to the tangled story of his blood.
He found himself thinking of Harry, not just as Lily’s child but as a small, living contradiction to everything the world had tried to decide for them. The boy’s laughter was quicksilver, unpredictable; sometimes Severus caught glimpses of familiar gestures, a tilt of the head or a stubborn narrowing of the eyes and felt a pang that was equal parts sorrow and hope. What would it mean to tell Harry the truth? What would it mean to open the door to the past when the present was finally beginning to feel inhabitable?
A kettle whistled. Severus rose, poured the water over leaves, letting the steam curl around him as he returned to the table. He traced the script on the envelope, remembering the shape of his grandmother’s hands, the way she’d held him at arm’s length and demanded, always, that he be strong. He understood now the brittle tenderness beneath her demands, the fear that closeness would make them vulnerable to loss.
He sat, the house breathing quietly around him, and considered: perhaps the time had come to write his own letter, to reach across the divide, not to erase the pain, but to honour it, to let it coexist with the fragile joy he’d found. The tea cooled beside him as he reached for the letter breaking the seal.
He read and re-read the letter until he had the words memorised. He set it down on the table, the sound of Barty and the boy’s return greeting him. He looked up at Barty walked into the kitchen, his usual smile in place, pausing at the sight of the letter on the table. He walked over and sat down next to Severus. “So, what does Old Lady Vi have to say?” He asked.
Severus didn’t answer right away, his gaze lingering on the neat, looping signature at the bottom of the page. He slid the letter across the table, the parchment catching on a stray drop of tea. “See for yourself.” He said, voice steady, though his fingers betrayed him, drumming softly against the wood.
Barty unfolded the letter with careful hands, scanning the lines, his eyes narrowing, then widening, an entire conversation flickering across his features. “Severus, I cannot begin to make up for the mistakes I made, I pushed you away just as I did my daughter out of fear of losing you. I didn’t understand but I’m not getting any younger and I don’t want to spend my last months with us fighting. I should know that love cannot be chosen, should have recognised that it doesn’t matter if the partner in life you choose is a man or a woman, love is the most important thing.”
For a long moment, Barty was silent, the only sound the distant laughter of children echoing in from the garden. Severus watched him, the familiar ache of anticipation and dread pinched in his chest. He had not expected this, this sudden, raw admission from Vi, words that seemed to unpick the stitches he’d placed so carefully across years of old wounds.
Barty’s fingers, always restless, stilled on the parchment. “She means it, you know.” He said quietly. “Old Lady Vi… She wouldn’t write this unless she did.”
Severus felt something restless in his chest, a fluttering hope. “I know.” He replied, voice softer than he intended. “It’s just… she’s never said it before.”
Memories of arguments, raw and angry, how Severus needed to marry, produce a Prince heir, step into his role as Lord Prince. Fights with Barty over the pressures, the internalised homophobia, the personal battles. The thing that had broken them apart, that Severus wasn’t ready to accept the truest part of himself.
Barty nodded, his gaze still fixed on the letter. “It’s not easy. Not for her, not for you. But maybe this is a start.” He looked up then, his eyes steady and kind. “You don’t have to forgive everything. But you could answer her. You could let her see the life you’ve built, Severus. Let her see Harry, and Draco, and you. Let her see that love survived.” He pressed his lips together. “It would also be good to have her on our side. Your family name does hold a lot of weight and protection.”
Outside, the clouds had begun to part, a shaft of sunlight throwing gold across the tabletop. Severus stared at the letter once more, feeling the weight of generations, grievances, regrets, and now, perhaps, the gentle beginning of grace. He thought of Harry, chasing dragonflies along the pond, of Draco’s delighted shriek, of the life he never would have believed possible on that stormy night so long ago.
He reached across the table, laying his hand atop Barty’s, anchoring himself to the present. “Maybe I will.” He said, the words unfamiliar but not unwelcome. “Maybe it’s time to write her back.”
Barty smiled. “I’ll be right there with you.”
Severus smiled. “I love you.” He breathed. “I should have said it more often, should have said it back then.”
“I love you too.” Barty kissed his cheek. “Always.”
1979
Barty paced up and down the small length of his flat. Severus watched him. “Say something.” He pleaded.
“I can’t believe you’re willing to go through with it.” Barty exclaimed.
“Arranged marriages happen all the time… It doesn’t mean anything has to change between us.” Severus shook his head. “I’m just trying to make my grandmother happy.”
