Chapter Four: A Book Is Not A Mind

"Daddy snores louder than you."

Waking up was surprising easy, considering how late he'd stayed up studying Hermione Fifty-three's copy of The Account. The two muffled thumps followed by the distinctive snick of a closing door had barely registered as occurring outside his dream. And though the desire for access to more manageable magic had increased with everything he'd learnt (and with everything he realised he wasn't learning) from reading, the childish voice which fully roused him completely didn't set him reaching for the wand he knew he didn't have.

He didn't wonder where he was. Even with his eyes closed, he could picture the plain white bed linens he lay under on the hospital-style bed. The unadorned white walls were as clear in his mind as if he woke to them every day. He knew without looking which corner held the white-painted wardrobe. Hermione had assured him he would find spare clothing in his sizes there.

Situated deep in the back garden, the guesthouse – hardly more than a small room and bath – stood close to the recently rehabilitated River Tribruit. With so many of the surrounding buildings demolished, there was little to protect it from the sharp winds blowing off the river. In the years since he'd lived most of the years at Hogwarts, he'd grown accustomed to a certain level of warmth and wasn't looking forward to experiencing cold again for however long he remained in this place. The trip from the bed with its thick white duvet to the white-tiled bathroom would be mercifully short, however.

"But your nose is just the same."

He didn't cast a non-verbal hex at the unassuming little girl standing at the foot of the bed he was sleeping in. She was an incongruent black blossom floating on the white pond of the room. Scores of tiny black buttons marched up the front of the high-necked little black jacket peeking out beneath her black puffy parka. Slim-cut black trousers seemed to add to her height. From top (her dark hair was escaping her braid in even messier than it had done the night before) to toe (Who in their right mind would craft dragonhide boots for a child? Surely they must be imitation?), it was abundantly clear whose child she was.

It's a good look for her, he decided. I wonder how she manages the buttons.

"Sometimes Mummy forgets the Silencing Charm, and he wakes me up when I'm outside their room."

Sleeping with your ear against the door, are you? On the inside he was fighting not to smirk at her innate cunning; on the outside, he cocked an imperious eyebrow.

"Does he?"

The expression utterly wasted on her, Violet nodded solemnly, her unwavering gaze fixed on him the whole time. "He's very loud," she confirmed.

Severus didn't share his suspicion that her parents knew exactly what she was about and pretended to play into her hands by exaggerating her father's somnial sonance. He couldn't imagine the sometimes prickly Hermione Granger would have accepted anything less than sound sleep most nights.

He also didn't attempt to explain the Muggle septoplasty he'd undergone (followed by a bloody painful recovery) to correct a deviated septum even without a Granger as an impetus. Nor did he tell her he probably still snored loudly enough to wake the dead whenever he slept flat on his back in his own bed. Some things just were meant for a small child's ears.

Besides, although he suspected it was the raised head of the hospital-style bed he lay in which had quieted his slumber, the idea of the little one liking something about him brought back that warm, fluttery feeling where his chest met his belly.

Rubbish! I couldn't care less what the brat thinks of me. Obviously, all this "Travelling" has given me a case of indigestion.

Hoping she'd quickly grow bored and spare him her unnerving intense focus – not to mention the odd notions and unwanted emotions she drew out of him – he made a show of picking up the book lying, open, across his lap.

"That's one of Daddy and Mummy's special books," she told him.

Severus peered at her over the edge of page one thousand seventy-seven. Of course, Granger would use an extension to make a book appear slimmer! He cocked an eyebrow that was more elegant than any his counterpart's daughter would be able to lay claim to.

"I'm not allowed to touch it," Violet went on. When she bit her lip, her face changed, showing she'd inherited more than horrible hair from Hermione Granger. Instead of analysing the uncomfortable feeling her expression elicited, he returned to reading.

Whilst all members of the Council of H report similar scores when tested using a Five Factor Model-type personality assessment, in spite of having lived highly disparate lives since the end of The War, H293, H291, H290, H289, H287, H273, H248, H121, H102, H53, H51, H44, H49, H47, H28 and H4 all had nearly identical marks on the narrower Kofia Temperament Sorter ¹. Although the veracity of various non-clinical personality tests, assessments, inventories and indicators is frequently called into question, we believe the conclusions derived from sitting these two tests to be sufficiently credible to suit our purposes and to be significant indicators, as well as reliable predictors, of the sort of lifestyle each permutation of the secondary subject (H) finds most acceptable.

