Chapter Text
Severus has been gone for four days. It’s longer than usual, and though he hasn't said as much, Hermione feels it. Through the tether. Through the quiet. Through the way her own emotions feel heavier without him nearby to balance them out. She feels flickers of his state, like sunlight through a fogged window: blurred and intermittent. A few hours ago, there was strain. Before that, annoyance. Some sharp flare of tiredness that she could taste at the back of her tongue. But it never lasts. What keeps pulsing steady beneath it all is a kind of contentment. Not quite joy, but something close. And then, unmistakably, boredom.
She snorts softly to herself as she presses the cinnamon dough into neat little discs on the tray. Boredom is a good sign. Boredom means he's finished whatever strange task he's set himself and is simply waiting to return. She doesn't ask him where he goes. He never tells her, but he always comes back, and that’s what matters.
In the quiet warmth of their kitchen, she decorates. Not the garish kind, no blinking lights or Santa-shaped candles. But greenery, simple and old-fashioned. Twined garlands. Charms that sparkle gently. She hangs dried orange slices with cinnamon sticks on twine and nests enchanted baubles between the sprigs of spruce along the mantle. The fire crackles steadily as she moves through the house, her hair pinned back, cheeks dusted with flour from her earlier baking.
It’s the first Christmas they’ve spent truly together. The first one where he kisses her with no sense of obligation, where she can curl into his side and feel that bond between them hum soft and sure, not just alive but like something they have chosen.
Around this time she misses them more, her parents. The absence aches differently now. Not as sharp, just deep and constant, like a hollow behind the ribs. They’re still alive. Still safe. Still in Australia, eating pavlova and wrapping presents in paper printed with little kangaroos no doubt. But they don’t know her. Not the war, or the spell she cast to protect them, and not the girl they once sent off to school with a brand new backpack and a glittery notebook for the first time. She has tried so many times, but the spell she used had been too good, and when she went back to them, nothing stirred. They had new jobs. New lives. No memory of the daughter with wild curls and a mouth full of questions.
She hasn’t told Severus. Not directly. He must know some of it, he’s seen her quiet sadness in the evenings, must have felt the sharp twist of longing that surfaces around the holidays. But she’s never said the words, so he might not know why, not exactly as she has never given voice to that particular kind of grief.
So instead, she tidies, she bakes and she decorates. The kitchen smells like sugar and cloves. There's flour on the floor, on the cat, said cat is currently batting around a rogue cranberry on the floor. Soft music plays from their speakers, soft crooning about sleigh rides in the snow. She hums along under her breath as she lifts a tray of shortbread from the oven, the golden biscuits crisp around the edges and will be dusted with powdered sugar after cooling off. She doesn’t feel the wards announce him, but then, a thrum. Low and familiar. Not from the tether, but from the house itself. The way the magic in the house shifts subtly. And then the soft click of the door. Her breath catches. She turns. And there he is. Standing in the threshold, travel-worn and rumpled, dressed in all black. His hair’s windblown, his boots are scuffed, and he looks tired, he looks so tired, but his eyes find her immediately. And the moment they do, something in her untwists.
She opens her mouth to speak, but stops, because he’s staring. At the house. At the lights. At the little charms that drift lazily like snowflakes above the mantle His eyes flick to the tree, small, crooked, decorated with odd little handmade bits and glass baubles that float mid-branch, and then back to her.
She’s in an oversized jumper, sleeves pushed up, hands dusted with flour, hair coming loose from its pins. For a moment, he just… looks.
“…You decorated.”
She shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “Well. You were gone.”
He steps in, sets the case down, brushes snow from his shoulders.
“You baked too…” he says. His voice is low, rough from travel and cold. “...I hate that.”
“You ate half the biscuits last time–” she retorts.
“Yes. And I hated every bite of them.”
But the way he says it, dry, familiar, it makes her grin. She crosses the room and meets him in the middle, hands rising to fix the collar of his coat, to tug him close.
“Welcome home, Severus.”
He leans in. Presses his face into her curls. Breathes her in like it’s the only thing that makes sense to do, he grumbles about the garlands first as she had suspected he would.
“There's greenery everywhere…” Severus mutters, toeing off his boots by the door with more drama than strictly necessary. “It’s like the Forbidden Forest came in here and exploded all over the place….”
“You liked the Forbidden Forest. Or have you forgotten the time you taught an entire lesson with a shrieking mandrake tucked under your arm like a loaf of bread?”
“That was Botanical Threats in the Field, in which I was helping Pomea…” he counters, arching a brow as he shrugs off his coat. “Entirely different. Educational. Unlike this decorative assault on the senses.”
She steps into the doorway, hands on her hips, the soft fairy lights behind her casting a golden halo around her curls. “You’re such a Grinch.”
“I’m not—” He starts, then sighs. “Fine. Perhaps. But your baking is worse.”
“You love my baking.”
“I loathe it…” he lies, eyeing the tray of biscuits like a man who knows he’s already lost. “Because it makes me eat four more than I intend to, and then you smirk like you’ve won something.”
“Because I have.”
He doesn’t argue that point. Mostly because he’s already picked one up and taken a bite. The corner of his mouth twitches, betraying him. She smiles. It’s stupid, how much she missed him over four days. But that’s the thing about them, everything matters. His presence fills the house, and the tether, now quiet and steady, hums through her chest like a second heartbeat. Content. As she watches him wander deeper into the space, noticing the little changes she made, the new shelf in the reading nook, the rearranged potion jars they keep upstairs, the stack of books that finally found a home and no longer lives in a tower on the table, his gaze shifts to the other creature in the house.
