Chapter 1: Ministry Breeding Program
Notes:
Sorry, I accidently deleted this fic while editing so now i'm uploading it again and editing it to add more.
Chapter Text
The cobblestones of Hogsmeade High Street were slick with November rain, reflecting the warm glow of shop windows in fractured, wavering patterns. Harry Potter walked through these reflections without seeing them, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket, his shoulders hunched against a cold that had nothing to do with the weather.
Six months. Six months since Voldemort had fallen in the Great Hall, since the ancient stones of Hogwarts had drunk deep of blood and magic, since the world had tilted on its axis and somehow kept spinning. Six months since Ginny Weasley had died on those same stones, her red hair fanned out like a halo, her brown eyes staring at a ceiling she would never see again.
Harry's feet carried him past Honeydukes, where children pressed their noses against the glass, their breath fogging the windows as they pointed at chocolate frogs and sugar quills. He remembered being one of those children once, in what felt like another lifetime. He remembered Ginny beside him, laughing as she tried to decide between Fizzing Whizzbees and Pepper Imps, her face alight with a joy so pure it had made his chest ache even then.
Everything made his chest ache now.
He continued walking, passing the Three Broomsticks without going in, though the warmth and noise spilling from its doors called to him like a siren song. He couldn't face it—the crowds, the celebration, the way people still wanted to buy him drinks and shake his hand and tell him how grateful they were. Grateful. As if gratitude could fill the hollow space where his future used to be.
The war was over. They had won. The wizarding world was rebuilding, phoenixlike, from its own ashes. Everywhere Harry looked, he saw evidence of renewal: shops reopening, families reuniting, children playing in the streets without fear. Life, stubborn and insistent, was reasserting itself.
Everyone was moving forward. Everyone except Harry.
He had no job, no purpose, no direction. The Auror Office had offered him a position, of course—had practically begged him to join. Kingsley himself had sent three separate owls, each more persuasive than the last. But Harry couldn't imagine it, couldn't picture himself hunting dark wizards, couldn't fathom caring enough about anything to chase it down. The fight was over. He had nothing left to fight for.
His feet had carried him to the edge of the village, where the shops gave way to residential streets lined with neat cottages, their gardens dormant for winter. He stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing, feeling the rain soak slowly through his jacket. He should go home. Back to Grimmauld Place, with its dusty corners and creaking floors and portraits that whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. Back to the empty rooms and the silence that pressed against his eardrums like water.
But home felt like a mausoleum, and Harry was tired of living among ghosts.
He turned instead toward the Apparition point at the village boundary, his mind made up before he'd consciously decided. There was one place he could go, one place where the silence wasn't quite so suffocating. One place where people still looked at him and saw Harry, just Harry, instead of the Boy Who Lived or the Chosen One or the man who had lost everything.
With a soft crack that was swallowed by the rain, Harry disappeared.
He reappeared in a narrow lane on the outskirts of a small village in Devon, where the houses were built of honey-colored stone and the air smelled of woodsmoke and the sea. Ron and Hermione's cottage sat at the end of the lane, a cheerful little building with a thatched roof and a garden that Hermione tended with the same fierce determination she'd once applied to her studies.
Harry stood at the gate for a moment, suddenly uncertain. He'd been here a dozen times since the war ended, but each visit felt like an intrusion, like he was interrupting something precious and fragile. Ron and Hermione were building a life together, a real life, full of small domestic rituals and shared laughter and a future that stretched out before them like an open road. What right did he have to bring his darkness into their light?
But before he could turn away, the front door opened, and Hermione stood framed in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the interior. She was wearing a thick cardigan and jeans, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, and her face broke into a smile when she saw him.
"Harry!" she called, waving him forward. "Don't just stand there in the rain, you'll catch your death. Come in, come in."
He went, because refusing would have required an explanation he didn't have the energy to give. Hermione ushered him inside, taking his soaked jacket and hanging it by the fire to dry, tutting over the state of him like a mother hen. The cottage was exactly as he remembered it: small and cluttered and impossibly cozy, with books stacked on every available surface and the smell of something delicious wafting from the kitchen.
"Ron's at the shop," Hermione said, leading him into the sitting room. "George needed help with inventory. But he'll be sorry he missed you. Sit down, I'll make tea."
Harry sank into the overstuffed armchair by the fire, feeling the warmth seep into his bones. The cottage was so different from Grimmauld Place, so full of life and color and hope. It made something in his chest twist painfully.
Hermione returned a few minutes later with a tea tray laden with cups, a pot of Earl Grey, and a plate of biscuits that Harry suspected she'd baked herself. She poured for both of them with practiced efficiency, then settled into the chair across from him, cradling her cup in both hands.
For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, listening to the crackle of the fire and the patter of rain against the windows. Hermione didn't push, didn't pry, didn't ask him how he was doing or tell him that time would heal all wounds or offer any of the other platitudes people seemed to think he needed to hear. She just sat with him, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm.
Finally, she spoke. "I've been thinking about you," she said softly.
Harry looked up from his tea, meeting her eyes. They were warm and brown and full of a concern that made his throat tighten. "Yeah?"
"You're not doing well, Harry." It wasn't a question.
He wanted to deny it, to put on the brave face he'd worn for so long it felt like a second skin. But this was Hermione, who had stood beside him through everything, who had seen him at his worst and loved him anyway. He couldn't lie to her.
"No," he admitted quietly. "I'm not."
Hermione set down her teacup and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "You need something, Harry. Something to live for. Something to work toward."
"I know." The words came out flat, defeated. "I just don't know what that is anymore. Everything I wanted... everything I planned for..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Unable to say Ginny's name aloud.
"I know," Hermione said gently. "And I'm not saying you should just move on or forget or any of that rubbish people keep telling you. But Harry, you have your whole life ahead of you. And I know—I know—that Ginny would want you to live it."
Harry's hands tightened around his teacup. "I don't know how."
"Then let me help you figure it out." Hermione reached for the newspaper that lay folded on the side table. The Daily Prophet, its headline screaming about some new Ministry initiative. She unfolded it carefully, smoothing out the creases, and Harry saw her eyes scan the page before she looked back up at him.
"There's something I wanted to talk to you about," she said, her tone careful, measured. "Something I read about in the Prophet last week. The Ministry has announced a new program—they're calling it the Magical Breeding Program."
Harry blinked, pulled from his melancholy by the sheer unexpectedness of the statement. "The what?"
"I know how it sounds," Hermione said quickly, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. "The name is absolutely dreadful, and I've already written three letters to Kingsley about it. But the program itself... Harry, it might be something worth considering."
She handed him the newspaper, pointing to an article on the third page. Harry scanned it quickly, his brow furrowing as he read.
The war had decimated the wizarding population of Britain. Hundreds had died in the final battle alone, and hundreds more in the years of conflict that preceded it. Entire family lines had been wiped out. The Hogwarts class that should have graduated last year had been reduced to less than half its original size. The Ministry, in consultation with St. Mungo's and various magical demographers, had determined that without intervention, the British wizarding community might never fully recover.
The solution they'd devised was controversial, to say the least. The Magical Breeding Program—and Harry winced at the name even as he read it—was designed to encourage magical citizens to have children, to help repopulate the wizarding world. Participants would receive financial support, housing assistance, and access to the best magical healthcare available. The program was open to anyone of age, regardless of marital status, and included provisions for matching participants who were interested in co-parenting arrangements.
"Hermione," Harry said slowly, looking up from the paper. "This is... I mean, it's basically asking people to have babies for the good of the wizarding world."
"I know it sounds clinical," Hermione said. "And believe me, I have concerns about the ethics of it all. But Harry, think about it. You've always wanted a family. You've always wanted children. You used to talk about it, before..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Before everything happened. You wanted to give a child the kind of love and stability you never had growing up."
Harry set the paper down, his mind reeling. "That was when I thought I'd have a wife. A partner. Someone to build that family with."
"The program includes provisions for single parents," Hermione said gently. "And for co-parenting arrangements between friends or acquaintances. It's not just about traditional families, Harry. It's about creating the next generation, in whatever form that takes."
"You think I should sign up to have a baby with a stranger?" Harry couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice.
"I think you should consider it," Hermione corrected. "I think you should think about what you want your life to look like, and whether this might be a path toward that. You're lost right now, Harry. You're drifting. And I understand why—God, I understand why. But you need an anchor. You need something to care about, something to get up for in the morning."
Harry stared into the fire, watching the flames dance and flicker. A baby. A child. Someone to love, to protect, to raise. Someone who would need him, who would depend on him, who would give his life meaning again.
It was insane. It was impulsive. It was exactly the kind of thing he would have dismissed out of hand six months ago, when he'd had a future planned out, when he'd known exactly where his life was going.
But that future was gone, burned to ash along with everything else.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I don't know if I'm ready for something like that."
"You don't have to decide now," Hermione said. "Just think about it. Read the information. Maybe go to one of the Ministry information sessions. Just... consider it, Harry. Please."
She reached across the space between them and took his hand, squeezing it gently. Her palm was warm against his, her grip firm and reassuring.
"You deserve to be happy," she said softly. "You deserve to have the family you've always wanted. And I know it won't be the same as what you'd planned. I know it won't be with Ginny. But Harry, you're allowed to build a new dream. You're allowed to want things again."
Harry felt something crack in his chest, some wall he'd built around his heart to keep the pain contained. His eyes burned, and he blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over.
"What if I can't do it?" he whispered. "What if I'm not enough?"
"You're Harry Potter," Hermione said, and there was a fierceness in her voice that made him look up. "You defeated the darkest wizard of our age. You died and came back. You've survived things that would have broken anyone else. If you can do all that, you can certainly love a child. You can certainly be the father you never had."
They sat there for a long moment, hands clasped, the fire crackling between them. Outside, the rain had stopped, and weak sunlight was beginning to break through the clouds.
Finally, Harry nodded. "I'll think about it," he said. "I promise."
Hermione smiled, and it was like the sun coming out. "That's all I ask."
An hour later, Harry stood at the Apparition point at the end of the lane, the newspaper folded in his pocket, Hermione's words echoing in his mind. Ron had returned from the shop just as Harry was leaving, and had pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, making him promise to come back soon, to not be a stranger.
"We miss you, mate," Ron had said, his voice gruff with emotion. "We worry about you."
"I know," Harry had replied. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just... take care of yourself, yeah? And think about what Hermione said. She's usually right about these things. Annoyingly right."
Now, standing alone in the fading afternoon light, Harry pulled out the newspaper and read the article again. The Magical Breeding Program. A chance to build something new from the ruins of the old. A chance to create life instead of taking it. A chance to be someone's father, someone's hero, someone's whole world.
It was terrifying. It was overwhelming. It was completely mad.
But for the first time in six months, Harry felt something other than emptiness. He felt a flicker of something that might have been hope, fragile and tentative, like a candle flame in the dark.
He thought of Ginny, of the life they'd planned together, of the children they'd talked about having someday. He thought of the family he'd always wanted, the home he'd always dreamed of building. He thought of all the love he had inside him with nowhere to go, all the care and protection and devotion that had been meant for her, for them, for the future they'd never have.
Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe he was allowed to want things again. Maybe he was allowed to build a new dream, even if it looked nothing like the old one.
Maybe he was allowed to live.
With a soft crack, Harry Apparated away, the newspaper still clutched in his hand, his mind full of possibilities he'd never considered before. The road ahead was uncertain, the path unclear. But for the first time since the war ended, Harry Potter was looking forward instead of back.
And that, he thought, was a start.
A week passed in a blur of grey skies and restless nights. Harry found himself returning to that Prophet article again and again, reading it until he could recite passages from memory. He'd smoothed out the creases where he'd folded it, the paper now soft and worn from handling.
It was a Thursday afternoon when he sat at the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place, the article spread before him once more. The house was silent around him—Kreacher had gone to visit the Hogwarts kitchens, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the persistent whisper of possibility that had taken root in his mind.
The Ministry of Magic is pleased to announce the Magical Breeding Program, designed to restore our population and ensure the continuation of magical bloodlines. Interested witches and wizards may request application materials by owl post.
There, at the bottom of the article in small print, was an address: Department of Magical Population Services, Level Two, Ministry of Magic, London.
Harry's hand hovered over a blank piece of parchment. He'd gotten this far a dozen times in the past week, quill in hand, ready to write. Each time, doubt had crept in. What if he wasn't ready? What if he was being selfish, bringing a child into the world just because he was lonely? What if he couldn't do it, couldn't be the father a child deserved?
But then he thought of Hermione's words: You have so much love to give, Harry. You always have.
He thought of Teddy Lupin's face lighting up when Harry visited, the way the boy's hair would shift to match Harry's messy black when he got excited. He thought of how it felt to hold his godson, to read him stories, to tuck him in at night on the rare occasions Andromeda let him stay over.
He thought of waking up every morning with purpose, with someone depending on him, someone to love unconditionally.
Before he could second-guess himself again, Harry dipped his quill in ink and began to write.
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing to request information and application materials for the Magical Breeding Program. I am a half-blood wizard, twenty-one years of age, and I would like to be considered for participation.
Please send any relevant materials to:
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
He stared at his name for a long moment, then folded the letter before he could lose his nerve. He called for Hedwig's replacement—a tawny owl he'd never quite managed to name, still calling her "Girl" after all these months—and attached the letter to her leg.
"Ministry of Magic," he told her, stroking her feathers. "Department of Magical Population Services."
The owl hooted softly and took off through the kitchen window, disappearing into the grey London sky. Harry watched until she was just a speck, then nothing at all.
His hands were shaking slightly. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.
Now all he could do was wait.
Three days later, a cheerful owl arrived bearing an invitation written in Hermione's neat script: Dinner tonight? 7 o'clock. Ron's been asking about you. —H
Harry arrived promptly at seven, Apparating to the edge of the wards surrounding the small cottage Ron and Hermione had purchased in the countryside outside Ottery St. Catchpole. It was a charming place, all honey-colored stone and climbing roses, with smoke curling from the chimney and warm light spilling from the windows.
Hermione answered the door before he could knock, pulling him into a tight hug. "You're here! Come in, come in. Ron's just setting the table."
The interior of the cottage was everything Grimmauld Place wasn't—bright and warm and lived-in, with mismatched furniture that somehow worked together, bookshelves crammed with volumes both magical and Muggle, and photographs covering every available surface. Harry spotted himself in several of them, usually with his arms slung around Ron and Hermione, all three of them laughing.
"Harry!" Ron emerged from what must be the dining room, grinning widely. He'd filled out since the war, no longer the lanky teenager but a solid, healthy man. "About time you showed up. Hermione's been cooking all afternoon and I'm starving."
"You're always starving," Hermione said fondly, ushering Harry toward the dining room. "Ignore him. Dinner's almost ready."
The dining table was small but beautifully set, with candles floating above it and a vase of wildflowers in the center. Ron had clearly been in charge of the place settings—the napkins were slightly crooked and one fork was upside down—but it was perfect in its imperfection.
Harry helped Ron finish setting out glasses while Hermione bustled in and out with dishes—roasted chicken, potatoes, vegetables that actually looked appetizing, fresh bread that filled the cottage with its warm scent.
"This is amazing, Hermione," Harry said as they sat down, his mouth already watering. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."
"It's no trouble," Hermione said, though her pleased smile suggested she appreciated the compliment. "We haven't had you over properly since we moved in. It's overdue."
They fell into easy conversation as they ate, Ron regaling them with stories from his work at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes—George was doing better, slowly, and had even developed a new product line—while Hermione talked about her work at the Ministry, pushing for better rights for house-elves and other magical creatures.
Harry listened, contributing when prompted, feeling some of the tension he'd been carrying ease in the warmth of their company. This was what he'd been missing, he realized. Not just companionship, but this—the casual intimacy of people who knew you, who loved you, who didn't need you to be anything other than yourself.
It was as Hermione was serving dessert—apple tart with cream—that Harry found himself speaking before he'd fully planned what to say.
"I've been thinking about that program you mentioned," he said, looking down at his plate. "The breeding program."
Hermione's hand stilled on the serving spoon. Ron looked up sharply.
"Yeah?" Ron said carefully.
Harry nodded, forcing himself to meet their eyes. "I've been thinking about it a lot, actually. I... I requested an application. A few days ago."
Hermione set down the spoon and reached across the table to squeeze his hand. "Harry, that's wonderful."
"Is it?" Harry asked, the doubt creeping back in. "I mean, is it mad? Me, wanting to have a kid when I can barely take care of myself most days?"
"That's not true," Hermione said firmly. "You're doing much better than you think you are."
"And mate," Ron added, leaning forward, his expression serious, "you'd make a brilliant dad. I mean it. You're already amazing with Teddy, and you've got this way with kids—they just gravitate to you. Remember when we went to Diagon Alley last month and that little girl got separated from her mum? You had her laughing within minutes."
Harry felt his throat tighten. "That's different than actually being responsible for someone full-time."
"Not that different," Ron said. "Look, I know you're scared. But being scared doesn't mean you shouldn't do it. It means you care enough to want to do it right." He paused, then added with a slight grin, "Besides, you literally saved the wizarding world. I think you can handle nappies and bedtime stories."
Harry laughed despite himself, feeling some of the weight lift from his chest. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise," Ron said, affronted. "You just never noticed because Hermione's around being wiser."
"That's true," Hermione agreed, and they all laughed.
Harry took a bite of his apple tart, letting the sweetness melt on his tongue. Then, because turnabout was fair play and because he genuinely wanted to know, he asked, "So when are you two going to take that plunge? I mean, you've got the cottage, you're settled... seems like the logical next step."
He'd meant it teasingly, but the look that passed between Ron and Hermione was anything but casual. It was loaded with meaning, with secrets, with something that made Harry's heart skip a beat.
Ron's ears went red. Hermione bit her lip.
"Actually," Hermione said, and then stopped. Started again. "We were going to wait a bit longer to tell anyone, but—" She looked at Ron, who nodded encouragingly. "I'm pregnant."
For a moment, Harry could only stare. Then a genuine smile—the first real one he'd felt in months—spread across his face.
"Hermione! Ron!" He stood up so quickly his chair scraped against the floor, moving around the table to hug them both. "That's incredible! That's—when did you find out?"
"Last week," Hermione said, her eyes bright with tears. "It's very early still, only about six weeks. We haven't even told Ron's family yet."
"We wanted to wait until the first trimester was over," Ron added, "but you're family, mate. And with you thinking about the program... seemed right to tell you."
Harry hugged them again, feeling something warm and bright unfurl in his chest. Joy. Actual, uncomplicated joy for his best friends. "I'm so happy for you both. You're going to be amazing parents."
"So are you," Hermione said, pulling back to look at him seriously. "When you do this, Harry—and I think you should—you're going to be an amazing father."
They talked for another hour, about Hermione's pregnancy symptoms (mild nausea, mostly), about their plans for converting the spare room into a nursery, about names they were considering. Harry soaked it all in, imagining his own future, his own child.
When he finally left, Apparating back to Grimmauld Place with promises to visit again soon, he felt different. Lighter. More certain.
The application materials were waiting for him on the kitchen table—they must have arrived while he was out. The envelope was official-looking, stamped with the Ministry seal, thick with parchment.
Harry sat down and pulled the papers toward him. His hands didn't shake this time as he picked up his quill.
He thought of Ron's words: You'd make a brilliant dad.
He thought of Hermione's news, of the life growing inside her, of the family his best friends were building.
He thought of the empty rooms in Grimmauld Place, waiting to be filled with laughter and love.
And he began to write.
A week passed in a blur of grey skies and restless nights. Harry found himself returning to that Prophet article again and again, reading it until he could recite passages from memory. He'd smoothed out the creases where he'd folded it, the paper now soft and worn from handling.
It was a Thursday afternoon when he sat at the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place, the article spread before him once more. The house was silent around him—Kreacher had gone to visit the Hogwarts kitchens, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the persistent whisper of possibility that had taken root in his mind.
The Ministry of Magic is pleased to announce the Magical Breeding Program, designed to restore our population and ensure the continuation of magical bloodlines. Interested witches and wizards may request application materials by owl post.
There, at the bottom of the article in small print, was an address: Department of Magical Population Services, Level Two, Ministry of Magic, London.
Harry's hand hovered over a blank piece of parchment. He'd gotten this far a dozen times in the past week, quill in hand, ready to write. Each time, doubt had crept in. What if he wasn't ready? What if he was being selfish, bringing a child into the world just because he was lonely? What if he couldn't do it, couldn't be the father a child deserved?
But then he thought of Hermione's words: You have so much love to give. He thought of Ron's quiet confidence: You'd make a good dad. He thought of the empty rooms in Grimmauld Place, the silence that pressed in on him every night, and the ache in his chest that never quite went away.
He thought of a child—his child—laughing, learning, growing. Someone to love. Someone to teach. Someone to give all the things he'd never had.
Harry dipped his quill in ink and began to write.
To the Department of Magical Population Services,
I am writing to request application materials for the Magical Breeding Program. Please send any forms and relevant materials to:
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
He stared at his name for a long moment, then folded the parchment before he could second-guess himself. Within minutes, he'd tied it to Hedwig's leg—no, not Hedwig. The Ministry owl he'd borrowed. Hedwig was gone, like so many others.
The owl took flight through the kitchen window, disappearing into the grey London sky.
Harry sat back down at the table, his heart pounding. There was no taking it back now.
Three days later, a thick envelope arrived.
Harry spread the contents across the kitchen table: forms requesting personal information, medical history, blood status documentation, statements of intent. There were pamphlets explaining the program in detail, the new fertility potion, the matching process based on blood status and compatibility.
He read everything twice, then picked up his quill and began filling out forms.
Chapter 2: Around the world
Chapter Text
Harry sat at the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place, the application packet spread before him like an accusation. The parchment was thick, official, stamped with the Ministry seal that still made something in his chest tighten. He'd defeated Voldemort, testified at dozens of trials, been offered positions he had no business holding at eighteen—but somehow a simple questionnaire felt more daunting than any of it.
Name: Harry James Potter
That part was easy. The next few lines were straightforward too—date of birth, current address, emergency contact (he'd written Hermione's name, then crossed it out and written Ron's, then finally settled on both). Blood status gave him pause, his quill hovering over the parchment.
Half-blood, he wrote finally. It was true, though the word felt strange after everything. After all the times he'd been called the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the savior of the wizarding world—in the end, he was just half-blood Harry Potter, filling out forms in an empty house.
The medical history section was longer than he'd expected. Childhood illnesses (he left it mostly blank—the Dursleys had never taken him to a doctor unless the school insisted). Serious injuries (where did he even start?). Current health status (physically fine, he supposed, if you didn't count the nightmares or the way loud noises sometimes made him reach for a wand that wasn't there).
Then came the questions that made his hand cramp and his mind go blank.
Why do you want to participate in the Family Formation Program?
Harry stared at the empty space below the question. Why did he want this? The real answer felt too raw, too desperate to put into words. Because he was eighteen and alone and the war had taken everyone who might have loved him unconditionally. Because Grimmauld Place echoed with ghosts and he couldn't bear another silent dinner. Because he'd spent his whole life being used and needed and now that the war was over, no one needed him anymore, and he didn't know how to be a person without a purpose.
He couldn't write that.
His quill touched parchment, lifted, touched again.
I want to create a family, he wrote slowly. I grew up without one—without parents who chose me, without knowing what it felt like to be wanted. I know what it's like to be the child no one asked for, and I think... I think I could give a child something better than that. I want to love someone who doesn't need me to save the world first. I want to be someone's father, not someone's weapon or symbol or hero. Just... a dad.
He read it over three times, face burning, then forced himself to move on before he could cross it all out.
What kind of parent do you hope to be?
This one was somehow worse. What did he know about being a parent? His only models were the Dursleys (everything he wouldn't do) and vague memories of warmth and laughter that might have been his mother (everything he couldn't recreate). Molly Weasley had been kind, but he'd always been a guest in her home, never quite belonging.
Patient, he wrote. I want to be patient. I want to listen when they talk and pay attention to what they don't say. I want them to know they're safe, that they can make mistakes without being punished for them. I want to teach them that being different isn't something to hide or be ashamed of. I want them to know they're loved not because of what they can do or who they might become, but just because they exist.
I don't know if I'll be good at this, he added after a moment. But I'll try. That's all I can promise—that I'll try my best, every day, to be the kind of parent I wish I'd had.
His hand was shaking when he set down the quill. The parchment blurred slightly, and he realized his eyes were wet. Merlin, he was a mess. Eighteen years old and crying over an application form.
But he didn't cross it out. He spelled the ink dry, signed his name at the bottom of each page, and sealed the packet before he could change his mind.
The next three weeks passed in a blur of appointments and interviews that left Harry feeling stripped bare and examined.
The first interview took place in a small, windowless room deep in the Ministry's Department of Magical Family Services. The witch across from him was perhaps fifty, with iron-gray hair pulled back severely and eyes that seemed to catalog every fidget and hesitation.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her tone making it clear that his fame would buy him nothing here. "Your application indicates you wish to become a parent at eighteen. That's quite young."
"I know." Harry kept his hands still in his lap, resisting the urge to run them through his hair. "But I'm not going to be less alone at twenty-one or twenty-five. And I... I know what I want."
"Do you?" She leaned forward slightly. "Because what I see here is a young man who's spent his entire life in crisis. You've never had a normal year, Mr. Potter. You've never had time to simply exist without the weight of the world on your shoulders. Some might say you're looking for purpose, not parenthood."
The words hit harder than they should have. "Maybe," Harry admitted quietly. "Maybe I am looking for purpose. But isn't that what being a parent is? Having someone who needs you, who you'd do anything for? I've spent my whole life fighting for people I didn't know. I'd like to fight for someone I love."
The witch's expression didn't change, but she made a note on her parchment. "And if the child you're matched with doesn't love you back? Children aren't guaranteed to be grateful, Mr. Potter. They can be difficult, resentful, even cruel."
"I know." He thought of Dudley, of the casual cruelty of childhood. "I still want to try."
The interview lasted two hours. When he finally stumbled out, his head ached and his throat was dry from talking.
St. Mungo's was worse in its own way. The Healer who examined him was professionally kind but thorough to the point of invasiveness. She documented every scar (there were so many), asked about each one's origin (he couldn't remember half of them), tested his reflexes and his magical core and his psychological stability.
"You're physically healthy," she said finally, making notes on a long scroll of parchment. "Some old injuries that healed imperfectly, but nothing that would impact your ability to parent. Your magical core is strong—unusually so, but that's to be expected given your history."
"And the rest?" Harry asked, because he could feel the hesitation.
"The psychological evaluation shows signs of trauma, which is also expected. PTSD, likely, though you've declined formal treatment." She looked at him over her spectacles. "That concerns me, Mr. Potter. Children need stability."
"I'm stable," Harry said, and hated how defensive he sounded. "I have nightmares sometimes, but I'm not dangerous. I wouldn't—I'd never hurt a child."
"I don't think you would," the Healer said gently. "But I do think you should consider speaking with a Mind Healer. For your own sake, if nothing else."
He took the referral she offered, though he wasn't sure he'd use it.
The meeting with the program coordinator was less invasive but somehow more nerve-wracking. The wizard—a cheerful man named Barnaby Oakes—explained the matching process with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Quidditch matches.
"We try to match based on blood status first," he said, spreading several pamphlets across his desk. "Half-bloods with half-bloods, purebloods with purebloods, and so on. It helps with cultural compatibility, understanding of the child's background, that sort of thing."
Harry nodded, though the categorization made him uncomfortable. Hadn't they just fought a war over this?
"Then we look at compatibility assessments—magical signatures, personality profiles, parenting philosophies. Both parties have to agree to the match, of course. We're not in the business of forcing partnerships." Oakes smiled warmly. "And we do try to find matches relatively quickly. You're young, Mr. Potter, and healthy, with significant financial resources. I expect we'll have a potential match for you within the month."
"A month?" Harry's stomach flipped. That was soon. That was terrifyingly soon.
"Is that a problem?"
"No," Harry said quickly. "No, that's... that's good."
But as he left the Ministry that day, his hands were shaking.
The notification came on a Tuesday morning, delivered by a Ministry owl that looked far too official for the early hour. Harry nearly dropped his tea when he saw the seal.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that a potential match has been identified. Mr. Graham Montague, age 23, half-blood, has expressed interest in meeting with you to discuss a potential partnership under the Family Formation Program.
A meeting has been scheduled for Thursday, 2 PM, in Conference Room 7B at the Ministry of Magic. Please arrive promptly.
Graham Montague. The name tugged at Harry's memory—Slytherin, a few years older, Quidditch player.
Harry's stomach churned with something between excitement and dread.
Conference Room 7B was small and sterile, with a table, four chairs, and nothing else. Montague was already there when Harry arrived, sitting with perfect posture and an expression of cool assessment.
He'd changed since Hogwarts—filled out, lost the gangly teenage awkwardness. His robes were expensive, his dark hair perfectly styled. He looked like someone who'd never doubted his place in the world.
"Potter," Montague said, not rising. Not offering his hand.
"Montague." Harry sat across from him, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. "Thanks for agreeing to meet."
"The Ministry suggested you." Montague's tone made it clear what he thought of the Ministry's judgment. "I'll be honest—I had reservations. Your... notoriety... could complicate things."
"Right." Harry folded his hands on the table. "I understand. I'm trying to avoid that, actually. The publicity, I mean. I want this to be private."
"Mm." Montague studied him with pale eyes. "The coordinator said you're interested in parenting. Why?"
It was the same question everyone asked, but somehow it felt different coming from Montague. More like an interrogation than genuine curiosity.
"I want a family," Harry said simply. "I want to give a child a good home."
"Noble." The word dripped with sarcasm. "And what does a 'good home' look like to you, Potter? What kind of values would you instill?"
Harry hesitated, sensing a trap. "I'd want them to be kind. To think for themselves. To understand that blood status doesn't determine worth."
Montague's expression hardened. "I see. And if the child we're matched with comes from a family with... traditional values? Would you undermine that?"
"Traditional values?" Harry repeated carefully.
"You know what I mean." Montague leaned forward slightly. "Many magical children come from families who understand the importance of magical heritage. Who know that there's a natural order to things. I wouldn't want a child of mine growing up thinking that muggles and wizards are somehow equal."
The room felt suddenly colder. "You're a half-blood," Harry said slowly.
"Which is why I understand the importance of teaching children their place." Montague's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "My mother was muggle-born. She never understood our world, never stopped being ashamed of her magical heritage. I won't have a child grow up confused about where they belong."
Harry's hands clenched under the table. "And where do they belong?"
"In the magical world, obviously. With proper wizards who understand tradition and hierarchy." Montague sat back, apparently satisfied with his explanation. "I assume you'd want to fill a child's head with your Dumbledore-esque nonsense about equality and love conquering all. That's not how the world works, Potter. Children need structure. Discipline. They need to understand that some people are simply better than others."
For a long moment, Harry couldn't speak. He thought of Hermione, brilliant and brave and muggle-born. He thought of his mother, who'd died to save him. He thought of every person who'd fought in the war, regardless of blood status, and every person who'd died believing in something better than this.
"I don't think this is going to work," Harry said quietly.
Montague raised an eyebrow. "Having second thoughts?"
"No." Harry stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'm very sure. I want a child who grows up knowing that their worth isn't determined by their blood or their magic or their last name. I want them to be kind and brave and to stand up for people who can't stand up for themselves. And I want them to know that love—real love, unconditional love—is the most powerful thing in the world."
He moved toward the door, then paused. "Good luck finding someone who shares your values, Montague. I hope for the child's sake that you don't."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Harry made it to the Atrium before the shaking started. He leaned against a wall, breathing carefully, trying to calm the anger and disappointment churning in his chest.
What had he expected? That the first match would be perfect? That he'd walk into that room and immediately find someone who understood, who wanted the same things he did?
But Montague's words kept echoing in his head. Some people are simply better than others. It was Voldemort's philosophy in a nicer suit, and the fact that it came from a half-blood made it somehow worse.