The Account was a surprisingly arid testimony of what the two hundred ninety-four Hermiones and two hundred ninety-two of their corresponding Severuses had experienced over the past six years, but only as their experiences were affected by Molly Prewett's curse. It was nearly impossible to tell from the tedious descriptions of curse dissection and counter-curse development and of the many failures which had set them back before they'd found limited success after almost six months of trying what any of the participants felt about the situation.

Curiously devoid of the tangents so often taken by the Miss Granger once he'd taught, The Account also failed to delve into anything approaching the personal. In places it read like a series of annual reports pertaining to a very narrowly defined demographic; usually, it was more like a spectacularly dispassionate treatise on the work of the most boring scholars – magical or Muggle – on the planet. He hadn't got the sense that the Council and Snapes were writing about actual people.

Even the single bright spot in his reading turned out to be rather dim in a purely subjective sense.

He'd been gratified to learn it was the joint expertise of a set of the Severuses which had precipitated the breakthrough that broke the witch who'd caused them all so much grief. If one can classify extensive knowledge of Muggle fanworks as "expertise," that is. But even their contribution failed to make the unembellished recitation of the steps the group as a whole – the full Council and their respective Snapes – had taken to unravel Prewett's magic wasn't the slightest bit interesting as a narrative.

Before he'd reached the passages telling of the Weasley matriarch's confession and co-operation – without a single description of how he'd undoubtedly reduced the woman to tears and possibly even hysterical pleading! – there'd been hundreds of pages covering hypotheses, procedures for testing their premises, why theories were rejected and how they were revised to get through.

And that was only the first half of the bloody book!

There's confidentiality, and then there's fucking mind-numbing, Granger! They really aren't the same.

Severus skipped down to the first footnote without reading the rest of the section.

1. Very few Hs (e.g. H70, H55) failed to display strong parallelism to the narrower traits displayed in a large number of fellow Hs. Several sets of Hs showed likenesses similar to those detailed above, while others showed a lesser degree of correspondence. See Appendix Q for the full table.

Unconsciously, he shook his head. So far, the appendices had proved to be even drier than The Account proper. Mostly collections of paired Arithmancy equations (contrasting Pythagorean and Chaldean methods), charts and, occasionally, references to sources related to the Council's methodology or analyses, the ones he perused the night before hadn't added significantly to his understanding of what was happening. To be perfectly honest, he skipped quite a few of them out of sheer boredom. The one explaining the bizarre method by which each Hermione of the Council had been assigned a numerical designation was deadly.

"Are you finished reading, Undaddy?"

Putrescent pond slime! Just as he'd managed to (finally!) forget all about the child, she had to go and call him "Undaddy" and bring on the... indigestion again.

Narrowed black eyes reluctantly met large black eyes.

"I'm hungry," she said, watching him expectantly. "I'd like sausages and eggs, please. Mummy only makes porridge when Daddy's travelling." Violet shuddered as if Mummy's porridge tasted of Horklump Juice.

It was on the tip of his tongue to snarl, "What the devil makes you think I'll cook for you?" when two things intervened.

First, he recalled Violet couldn't be more than six years old – less, actually. The night before (or was it early this morning?) Hermione had said, and The Account had confirmed, Molly Prewett-Weasley's curse had been cast in 2000. He figured none of the Hs and Ss could have produced offspring until late that year at the earliest. (The Account was kindly vague enough so as to leave that sort of information out.) It was doubtful Violet had been born prior to 2001. At the most, she was five; more likely, he decided after studying her face a bit more carefully, she wasn't even that old.

Those thoughts and calculations only took a few seconds, which was fortunate since his undaughter was already speaking again.

"Are you as good a cook as the rest of the Daddys?" That was the second thing; Severus was just as susceptible to a little girl's flattery as any other doting Undaddy. "I hope so. Mummy's nicer when there's something nice to eat as soon as she wakes up."