Their cat. Or rather, his cat. The calico had appeared sometime in early autumn, a skittish thing with a torn ear, far too thin and a broken tail, darting between hedges like a ghost. Hermione had left out food, of course. But it had been Severus, dry-voiced and gruff as ever, who knelt on the stone steps with a bit of chicken in one hand, and a whispered spell to check for wounds in the other. He named her Morrow, short for tomorrow, he said. Because that’s what the cat always seemed to believe in. The next day, a better one perhaps. Now she’s decidedly fat and spoiled, curled in his armchair and swiping lazily at the floating ribbons of wrapping paper as if to show her approval to the current decor. Crookshanks’ old toys, the ones Hermione had never quite managed to throw away, are scattered around the hearth. The little knitted mouse is currently tucked under one paw like a prize hard won.
“She missed you…” Hermione murmurs, coming to stand beside him, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.
“She only misses the hand that feeds her.”
“Oh, come off it. She’s practically in love with you. You’re warm, quiet, and you smell like woodsmoke and ink. What creature wouldn’t?” He snorts. “Besides,” she adds, teasing gently, “I’m not exactly above curling up in your chair either, so maybe she’s just following my lead.”
“She likes my voice…” he says, deadpan, “because I’m the only one in this house who doesn’t coo at her like she’s an infant.”
“You called her your little miracle last week!”
“That was said in private between the two of us..” Severus says and motions to the cat.
Hermione laughs, leaning into him, stealing the last of his biscuit. He lets her, doesn’t even try to fight it.
“Tea or wine?” she asks.
“Both.”
She sets to it, pouring the sparkling rosé, “fermented sugar water,” and setting out a mug for him. She adds a drop of honey to his tea, because she knows how he likes it now. No need to ask. He settles on the sofa, the fire warming his socks, and Hermione curled beside him like she always ends up. She tucks one leg under herself, nursing her drink, her free hand creeping across his chest until he catches it and laces their fingers.
Neither of them say it, but it’s the first time in a long time either of them have felt this settled. Severus watches the fire. Hermione watches him. She’s thinking of her parents again, of what she lost, but the ache isn’t as sharp tonight. Maybe because he’s here, finally. Maybe because the lights are soft and the room smells like sugar and pine and winter. Or maybe just because this is home now. A stitched-together little space of magic, mischief, and the man she never expected to love, but does, with every part of her.
Morrow hops onto the sofa, stretches with the kind of languid grace only cats seem capable of, then pads across Severus’s lap like she owns the lease on his entire lower half. Without ceremony, she circles once and promptly collapses between his thighs, tail flicking across Hermione’s shin. Severus looks down at her, expression unreadable save for the minute tick at the corner of his mouth.
“I see exile didn’t suit her…” he mutters, brushing a few stray hairs from his robes.
“She wept by the door the second you left,” Hermione lies sweetly, swirling her wine. “Sat by the window like a jilted wife.”
Morrow stretches one leg out and meows as if to agree.
“Manipulative creature…” he sighs.
“Which one of us are you talking about?” Hermione asks innocently.
Severus doesn’t answer, just takes another slow sip of tea, fingers trailing idly over the cat’s back, drawing silent lines into her fur as if mapping out thoughts he’s not ready to speak aloud. Hermione watches him again, the curl of his fingers, the tired bend of his shoulders. The tether between them hums with a kind of soft gravity, comfort, contentment, the distinct relief of home. But under it, barely there, she can sense a thread of something else. Fatigue, yes, he’d been gone four days, but also… anticipation?
He’s been away before, but never like this. Never so long. And when she asked, he’d only said,
“I’ll be back soon. Try not to set the house on fire.”
But even now, as he leans back into the sofa, as if truly letting himself rest for the first time in days, there’s something tucked behind his eyes, tiredness. That’s fine. She doesn’t press. She’ll let him come to her, like always. Instead, she curls into his side and rests her cheek against the warm line of his arm. Morrow lets out a small, pleased sound, half-purr, half-huff, and the whole room feels hazy and golden and good.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice...” she murmurs.
“Hm?”
“You always grumble about Christmas like it’s a contagious disease, and yet you drank my peppermint tea.”
He glances down, sees the decorative little cinnamon stick bobbing in the mug, and narrows his eyes. “It was the only one not poisoned by dried fruit.”
“Ah yes. Heaven forbid you try the apricot blend.”
He exhales, a soft noise, and lets his head rest back against the cushion. “You’ve turned your house into a seasonal brochure.”
“Our house.”
He opens one eye.
“Our house,” she says again, nudging her foot against his. “The cat’s already claimed your chair, I’ve taken the best pillow, and the town thinks we’re married. This is absolutely our house.”
A pause. Then he says, wry as ever, “God help me.”
-
He had already told her he wasn’t going. Point-blank, dryly, arms crossed: “I’ve no desire to subject myself to the Weasley matriarch’s holiday bonanza, nor to be cornered in a room full of people who think I should be grateful to have survived. I’ll stay here.”
And that had been that. Hermione had only nodded. Because pushing him when he was digging in his heels like that rarely helped, he’d retreat further, snarl more. But she hadn’t argued. He wasn’t obligated to come. She wasn’t going to force him.
Still… she notices that not long after that declaration, he starts brewing.
Not the thick, noxious brews he sells, nor the more finicky experiments he enjoys working on in silence. These are gentler, more floral, subtle brews with calming steams and delicate aromas that fill their little basement lab with warmth instead of burn.