“By making yourself miserable.” Barty glared at him. “You really think I want us to spend our lives in secret; watch you marry some woman and have children with her while I get the table scraps.” He grabbed his jacket. “I’ve lost my best friends, now I’m losing you too.” He shook his head. “I’m done, Severus. I can’t… I can’t do this.”
“Barty wait, please. I don’t want to lose you.” Severus pleaded.
Barty locked his eyes with Severus’. “Are you going to go through with this wedding?”
Severus swallowed. “I… I have to…”
Barty shook his head. “You always have a choice Severus. You made your bed, now lie in it. Have a nice life.” He wrenched open the door and ran off into the rain.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Severus stood frozen in the centre of the room, the echo of the door’s slam reverberating through the walls and into his chest. The rain outside battered the windows, a relentless, drumming accusation. He pressed a trembling hand to his face, feeling the sting of tears threaten behind his eyes.
He should chase after Barty, should say something, anything, that might make a difference. But all the words turned to ash in his mouth. Duty, family, legacy, these things had always weighed upon him, but never had they felt so unbearably heavy.
Minutes dragged by before Severus finally moved, but Barty had already vanished. He stood out in the rain, soaking through his clothes to the skin. “Barty.” He whispered the name into the emptiness, hoping that somehow, across the rain-soaked streets and the distance he’d built with his own choices, Barty might still hear him.
1985
Severus stared up at the Prince House, Harry holding onto his hand tightly, Barty on his other side, holding onto Draco’s hand.
“Are you going to knock Daddy?” Harry looked up at Severus.
Severus offered his son a small smile and nodded, reaching up and knocked three times on the door. The small, chaotic family waited, the door opened, and a young woman opened the door with a tentative smile. “Good afternoon.”
Severus’ eyes widened, the woman older but still clearly recognisable. He swallowed nodding his head. “Good afternoon, Serena.”
Serena smiled. “Come in, your grandmother and tea are waiting in the sunroom. She stepped aside letting them in.
The hallway smelled faintly of lavender and old books, the sort of scent that conjured memories unbidden from his late teenage years. Harry’s eyes darted curiously over the portraits lining the walls, each one peering down with a haughty, knowing gaze. Draco’s fingers twitching nervously in Barty’s grasp, but Barty squeezed his hand in reassurance, offering a faint, crooked grin. His eyes fixed on Serena who walked ahead showing them through to the sunroom.
Serena led them through the house with careful steps, her heels clicking softly against the ancient floorboards. “She’s been looking forward to this.” She murmured, pausing at the doorway to the sunroom. “Don’t worry, Severus. She’s in good spirits today.”
Sunlight filtered through the rain-speckled glass, painting pale patterns across the armchairs and tea service set out on the low table. An elderly woman sat poised by the window, hands folded in her lap, her silver hair swept up in a crown of delicate braids. She looked up at their entrance, her eyes sharp and bright despite the years.
“Well, don’t just stand there in the hall, dears.” She called, her voice warm and commanding, “There’s tea enough for everyone. And Serena made scones.”
Something in Severus’ chest unclenched, a tiny flutter of relief mingled with apprehension. He ushered the boys forward, Harry and Draco claiming seats beside the tea set, their young faces glowing with anticipation and uncertainty. Barty lingered a moment near the door, as if weighing the invitation, before stepping into the light.
Serena poured the tea, her hands steady, the ritual familiar and soothing. In the hush that settled, broken only by the clatter of teacups and the gentle patter of rain, Severus found himself silently grateful for the tenuous threads that still tethered them all together.
Violet stared at the family of four. She didn’t quite know what to say, words seemed to fail her. Serena passed her a cup of tea with a smile.
“I… You stayed.” Severus directed to Serena.
Serena nodded. “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.” She passed him a cup. “Don’t worry, I only poisoned Barty’s cup.”
Barty choked on his sip of tea and glared at her.
“Just a little joke.” Serena sat back in her chair, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Severus sipped is tea, his gaze flickering between Serena and his grandmother. Why would his grandmother summon him to reconcile and have the woman he’d left at the altar, here at the same time.
“Serena has been a dear friend to me in my old age.” Lady Violet sipped her tea. “I hope we can all be friends again.”
“Don’t remember us ever being friends.” Barty muttered into his teacup.
Lady Violet sighed. “Bartemius, I had my grandson’s best interests at heart. I know this world, he had already been through so much, to be branded a… I thought I was going what was best.”