Swallowing a curse – thankfully, the little girl seemed not to hear him – Severus closed The Account and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The incompetent alleged know-it-all thinks she can sleep whilst I do her mothering for her, does she? Expected to cook am I? No wonder they haven't yet fully explored the Weasley witch's curse; if all the Snapes are willing to do whatever the girls order them to do...

"Look what I've brought, Undaddy!"

Violet had turned and walked away from the bed, bending to pick up something as incongruously black as her clothing just inside the door. Snape watched in growing consternation as she struggled to lift what turned looked a lot like one his size twelve dragonhide boots. It was huge in her tiny hands. He couldn't fathom how she'd managed to bring even the one to the guest house, let alone the pair.

"Miss Snape, allow me to..."

But he was too late. Only reflexes honed over more-years-than-he-cared-to-remember prevented a disaster as she spun round and shakily pitched forward rather than walking as she'd so obviously intended.

There was nothing elegant about his wandless cushioning cum Levitation Charm, and the magic cast was too instinctive to call for a coherent incantation. Violet Snape hung suspended above the tiled floor, boot still clutched to her chest, only inches from a broken nose.

Cursing his overlarge feet, he stomped over to stare down his own long, hooked nose at her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed after a long moment of stunned silence had passed. Then, "Your feet will get cold if you wear Daddy's slippers outside." Tilting her head up to smile at him, she proffered the boot with considerable effort.

Severus sighed and plucked the boot from her hands.

Likely, she got her stubbornness from both Granger and me.

He made sure he had a firm hold of his undaughter before he released the spell.

"Sit," he ordered unnecessarily after boosting her onto the bed. She's not a dog! he reminded himself, sneering. "Stay," he said aloud. "I'll be back in five minutes at the most. Don't touch your mother's book."

She looked up at him with another of those disconcerting smiles. "I won't, Undaddy."

He glanced from her to the bathroom door and then back to her. He both liked and didn't like what he saw.

Best not leave one such as her alone with temptation, the voice of reason chided.

If you were truly the voice of reason, you'd be rousing me from this nightmare!

You know you're not sleeping and you don't even mind the child, the voice retorted. Severus thought it sounded amused.

Snatching up The Account in one hand, he stalked over to the wardrobe and snagged several articles of black clothing in the other.

He wouldn't say he distrusted the child. Rather, he trusted she – being too young to fully comprehend the concept of far-reaching consequences – would behave in the manner anyone bequeathed her mother's constant quest for knowledge along with her father's native intelligence would act. Add to the mix both his and Hermione's tendencies towards obsession, and even an older Violet would find it difficult to resist The Account. In short, he expected her innocent curiosity would lead her to get up to no good, and he suspected she possessed the power to make that a very bad thing, indeed.

She probably can't even read, at least not well enough to understand that sleep aid of a book!

Are you forgetting who her parents are?

Three minutes later, dressed and with clean teeth, he left the bathroom to find Violet sitting exactly where he'd left her.

"Where is your hat?" he asked as he sat next to her to pull on his boots. He hoped his tone was suitably fatherly.

Violet only shrugged and smiled again.

"Right."

SS~HG

"Now, be careful not to drop any!"

With his back to the cooker – sausages forgotten and the fire unlit – he eyed Violet and the little platform she'd dragged out from the pantry. It was just the right height to allow her to stand comfortably at the workbench. The whisk lying next to a large stainless steel bowl seemed too big for her hands, even though he could clearly see it was just the right size for her to use.

Despite what evidence the whisk's and the platform's existence offered, and her assurances that "Daddy lets me all the time!" notwithstanding, he found it difficult to believe a four-year-old (Violet also assured him she would turn five in August) should be allowed to help with the cooking. Or that she might want to offer her assistance. Such efforts had been expected of him when he was her age, but it hadn't been the happy experience it so clearly was for Violet.

He watched her expertly break six eggs, one after the other, and drop them into the bowl. The shells were piled neatly off to the side. When she reached for the whisk, the teacher in him felt it prudent to speak up.