And it doesn’t stop there. A few days before Christmas, she watches from the doorway as he arranges bottles into a shallow wicker basket, each one sealed, labeled in his spidery hand, and organized by category. There’s an amber oil for joints and knuckles. A cream for the skin of roughened hands. A long-necked bottle with pale violet tincture for nerves and sleep, tied with a silk ribbon she knows she didn’t buy, which means he has went out to fix it himself.
A small jar labeled: Hair serum – restorative, conditioning – lavender scent optional. A tin of greenish tablets embossed with tiny golden runes. She leans against the doorframe and watches him for a long while without speaking. His hands move steadily, with care, and he doesn’t look up.
He must know she’s there. The tether hums with her gaze, her quiet affection.
Finally, she asks, softly, “I take it you’re not sending them?”
He doesn’t pause in his work. “No.”
“You’re… giving them in person?”
“I said I wasn’t going…” he replies. But she smiles. Because she’s starting to speak fluent Severus now. He isn’t sending the basket. Which means he’s carrying it himself. Which means, yes, he’s coming. Probably after a dramatic sigh and a snide comment, but he’ll come.
She knows he won’t admit it, not aloud, but this is who he is, too. Quiet generosity wrapped in grumbling. Ferocity in defense of those he calls his own. Thoughtfulness, hidden in the precise balance of oils and tinctures and thinks he can make and bottle.
Hermione crosses the room and perches on the nearest stool. Her wine glass in hand. She swirls it lazily and watches him as he adjusts the ribbon on one of the bottles.
“You know,” she murmurs, “watching you do this…” He glances over, eyebrow raised. “…it’s wildly attractive.”
He freezes. Then, with a withering sort of drawl, “I’m bottling calcium supplements.”
“I know…” she hums. “And I’m soaked.”
He turns slowly, eyes narrowing. “There is something deeply wrong with you.”
Hermione just sips from her glass and grins. “Probably. But you knew that already.”
His lips twitch. The faintest quirk. He looks back to the basket, adjusts a jar, then reaches for a cloth to wrap the top layer. She watches him work again, deft fingers, sharp focus, the way he checks every seal twice. And her chest warms, not from the wine but from the overwhelming affection that swells so often now.
This man, this complex, sardonic, infuriating man, is hers. And no matter how much he scoffs or grumbles, he keeps showing her, again and again, that she’s his too.
She hadn’t expected to enjoy the outing as much as she did. Ginny was loud and animated, laughing with that infectious snort-laugh of hers every time Luna suggested something utterly unhinged, like the glittering scarf charmed to levitate six inches off the shoulders ("It enhances your aura"). Hermione had joined mostly out of obligation, figuring she'd spend most of the afternoon internally cringing at frilly dresses and overpriced nonsense. But it turns out trying things on with two women who love her, who don’t push but will still nudge with knowing grins and wide eyes, is actually… fun.
“Alright, alright, this one then,” Ginny says, half-exasperated as she shoves a dress into Hermione’s arms. “Try this and I swear I’ll stop.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” Hermione mutters, but she disappears behind the curtain anyway.
She pauses as she sees the fabric. It’s green. A deep, silken shade, but woven through with the softest silver shimmer, like starlight caught in thread. It’s long, with a slight flare to the skirt, fitted at the waist and across the bodice in a way that she knows would catch Severus’s eye without even trying. Simple. Elegant. Very her. And… very him.
She smooths her hands over the material and exhales slowly. When she steps out, Luna tilts her head and hums thoughtfully. “You look like a dryad in the summer.”
Ginny’s eyes light up. “That is stunning. If you don’t buy that, I will hex you into next week.”
Hermione turns toward the mirror. And… yeah. It is. It reminds her of the first thing she’d ever bought with him in her mind, that soft green blouse he’d looked at like it was spun from another universe when on her. She buys it without hesitation.
She says goodbye to the girls after dinner, waving them off with warm cheeks and a buzz of wine in her system, nad after they vanish down Diagon Alley, she circles back.
Just for one more stop, something from her to him. She finds a shop off the main road, one with charming little enchantments that make the mannequins turn and move, showing off the garments. She picks out something dark, silken and sheer in the right places, hugging and exposing at once. A matching set. Something decadent. Something that’ll make his control snap when he sees her in it. Well… Hopefully.
The thought of it, his hands, the way he looks when he’s gone too far into want to pretend, makes her flush with anticipation. She keeps the bag small, shrinks it and keeps it in her purse. Later, when she gets home and curls up on the couch with her book, Morrow asleep on Severus’s armchair and the fire crackling low, she tucks the receipt into her drawer, just incase it doesn’t fit… or.. well if he doesn’t like it.
Thhat morning had started slow and lovely. But they are expected at the Burrow. She slips into the bathroom barefoot, the green silk whispering against her thighs, catching the golden lamplight like moonlight trapped in water. Her hair is pinned just enough to stay out of her face, soft curls tumbling around her shoulders. She moves with a quiet ease, lips parted slightly as she applies the faintest sheen of gloss in the mirror beside him.
Severus doesn’t speak. He had been in the middle of shaving, a towel tucked around his hips, face lathered, straight razor in hand.
Now, he just looks. The blade stills mid-air. His gaze drags down her form like a physical touch, over the low neckline, the shimmering fall of fabric, the curve of her waist and the faint outline where the dress clings too well to silk and skin beneath. His eyes catch at her hips. They linger there.
Hermione pretends not to notice. She tilts her chin up and adjusts the angle of the mirror, lightly dabbing at her eyeliner with her finger, softening the line.