Barty looked up at her. “You really hate admitting you’re wrong.”
“I’m rarely familiar with the sensation.” Violet sipped her tea. “But in this instance, yes, I was wrong.” She bowed her head. “And it caused three people I care about serious harm.” She looked between Severus, Serena and Barty. “Tippy.” She called and a house elf popped into the room. “Would you kindly show my great-grandchildren to the nursery, I’m sure they’ll have fun while us grownups discuss boring things.”
Draco and Harry looked to their fathers.
Severus nodded his head. “It’s all right, we’ll come find you once we’ve talked about all the boring grown up things.” He promised them.
The children followed the house elf out of the sunroom, holding onto each other’s hands cautious of the new environment.
Serena set her teacup down on the table. “So, do either of you care to explain how my nephew ended up in your care.” She fixed them with steely blue eyes.
1978
Serena Malfoy braided her long silvery hair sitting at her vanity table. She’d been raised in France, by her mother, a secret shame on the Malfoy family. A bastard child born of an affair between Abraxas Malfoy and Juliette Fitzgerald. And today she was to meet the man she was to marry.
Her mother wanted her to have a good start in England, to find her place, marrying into the Prince family, ancient and proud but small and fading, was her chance to be more. Serena had never met her half-brother, but she knew of him, her father would visit twice a year, once on her birthday and once on Christmas Eve, he would tell her all about him, how proud he was honouring the Malfoy bloodline.
He’d died two years ago.
Serena hoped that in doing this she would make him proud.
1985
Barty and Severus looked at each other. Serena surveyed the two of them, she had long ago forgiven Severus Snape, now she was only glad he had not condemned her to a life as the wife of a man who could never love her. She had found her freedom with Lady Violet, studying ancient magic and learning to see the imperfections of the world her mother wanted her to join.
“If you think for one second, I’m giving Draco up I’d rather burn this whole house down.” Barty glared at Serena.
“Calm yourself Bartimus.” Lady Violet sighed. “We are not here to take the boy from you, either of them but we are here to work out what to do now.”
Severus placed a hand on Barty’s arm. “How did you know?” He asked them.
Serena smirked. “Your glamours are good but I have my own ways of seeing things for what they truly are.” She folded her hands in her lap.
“I kidnapped him.” Barty spoke quickly. “It was all me, Severus didn’t know about it until he found me. If you’re going to hand me over to Azkaban fine, I don’t regret it. Draco deserved to grow up not under the influence of Lucius Malfoy.”
“No one is going to Azkaban.” Lady Violet rolled her eyes. “We agree with you Bartimus.”
Barty blinked. “I’m sorry what?”
Serena smirked. “My nephew is better off out of my half-brother’s hands. On that point we agree. But you cannot expect to hide him forever, they’ll be eleven soon enough, him and Harry.” She looked to Severus.
Severus shifted in his seat. “He is my son by blood.” He spoke the truth aloud for the first time. “They cannot take him from me.”
“Yes, the family tapestry proves that.” Violet sighed. “We have a plan in place; one you might not like.” Her gaze flickered to Barty. “But it is the only way to protect all of you and the boys.” She said firmly.
Barty laughed shaking his head. “Seriously? After all this time, everything that has been said and done, you’re still trying to push this marriage?”
Violet took a deep breath. “I’m suggesting, that all three of you enter into a marriage together, a triumvirate.”
Severus stared at his grandmother.
“In marriage you three will protect each other. We spin that Draco is the product of you and Serena, Bartimus, using ancient blood rituals no one will question his appearance, we’ll say that you named him after his lost cousin in honour of him.” Violet sipped her tea, looking to Severus. “Lily wrote to me. She told me about the pregnancy, that her husband was unable to have children and despite her unfaithfulness to him, he was willing to accept, and blood adopt the child as his own. We tell the world this, that after the Potter’s passing you came and retrieved your son, keeping him safe and out of the public eye.” Violet told him.
Silence fell over the group. Severus looked to Serena. “You agree with this plan?”
“I do.” Serena nodded. “I would not see my nephew grow up in the hands of a family that uses it’s children for their own gain.”
“I want to see the letter.” Severus looked to Violet. “The one Lily wrote to you.”
Violet nodded, she reached over opening a little drawer and pulled out an aged, opened envelope and another sealed with his name on it. “She told me to keep that safe should you ever come looking for answers.” She held them out.
Severus accepted the letters with a shaking hand.
Barty shook his head. “This is insane.”