"And don't over-whip them or the end result will be tough, rather than fluffy," he added when his lips threatened to pull into a proud smile.

"I know, Da... I mean, Undaddy!" Before he could stop himself, he was meeting her impish grin with a small smirk of his own.

At last satisfied she had her tasks well in hand, he turned to the cooker and turned on the fire.

The sausages were browning nicely and Violet was standing at his side, proffering her perfectly whipped eggs, when a new voice startled him from a lecture on the caramelisation points of cased meats.

"Severus! I'm so sorry!" He turned in time to see Hermione hurry into the kitchen. "I never oversleep! Especially not when Severus is travelling!" She shot a reproving look at her young daughter. "You should have woke me up, Violet! What must Mr Snape think of us!" Her eyes met his again. "I'm so sorry. She's usually better behaved than this."

Snape stared, utterly lost for words. Her cheeks were flushed pinker than her pyjamas, and her hair was even wilder than the child's.

Hermione stared back, her supply of exclamation marks apparently depleted.

I wonder if her skin feels as smooth as it looks, he wondered.

"Undaddy doesn't mind," Violet stated when it seemed neither adult was going to speak again. "I'm going to ask him to make Mummy Cakes next!"

Severus didn't have a clue what Mummy Cakes might be, but didn't even consider letting Violet know because he was fully preoccupied with wondering whether Hermione's lips were as soft and yielding as they appeared.

"Mummy Cakes are Severus Two Eighteen's not so secret recipe," those lips informed him. "When his son smelled them baking he said, 'Those cakes smell just like Mummy!' and the name stuck.

"The first time he made a batch, he was only trying to use up some extra ingredients before they spoiled. He was making soap, you see. Most of us Hermiones use the same scent, and it takes a Severus to make it perfectly.

"But after Two Eighteen made his little cakes – they're scones, really – during a few travels, there was no turning back. The kids all liked them so much, he had to tell all the Severuses how to make them. We Hermiones haven't a clue what goes in it. All we know is we only get about half as much soap now!" The lips curled into a wry smile.

Severus didn't realise he was staring again until Violet told him the sausages were at the caramelisation point and in serious danger of burning.

"I hope you're planning on adding a veg to the feast," he heard Hermione say.

"Vegetables aren't for breakfast," Violet put in before he could respond. Severus would have bet one hundred Galleons she was rolling her eyes. "I'm going to have orange juice!"

"Nonsense, Pogrebin." Pogrebin! Has she learnt Legilimency, then? "Granny and Grandda made me eat at least two vegetables with every meal. You'll have one and your orange juice."

He didn't need to look up from scooping sausages onto a platter to know Hermione was smiling smugly while Violet gave her a mutinous frown.

"Speaking of Granny and Grandda..."

SS~HG

Breakfast was a torture mitigated only by Violet's incessant prattle.

No need to ask where she got that. The girl talks even more than her mother, if such a thing is possible.

It was true. Hermione replied to her daughter when necessary, but for the most part, she ate her meal, alternating between sweet smiles for Violet and wistful glances at Severus.

You only wish they were wistful!

Severus's only contributions were to ask what flavours, exactly, made Mummy Cakes Mummy Cakes and to promise Violet he'd attempt a batch before the Grangers arrived to steal her away. He left the table as soon as his plate was clean.

Despite its few cosmetic differences and additional appliances, the kitchen was set up much as his own was. He was able to quickly assemble the ingredients needed to make honeysuckle and almond scones.

Honeysuckle and almond. Of course it's honeysuckle and almond, you twit!

Mother and daughter remained at table, cheerfully debating the merits of woolly hats over hoods while Severus figured out how to recreate his counterpart's recipe. He only sneaked a few glances at the two as he measured and weighed.

What's wrong with you, man? Quit looking at her that way. She's someone else's wife! She's someone's mother!

If someone – you, in this case – had not looked at her "that way," she would not be "someone's mother."

Not "me"; my counterpart of this world.

As if it makes a difference! Even the girl isn't annoying us.

Oh, so it's "you" when we're talking about impregnating other men's wives, but it's "us" when discussing supposedly good thoughts?

No, it's "you" when you're being foolish. It's "us" when we acknowledge...