“You’re staring… she murmurs, lips barely moving.
“Hm.” His voice is low. Thoughtful. “I should be shaving.”
“You should be.”
But he hasn’t moved. His eyes meet hers in the glass, dark and unreadable, and then, without a word, he returns to his task. The faint sound of blade against stubble fills the silence. But she sees the tightness in his shoulders. The subtle pull at his mouth.
She smooths her lipstick with a fingertip and watches him as he drags the blade slow along his jaw, and she wonders if he’s thinking about what she has on beneath the dress. If he can imagine how it feels. If he knows what she chose for him.
She doesn’t speak again. She just steps lightly past him, the hem brushing his shin as she moves, slow, deliberate. A soft click of heels she hadn’t worn all month and knows will give her problems later. She picks up her earrings and clips them in, one by one.
And his hand falters. Not enough to nick. But enough. She catches his gaze again in the mirror.
“Should I go wait in the kitchen so you don’t hurt yourself?" she asks, blinking innocently.
He exhales slowly through his nose, then looks down at the sink like it might save him.
“I may need a minute...”
Her smile is subtle, smug, teasing, then she steps out, hips swaying just a touch more than necessary.
By the time he returns to the sitting room, he is already dressed. Not in robes, but in that charcoal-black tailored suit they’d found together weeks ago. The one he hadn’t worn then, but had kept anyway. The one with the subtle dark green stitching in the inner lining, barely visible unless the buttons were undone, matching her dress in a way.
The collar is crisp. The shirt beneath a soft black, buttons done all the way up, no tie. He looks… dangerous. Elegant. Unapologetically Severus. His hair is freshly tied back. His boots polished. He looks like he might cut someone open with a glare and a single curl of his fingers. He looks good.
He pauses in the doorway, she starters, lips parted slightly, glass of wine half-forgotten in her hand. He looks up when he senses her. Doesn’t speak at first. Just looks.
“Is that dress new? I thought you said you would wear the black one… ”
She raises a brow. “I changed my mind.”
He hums, somewhere between amused and resigned. “So you plan on distracting everyone and getting me hexed under the table.”
She smirks. “Only if you look at me like that during dinner.”
“Noted.”
There’s a pause. Then she crosses the room and adjusts the edge of his collar, smoothing her hand down the lapel. He smells like his aftershave and winter.
“You’re wearing the new suit…” she says.
“You picked it out.” He says softly.
“Even if it didn’t get to be shown at the Gala as intended.”
“No. But you said it suited me.”
He doesn't say anything more, but his tether flares gently with that same complicated cocktail she’s come to read easily by now: Want. Warmth. A hint of nerves. That particular way he gets when he thinks he’s about to be devoured.
“Come here…” she says, hand tugging lightly at his jacket. “Let me look at you properly.”
He steps closer, lets her circle him once. Then her voice, low:
“...Maybe we won’t make it to the Burrow after all.”
He exhales a laugh against her neck, mouth brushing the skin just above her pulse. “You’re going to get us disinvited to any other Weasley gatherings… What a shame.”
“Please–” she breathes, hand sliding beneath his jacket. “Molly loves you. And besides... she will have you eat seconds and thirds, you know how she has always been.”
He groans softly, suffering incarnate.
“Gods, yes. I’m already regretting everything.”
She grins, leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth. “You say that now, but you’ll have gravy on your collar and her treacle tart in your mouth before we even sit down I bet.”
“I am not that weak.”
“Mmmm. You’re just very susceptible to maternal affection. And baked goods.”
He mutters something about domestic terrorism, but his hand finds her waist all the same. His thumb strokes over the fabric of her dress like he can’t help it.
“You look beautiful,” he says, after a beat. And then, softer, “You always do, but… especially like this.”
Hermione smiles, heart skipping a beat despite everything they’ve already shared. “Flatterer.”
“It’s not flattery if it’s accurate.”
“You’re really trying to seduce me into missing dinner.”
He smirks, slow and dangerous. “I’m not trying that hard.”
Their tether pulses between them, warm and electric. She lets herself lean into him for a moment, just long enough to breathe him in. Then she murmurs, lips brushing his throat,
“I’ll let you undo the dress after dinner.”
He groans again, more pained this time.
“Cruel woman.”
“Come on,” she says, tugging him toward the coat rack. “If we don’t go now, I will probably let you…”
And to that, Severus says nothing. Just grabs the basket of potions and tinctures he'd prepared for Molly, shrugs on his coat, and mutters something about needing shielding charms to survive the next four hours. His hand stays on the small of her back the entire walk to the Apparition point.
-
The Burrow isn’t quite the mismatched, leaning stack of magic and stubbornness it once was. The bones are still the same, same gnarled trees flanking the drive, same chickens that cluck around like they own the place, but the house has been reinforced, expanded. There's a new wing off the side, bedrooms for visiting grandkids, and the roofs doesn't leak anymore.
But it still smells like Molly’s roast when they arrive, and Arthur opens the door with the same wide smile he’s worn for decades.
“Hermione, Severus! You made it, come in, come in, it’s freezing.”
Severus makes a sound that might be amusement or it might be dread. Hermione can't quite tell, but his hand slides to the small of her back again, guiding her in like a gentleman from a period novel.
Molly beams the moment she sees them, apron dusted with flour, wand stuck behind her ear like a quill. Her eyes sweep over Hermione, down the elegant green dress, the shimmer of silver, before landing on Severus with a gleam that’s entirely too knowing.