Harry Apparated home to Grimmauld Place and spent the rest of the day in his room, staring at the ceiling and wondering if he'd made a terrible mistake.
The second notification arrived a week later.
Harry stared at it for a long time before opening it, half-afraid of what he'd find. Another Montague? Another person who'd look at him and see either the Boy Who Lived or a naive child playing at parenthood?
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that a second potential match has been identified. Mr. Maxwell Fawcett, age 36, half-blood, has expressed interest in meeting with you to discuss a potential partnership under the Family Formation Program.
A meeting has been scheduled for Monday, 10 AM, in Conference Room 7B at the Ministry of Magic. Please arrive promptly.
Maxwell Fawcett. The name meant nothing to him—no Hogwarts memories, no war associations. Just a name on parchment and another chance.
Harry set the letter down carefully and tried to ignore the hope flickering in his chest.
Maybe this time would be different.
The second owl arrived on Sunday evening, just as Harry was contemplating whether he could stomach dinner. He recognized the Ministry seal immediately, but the handwriting on the envelope was different—personal, not official.
Mr. Potter,
I hope you don't mind me writing directly. The Ministry gave me your address, and I wanted to reach out before our scheduled meeting tomorrow.
I wonder if you'd be amenable to meeting somewhere less formal than a Ministry conference room? I find those spaces rather stifling, and I'd prefer we have a proper conversation without feeling like we're being observed. There's a lovely tearoom in Diagon Alley—Madam Puddifoot's has a quieter competitor called The Silver Spoon, just off the main street. Would 10 AM there suit you instead?
If you'd rather stick with the Ministry meeting, I completely understand. Just thought I'd offer the option.
Regards,
Maxwell Fawcett
Harry read the letter three times. The tone was warm, considerate—asking rather than assuming. It was such a stark contrast to Montague's cold formality that Harry found himself relaxing slightly.
He wrote back immediately, agreeing to the tearoom.
That night, he barely slept.
The Silver Spoon was tucked down a narrow side street off Diagon Alley, easy to miss if you didn't know it was there. Harry arrived ten minutes early, his stomach in knots, and was surprised to find the interior nothing like Madam Puddifoot's garish pink nightmare. Instead, it was understated and elegant—cream-colored walls, dark wood furniture, soft lighting that came from enchanted candles rather than the usual floating cherubs.
A few witches sat at corner tables, speaking in low voices over tea and scones. The atmosphere was peaceful, almost library-like in its quiet.
"Mr. Potter?"
Harry turned to find a man rising from a table near the window. Maxwell Fawcett was tall and lean, with sandy brown hair going grey at the temples and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He wore simple robes in a deep blue, well-made but not ostentatious, and his smile was genuine as he extended his hand.
"Mr. Fawcett," Harry said, shaking it. The man's grip was firm but not aggressive.
"Please, call me Maxwell. Or Max, if you prefer." He gestured to the seat across from him. "Thank you for agreeing to meet here. I hope it wasn't too difficult to find."
"No, it's nice," Harry said, settling into his chair. "Better than the Ministry."
Maxwell's smile widened. "Much better. I've had quite enough of Ministry conference rooms in my lifetime. I work for the Department of International Magical Cooperation—spent half my twenties in those bloody rooms negotiating trade agreements." He paused as a waitress approached. "Tea? They do an excellent Earl Grey here, and the lemon cakes are worth the trip alone."
Harry nodded, and Maxwell ordered for both of them with the ease of someone who'd been here many times before.
Once the waitress had gone, Maxwell leaned back in his chair, studying Harry with an expression that was curious but not invasive. "I'll admit, I was surprised when the Ministry matched us. Not unpleasantly so, just... surprised."
"Because of who I am?" Harry asked, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.
"Because of how young you are," Maxwell said gently. "Eighteen is quite young to be considering parenthood, especially through a program like this."
Harry's jaw tightened. "I'm old enough to have fought in a war. Old enough to have killed someone. I think I'm old enough to raise a child."
"I don't doubt your capability," Maxwell said, and his tone was so kind that it took the wind out of Harry's defensive sails. "From everything I've read—and yes, I'll admit I did some research after we were matched—you're extraordinarily capable. Brave, powerful, resourceful. You've survived things that would have destroyed most people."
"But?" Harry prompted, because there was clearly a 'but' coming.
Maxwell sighed, and the waitress chose that moment to return with their tea and a plate of delicate lemon cakes. He waited until she'd gone before continuing.
"But capability isn't the same as readiness," he said quietly. "And I'm not sure it's fair—to you or to a potential child—to ask you to take this on right now."
Harry's hands clenched around his teacup. "You don't even know me."
"You're right, I don't. So let me ask you something, and I'd appreciate an honest answer." Maxwell met his eyes steadily. "Why do you want a child, Harry?"
It was the same question the Ministry psychologist had asked, but somehow it felt different coming from Maxwell. Less clinical. More personal.
"Because I want a family," Harry said. "I want someone to love. Someone to teach and protect and give all the things I never had growing up."
Maxwell nodded slowly. "Those are good reasons. Noble reasons, even. But Harry... you're eighteen. You've spent your entire childhood fighting, surviving, preparing for war. You've barely had a chance to figure out who you are outside of being the Boy Who Lived."
"I know who I am," Harry said, but even to his own ears, it sounded uncertain.
"Do you?" Maxwell asked gently. "Have you traveled? Pursued hobbies? Dated? Spent lazy Sundays doing absolutely nothing because you could? Have you had the chance to be young and foolish and make mistakes that don't cost lives?"
Harry stared down at his tea. "The war's over. I don't get to go back and have a normal childhood."
"No, you don't," Maxwell agreed. "And that's a tragedy, truly. But you do get to have a normal young adulthood, if you choose to. You could travel—see the world beyond Britain. You could train for a career you actually want, not just one people expect you to take. You could date, fall in love, have your heart broken and put it back together. You could figure out what makes you happy."
"A child would make me happy," Harry insisted.
"Maybe," Maxwell said. "Or maybe you think a child would fill the void left by everything you've lost. And Harry, I say this with all kindness—that's not fair to the child."
The words hit like a physical blow. Harry set down his teacup before he could drop it.
"I'm not trying to be cruel," Maxwell continued, his voice soft. "But I've spent a lot of time thinking about why I want to be a father. I'm thirty-six. I've had nearly two decades of adult life to build my career, to travel, to have relationships, to figure out who I am and what I want. I've lived my life. And now I'm ready—truly ready—to dedicate myself to raising a child."
He paused, taking a sip of his tea. "But you haven't had that chance. You've gone from one form of servitude to another—first to your aunt and uncle, then to the war, and now you're trying to jump straight into parenthood. When do you get to just... be Harry?"
Harry felt something crack in his chest. "I don't know how to just be Harry. I don't know what that means."
"Then maybe that's what you need to figure out first," Maxwell said gently. "Before you take on the responsibility of shaping another human being."
They sat in silence for a long moment. Around them, the tearoom continued its quiet hum of conversation, but Harry felt isolated in a bubble of his own uncertainty.
"I'm not saying you'd be a bad father," Maxwell said finally. "I think you'd probably be wonderful, actually. Patient and kind and fiercely protective. But Harry, you deserve to have a life before you dedicate it to someone else. You deserve to be selfish for a while, to figure out what you want, to make mistakes that only affect you."
"And if I don't want that?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I just want... this?"
Maxwell smiled sadly. "Then I hope you find someone who's comfortable with that. But I'm not that person. The age gap between us—eighteen years—that's significant. If we did this together, I'd always wonder if I was taking advantage of you, asking you to give up your youth because I'm ready for fatherhood and you happened to be available."
He reached across the table, not quite touching Harry's hand but close. "You have time, Harry. You have so much time. There's no rush."
But there was a rush, Harry wanted to say. There was the empty house and the sleepless nights and the feeling that if he didn't have something to live for soon, he might not want to live at all.
He didn't say any of that. Instead, he nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat.
"I appreciate your honesty," he managed.
"I appreciate yours as well," Maxwell said. "And for what it's worth, I think you're going to make an excellent father someday. Just... maybe not today."
They finished their tea in companionable silence, talking about inconsequential things—Maxwell's work, the rebuilding of Diagon Alley, the upcoming Quidditch season. It was pleasant, easy even, and that somehow made it worse. Under different circumstances, Harry thought they might have been friends.
When they parted ways outside the tearoom, Maxwell shook his hand again, his grip warm and steady.
"Take care of yourself, Harry," he said. "And don't be in such a hurry to grow up. The world will still be here when you're ready."
Harry watched him walk away, disappearing into the crowd of Diagon Alley shoppers, and felt something inside him deflate.
Two matches. Two failures. And this time, he couldn't even be angry about it, because Maxwell was right. Everything he'd said was right.
Harry Apparated back to Grimmauld Place and climbed the stairs to his room, Maxwell's words echoing in his head. When do you get to just be Harry?
He didn't know. He'd never known.
And maybe that was the problem.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and wondered if he should just write to the Ministry and withdraw his application. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe he was too young, too damaged, too lost to be anyone's father.
Maybe he should just give up.
The thought should have brought relief, but instead it just made the emptiness worse.
Three days later, Harry wrote to the Ministry withdrawing his application.
He didn't tell Ron and Hermione—not yet. He couldn't bear to see the concern in their eyes, or worse, the relief. Instead, he packed a bag with clothes, his wand, and a money pouch heavy with Galleons, and he left.
He started in France because it was close and because he'd never been. Paris was overwhelming at first—the crowds, the noise, the sheer foreignness of it all. But there was something liberating about being in a place where no one knew his name, where he could walk down the street without being stared at or whispered about. The French magical community was centered around the Quartier Magique near the Louvre, and Harry spent weeks there, eating croissants in sidewalk cafés, practicing his terrible French with patient shopkeepers, and visiting magical museums that had nothing to do with British history or the war.
From Paris, he went south to Provence, where he stayed in a small wizarding village tucked into the lavender fields. The locals taught him to play Boules Magiques—a game involving enchanted metal balls that changed temperature depending on how close they got to the target—and he spent long evenings drinking wine under the stars, listening to stories in a language he only half understood.
Italy came next. Rome's magical quarter was hidden beneath the Colosseum, a sprawling underground city that had existed since ancient times. Harry wandered through markets selling potions he'd never heard of, ate pasta that made him understand why Ron was always hungry, and learned enough Italian to order food and ask for directions. In Venice, he took a gondola through the magical canals that existed parallel to the Muggle ones, the water glowing faintly with protective enchantments that had been in place for centuries.
He went to Greece in the summer, when the heat was oppressive but the islands were beautiful. He stayed on Santorini for a month, living in a small white house overlooking the sea, swimming in water so blue it didn't seem real. The Greek magical community was ancient and proud, their magic tied to the old gods in ways that made Harry's Hogwarts education seem almost quaint. He learned to make proper Greek coffee, to dance the sirtaki at festivals, to appreciate the way time moved differently on the islands.
By autumn, he'd made his way north to Norway, where the magical community lived in harmony with the fjords and mountains. The Northern Lights were visible from the wizarding village where he stayed, and he spent nights watching them dance across the sky, green and purple and impossibly beautiful. The Norwegians taught him to ski—both the Muggle way and the magical way, which involved far less falling and far more speed.
He dated, casually. A French witch named Amélie who laughed at his accent and taught him better pronunciation. An Italian wizard named Marco who took him to family dinners and introduced him to his grandmother's cooking. A Norwegian woman named Ingrid who kissed him under the Northern Lights and didn't ask about his scar. None of it was serious. None of it was meant to be. But it was nice, feeling wanted, feeling normal, feeling like just Harry instead of Harry Potter.
He went to parties, drank too much occasionally, stayed up until dawn talking with people whose names he'd forget by morning. He learned that he liked red wine better than white, that he was terrible at languages but good at making people laugh, that he could be charming when he wasn't weighed down by grief and expectation.
He learned who Harry was when he wasn't the Boy Who Lived or the Chosen One or the man who'd lost everything.
But he always came home for the important things.
When Hermione went into labor, Harry Apparated to St. Mungo's still wearing the clothes he'd been traveling in, his hair longer than it had been in years, his skin tanned from the Greek sun. He arrived just in time to see Ron emerge from the delivery room, his face pale and awed and terrified.
"It's a girl," Ron said, his voice cracking. "We have a daughter."
Harry hugged him, feeling Ron shake against him, and then Hermione was calling for them and they were going in, and there she was.
Rose Weasley, tiny and red-faced and perfect, wrapped in a pink blanket and cradled in Hermione's arms.
"Do you want to hold her?" Hermione asked, and Harry nodded, not trusting his voice.
She was so small. So impossibly small and fragile and real. Harry held her carefully, terrified he'd drop her or hurt her, but Rose just yawned and made a small sound and settled against his chest like she belonged there.
The ache in Harry's chest was physical. This. This was what he wanted. This tiny person, this new life, this overwhelming rush of love and protectiveness and wonder.
But Rose wasn't his. She was Ron and Hermione's, and Harry was just Uncle Harry, and that was good, that was enough, that had to be enough.
He visited Teddy regularly, watching his godson grow from a toddler into a bright, energetic boy who loved Quidditch and chocolate frogs and hearing stories about his parents. Teddy's hair would turn black and messy when Harry visited, and he'd climb into Harry's lap and demand stories, and Harry would tell him about Remus and Tonks, about bravery and love and sacrifice.
And every time, Harry would go home to whatever temporary flat or hotel room he was staying in, and the emptiness would be there, waiting.
He was twenty-one when he realized that Maxwell had been both right and wrong.
Right that Harry had needed time, needed to figure out who he was, needed to live his life before taking on the responsibility of a child.
Wrong that doing so would make the wanting go away.
If anything, it had gotten stronger. Every family he saw, every child laughing in a park, every moment holding Rose or playing with Teddy—it all reinforced what he'd known at eighteen but hadn't been ready to act on.
He wanted to be a father. Not because he was lonely or lost or trying to fill a void. But because he had so much love to give, and he'd figured out who he was, and he was ready.
By the time Harry turned twenty-two, he'd been back in Britain for three months, living in Grimmauld Place again but making it his own—redecorating, clearing out the dark artifacts, letting light into rooms that had been shuttered for years. He'd taken a part-time job at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, helping George with product development and enjoying the creative work that had nothing to do with dark wizards or saving the world.
He'd lived. He'd experienced things. He'd figured out who Harry Potter was when he wasn't defined by prophecy or war or loss.
And he still wanted a child.
It was a Tuesday evening when Harry sat down at his kitchen table—the same table where he'd filled out the application four years ago—and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment.
His hand didn't shake this time. His heart didn't race with panic or desperation. He felt calm, certain, ready.
To the Department of Magical Population Services,
I am writing to request application materials for the Magical Breeding Program. I applied previously at eighteen but withdrew my application to take time to live and grow. I am now twenty-two, and I am ready to move forward with this process.
Please send any forms and relevant materials to:
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
He read it over once, then tied it to his owl's leg and watched her disappear into the evening sky.
This time, he knew what he was doing. This time, he was ready.
This time, it would be different.
Chapter 3: Severus Snape
Chapter Text
The Ministry process moved with surprising efficiency the second time around.
Harry sat across from Coordinator Pemberton—the same witch who'd processed his application three years ago—and watched her quill scratch notes across his file. She looked older now, more gray in her hair, but her smile was warm as she glanced up at him.
"Much simpler this time, Mr. Potter," she said. "We have all your records from your previous participation. Medical history, genetic screening, psychological evaluation—all still current."
"That's good," Harry said, relieved. He'd been dreading going through the entire process again.
Pemberton studied him for a moment, her head tilted slightly. "You seem different," she observed. "More settled, if you don't mind me saying."
Harry shifted in his chair. "I'm older. I've had time to think about what I want."
"And you're certain this is what you want? The program isn't for everyone, Mr. Potter. There's no shame in—"
"I'm certain," Harry interrupted gently. "I know what I'm getting into this time."
"Well, your medical clearance has been approved—you were cleared before, and nothing's changed. I just need you to sign here, and here, and we'll have you back in the matching pool within the week."
Harry signed where she indicated, his hand steady.
"One more thing," Pemberton said as he stood to leave. "You've grown up quite a bit, Mr. Potter. I think you'll find this experience different than before."
Harry wasn't sure if that was meant to be reassuring or ominous.
The letter arrived on a Thursday morning, delivered by Ministry owl while Harry was eating breakfast.
He recognized the official seal immediately—the same purple wax, the same formal script. His hands trembled slightly as he broke it open.
Dear Mr. Potter,
Your match has been confirmed. Please report to Conference Room 2-B, Level Two, Department of Magical Population Services, on Thursday, 15th March, at 2:00 PM.
Coordinator Pemberton will facilitate your introduction.
Sincerely,
Department of Magical Population Services
Harry read it twice, frowning.
He checked the date. Thursday, 15th March. Today.
His stomach dropped. Two hours. He had two hours.
Harry stood abruptly, nearly knocking over his tea. Why hadn't they included her name? Was it someone he knew? Someone who'd requested anonymity until they met?
He tried to push down the anxiety rising in his chest. He was older now. More mature. He could handle this.
But as he dressed and prepared to Apparate to the Ministry, his hands still shook.
Level Two was crowded when Harry stepped out of the lift.
He kept his head down, trying to avoid eye contact. Even four years after the war, people still recognized him. Still wanted to stop him, thank him, ask him questions. Today, he couldn't afford the distraction.
A witch in lime-green robes did a double-take as he passed, her mouth opening as if to speak, but Harry was already moving, weaving through the crowd toward the Department of Magical Population Services.
Conference Room 2-B. He'd seen the sign earlier, down the corridor to the left. He just needed to—
Harry collided hard with someone, stumbling backward.
"Watch where you're—"
The voice stopped abruptly.
Harry looked up, an apology already forming on his lips, and froze.
Severus Snape stared back at him.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Harry's mind went blank, unable to process what he was seeing. Snape. Snape. Alive. Here.
"Professor," Harry managed, his voice hoarse.
Snape's expression was unreadable, though something flickered in his dark eyes—surprise, perhaps, or annoyance. He looked different than Harry remembered. Healthier. The gauntness that had haunted his features during the war was gone, replaced by a more solid presence. His hair was still black, still hanging around his face, but it looked cleaner, better kept. He wore dark robes, simple but well-made.
As Harry watched, Snape's hand moved unconsciously to his throat, rubbing at a spot just above his collar. The gesture was brief, almost absent-minded, but Harry noticed. Nagini. The scar must still bother him.
"Potter," Snape said finally, his voice as dry and sardonic as ever. "I see you've retained your remarkable talent for being precisely where you shouldn't be."
"I-I I'm glad you survived but you disappeared. I tried to find out, after the war, but no one knew where you'd gone—"Harry stammered.
"I was recovering," Snape interrupted curtly. "And then I was elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?"
"Is there an echo in this corridor?" Snape's lip curled slightly. "Yes, Potter. Elsewhere. I've been working abroad. Potions research."
Harry blinked. "Potions research?"
"Your grasp of the obvious remains as sharp as ever." Snape's tone was cutting, but there was less venom in it than Harry remembered from school. Less personal hatred. Just... weariness, perhaps. "I've been developing new formulations for various applications. Most recently, a fertility potion for the Ministry's breeding program."
Harry's stomach dropped. "You—what?"
"A fertility potion," Snape repeated slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dim student. "It increases the likelihood of conception and ensures the health of—"
"I know what it does," Harry said quickly. His mind was racing. Snape had created the potion. The potion that had made his previous matches possible. The potion that would be used for his match today.
Snape's eyes narrowed. "And how, precisely, would you know that?"
Harry felt heat rise in his face. "I'm... I have an appointment. Here. On this level."
"How fascinating." Snape's voice was flat. "As do I."
They stared at each other.
"What kind of appointment?" Harry asked, though part of him already knew. Already dreaded the answer.
Snape's expression shifted—something guarded sliding into place. "That is none of your concern, Potter."
"It's with the breeding program, isn't it?" Harry pressed. "You're here for the breeding program."
Snape's silence was answer enough.
Harry's heart was pounding now. No. It couldn't be. They wouldn't have matched him with Snape. That was impossible. Insane. The program matched witches and wizards, not—
But even as he thought it, he remembered Pemberton's words. You've grown up quite a bit, Mr. Potter. I think you'll find this experience different than before.
"What time is your appointment?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Snape's jaw tightened. "Two o'clock."
"Conference Room 2-B?"
Another pause. Then, reluctantly: "Yes."
They stood in the crowded corridor, Ministry workers flowing around them like water around stones. Harry felt dizzy. This couldn't be happening. Snape was—Snape had been his professor. Had hated him. Had spent years making his life miserable. Had also saved his life, multiple times, had loved his mother, had been one of the bravest people Harry had ever known.
Had apparently joined the breeding program.
"We should..." Harry gestured vaguely down the corridor. "The room is this way."
Snape's expression was carefully blank. "Indeed."
They walked in tense silence, side by side but not quite together. Harry's mind was spinning. Why would Snape join the program? He had to be—what, forty-one? Forty-two? Still young enough, certainly. And powerful. Talented. Exactly the kind of wizard the program wanted.
But Snape.
"The Ministry requested my assistance with the fertility potion. The previous formulation was... inadequate."
"Right." Harry swallowed. "And you decided to join the program yourself?"
"My reasons are my own, Potter."
They turned a corner. Conference Room 2-B was just ahead, the door closed, a small plaque beside it reading Department of Magical Population Services.
Harry stopped walking. Snape stopped too, a few paces ahead, then turned back to look at him.
"This is..." Harry couldn't finish the sentence.
"Unexpected," Snape supplied, his voice tight.
"Yeah."
They stood there, neither moving toward the door. Harry could see the tension in Snape's shoulders, the way his hand had moved back to his throat. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
Harry felt the same way.
But he also felt something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or the same strange pull that had brought him back to the program in the first place. The sense that this was meant to happen, somehow. That there was a reason the letter hadn't included a name.
"We should go in," Harry said quietly.
Snape's dark eyes met his. For a moment, Harry saw something raw there—uncertainty, perhaps, or fear. Then it was gone, hidden behind the familiar mask of cool indifference.
"After you, Potter," Snape said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I wouldn't want to be accused of hexing you in the back."
Harry almost smiled. Almost.
He reached for the door handle, his heart pounding so hard he thought Snape must be able to hear it. This was insane. Impossible. Wrong in so many ways he couldn't begin to count them.
But his hand was steady as he turned the handle.
And together, they stepped inside.
Conference Room 2-B was smaller than Harry expected, more intimate. A round table sat in the center, surrounded by four comfortable-looking chairs. Soft light filtered through a charmed window that showed a view of rolling hills rather than the Ministry's underground location. It was clearly designed to put people at ease.
It wasn't working.
Coordinator Pemberton stood as they entered, her expression warm but knowing. She was a witch in her fifties with kind eyes and greying hair pulled back in a neat bun. She wore deep purple robes and had the air of someone who had seen everything and was rarely surprised.
"Mr. Potter, Professor Snape," she said, gesturing to the chairs. "Please, sit down."
Harry noticed she didn't seem at all shocked to see them arrive together. She'd known. Of course she'd known.
He took a seat, hyperaware of Snape settling into the chair beside him rather than across from him. Close enough that Harry could smell the faint scent of potions ingredients that always clung to him—asphodel and wormwood, something sharp and clean.
"Can I offer either of you tea?" Pemberton asked, already pouring from a pot that sat on a warming charm. "I find these conversations go better with something to hold."
"Thank you," Harry said, accepting a cup. His hands needed something to do.
Snape took his tea black, no sugar. Harry wasn't surprised.
Pemberton settled into her own chair, cradling her cup between her palms. "I imagine you're both somewhat surprised by this pairing."
"That's one word for it," Snape said dryly.
"I'm sure you've done your research," Harry said, trying to keep his voice level. "You know we have... history."
"I do," Pemberton said calmly. "I've read both your files quite thoroughly. Professor Snape was your Potions teacher at Hogwarts. The relationship was, by all accounts, contentious. You believed him to be working against you for most of your school years." She paused, taking a sip of her tea. "And then you learned the truth. That he'd been protecting you all along. That he'd loved your mother and spent years trying to keep you safe, even at great personal cost."
The words hung in the air between them. Harry stared into his tea, feeling his cheeks heat. Beside him, Snape had gone very still.
"I also know," Pemberton continued gently, "that you're both very different people than you were during those years. Mr. Potter, you've spent the last four years traveling, learning, growing into yourself. Professor Snape, you've been rebuilding your life after the war, continuing your research, and from what I understand, doing quite well."
"Your point, Madam Pemberton?" Snape's voice was tight.
"My point is that the matching system doesn't care about the past. It cares about compatibility—magical, philosophical, practical. And according to every metric we have, you two are remarkably compatible."
Harry looked up sharply. "How is that possible?"
Pemberton smiled. "Let me show you." She waved her wand, and a shimmering document appeared in the air between them, covered in charts and numbers. "Both half-bloods, which is the primary matching criterion. But beyond that—both of you score exceptionally high in magical power. Both value education, knowledge, and protection of those weaker than yourselves. Both have strong nurturing instincts, though you express them differently."
"Nurturing," Snape repeated, his tone suggesting he'd never heard anything more ridiculous.
"You spent seventeen years teaching children, Professor," Pemberton said mildly. "Often difficult, troubled children. You protected them, guided them, and yes, nurtured them, even if your methods were unconventional. And Mr. Potter, your relationship with your godson Teddy Lupin speaks volumes about your capacity for care."
Harry felt something shift in his chest. He'd never thought of Snape as nurturing, but... hadn't he been? In his own way? Protecting students during the war, even when he was Headmaster under Voldemort's regime. Keeping them as safe as he could.
"The system also considers life goals and parenting philosophy," Pemberton continued. "You both want to be fully involved parents, not simply donors. You both value honesty, even when it's difficult. You both believe in preparing children for the real world, not sheltering them from it." She paused. "And perhaps most importantly, you both understand loss. You both know what it means to grow up without the love you deserved. And you both want to give a child something better."
The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. Harry found himself looking at Snape—really looking at him—for the first time since they'd collided in the corridor. The man looked older than he had during the war, but healthier. The grey in his hair was more pronounced, and there were lines around his eyes that Harry didn't remember. But he also looked... settled, somehow. Less haunted.
"I still don't see how this could possibly work," Harry said quietly. "We barely tolerated each other for seven years."
"You were a child then," Snape said, his voice lacking its usual bite. "A child who reminded me of... painful things. And I was a bitter man who took out his frustrations on students who didn't deserve it." He paused, his jaw tight. "I was unnecessarily harsh. Particularly with you."
Harry blinked. Was that... was Snape apologizing?
"I understand why," Harry said slowly. "I mean, I understand now. You were trying to protect me. You couldn't show favoritism, couldn't let anyone suspect. And I looked like my dad, which must have been..." He trailed off, not sure how to finish.
"Difficult," Snape supplied. "Yes."
Pemberton was watching them with an expression that suggested this was going better than she'd expected. "Why don't we talk about what each of you wants from this program? Mr. Potter, you've been through this process before. What brings you back?"
Harry took a breath, gathering his thoughts. This was easier than it had been at eighteen, when he'd barely understood his own motivations. "I want to be a father," he said simply. "I've always wanted that. I want to give a child the kind of love and stability I never had growing up. I want to teach them, protect them, watch them grow into whoever they're meant to be." He paused. "I spent four years figuring out who I am outside of the war, outside of being the Boy Who Lived. And I'm ready now. I know what I want, and I know I can do this."
Pemberton nodded approvingly, then turned to Snape. "Professor?"
Snape was quiet for a long moment, his fingers wrapped around his teacup. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Harry had ever heard it. "I spent my entire adult life in service to others. First to the Dark Lord, then to Dumbledore, then to both simultaneously. I protected children I could never claim, fought battles I could never speak of, and lived a life that was never truly my own." He paused. "The war is over. I survived, against all odds. And I find myself wanting... something that's mine. Someone to teach, to guide, to watch grow. Someone I can protect without subterfuge or lies."
Harry felt something catch in his throat. He'd never heard Snape speak so openly, so honestly. It was almost painful to witness.
"I'm forty-two years old," Snape continued. "I have no illusions about finding a traditional family at this stage of my life. But I have knowledge to pass on, resources to provide, and—" He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. "And love to give, though I'm admittedly out of practice."
Pemberton's smile was gentle. "That's beautifully put, Professor."
Snape's expression suggested he'd rather be anywhere else, but he didn't take the words back.
"So," Pemberton said, looking between them. "The question is whether you can work together. Whether you can put aside your history and build something new. Not as teacher and student, not as enemies, but as partners in raising a child."
"I don't know," Harry admitted. "But I'm willing to try. If..." He glanced at Snape. "If you are."
Snape's dark eyes met his, searching. "You've changed, Potter. You're not the arrogant boy I taught."
"And you're not the bitter teacher who made my life hell," Harry countered. "We're different people now."
"Indeed." Snape set down his teacup with a soft click. "I won't pretend this isn't complicated. Our history is... fraught. But I find myself intrigued by the possibility. Against my better judgment."
"That's something, at least," Harry said, and was surprised to find he meant it.
Pemberton leaned forward. "Let's talk practically, then. If you were to move forward with this match, what would that look like? Where would you live?"
"Not Grimmauld Place," Harry said immediately. "That house is... it's too dark. Too full of bad memories. I've been thinking about selling it, actually."
"I have a small house in Spinner's End," Snape said. "But I agree it's not suitable for a child. Too industrial, too isolated." He paused. "I'm open to finding something new. Something that belongs to both of us, rather than carrying the weight of either of our pasts."
Harry felt a flicker of surprise. He'd expected Snape to insist on his own territory, to want control. "You'd be willing to move?"
"For the right situation, yes." Snape's expression was unreadable. "A child deserves a proper home. A garden, perhaps. Space to grow and explore. Somewhere with light."
Harry found himself nodding. "I'd like that too. Maybe something near Hogsmeade? Close enough to the magical community but not right in the middle of everything."
"That could work," Snape agreed.
Pemberton made a note on her parchment. "And involvement? How present do you each want to be?"
"Fully involved," Harry said firmly. "I don't want to be a donor who shows up occasionally. I want to be there for everything—the good, the bad, the messy parts. All of it."
"As do I," Snape said. "I have no interest in being a distant figure. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it properly."
"What about parenting approaches?" Pemberton asked. "That's often where conflicts arise."
Harry and Snape looked at each other.
"I believe in honesty," Harry said slowly. "Age-appropriate honesty, but honesty. I don't want to lie to a kid or shelter them from reality. But I also believe in kindness. In making them feel safe and loved."
"I agree with honesty," Snape said. "Children are more perceptive than adults give them credit for. They know when they're being lied to." He paused. "As for kindness... I'm aware my methods as a teacher were harsh. But a child is not a student. I would never treat my own child the way I treated my students."
"How would you treat them?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
Snape was quiet for a moment. "With patience. With respect for their intelligence. With clear boundaries and expectations, but also with affection." He met Harry's eyes. "I know what it's like to grow up without love, Potter. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."
Harry felt something shift between them, some understanding clicking into place. They were more alike than he'd ever realized. Both of them scarred by loveless childhoods, both of them desperate to give a child something better.
"I think we could make this work," Harry said quietly. "It won't be easy. We'll probably argue about things. But I think we want the same things, fundamentally."
"Perhaps," Snape said. "Though I reserve the right to be skeptical."
"Noted," Harry said, and was startled when Snape's mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile.
Pemberton set down her quill, looking pleased. "I think you've both handled this remarkably well. Better than many matches I've facilitated, to be honest. But I don't want you to make any decisions today. This is too important to rush."
"What do you suggest?" Snape asked.
"Meet privately," Pemberton said. "Away from the Ministry, away from the pressure of this program. Have dinner together. Talk. Get to know each other as you are now, not as you were. See if you can build a foundation of mutual respect and understanding." She paused. "If, after that, you both still want to move forward, we'll proceed with the next steps. But there's no pressure. No timeline. Take the time you need."
Harry nodded slowly. It made sense. They couldn't make a decision this big based on one awkward meeting and a compatibility chart.