Neither voice – not the one which he was beginning to believe represented what others might mawkishly refer to as his heart, nor the one which was clearly meant to be his reason – completed the thought. That didn't stop him knowing what both wished to say.

"This is what it's like to be part of a family," he whispered aloud.

Hermione's head popped up. She offered him a muzzy smile, shoving a bushy hank of hair away from her face. "What was that, Severus?"

"Nothing. Just talking to myself," he said, and returned to laying ovals of improvised Mummy Cake dough on the tray.

SS~HG

They shared a sofa in a sitting room which, unlike the master bedroom and the kitchen, looked nothing like the one in his own home.

"Well, it was hardly suitable for raising a family, was it?" Hermione had asked when he'd remarked on the disparities.

The silence they also shared would have been companionable if it wasn't for her insistence on looking so bloody delectable! The sickeningly pink pyjamas had been replaced by a clinging black jumper and cream-coloured trousers. Her feet were bare. More than once over the course of the hour they'd spent alone, Severus had only just stopped himself pulling them onto his lap for an impromptu massage.

Now you've developed a foot fetish?

He hadn't, he knew, but something in the atmosphere had changed the moment the front door closed behind the Drs Granger and their granddaughter.

The whole house felt different with Violet gone. It was harder to remind himself the woman seated next to him was a wife and mother when the only evidence of that was a line of photographs smiling and waving from the mantle. Or, in the case of Severus Fifty-three's wedding photos, glaring at him menacingly.

Not even poring over The Account or perusing the few parts of The Notebook she was willing to share distracted him from thinking about Hermione's soft skin or wondering how her plump lips tasted.

Honeysuckle and almond, probably. Rather than leaning in to test his hypothesis, Severus stuffed a Mummy Cake in his mouth.

Inserting a thumb to hold his place, he closed The Account in favour of going over everything he'd learnt so far.

Fact: The Notebook is obviously the real key to understanding what is happening, no matter that The Account includes all the pertinent facts regarding the curse and their attempts to contain and reverse it.

Fact: The Account is the most boring book ever written.

Fact: I could get used to this life, should we never find a way to reverse the curse. That thought made him grimace. Best not think that way. It's not all almonds and honeysuckle, here.

Fact: The Hermiones are not the only ones sharing information not included in The Account, else she would know how to bake Mummy Cakes.

Fact: Obviously, Hermione is still hiding something from me.

"How?" he asked.

To her credit, Hermione didn't ask "How what?"

"They have their own sort of Notebook. I've never seen it – none of us have. Just after we came up with the spells for The Notebooks, we decided it was wiser for us to keep them separate. We only changed our minds now because there really isn't another way to help you and the other Unknown. I suppose Severus will show me his when he gets home, but it doesn't feel right to ask any of the others to share just yet."

He nodded his understanding, another – far more important – question already taking precedence over her answer.

Flipping open The Account, he paged through it until he found the passages he wanted.

Incredibly tedious and equally uninformative. Just as he'd suspected they would be.

"How is it that all two hundred ninety-four Hermiones are in communication with each other, but only two-hundred ninety-two Severuses can say the same? The Account is patently unclear on that among other things."

She squirmed in her seat, nibbling her lower lip and looking more uncomfortable than he'd seen her since he'd first arrived. He quickly pushed aside the desire to bite it for her.

"Well?"

"Erm, that's a long story, actually. And, I have to tell you, it was a point of contention among us. It still is."

She closed The Notebook and set it aside. When she drew a knee up onto the sofa and turned to face him, her expression was determined.

"Before I tell you more, I want you to know we didn't make that decision lightly," she said. "Two Seventy-three and Two Seventy-four were against it, but they were overruled. And no one really felt right arguing with the Severuses' decision. Who could know better than them, after all?

"Some of it has to do with the containment magic – we were actually lucky to discover that spell before you were directly affected by the curse – but mostly it has to do with you and what the Severuses thought was best."

"I understand," he said, even though he didn't. "Please continue."

Hermione looked doubtful – not that he blamed her – but went on.

"Well, first I'll need to explain how The Notebook works. Or rather, how we figured out how to get the entire Council to connected to it..."