“Oh, you look lovely, dear,” she says, tugging Hermione in for a warm, cinnamon-scented hug. “And you, Severus—still too thin, but my word, that coat is handsome on you. Come in, come in. I’ve just got to finish the sprouts.”
“Severus brought you something,” Hermione says, nudging Severus slightly. He sets it silently on the side table in the hallway, not even trying to deflect when Molly swoops in to examine it.
She gasps. “Severus Snape, are these yours?”
“Unless someone’s been breaking into my laboratory to brew them, then yes.” he drawls.
“These are expensive, you know,” she says, holding up a vial of pale oil and squinting at the label. “Merlin’s sake, this hair tincture sells for fifteen galleons for a small bottle, and that’s if you know someone—”
“I’m aware,” he says dryly.
Arthur leans in to whisper to Hermione, “You’d think she’d been given a diamond tiara, not a handful of potions.”
“I heard that–” Molly calls over her shoulder. Arthur winks.
It’s warmer inside than Hermione had realised. The tree is taller now, brushy and full, charmed lights glimmering lazily through its branches. There are chairs with proper cushioning, a new rug, even a piano in the corner.
The war might have aged them, but peace, actual peace, has softened everything else.
Hermione catches Severus watching the tree.
“You alright?”
“Overstimulated by domestic cheer…” he mutters.
“You’ll live.”
“That still remains to be seen.”
Molly barrels back into the room without the apron or the flour streaks, cheeks pink from the warmth of the oven and the effort of rushing about. She wraps Hermione up again in another hug, full-bodied and familiar, but it’s Severus she sets her sights on next, Severus, who stands there already bracing himself like he’s about to be attacked.
He’s halfway through a dignified attempt to nod when Molly completely ignores it and pulls him into a firm, generous hug. He goes stiff.
There’s a beat. And of course, that is the exact moment the rest of the Weasleys arrive.
The door bangs open with a gust of wind, and in tumble the rest of the Weasley clan, in a swirl of wool and voices. It takes about three seconds for everyone to process the scene: Severus Snape, stoic, razor-tongued, possibly allergic to physical contact, is being smothered by Molly Weasley in front of the Christmas tree.
Ginny doesn’t say anything, just raises her eyebrows. Harry looks faintly startled, then snorts. Ron mutters, “Blimey...”
And George, bless him, doesn’t miss a beat.
“Oi! Mum, are you mugging the poor bastard, or did Snape finally give up on life?”
Severus lets out a bark of laughter. An actual laugh—short, sharp, and entirely unguarded, and Hermione swears the temperature in the room spikes a full three degrees. It’s the sort of sound none of them have ever heard. It's... human. Pleased. Unfiltered.
George’s eyes go wide, he looks absolutely gobsmacked.
“Oh hell, she’s broken ‘im.”
“You’re next if you keep talking..” Severus replies, dry as bone.
“Terrifying–” Ginny whispers behind Harry.
Ron just gives Hermione a look that says well, I guess this is happening, and Hermione rolls her eyes.
“Welcome back, Severus.” Molly says, patting Severus’s arm like he hasn’t just shattered a decade’s worth of Weasley collective assumptions.
“Thank you…” he replies.
And then she ushers them all into the newly expanded sitting room like nothing strange at all just happened, like it’s perfectly normal for Severus Snape to arrive for Christmas, bearing gifts and being crushed by her hugs.
The Burrow has changed. Expanded, upgraded, sturdier now with real insulation and self-warming runes in the walls—but the energy is the same. There’s still laughter from too many rooms at once. Spilled drinks. Shouts of “Don’t touch that, George!” and a cat dashing underfoot with tinsel in its mouth. The smell of treacle tart lingers heavy, as does molasses, pine, and the faint, distant crackle of an overactive fireplace.
Severus sits with a cup of something warm (he didn’t ask what, only sipped and deemed it acceptable) and watches.The Weasley are a clan. That’s the only word for it. Too many redheads to count. A handful of brunette and blond partners folded into the din.
Fleur appears before him like a winter spirit, elegant. Her hair gleams under the firelight. She’s balancing a baby on her hip like it’s second nature, which by now it would be. And when she shifts the little girl, Severus catches the gentle weight of power curling around her like incense. Veela magic, still faint, still mostly dormant—but there.
“She eez Victoire,” Fleur says with a proud, warm smile. “Born on the second of May. I like to think it is... meaningful, non?”
He nods once, respectful. “A fitting name. Victory.”
Victoire stares at him, doesn’t even blink, just stares. Large blue eyes like frozen glass fixed on him with the kind of wonder that is usually reserved for toys or treats. Her mouth opens slightly, round like a little snowdrop, and then, without consent or negotiation, Fleur deposits the child into his arms.
“She likes you–” Fleur says with maddening serenity.
“I have no experience with—” he begins, stiffly. But Victoire just... settles. One tiny, mittened hand tangles in the fabric of his dark jumper. Her head rests just under his collarbone, and Severus freezes. Hermione, watching from across the room, hides a smile behind her fingers.
His arms adjust, hesitantly. One hand supports her back. The other... well, it just rests there, against the impossibly small weight of her, feeling the gentle rise and fall of breath, the heat of baby warmth against his chest. She smells like soft things. And for whatever reason, she seems content to use him as a pillow, blinking slowly, her wide gaze still half-fixed on his face like she’s trying to memorize him.
“I am not a suitable perch–” Severus mutters, but doesn’t hand her back.
Victoire grabs after a fistful of his nose like it’s some prize she’s earned, mouth opening in a delighted babble that is, frankly, indecipherable to anyone but herself. Severus, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tug her away. Just tilts his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing in mock-assessment as she tugs with all the concentration of a duelist.