"I'm amenable to that," Snape said.
"Me too," Harry agreed.
Pemberton smiled. "Excellent. Exchange contact information, set up a time to meet, and we'll go from there." She stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Thank you both for being so open-minded. I know this wasn't what either of you expected."
"That's an understatement," Snape muttered, but there was no real heat in it.
They left the conference room together, stepping back into the corridor. The Ministry was quieter now, most people having left for the day. Harry pulled out a scrap of parchment and scribbled down his address and Floo coordinates.
"You can owl me," he said, handing it to Snape. "Or Floo, if you prefer. I'm usually home in the evenings."
Snape studied the parchment, then tucked it into his robes. "I'll be in touch within the week. We can arrange something."
"Okay." Harry hesitated, then added, "For what it's worth... I'm glad it's you. I mean, I'm terrified, but also... I think we could actually do this. Together."
Snape's expression was unreadable, but something flickered in his dark eyes. "We'll see, Potter. We'll see."
They parted ways at the Atrium, Snape heading toward the Floo network while Harry made for the visitor's entrance. As Harry stepped into the phone booth that would take him back to the Muggle world, he found himself replaying the meeting in his mind.
It had been nothing like he'd expected. Snape had been... not kind, exactly, but honest. Vulnerable, even. And Harry had seen glimpses of the man beneath the mask—the man who'd spent his whole life protecting others, who wanted a child to love and teach and keep safe.
They had history, yes. Complicated, painful history. But they also had something else now: a shared goal, a common purpose. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to build on.
Harry emerged onto the London street, the evening air cool against his face. He Apparated home to Grimmauld Place, his mind already racing ahead to the next meeting, to the conversation they'd have over dinner, to the possibility of something he'd never imagined.
Severus Snape. Of all the people in the world, Severus Snape.
Harry shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
This was going to be interesting.
Harry stood in the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place for a long moment, staring at the dusty portrait of Mrs. Black (thankfully still under a permanent Silencing Charm), his mind spinning. The house felt particularly oppressive tonight, the silence pressing in on him from all sides.
He needed to talk to someone. He needed to process what had just happened, to say it out loud and see if it sounded as mad as it felt in his head.
Before he could second-guess himself, Harry turned on the spot and Apparated.
He materialized at the edge of the wards surrounding Ron and Hermione's cottage in Devon. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, and warm light spilled from the cottage windows. Harry could hear laughter—high and bright and unmistakably belonging to a child.
Rose.
He walked up the garden path, noting the new additions since his last visit a few months ago: a small vegetable patch that was clearly Hermione's work, a child's broomstick (the kind that hovered only a few feet off the ground) leaning against the porch, a collection of garden gnomes that Ron had apparently given up trying to de-gnome.
Before Harry could knock, the door flew open.
"Uncle Harry!" Rose Weasley launched herself at him, all wild red curls and gap-toothed grin. At nearly four years old, she was the perfect combination of her parents—Hermione's clever eyes and Ron's freckles, with a personality that suggested she'd inherited the stubbornness of both.
Harry caught her easily, swinging her up into his arms. "Hey, Rosie. You've gotten so big!"
"I'm this many now!" Rose held up three fingers proudly, though Harry was fairly certain her birthday wasn't for another few months. "And I can almost read! Mummy's teaching me."
"Of course she is," Harry said, grinning. "Soon you'll be reading more than all of us."
"Harry!" Hermione appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "We weren't expecting you. Is everything alright?"
"Yeah, I just..." Harry set Rose down, suddenly uncertain. "Is this a bad time?"
"Don't be daft," Ron called from inside. "Get in here. We're just finishing dinner but there's plenty left."
Harry followed Hermione inside, Rose clinging to his hand and chattering about the fairy house she'd built in the garden and how a real fairy had visited it (though Ron muttered "garden gnome" under his breath, earning a glare from Hermione).
The cottage was warm and lived-in, with Rose's drawings covering the refrigerator and toys scattered across the sitting room floor. It smelled like home—like cooking and woodsmoke and the particular scent of magic that came from a house full of love.
Ron emerged from the kitchen, his hair slightly longer than it had been, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. "Alright there, mate? You look like you've seen a ghost. Well, another ghost. A new ghost."
"Ron," Hermione said warningly.
"What? I'm just saying he looks—"
"I had my meeting today," Harry interrupted, sinking onto the sofa. "At the Ministry. The new match."
Hermione and Ron exchanged glances. Rose, sensing adult conversation was about to happen, grabbed a stuffed dragon from the toy basket and settled on the floor to play.
"And?" Hermione prompted gently, sitting in the armchair across from Harry. "How did it go?"
Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "It was... unexpected."
"Unexpected good or unexpected bad?" Ron asked, dropping onto the sofa beside Harry.
"I don't know yet," Harry admitted. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more than usual. "It's complicated."
"Who is it?" Hermione asked. "Anyone we know?"
Harry took a breath. "Severus Snape."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ron's mouth fell open. Hermione's eyes went wide. Even Rose looked up from her dragon, sensing the shift in the room's atmosphere.
"SNAPE?!" Ron finally exploded, his voice going up an octave. "They matched you with SNAPE?!"
"Ron, volume," Hermione said automatically, glancing at Rose. Then, turning back to Harry, "Severus Snape? Our Potions professor Severus Snape?"
"How many Severus Snapes do you know?" Harry asked weakly.
"But he—you—he hated you!" Ron sputtered. "He made your life miserable for seven years! He—"
"He also saved my life," Harry interrupted quietly. "Multiple times. He protected students during the war. He—" Harry paused, remembering Snape's words in the meeting. "He spent his whole life protecting people, Ron. In his own way."
Ron looked like he wanted to argue, but Hermione held up a hand.
"Tell us what happened," she said. "From the beginning."
So Harry did. He told them about bumping into Snape in the corridor, about the shock of realizing they were matched, about Coordinator Pemberton's explanation of their compatibility. He told them about the conversation, about Snape's surprising honesty, about how they'd both wanted the same things—a child to love, to protect, to give everything they'd never had.
"He said he wanted someone to love without subterfuge or lies," Harry said softly. "And I... I understood that. I understood him, maybe for the first time."
Hermione was nodding slowly, her expression thoughtful. Ron still looked skeptical, but he was listening.
"He's changed," Harry continued. "Or maybe I've changed. Maybe we both have. But Hermione, you should have seen him. He wasn't the professor anymore. He was just... a man who wants to be a father. Who wants to do it right."
"And you think you can do this with him?" Hermione asked carefully. "After everything?"
Harry thought about it, really thought about it. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I think I want to try. We agreed on everything—how to raise a child, what kind of parents we want to be. And he was... he was kind, in his way. Honest. Real."
"Snape was kind?" Ron said incredulously. "Are we talking about the same person? Greasy git who took points from Gryffindor for breathing?"
"Ron," Hermione said sharply. Then, more gently, "He's not a professor anymore, love. And he did risk everything to help us win the war. He protected students when Voldemort controlled Hogwarts. He—" She paused, looking at Harry. "He loved your mother enough to spend his entire life trying to keep you safe, even when he resented you for looking like your father."
Harry felt something tighten in his chest. "Yeah," he said quietly. "He did."
Ron was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working. Finally, he sighed. "Look, I'm not going to pretend I like the bloke. He was a right bastard to us for years. But..." He glanced at Hermione, then back at Harry. "If he wants to be a father, he'll probably be dedicated to it. Snape never did anything halfway."
"That's true," Hermione agreed. "And Harry, he always protected children. Even when he was cruel to students, he never let them come to real harm. Remember how he tried to protect us from Umbridge? How he sent the Order to the Department of Mysteries?"
"I remember," Harry said.
"And you've changed too," Hermione continued. "You're not the angry teenager who hated him anymore. You understand what he did, why he did it. You've forgiven him."
Harry blinked. He had, hadn't he? Somewhere between that moment in the Pensieve and standing in the Shrieking Shack watching Snape bleed out, between learning the truth and these past four years of living with it—he'd forgiven him. He'd understood. The bitterness had faded, leaving behind something quieter. Respect, maybe. Gratitude. And maybe that understanding was enough to build something new on.
"So you think I should do this?" Harry asked.
"I think you should give it a real chance," Hermione said. "Meet with him. Get to know him as he is now, not as he was. See if you can actually work together."
"And if he's still a git?" Ron asked.
"Then I walk away," Harry said. "Pemberton said there's no pressure, no timeline. We're supposed to have dinner, talk more. See if this could actually work."
Ron shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Harry Potter, having dinner with Severus Snape. Never thought I'd see the day."
"Makes two of us," Harry muttered.
"Three," Hermione added. Then, more seriously, "But Harry, if anyone can make an unlikely partnership work, it's you. You've done more impossible things than this."
"Have I though?" Harry asked. "Because this feels pretty impossible."
"You died and came back," Ron pointed out. "You defeated Voldemort. You convinced a dragon to let you ride it. I think you can handle dinner with Snape."
Despite everything, Harry laughed. "When you put it that way..."
Rose chose that moment to climb onto Harry's lap, her stuffed dragon clutched in one hand. "Uncle Harry, are you sad?"
Harry's heart melted. "No, Rosie. I'm not sad."
"Good," she said decisively. "Because Mummy says being sad makes your tummy hurt. Does your tummy hurt?"
"A little," Harry admitted. "But I think it's going to be okay."
"Mummy can make you soup," Rose offered. "Soup makes everything better."
"That's very kind of you," Harry said, hugging her close. Over her head, he met Hermione's eyes, saw the warmth and understanding there.
They talked for another hour, Rose eventually falling asleep against Harry's chest while the adults discussed logistics and possibilities. What if it worked? What if Snape was serious about finding a house, about co-parenting, about building something together? What if Harry finally got the family he'd always wanted, just not in the way he'd ever imagined?
"You'll tell us how it goes?" Hermione asked as Harry prepared to leave, carefully transferring a sleeping Rose to Ron's arms.
"Of course," Harry promised.
"And if he's a prat, you'll hex him for us?" Ron added.
"Ron!"
"What? I'm just saying, if he reverts to his old ways—"
"I'll handle it," Harry said, smiling despite himself. "But I don't think he will. I think... I think he really wants this."
"So do you," Hermione said softly. "That's what matters."
Harry Apparated back to Grimmauld Place, the cottage's warmth still clinging to him like a shield against the darkness. But tonight, the silence didn't feel quite so oppressive. Tonight, it felt like possibility.
He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, his mind full of the meeting, of Snape's dark eyes and careful words, of the way they'd found common ground in the most unlikely of places. Would Snape actually write? Would he follow through, or would he wake up tomorrow and realize this was madness?
Harry changed into pajamas and slid into bed, staring at the ceiling. He thought about Hawthorn Cottage, about a child's laughter filling empty rooms, about teaching someone to fly and read and be kind. He thought about doing it alongside Severus Snape, of all people.
It was mad. It was impossible. It was terrifying.
But for the first time in a long time, Harry fell asleep with something that felt like hope.
Three days passed in a strange sort of limbo. Harry tried to keep busy—he visited Teddy, helped George at the shop, even started organizing some of the more cluttered rooms at Grimmauld Place. But his mind kept drifting back to the meeting, to Snape's words, to the possibility hanging in the air like a held breath.
Would he write? Or had he changed his mind?
It was Thursday morning when Harry got his answer.
He was in the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea and staring at the Prophet without really reading it, when a sharp tap at the window made him jump. A large black owl sat on the sill, its feathers gleaming like oil in the morning light. It was magnificent—easily the size of an eagle owl, with intelligent amber eyes that fixed on Harry with an almost unsettling intensity.
Harry opened the window, and the owl swooped in with practiced grace, landing on the back of a chair. It extended its leg, a roll of parchment tied there with black ribbon.
"Hello," Harry said, carefully untying the letter. "You're beautiful. What's your name?"
The owl clicked its beak but didn't respond, merely watching him with those unblinking eyes. Harry offered it some bacon from his breakfast plate, which the owl accepted with regal dignity before launching itself back out the window.
"Nyx," Harry murmured, watching it disappear into the grey London sky. "I'm calling you Nyx."
He turned his attention to the letter, his heart beating faster than it should. The parchment was high quality, the handwriting instantly recognizable—sharp, precise, slanting slightly to the right.
Potter,
I trust this letter finds you well.
I have been considering our conversation at the Ministry, and I believe it would be prudent to move forward with practical matters. To that end, I have taken the liberty of investigating potential properties that might suit our purposes, should we decide to proceed.
I have located a cottage on the outskirts of Hogsmeade that I believe warrants your inspection. Hawthorn Cottage sits on a quiet lane, with a garden that, while currently overgrown, has excellent potential. The property is well-situated—close enough to the village for convenience, yet private enough for a family. There is a restaurant nearby, Ivy Garden, which comes highly recommended.
The cottage itself requires some work, but the foundations are sound and the structure is solid. Three bedrooms, a spacious kitchen, a sitting room with good light. The garden has an old hawthorn tree that must be at least a century old. I believe it could be made into something quite suitable.
If you are amenable, I would like to invite you to view the property tomorrow, Friday, at 2:00 PM. We can meet at the Three Broomsticks and walk from there—it is only a short distance.
I understand if you require more time to consider. However, I have found that in matters such as these, it is often best to move forward with purpose rather than allowing doubt to take root.
I hope you are well.
Severus
Harry read the letter three times, his tea growing cold beside him.
Severus. Not Snape, not Professor Snape. Severus.
And he'd already been looking at houses. Had already found one, had already investigated it thoroughly enough to describe the garden and the nearby restaurant and the age of the hawthorn tree. He'd done all of this in three days, while Harry had been drifting around Grimmauld Place trying not to think too hard about any of it.
It was so typically Snape—taking charge, moving forward with purpose, making decisions and plans. But there was something else in the letter too, something in the careful descriptions and the invitation and the way he'd signed it. Something that felt almost... hopeful.
Harry set down the letter and pulled a fresh piece of parchment toward him. His hand hovered over it for a moment before he began to write.
Severus,
Thank you for your letter. I'd very much like to see Hawthorn Cottage. Tomorrow at 2:00 PM works perfectly—I'll meet you at the Three Broomsticks.
I'm impressed you've already found a place. It sounds perfect, actually. I've always liked Hogsmeade, and a garden sounds wonderful. I'm not much of a gardener myself, but I'd like to learn.
I'll see you tomorrow.
Harry
He read it over, then added one more line:
P.S. Your owl is beautiful. I've named her Nyx. I hope that's alright.
Harry tied the letter to the leg of his own owl and sent her off with instructions to find Severus Snape. Then he sat back in his chair, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
Hawthorn Cottage. A garden with a century-old tree. A restaurant called Ivy Garden. Three bedrooms—one for him, one for Snape, and one for...
For their child.
Tomorrow, he would see the house. Tomorrow, he would take another step forward into this strange, unlikely future.
Tomorrow, he would see Severus Snape again, and maybe—just maybe—they would start building something neither of them had ever expected.
Harry finished his tea, his mind already racing ahead to the meeting, to the cottage, to the possibility of everything he'd ever wanted finally coming true.
In the most impossible way imaginable.
Chapter 4: The cottage
Chapter Text
The morning air carried the crisp bite of early spring as Harry Apparated to the edge of Hogsmeade, materializing in the familiar alley behind Honeydukes. He'd chosen to arrive fifteen minutes early—not eager, he told himself, just punctual. The sky stretched overhead in a pale, cloudless blue, and weak sunlight filtered through the awakening trees, catching on patches of melting snow that still clung stubbornly to shadowed corners.
Harry adjusted his jacket and made his way through the village, passing the post office and Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop before turning onto Hawthorn Lane. The street lived up to its name—several ancient hawthorn trees lined the cobblestones, their branches just beginning to show the first hints of green. The buildings here were older than those on the main street, their stone walls covered in climbing ivy and moss, windows with thick glass that warped the light. It was quieter here, away from the bustle of the Three Broomsticks and the shops that catered to Hogwarts students.
He found number seven easily enough. Snape was already there, standing on the pavement with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the cottage. For a moment, Harry almost didn't recognize him. Gone were the severe black teaching robes, replaced by dark trousers and a charcoal grey jumper under a wool coat. His hair was still long, still black, but tied back loosely at the nape of his neck. He looked... ordinary. Human. The thought unsettled Harry more than it should have.
Snape turned as Harry approached, and something flickered across his face—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment that was almost warm.
"Potter. Punctual."
"Harry," Harry corrected automatically, then felt his face heat. "I mean—you can call me Harry. If we're going to..." He gestured vaguely at the cottage, at the situation, at everything.
Snape's eyebrow rose, but he inclined his head. "Very well. Harry." The name sounded strange in his voice, careful and unused. "Shall we?"
They both turned to look at the cottage properly.
Hawthorn Cottage sat back from the street, separated by a low stone wall and an iron gate that hung slightly crooked on its hinges. The garden was a wilderness—what had once been flowerbeds were now tangles of weeds and wild grass, and a narrow path of cracked flagstones led to the front door. But dominating everything, magnificent and ancient, was the hawthorn tree Snape had mentioned. It stood to the left of the cottage, its gnarled trunk thick as a barrel, branches spreading wide and beginning to bud with white blossoms. It must have been hundreds of years old.
The cottage itself was built of honey-colored stone, two stories with a steep slate roof and three chimneys. Ivy climbed the walls in thick ropes, framing the windows—four on the ground floor, three above. The front door was painted a faded blue, and there was a small porch with a bench that had seen better days. It was charming in a neglected way, like something from a storybook that had been left on a shelf too long.
"It's beautiful," Harry said quietly.
Snape glanced at him, something unreadable in his dark eyes. "It needs considerable work."
"But it's beautiful," Harry insisted.
They stood there for a moment longer, both taking it in. A breeze rustled through the hawthorn tree, and a few early petals drifted down like snow.
"The estate agent left me the key," Snape said finally, pulling it from his pocket. "Shall we look inside?"
The gate creaked as Snape pushed it open, and they walked up the overgrown path together. Harry found himself very aware of Snape beside him—the way he moved, the set of his shoulders, the fact that without his robes he seemed somehow less imposing and more real. It was disconcerting.
The front door stuck slightly, swollen with damp, but Snape shouldered it open and they stepped into a small entrance hall. The air inside was musty and cold, but not unpleasant—the smell of old wood and stone and time. Dust motes swirled in the sunlight that streamed through the windows.
To the left was a sitting room, empty except for an old sofa covered with a sheet. The fireplace was beautiful—stone with a carved mantle, big enough to actually heat the room. The floorboards were scuffed and worn but solid oak. To the right was a dining room, smaller, with built-in shelves along one wall.
"The kitchen is through here," Snape said, leading the way.
The kitchen was clearly the room that needed the most work. The cabinets were ancient, the countertops cracked, and the old stove looked like it belonged in a museum. But it was spacious, with a window over the sink that looked out onto the back garden, and there was a door that led outside.
"This would all need to be replaced," Snape said, running a hand along the counter. "The plumbing is likely outdated as well."
"But the space is good," Harry offered. "And that window—you'd get morning light."
Snape looked at him, and Harry thought he saw approval in his expression. "Yes. The bones of the house are sound. It's merely cosmetic issues and updates needed."
They moved through the ground floor—a small bathroom under the stairs, a storage room that could be a study or library. Then up the narrow staircase, their footsteps echoing on the wooden treads. The stairs were steep and the space tight; Harry had to press himself against the wall to let Snape go first, and he caught the scent of something—soap, maybe, or tea, something unexpectedly clean and ordinary.
Upstairs there were three bedrooms. The largest faced the front, with two windows that looked out over the hawthorn tree. The second was smaller, facing the back garden. And the third was the smallest, tucked under the eaves with a sloped ceiling and a single round window.
Harry stood in the doorway of the smallest room and felt something catch in his chest. He could see it suddenly, vividly—painted yellow or green, with a crib under that round window, toys on the floor, a mobile hanging from the ceiling. A child's room. His child's room.
"This could be the nursery," he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.
When he turned, Snape was watching him with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. "Yes," he said simply.
They were standing close in the narrow hallway, close enough that Harry could see the fine lines at the corners of Snape's eyes, the grey threading through his hair at the temples. Close enough to be uncomfortable, but neither of them moved.
"The master bedroom would need a proper bed," Snape said, stepping back and gesturing to the largest room. "And the bathroom upstairs needs complete renovation. But the structure is sound. No damp, no rot in the beams. It's been well-built and well-maintained, just... neglected."
"We could fix it," Harry said. "Couldn't we? I mean, magic can do a lot, and what it can't do, we could hire people for."
"We could," Snape agreed, and the word 'we' hung in the air between them, strange and significant.
They went back downstairs and out through the kitchen door into the back garden. If the front was overgrown, the back was a jungle. What had once been a lawn was now waist-high grass and wildflowers. There were the remains of vegetable beds along one side, and what might have been a herb garden near the door, now completely overrun. At the far end, Harry could see fruit trees—apple, maybe, and something else—and the stone wall that marked the property boundary.
"It's a disaster," Snape said, but there was something in his voice that suggested he didn't entirely mind.
"It's got potential," Harry countered. He waded into the grass, feeling it brush against his legs. "Look how much space there is. And those fruit trees—if we pruned them, they'd probably produce again."
Snape followed him into the garden, moving more carefully. "The soil is good here. One could grow a considerable variety of potion ingredients. Dittany, wormwood, valerian. And vegetables, of course. A child should know where food comes from."
Harry looked at him in surprise. "You garden?"
"I have been known to grow things, yes." Snape's tone was dry. "Potion ingredients are expensive and often of poor quality when purchased. Growing one's own is simply practical."
"I'd like to learn," Harry said impulsively. "Gardening, I mean. I never had the chance—the Dursleys made me do yard work, but that was just mowing and weeding, not actually growing things."
Something softened in Snape's expression. "It's not difficult. Merely requires patience and attention."
They walked through the wilderness together, Snape occasionally pointing out plants that had gone wild—mint that had spread everywhere, what might be lavender under all the weeds, a rosemary bush that had grown woody and huge. Harry found himself listening, watching Snape's hands as he gestured, noticing the way his voice changed when he talked about plants, becoming less sharp and more... engaged.
They ended up under the hawthorn tree, drawn there as if by mutual agreement. Up close, it was even more impressive—the trunk was deeply furrowed, the bark almost black with age, and the branches spread out in a canopy that would provide deep shade in summer. The blossoms were just beginning to open, white and delicate, and the scent was sweet and slightly strange.
"Hawthorn is protective," Snape said, looking up into the branches. "In the old magic, it guards against malevolent spirits. It's considered unlucky to cut one down."
"I wouldn't want to," Harry said. He reached out and touched the trunk, feeling the rough bark under his palm. "It's perfect."
They stood there in silence for a moment, both looking up through the branches at the blue sky beyond. It was peaceful in a way Harry hadn't expected. The awkwardness from their previous meetings was still there, hovering at the edges, but it was less sharp now. Easier to ignore.
"What do you think?" Snape asked finally.
Harry looked back at the cottage, taking it all in—the stone walls, the ivy, the overgrown garden, the ancient tree. He tried to imagine living here, raising a child here. Walking to Hogsmeade for groceries, tending the garden, sitting under this tree on summer evenings. And Snape would be here too, in whatever capacity they worked out. It should have felt strange, impossible even.
But it didn't.
"It feels right," Harry said honestly. "Like it could be home. Does that sound stupid?"
"No." Snape's voice was quiet. "I find myself... drawn to it as well. Despite the considerable work it would require."
"We could do it though, couldn't we? Fix it up, make it livable?"
"The renovations would take time. Several months, most likely, even with magic. The kitchen and bathrooms would need to be completely redone. The garden would need to be cleared and replanted. We'd need furniture, of course, and—" He stopped himself, and Harry realized he'd been cataloging everything in his head, planning it out.
"But you want to," Harry said. It wasn't quite a question.
Snape met his eyes, and for once his expression was unguarded. "Yes. I believe I do."
Harry felt something warm unfold in his chest. "Then let's do it. Let's make an offer."
"We should discuss the practical matters," Snape said, but he didn't sound reluctant. "The purchase, the renovations, the timeline. And we should discuss the... other aspects. The procedure itself."
"Right. Yeah." Harry suddenly felt nervous again, remembering what they were actually planning. A child. Snape's child. His child. Their child.
"We should eat," Snape said abruptly. "There's a restaurant nearby—Ivy Garden. It's quiet, and the food is adequate. We could discuss the details there."
"Okay," Harry agreed, grateful for the suggestion. His stomach was in knots, but he was also hungry, and the idea of sitting down somewhere neutral, somewhere public, felt safer than standing here under this tree having this conversation.
They locked up the cottage and walked back through Hogsmeade together. It was late morning now, and the village was busier—witches and wizards going about their shopping, a few students from Hogwarts who must have had a free period. Harry saw several people do double-takes when they recognized him, and a few more when they recognized Snape. He caught whispers, saw heads turn to follow them.
"Does that bother you?" Snape asked quietly. "The attention?"
"I'm used to it," Harry said, which wasn't quite an answer. "Does it bother you?"
"I've spent most of my life trying to avoid notice. Being seen with the famous Harry Potter rather defeats that purpose."
Harry glanced at him, trying to tell if he was joking. The corner of Snape's mouth might have twitched. Might have.
"Sorry," Harry said anyway.
"Don't be. It's hardly your fault you defeated the Dark Lord and became the wizarding world's favorite son."
There was definitely sarcasm there, but it was lighter than it used to be. Almost teasing. Harry found himself smiling.
Ivy Garden was tucked down a side street, easy to miss if you didn't know it was there. The front was covered in—predictably—ivy, and the windows were small and leaded. Inside it was cozy and dim, with dark wood tables and candles floating near the ceiling. It smelled like bread and herbs and something savory that made Harry's stomach growl.
"Professor Snape," the witch at the front greeted them, her eyes widening when she saw Harry. "And Mr. Potter. Welcome. Table for two?"
"Something quiet, if possible," Snape said.
She led them to a table in the back corner, tucked into an alcove that felt private despite the other diners. They sat across from each other, and Harry was suddenly very aware that this looked like—well, like a date. Two men having lunch together in a quiet restaurant. He felt his face heat and focused very intently on the menu.
"The stew is good here," Snape offered. "And the bread is fresh."
"Okay. Yeah. I'll have that."
They ordered—stew for both of them, and tea, and Snape added a bottle of wine "for the nerves, if nothing else." When the witch left, they sat in silence for a moment, both clearly trying to figure out how to start this conversation.
"So," Harry said finally. "The cottage. We should make an offer?"
"I'll contact the estate agent this afternoon. The asking price is reasonable, and given the state of it, we may be able to negotiate lower."
"I can pay for it," Harry said quickly. "I mean, I have the money from my parents, and Sirius left me everything, so—"
"We'll split it," Snape interrupted. "This is a joint venture, Potter—Harry. I won't be a kept man."
Harry blinked. "I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant. Nevertheless. We split the costs equally, or we don't proceed."
There was steel in his voice, and Harry recognized pride when he heard it. "Okay. Equal partners."
"Equal partners," Snape agreed, and some of the tension left his shoulders.
The wine arrived, and Snape poured them each a glass. Harry took a sip—it was red and rich and warmed him from the inside.
"We should discuss the timeline," Snape said. "The potion takes six months to brew, and it must be brewed during specific lunar phases. If we begin at the next new moon—which is in two weeks—it would be ready by autumn."
"And then?" Harry asked.
"And then the procedure itself. It's... not complicated, but it is intimate. We would both need to consume the potion, and then..." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Physical contact is required. Not intercourse," he added quickly, seeing Harry's expression. "But sustained contact. Skin to skin. The magic needs to... connect us. Build a bridge, as it were."
Harry's mouth was dry. "How long?"
"Several hours, typically. We would need to be in a safe, private location. The magic can be intense."
"And then I'd be pregnant?"
"If the magic takes, yes. You would know within a day or two."
Their food arrived, giving them both an excuse to not talk for a moment. Harry picked up his spoon and tried to organize his thoughts. This was really happening. They were really going to do this.
"Are you having second thoughts?" Snape asked quietly.
Harry looked up and found Snape watching him with an expression that was almost concerned. "No," he said, and realized it was true. "No, I'm not. Are you?"
"Constantly," Snape said dryly. "But I find myself proceeding regardless."
Harry laughed, surprising himself. "Yeah. Same."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, and gradually the tension eased again. The stew was good—rich and hearty, full of vegetables and tender meat. The bread was warm and crusty. Harry found himself relaxing, the wine helping, the food helping, the quiet atmosphere of the restaurant helping.
"Tell me something," Snape said eventually. "Why do you want this? Truly. You're young, you're wealthy, you're famous. You could have anything, anyone. Why choose this path?"
Harry set down his spoon and thought about how to answer. "I've spent my whole life being what other people needed me to be," he said slowly. "The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The hero. And I did it, I played the part, I defeated Voldemort. But now... now I just want something that's mine. Something real. A family. A child who I can love and protect and give everything I never had." He looked up and met Snape's eyes. "Does that make sense?"
"Yes," Snape said softly. "It does."
"What about you?" Harry asked. "Why are you doing this?"
Snape was quiet for a long moment, turning his wine glass in his hands. "I never expected to survive the war," he said finally. "I made my choices, played my role, and assumed I would die for it. When I didn't... I found myself adrift. I had no plans for a future I never thought I'd have." He paused. "I'm not a good man, Harry. I've done terrible things. But perhaps... perhaps I could be a good father. Perhaps that could be my redemption."
Harry felt something tighten in his throat. "You're not as bad as you think you are."
Snape's smile was bitter. "You don't know what I've done."
"I know you spent years as a spy. I know you protected me, even when you hated me. I know you loved my mother enough to betray Voldemort for her." Harry leaned forward. "I know you're brave, and clever, and you've already sacrificed more than most people ever will. That counts for something."
Snape stared at him, something raw and vulnerable in his expression. "You're very young," he said finally.
"I'm old enough to know what I want."
They finished their meal in a silence that felt less awkward and more companionable. When the bill came, they split it exactly in half, and Harry found himself smiling at Snape's insistence on counting out the precise number of Galleons.
Outside, the afternoon sun was bright and warm, and Hogsmeade was bustling with activity. They stood on the pavement, neither quite ready to leave yet.
"I'll contact the estate agent," Snape said. "And I'll begin gathering the ingredients for the potion. Some of them are rare and will take time to acquire."
"Let me know if I can help," Harry offered.
"I will." Snape hesitated, then extended his hand. "Partners, then."
Harry took his hand—it was cool and dry, the grip firm. "Partners."
They shook, and Harry felt something settle into place, like a decision being made, a path being chosen. When they let go, Snape inclined his head in that formal way of his.
"I'll be in touch, Harry."
"Yeah. Okay. I'll—I'll see you soon."
Snape turned and walked away, his dark coat billowing slightly in the breeze. Harry watched him go, then turned and headed back toward the Apparition point. His mind was full of images—the cottage, the hawthorn tree, the small room that could be a nursery. Snape's face when he talked about redemption. The feeling of possibility that had opened up inside him.
He was really doing this. They were really doing this.
And somehow, impossibly, it felt right.
Three days later, Nyx arrived at Grimmauld Place just as Harry was finishing breakfast. The large black owl swooped through the kitchen window with her usual dramatic flair, dropping a letter onto the table before helping herself to a piece of Harry's toast.
"You're getting bold," Harry told her, but he was smiling as he broke the Ministry seal on the envelope.
The letter was brief, written in Snape's precise, slanting script:
Harry,
I have spoken with Coordinator Pemberton. We are required to return to the Ministry to officially confirm our match and sign the necessary documentation. This will also allow us to schedule the procedure at St. Mungo's.
Are you available Thursday at ten o'clock? If this time does not suit, please let me know and I will arrange an alternative.
The cottage purchase is proceeding smoothly.
Severus
Harry read the letter twice, his stomach doing a complicated flip. This was it—the next step. Once they signed those papers, there would be no going back. The procedure would be scheduled, and within weeks, he could be pregnant.