“As insane as kidnapping the heir to the Malfoy bloodline?” Serena cocked her eyebrow.
Barty let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, though it was more bitterness than true amusement. “We’ve all done insane things. But this… This is binding. There’s no going back from a vow made before magic and blood.”
Violet’s gaze was level, her eyes unwavering. “No, there isn’t. But there are greater dangers in leaving things as they are. You all know the world we live in. Only together do you have a hope of shielding the boys and yourselves from those who would see you scattered or destroyed.”
Serena leaned forward, her voice quiet but fierce. “Draco deserves a chance to be more than a pawn. You’ve given him that and I’m forever grateful. Whatever else we are to each other, we must ensure that we allow him to continue the path you’ve set him on. And Harry deserves a life without the weight of being the Wizarding World’s Chosen One, manipulated by the likes of Albus Dumbledore.”
Severus didn’t answer. He stared down at the sealed letter, thumb tracing the edge of his name, his mind a tempest of old betrayals and fragile, desperate hopes.
Violet, observing the hesitation in him, added softly. “Harry is your child; Lily did not keep him from you out of spite but out of knowing that you were not ready. You became ready the day you stole him under Albus Dumbledore’s nose.”
A long hush settled over the room, the only sound the faint crackle from the dying fire. Severus’s breath trembled in the hush, the envelope feeling heavier than any spell in his hand. The others watched, silent witnesses bound by secrets too dense for daylight.
Dear Severus,
If you are reading this, then the worst has happened. There is so much I wish I could say to you, to tell you. I want you to know I forgive you. I know how hard you have always tried to be the man others wanted you to be, I only hope you find the courage to finally be yourself. Because that’s the man I love.
James knows about us, the night we shared, he has struggled with it, but he loves me and understands why it happened. He plans to adopt our child as his own, but this letter means we are unable to do that any longer.
I hope you’ll care for him. He is your son. Harry has brought us so much joy, the world seems to only want to crush it. Dumbledore told us there is a prophecy, that a child born as the seventh month dies will have the power to defeat the Dark Lord, he believes it is about Harry. I’m scared Severus but I will give my life for our son if I must.
You will always be my best friend.
Open your heart to love, I know you have so much to give.
I’ll always be with you.
All my love
Lily
Severus traced her words and sighed, turning and opening the letter Lily had penned to his grandmother.
Dear Violet,
I’m hoping this letter finds you well, but also, I am writing to tell you how foolish you have been. Your grandson is one of the greatest men I have ever known, his love for another man does not make him less than and it boils my blood that he is forcing himself into unhappiness just to please you.
You are a better woman than that.
Severus believes that to achieve love he must prove himself and make himself into what other’s want. This is far from the truth, people should love him for the man he is.
Which is exactly what Barty does.
Don’t let your prejudice push your grandson away and force him into a life that is not his own.
There is another reason for my writing this letter. Severus and I spent one night together and from that night, a child was created. My son is called Harrison James Potter, my husband knows about my transgression and the origins of our son, he is planning to adopt Harry by blood and magic bringing him into his family officially. James Potter is a flawed man but he has grown up a lot in recent years which is why I found myself in love with him. All this said, Harrison is your great-grandson and there are dangers in this world that have set their sights on him.
Dumbledore has warned us of a prophecy surrounding a child who will defeat the Dark Lord with power he knows not and believes that child is Harrison.
I may not get the chance to see my son grow, if that should happen, I beg you to help keep him safe and reunite him with his father.
Let not old wounds dictate the legacy you leave behind, nor allow the cold iron bars of pride to isolate you from the family you might yet cherish. I trust you will see past the tangled lines of history and regret, and choose compassion over judgment, understanding over distance.
If ever Harrison finds himself lost, may he seek you as a beacon, not as a shadow. I ask this not only as a mother, but as someone who has witnessed the strength and tenderness within you, even when the world demanded otherwise.
With hope,
Lily Evans nee Potter
Severus held the letters tightly, silent tears dripping down his cheeks. She never hated him. Lily trusted him to do the right thing.
Barty squeezed his hand gently.
Severus sighed. “Are you sure you want this?” He asked Serena.
“I’m not expecting love from either of you.” Serena shook her head. “I just want to be there for my nephew.” She sighed.
Severus looked to Barty. It was as if they were facing the past, the thing that had broken them apart once, was now their chance to be together. Barty frowned. “I guess we’re planning a wedding.” He muttered.