“You are persistent…” he says, voice low and as dry as ever. “And unapologetically invasive.”
She squeals, bright and triumphant. Hermione watches from across the room with what might be a heart attack blooming in her chest. Because Merlin, he looks good like that, face relaxed, words quiet, the tether is positively drenched in her fondness. He doesn’t even notice the way he adjusts his hold, just slightly, to support Victoire better when she shifts. Doesn’t seem to realise how naturally he moves when she makes a grab for his lapel next, or the way he leans back against the armrest to give her space to do whatever it is she is doing..
“I assume your aim is to remove it?” he continues, tone clinically bored despite the fact his large nose is still under siege. “If that’s the case, you’ll need to apply more pressure.”
Victoire babbles again as she kicks in delight, one of her socks falls off. He ignores it or doesn’t notice. Hermione covers her mouth with both hands because she is soaked, emotionally, magically, and other places, let’s be fair. And the tether is near vibrating with the sheer flood of affection she can’t seem to hold back. She knows he can feel it. But Severus just lifts a hand, his non-baby-holding hand, and with a flick of his fingers, conjures a stream of iridescent bubbles. They drift through the air, soft and slow and shimmering like glass. Victoire immediately ignores them. She is far more interested in Severus’s collar and hair.
“Hm,” he murmurs. “Clearly unimpressed by the art transfiguration. Or perhaps this is simply revenge for war crimes committed…?”
Hermione is going to die. This is it. She is going to die of baby fever and love and the way he looks with her best friend’s niece in his arms like she belongs there. She wants one. She wants his. She’s doomed. She knows exactly what this is. She's tracked her cycle for years, knows the signs like the back of her hand. She’s at the point of the month where her body goes full caveman: strong mate, good genes, let him breed you now.
Severus, stoic, sharp-tongued Severus, is holding a baby like he was born to do it, conjuring toys for her with wandless magic, speaking in that low, steady voice of his that makes Hermione’s womb all but sing and vibrate in sheer need, this deeper, achier kind of longing. Wanting to give him something. Wanting to carry a part of him, tuck it beneath her heart, have it bloom into something with his eyes or his mouth or his dark hair and awkward grace. She is practically screaming it. She’s aware. Painfully aware. And she knows Severus feels it too. Thankfully not what exactly, but the emotion behind it. And yet, he does not look at her. Not once. He keeps entertaining Victoire with that same bored drawl as she tries to bite his chin, his entire side of the tether broadcasting a very patient I’m pretending I feel none of this. Which…fair. She is being mean. With a quiet groan, Hermione rises from her seat and crosses the room. She presses a hand to Severus’s shoulder as she passes, an apology in the touch, an I love you tucked behind her finger tips, and then makes a beeline for the kitchen.
“Molly–” she says, breathless. “Let me help. Please. I need—” she glances back once, sees Victoire curled in his arms like a satisfied kitten “—I need to get out of there before I mount my bonded in front of your grandchild an all the guests.”
Molly blinks, then grins so brightly Hermione almost cries. “Oh, dear,” Molly says gently, passing her a mixing bowl. “Ovulating, are we?”
Hermione groans and bangs her forehead against the cupboard. “Like clockwork.”
“Well…” Arthur says mildly, as though commenting on the weather, “there are unused bedrooms upstairs.”
Hermione makes a sound of pure despair, loud and long, head thumping once more against the cupboard.
“Arthur,” she groans. “Don’t try to help–”
Molly chuckles, swatting her husband gently with the back of a spoon. “Honestly,” she says, amused, “don’t encourage them.” Then, a little softer, as she ladles broth into a sauce jug, “Though… Do you have any plans?”
It’s not a judgment, not pressure. Hermione isn’t one of her boys, not one of the girls who might have slotted into Molly’s family tree with a tidy surname change. But she’s Hermione, and Molly has always loved her. Respected her. Worried over her, like a daughter.
Hermione swallows, carefully wiping her hands with a towel. “I… maybe,” she says, and that’s honest. “I don’t know yet. I think I’d like to. Eventually. It’s just—” her eyes flick toward the living room, where Severus still sits with Victoire happily climbing him like a mountain, bubbles drifting lazily through the air, “—a bit complicated.”
Molly hums knowingly. “Because of the bond?”
Hermione nods. Because yes, Severus feels her. All the time. And he feels this with painful, involuntary clarity. There’s no hiding when her mind conjures visions of what their child might look like. No concealing the way her body aches to be filled, not with need alone but with purpose. Although not in words, it’s there nonetheless. And it’s not fair. Not when he didn’t choose this. Not when the very idea of him being hers, being property, still sits so uncomfortably in her chest. She winces.
“He’s not an object…” she mutters.
“No of course not.” Molly agrees gently, “But you do love him. And that means you worry. That’s only natural.”
Hermione nods, biting her lip. She glances again at the door.
“He feels it more than me,” she admits. “And if I’m overwhelmed or feeling too much… he’s practically… waterboarded with it.” Her smile is tight. “If we did have children, if I were ever to carry, he’d feel everything. And gods, when labour hits…Childbirth might be the thing that actuallykills him,” she says dryly, only half joking. “Not the child, not the chaos, but the tether, the bond, just labour pain by proxy.”
Molly bursts into laughter. Arthur, very seriously, murmurs, “There are potions for that, you know.”
“I don’t want to have to drug my hu—my partner—with Draught of the Living Dead just so I will have to give birth alone…” Hermione mutters, scrubbing fiercely at a stubborn spot on the countertop. Molly raises a brow but wisely says nothing. Hermione exhales through her nose, quieter now.