The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
He pulled out a piece of parchment and wrote back quickly, confirming Thursday would work perfectly. Nyx hooted approvingly when he tied the letter to her leg, as if she knew she was carrying important correspondence.
"Tell him I'll be there," Harry said, and watched her disappear into the grey London morning.
Thursday arrived with unseasonable warmth, the kind of spring day that made people smile at strangers and linger in parks. Harry arrived at the Ministry early, his stomach tight with nerves, and found Snape already waiting outside Conference Room 2-B.
"You're punctual," Snape observed.
"Didn't want to keep you waiting," Harry said. "Or give myself time to panic."
Something that might have been amusement flickered across Snape's face. "A reasonable strategy."
Before Harry could respond, the door opened and Coordinator Pemberton appeared, looking pleased to see them. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Snape. Right on time. Please, come in."
The conference room looked exactly as it had before—the same comfortable chairs, the same soft lighting, the same sense of careful neutrality. But this time, the table was covered with documents, each stack precisely aligned.
"I'm delighted you've decided to move forward," Pemberton said as they sat down. "Your compatibility scores were quite remarkable, and I had a good feeling about this match." She pulled the first stack of parchment toward her. "Now, this is the official Match Confirmation Agreement. It outlines your mutual commitment to the program, your responsibilities as co-parents, and the Ministry's obligations to provide support and resources."
She walked them through each document methodically—the Match Confirmation, the Medical Consent Forms, the Co-Parenting Agreement, the Financial Responsibility Acknowledgment. Harry's hand cramped from signing his name so many times, but he read every word, conscious of Snape doing the same beside him.
"Excellent," Pemberton said when the last signature was in place. She tapped the documents with her wand, and they glowed briefly before filing themselves into a folder. "You are now officially matched participants in the Magical Breeding Program. Congratulations."
The word felt strange—congratulations for signing paperwork—but Harry supposed it was a milestone of sorts.
"Now, for the procedure itself," Pemberton continued. "Mr. Snape, I understand you've been coordinating with St. Mungo's regarding the use of your fertility potion?"
"I have," Snape confirmed. "Healer Pritchett has agreed to oversee the procedure. She's one of the most experienced obstetric healers in Britain."
"Wonderful. And when would you like to schedule it?"
Snape glanced at Harry. "I have all the necessary ingredients prepared. The potion will be ready by early next week. Would that suit you, Harry?"
Harry's mouth was dry. Next week. Seven days. "Yeah. Yes, that's fine."
"Shall we say Wednesday, then?" Pemberton suggested. "That gives you both time to prepare, and ensures Mr. Snape's potion is at optimal potency."
"Wednesday," Harry repeated, and it felt like sealing his fate.
They scheduled it for nine in the morning—early enough that Harry wouldn't spend the whole day working himself into a panic, Snape noted dryly. Pemberton gave them each a folder of information, shook their hands warmly, and sent them on their way with another round of congratulations.
In the corridor outside, Harry stood for a moment, clutching his folder, trying to process the fact that in less than a week, his entire life would change.
"Harry."
He looked up to find Snape watching him with an unreadable expression.
"We should talk," Snape said. "About the procedure. I want to make sure you understand exactly what will happen."
"Okay," Harry said. "Where—"
"There's a tearoom on Level Three. It's usually quiet this time of day."
The tearoom was indeed quiet—just a handful of Ministry workers on their breaks, scattered among the small tables. Snape chose a corner table, far from the others, and ordered tea for them both. Harry sat across from him, his folder still clutched in his hands like a shield.
When the tea arrived, Snape took a careful sip, then set down his cup and looked at Harry directly.
"I want to explain the procedure in detail," he said. "Not the sanitized version from the Ministry pamphlets, but the reality of what you'll experience. You deserve to know exactly what you're agreeing to."
Harry nodded, his throat tight.
Snape pulled out a piece of parchment and his wand, sketching a simple diagram as he spoke. "The potion I've developed works by temporarily restructuring the internal organs to create a functional womb. It's based on ancient fertility magic, combined with modern understanding of human anatomy and several innovations of my own design."
His voice had shifted into what Harry thought of as 'professor mode'—precise, methodical, almost clinical. It was oddly comforting.
"You'll take the potion first, along with a mild sedative to help manage the discomfort. The transformation takes approximately thirty minutes. During that time, your organs will shift—your intestines will compress and move upward, your bladder will reduce in size, and a womb will form in the space created. It's not painful, exactly, but it is... profoundly uncomfortable."
Harry swallowed hard. "Okay."
"Once the womb is fully formed, the healers will extract several eggs—typically three or four—using a specialized needle. This part is painful, which is why you'll be given a stronger pain potion beforehand. The extraction takes about fifteen minutes."
Snape's diagram showed a simplified version of the process, his neat lines and labels making it seem almost straightforward. Almost.
"The eggs will then be fertilized using my genetic material," Snape continued, and Harry noticed the faint color rising in his cheeks. "The process is similar to Muggle IVF technology—the eggs and sperm are combined in a specialized incubator that mimics the conditions of a natural womb. Over the next five days, the embryos will develop. Most will not be viable. If we're fortunate, one or two will reach the blastocyst stage."
"And then?" Harry asked.
"Then you'll return to St. Mungo's for the implantation. The most viable embryo will be transferred into your womb using a thin catheter. It's a quick procedure—less than ten minutes—and relatively painless. After that, we wait. If the embryo successfully implants in the uterine lining, you'll be pregnant."
Snape set down his wand, the diagram complete. "You'll need to take a maintenance potion every week to keep the womb stable. Miss a dose, and the womb will begin to deteriorate. The pregnancy itself will last the normal forty weeks, with all the usual symptoms and risks. And at the end, the baby must be delivered via caesarean section. The temporary womb cannot dilate for natural birth."
Harry stared at the diagram, trying to absorb it all. Thirty minutes of discomfort. Fifteen minutes of pain. Five days of waiting. Then forty weeks of pregnancy. It seemed both impossibly long and terrifyingly short.
"Harry." Snape's voice was quieter now, less clinical. "I want you to understand something. This procedure—this entire process—places the burden entirely on you. You'll experience the pain, the discomfort, the physical changes. You'll carry the risks. And I..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "I merely provide genetic material. It's not equal. It's not fair. And I want to apologize for that."
Harry looked up, surprised. "You don't need to apologize. I knew what I was signing up for."
"Did you?" Snape's dark eyes were intense. "Did you truly understand what it means to carry a child? The nausea, the exhaustion, the way your body will change in ways you cannot control? The risk of complications, of miscarriage, of—"
"Yes," Harry interrupted. "I understand. Maybe not all the details, but I understand enough. And I'm choosing this anyway."
"Why?" The question was blunt. "Why would you choose to bear this burden when you could have found a witch to carry the child instead?"
Harry thought about it, trying to put into words something he'd only felt instinctively. "Because it's mine," he said finally. "My child. My body. My choice. And because... I don't know, maybe I need to do this. To prove to myself that I can create something instead of just destroying things. That I can be more than just the person who killed Voldemort."
Snape was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, softly, "You have always been more than that, Harry."
The use of his first name, the gentleness in Snape's voice—it made Harry's chest tighten.
"Are there risks?" Harry asked, needing to move past the emotion. "Real risks, I mean. Not just discomfort."
"Yes," Snape said, and Harry appreciated his honesty. "The procedure itself carries minimal risk. Pregnancy always carries risks, especially for someone with a magically-created womb. There's a higher chance of miscarriage in the first trimester. A higher risk of preterm labor. And the caesarean section, while routine, is still major surgery."
"But people have done this successfully? Through the program?"
"Yes. hundreds of successful births so far, with more pregnancies currently ongoing. The success rate is approximately seventy percent—comparable to natural conception."
Seventy percent. Nearly three in four. Those were good odds, Harry told himself. Better than the odds he'd faced in the war.
"I'm scared," he admitted. "But I still want this. I still want to do this."
Snape's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Fear is not weakness, Harry. It's wisdom. Only a fool would approach this without trepidation."
"Are you scared?" Harry asked.
"Terrified," Snape said simply. "But not of the procedure. I'm afraid of failing. Of being inadequate as a father. Of repeating the mistakes of my own childhood." He paused. "But I want this child enough to face that fear. Just as you do."
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of what they were about to do settling over them like a blanket.
"I'll be there," Snape said finally. "Throughout the procedure, throughout the pregnancy. Whatever you need, whenever you need it. You won't face this alone."
"Promise?" Harry's voice came out smaller than he intended.
"I promise."
Harry believed him. Against all odds, against their entire history, he believed Severus Snape would keep his word.
They finished their tea and gathered their things. At the lifts, they stood side by side, not quite touching but close enough that Harry could feel the warmth radiating from Snape's body.
"Wednesday, then," Snape said as the lift arrived. "Nine o'clock. St. Mungo's, Fourth Floor, Obstetric Ward."
"I'll be there," Harry said.
"I know you will." Snape stepped into the lift, then turned back. "Harry. If you change your mind—if you wake up Wednesday morning and decide this isn't what you want—there will be no judgment. No recrimination. You understand that, yes?"
"I won't change my mind," Harry said.
"Nevertheless. The option exists."
The lift doors closed, and Snape was gone.
Harry Apparated back to Grimmauld Place in a daze. The house was quiet and dark, as always, but somehow it felt different now. Temporary. Soon he'd be leaving it behind for Hawthorn Cottage, for a new life, for everything that was coming.
He climbed the stairs to his bedroom and lay down on the bed, still fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. Wednesday. Five days away. In five days, he'd walk into St. Mungo's and let them rearrange his insides, extract his eggs, begin the process that might—if everything went right—result in a child.
His child. His and Snape's.
The thought was surreal.
Harry's hand drifted to his stomach, pressing against the flat plane of muscle beneath his shirt. In forty weeks, if everything worked, there would be a baby here. A tiny person, half him and half Snape, with its own personality and preferences and future. Someone who would call him Dad. Someone who would depend on him for everything.
The responsibility of it was staggering. But so was the possibility.
Harry closed his eyes and tried to imagine it—holding his child for the first time, seeing Snape's face when he met his son or daughter, watching them grow and learn and become their own person. Teaching them magic, reading them stories, keeping them safe from all the darkness in the world.
Being the father he'd never had.
His hand was still pressed to his stomach when he finally fell asleep, his dreams full of hawthorn trees and small hands reaching for his own.
Chapter 5: Appointment and fixing up the Cottage
Chapter Text
Wednesday morning arrived far too quickly. Harry had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling of his bedroom at Grimmauld Place, his mind racing through everything that could go wrong. What if the potion didn't work? What if his body rejected the transformation? What if the extraction failed? By the time pale dawn light crept through his curtains, he'd managed perhaps two hours of fitful sleep.
He dressed mechanically—comfortable clothes, nothing restrictive—and forced down half a piece of toast that sat like lead in his stomach. The appointment was at nine o'clock. He Apparated to the visitor's entrance at eight-forty-five, giving himself time to navigate St. Mungo's corridors without rushing.
The Department of Magical Fertility Services occupied the fourth floor, tucked away in a quiet corner that felt deliberately separate from the hospital's busier sections. Harry supposed people valued privacy for this sort of thing. The waiting area was small and tastefully decorated, with soft green walls and comfortable chairs that looked nothing like the typical hospital furniture. A witch at the reception desk looked up as he approached.
"Name?" she asked kindly.
"Harry Potter." He kept his voice low, though there was no one else waiting. "I have a nine o'clock appointment."
She consulted her ledger, running her finger down the page. "Ah yes, Mr. Potter. Egg extraction procedure. If you'll just have a seat, someone will be with you shortly."
Harry sat, his knee bouncing nervously. He checked his watch. Eight-fifty-two. Snape had said he'd be here. He'd promised. But what if something came up? What if he'd changed his mind about being present for—
"Mr. Potter?"
A Healer stood in the doorway—a woman in her fifties with graying hair pulled back in a neat bun and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. She wore the standard lime-green robes with a badge that read "Healer Pritchett."
"That's me." Harry stood quickly, perhaps too quickly, and had to steady himself.
"Nervous?" Healer Pritchett smiled sympathetically. "That's perfectly normal. Why don't you come with me, and we'll get you settled."
She led him down a corridor to a private room that looked more like a comfortable bedroom than a medical facility. There was a proper bed with white linens, a chair beside it, and medical equipment arranged discreetly along one wall. A hospital gown lay folded on the bed.
"If you'll change into the gown—opening at the back, I'm afraid—I'll return in a few minutes to go over the procedure." Healer Pritchett gestured to a privacy screen in the corner. "Take your time."
Alone, Harry undressed with shaking hands. The hospital gown felt thin and exposing, and he couldn't quite get the ties at the back to cooperate. He was still fumbling with them when he heard voices in the corridor.
"—appreciate you being here, Professor Snape. It's not often we have the potion creator present for a procedure."
"I have a vested interest in ensuring the potion performs as intended."
Harry's chest loosened at the sound of that familiar, sardonic voice. Snape was here. He'd come.
The door opened, and Snape entered behind Healer Pritchett, his black robes sweeping around him in that dramatic way they always did. His dark eyes found Harry immediately, and something in his expression softened almost imperceptibly.
"Potter." Snape moved to stand beside the bed, his presence somehow both commanding and reassuring. "How are you feeling?"
"Nervous," Harry admitted. "Didn't sleep much."
"Understandable." Snape's hand briefly touched Harry's shoulder—just a moment of contact, but it steadied something inside him. "The procedure is straightforward. You'll be uncomfortable, but not in danger."
Healer Pritchett bustled about, preparing potions and checking her instruments. "Professor Snape is quite right. Now, Mr. Potter, let me explain what's going to happen. First, you'll take the fertility potion—the one Professor Snape created specifically for you. It will initiate the temporary transformation, creating a functional womb and ovaries. This takes approximately fifteen to twenty minutes."
She held up a vial of silvery-blue liquid that seemed to shimmer in the light. "You'll also take a sedative and pain management potion. You'll remain conscious and aware, but you should feel significantly less discomfort. The transformation itself involves your internal organs rearranging to accommodate the temporary structures. Most patients describe it as pressure and a pulling sensation."
Harry swallowed hard. "Right. Okay."
"Once the transformation is complete, I'll use diagnostic spells to confirm everything has formed correctly. Then we'll proceed with the extraction. I'll use a specialized needle to retrieve the eggs from the ovaries. With the pain potion, you should only feel pressure and mild discomfort. We're hoping to retrieve at least three or four viable eggs."
"And then?" Harry's voice came out smaller than he'd intended.
"Then we'll need Professor Snape's contribution"—Healer Pritchett's tone remained professionally neutral—"which will be combined with your eggs in our laboratory. The fertilized eggs will develop for five days, and you'll return Monday morning for the implantation procedure."
Snape had moved to stand directly beside Harry's bed, close enough that Harry could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. "I'll remain with you throughout the extraction," Snape said quietly. "If that's acceptable."
"Yes." Harry's response was immediate. "Please."
"Well then." Healer Pritchett smiled. "Let's begin. Mr. Potter, if you'll lie back and get comfortable."
Harry settled against the pillows, acutely aware of how vulnerable he felt in the thin hospital gown. Snape remained standing beside him, his hands clasped behind his back in that professorial way, but his presence was anchoring.
"The fertility potion first." Healer Pritchett handed him the silvery-blue vial. "Drink it all at once. I won't lie—the taste is rather unpleasant."
Harry uncorked the vial and downed it in one go. Snape hadn't been exaggerating about the taste. It was like drinking liquid metal mixed with something bitter and organic, like crushed herbs and copper. He grimaced, fighting the urge to gag.
"Well done." Healer Pritchett immediately handed him another vial, this one containing a thick, honey-colored potion. "The sedative and pain management potion. This one tastes better."
It did—sweet and warm, sliding down his throat like mulled cider. Almost immediately, Harry felt a pleasant floating sensation beginning at his fingertips and toes, spreading inward.
"Now we wait," Healer Pritchett said, moving to her instruments. "The transformation should begin in a few minutes."
It started as a warmth in his lower abdomen, almost pleasant at first. Then the warmth became pressure—a strange, internal pulling sensation like his organs were shifting, making room for something new. Harry's hands gripped the bed sheets.
"That's normal," Healer Pritchett assured him, waving her wand in a complex pattern over his abdomen. "The transformation is beginning."
The pressure increased, becoming distinctly uncomfortable despite the pain potion. It felt like something was expanding inside him, pushing against things that didn't want to move. Harry gasped, his knuckles white on the sheets.
A hand covered his—warm, solid, real. Snape had taken his hand, his long fingers wrapping around Harry's with surprising gentleness.
"Breathe," Snape said quietly. "Focus on breathing. It will pass."
Harry focused on that hand, on the steady pressure of Snape's fingers, on the sound of his voice. The pulling sensation intensified, and he felt something shift deep inside him—a strange, alien feeling of organs rearranging themselves, of his body becoming something it had never been designed to be.
"You're doing very well," Healer Pritchett murmured, her wand moving in steady patterns. "The womb is forming nicely. Just a few more minutes."
Those few minutes felt like hours. The pressure came in waves, each one making Harry's breath catch. He squeezed Snape's hand harder than he probably should have, but Snape didn't pull away. Instead, his thumb moved in small, soothing circles against Harry's wrist.
"Almost there," Snape said, his voice low and steady. "You're doing well, Potter."
Finally—finally—the pressure began to ease. The pulling sensation faded to a dull ache, and Harry could breathe properly again. He felt strange, different, like his body wasn't quite his own anymore.
"Excellent." Healer Pritchett performed several more diagnostic spells, nodding with satisfaction. "The transformation is complete. You have a fully functional temporary womb and ovaries. Everything looks perfect." She glanced at Snape with professional respect. "Your potion work is remarkable, Professor."
"It performed as designed," Snape replied, but Harry caught the hint of satisfaction in his voice.
"Now for the extraction." Healer Pritchett retrieved what looked like an extremely long, thin needle from her instrument tray. "Mr. Potter, you'll feel pressure and some discomfort, but the pain potion should keep it manageable. Try to stay as still as possible."
Harry nodded, not trusting his voice. The sedative had made everything feel slightly unreal, like he was watching this happen to someone else. But Snape's hand was still holding his, and that felt real enough.
The needle was guided by magic, Healer Pritchett's wand directing it with precise movements. Harry felt it—a sharp pressure, then a deep, uncomfortable pulling sensation that made him gasp. His free hand clutched at the sheets.
"I know," Snape said quietly. "Focus on something else. Did I tell you about the time a student accidentally turned their cauldron into a chicken during my second year of teaching?"
"What?" Harry's voice came out strained.
"A chicken. Feathers, beak, the works. It proceeded to run around the classroom laying eggs that exploded on contact with the floor." Snape's tone was dry, almost conversational, but Harry recognized it for what it was—distraction. "I had to evacuate the entire dungeon."
Despite the discomfort, Harry felt his lips twitch. "You're making that up."
"I assure you, I am not. The student was a Hufflepuff named Cadwallader. He never did master the art of potion-making."
"First egg retrieved," Healer Pritchett announced. "Three more to go."
The process repeated—pressure, pulling, discomfort that wasn't quite pain but wasn't pleasant either. Snape kept talking, his voice a steady anchor, telling absurd stories about incompetent students and potion disasters. Harry focused on that voice, on the warmth of Snape's hand, on anything but what was happening to his body.
"And that," Snape concluded, "is why we no longer allow students to experiment with dragon liver unsupervised."
"All done." Healer Pritchett carefully placed the fourth egg in its preservation container. "Four beautiful, healthy eggs. Excellent quality, Mr. Potter."
Harry let out a shaky breath, his body sagging against the pillows. He felt wrung out, exhausted, and still slightly floaty from the sedative.
"Now." Healer Pritchett turned to Snape with professional courtesy. "Professor, if you'll come with me, we have a private room prepared for your contribution to the process."
Snape's hand slipped from Harry's, and he straightened, his expression carefully neutral. "Of course."
"You have to go come in a cup," Harry said, and then giggled—actually giggled—because the sedative had apparently destroyed his filter completely. "That's so weird."
Snape's pale cheeks flushed slightly pink. Healer Pritchett pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to smile. Another Healer who'd been assisting in the corner turned away, her shoulders shaking.
"Potter," Snape said tightly, "you are under the influence of a very strong sedative."
"I know." Harry giggled again. "But you still have to go wank into a—"
"I am leaving now." Snape turned on his heel with as much dignity as he could muster, his robes billowing dramatically. "Healer Pritchett, if you would show me to this private room."
"Of course, Professor." Healer Pritchett's voice was admirably steady, though her eyes were dancing with suppressed amusement. "Right this way."
They left, and Harry lay back against the pillows, still giggling softly to himself. Everything felt soft and distant and slightly hilarious. His body ached in strange places, but the pain potion kept it manageable.
The assistant Healer—a younger woman with kind eyes—checked his vital signs and adjusted his pillows. "How are you feeling, Mr. Potter?"
"Floaty," Harry said. "And tired. And weird. Is it supposed to feel this weird?"
"The sedative will wear off gradually over the next few hours. The transformation will reverse itself naturally over the next twenty-four hours. You'll feel some cramping and discomfort, but nothing severe." She handed him a glass of water. "Small sips."
Harry drank obediently, his eyelids growing heavy. Time seemed to slip and slide. He might have dozed—he wasn't sure. When he opened his eyes again, Healer Pritchett had returned.
"The eggs are being fertilized now," she explained, making notes on a clipboard. "They'll develop in our laboratory for five days. We'll monitor them carefully, and on Monday morning, you'll return for the implantation procedure. That's much simpler than today—no transformation needed, since your temporary womb will still be present."
"Okay," Harry mumbled. "Monday."
"You need to rest now. No Apparating alone—you're still too sedated. Is there someone who can take you home?"
"I will escort him."
Snape had returned, looking composed and dignified once more, though there was still a faint hint of color in his cheeks. He approached the bed, his dark eyes assessing Harry with professional concern.
"Can you stand?" Snape asked.
"Maybe?" Harry pushed himself up slowly, and the room tilted alarmingly. "Oh. No. Not really."
"I thought not." Snape moved closer, slipping an arm around Harry's shoulders to steady him. "We'll use Side-Along Apparition. Can you manage that?"
"Yeah." Harry leaned into Snape's solid warmth, too tired and drugged to feel embarrassed about it. "Grimmauld Place."
Healer Pritchett handed Snape several vials. "Pain potion—he should take one every six hours as needed. And this is a mild sleeping draught if he has trouble resting. He should stay in bed for the remainder of the day."
"Understood." Snape pocketed the vials, then helped Harry to his feet. Harry swayed, and Snape's arm tightened around him. "Steady."
The journey to the Apparition point was a blur. Harry was vaguely aware of Snape supporting most of his weight, of the curious looks from other patients and Healers, of the squeezing sensation of Side-Along Apparition. Then they were standing in the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place, and Harry's legs decided they were done cooperating.
"Up we go." Snape caught him before he could collapse, then—in a move that surprised them both—simply lifted Harry into his arms. "You're in no condition to manage the stairs."
Harry's head lolled against Snape's shoulder. He should probably protest, should insist he could walk, but everything felt so distant and soft, and Snape was warm and solid and safe.
Snape carried him up the stairs to his bedroom, navigating the narrow hallway with practiced ease. He set Harry down on the bed with surprising gentleness, then set about removing Harry's shoes.
"Under the covers," Snape instructed, pulling back the duvet.
Harry crawled under obediently, sighing as his head hit the pillow. His body ached—a deep, strange ache in places that had never ached before—but the bed was soft and warm and perfect.
Snape moved around the room with quiet efficiency, setting the pain potions on the bedside table, filling a glass with water, drawing the curtains to dim the afternoon light. Then he did something unexpected—he pulled the blanket up to Harry's shoulders, tucking it around him with careful precision.
"Sleep," Snape said quietly. "The sedative will wear off in a few hours, but you'll likely sleep through it. Take the pain potion when you wake if you need it."
"Snape?" Harry's eyes were already closing.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For being there. For staying."
There was a pause, and then Harry felt a hand briefly touch his hair—just a moment, feather-light, almost tentative.
"Rest, Potter."
Harry heard footsteps, the soft click of the door closing. He was asleep before Snape reached the stairs.
Harry woke to darkness and the distant sound of London traffic filtering through his bedroom window. For a moment, he lay still, disoriented, trying to remember why his body felt so strange. Then it came rushing back—the hospital, the procedure, Snape's hand in his, the pulling sensation deep inside him.
He shifted carefully, testing his body's response. Everything ached. Not the sharp pain of injury, but a deep, pervasive soreness that seemed to radiate from his core. His abdomen felt tender and swollen, though when he pressed his hand against it through the blanket, it felt no different than usual.
The bedside clock read 9:47 PM. He'd slept for nearly seven hours.
Harry pushed himself upright slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at muscles he'd never been aware of before. His mouth was dry, his bladder uncomfortably full. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, gripping the bedpost until the wave of dizziness passed.
The bathroom felt miles away. He shuffled across the hall, one hand braced against the wall, feeling like he'd aged fifty years. When he finally reached the toilet, he sat rather than stood—his legs felt too shaky to trust.
Afterward, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. He looked pale, shadows under his eyes, his hair even more chaotic than usual. But otherwise, he looked exactly the same. No visible sign of what had been done to him, of the fundamental way his body had been altered.
Harry lifted his shirt, studying his stomach. Flat as always, the faint lines of muscle definition he'd developed from years of Quidditch still visible. But when he pressed his palm against his lower abdomen, he could feel it—a subtle fullness, a warmth that hadn't been there before. His organs had been rearranged. There was a womb inside him now, temporary but real, waiting.
The thought made him dizzy again. He gripped the edge of the sink, breathing slowly until the feeling passed.
Tea. He needed tea, and probably food, though the thought of eating made his stomach uncertain.
Harry made his way downstairs carefully, one hand on the banister. Grimmauld Place was silent around him, the portraits sleeping in their frames, Kreacher presumably in his cupboard. The house felt emptier than usual, the silence pressing in.
The kitchen was dark. Harry flicked his wand at the lamps, and warm light flooded the room. That's when he saw it—a piece of parchment on the kitchen table, held down by his favorite mug.
Harry picked up the note, recognizing Snape's precise handwriting immediately.
Potter,
You will likely wake disoriented and uncomfortable. This is normal. Take the pain potion if needed—no more than one dose every six hours. Eat something light before bed, even if you don't feel hungry. Toast or crackers will suffice.
The Healers report that all four eggs were successfully retrieved and fertilization has begun. I will receive updates on their development and will inform you accordingly.
Owl if you need anything. I mean that literally—do not hesitate.
—S. Snape
P.S. There is fresh bread in the cupboard and soup in the cold box. Heat the soup gently; do not let it boil.
Harry read the note twice, something warm unfurling in his chest. Snape had gone to the shops. Had bought him food, left instructions, told him to reach out if he needed help. It was so unexpectedly thoughtful that Harry had to sit down.
He set the note aside carefully and went to investigate the cupboard. Sure enough, there was a fresh loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper, along with butter and jam. In the cold box, he found a container of what looked like chicken soup.
Harry heated the soup as instructed, watching it carefully to make sure it didn't boil. He buttered two slices of bread and carried everything to the table, sitting in the chair where Snape's note had been.
The soup was perfect—rich and savory, with vegetables and tender pieces of chicken. It settled his stomach and chased away some of the lingering wooziness. Harry ate slowly, reading Snape's note again between bites.
All four eggs were successfully retrieved and fertilization has begun.
Four potential embryos. Four chances. One of them might become his child.
Harry pressed his hand to his stomach again, feeling that strange new warmth. In a few days, one of those embryos would be placed inside him. And then he'd wait to see if it took, if it grew, if it became a baby.
The enormity of it hit him all at once. He was really doing this. He was going to be a father.
Harry finished his soup and cleaned up, moving slowly, careful not to jar his aching body. He took one of the pain potions Snape had left, grimacing at the bitter taste, then made his way back upstairs.
Sleep came easier this time, and his dreams were full of small hands and bright laughter.
Thursday morning arrived with weak sunlight filtering through the curtains and a knock at the door.
Harry woke slowly, his body still protesting movement but less insistently than the night before. He pulled on a dressing gown and made his way downstairs, wondering who would be visiting at—he checked the hall clock—nine in the morning.
He opened the door to find Snape on the doorstep, dressed in his usual black but looking somehow less severe in the morning light. He was carrying two bags that appeared to be from a Muggle grocery.
"Snape," Harry said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on you," Snape said simply. "May I come in?"
Harry stepped aside, suddenly aware that he was still in his pajamas, his hair undoubtedly a disaster. "Yeah, of course. Sorry, I just woke up."
"It's nine o'clock."
"I know. I'm usually up earlier, but..." Harry gestured vaguely at himself. "Everything still hurts."
Snape's expression softened slightly. "That's to be expected. The pain should diminish over the next few days." He moved past Harry toward the kitchen, clearly familiar enough with the layout from yesterday. "I brought more supplies. And additional pain potion—the hospital's standard dosage is insufficient for the level of discomfort you're likely experiencing."
Harry followed him into the kitchen, watching as Snape unpacked the bags with brisk efficiency. More bread, eggs, fresh fruit, vegetables, several containers of what looked like homemade meals.
"You didn't have to do all this," Harry said, though he was touched by the gesture.
"You need to eat properly," Snape replied, not looking at him. "Your body is under considerable strain. Proper nutrition will aid in recovery and prepare you for the implantation."
He pulled out a small wooden box and set it on the table. "Pain potion. My own recipe—more effective than the standard hospital formulation and with fewer side effects. Take one dose every eight hours as needed."
"Thank you," Harry said quietly. "Really. This is... you didn't have to."
Snape finally looked at him, his dark eyes unreadable. "We're in this together, Potter. That means I ensure you're properly cared for."
Something in Harry's chest tightened. He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Sit," Snape instructed. "I'll make tea."
Harry sat, watching as Snape moved around his kitchen with surprising ease, finding the kettle, the tea tin, the mugs. It should have felt strange, having Snape in his space like this, but instead it felt oddly natural.
"How are you feeling?" Snape asked as he waited for the water to boil. "Beyond the pain."
"Weird," Harry admitted. "Everything feels different. Not bad, just... not normal. Like my body doesn't quite fit right anymore."
"That will pass as you adjust to the changes. The temporary womb is fully integrated now, but your body is still adapting to its presence." Snape poured the tea and brought both mugs to the table, sitting across from Harry. "Any nausea? Dizziness?"
"A bit dizzy when I first got up yesterday, but it passed. No nausea."
"Good. That suggests you're tolerating the transformation well." Snape wrapped his hands around his mug. "I spoke with Healer Pritchett this morning. The embryos are developing as expected. All four are currently viable."
Harry's breath caught. "All four?"
"Yes. They'll continue monitoring them through the weekend. By Monday, they'll select the strongest one for implantation." Snape paused, then added more quietly, "There's a very good chance this will work, Potter."
"Harry," Harry said impulsively. "You can call me Harry. I mean, you're going to be... we're going to..." He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
Snape's expression was carefully neutral. "Harry, then. And you may call me Severus, if you wish."
"Severus," Harry tested the name, finding it strange on his tongue. "Okay."
They drank their tea in silence for a moment, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Harry found himself studying Snape—Severus—in the morning light. He looked tired, Harry realized. There were shadows under his eyes, tension in his shoulders.
"Did you sleep?" Harry asked.
Severus raised an eyebrow. "Some."
"You're worried."
"I'm..." Severus paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Invested in the outcome. Yes."
Harry understood. This wasn't just about him anymore. Severus wanted this child too, wanted it enough to go through this complicated process, to check on Harry, to bring him food and better pain potions.
"The cottage," Harry said, changing the subject. "You mentioned putting in an offer?"
Severus's expression lightened slightly. "It's been accepted. Hawthorn Cottage is ours, pending the final paperwork. I thought we could begin renovations after the implantation, once we know..." He didn't finish the sentence, but Harry understood.
Once we know if I'm pregnant.
"What kind of renovations?" Harry asked.