She was right; it did take a long time. Nearly thirty minutes and several Arithmancy equations later, she was still explaining how they'd identified which Hermione Grangers were potentially affected by Prewett-Weasley's curse.

"By the time One had a pretty definite list of three hundred and one Hermiones, she and Severus Two had already figured out The Notebook spell. That part's in The Account. But what's not there, is..."

"Three hundred one?" Severus thundered before she got any more caught up.

Her cheeks flushed, but there was only sadness in her brown eyes when she met his gaze.

"That's another thing not in The Account. We didn't include the Seven Dead Hermiones, even though the Arithmancy said all seven had to be Snapes, because there was no chance of contacting them. Hermione One and Severus Two thought it was better to leave those Severuses to their grief, and the rest of us agreed once we were brought on board."

He wanted to know more. How can I not want to know more? But let her move on because the topic was so clearly one she found distressing. It would keep until he was officially "brought on board" with the rest of the Severus Snapes.

She must have mistaken his silence for fear because she rushed to assure him, "You're not from one of the Seven. The containment spells we used to keep them out are stronger than the ones we used on Two Seventy-three and Two Seventy-four. You're one of those two." She shook her head, then, "But I guess you'd know that already. I mean, if you'd lost your wife...

"Right. So, one of the counter curses that hadn't worked was what actually first put them in touch with Hermione Sixteen. No one travelled, of course, but the Hermiones became aware of each other when they cast the spell. From there it was a simple matter of adjusting the spell till they'd found all two hundred ninety-two of the rest of us.

"Finding the Severuses was simple after that; each Hermione tracked down the one in her universe, and with all of us working together, we had everyone where they should be – and you and the other Unknown mostly shielded – in a matter of weeks."

But they still hadn't completely unravelled Molly One's curse. Not even that witch could completely explain what she'd done.

"She was upset when she cast it, you see. And she didn't know exactly what she was doing. Not really. Severus One still blames himself because he was the one to introduce Arthur to Star Trek and fan fiction, and she wouldn't have discovered Wildcat if it weren't for that. But even she says it's no one's fault but hers and she's been really helpful to us over the years. We don't use her name in The Account, of course, because the whole point is to make sure no else is hurt by a curse like it, and if we published Molly's name, she'd have to go to Azkaban, of course and that counts as hurting someone." She paused to breathe, staring down at the hands she was wringing in her lap. "And that's sort of why the Severuses decided we shouldn't tell you two anything once we realised you'd never travelled. It was supposed to protect you."

Scores of questions clanged together in his mind, all related to the one question he didn't want to ask. The one question he thought he knew exactly how to answer.

Ask her, damn you!

"And just what did you think you were protecting me from?"

She hesitated for only a moment, those wonderful brown eyes sadder than he'd ever seen them, before she parted those beautiful lips to speak. But an invisible hook pulled at his navel and the rest of her words were lost as he travelled away.

SS~HG

Three years as a true Death Eater, followed by fifteen as the Potions master, one as Defence Against Dark Arts professor and, especially, another as Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had gained Severus Snape a stomach of steel. A year spent recovering from a devastating snakebite, followed by seven years of relatively peaceful living left him unprepared for the rigours of six travels in quick succession. Especially not as four of them had featured a heavily pregnant Hermione Whatever-She-Called-Herself.

Several moments passed at his seventh destination of the day before he realised he was no longer jumping from universe to universe. A quick glance at the witch seated to his right told him he'd landed with yet another gravid Granger.

"I use 'Granger' professionally, of course," she was saying. He was fairly certain she was aware she was addressing a new man. "It's easier that way, but..."

"You digress, Mrs..." he cut her off, not much interested in being enlightened again. Especially not if her explanation came with an assassination of his character attached.

"Officially, it's Snape-Weasley," she interrupted in turn. The mulish look on her face warned him not to attempt silencing her again. "Ronald and Severus thought I should include the 'Granger', officially, but Snape-Weasley is already a mouthful. They've both taken it as a middle name – Ronald never much cared for Bilius, anyway, and Severus hates Tobias – but I've enough names, I think."