“And also… his views on fatherhood are… complicated.”
It’s an understatement, but she can’t quite bring herself to say more. Not here. Not while Severus is in the next room being used as a climbing frame by a baby with a death grip on his nose and absolutely no concept of personal space. Not while Molly’s kitchen is warm and homey and filled with smells that remind Hermione of safer times. Not while the bond between them is humming just low enough to make her wonder exactly how much he feels of her.
Because Severus isn’t her husband, not yet, not unless you count the magical equivalent of forced servitude and trauma-based bonding as a marital rite. But he is hers. Hers in the quiet way he always comes back. In the way he lets her decorate the house, how he makes gifts for her found family, how he talks to her like she’s not just clever but brilliant. Like she matters. And his views on fatherhood? Well. He doesn’t say much, but she knows. Knows what being raised unloved did to him. Knows how terrified he is of replicating it. Knows how tender he is with the cat when he thinks no one’s looking. Knows how he holds her tighter sometimes when she’s laughing, as if something inside him is afraid to let go. Knows he’d be wonderful, even if he’s convinced he wouldn’t.
She sets the board down with a soft sigh. “I just don’t want to force him…” she says, finally. “Not with this.”
Molly steps beside her, pressing a hand to her back.
“Then don’t.” she says. “Just love him. The rest will come with time if it is meant to.”
Dinner is warm, delicious, and full of the kind of comfortable chaos that only the Burrow can contain, the long table groans under the weight of roasted meats, gravy boats, multiple kinds of potatoes, steaming vegetables, and freshly baked bread that smells wonderfuk. There’s clinking glass, multiple conversations happening at once, and several people arguing over who gets the last Yorkshire pudding until Molly solves it by conjuring another tray of them. The smells are rich and comforting.
Hermione smiles as she leans into Severus, who sits beside her like a still point in the storm. Always quiet. Always observing. He hasn’t said much since sitting down, and she doubts he’s even trying to follow the overlapping conversations around the table. George is holding court at the far end, cracking jokes and nudging Charlie, while Percy and Bill talk about some policy issue that Hermione definitely wants to weigh in on later. Harry’s mid-discussion with Arthur about something to do with new Auror protocols, and Ginny’s on babysitting duty, holding Victoire like a natural while entertaining Teddy at the same time.
Severus doesn’t even pretend to engage. His plate is full, because of course Molly had insisted, and he eats slowly, methodically, like the room isn’t loud at all. But Hermione can feel it. Not discomfort exactly, not with how much the bond has settled. But a strain, a slight edge of being overstimulated. It’s not a hostile space, not at all, but it’s still a lot, especially for someone whose default setting is solitude and silence. So she shifts her hand beneath the tablecloth, settling it gently on his thigh. Not high. Not suggestive. Just grounding.
He doesn’t react outwardly, not at first. Doesn’t even glance at her. But she feels the way the tether tugs, the way it eases slightly. She lets her palm rest there, her thumb drawing idle, invisible lines over the fabric of his trousers as she fills the space between them with calm. With fondness. With the small, steady affection of someone who doesn’t need to say anything aloud to mean everything. He exhales softly through his nose. A long, silent breath. And then, very subtly, he shifts his leg under her hand, not away, but toward her. Barely a press. Just enough that she knows he felt it. Knows that he doesn’t mind. Her heart swells a little with the intimacy of it. The fact that, amid the mess of ginger hair and laughter and forks clattering and clinking glasses, there’s this, him. Her snarky, prickly, quietly brilliant man. Sitting beside her like he belongs here. And maybe he does. Maybe that’s what this is, proof that, even if he won’t say it aloud, even if he doesn’t like fuss or fanfare, he’s trying. He’s present. He’s still here.
Later, she’ll sneak the last bite of pudding onto his plate when no one’s looking. He’ll pretend not to notice, just like he always pretends not to like dessert. But his hand will brush against hers under the table again, just briefly. And that, to her, will feel like a kiss.
The chaos of Christmas doesn’t lessen after dinner, it only shifts tone, softens around the edges with the scent of cinnamon, orange peel, and cloves wafting through the room from the simmering pot of mulled wine. The fire crackles louder now, dancing gold against the windows as the sun slips into winter dusk. Half the room is sunk deep into squashy armchairs or leaning lazily against one another on the rug, tea or wine in hand, bellies full.
And then the unwrapping begins. Presents have been stacked beneath the tree, some magical, some muggle-wrapped with tape curling at the edges, glitter-strewn paper mingling with brown string. Molly has been orchestrating it all year, as always. Names are called, gifts passed down the chain of Weasleys, extended hands, and light teasing. There’s laughter and thank yous, Fleur giving Bill a quick kiss for something shiny he had gifted her, Ginny yanking the ribbon off Harry’s head where George had tried to use him as a gift prop.
Hermione already knows what’s coming. She unwraps the familiar thick parcel handed to her by Percy, soft wool in maroon and gold, a bold H stitched into the chest. Molly’s sweaters never miss a year. She clutches it to her chest and beams, catching Molly’s eye across the room and mouthing, thank you, genuinely touched as ever.
But then another gift is handed out,wrapped not in Gryffindor reds but in emerald green and soft silver foil. Beautifully done, crisp corners, and topped with a neat little bow. Arthur reads the label aloud, his voice warm with just the faintest trace of amusement.
“To Severus.”