"The structure is sound, but it needs updating. New plumbing, electrical work—both Muggle and magical. The kitchen should be expanded. And we'll need to prepare the nursery, of course." Severus pulled out a small notebook from his pocket. "I've been making lists."
Harry couldn't help but smile. "Of course you have."
"Organization is essential when undertaking a project of this magnitude." But there was the faintest hint of amusement in Severus's voice.
They spent the next hour discussing the cottage, Severus showing Harry sketches he'd made of potential layouts, color schemes, furniture arrangements. Harry was surprised by how much thought Severus had already put into it, how he'd considered not just practicality but comfort, warmth, the kind of home a child should grow up in.
"You've really thought this through," Harry said, studying a sketch of the nursery.
"I've had nothing but time to think for the past four years," Severus replied quietly. "This is the first thing I've wanted in a very long time. I intend to do it properly."
Harry looked up, meeting his eyes. "Me too."
Severus held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. "Then we'll do it properly together."
The weekend passed in a strange blur of recovery and anticipation. Severus visited every day, bringing food and checking on Harry's progress. On Friday, he stayed for lunch. On Saturday, he helped Harry with some light cleaning—ignoring Harry's protests that he was perfectly capable—and ended up staying for dinner.
By Sunday, it felt almost normal to have Severus in his kitchen, the two of them cooking together, talking about the cottage and their plans and carefully avoiding the topic that dominated both their thoughts: Monday's implantation.
Harry found himself increasingly aware of his body, of the strange new presence inside him. The pain had faded to a dull ache, but the sense of difference remained. Sometimes he'd catch himself with his hand pressed to his lower abdomen, feeling for that warmth.
Sunday night, he barely slept. He lay awake staring at the ceiling, his mind racing. Tomorrow, they would put an embryo inside him. Tomorrow, he might become pregnant. Tomorrow, everything could change.
Monday morning dawned grey and drizzly. Harry dressed carefully in comfortable clothes, his hands shaking slightly as he buttoned his shirt. He'd agreed to meet Severus at St. Mungo's rather than traveling together—they both needed time to process this privately.
But when Harry arrived at the hospital's reception desk, Severus was already there, standing near the windows with his hands clasped behind his back. He turned as Harry approached, and something in his expression eased.
"Potter—Harry," he corrected himself. "Good morning."
"Morning," Harry replied, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "You're early."
"As are you."
They stood there for a moment, neither quite sure what to say. Then Healer Pritchett appeared, smiling warmly.
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Snape. Right on time. Come with me—I have excellent news."
She led them to the same examination room as before, but this time the atmosphere felt different. Less clinical, more hopeful.
"All four embryos developed successfully," Healer Pritchett announced, pulling out a small magical viewing device. "Which is quite remarkable, actually. The success rate is typically around seventy-five percent."
She activated the device, and suddenly the air above it shimmered, showing four tiny clusters of cells, each one glowing faintly with magical energy.
"These are your embryos," she said softly. "Three days old now. You can see they're all developing beautifully."
Harry stared at the images, his throat tight. They were so small, so fragile, but they were real. One of them might become his child.
"We've selected this two for implantation," Healer Pritchett continued, highlighting one of the embryos. "They are showing the strongest development and the highest magical resonance. The procedure will be much simpler than the extraction—no sedation required, minimal discomfort. It should take no more than fifteen minutes. The odds of twins aren't none but usually only one will stick."
"Twins?" Harry asked, unable to look away from the glowing embryo. "And then?"
"Yes, we can do just one but usually after all this work the parents prefer if we insert multiple, but that is your choice."
"Yes, two sounds manageable," Harry said, eyeing Severus for his reaction, he just nodded. "And then what?"
"And then we wait. It takes ten to fourteen days for the embryo to implant in the uterine lining and for pregnancy hormones to become detectable. You'll need to take your weekly potion to maintain the womb, avoid strenuous activity, and try not to stress—though I know that's easier said than done."
She smiled kindly. "You'll come back in two weeks for a pregnancy test. If it's positive, we'll schedule your first scan."
Harry nodded, his heart pounding. Two weeks. Fourteen days of not knowing.
"I'll give you a mild pain potion first," Healer Pritchett said, producing a small vial of pale blue liquid. "Just to take the edge off." Harry accepted it, and Severus's hand found his free one as he drank. The potion tasted faintly of peppermint and honey, and within moments, a gentle warmth spread through his abdomen, easing the lingering soreness from the extraction.
"Shall we begin?" Healer Pritchett asked gently.
Harry looked at Severus, who had been silent throughout the explanation. Their eyes met, and Harry saw his own nervousness reflected back at him.
"Yes," Harry said. "Let's do this."
The implantation was indeed much simpler than the extraction. Harry lay on the examination table, his shirt pulled up to expose his abdomen. Healer Pritchett explained each step as she worked, her wand movements precise and careful.
"This is a specialized catheter," she said, showing them a thin, flexible tube that glowed faintly. "It will carry the embryo into the uterus. You'll feel some pressure, but it shouldn't be painful."
Severus had taken up his position beside the bed without being asked, and when Harry's hand reached out blindly, Severus caught it, his grip firm and steady.
"Ready?" Healer Pritchett asked.
Harry nodded, not trusting his voice.
The sensation was strange—a pressure deep inside, a sense of something foreign moving through him. Not painful, but intensely uncomfortable. Harry focused on breathing, on Severus's hand in his, on the knowledge that this was almost over.
"The embryos are in position," Healer Pritchett murmured. "Releasing now."
There was a moment of intense pressure, and then it eased. Harry gasped, his free hand flying to his stomach.
"All done," Healer Pritchett said warmly. "The embryos are now in your uterus. With any luck, it will implant over the next few days and begin developing into a fetus. "
Harry stared at the ceiling, his hand still pressed to his abdomen. There was a potential baby inside him. Right now. Two tiny cluster of cells that might become a person.
"How do you feel?" Severus asked quietly.
"Terrified," Harry admitted. "And hopeful. And completely overwhelmed."
"That's entirely normal," Healer Pritchett assured him. "Now, let's go over the aftercare instructions."
She explained everything carefully: the weekly potion schedule, the warning signs to watch for, the importance of rest and proper nutrition. Harry tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting to the embryo inside him, wondering if it was already beginning to attach, to grow.
Finally, Healer Pritchett handed him a small vial of silvery liquid. "Your first weekly potion. Take it every Monday morning. Don't miss a dose—the womb will begin to deteriorate without it."
"I won't," Harry promised.
"Good. Now go home, rest for the remainder of the day, and try not to obsess over every little sensation. I know it's difficult, but stress won't help matters." She smiled. "I'll see you both in two weeks."
They left the hospital together, stepping out into the grey London morning. The rain had stopped, but the streets were still wet, reflecting the cloudy sky.
Harry stood on the pavement, suddenly unsure what to do with himself. Go home? Back to Grimmauld Place and its empty rooms? The thought made his chest tight.
"Would you like company?" Severus asked, as if reading his mind. "Or would you prefer to be alone?"
Harry looked at him—really looked at him. Severus's expression was carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes, a vulnerability that Harry recognized because he felt it too.
"Company," Harry said. "Definitely company. I don't think I can be alone right now."
Something in Severus's posture relaxed. "There's a café near here. Muggle establishment, but they serve decent food. We could get lunch."
"That sounds perfect."
They walked in silence for a few blocks, both of them processing what had just happened. Harry kept his hand pressed to his stomach, unable to stop himself, feeling for any change, any sign. But of course there was nothing yet. It was too soon.
The café was small and warm, with mismatched furniture and the smell of fresh coffee. They found a table in the corner, away from the other patrons, and ordered sandwiches and tea.
"Two weeks," Harry said once they were settled. "That's going to be the longest two weeks of my life."
"Indeed," Severus agreed. He was turning his teacup in his hands, not drinking, just holding it. "The waiting is... difficult."
"Are you scared?" Harry asked.
Severus looked up, meeting his eyes. "Terrified," he admitted quietly. "What if it doesn't work? What if we have to start over?"
"Then we start over," Harry said, surprised by his own certainty. "We keep trying until it works."
"And if it does work?" Severus's voice was barely above a whisper. "What if in two weeks, we find out you're pregnant? What if this is real?"
Harry felt his breath catch. "Then we figure it out. Together. We move into Hawthorn Cottage and we prepare the nursery and we learn how to be parents." He paused, then added, "We're in this together, remember? You said that."
"I did." Severus's expression softened slightly. "And I meant it."
Their food arrived, and they ate slowly, talking about inconsequential things—the cottage renovations, books they'd been reading, Severus's work developing new potions. But underneath it all was the awareness of what might be happening inside Harry's body right now, the embryo that might be taking root, beginning its transformation into a life.
When they finally left the café, the sun had broken through the clouds, casting weak light across the wet pavement.
"I should let you rest," Severus said. "Healer Pritchett's orders."
"Will you..." Harry hesitated, then pushed forward. "Will you check on me? Like you did last week?"
"Of course." Severus's voice was firm. "I'll visit tomorrow. And you have my floo address if you need anything before then."
"Okay." Harry felt oddly reluctant to leave, to go back to Grimmauld Place alone. But Severus was right—he needed to rest.
They stood there for a moment, neither quite ready to say goodbye.
"Harry," Severus said finally. "Whatever happens in two weeks, whatever the outcome... I'm glad we're doing this together."
Harry felt something warm bloom in his chest. "Me too."
They parted ways at the Apparition point, Severus disappearing with a soft crack. Harry stood there for a moment longer, his hand pressed to his stomach, feeling that strange new warmth.
There might be a baby growing inside him. Right now. His and Severus's child.
The thought was terrifying and wonderful and completely overwhelming.
Harry Apparated home, already counting down the days until he would know for sure.
Severus stood in the cramped pantry that served as his brewing room at Spinner's End, staring at the cauldron before him with mounting frustration. The Draught of Peace he'd been attempting for the past hour was the wrong color—a muddy grey instead of the proper silver-blue—and giving off acrid smoke that made his eyes water.
He'd added the powdered moonstone too early. A mistake a first-year student might make, not a Potions Master with decades of experience.
With a sharp flick of his wand, he vanished the ruined potion and set the cauldron aside. His hands were shaking slightly. He pressed them flat against the scarred wooden workbench, taking a slow breath.
Twelve days. Twelve more days until they would know if the implantation had worked, if Harry was pregnant, if there was a child growing inside him right now.
Severus couldn't focus. Couldn't brew. Couldn't do anything but count the hours and imagine every possible outcome, each more terrifying than the last.
The house pressed in around him—dark, cramped, reeking of old potions and older memories. His father's house. The walls still seemed to echo with shouted curses and his mother's muffled crying. Severus had lived here his entire childhood, had returned here after the war because he had nowhere else to go, and every day the shadows felt heavier.
This was no place to raise a child. This was no place for anyone to live.
He thought of Hawthorn Cottage, sitting empty on its quiet street in Hogsmeade. Waiting. Full of possibility.
Severus grabbed his cloak and Apparated before he could second-guess himself.
The cottage looked worse in daylight than it had during their viewing. The stone walls were grey with decades of grime, the ivy had grown wild and invasive, several shutters hung crooked on broken hinges, and the windows were so filthy they were nearly opaque.
Good. He needed work. He needed something to do with his hands, something to occupy his mind besides the relentless anxiety gnawing at his chest.
Severus rolled up his sleeves and began with the exterior walls.
Magic could have done it in minutes—a few well-placed Scouring Charms and the stone would gleam. But Severus found himself reaching for the manual approach instead, filling a bucket with hot water and soap, summoning brushes and rags. He needed the physical labor, needed to feel his muscles strain and his hands work.
He started at the front of the house, scrubbing at years of accumulated dirt and moss. The water ran grey, then brown, then black as he worked. His shoulders began to ache. Sweat dampened his shirt despite the cool spring air.
Slowly, painstakingly, the honey-colored stone emerged from beneath the grime. It was beautiful—warm and golden in the afternoon sun, the kind of stone that would glow in the evening light. The kind of stone that made a house look like a home.
Severus worked until his arms trembled with fatigue, until his back screamed in protest, until the sun began to sink toward the horizon. When he finally stepped back, the entire front wall gleamed clean, and his hands were raw and red.
He Apparated back to Spinner's End, ate a perfunctory meal, and fell into bed too exhausted to dream.
The next morning, he returned to the cottage before dawn.
The ivy needed attention—it had grown rampant, pulling at the mortar between stones, creeping into window frames, threatening the structural integrity of the walls. Severus spent hours carefully trimming it back, using magic to guide the vines into decorative patterns rather than destructive sprawl. He shaped it around the windows, trained it along the roofline, created a frame of green that enhanced rather than overwhelmed.
His fingers were scratched and bleeding by the time he finished, sap sticky on his palms, but the cottage looked transformed. Charming. Inviting.
He moved on to the shutters next. Several were beyond repair, the wood rotted through. He vanished those and conjured new ones, matching the style of the originals. The ones that could be saved, he repaired with careful spellwork, replacing broken hinges and warped boards. Then he painted them all a deep forest green that complemented the honey stone and made the windows stand out.
The work was meditative. Brush stroke after brush stroke, watching the color transform weathered grey wood into something fresh and new. His mind quieted. The anxiety receded to a dull background hum.
He thought about Harry as he worked. Harry, who might be carrying their child right now. Harry, who had looked so vulnerable on that hospital bed, who had trusted Severus to stay beside him through the procedure. Harry, who had asked him to check in, who seemed to want Severus around.
The thought made something warm unfurl in Severus's chest, something he was afraid to examine too closely.
He finished the shutters as the sun set, then spent another hour repairing broken roof tiles, ensuring there would be no leaks when the spring rains came. By the time he Apparated home, his entire body ached, and he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
The third day, Severus tackled the garden.
It was a disaster. Years—possibly decades—of neglect had turned what must have once been a beautiful space into a jungle of weeds, brambles, and overgrown shrubs. The paths were invisible beneath the growth. The flower beds were indistinguishable from the lawn.
Severus stood at the edge of the chaos and felt something fierce rise in his chest. This would be where his child played. Where they learned to garden, to appreciate growing things, to understand that with care and patience, beautiful things could flourish.
He started pulling weeds.
It was brutal work. The brambles caught at his clothes and skin, leaving long scratches across his forearms. The roots of some weeds went deep, requiring both magic and physical strength to extract. His back screamed. His knees ached from kneeling. Dirt worked its way under his fingernails, into the creases of his palms, smudged across his face when he wiped away sweat.
But slowly, the garden began to reveal itself.
He found roses buried beneath the weeds—old varieties, their canes thick and woody but still alive. He pruned them back carefully, removing dead wood, shaping them into something that could bloom again. There was lavender, half-choked by grass but still fragrant when he brushed against it. Herbs—rosemary, thyme, sage—struggling but surviving in a corner near the kitchen door.
At the back of the garden stood two fruit trees, so overgrown he'd initially mistaken them for wild growth. An apple and a pear, their branches tangled and reaching toward the sky. Severus spent hours pruning them, removing dead limbs and crossing branches, opening up their centers to light and air. They were old trees, probably planted when the cottage was built, and with proper care they would bear fruit again.
And then there was the hawthorn.
It stood at the heart of the garden, ancient and gnarled, its trunk thick and twisted with age. Someone had planted it deliberately, had built the garden around it. Hawthorns were protective trees, guardians of home and hearth. This one had stood here for over a century, weathering storms and seasons, and its presence felt like a blessing.
Severus cleared the weeds from around its base with reverent care, pruned away dead branches, and stood beneath its canopy feeling something he couldn't quite name. Hope, perhaps. Or the fragile beginning of belief that this might actually work, that he might actually get to build a life here.
He worked until his hands were blistered and bleeding, until his robes were filthy and torn, until the sun set and he could barely stand. The garden was far from finished, but he'd made a start. He could see the bones of it now, the structure beneath the chaos.
He Apparated home and stood under a hot shower for twenty minutes, watching dirt and blood swirl down the drain, feeling his muscles throb with exhaustion.
He slept dreamlessly.
The interior of the cottage demanded attention next.
The kitchen was the worst—rotted cabinets, a rusted sink, a cooker that looked like it might explode if anyone tried to use it. Severus ripped it all out, vanishing the unsalvageable pieces and setting aside anything that could be repaired or repurposed.
He installed new cabinets, conjuring them from solid oak and fitting them precisely into place. A deep farmhouse sink. A reliable cooker with enough burners for serious cooking. Countertops in warm butcher block that would age beautifully with use. He added open shelving for dishes and glasses, hooks for pots and pans, a rack for herbs to dry.
He built the kind of kitchen he'd always wanted, the kind where a family could gather, where a child could stand on a stool and help with cooking, where the smell of fresh bread and simmering soup would fill the air.
The thought made his chest ache.
He moved through the other rooms with the same meticulous care. The sitting room got a fresh coat of paint in warm cream, the trim picked out in the same forest green as the shutters. He refinished the hardwood floors, getting down on his hands and knees to sand away years of wear, then applying oil until they glowed honey-gold.
The second bedroom—the one that would be his—he painted a soft grey-blue. Calming. Peaceful. A place where he might actually be able to sleep without nightmares.
And then there was the nursery.
Severus stood in the doorway of the small room at the back of the house, looking at the peeling wallpaper and water-stained ceiling, and felt his throat tighten.
This was where his child would sleep. Where he would rock them in the middle of the night, where he would read them stories, where he would watch them grow from infant to toddler to child.
If it worked. If Harry was pregnant. If the embryo had implanted, if it was developing properly, if nothing went wrong.
Severus pressed his palm against the doorframe and took a shaky breath.
He couldn't think like that. He had to believe it would work. Had to believe that in twelve months, there would be a baby in this room, and he would be a father.
He painted the nursery sage green, a soft color that would work for any child. He repaired the ceiling, replaced the light fixture with something that cast a warm, gentle glow. He spent an entire afternoon on his knees, refinishing the floor until it was smooth and splinter-free, safe for a crawling baby.
The room had a large window that faced east, and Severus stood there as the sun rose, watching golden light spill across the freshly painted walls. This would be the first thing his child saw every morning—sunlight, warmth, the promise of a new day.
He found himself blinking back tears.
In the cottage's attic, buried beneath decades of accumulated junk, Severus discovered an old rocking chair. The wood was solid oak, the craftsmanship excellent, but the finish was damaged and one of the rockers was cracked.
He carried it down to the kitchen and spent an evening repairing it. He mended the cracked rocker with careful spellwork, sanded away the damaged finish, applied new stain and oil until the wood glowed rich and warm. He tested it, sitting in the kitchen and rocking slowly, imagining holding a baby, singing lullabies, watching them drift off to sleep.
The image was so vivid it hurt.
He carried the chair up to the nursery and placed it by the window, where the morning light would fall across it. Perfect.
The cottage was coming together. Severus built bookshelves in what would be the study, installed better lighting throughout, fixed squeaky floorboards and sticky doors. He cleaned the fireplace and had the chimney swept, ensuring it would be safe for winter fires.
He added wards. Layers and layers of them. Protection against intruders, against dark magic, against anyone who might wish them harm. He added specialized wards designed for pregnant people—ones that would alert him if Harry was in distress, if something was wrong. Wards for children, to keep them safe from household dangers as they grew.
He warded the cottage like a fortress, like the home he'd never had, like the sanctuary his child deserved.
The garden consumed his remaining days. He tilled soil for a vegetable patch, planning what to plant—tomatoes, beans, carrots, things a child could help harvest. He created beds for potion ingredients, carefully selecting plants that were useful but not dangerous. He planted flowers—daffodils and tulips for spring, roses and lavender for summer, chrysanthemums for fall.
He worked until his hands were calloused and his back ached constantly. He worked until he was too exhausted to be anxious, too tired to catastrophize. The physical labor was a blessing, a meditation, a way to channel all his fear and hope into something tangible.
And slowly, the garden transformed. The paths emerged, lined with stone. The flower beds took shape. The lawn, once a jungle, became a soft carpet of green. The fruit trees stood proud and properly pruned. The hawthorn tree presided over it all, its branches spreading in benediction.
Severus stood in the center of the garden one evening, dirt under his fingernails and aching in every muscle, and looked at what he'd created.
A home. A real home. The kind of place where a child could grow up safe and loved and happy. The kind of place he'd dreamed of as a boy, huddled in his room at Spinner's End while his parents screamed at each other downstairs.
This would be different. This would be everything his childhood wasn't—light instead of darkness, love instead of violence, hope instead of despair.
If it worked. If Harry was pregnant. If they got their miracle.
Severus touched his wand to the doorframe as he left that evening, adding one final ward—a blessing, really, though he'd never admit it. A wish for happiness, for health, for all the good things he'd never had.
"Please," he whispered to the empty cottage. "Please let this work."
Eight days had passed since the implantation. Six more until they would know.
Severus returned to Spinner's End that night and actually managed to brew a successful batch of Dreamless Sleep potion. His hands were steady. His mind was quiet. The anxiety was still there, but it had been transformed into something else—not quite hope, but close. Anticipation, perhaps. The sense that he'd done everything he could, and now all that remained was to wait.
He thought about Harry, alone at Grimmauld Place, probably just as anxious. He should visit tomorrow, check on him, make sure he was eating properly and not overdoing things.
The thought of seeing Harry made something warm bloom in his chest.
Severus bottled the Dreamless Sleep potion, cleaned his workspace, and allowed himself to imagine—just for a moment—what it would be like if it worked. If in six days they learned that Harry was pregnant. If in nine months they brought a baby home to Hawthorn Cottage.
If he got to be a father. If he got to build a family with Harry Potter, of all people.
The universe had a strange sense of humor.
But standing there in his cramped, dark brewing room, thinking of the bright, beautiful cottage waiting in Hogsmeade, Severus found himself smiling.
Six more days.
He could wait six more days.
---
The next morning, Severus arrived at Grimmauld Place with another bag of groceries and a fresh batch of the pain potion. Harry answered the door looking tired—shadows under his eyes, his hair even more chaotic than usual—but he smiled when he saw Severus.
"You didn't have to come again," Harry said, stepping aside to let him in.
"I wanted to check on you." Severus moved past him toward the kitchen, familiar with the route now. "You look like you didn't sleep."
"I didn't. Not much, anyway." Harry followed him, watching as Severus unpacked the bag with brisk efficiency. More bread, fresh vegetables, a container of what looked like beef stew. "I keep thinking about it. Wondering if it worked. If there's actually..." He pressed his hand to his stomach. "If there's something there."
"It's too early to know," Severus said gently, filling the kettle. "The embryo is microscopic at this stage. You won't feel anything for weeks yet."
"I know. But I can't stop thinking about it."
They settled at the kitchen table with tea, falling into the comfortable rhythm they'd developed over the past week. Severus asked about Harry's pain levels, whether he'd been taking the potion regularly, if he'd experienced any unusual symptoms. Harry answered dutifully, then turned the questions back on Severus.
"What have you been doing?" Harry asked. "Besides checking on me and bringing me food?"
Severus wrapped his hands around his teacup, considering how much to reveal. "I've been working on the cottage."
"Working on it?"
"Renovating. It needed... extensive work." That was an understatement. "I thought it best to have it ready, in case..." He trailed off, not wanting to jinx anything by saying it aloud.
Harry's expression softened. "You've been fixing it up? By yourself?"
"It gave me something to do besides worry." Severus took a sip of tea. "The exterior is complete. The interior as well. The garden is... coming along."
"Severus." Harry was staring at him with something that looked like wonder. "That's a huge amount of work. You didn't have to do all that."
"I wanted to." The words came out more intense than Severus had intended. He cleared his throat. "We'll need somewhere to live if this works. Somewhere suitable for a child. It seemed logical to prepare it now."
"Can I see it?" Harry asked. "The cottage?"
"After." Severus met his eyes. "After we know the results. I don't want to... it feels like tempting fate, somehow. To show you before we know."
Harry nodded slowly. "I understand. Five more days."
"Five more days," Severus echoed.
They sat in silence for a moment, both of them thinking about what those five days might bring. Then Harry spoke again, his voice quiet.
"I'm scared," he admitted. "What if it didn't work? What if we have to start over?"
"Then we start over," Severus said, echoing Harry's words from the café. "We keep trying until it works."
"And if it did work?" Harry's green eyes were wide, vulnerable. "What if I'm actually pregnant right now?"
Severus felt his breath catch. "Then we move forward. Together. We move into Hawthorn Cottage and we prepare for a child and we figure out how to be parents."
"Together," Harry repeated softly, and something in his expression made Severus's chest tighten.
The days that followed blurred together in a haze of anticipation and anxiety.
Severus visited every day, sometimes twice. He brought food, checked on Harry's wellbeing, stayed for tea or lunch or dinner. They talked more easily now, the initial awkwardness between them fading into something that felt almost like friendship.
Harry learned that Severus had a dry, cutting sense of humor that made him laugh despite himself. That he was surprisingly well-read in Muggle literature, with strong opinions about Dickens and the Brontë sisters. That he could cook remarkably well when he put his mind to it, and had strong feelings about the proper way to prepare vegetables.
Severus learned that Harry was kinder than he'd ever given him credit for, with a self-deprecating humor that was nothing like James Potter's arrogance. That he was thoughtful and observant, noticing when Severus was tired or stressed and quietly making tea without being asked. That he had a stubborn streak a mile wide, but it came from a place of fierce loyalty rather than mere obstinacy.
They didn't talk about the growing connection between them, the way their conversations had become easier, the way they'd started sitting closer together on the sofa, the way Severus's hand would sometimes rest on Harry's shoulder and Harry would lean into the touch.
They didn't talk about how Severus had started thinking of Harry as "Harry" even in his own mind, or how Harry had stopped flinching when Severus entered a room.
They didn't talk about any of it, because talking about it would make it real, and neither of them was ready for that yet.
Instead, they focused on the physical. Harry became hyper-aware of every sensation in his body. Was that cramping in his lower abdomen? Was that nausea, or just anxiety? Was he more tired than usual, or was that just from not sleeping well?
"It's probably nothing," Harry said on the fourth day, pressing his hand to his stomach. "I'm probably imagining it."
"Or it's exactly what it should be," Severus replied, his voice carefully neutral. "Early pregnancy symptoms can be subtle."
"Or it's just stress and wishful thinking."
"That too."
They existed in a state of suspended animation, neither daring to hope too much nor willing to give up hope entirely. The cottage sat waiting in Hogsmeade. The nursery sat empty, painted and ready. And inside Harry's body, something might be growing, might be taking root, might be becoming a life.
Or it might not.
They wouldn't know until the test.
The night before the appointment, Harry couldn't sleep.
He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his mind racing through every possible outcome. What if the test was negative? What if they had to start over, go through the whole process again—the extraction, the waiting, the hoping? What if it never worked? What if he couldn't carry a pregnancy? What if—
A soft whoosh from downstairs interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Someone had come through the Floo.
Harry grabbed his wand and crept downstairs, though he already knew who it would be. There was only one person who had access to his Floo network besides Ron and Hermione.
Severus stood in the sitting room, still in his black robes, his hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it. He looked up as Harry entered, and something in his expression was raw and unguarded.
"I couldn't sleep," Severus said simply.
"Neither could I." Harry set his wand aside and moved to the sofa. "Want some tea?"
"Please."
They ended up in the kitchen, because that's where they always ended up. Harry put the kettle on while Severus sat at the table, his hands clasped in front of him. The silence between them was heavy with unspoken fears.
"What if it didn't work?" Harry asked quietly, echoing his earlier question to himself. "What if tomorrow we find out I'm not pregnant?"
"Then we try again," Severus said, but his voice lacked conviction. "We knew the odds. Fifty to sixty percent success rate on the first attempt. Those aren't terrible odds, but they're not guaranteed either."
"But what if it never works?" Harry poured the tea with shaking hands. "What if my body can't do this? What if—"
"Harry." Severus's voice was firm. "We can't think like that. Not tonight."
Harry brought the mugs to the table and sat down heavily. "I know. But I can't help it. I want this so much, Severus. I want this baby. I want to be a father. And the thought that it might not happen..." His voice cracked.
Severus reached across the table and took Harry's hand. His palm was warm, his grip steady. "I know. I want it too. More than I've wanted anything in a very long time."
They sat like that for a moment, hands clasped, both of them staring at the table.
"What if it did work?" Harry asked finally. "What if tomorrow we find out I'm pregnant? What if this is real?"
Severus's fingers tightened around his. "Then everything changes. Then we move into Hawthorn Cottage and we prepare for a child and we learn how to be parents together."
"Are you scared?" Harry looked up, meeting his eyes.
"Terrified," Severus admitted. "I have no idea how to be a father. My own father was... not a good example. And I've spent most of my adult life around children I was paid to teach, not to love. What if I'm terrible at it? What if I can't give a child what they need?"
"You won't be terrible at it," Harry said with surprising certainty. "You've been taking care of me for the past two weeks. You bring me food and check on me and make sure I'm okay. You renovated an entire cottage by yourself because you wanted it to be perfect for a child. That's not someone who's going to be a terrible father."
Severus's expression softened. "You're going to be a wonderful father, Harry. You're kind and patient and you care so deeply about people. Any child would be lucky to have you."
"Any child would be lucky to have both of us," Harry corrected quietly.
They finished their tea in companionable silence, the anxiety still present but somehow more bearable when shared. Eventually, Severus stood to leave.
"Try to get some sleep," he said. "Tomorrow is going to be difficult regardless of the outcome. You'll need your strength."
"You too," Harry replied. "I'll see you at the hospital?"
"I'll be there." Severus paused at the Floo, then turned back. "Harry? Whatever happens tomorrow... I'm glad we're doing this together."
"Me too," Harry said softly.
After Severus left, Harry climbed back into bed. He lay there in the darkness, one hand pressed to his stomach, and let himself hope.
Please, he thought. Please let it have worked. Please let there be a baby growing inside me. Please.
He fell asleep sometime before dawn, his hand still resting on his abdomen, his dreams full of small hands and bright laughter.
Harry woke to grey morning light and a stomach full of butterflies.
Today. Today they would know.
He dressed carefully, his hands shaking as he buttoned his shirt. He forced down half a piece of toast, though his stomach protested. He checked the time obsessively—eight o'clock, eight-fifteen, eight-thirty. The appointment was at nine.
He Apparated to St. Mungo's at eight-forty-five, giving himself time to compose himself before facing whatever came next.
Severus was already there, standing near the windows in the waiting area. He looked as nervous as Harry felt—his posture rigid, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression carefully controlled. But when he saw Harry, something in his face eased.
"Harry." He moved forward, and for a moment Harry thought he might embrace him. Instead, Severus's hand found his shoulder, squeezing gently. "How are you?"
"Terrified," Harry admitted. "You?"
"The same."
They stood there for a moment, drawing strength from each other's presence. Then Healer Pritchett appeared in the doorway, smiling warmly.
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Snape. Right on time. Come with me."
She led them back to the familiar examination room. Harry's heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. This was it. In a few minutes, they would know.
"Now then," Healer Pritchett said, her tone professionally cheerful. "Today we're doing a simple blood test to detect pregnancy hormones. If the embryo implanted successfully, your body will be producing hCG—human chorionic gonadotropin. The test is very sensitive and very accurate."
She prepared a needle and vial with practiced efficiency. "This will just take a moment."
Harry held out his arm, watching as she drew a vial of blood. It looked completely ordinary—dark red, nothing special about it. But that blood might contain the answer to everything.
"There we are." Healer Pritchett labeled the vial carefully. "Now, the test takes about ten to fifteen minutes to process. I'll take this to the lab and return with the results. Try to relax."
She left, taking the vial with her, and suddenly Harry and Severus were alone.
The silence was deafening.
Harry sat on the edge of the examination table, his hands gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles were white. Severus stood beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"Ten to fifteen minutes," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes."
"That's not very long."
"No."
But it felt like an eternity. Harry stared at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand tick forward with agonizing slowness. One minute. Two minutes. Three.
Severus's hand found his, their fingers intertwining. Harry held on like a lifeline.
"Whatever happens," Severus said quietly, "we'll face it together."