One of the bloody Eights, then, just my luck. He cursed Fifty-three for not mentioning at least one the three groups of polygamists were expecting a baby.

"Two Forty-eight, by the way." She held out a hand for him to shake. "I did explain that before, but I suppose that was to the one before you. Yes, his hair was longer." She rolled her eyes and grinned stupidly. "Pregnancy brain, you see."

No. I do not see, and I'd appreciate it if you Hermiones would stop assuming I do!

Aloud he said, "So, I see."

Mrs Snape-Weasley-but-not-Granger laughed in seemingly genuine amusement at that. "No, you don't. But it's sweet of you to pretend."

They were naming the child Rose, he learnt. All of the currently pregnant Council members were.

"We got the idea from your Violets," she explained. "Since this one is biologically a Weasley, she's not likely to escape the red hair. We figured we might as well keep the flower motif going while we're at it.

"Though, I can't imagine what we'll get if Sev ever manages to sort out a way for him and Ron to get pregnant! It's hard enough being married to you lot; I don't know if I'm up to being mum to a little one whose part you and part him!"

Snape raised a brow, for a moment completely forgetting her circumstances had nothing to do with him. "You wouldn't be raising it alone," he protested, feeling inordinately aggrieved on his counterpart's behalf. "I hardly think you need worry that your husbands would shirk their share of the work!"

"Thank Merlin, you're home!" The familiar voice came from the doorway. "Hermione has been going mad with all these other Sevs popping in and out. You can't imagine how much I've missed you, love."

Severus didn't need to turn in order to identify the speaker. He turned all the same.

Ronald Granger Snape-Weasley's face turned crimson in what was definitely not embarrassment. Severus wondered if with this "Eight" he'd be the one to come away with his eye blacked. But Mr Snape-Weasley seemed capable of more restraint than the other Unknown Severus had been.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" he wanted to know. "Another new one, I guess?"

SS~HG

A fucking beard! Why the hell would I grow a beard just to please Weasley?

But it was the beard – or the lack of the beard – which had saved him from getting an armful of amorous ginger Auror, and Severus vowed never to grow one.

Unless Granger prefers beards.

Merlin's saggy sack! What does it matter what the wench likes?

Only, as angry as he was at the lot of them, he knew it mattered. He couldn't lie to himself about that.

This guesthouse was exactly like the last one had been. His battered stomach clenched at the knowledge that he wasn't likely to wake to a horrible-haired miniature version of himself.

Best not think of that, he thought for what had to be hundredth time since morning.

He settled under the white quilt in the white room and, in spite of his best efforts, dreamed of a small witch with wildly curling hair and remarkable brown eyes who'd never met a Weasley she didn't loathe.

SS~HG

Waking was not easy – torn as he was from a dream in which he half lay between Miss Granger's parted thighs – but it was quick and it was complete. He had no idea where he was or who the curly-haired witch frowning over him might be. In light of what he'd experienced in the past two days, the riot of unruly curls was not enough of a clue.

She bit her lip, drawing her frown deeper. Brown eyes flicked from his nude shoulder to his exposed...

Fuck! he thought just as she gave the same word voice. And part of him, apparently as unwilling to be ruled as her horrendous hair, twitched at the sound.

"Fuck!" she repeated, her eyes glued to his disobedient prick. It quivered again under the naked hunger of her stare. "Not again."

Unfortunately, even the tripe-churning wrench of travelling wasn't enough to shock his body from the state her phantasmal caresses and imagined please – breathily whispered – had educed. The cool air of this newest place was similarly ineffective. His most sensitive parts were unprotected, vulnerable and all but begging for attention.

She glanced at his shoulder again before meeting his gaze.

"I don't expect you'd want to make use of that?" She nodded in the direction of his bare bits.

He tried to sit up, to show he still had some dignity as he told her what she could do with her lovely eyes and lovelier skin (far too much of which was on display for him to have any hope of regaining all of his composure). But invisible bonds bound his hands and feet, securing him firmly to the four posts of the unfamiliar tester bed.

Bugger.

A/N: In craps, a natural is a come-out, or first roll, totalling seven or eleven.