It’s quiet in the room for a beat too long. Not silent, but the kind of quiet where everyone holds their breath just slightly, not out of fear, but out of curiosity. Severus doesn’t move to take it at first. His hand hesitates mid-reach, hovering just above the shimmering parcel. And when he does finally grasp it, fingers curling around the weight of it, it’s slow. His brow ticks slightly as he studies the wrapping, as if he expects it to bite him. He doesn’t speak. But Hermione sees the flicker of something, tension laced with confusion, a subtle crack in the mask.
George, sitting by the hearth and sipping cider, grins with a mouthful of gingerbread.
“See?” he says. “Mum’s adopted him.”
Laughter ripples across the room. Even Harry chuckles. Molly just shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “He’s been cold before…” she says simply, “he won’t be under my roof.”
There’s something in Severus’s throat that twitches like a protest, but it never makes it out, he turns the package in his hands and slowly peels the paper back with his fingers, carefully, without tearing it. Slytherin green. Silver trim. The yarn is soft, well-spun, clearly expensive wool has been used. And embroidered, just like everyone else's, is a single letter in silver-grey thread. An S. He stares. And for a moment, Hermione isn’t sure he’s even breathing.
“Oh, come on,” says Ron, grinning. “You’re not getting out of trying it on.”
That earns more laughter, and Hermione expects him to snark back, something dry and sharp-edged about seasonal foolishness or unnecessary garments. But he doesn’t. He just… shifts the sweater over his lap, runs his fingers over the stitching once. Slowly. Doesn’t put it on, but he doesn’t set it aside either, keeps it on his lap.
Across the room, Teddy Lupin is perched on Harry’s knee, legs swinging. His hair has shifted colour again, now a deep black that reminds Hermione of crow feathers, or maybe Severus’s hair, though she doubts that’s conscious on Teddy’s part. He’s been staring at Severus since the gifts were passed around. Not fearfull, just... intently. He meets Teddy’s gaze, and for a second, they just look at each other. Hermione watches the lines in Severus’s face go still.. Teddy waves a little. Severus does not wave back. But he gives a single, nearly imperceptible nod. It’s enough to make Andromeda’s eyes soften. And enough to make Hermione fall in love all over again.
When they finally begin gathering their things, Hermione carefully folding her new sweater over her arm, Severus securing his own into the crook of his elbow like it might vanish if he lets it out of sight, Molly rises to see them off. Others are still lingering by the fire, picking at the last of the shortbread or refilling mugs, but she follows them to the door like any proper hostess.
“Wait–” she says, before they can step through. She wipes her hands on her apron and pulls them both into another hug.
Hermione melts into it, used to the way Molly clutches like she means to protect and scold all at once. Severus, stiff at first, doesn’t pull away. She notices how he lets her pat his back this time. Even leans, just slightly.
“Thank you, both of you,” Molly says as she pulls back, cheeks flushed with holiday warmth. “For the gifts, and for coming.”
Severus nods once, restrained as ever, but his voice is gentler when he answers, “Thank you. For the hospitality. And… for the sweater.”
Molly smiles at him, her eyes softening with it.
“Well,” she says, voice thick, “someone has to keep your shoulders warm, dear. Can’t have you catching your death out in the cold.”
Hermione bites her lip to keep from laughing as she watches him struggle for a response that won’t sound overly sentimental or flatly sarcastic. In the end, he simply inclines his head. Then they’re out into the snow, the sounds of the Burrow echoing behind them, gift bags in hand and some of Molly’s leftovers, and the tether between them warm and pulsing quietly with comfort. Their little cottage is waiting, and so is Morrow—no doubt curled up somewhere she shouldn't be. Hermione reaches for his hand as they walk, gloved fingers lacing with his. He squeezes back. No words needed.
Later, her fingers curl more firmly around his coat sleeve as she leans in closer. They’ve nearly reached the gate to their cottage, light in the windows casting a golden glow across the garden snow. Morrow must’ve heard them, because there’s already a faint thud against the door, little impatient mewls waiting inside.
“You’re being very… expressive…” Severus murmurs as they step through the gate. Hermione only hums, noncommittal. He arches a brow. “Should I be worried?”
“Not at all.” she says, tone light, but the bond thrums louder. She bites her bottom lip, then lets go of his arm just long enough to unlock the door with a flick of her fingers.
Warmth greets them at once, woodsmoke and cloves lingering from earlier. Morrow trots up to them, tail high, but halts when Hermione tosses off her coat without ceremony and kicks off her boots like she’s in a rush.
Severus watches her, brow still faintly lifted, his own coat unbuttoned but unmoved. “Should I assume you’re planning to break the news to me gently?”
Hermione’s grin turns wolfish. “No news.”
She steps closer, barefoot, the dress glittering green and silver as it catches the light, and when she places her hands on either side of his coat, sliding them up to his collar, she whispers,
“Just a present.”
He blinks, then, slightly more cautious— “You’ve already given me a gift.”
“You only got the boring one this morning...” she says, eyes dancing with mirth.
“The new hardback version of my favourite book is far from boring…” He murmurs.
She stretches up, presses a kiss to his jaw, her body flush against his now. And the tether sings with it, a flare of affection and mischief. He can feel the way her heart is pounding. Can feel her arousal like a thread of heat wrapped around his ribs. Whatever she’s hiding... he guesses it’s under that dress.
“Come on...” she says, fingers tugging at his coat lapels, “you’ve been very patient. Don’t you want to unwrap it?”
His voice is dry, but his throat is already tight. “What sort of gift is it?”
She hums, guiding him toward their bedroom.
“The kind that comes in lace….” she breathes, “and comes away in your hands hopefully...”