Harry nodded, not trusting his voice.
Five minutes. Six. Seven.
Harry's mind raced through possibilities. If it was negative, they'd have to start over. Another extraction, another implantation, another two weeks of waiting. He could do it. He would do it. But the thought of going through this again, of building up hope only to have it crushed—
"Stop," Severus said softly. "I can hear you thinking. Don't borrow trouble."
"I can't help it."
"I know."
Ten minutes. Eleven. Twelve.
The door opened.
Healer Pritchett stepped inside, and Harry's heart stopped. He searched her face desperately for any hint, any clue. She was smiling, but was it a sympathetic smile or a happy one? He couldn't tell. He couldn't breathe.
"Well," Healer Pritchett said, and her smile widened. "Congratulations, Mr. Potter. You're pregnant."
The world tilted.
Harry heard the words, but they didn't make sense. They couldn't be real. He stared at Healer Pritchett, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
"I'm..." He couldn't finish the sentence.
"Pregnant," Healer Pritchett confirmed, her smile warm and genuine. "Your hCG levels are excellent—strong and healthy. The embryo implanted successfully and is developing as it should."
Severus made a sound—something between a gasp and a laugh. His hand tightened around Harry's almost painfully.
"It worked," Harry whispered. "It actually worked."
"It did indeed." Healer Pritchett pulled out a chair and sat down, clearly giving them a moment to process. "You're approximately two weeks pregnant, counting from the implantation. It's very early still—too early for an ultrasound—but the hormone levels are exactly where we want them to be."
Harry pressed his free hand to his stomach, his eyes burning with tears. There was a baby inside him. Right now. A tiny cluster of cells that was growing, developing, becoming a person.
His baby. Their baby.
"What happens now?" Severus asked, his voice rough with emotion.
"You'll continue taking the weekly potion to maintain the womb. I want to see you back here in three weeks for your first ultrasound—that's when we should be able to see the gestational sac and possibly detect a heartbeat. In the meantime, Harry should avoid strenuous activity, eat well, stay hydrated, and try to manage stress levels."
She handed Harry a packet of information. "This covers everything you need to know about early pregnancy—what's normal, what's not, when to contact me. Don't hesitate to reach out if you have any concerns."
Harry took the packet with shaking hands. He couldn't stop staring at Healer Pritchett, couldn't quite believe this was real.
"I'm pregnant," he said again, testing the words.
"You are." Healer Pritchett's smile was radiant. "Congratulations to you both. This is wonderful news."
They left the hospital in a daze.
Harry walked through the corridors without seeing them, Severus's hand on his elbow guiding him. They made it outside into the grey London morning, and Harry stopped on the pavement, breathing hard.
"I'm pregnant," he said to Severus, his voice shaking. "I'm actually pregnant."
"You are." Severus was staring at him with an expression Harry had never seen before—wonder and joy and fear all mixed together. "We're going to have a baby."
Harry laughed, and it came out slightly hysterical. "We're going to have a baby. Oh my God. We're going to be parents."
"Yes." Severus's voice was thick with emotion. "We are."
They stood there on the pavement, people flowing around them, both of them overwhelmed and terrified and happier than they'd been in years.
"The cottage," Severus said suddenly. "Would you like to see it? Now?"
Harry looked up at him, seeing the hope and nervousness in his dark eyes. "Yes. Yes, I want to see our home."
Our home. The words felt right.
Severus held out his arm, and Harry took it. They Apparated together, leaving the grey London streets behind.
They reappeared on a quiet street in Hogsmeade, lined with charming cottages and overgrown gardens. But one cottage stood out from the rest—honey-colored stone gleaming in the weak sunlight, forest green shutters framing sparkling windows, ivy trained in elegant patterns around the door.
"This is it," Severus said quietly. "Hawthorn Cottage."
Harry stared at it, his throat tight. It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was home.
"Come on," Severus said, leading him up the path. "Let me show you what we've built."
They walked toward the cottage together, toward their future, toward the life they were going to build for their child.
Harry pressed his hand to his stomach, feeling that strange new warmth, and smiled.
It had worked.
Chapter 6: Home
Chapter Text
The crack of Apparition echoed through the quiet lane, and Harry stumbled slightly as his feet found solid ground. Severus steadied him with a hand at his elbow, and Harry looked up—then froze.
Hawthorn Cottage stood before him, transformed.
The last time Harry had seen it, the place had been a ruin—crumbling stone choked with ivy, windows dark and broken, the garden an impenetrable wilderness. He'd bought it on impulse after the war, drawn by something he couldn't name, then promptly forgotten about it as life swept him along. But now...
"Severus," Harry breathed.
The cottage glowed in the afternoon light, its honey-colored stone clean and warm. The ivy had been trimmed back to frame the windows rather than strangle them, and the shutters—painted a deep forest green—stood open to welcome the spring air. The roof had been rethatched, golden and neat, and smoke curled lazily from the chimney. The whole structure seemed to have settled into itself with quiet contentment, as if it had been waiting all along for someone to see its potential.
"Do you..." Severus began, then stopped. His hand fell away from Harry's elbow. "That is, I hope I haven't overstepped. You said I could make changes, but if you'd envisioned something different—"
Harry couldn't speak. He walked forward slowly, his hand reaching out to touch the stone wall. It was warm beneath his palm, solid and real. The mortar between the stones had been carefully repointed, and he could see where damaged sections had been replaced with matching stone, the work so skillful it was nearly invisible.
"It's beautiful," Harry managed, his voice rough. "Severus, it's—I can't believe this is the same place."
He heard Severus exhale, a sound of relief so profound it made Harry's chest ache. When he turned, Severus was watching him with an expression of such naked vulnerability that Harry wanted to pull him close and never let go.
"Come on," Harry said instead, reaching for Severus's hand. "Show me everything."
They walked around the exterior first, Harry's fingers trailing along the stone walls, admiring every detail. Severus pointed out the new windows—spelled against drafts and breakage—and the reinforced foundation. He explained the preservation charms he'd layered over everything, the heating wards, the protections. His voice was steady as he spoke, but Harry could feel the tension in his hand, the way he watched Harry's face for every reaction.
The garden made Harry stop and stare.
Where there had been chaos, now there was order—but not the rigid, formal order of the Dursleys' suburban lawn. This was a garden that invited exploration, that promised secrets and discoveries. The paths had been cleared and lined with smooth stones, winding between beds that were already showing the first green shoots of spring bulbs. The fruit trees—apple and pear and plum—had been pruned back to healthy shapes, their branches reaching toward the sky with renewed vigor.
And at the center of it all stood the hawthorn tree.
It was ancient and gnarled, its trunk thick and twisted with age, but its branches were covered in tight buds that would soon burst into white flowers. Someone—Severus—had built a circular bench around its base, the wood already weathered to a soft gray.
"It's the tree the cottage was named for," Severus said quietly. "It was here long before the house. I thought... it seemed important to preserve it."
"It's perfect," Harry said. He could already picture it—a child playing beneath those branches, climbing them when they were older, sitting on that bench to read or dream. "The garden is incredible. What did you plant?"
Severus's shoulders relaxed slightly. "The beds along the south wall will have herbs—I've already put in rosemary, thyme, and sage. The eastern beds are for vegetables, though we'll need to decide what you'd like to grow. I've prepared the soil, added compost and fertilizer. The western side gets less sun, so I thought shade-loving flowers there—hostas, ferns, perhaps some hellebores."
"Can we do strawberries?" Harry asked, suddenly excited. "And tomatoes? I've always wanted to grow tomatoes. And maybe some flowers too—I don't know what kinds, but colorful ones. Ones that smell good."
"Whatever you like," Severus said, and there was something soft in his voice that made Harry look at him. "We have time to plan it all out. To make it exactly what you want."
Harry walked the paths slowly, imagining. He could see it so clearly—teaching a child to plant seeds, to water carefully, to watch for the first green shoots pushing through the soil. Picking strawberries together on summer mornings, their fingers stained red. A toddler chasing butterflies between the flower beds while Harry weeded and Severus read in the shade of the hawthorn tree.
"Come inside," Severus said finally. "There's more to see."
The front door was new—solid oak with iron hinges—but it swung open smoothly and silently. Harry stepped over the threshold and stopped again.
The sitting room was warm and inviting, with cream-colored walls and exposed wooden beams across the ceiling. The fireplace had been rebuilt, its stone surround clean and beautiful, and a fire crackled cheerfully in the grate. The floors were wide wooden planks, refinished to a honey glow, and the windows let in floods of natural light.
It was empty of furniture, but Harry could already see how it would look—a sofa facing the fireplace, chairs for reading, shelves for books. A rug on the floor where a baby could lie on their stomach and learn to crawl. Toys in a basket by the hearth.
"The kitchen," Severus said, gesturing to the doorway.
Harry walked through and felt his heart expand. The kitchen was larger than he'd expected, with windows overlooking the garden and a door leading outside. The cabinets were simple but well-made, painted the same forest green as the shutters. There was a deep farmhouse sink, a large stove, and plenty of counter space. Copper pots hung from hooks on the wall, catching the light.
"I can cook here," Harry said wonderingly. He'd learned to cook at the Dursleys—learned by necessity, by punishment—but somewhere along the way, he'd discovered he actually enjoyed it. The alchemy of combining ingredients, the satisfaction of feeding people he loved. "This is perfect for cooking. We could have people over for dinner. Ron would love that—he's always hungry."
"I made sure the stove was large enough for your ambitions," Severus said dryly, but Harry could hear the pleasure beneath the words. "And the pantry is through there, with preservation charms to keep everything fresh."
They moved through the rest of the ground floor—a small bathroom, a study that could be Severus's potion lab or Harry's office, a dining area that was currently empty but would be perfect for the table Harry was already thinking about. Severus pointed out practical details—the plumbing, the heating system, the way he'd reinforced the walls—but Harry could see the nervousness still there, the way Severus watched him for approval.
"It's perfect," Harry said again, catching Severus's hand. "Severus, it's more than perfect. I never imagined... I didn't know it could be like this."
"There's one more room," Severus said quietly. "Upstairs."
They climbed the narrow staircase—the steps had been repaired and reinforced—and emerged onto a small landing. There were two doors. Severus opened the first to reveal a bedroom, spacious and bright, with windows on two walls and the same beautiful wooden floors.
"Our room," Harry said, and felt a thrill at the words. Their room. Their home.
"Yes," Severus agreed. "And this..."
He opened the second door.
Harry stepped inside and felt his breath catch.
The nursery was smaller than the master bedroom, but it was perfect. The walls were painted a soft sage green, peaceful and calming. The floor had been refinished to the same honey glow as the rest of the house, and a large window on the eastern wall let in the morning light. Harry could already imagine standing here at dawn, holding a crying baby, watching the sun rise over the garden.
In the corner by the window sat a rocking chair—simple, wooden, beautiful. The kind of chair that would hold a parent and child through countless nights of feeding and soothing and singing lullabies.
"I thought," Severus said quietly, "that the morning light would be pleasant. Not too harsh, but enough to wake gently. And the window overlooks the hawthorn tree, so there will always be something beautiful to see."
Harry walked to the window and looked out. Severus was right—the view was perfect. The ancient tree spread its branches below, and beyond it, the garden stretched out in neat, promising beds. He could picture standing here with a baby in his arms, pointing out the birds in the tree, the flowers blooming, the changing seasons.
His hand moved to his stomach, pressing against the small swell there. In a few months, there would be a baby sleeping in this room. His baby. Their baby.
"Harry?" Severus's voice was uncertain.
Harry turned and realized his eyes were wet. "It's perfect," he said, his voice breaking. "This is where our baby will sleep. This is where we'll... where I'll..."
He couldn't finish. The reality of it was overwhelming—this room, this house, this life they were building. After everything he'd lost, everyone he'd buried, he was going to have this. A child. A home. A future.
Severus crossed the room and pulled Harry into his arms. "I wanted it to be perfect," he murmured against Harry's hair. "I wanted you to walk in and see it and know that this is real. That we're really doing this."
"It is perfect," Harry said fiercely, pulling back to look at Severus. "Every single thing about it is perfect. The cottage, the garden, this room—all of it. You made this for us. For our family."
They stood there for a long moment, holding each other in the empty nursery, and Harry felt something settle in his chest. This was real. This was happening. In a few months, this room would have a crib, a changing table, shelves full of tiny clothes and soft toys. There would be a baby here, crying and sleeping and growing. Their baby.
"We need furniture," Harry said suddenly, pulling back. "For all the rooms. We need to make this place feel like home."
Severus smiled, one of his rare, genuine smiles that transformed his entire face. "I thought you might say that."
They went back downstairs to the kitchen, and Harry immediately started opening cabinets, checking drawers, his mind already racing with possibilities. "We need a sofa for the sitting room. And chairs—comfortable ones for reading. Bookshelves, definitely. And a table for the dining area. A big one, for when people come over."
"We could go shopping," Severus suggested. "There are furniture makers in Hogsmeade, and we could visit Diagon Alley for other items."
"Yes," Harry said eagerly. The nesting instinct was already kicking in, the need to feather this nest, to make it perfect for the baby who would arrive in just a few months. "We should go soon. Tomorrow, maybe? I want to get everything set up."
Severus was quiet for a moment, then said carefully, "Harry, there's something else you should consider."
Harry looked up from the cabinet he was examining. "What?"
"Grimmauld Place," Severus said. "You should take something from there. Bring it here."
Harry's enthusiasm dimmed. "I don't want anything from that house. It's dark and depressing and full of—"
"Your family's history," Severus interrupted gently. "I know you have complicated feelings about it, but Harry... you'll regret it if you don't bring something. Some connection to your past, to the people you loved. This child should have something from your history, not just mine."
Harry wanted to argue, but he couldn't. Because Severus was right, damn him. Grimmauld Place was full of darkness, yes—but it was also where Sirius had lived, where the Order had met, where Harry had felt connected to something larger than himself. It was part of his story, whether he liked it or not.
"What would I even take?" he asked quietly.
"That's for you to decide," Severus said. "But think about it. What would you want your child to have? What would connect them to the family they'll never meet?"
Harry closed his eyes, thinking. His parents' things were mostly gone, destroyed or lost. Sirius's possessions had been scattered, sold, given away. Remus had owned almost nothing. What was left that mattered?
And then he knew.
"The dining table," he said, opening his eyes. "The one in the dining room at Grimmauld Place."
Severus raised an eyebrow. "The table?"
"It's where..." Harry swallowed hard. "I used to imagine my parents sitting there, eating dinner together. Talking about their day. And during the war, that's where the Order met. Where Sirius and Remus sat, planning and arguing and trying to figure out how to fight Voldemort. It's big enough for a family, for dinner parties, for a kid's friends to come over. It's..."
"It's perfect," Severus said softly. "It connects your past to your future."
Harry nodded, not trusting his voice. He could picture it so clearly—his parents, young and alive, laughing over dinner. Sirius, gaunt and fierce, leaning over maps and plans. Remus, tired and kind, nursing a cup of tea. All the people he'd lost, all the family he'd never really had, gathered around that table.
And now his child would sit there too. Would eat meals there, do homework there, celebrate birthdays there. The ghosts of everyone Harry had loved would be present, in a way. Watching over this new life, this new family.
"Will you help me move it?" Harry asked.
"Of course," Severus said. "We can go now, if you'd like."
They Apparated to Grimmauld Place together, and Harry felt the familiar oppression of the house settle over him as they stepped inside. It was dark and cold, the air thick with dust and old magic. Kreacher kept it clean, but the house itself seemed to resist joy, to cling to its shadows.
The dining room was on the ground floor, and Harry pushed open the door with a sense of trepidation. The table dominated the space—long and solid, made of dark wood that had been polished to a deep shine by generations of house-elves. It could easily seat twelve, maybe more.
Harry walked forward and placed his hand on the surface. It was cool and smooth beneath his palm, and he could almost feel the history soaked into the wood. How many meals had been eaten here? How many conversations, arguments, celebrations? His parents had never sat here—they'd been dead before Sirius inherited the house—but Harry had imagined it so many times it felt real.
"I used to sit here during Order meetings," Harry said quietly. "In the summer before fifth year. I wasn't supposed to be there, but sometimes they'd let me stay. I'd watch everyone and think about how this was what family looked like. People gathered together, fighting for something that mattered."
Severus stood beside him, not touching, just present. "It's a good table. Solid. Well-made. It will last for generations."
"That's what I want," Harry said. "I want our kid to sit here and know that they're part of something bigger. That they come from people who fought and loved and tried to make the world better. Even if those people are gone."
"They're not gone," Severus said quietly. "Not as long as you remember them. Not as long as you tell their stories."
Harry looked at him, this man who had loved his mother, who had fought and spied and nearly died for a cause he believed in. Who was giving Harry a future when he'd thought he had none.
"Help me take it home," Harry said.
They worked together, using magic to shrink the table and levitate it carefully through the house. Harry took one last look at the dining room—empty now, just shadows and dust—and felt something release in his chest. He was taking the good parts with him. The rest could stay here, locked away.
The table looked right in the cottage's dining area, expanded back to its full size and positioned to catch the light from the windows. It was too large for the space, really, but Harry didn't care. It was meant to be filled, meant to gather people around it. Someday it would be surrounded by chairs and covered with food and echoing with laughter.
"It's starting to feel like home," Harry said.
"Yes," Severus agreed. "It is."
They stood together in the dining area, both of them looking at the table, at what it represented. Harry's hand found Severus's and squeezed.
"We're going to fill this place with life," Harry said. "With love and laughter and all the things I never had growing up. Our kid is going to know they're wanted, that they're loved, that they belong."
"Yes," Severus said again, and his voice was rough with emotion. "They will."
Harry turned to look at him, this man who had been his enemy, his teacher, his unlikely savior. Who had given him a future when he'd thought he had none. Who had taken a ruined cottage and transformed it into a home.
"Let's go furniture shopping tomorrow," Harry said, feeling a surge of excitement. "I want to get everything set up. Make this place perfect."
"It's already perfect," Severus said, but he was smiling. "But yes, we can go shopping. We'll need quite a lot, I imagine."
"Everything," Harry agreed. "We need everything. A sofa, chairs, a crib, a changing table, dishes, linens—" He laughed, giddy with the enormity of it. "We're really doing this. We're making a home."
"We are," Severus confirmed. He pulled Harry close, one hand coming to rest on Harry's stomach where their baby was growing.
Harry leaned into him, looking around their cottage—at the table that connected his past to his future, at the empty rooms waiting to be filled, at the garden outside promising growth and renewal. The ghosts of everyone he'd loved seemed to hover at the edges of his vision, not haunting but blessing. His parents, Sirius, Remus—all of them would be part of this new life, this new family.
"Tomorrow," Harry said firmly. "We start tomorrow. But tonight, let's just be here. In our home."
"Our home," Severus repeated, and Harry heard the wonder in his voice, the same wonder he felt.
They stood together as the afternoon light slanted through the windows, warming the honey-colored stone, illuminating the table that would hold their future meals, their future memories. Outside, the hawthorn tree's buds were swelling, ready to burst into bloom. Inside, everything was waiting—waiting for furniture and laughter and the cry of a newborn baby.
Harry arrived at the cottage the next morning to find Severus already there, standing in the sitting room with a quill and parchment, making notes.
"You're early," Harry said, unable to keep the smile off his face. He felt energized despite having barely slept, his mind racing with possibilities. Everything in him was screaming to nest, to prepare, to make this space perfect for their baby.
"I wanted to take proper measurements," Severus replied, gesturing to the walls. "It would be inefficient to purchase furniture only to discover it doesn't fit."
"Very practical." Harry moved to stand beside him, peering at the list. Severus's handwriting was as precise as ever, each item neatly categorized by room. "You've been busy."
"I may have been awake for some time." Severus's tone was dry, but Harry caught the hint of sleeplessness beneath it. He'd been anxious too, then. Excited, maybe, though he'd never admit it.
"Right." Harry pulled out his own piece of parchment—significantly more crumpled and covered in his messy scrawl. "I made a list too. We need... well, everything, really. Sofa, chairs, beds, the crib, changing table, dresser, kitchen things, bathroom things, linens, curtains—"
"I believe we should approach this systematically," Severus interrupted, though not unkindly. "We'll start with the essential furniture—sitting room, bedrooms, nursery. Then we can address the smaller items."
"Okay." Harry bounced slightly on his toes, unable to contain his energy. "Where do we start? Diagon Alley? There are furniture shops there, right?"
"Several. Though I would suggest we also investigate Muggle establishments. They often have more variety, and some pieces may be more suitable."
Harry blinked. "You want to go Muggle furniture shopping?"
"I grew up in the Muggle world, Potter—Harry," Severus corrected himself. "I'm quite familiar with their shops. And they do make excellent furniture, particularly for children."
"Right. Yeah, that makes sense." Harry grinned. "Diagon Alley first, then?"
"Diagon Alley first."
The magical furniture shop was called "Everlasting Furnishings," and it was tucked between Flourish and Blotts and a shop selling enchanted mirrors. The interior was deceptively large, room after room displaying furniture in various styles, from ornate Victorian pieces to sleek modern designs.
"Good morning!" A cheerful witch in purple robes bustled over. "Welcome to Everlasting Furnishings, where every piece is built to last generations. How can I—oh!" She stopped short, her eyes widening. "Mr. Potter! What an honor! Are you furnishing a new home?"
"Er, yes," Harry said, feeling his cheeks warm. "We just bought a cottage. Need pretty much everything."
"How wonderful! And this is...?" She looked at Severus expectantly.
"Severus Snape," Severus said coolly. "We're furnishing the cottage together."
If the witch found this odd, she didn't show it. "Excellent! Two perspectives are always better than one. Now, what room shall we start with?"
"Sitting room," Harry said immediately. "We need a sofa. A really comfortable one."
The witch led them to a section displaying various sofas and settees. Harry was immediately drawn to a deep, overstuffed sofa in soft grey fabric, with cushions that looked like you could sink into them and never want to leave.
"This one," he said, sitting down and sighing happily. "This is perfect. So comfortable."
Severus was examining a different sofa—a more structured piece in dark green velvet, with clean lines and wooden feet. "This has better support," he said. "And the fabric is more durable."
"But it looks uncomfortable," Harry protested.
"Aesthetics shouldn't supersede function."
"But we're going to be sitting on it every day. It should be comfortable."
They stared at each other for a moment, and Harry realized this was their first real disagreement about the cottage. Something warm flickered in his chest—this was what couples did, wasn't it? Disagreed about furniture, compromised, built a home together.
"What about this one?" The witch gestured to a sofa between their two choices—elegant but comfortable-looking, in a warm charcoal grey with subtle texture. "It has the comfort you want, Mr. Potter, with the durability and structure Professor Snape prefers. And it's enchanted to resist stains, which will be essential with a baby."
Harry and Severus both moved to examine it. Harry sat down—yes, it was comfortable, supportive but soft. Severus ran his hand over the fabric, nodding slightly.
"It's well-made," Severus admitted.
"And it's really comfortable," Harry added. He looked up at Severus. "Compromise?"
Something softened in Severus's expression. "Compromise."
They selected two matching armchairs, a coffee table in warm oak, and several side tables with drawers for storage. The witch showed them lamps—Harry wanted warm, ambient lighting, while Severus insisted on proper reading lamps. They ended up with both.
"Excellent choices," the witch said, making notes. "We can deliver everything this afternoon. Now, what other rooms?"
The bedroom furniture was easier. They agreed that each should choose furniture for their own room—it felt important, somehow, that they each have their own space, their own sanctuary.
Severus selected a simple bed frame in dark wood, a tall wardrobe, and a dresser with clean lines. Practical, elegant, understated. Very Severus.
Harry chose similar pieces but in a lighter wood tone, warmer and less austere. He added a comfortable reading chair by the window, imagining sitting there in the mornings with tea.
"Should we get furniture for the third bedroom?" Harry asked as they finished. "In case we have guests?"
"Eventually," Severus said. "Though I suspect we'll have our hands quite full for the foreseeable future."
"Right. Yeah." Harry touched his stomach unconsciously. "Just us and the baby."
"For now," Severus agreed, and something in his tone made Harry look up. Their eyes met, and Harry felt a flutter of something he couldn't quite name. The cottage had three bedrooms. Two for them, one for the baby. But maybe, eventually...
He pushed the thought away. Too soon. Too complicated.
"Nursery next?" he asked instead.
Severus's expression shifted, becoming almost vulnerable. "Yes. The nursery."
The baby furniture shop was called "Cradle and All," and it was overwhelming.
Cribs in every style imaginable lined the walls—wooden, metal, enchanted, non-enchanted, with canopies, without canopies, some that rocked themselves, others that played lullabies. There were changing tables and dressers and shelving units and rocking chairs and more tiny clothes and blankets and toys than Harry had ever seen in one place.
He stopped just inside the door, suddenly unable to breathe.
"Harry?" Severus's hand touched his elbow. "Are you alright?"
"I'm going to be a father," Harry whispered. "There's going to be a baby. A real baby. And I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Neither do I," Severus said quietly. "But we'll figure it out together."
A young wizard approached them, smiling warmly. "First baby?"
"Yes," Harry managed.
"Congratulations! It's overwhelming, isn't it? But don't worry—we'll help you find everything you need. Let's start with the crib."
They spent nearly an hour looking at cribs. Harry wanted something beautiful but safe. Severus was focused entirely on safety—checking the slat spacing, the stability, the quality of the enchantments.
"This one," Severus said finally, stopping in front of a crib made of pale wood with simple, elegant lines. "The enchantments are excellent—it will alert us if the baby is in distress, regulate temperature, and has built-in protection wards. The construction is solid, and it converts to a toddler bed later."
Harry ran his hand over the smooth wood. It was beautiful—simple and warm, exactly right for the sage green nursery. "It's perfect."
They selected a matching changing table and dresser, both with the same protective enchantments. Harry found himself getting emotional looking at the tiny drawers that would hold tiny clothes, the shelves that would hold tiny shoes.
"We need bedding," he said, his voice thick.
The bedding section was just as overwhelming. Harry was drawn to soft, neutral colors—creams and soft greys and the palest yellow. They chose sheets and blankets that were enchanted to be always the perfect temperature, soft as clouds against a baby's skin.
"A mobile," Harry said suddenly, spotting a display. "We need something to hang over the crib."
There were dozens—stars and moons, animals, flowers, abstract shapes. Harry was drawn to one with small, delicate birds that seemed to fly in gentle circles, their wings catching the light.
"The baby will love watching it," the shopkeeper said. "It's charmed to move in response to the baby's mood—faster when they're alert, slower when they're drowsy."
"We'll take it," Harry said immediately.
Severus had moved to a bookshelf displaying children's books. He was examining them with the same intensity he'd once used to grade essays, pulling out volumes and reading the first few pages.
"We should start a library," he said, not looking up. "Read to the baby from the beginning. Studies show that early exposure to language aids development."
Harry moved to stand beside him, looking at the colorful spines. "What are you choosing?"
"Classic fairy tales. Poetry. Some basic magical theory, simplified for children." Severus pulled out another book. "And this one—it's about a young wizard learning to control accidental magic. I thought... it might be useful."
Harry's throat tightened. Severus was thinking ahead, planning for their child's future, imagining teaching them. "Get whatever you think is good," he said softly. "I trust you."
Severus looked at him, something vulnerable in his dark eyes. "I want to do this right."
"You will," Harry said. "We will."
They left the shop with a list of items being prepared for delivery, Harry's arms full of the books Severus had selected, both of them slightly overwhelmed but happy.
"There's a Muggle furniture store not far from here," Severus said as they stepped out onto the street. "If you're not too tired?"
"Not at all," Harry lied. He was exhausted, but he didn't want to stop. Didn't want this day to end.
The Muggle store was massive, a warehouse-style building on the outskirts of London. Harry had never been in one before—the Dursleys had never taken him furniture shopping—and he stared around in amazement at the room displays, the price tags, the sheer quantity of everything.
"It's enormous," he breathed.
"Yes. Muggles compensate for their lack of magic with mass production." But Severus's tone wasn't condescending, just matter-of-fact. "This way—I saw something in their catalog that might work for the study."
The bookshelf Severus led him to was perfect—tall and wide, made of solid wood, with adjustable shelves. "It's not enchanted," Severus said, "but the construction is excellent. And it's significantly less expensive than the magical equivalent."
"Let's get it," Harry agreed.
They found chairs for the kitchen table—simple wooden chairs that matched the Grimmauld table perfectly, as if they'd been made for it. Harry selected a soft rug for the sitting room, while Severus chose practical items—a coat rack for the entryway, storage baskets, a sturdy step stool for the kitchen.
"You're really comfortable here," Harry observed as they waited in line to pay. "In the Muggle world, I mean."
Severus's expression tightened slightly. "My father was Muggle. I grew up in a Muggle neighborhood, attended Muggle primary school. This world is as familiar to me as the magical one."
"Was it hard?" Harry asked quietly. "Growing up between both worlds?"
"Yes." Severus was silent for a moment, then added, "My father resented my mother's magic. Resented me for inheriting it. He saw it as a reminder of everything he wasn't, everything he couldn't understand or control."
Harry thought of the Dursleys, of their hatred of anything abnormal. "I understand that."
"I know you do." Severus met his eyes. "Perhaps that's why we'll be better parents. We know what not to do."
"Yeah," Harry said softly. "We do."
They stopped for lunch at a small café, both of them exhausted but satisfied. Harry's feet ached, and he was fairly certain he'd walked more today than he had in weeks.
"Look at this list," he said, spreading out the receipts and order confirmations across the table. "We actually did it. We furnished an entire cottage in one day."
"Not entirely," Severus corrected, but he was almost smiling. "We still need linens, kitchenware, bathroom items, curtains—"
"Okay, okay, we're not done," Harry laughed. "But we made a good start."
He realized his hand was resting on his stomach again, had been doing it unconsciously all day. Severus noticed too, his gaze dropping to Harry's hand, something soft in his expression.
"How are you feeling?" Severus asked. "Truly. You've been on your feet all day."
"Tired," Harry admitted. "But good. Really good. I keep thinking about the cottage with all our furniture in it, about the nursery with the crib and the mobile and all those books you picked out." He smiled. "It's going to be amazing."
"When do you want to move in?" Severus asked. "Properly, I mean. Not just visiting."
Harry considered. "Soon. Maybe we could start staying there some nights? Get used to the space, figure out what else we need?"
"That seems sensible." Severus paused, then added, "I've been staying at Spinner's End, but I find I don't want to be there anymore. It's not... it's not home."
"The cottage is home," Harry said firmly.
"Yes." Severus's voice was quiet. "It is."
On their way back to Diagon Alley to check on the magical deliveries, they passed a small shop Harry had never noticed before. The window display showed handmade items—quilts, carved wooden toys, pottery, woven baskets.
"Wait," Harry said, stopping. "Can we go in?"
The shop was tiny, every surface covered with beautiful handcrafted items. An elderly witch sat in the corner, knitting something soft and blue.
Harry was drawn immediately to a mobile hanging in the window—not like the magical one they'd bought, but simpler. Wooden birds, each one hand-carved and painted in soft, natural colors, suspended on nearly invisible strings. When he touched it gently, the birds swayed and spun, catching the light.
"It's beautiful," he breathed.
"My grandson made that," the witch said, looking up from her knitting. "He's a woodworker. Each bird is different—see? A robin, a wren, a sparrow, a finch. British birds, all of them. He says babies should learn about the natural world from the beginning."
"We'll take it," Harry said immediately. "For the nursery."
While the witch wrapped it carefully, Severus had moved to a shelf displaying small lamps. He picked up one made of stained glass in warm amber tones, with a base carved to look like a tree.
"This would work well in the nursery," he said. "Soft light for nighttime feedings."
Harry looked at the lamp, at Severus holding it carefully, and felt his chest tighten with emotion. "It's perfect."
They left the shop with their treasures, Harry cradling the wrapped mobile like it was already precious.
When they returned to the cottage, the first deliveries had already arrived. The sitting room furniture was there, still wrapped in protective charms. The bedroom furniture was stacked in the hallway. Boxes of smaller items were piled in the kitchen.
