Chapter Seventeen

The heat of the McGonagall matriarch's intense gaze touched Hermione the moment she and Severus entered the family dining room. Forthright, demanding respect, yet unquestionably gentle, those blue eyes followed her even as their owner commanded the movement of the food down the refractory table like Wellington at Waterloo. They widened in approval when she accepted a dish, then narrowed if she didn't heap a healthy portion onto her plate. They challenged her to disagree while holding her in a soft, accepting embrace...just as they had the first time Severus brought her to this cottage.

"So tell me, lass. Do you think you belong on there?"

A slightly arthritic hand punched through the image, urging the names to disappear in a swirl of golden smoke. Isobel McGonagall's fingers were warm and strong as they settled just about Hermione's wrist. A warm smile shifted her wrinkles toward benevolence and welcome. "That's all it takes, m'dear." With the subtlest of gestures, the lineage reappeared with Hermione's name indelibly linked to Robert McGonagall's oldest grandson.

"Gran's tattie scones are magic, aren't they?"

The bright, cherubic voice drew Hermione from the memory. She turned to the five-year-old seated at her left elbow. Young Elspeth McGonagall was all big blue eyes, honey-brown curls, and innocent earnestness. Just as Hermione had been before...

Dark memories tried to follow the fleeting thought through the small breech in her composed mind, pushing firmly to widen the gap. She quickly clamped down on the melancholy, refusing to allow it to steal the tranquility Severus and this family instilled. "Indeed," she murmured. The child's giggles managed to restore the more positive side of her nature. She slid a forkful of the breakfast delicacy between her lips, then winked at the imp. She chewed slowly, the savory flavor fortifying her flagging courage. Just as, she was sure, Isobel McGonagall intended.

Spearing the final bit of egg that would clean her plate, Hermione contemplated the elderly witch anchoring one end of the table. While Elspeth's observation was somewhat accurate, it didn't reflect the whole truth. It wasn't the food that was magic; it was the chef who imbued each morsel she prepared with that most mystical of powers. And Hermione was sure the deep, abiding vein of the stuff running through the McGonagall matriarch was what gave her the kind of insight Sybil Trelawney only dreamed of. The kind of insight that gave Severus a family to cling to when the rest of the world turned its back. That gave them the assurance that Rose Gwyneth Snape was completely accepted as the newest beloved great-grandchild.

"Let's get a good look at this little lass, shall we?" Isobel settled Rose in the cradle of her lap. With practiced fingers, the old witch gently peeled away the blanket. "There's Severus' eyes and hair, only with your curls." She touched one of the ebony ringlets lining the top of the tiny scalp. "Your nose and the lad's..."

"She's a fine specimen," Isobel announced, efficiently re-swaddling the newborn. "In fact." She carefully settled Rose into the crook of her elbow. The twinkle in her blue eyes seemed eerily reminiscent of the one that still visited the painted eyes of Hogwarts' former formidable headmaster. "There's only one thing keeping the wee lass from absolute perfection." She shifted the baby into Severus' arms. Determination that left little room for argument invaded the unwavering gaze boring into the man. "She needs an official welcome into the family."

Hermione ran the pad of her thumb across the tiny scar bisecting the juncture of her left ring finger and palm. The thin mark left from Rose's welcoming tingled slightly as the memory swam forward.

Once the younger members of the clan retired to their own homes for the evening, they gathered in the garden. Bundled against the October chill, Hermione waited as Isobel unwrapped the ceremonial blade. "Why are we doing this?" she whispered to her husband, garnering heat where she leaned against his shoulder. "It wasn't necessary when we married. Why is it necessary now?"

"And that's quite enough from you, Robert McGonagall," Isobel admonished over the rumble of his laughter. "No need to traumatize your grandchildren." Clearing her throat, she turned her attention back to the young family. "Hermione, Severus, if you would remove the gloves from your left hands and uncover the wee lass' left foot..."

"Hermione."

Malcolm's voice torpedoed the memory, submerging Hermione back into the present. Something unsettling lurked beneath the calm tenor and urged the turn of her head toward the dining room's door. Like the first split second after an ice bath, the shiver stalled her heart, gooseflesh marring her skin. Her sharp gasp pierced the sudden silence in the room, and then the words scrambled from her throat. "What are you doing here?"