Chapter Five

Better to keep her out of Molly Weasley’s clutches for as long as possible.

Severus groaned inwardly at Poppy’s unsolicited opinion. No doubt questions were swirling in his wife’s mind. Questions he wasn’t certain he had answers to. Or, perhaps, he was simply more concerned over those he could. Like why he would never consider the Weasleys a proper placement for the newborn, despite the suspected familial ties. There was little doubt those answers would weigh heavily on his bride’s loyalty to the family she’d adopted as her own during her early years in the wizarding world.

He sighed softly and turned his attention to the little runes surrounding the tiny girl. Cyrillic letters and ancient symbols glowed in vibrant colors ranging from the orangish side of yellow to a green so deep even the summer grasses would be envious. Thankfully, the marginal and better-than-marginal readings outpaced those hovering below normal. All things considered, the little one was doing quite well.

Satisfied Poppy had things well in hand, he glanced at the beautiful witch clutching the hem of his jacket. Her whisky-colored eyes were wide, her brow furrowed as she watched every move the mediwitch made. How she’d managed to ensnare him so completely was a mystery beyond his comprehension. But ensnared he was, loving and being loved more fiercely than any couple in recent wizarding history. Or so Minerva and Poppy claimed at almost every available opportunity. Whether they were blinded by their desire to see their favored cubs happy or spoke with absolute authority, he didn’t know. He’d like to believe it was the latter but supposed it closer to the former. No matter: he was Hermione’s and Hermione was his. And he would defend her happiness, and her life, to his very death. Which was why he prayed her inquisitive mind would remain unsatisfied on the subject of the Weasley matriarch and her fitness as guardian to anything above one of Crookshanks' fleas.

Merlin, but Hermione would be devastated to learn—

The bleat of an alarm stuttered Severus’ thoughts and started a marathon in his chest. Horrified, he watched as the newborn stilled. The tiny, domino-like structures of light swirling around the small body plummeted, their colors racing toward the red end of the spectrum. Even the ones that burned the brightest shade of green dimmed into the sickly yellow of a neglected plant.

In a breath, Poppy’s calm fractured. “Severus.”

Before his heart made another beat, his wand was in his hand. He stepped to his mentor’s side and added his magic to hers. The lightning arcs intensified, splattering the room with fizzling sparks of rainbow fire. The electrical fry of non-verbal spells buzzed in his ears and the incense of ozone flooded his nostrils. Come on, precious one, he begged. Come on. Don’t give up on me, damn it.

He barely drew breath as he tried to will the runes to return to a more normal state. If need be, he would force life back into this little rosebud. He licked his parched lips and tasted the salt of the distress that trickled from his brow. A fine sheen of perspiration welded his shirt to his back. His arm shook and his stomach churned. Still, he wouldn’t relent. Not until Poppy declared this pitiful creature a lost cause.

Five seconds ticked into ten, then teetered toward infinity. Still, the infant refused to stir.

Panic swirled and drove his refusal to accept defeat higher. This valuable little soul deserved a life. Breathe. Live. Cry!

The piercing wail produced only by the functioning lungs of the newly born broke the silence in answer to his plea. She was still there, the broken sobs announced. She was alive, said the flailing limbs. And she fully intended to stay that way, declared the line of brilliant green runes slowly circling above her.

Relief bubbled into a laugh as Severus leaned against the table and tried to calm his adrenaline-drunk pulse. At his side, Poppy panted from the exertion. “Well.” The Healer slumped against the edge of the table. “That was certainly exhilarating.”

“Indeed,” he chuckled. He stowed his wand in the sheath at his belt, then stooped to re-swaddle the protesting baby girl. Once the tiny thing was securely bound in the blanket, he scooped the whimpering bundle up and cuddled her against his chest. “Let’s not do that again, shall we?” he gently instructed his tiny charge, bouncing her a little to quiet the lingering snuffles as he rubbed soothing circles against her back. “I’m quite sure none of us enjoyed the experience. Especially you, my little rosebud.”

“Amen,” Poppy sighed. She straightened, then summoned parchment and quill from somewhere within the unpacked supplies on the table. “Let’s see if we can get this information down before you demand another round of attention.” She turned a stern glare on Severus. “And before you ask, Mr. Snape. I did not, nor will I, perform the incantation needed to determine parentage.” The feathered end of the quill whipped menacingly near his nose. “That is something you will have to determine the old-fashioned way.” The older witch’s brow arched in defiance. “I have every intention of buying this little one as much time as possible before the Ministry, or Arthur Weasley, unleash the hounds of hell on her.”