"Merlin," Harry said, staring at it all. "That's a lot of furniture."
"We did purchase quite a bit," Severus agreed. He was already pulling out his wand. "Shall we start arranging it?"
They spent the next two hours unwrapping furniture and positioning it throughout the cottage. The sofa went under the sitting room window, the armchairs angled toward the fireplace. The coffee table centered between them. Lamps on the side tables, casting warm pools of light.
Harry's bedroom furniture was arranged quickly—bed against one wall, dresser opposite, wardrobe in the corner, reading chair by the window. It looked like a real bedroom, a place where someone actually lived.
Severus's room was similarly arranged, though more austere. But when Harry peeked in, he saw that Severus had placed a small photograph on the dresser—the scan photo from the hospital, showing the tiny embryo that was now growing inside Harry.
The nursery furniture wouldn't arrive until tomorrow, but they hung the wooden bird mobile from the ceiling, watching it spin slowly in the draft from the window.
"It's coming together," Harry said, leaning against the doorframe. He was exhausted, his feet aching, his back sore. But he'd never felt happier.
"It is," Severus agreed. He was standing in the center of the empty nursery, looking around at the sage green walls, the refinished floor, the window with its eastern exposure. "Tomorrow the crib arrives. And the changing table, the dresser, all of it."
"And then it'll be real," Harry said softly. "A real nursery for a real baby."
"It's already real." Severus turned to look at him. "You're pregnant, Harry. Our child is growing inside you right now. It's as real as it gets."
Harry's hand went to his stomach again. "Yeah. It is."
They stood there for a moment, both of them looking at the empty nursery, imagining it filled with furniture and toys and a sleeping baby.
"I'm exhausted," Harry admitted finally. "But I don't want to leave. I want to stay here tonight."
Severus raised an eyebrow. "The beds only just arrived. We don't have linens yet."
"I don't care. We can transfigure blankets or something. I just... I want to sleep here. In our home."
Something in Severus's expression softened. "Alright. We'll stay."
They transfigured some of the packing materials into serviceable blankets and pillows. Harry claimed his new bed, sinking onto the mattress with a groan of relief. Through the wall, he could hear Severus moving around in his own room, the creak of his bed as he settled.
"Severus?" Harry called out.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For today. For all of this."
There was a pause, then: "Thank you as well. For... for wanting to build this with me."
Harry smiled in the darkness, his hand resting on his stomach where their baby was growing. Outside, the hawthorn tree rustled in the evening breeze. The cottage settled around them, warm and welcoming, already feeling like home.
He fell asleep thinking about tomorrow—more deliveries, more arranging, more building of the life they were creating together. His last conscious thought was that he'd never been happier, never felt more hopeful about the future.
In the room next door, Severus lay awake a while longer, listening to the sound of Harry's breathing through the wall, thinking about the cottage full of furniture, the nursery waiting for its crib, the baby that would arrive in eight months.
Harry woke to pale morning light filtering through curtains they hadn't hung yet and the sound of movement from somewhere else in the cottage. He lay still for a moment, disoriented, before remembering—Hawthorn Cottage. Their home. He was in his new bedroom, and that was Severus moving around in the kitchen.
He pushed himself up slowly, testing his body. No nausea yet, though Healer Pritchett had warned him it might start any day now. Just a bone-deep tiredness that seemed to have settled into him since the implantation. He dressed in yesterday's clothes and padded barefoot down the hall.
Severus stood at the kitchen window, still in his black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking out at the garden. He turned when Harry entered, and something in his expression softened.
"Good morning," Severus said. "I hope I didn't wake you."
"No, I was already awake." Harry looked around the beautiful kitchen, at the morning sun streaming through the windows, and felt a surge of contentment. "This is real, isn't it? We actually live here now."
"It would appear so." Severus's lips quirked slightly. "Though I'm afraid we have a problem."
Harry's stomach dropped. "What?"
"We have no food." Severus gestured to the empty cupboards. "I was so focused on furniture yesterday that I neglected to consider we'd need to eat."
Harry laughed, relief flooding through him. "Right. Yeah, that's a problem. There's a grocery store not far from here, isn't there? We passed it yesterday."
"There is. Shall we?"
They walked to the store together, the morning air crisp and clean. Hogsmeade was just waking up, shop owners opening their doors, the smell of fresh bread drifting from the bakery. It felt surreal, walking beside Severus like this, like they were a normal couple doing normal domestic things.
The grocery store was small but well-stocked. Harry grabbed a basket and they wandered the aisles, both of them slightly awkward about this new intimacy—choosing food together, learning each other's preferences.
"Do you drink coffee?" Harry asked, standing in front of the tea and coffee section.
"Tea, primarily. Though I do keep coffee on hand for particularly long brewing sessions." Severus selected a tin of Earl Grey. "You?"
"Tea's fine. I never really got into coffee." Harry added a box of English Breakfast to the basket. "What about breakfast? Eggs?"
"Eggs are acceptable. Bacon. Bread for toast." Severus moved through the store with surprising efficiency, selecting items with the same precision he probably applied to potion ingredients. "Fresh fruit. Vegetables. We'll need staples—flour, sugar, salt."
They filled the basket with basics, neither of them quite sure how much to buy or what the other liked. Harry found himself studying Severus's choices, learning things he'd never known—Severus preferred brown eggs to white, bought whole milk instead of skimmed, selected sourdough bread over white.
"Do you cook?" Harry asked as they waited in line to pay.
"Adequately. Potion-making requires precision and timing—cooking is not dissimilar." Severus glanced at him. "You?"
"I can manage. The Dursleys made me cook for them, so I learned the basics. Nothing fancy, but I won't poison us."
Something dark flickered across Severus's face at the mention of the Dursleys, but he didn't comment. They paid and walked back to the cottage, the morning sun warming their shoulders, bags of groceries swinging between them.
In the kitchen, they worked together to put things away, establishing a system without discussing it—Severus taking the higher shelves, Harry the lower ones. Then they set about making breakfast.
"I'll do the eggs," Harry offered, pulling out a pan.
"I'll handle the toast." Severus found the toaster they'd bought yesterday, still in its box, and set about unpacking it.
They moved around each other carefully, still learning the dance of sharing a kitchen. Harry cracked eggs into a bowl, whisked them with a fork, added a splash of milk. Severus buttered toast, set the table with their mismatched plates and mugs, filled the kettle for tea.
The eggs scrambled perfectly, fluffy and golden. Harry divided them between two plates while Severus poured tea, and they sat down at the Grimmauld Place table for their first meal in their new home.
"This is nice," Harry said, taking a bite of toast. "Domestic."
"Indeed." Severus sipped his tea, his dark eyes studying Harry over the rim of his mug. "How are you feeling? Any symptoms yet?"
"Just tired. Really tired, actually. I could probably sleep another eight hours." Harry ate some eggs, savoring the simple comfort of a hot breakfast. "Healer Pritchett said that's normal, though. The first trimester is exhausting."
"You should rest when you need to. Don't push yourself." Severus's tone was firm. "The furniture can wait. Your health is more important."
"I'm fine," Harry protested, but even as he said it, he felt the weight of exhaustion pulling at him. "I want to help get everything set up."
"We have time. The baby won't arrive for eight months." Severus finished his eggs and stood, collecting their plates. "But today, we do have deliveries coming. The crib, the changing table, the rest of the nursery furniture. And I believe the sofa is being delivered this afternoon."
They spent the morning in a flurry of activity. The nursery furniture arrived first—a beautiful wooden crib with a matching changing table and dresser. Harry and Severus assembled them together, Harry reading the instructions while Severus wielded the tools with the same precision he applied to everything.
"This screw goes here," Harry said, pointing.
"I'm aware." But Severus's tone was amused rather than sharp.
The crib took shape slowly, its wooden slats smooth and sturdy. Harry ran his hand along the railing, imagining a baby sleeping there, tiny hands gripping the bars as they learned to stand.
"It's real now," he said softly. "Seeing this here, in the nursery... it makes it real."
Severus set down his screwdriver and moved to stand beside Harry, both of them looking at the crib. "Yes," he agreed quietly. "It does."
They hung curtains next—soft white ones for the nursery, heavier drapes for the bedrooms. Harry stood on a step stool, stretching to reach the curtain rod, and felt a wave of dizziness wash over him.
"Careful." Severus's hands were suddenly on his waist, steadying him. "Perhaps you should come down."
"I'm fine, just stood up too fast." But Harry let Severus help him down, and didn't protest when Severus took over the curtain hanging.
The sofa arrived after lunch—the grey one they'd compromised on. It looked perfect in the sitting room, exactly the right size, comfortable without being too formal. Harry sank into it with a sigh of relief, his body aching with exhaustion.
"Stay there," Severus instructed. "I'll finish the unpacking."
"I can help—"
"You're exhausted. Rest." Severus's tone left no room for argument. "I'll wake you when dinner is ready."
Harry wanted to protest, but his eyelids were already drooping. He curled up on the new sofa, pulling one of the throw blankets over himself, and was asleep within minutes.
He woke to the smell of something cooking and the sound of Severus moving around the kitchen. The afternoon light had shifted, golden now, slanting through the windows. Harry pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes.
"What time is it?"
"Nearly six." Severus appeared in the doorway, still in his shirtsleeves, looking unfairly put-together despite a day of manual labor. "I'm making pasta. Nothing elaborate, but it should be ready soon."
Harry joined him in the kitchen, feeling guilty. "I slept for hours. I'm sorry, I should have been helping—"
"You're growing a human being. You're allowed to be tired." Severus stirred the pasta sauce, the smell of tomatoes and herbs filling the kitchen. "Besides, I managed perfectly well. The beds are made, the books are unpacked—what few we have—and most of the boxes are dealt with."
They ate dinner at the Grimmauld Place table, using the mismatched dishes they'd bought, and Harry felt a swell of emotion looking across at Severus. This was his life now. Shared meals, shared space, building something together.
"I've been thinking," Harry said, twirling pasta on his fork. "About your potion brewing."
Severus looked up, his expression carefully neutral. "Oh?"
"You can't do it here. Can you?" Harry gestured around the cottage. "The fumes, the ingredients, the risk of something going wrong... it's not safe. Not with the baby coming."
"No," Severus agreed quietly. "It's not."
"But you need to work. You can't just give up brewing, it's what you do." Harry felt anxiety rising in his chest. "I don't want you to have to choose between your work and—"
"Harry." Severus reached across the table, covering Harry's hand with his own. "I've already thought of this. I'm not giving up brewing."
"But—"
"I'm converting Spinner's End into a dedicated workshop." Severus's thumb moved in small circles against Harry's wrist. "The house is isolated, already set up for potion-making, and frankly, I have no desire to live there anymore. But as a workspace, it's ideal. I can brew there during the day and come home in the evenings."
Harry stared at him. "You already planned this?"
"Of course. Did you think I hadn't considered the logistics?" Severus's lips quirked. "I've been planning this for weeks, Harry. Since before we even knew if the implantation would work. I knew I'd need a separate space for brewing, somewhere the baby would never be exposed to dangerous fumes or ingredients."
"You called it home," Harry said softly. "You said you'd come home in the evenings."
Severus's expression softened. "This is home now. Spinner's End is just a building. This—" he gestured around the cottage, "—this is where I want to be."
Harry felt his throat tighten. "Thank you. For thinking of all this. For planning ahead."
"We're partners in this," Severus said simply. "That means considering how our lives will work together."
After dinner, they cleaned up together, falling into an easy rhythm—Harry washing, Severus drying. Then Severus mentioned, almost casually, "I should start bringing my books over. I have quite an extensive collection at Spinner's End."
"Yes!" Harry said immediately. "Absolutely. I want your things here. I want this to feel like your home, not just mine."
Something in Severus's expression eased. "I'll go fetch some now, if you'd like."
He Apparated away and returned minutes later with two boxes hovering behind him, both filled with books. Harry helped him carry them to the study, and they began unpacking together.
The books were fascinating—rare Potions texts, some so old the pages were yellowed and fragile. Historical volumes about magical theory. But also unexpected things: poetry collections, Muggle novels, a worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
"You read Dumas?" Harry asked, surprised.
"I read many things." Severus shelved the book carefully. "I spent many years with little else to do but read."
They filled one shelf, then another. Severus's books mixed with the few Harry had brought—his Quidditch magazines, some Defense texts, a battered copy of Hogwarts: A History that Hermione had given him.
"I'll bring more tomorrow," Severus said, surveying the partially filled shelves. "I have several boxes worth."
Over the next few days, Severus made good on his promise. Each evening, he'd Apparate to Spinner's End and return with more boxes. Books, mostly, but also personal items—his favorite mug, a thick black one that had clearly seen years of use. His brewing notes, carefully organized in leather-bound journals. Clothes, which he hung in the wardrobe in his room without fanfare.
Harry watched the cottage fill with Severus's things, watched him claim space on the bathroom shelf for his toiletries, watched him add his cloak to the hook by the door. It felt significant, this gradual moving in, like Severus was committing to this life one box at a time.
The bookshelves filled steadily. Harry found himself studying Severus's collection, learning things about him through his choices. The man read everything—Potions theory and magical history, yes, but also philosophy, poetry, classic literature. There was a whole shelf of books about teaching, about child development, about parenting.
"You've been researching," Harry said one evening, pulling out a book titled Magical Children: A Guide for New Parents.
Severus looked up from the box he was unpacking, a faint flush coloring his pale cheeks. "I wanted to be prepared."
"That's..." Harry felt his chest tighten with emotion. "That's really sweet, actually."
"I have no practical experience with children," Severus said stiffly. "Reading seemed prudent."
Harry crossed the room,"You're going to be a good father."
"So will you."
A week after they'd moved in, Harry stood in the study doorway, looking at the now-full bookshelves. Severus's books and his own, mixed together, spines of different colors and sizes creating a patchwork of their combined lives. It looked right, somehow. Complete.
"It's full," he said as Severus came to stand beside him.
"Yes. I brought the last box today." Severus surveyed the shelves with satisfaction. "I'll need to leave some books at Spinner's End for reference while I'm brewing, but everything else is here now."
"Does it feel like home?" Harry asked. "Really?"
Severus was quiet for a moment, his dark eyes moving over the room—the books, the comfortable chairs, the window overlooking the garden. "More than Spinner's End ever did," he said finally. "That house was my father's. This one is ours."
That evening, they settled into the sitting room after dinner. Harry curled up on the sofa with a book, one of Severus's actually—a collection of essays about magical theory that was surprisingly engaging. Severus sat in the armchair, reviewing his brewing notes, occasionally making annotations in the margins.
The cottage was quiet around them, just the crackle of the fire and the scratch of Severus's quill. Outside, the hawthorn tree rustled in the evening breeze. It was peaceful, domestic, exactly the kind of evening Harry had dreamed of but never thought he'd have.
His hand drifted to his stomach, resting there. Still flat, no visible sign of the life growing inside him, but he could feel it—a warmth, a presence, a promise of the future.
Severus looked up from his notes, his eyes tracking the movement. Their gazes met, and something passed between them—understanding, hope, the shared knowledge of what they were building together.
"Alright?" Severus asked softly.
Harry nodded, his hand still on his stomach. "Yeah. Really alright."
This was his life now. Their life. A cottage filled with books and furniture they'd chosen together, a nursery waiting for its occupant, a garden to tend, meals to share. And Severus, sitting across from him in the firelight, looking more at peace than Harry had ever seen him.
This was home. This was family. This was everything Harry had ever wanted, taking shape one day at a time.
He went back to his book, but he was smiling. In eight months, there would be a baby. But right now, there was this—quiet evenings and shared space and the comfortable silence of two people learning to build a life together.
It was enough. It was everything.
Chapter 7: 3 babies
Chapter Text
The nausea hit Harry like a curse to the gut.
He woke suddenly, the pre-dawn light barely filtering through the curtains of their bedroom, and knew with absolute certainty that he had approximately thirty seconds before he was going to be sick. He threw back the covers and stumbled toward the bathroom, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other bracing against the wall as the room tilted sideways.
He barely made it to the toilet before his stomach rebelled violently.
"Fuck," Harry gasped between heaves, his whole body shaking. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
This was not how he'd imagined pregnancy would feel. In his mind, there had been a sort of gentle, glowing awareness of the life growing inside him. Not this—not kneeling on cold bathroom tiles at five in the morning, retching up what felt like every meal he'd ever eaten.
"Harry?"
Severus's voice came from the doorway, rough with sleep and concern. Harry wanted to tell him to go away, that he was fine, but another wave of nausea cut off any response. He felt a cool hand on the back of his neck, another gathering his hair away from his face.
"Easy," Severus murmured. "Breathe through it."
"Can't," Harry managed, then proved himself wrong by vomiting again.
When the worst of it finally passed, Harry slumped against the wall, sweating and miserable. He was acutely aware of how disgusting he must look, how this was possibly the least romantic moment in their entire relationship. They'd been living together for three weeks. Three weeks of domestic bliss in their cottage, of cooking together and reading by the fire and falling asleep tangled in each other's arms. And now Severus was seeing him like this—weak and sick and pathetic.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, not looking at him. "I think I ate something bad. You should go back to bed."
"Don't be absurd." Severus's tone was brisk, practical. He dampened a flannel with cool water and pressed it to Harry's forehead. "This isn't food poisoning."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're most likely pregnant, and morning sickness typically begins around this time." Severus helped him to his feet, supporting most of his weight. "Come. Let's get you back to bed."
Harry let himself be guided back to the bedroom, too exhausted to argue. Severus settled him against the pillows and vanished the sour taste from his mouth with a quick spell. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, studying Harry with those dark, penetrating eyes.
"The pregnancy symptoms are starting," Severus said quietly. "This is normal, Harry. Unpleasant, but normal."
"Normal," Harry repeated weakly. He touched his stomach, still flat beneath his t-shirt. "There's really a baby in there. Making me sick."
"Indeed." Something flickered across Severus's face—wonder, perhaps, or fear. "I'll brew you something for the nausea. There are pregnancy-safe potions that should help."
"Okay." Harry closed his eyes. "Thank you. For... you know. Not being disgusted."
"Harry." Severus's hand found his, fingers intertwining. "I've seen you covered in blood, mud, and various other substances I prefer not to recall. Morning sickness is hardly going to change my opinion of you."
Despite everything, Harry smiled. "Romantic."
"I try."
But the morning sickness didn't stop.
Over the next week, it became Harry's new reality. Every morning, like clockwork, he woke up nauseous. Sometimes he made it to the bathroom. Sometimes he didn't. Severus kept a basin beside his bed and never once complained about vanishing its contents.
The potions helped, but only marginally. Harry could keep down bland foods—toast, plain rice, weak tea—but anything with flavor or substance came right back up. He lost weight he couldn't afford to lose, his face becoming gaunt and pale. The exhaustion was worse than anything he'd experienced, even during the war. He would fall asleep on the sofa at two in the afternoon and wake up at dinner time, disoriented and still tired.
"This is ridiculous," Harry muttered one morning, after his fourth trip to the bathroom. He was lying on the cool tiles, too weak to stand. "How do people do this? How did my mum do this?"
Severus, who had followed him in with another dose of anti-nausea potion, crouched beside him. "Your mother had a relatively easy pregnancy, according to her medical records. Some people do. You, apparently, are not one of them."
"Lucky me."
"Drink this." Severus held the vial to Harry's lips. "Small sips."
Harry obeyed, though the potion tasted like liquified cardboard. "I'm sorry," he said again, because he seemed to be saying it constantly these days. "I know this isn't what you signed up for."
"Harry." Severus's voice was sharp. "Stop apologizing. You're growing a human being inside your body. You're allowed to be sick."
"I just feel so useless. I can't do anything. I can't even keep food down."
"You're doing the most important thing." Severus helped him sit up, supporting him against his chest. "You're keeping our child alive. Everything else is secondary."
Harry leaned into him, breathing in his scent—normally comforting, but lately even that sometimes made him nauseous. "What if it's always like this? What if I'm sick for nine months?"
"Then we'll manage for nine months." Severus pressed a kiss to his temple. "Together."
By the sixth week, new symptoms had appeared.
Harry's sense of smell became supernaturally acute. He could smell everything—the herbs in Severus's potions lab three rooms away, the neighbor's cat from across the field, the faint mustiness of old books in the library. Most smells made him nauseous. Severus's morning coffee, which Harry had always loved, now sent him running for the bathroom. Certain foods were completely off-limits. The smell of eggs cooking made him retch. Chicken was unbearable. Even the scent of Severus's shampoo, which Harry had been using, suddenly made his stomach turn.
Severus adapted without complaint. He avoided cooking anything with strong smells. He even changed his shampoo to an unscented variety.
"You don't have to do all this," Harry said, watching Severus pour his tea one morning. "I feel like I'm taking over your whole life."
"You are taking over my whole life," Severus replied mildly. "You and the baby. That's rather the point of this arrangement."
But it wasn't just the physical symptoms. Harry's emotions were all over the place, swinging wildly from one extreme to another. He cried at everything. A sad story in the Prophet. A particularly beautiful sunset. The way Severus had organized the nursery bookshelf. He would find himself sobbing over nothing, unable to explain why, while Severus held him and looked utterly baffled.
"I don't understand," Harry hiccupped one evening, tears streaming down his face. "Why am I crying? Nothing's wrong. I'm just... crying."
"Hormones," Severus said, though he looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Your body is producing enormous amounts of progesterone and estrogen. It affects your emotional regulation."
"I hate it. I feel crazy."
"You're not crazy. You're pregnant." Severus wiped Harry's tears with his thumb. "Though I confess, I'm somewhat out of my depth with this particular symptom."
There were other changes too the exhaustion. God, the exhaustion. Harry slept ten, twelve hours a night and still needed naps during the day. He would fall asleep reading, fall asleep eating, fall asleep in the middle of conversations. His body was demanding rest, and there was nothing he could do but surrender to it.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled one afternoon, waking up on the sofa to find Severus reading beside him. "I fell asleep again."
"Stop apologizing." Severus didn't look up from his book. "You're growing a placenta, developing a circulatory system for another human being, and producing enough hormones to fell a hippogriff. Sleep as much as you need."
The first ultrasound appointment was scheduled for seven weeks after the implantation. Harry had been counting down the days, equal parts excited and terrified. They would see the baby. Actually see it. Maybe even hear a heartbeat.
The morning of the appointment, Harry woke up nauseous as usual, but there was an edge of anticipation beneath the sickness. He managed to keep down some dry toast and weak tea, then spent an hour trying to decide what to wear before Severus told him he was being ridiculous and handed him a clean shirt.
"What if something's wrong?" Harry asked as they prepared to Floo to St. Mungo's. "What if there's no heartbeat? What if—"
"Harry." Severus gripped his shoulders, forcing eye contact. "Spiraling into anxiety helps nothing. We will go to the appointment, we will see what we see, and we will deal with whatever comes. Together."
"Right. Together." Harry took a deep breath. "Okay. I'm ready."
He wasn't ready.
St. Mungo's maternity ward was on the fourth floor, bright and cheerful in a way that felt almost aggressive. The walls were painted a soft yellow, with moving murals of storks and babies and happy families. Harry's stomach churned, though whether from nerves or morning sickness, he couldn't tell.
Healer Pritchett greeted them warmly, ushering them into a private examination room. She was a middle-aged witch with kind eyes and capable hands, and Harry had liked her immediately during their first consultation.
"How are you feeling, Harry?" she asked, gesturing for him to sit on the examination bed.
"Awful," Harry admitted. "Sick all the time. Exhausted. Is that normal?"
"Completely normal, though your symptoms do seem quite severe." She made notes on her clipboard. "The nausea and fatigue should start to ease around week twelve or thirteen. Until then, I'm afraid you'll just have to endure it."
"Brilliant," Harry muttered.
Healer Pritchett smiled sympathetically. "I know it's miserable. But severe morning sickness often indicates a strong, healthy pregnancy. Your hormone levels are clearly robust." She turned to Severus. "And how are you holding up? Supporting a pregnant partner can be challenging."
"I'm managing," Severus said dryly.
"Good. Now, let's take a look at this baby, shall we?" She drew her wand, gesturing for Harry to lie back. "This will feel a bit strange, but it shouldn't hurt. I'm going to use a diagnostic charm to create a visual representation of your uterus and its contents. At seven weeks, we should be able to see the gestational sac clearly, and possibly detect a heartbeat."
Harry lay back, his heart pounding. Severus moved to stand beside him, and Harry reached for his hand, gripping it tightly.
Healer Pritchett began the spell, her wand moving in complex patterns over Harry's abdomen. A shimmering screen appeared in the air above them, showing a grainy, black-and-white image. Harry squinted at it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
"There," Healer Pritchett said, pointing. "That's your uterus. And that dark spot is the gestational sac. Let me just..."
She adjusted the spell, the image zooming in. Harry could see a small, bean-shaped form inside the sac. His baby. Their baby. It was real. It was actually real.
But Healer Pritchett had gone quiet, her wand moving more slowly now, scanning carefully. Her expression shifted from pleased to puzzled to something Harry couldn't quite read.
"Is something wrong?" Harry asked, his voice tight with fear.
"No, nothing's wrong." Healer Pritchett continued scanning. "Just... unexpected. Give me a moment."
The silence stretched out, broken only by the soft hum of magic. Severus's hand tightened around Harry's. On the screen, the image shifted, moved, refocused.
And then Harry saw it. Another dark spot. Another gestational sac.
"Wait," he said. "Is that—"
"Twins," Healer Pritchett said. "You're carrying twins. We implanted two embryos, and it appears both took. That explains the severity of your symptoms. Double the hormones, double the—"
She stopped abruptly, her wand moving again. The image shifted once more.
Harry's breath caught in his throat.
Three. There were three gestational sacs. Three tiny bean-shaped forms. Three—
"Oh my," Healer Pritchett said softly.
"Three?" Harry's voice came out as a squeak. "There are three?"
"It appears that one of the embryos split." Healer Pritchett's wand traced the image, highlighting each sac. "This one and this one are fraternal twins—from the two embryos we implanted. But this one split into identical twins. So you have... triplets. You're carrying triplets."
The room tilted sideways. Harry heard a rushing sound in his ears, like the ocean, like falling, like the world ending and beginning at the same time.
"Three," he repeated numbly. "Three babies."
"Let me confirm the heartbeats." Healer Pritchett adjusted the spell again, and suddenly Harry could hear it—a rapid, fluttering sound, like bird wings. "That's Baby A. Heart rate is 145 beats per minute, perfectly normal. And Baby B..." Another flutter, slightly faster. "152 beats per minute. Also excellent. And Baby C..." A third heartbeat joined the chorus. "148 beats per minute. All three are developing beautifully."
Harry couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Three babies. Three heartbeats. Three tiny lives growing inside him.
He turned to look at Severus, who had gone absolutely white. His hand was still gripping Harry's, but his whole body had gone rigid, his eyes fixed on the screen with an expression of pure shock.
"Severus?" Harry whispered.
"Three," Severus said faintly. "We're having three children."
"I know this is overwhelming," Healer Pritchett said gently. "Multiple pregnancies always are. But I want you to know that this is manageable. Triplets are high-risk, yes, but with proper care and monitoring, there's every reason to expect a positive outcome."
"High-risk," Harry repeated. His brain felt like it was moving through treacle. "How high-risk?"
Healer Pritchett set down her wand, her expression becoming serious. "I won't lie to you—carrying triplets is significantly more challenging than carrying a singleton. Your body will be under considerable strain. You'll need more frequent monitoring, probably every two weeks instead of monthly. There's a higher chance of complications like preterm labor, preeclampsia, and gestational diabetes. You'll likely need to go on bed rest in your third trimester. And the babies will almost certainly be born early—most triplets arrive between 32 and 35 weeks, rather than the full 40."
"But they'll be okay?" Harry's voice cracked. "The babies will be okay?"
"With proper care, yes. St. Mungo's has an excellent neonatal unit. Even if they're born at 32 weeks, their chances of survival and healthy development are very good." She smiled reassuringly. "And you're young, healthy, and have access to the best magical medical care available. Those are all points in your favor."
"What about Harry?" Severus spoke for the first time since the revelation, his voice tight. "What are the risks to him?"
"The main concerns are the ones I mentioned—preeclampsia, gestational diabetes, and the physical strain of carrying three babies. Harry will need to be very careful, especially in the later months. Plenty of rest, good nutrition, regular monitoring. But male pregnancy, while rare, actually has some advantages. The magical adaptation of the body tends to be quite robust."
Harry barely heard her. He was staring at the screen, at the three tiny forms. Three babies. He'd been preparing himself for one. One baby, one crib, one of everything. And now...
"Can I see them again?" he asked quietly.
Healer Pritchett smiled and adjusted the image, zooming in on each baby in turn. "This is Baby A," she said, pointing to the first. "The smaller of the identical twins. And this is Baby B, the smaller identical twin. You can see they're sharing a placenta here. And this is Baby C, the fraternal sibling. Separate placenta."
Three fluttering heartbeats. Three tiny beans, barely bigger than lentils. Three children.
Harry felt tears sliding down his face. He didn't know if they were tears of joy or terror or both. His hand found his stomach, pressing against the flat surface, trying to comprehend that three lives were growing there.
"They're so small," he whispered.
"They'll get bigger," Healer Pritchett assured him. "Much bigger. By the end of your pregnancy, you're going to be quite impressively large, I'm afraid. Triplets take up a lot of room."
She spent the next twenty minutes going over everything—the new potion regimen, the increased monitoring schedule, the dietary requirements, the warning signs to watch for. She gave them information packets, pamphlets, a list of resources for parents of multiples. Harry tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting back to the image on the screen.
Three babies. Three.
Finally, Healer Pritchett printed out several copies of the ultrasound images and handed them over. "I know this is a lot to process," she said kindly. "Take your time. Call me if you have any questions, any concerns at all. And I'll see you back here in two weeks."
Harry nodded mutely, clutching the ultrasound photos like a lifeline.
They left the examination room in a daze. Harry was vaguely aware of walking through the hospital corridors, of stepping into the Floo, of arriving back at the cottage. But it all felt distant, unreal, like he was watching it happen to someone else.
They ended up sitting on a bench in the back garden, neither of them speaking. The autumn sun was warm on Harry's face, and he could hear birds singing in the trees. Normal sounds. A normal day. Except nothing was normal anymore.
"Three," Harry said finally. "Severus, we're having three babies."
"I'm aware." Severus's voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could hear the edge of panic beneath it. "The mathematics are quite clear."
"We only have one crib."
"Yes."
"We'll need three cribs. Three of everything, three high chairs, three—" Harry's voice was rising. "How are we going to fit three cribs in the nursery? How are we going to afford three of everything? How are we going to take care of three babies at once?"
"I don't know." Severus turned to look at him, and Harry was startled to see that he looked as terrified as Harry felt. "I have no idea. I barely know how to take care of one baby, let alone three."
They stared at each other for a long moment. And then, inexplicably, Harry started to laugh. It bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest, slightly hysterical, but genuine. Because it was absurd. It was completely, utterly absurd.
"Of course," Harry gasped between laughs. "Of course we're having triplets. Because nothing with us is ever simple, is it? We can't just have a normal pregnancy with one baby like normal people. No, we have to have three."
Severus's mouth twitched. "It does seem consistent with our history."
"Consistent." Harry laughed harder. "That's one word for it."
And then Severus was laughing too, a rusty, unpracticed sound that Harry had only heard a handful of times. They sat on the bench in their garden, laughing like lunatics, while three tiny lives grew in Harry's belly.
When the laughter finally subsided, Harry leaned against Severus's shoulder, exhausted. "I'm terrified," he admitted quietly.
"So am I."
"What if I can't do this? What if I'm not strong enough to carry three babies?"
"You're the strongest person I know." Severus's arm came around him, solid and reassuring. "If anyone can do this, it's you."
"What if we can't take care of them all? What if we're terrible parents?"
"Then we'll be terrible parents together." Severus pressed a kiss to his hair. "But I don't think we will be. I think we'll muddle through, make countless mistakes, and somehow manage to raise three relatively functional human beings."
Harry pulled out the ultrasound photos, studying them in the sunlight. Three tiny beans. Three heartbeats. Three children who would call him Dad.
"We're going to need help," he said. "We can't do this alone. Maybe we could hire someone? A nanny or something?"
"Perhaps. We'll figure it out." Severus took one of the photos, his expression softening as he looked at it. "Three children. An instant family."
"Yeah." Harry touched his stomach again, marveling at it. "Three babies in there. How is that even possible?"
"Magic," Severus said dryly. "And apparently, my exceptionally potent sperm."
Harry snorted. "Romantic."
"I try."
They sat in silence for a while longer, watching the sun move across the sky. Harry's mind was racing, trying to process everything. The nursery would need to be completely reconfigured. They'd need three cribs, three changing tables, three of everything. The cottage was big enough, thankfully—the nursery was large, and there were other rooms they could convert if needed. But the logistics were staggering.
"We should go look at the nursery," Harry said eventually. "Start planning how to fit everything."
They walked back into the cottage, through the cozy living room with its fireplace and comfortable sofas, up the stairs to the second floor. The nursery was at the end of the hall, painted a soft green with white trim. They'd bought one crib so far, a beautiful wooden one that Severus had spent hours assembling. It sat against one wall, looking suddenly very small and inadequate.
Harry stood in the doorway, trying to imagine three cribs, three babies. "We're going to need a bigger room."
"We could knock through to the adjacent bedroom," Severus suggested. "Create one large nursery. There's enough space."
"Three cribs, three dressers, three..." Harry trailed off, overwhelmed again.
Severus came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist, his hands settling over Harry's stomach. "We'll make it work," he said quietly. "Whatever we need to do, we'll make it work."
Harry covered Severus's hands with his own, pressing them more firmly against his belly. Three babies. Three tiny lives, growing and developing, their hearts beating in perfect rhythm. It was terrifying. It was overwhelming. It was impossible.
It was also the most incredible thing that had ever happened to him.
"I can't believe we're having triplets," Harry whispered.
"Neither can I." Severus's breath was warm against his ear. "But we are. And we're going to do this together."
"Together," Harry agreed.
That evening, they sat on the sofa in front of the fire, the ultrasound photos spread out on the coffee table. Harry couldn't stop looking at them, tracing the tiny forms with his finger. Baby A, Baby B, Baby C. Three children. His children. Their children.
"Do you think they'll look like you or me?" Harry asked.
"Given that two of them are identical, they'll presumably look like each other." Severus was reading one of the information packets, his brow furrowed. "The third could favor either of us. Or neither. Genetics are unpredictable."
"I hope they have your eyes," Harry said. "All three of them."
Severus looked up, something soft and vulnerable in his expression. "I hope they have your courage."
"And your intelligence."
"And your kindness."
"And your—" Harry stopped, his hand flying to his stomach. "Oh."
"What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just... I felt something. Like a flutter. Is that possible? Can I feel them moving already?"
"At seven weeks, they're far too small for you to feel movement. That's likely just gas or your digestive system adjusting." But Severus's hand joined Harry's on his stomach anyway, both of them waiting, hoping.
"Maybe," Harry said. "Or maybe they're saying hello."
They sat like that for a long time, hands on Harry's belly, staring into the fire. Three babies. Three heartbeats. Three tiny miracles that had somehow, impossibly, become their reality.
"We're having triplets," Harry said again, testing the words, trying to make them feel real.
"We're having triplets," Severus agreed, and this time, there was a smile in his voice. A small one, tentative and terrified, but genuine.
Harry leaned into him, exhausted and overwhelmed and more frightened than he'd been since the war. But also excited. Also hopeful. Also filled with a love so fierce it took his breath away.
Three babies. Three children. Three chances to get it right, to be the parents they'd never had, to build the family they'd both always wanted.
It was impossible. It was terrifying. It was perfect.
"We can do this," Harry said, more to convince himself than anything.
"We can do this," Severus echoed, his arms tightening around Harry.
And sitting there in their cottage, with the fire crackling and the ultrasound photos on the table and three tiny lives growing between them, Harry almost believed it.
Two days later, Harry stood in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to decide if his shirt looked too tight across his stomach. At seven weeks, there shouldn't be anything visible yet—Healer Pritchett had said as much—but Harry swore he could see a slight curve that hadn't been there before.
"You look fine," Severus said from the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing his usual black, though he'd forgone the robes for simple trousers and a button-down shirt. Still severe, still Severus, but somehow less intimidating without the billowing fabric.
"I'm not worried about how I look," Harry lied, tugging at his shirt one more time. "I'm just... are you sure you want to come? I could tell them on my own, and then you could meet them later, after they've had time to process—"
"Harry." Severus moved into the bathroom, his reflection appearing beside Harry's in the mirror. "We discussed this. We're doing this together. That includes telling your friends."
"Right. Together." Harry took a deep breath. "It's just... Hermione was your student. And Ron still gets weird around you sometimes. And we're about to tell them we're having three babies together, which is—"
"Unusual," Severus supplied dryly. "Yes, I'm aware. But they're your closest friends, and they deserve to hear this from you directly. From us," he corrected. "Besides, you've been wanting to tell them for days. The suspense is making you insufferable."
Harry turned to face him properly. "You're nervous."
"I'm not—" Severus stopped, his jaw tightening. "Perhaps slightly apprehensive. Miss Granger—Mrs. Weasley—was an exceptional student, but our relationship was strictly professional. I'm uncertain how she'll react to... this."
"She'll be happy for us," Harry said firmly. "She's the one who suggested the breeding program in the first place, remember? And she knows you're not the same person you were during the war. None of us are."
Severus didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Very well. Shall we?"
They Flooed to the Weasley cottage, arriving in a tumble of green flames and soot. Harry stumbled out first, brushing ash from his clothes, and Severus followed with considerably more grace.
The cottage sitting room was warm and cluttered in the way only a home with a toddler could be—toys scattered across the floor, children's books stacked on every surface, a half-built tower of blocks in the corner. Through the doorway to the kitchen, Harry could hear Hermione's voice, and the higher-pitched babbling of Rose.
"Harry!" Hermione appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel, her face lighting up. "You're here! I was just making tea, and—oh." She stopped short, seeing Severus behind him. "Professor Snape. Hello."
"Mrs. Weasley." Severus inclined his head stiffly. "Thank you for allowing me into your home."
"Of course. Please, come in. Both of you." Hermione's smile was warm but slightly uncertain, and Harry could see her mind working, trying to puzzle out why her former Potions professor was accompanying Harry for what was supposed to be a casual visit.
Ron emerged from the kitchen carrying Rose on his hip, and his expression went through several rapid changes when he spotted Severus—surprise, wariness, and then a determined attempt at politeness. "Snape. Er, good to see you."
"Mr. Weasley." Severus's tone was carefully neutral.
"It's just Ron, yeah? We're all adults now. No need for the formal stuff." Ron shifted Rose to his other hip, looking uncomfortable. "Can I get you something to drink? Tea? We've got butterbeer, I think, or—"
"Tea would be acceptable. Thank you."
The awkwardness was painful. Harry jumped in quickly. "Is this Rose? She's gotten so big!"
"She's two and a half now," Hermione said, her expression softening as she looked at her daughter. "Growing like a weed. Rose, sweetheart, can you say hello to Uncle Harry?"
Rose, who had been staring at Severus with wide brown eyes, suddenly buried her face in Ron's shoulder, shy.
"She's in a phase," Ron explained apologetically. "Doesn't like strangers much. Took her three visits to warm up to George, and he's her uncle."
They moved into the sitting room, Ron and Hermione settling onto the sofa with Rose between them, while Harry and Severus took the armchairs. The silence stretched awkwardly as Hermione poured tea, everyone clearly waiting for someone else to speak first.
Then Rose wiggled out from between her parents and, to everyone's shock, toddled directly toward Severus.
"Rose, honey, come back here," Hermione started, reaching for her daughter.
But Rose ignored her, stopping directly in front of Severus's chair and tilting her head back to look up at him. Her hair was a mass of bushy brown curls, so like Hermione's, and her face was dusted with Ron's freckles. She studied Severus with serious concentration.
"You're tall," she announced.
Severus blinked, clearly taken aback. "I... yes. I suppose I am."
"What's your name?"
"Severus."
Rose's face scrunched up as she tried to pronounce it. "Sev-us?"
"Close enough."
"I'm Rose." She held up two fingers. "I'm two."
"A pleasure to meet you, Rose."
Harry watched in amazement as Rose, who apparently didn't like strangers, reached up and grabbed Severus's hand. "You have big hands."
"Rose!" Hermione looked mortified. "I'm so sorry, Professor, she's usually not this—"
"It's quite alright." Severus was staring at Rose with an expression Harry had never seen before—bewildered but oddly gentle. "She's not bothering me."
Rose tugged on his hand. "Can you pick me up?"
"I don't think—"
"Please?" Rose's bottom lip jutted out in a pout that was clearly well-practiced.
Severus looked helplessly at Harry, who was trying very hard not to laugh. "I believe you're being manipulated."
"I'm aware." But Severus carefully set down his teacup and reached down, lifting Rose with surprising ease. She settled onto his lap like she'd been there a hundred times before, completely comfortable.
Ron and Hermione were staring, mouths slightly open.
"She never does this," Ron said faintly. "She cried for an hour the first time she met my Aunt Muriel."
"To be fair," Harry pointed out, "Aunt Muriel is terrifying."
Rose had discovered the buttons on Severus's shirt and was examining them with intense concentration. "These are shiny."
"They're made of jet," Severus said, his voice taking on the same tone he'd used when explaining potions ingredients to students. "It's a type of fossilized wood."
"What's foss-il-ized?"
"It means very, very old."
"Like you?"
Harry choked on his tea. Ron made a strangled sound. Hermione pressed her hand to her mouth.
Severus's lips twitched. "Yes. Exactly like me."
Rose seemed satisfied with this answer. She leaned back against Severus's chest, still playing with his buttons, completely at ease. Severus's hand came up automatically to steady her, and Harry felt something warm and bright bloom in his chest.
"I've never seen her take to anyone so quickly," Hermione said, still looking stunned. "She's usually so shy with new people."
"Children and animals," Severus said dryly. "They always know who to trust."
"Or who has the most interesting buttons," Harry added, grinning.
Rose looked up at Severus. "Do you have toys?"
"Not with me, I'm afraid."
"That's okay." Rose wiggled off his lap and ran to the corner, returning with a battered picture book. "You can read to me."
"Rose, sweetheart, Sev—Professor Snape is a guest," Hermione started. "He doesn't have to—"
"I don't mind." Severus took the book, examining the cover. "The Tale of Peter Rabbit. A classic."
Rose climbed back onto his lap, settling in with the confidence of a child who knew she was exactly where she belonged. "It's my favorite."
Harry watched as Severus opened the book and began to read, his deep voice perfect for storytelling. Rose listened with rapt attention, occasionally pointing at the pictures and asking questions, which Severus answered with surprising patience.
"I don't believe this," Ron muttered. "That's Snape. Reading Peter Rabbit. To my daughter. Who likes him."
"It's sweet," Hermione said softly, watching them. Then she turned to Harry, her expression curious. "So. Are you going to tell us why you're here? Together?"
Harry glanced at Severus, who had paused in his reading to look back at him. Rose tugged on his sleeve. "Keep reading, Sev-us."
"In a moment, Rose. Harry has something important to tell your parents."
All eyes turned to Harry. He took a deep breath, his hand unconsciously moving to his stomach.
"I'm pregnant," he said simply.
The silence lasted approximately three seconds.
Then Hermione squealed—actually squealed—and launched herself at Harry, pulling him into a crushing hug. "Harry! Oh my God, that's wonderful! Congratulations!"
"Can't breathe, Hermione—"
"Sorry, sorry!" She pulled back, her eyes shining with tears. "I'm just so happy for you! When did you find out? How far along are you? How are you feeling?"
"Congratulations, mate," Ron said, grinning widely. He stood and shook Harry's hand, then seemed to realize Severus was involved in this equation and turned to him awkwardly. "Er, congratulations to you too. Both of you. That's... yeah. Brilliant."
"Thank you," Severus said, his arm still around Rose, who had gone back to examining his buttons.
"Seven weeks," Harry answered Hermione's questions. "We found out a few days ago. And I'm feeling... well, mostly nauseous, actually. The morning sickness is pretty bad."
"Oh, I remember that," Hermione said sympathetically. "With Rose, I couldn't keep anything down for weeks. Ginger tea helped, and crackers, and—"
"Actually," Harry interrupted, "there's more. The pregnancy is... complicated."
Hermione's expression shifted to concern. "Complicated how? Is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine. Better than fine, actually. It's just..." Harry looked at Severus again, drawing strength from his steady presence. "We're having triplets."
The silence this time lasted much longer.
"Triplets," Ron repeated slowly. "As in... three babies."
"Yes, Ron, that's what triplets means," Hermione said absently, her mind clearly racing. "Three babies. Harry, that's—that's incredible! And terrifying. Mostly incredible. But also—three babies!" She turned to Severus. "The fertility potion. You created it. Did you know this could happen?"
"It's based on magical power," Severus explained, his voice taking on a lecturing quality. "The more powerful the carrier, the more likely multiple embryos will develop. Given Harry's magical strength, I should have anticipated this possibility."
"Don't," Harry said quickly. "Don't blame yourself. We're both thrilled. Terrified, but thrilled."
"Three babies," Ron said again, shaking his head. "That's mental. That's absolutely mental. How are you going to—I mean, one baby is hard enough, but three?"
"We'll figure it out," Harry said, with more confidence than he felt. "Together."
"You'll need help," Hermione said immediately, already in planning mode. "Lots of help. I can research multiple births, find the best books on caring for triplets. And we can help with the nursery—you'll need three cribs, three of everything. Oh, and you should talk to Molly, she raised seven children, she'll have advice—"
"Hermione," Ron said gently. "Breathe."
She stopped, laughing slightly. "Sorry. I just—this is so exciting! Our children will grow up together. Rose will have playmates, and—" She stopped abruptly, her hand flying to her mouth.
"What?" Harry asked.
Hermione looked at Ron, who raised his eyebrows. Some silent communication passed between them, and then Hermione turned back to Harry, her eyes bright.
"I'm pregnant too," she blurted out.
The room erupted.
"What?" Harry practically shouted. "Hermione! That's amazing!"
"But we were going to tell them at dinner, remember? With the special announcement and everything?"
"I know, I know, but Harry just told us about triplets and I got excited and it just came out!" Hermione was laughing and crying at the same time. "I only found out yesterday. I'm about six weeks along."
Harry pulled her into another hug, both of them laughing. "We're going to be pregnant together!"
"I know! I can't believe it!"
"This is brilliant," Ron said, grinning. "Our kids are going to grow up together. They'll be best mates, just like us."
"When are you due?" Hermione asked, pulling back to look at Harry.
"Healer Pritchett said probably early February," Harry said. "Triplets usually come early—around 32 to 35 weeks instead of 40."
"I'm due in March," Hermione said. "So Rose will be three, and then four babies all close in age. It's going to be chaos."
"Brilliant chaos," Harry said.
"The best kind," Hermione agreed.
Rose, who had been quietly listening to all of this from Severus's lap, tugged on his sleeve again. "Sev-us, what's triplets?"
"It means Harry is going to have three babies at the same time," Severus explained.
Rose's eyes went wide. "Three babies?"
"Yes."
"That's a lot of babies."
"Indeed it is."
"Can I see them?"
"Not yet," Severus said. "They're still very small. They need to grow bigger first."
"Oh." Rose thought about this for a moment. "Will they be my friends?"
"I expect so," Severus said, and Harry saw something soft in his expression, something that made his chest ache in the best way.
They spent the next hour talking—about pregnancies and due dates, about nursery plans and baby names, about the logistics of caring for multiple infants. Hermione immediately offered to lend Harry every pregnancy book she owned, and started making lists of things they would need. Ron shared horror stories from when Rose was a newborn, which were probably meant to be helpful but mostly just made Harry more nervous.
Through it all, Rose stayed close to Severus. She brought him more books to read, showed him her favorite toys, and eventually climbed back onto his lap and fell asleep against his chest, her thumb in her mouth and her bushy hair tickling his chin.
"I still can't believe this," Hermione whispered, watching them. "She never does this. She screamed when my mother tried to hold her last month."
"He's going to be a good father," Harry said softly.
Severus looked up at that, meeting Harry's eyes across the room. Something passed between them—understanding, maybe, or promise. Or just the shared knowledge that they were in this together, that they would figure it out, that they would be the parents their children deserved.
"You both will be," Hermione said, squeezing Harry's hand.
When it was finally time to leave, Rose woke up and immediately started crying when she realized Severus was going.
"No!" she wailed, clinging to his neck. "Sev-us stay!"
"I'm afraid I can't, Rose," Severus said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But I'll visit again soon. I promise."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Rose sniffled, then held out her pinky finger. "Pinky promise?"
Severus looked baffled. Harry bit back a laugh. "You have to link your pinky with hers. It's a binding magical contract for toddlers."
"I see." Severus solemnly linked his pinky with Rose's tiny one. "Pinky promise."
Satisfied, Rose allowed Ron to take her, though she waved sadly as they left. "Bye, Sev-us! Bye, Uncle Harry!"
At the door, Hermione hugged Harry tightly. "I'm so happy for you," she whispered. "Both of you. You're going to be wonderful parents."
"So are you," Harry said. "Again."
Ron shook Severus's hand, and this time there was no awkwardness, just genuine warmth. "Take care of him, yeah? And those babies."
"I intend to," Severus said.
They Apparated back to Hawthorn Cottage, appearing in the sitting room. Harry immediately collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted but happy.
"That went well," he said.
"Rose called me Sev-us," Severus said, sounding slightly dazed. He sat down beside Harry, shaking his head. "Children usually hate me. They cry when I enter a room. They hide behind their parents. They certainly don't fall asleep on me."
"She loved you," Harry said, grinning. "You were so good with her. Reading to her, answering her questions, making pinky promises."
"I have no idea what I'm doing with children."
"You're doing fine." Harry leaned against him, resting his head on Severus's shoulder. "Our babies are going to love you too."
Severus's arm came around him automatically. "You can't know that."
"I can," Harry said firmly. "Because you're going to be an amazing father. I saw it today. The way you were with Rose—patient and gentle and kind. That's who you are now, Severus. That's who you're going to be with our children."
Severus was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Three children."
"Three children," Harry agreed. "And they're going to grow up with Rose and Hermione's new baby. They'll have friends. A whole community of people who love them."
"A family," Severus said softly.
"Yeah." Harry pressed his hand to his stomach, feeling that now-familiar warmth. "A family."
They sat there in comfortable silence, watching the fire crackle in the hearth. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. The cottage was warm and peaceful, full of the promise of the life they were building together.
"Sev-us," Harry said suddenly, grinning.
"Don't."
"She couldn't say Severus, so she called you Sev-us. It's adorable."
"It's ridiculous."
"It's perfect." Harry tilted his head up to look at him. "Our kids are probably going to call you something equally cute. Dad-us, maybe. Or Papa-us."
"I will not respond to Papa-us."
"We'll see," Harry said, laughing.
Severus huffed, but Harry could see the smile tugging at his lips.
They were quiet for a moment, and then Harry asked, "Have you told anyone else? About the babies?"
Severus's expression shuttered slightly. "No. There's no one to tell, really."
"What about Professor McGonagall?"
Severus stiffened. "Minerva is a former colleague. I hardly think—"
"She's more than that," Harry interrupted gently. "She fought for you after the war. She made sure everyone knew the truth about what you did. She's been there for you, hasn't she?"
Severus was silent for a long moment, his jaw tight. "She has been... supportive."
"Then she's family," Harry said firmly. "And family should know."
"I can inform her myself," Severus said, his tone carefully neutral. "There's no need for you to—"
"I want to come with you."
Severus looked at him sharply. "Harry—"
"You came with me to tell Ron and Hermione," Harry pointed out. "Fair is fair. We're doing this together, remember? That's what you said. We're in this together."
"That's different. They're your friends."
"And Minerva is important to you. So I'm coming." Harry's voice was gentle but firm. "Unless you really don't want me there?"
Severus studied him for a long moment, something complicated flickering across his face. Finally, he sighed. "Very well. Though I warn you, Minerva can be... overwhelming when she's pleased about something."
Harry grinned. "I can handle Professor McGonagall."
"We'll see about that."
They Apparated to Hogsmeade the following afternoon, materializing at the edge of the village with a soft crack. The walk up to Hogwarts was familiar to Harry—he'd made this journey countless times as a student—but it felt different now. He was returning not as a student or even as a visitor, but as someone with news to share, with a life being built beyond these walls.
Beside him, Severus was tense. His shoulders were rigid, his hands clasped behind his back in that professorial way, but Harry could see the tension in the set of his jaw.
"You okay?" Harry asked quietly.
"Fine," Severus said, too quickly.
"You're nervous."
"I am not nervous. I simply haven't been back since..." He trailed off, his eyes fixed on the castle looming ahead of them.
Since the war. Since Nagini. Since he'd nearly died in the Shrieking Shack.
Harry reached out and caught Severus's hand, squeezing it briefly. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to."
Severus looked down at their joined hands, then back up at Harry. Something in his expression softened. "No. You're right. Minerva should know."
They continued up the path, and as they approached the castle gates, Harry noticed students in the grounds turning to stare. Whispers followed them—"Is that Harry Potter?" "And Professor Snape!" "I thought he was dead!"—but Harry ignored them, keeping his attention on Severus.
The entrance hall was exactly as Harry remembered it, though the evidence of the battle had long since been repaired. The stone was whole, the windows intact, the house points hourglasses gleaming in their alcoves. It was strange to see it so peaceful, so normal, when his last memories of this place were filled with chaos and death.
They made their way to the gargoyle that guarded the Headmistress's office. It leapt aside before Severus could even speak the password, as if it had been expecting them.
"She knows we're here," Severus murmured as they stepped onto the spiral staircase.
"Is that surprising?"
"Minerva always knows everything that happens in this castle. It's deeply irritating."
Harry bit back a smile as they ascended. The door to the office was ajar, and Minerva McGonagall's voice called out before they could knock.
"Come in, Severus. And Mr. Potter."
They entered the circular office, and Harry was immediately struck by how different it looked from his memories. The delicate silver instruments were still there, spinning and puffing smoke, but the space felt more austere now, more practical. Minerva's influence rather than Dumbledore's whimsy.
Minerva herself stood from behind the desk, her tartan robes crisp, her hair pulled back in its customary tight bun. Her expression was one of surprise—pleasant surprise, but surprise nonetheless.
"Severus," she said warmly, then turned to Harry. "And Harry. This is unexpected. Please, sit down."
She gestured to the chairs before her desk, and they sat. Harry noticed Severus's posture was rigid, formal, like he was preparing for an interrogation rather than a conversation.
"Tea?" Minerva asked, already summoning a tea service with a flick of her wand.
"Thank you," Harry said. Severus just nodded.
Minerva poured for all three of them, her movements precise and practiced. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you both here. And together, no less." Her sharp eyes moved between them, assessing. "How are you, Severus? I haven't heard from you in several weeks."
"I've been... occupied," Severus said carefully.
"And you, Harry? I heard you'd been traveling."
"I was," Harry said. "But I'm back now. Settled, actually."
"Settled?" Minerva's eyebrow rose. "That's good to hear. You seemed rather adrift when last we spoke."
She was watching them both now, her gaze shrewd. Harry saw the moment she noticed it—the way he and Severus sat close together, the way Severus's hand rested on the arm of Harry's chair, the comfortable familiarity between them that spoke of more than casual acquaintance.
"You're living together," she said, and it wasn't a question.
Severus cleared his throat. "We have... entered into a partnership. Of sorts."
"A partnership." Minerva's lips twitched. "How delightfully vague, Severus."
"We're having a baby," Harry blurted out, unable to stand the awkward dancing around the subject any longer.
Severus closed his eyes briefly. "Babies. Plural."
Minerva's teacup froze halfway to her lips. She set it down carefully, her eyes wide. "I beg your pardon?"
"The Ministry's breeding program," Harry explained, the words tumbling out now. "I signed up after the war, and they matched me with Severus, and we decided to go through with it, and I'm pregnant. Seven weeks. With triplets."
The silence that followed was profound. Minerva stared at them, her expression cycling through shock, confusion, and then—slowly—dawning delight.
"Triplets," she repeated faintly.
"The potion I created is based on magical power," Severus said, his tone clinical, as if he were explaining a particularly complex bit of Transfiguration theory. "Harry's magical reserves are... considerable. The result was three viable embryos rather than the expected one."
"Three babies," Minerva said, and then her face broke into a smile so wide and genuine that Harry felt his own chest warm. "Severus. Harry. That's... that's wonderful!"
She stood abruptly, moving around the desk, and Harry thought she was coming toward him. But instead, she went straight to Severus, who looked alarmed.
"Minerva, I hardly think—"
She pulled him into a hug.
Severus went rigid, his arms at his sides, looking utterly bewildered. Harry had to press his lips together to keep from laughing at the expression on his face—somewhere between panic and reluctant pleasure.
"I'm so proud of you," Minerva said, her voice thick with emotion. "So very proud."
"I haven't done anything yet," Severus said, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "The children aren't even born."
"You've chosen to build a life," Minerva said, pulling back to look at him, her hands on his shoulders. "After everything you've been through, everything you've survived, you've chosen to create something beautiful. That takes courage, Severus."
Severus's jaw worked, and Harry saw his throat bob as he swallowed hard. "I... thank you, Minerva."
She squeezed his shoulders once more, then turned to Harry, pulling him into a hug as well. "And you, Harry. I'm so happy for you both."
"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, returning the embrace.
"It's Minerva now, dear. I think we're well past formalities." She released him and returned to her seat, though her eyes were still bright. "Now, tell me everything. How did this come about? And triplets! Are you feeling well, Harry? Is Severus taking proper care of you?"
"Of course I'm taking proper care of him," Severus said, sounding affronted. "What kind of question is that?"
"The kind a concerned friend asks," Minerva said tartly. "You have a tendency toward single-minded focus, Severus. I wanted to ensure you're not so absorbed in your potion work that you're neglecting Harry's needs."
"I'm not neglecting anything," Severus said stiffly. "Harry is my first priority."
The words hung in the air, and Harry felt something warm bloom in his chest. Severus seemed to realize what he'd said, because his ears went slightly pink.
Minerva's expression softened. "I can see that," she said gently. "Forgive an old woman her worries."
They spent the next half hour explaining everything—the breeding program, the matching process, the cottage in Hogsmeade, the ultrasound that had revealed three heartbeats instead of one. Minerva listened intently, asking questions, expressing concern about the high-risk nature of carrying triplets, and offering advice drawn from decades of caring for students.
"You'll need help," she said firmly. "Three infants is no small undertaking. Have you thought about hiring someone?"
"We'll manage," Severus said.
"Severus." Minerva's tone was the same one she'd used when he was a student doing something foolish. "Pride is all well and good, but three newborns will require more hands than two people possess. At least consider it."
"We have friends," Harry said. "Hermione and Ron will help. And you, if you want to?"
Minerva's expression melted into something tender. "Of course I want to. I'd be honored to be part of these children's lives." She paused, then added with a slight smile, "What shall they call me? Aunt Minerva? Or am I old enough to be Grandmother Minerva?"
"You're not old," Harry said automatically.
"I'm seventy-three, dear. I'm ancient." But she was smiling. "Grandmother Minerva has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
From the wall behind the desk, a portrait cleared its throat. Harry had been trying not to look at it—at Dumbledore's portrait, with its twinkling eyes and knowing smile—but now he couldn't avoid it.
"Congratulations are in order, I believe," Dumbledore's portrait said, his voice warm. "Three children, Severus. What a blessing."
Severus's expression went carefully blank. "Thank you, Headmaster."
"You'll be a wonderful father," the portrait continued. "You have so much love to give, though you've spent so long hiding it. I'm glad you've found someone to share it with."
"That's quite enough," Severus said tightly.
But Harry saw the way his hands clenched on the arms of his chair, saw the muscle jumping in his jaw. The words had affected him, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
Minerva was watching Severus with an expression of deep fondness. "He's right, you know. You do deserve this, Severus. You deserve happiness, a family, a life beyond the shadows you've lived in for so long."
"Minerva—"
"Let me finish." Her voice was gentle but firm. "You've spent your entire life in service to others. To Dumbledore, to the Order, to your students—even when they didn't know it. You've sacrificed everything, including your reputation, your safety, your peace of mind. And now you have a chance to build something for yourself. Something good and pure and full of love." She paused, her eyes suspiciously bright. "Lily would be happy for you."
Severus went very still. Harry saw his throat work, saw him blink rapidly.
"I like to think so," Severus said finally, his voice rough.
Harry reached over and took his hand, squeezing it. Severus's fingers tightened around his, holding on like an anchor.
"She would be," Harry said quietly. "I know she would."
They sat there for a moment, the weight of the past settling around them—all the loss, all the pain, all the years of darkness. But there was light now too. Hope. A future.
Minerva cleared her throat, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief she'd produced from somewhere. "Well. This calls for something stronger than tea, I think." She stood and moved to a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of what looked like very old firewhisky. "A toast. To new beginnings."
She poured three glasses, handing them out. Harry accepted his but didn't drink—he wasn't sure if alcohol was safe for the pregnancy.
Severus noticed his hesitation. "One sip won't hurt. For the toast."
Minerva raised her glass. "To Severus and Harry, and to the three little ones who will be so very loved. May your family be filled with joy, laughter, and all the happiness you both deserve."
They clinked glasses, and Harry took a small sip. The firewhisky burned pleasantly down his throat, warming him from the inside.
"Now," Minerva said, settling back into her chair with her own glass. "Tell me about this cottage. I want to hear everything. And the nursery—have you started preparing it yet?"
They talked for another hour, Minerva asking detailed questions about their plans, offering suggestions, and making them promise to let her visit soon. She wanted to see the cottage, wanted to help with the nursery if they'd let her, wanted to be involved in every aspect of these babies' lives.
"You'll bring them to visit Hogwarts, won't you?" she asked as they finally stood to leave. "When they're old enough? I'd love to show them the castle."
"Of course," Harry said. "Though it might be a while before we can wrangle three toddlers through these corridors."
"I have faith in you both." Minerva hugged them each again, holding on a bit longer this time. "Keep me informed. Weekly updates, at minimum. And if you need anything—anything at all—you owl me immediately. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Minerva," Severus said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice.
"Good." She walked them to the door, then caught Severus's arm before he could leave. "Severus. I meant what I said. You deserve this. Don't let your past convince you otherwise."
Severus nodded, not trusting his voice. Minerva squeezed his arm once more, then let them go.
They walked through the castle in silence, down the marble staircase, through the entrance hall, and out into the grounds. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Students were heading toward the Great Hall for dinner, their chatter and laughter echoing across the grounds.
Harry waited until they were well away from the castle before speaking. "Are you okay?"
Severus was quiet for a long moment. "Yes," he said finally. "I think I am."
"She really cares about you."
"I know." Severus's voice was soft. "She's been... she's the closest thing I have to family. After the war, when everyone else still saw me as a Death Eater, as a murderer, she fought for me. She made sure the truth came out. She visited me in hospital, helped me find work, checked on me regularly." He paused. "I don't know what I would have done without her."
"Now you have us," Harry said, taking his hand. "Me and the babies. We're your family too."
Severus looked at him, and in the fading light, Harry saw something vulnerable in his expression. "Yes," he said quietly. "You are."
They stood there for a moment, hands clasped, watching the sun sink below the horizon. Then Severus pulled Harry close, pressing a kiss to his forehead—a gesture so unexpected and tender that Harry's breath caught.
"Thank you," Severus murmured against his hair. "For insisting on coming. For being there."
They Apparated home as the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky, returning to their cottage, their home, their future.