Written for a dear friend, orlando_switch, during a livejournal fest last year.
Recipient Orlando_switch
Title: About a Boy
Author/Artist: Anon
Pairing: Severus/Hermione
Rating: PG13+
Word Count/Art Medium/Craft Material: 14,650.
Content: Mentions of past character death.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: A story of threes: a little boy waits in a London orphanage; Hermione Granger does not do things by halves; Severus Snape finds what was once lost.
Author's Note: With heartfelt thanks to my beta, AdelaideArcher. To dear prompter: I hope you enjoy the story. I combined various elements from your form, and I hope this pleases you.
About a Boy
Part one
July, 1999
Rowan is 2
Car horns sounded through the hot, heavy air of London in high summer. The streets were teeming with office workers and tourists, and Hermione Granger's way through the throng was slow going and awkward. She paused twice in shop doorways to shake out her robes – thin though they were, they were damp under her arms and sending the skin at the nape of her neck frustratingly itchy. On the second stop, the witch scooped up her hair and wound a band around the curly mass, furiously blowing a stray strand away from her sweaty forehead. She gave one, longing look at the inside of the store she was beside – it seemed cool and dark, and she was certain there was a ceiling fan lazily turning. All this cement. It made the air much hotter than the gentle fields of Ottery St. Catchpole, or Godric's Hollow. Home would've been blessedly cooler, with winds blowing up past the loch, the rain clouds sometimes emptying over her small house and sometimes—more often than she'd thought—leaving for other towns.
Hermione allowed herself a moment to gather herself. She thought of her home, of the fields, of the hills. She thought of Harry's quietly approving gaze, and of what she was about to commit to. Then, taking her courage and wand in hand, Hermione dove back into the crowd, taking the unfamiliar path to somewhere she never thought she'd need venture.
/
"So, there are three separate areas, organised in age groups," the older, hardened witch was saying.
Hermione was having trouble focusing on Irma Pince's words. The Hogwarts librarian had answered her first enquiring letter, and yet placing her here, in this place, was enough to throw Hermione from the calm manner she'd focused on creating.
"Miss Granger?"
"Yes," she said quickly, pausing in the corridor to stare into a window set into a nearby door. The room inside was painted brightly, and the toys were colourful enough to hurt her eyes. She turned away from the busyness and gave Madam Pince a tight smile. "Sorry. I don't want to give the impression of – well, anything other than the fact that I'm very much wanting to be here, Madam Pince."
The witch's black eyes softened in a way she'd never seen as a student. "Are you finding it overwhelming?"
Hermione returned to her side. "This place? Yes."
They began walking again. Madam Pince paused before a nondescript office door and gave her a long look.
"Then imagine how the children feel, Miss Granger."
Choosing not to answer—for she had been thinking of this each night now for months, the guilt of it all twisting her insides and stealing her sleep—Hermione stepped into the office and took the chair in front of Pince's desk.
"I brought the approval forms," she said, retrieving her beaded bag from a pocket in the forest green robes she wore.
Pince held out her hands and began scanning them almost immediately. Her aged fingers flicked through each piece of parchment. Hermione had come as soon as she could. The parchment still flicked up at the ends, from where the Ministry's ribbon had tied it into a scroll the day before.
"The history checks…" Pince trailed off.
Hermione withdrew another letter and handed it over. "I have the location report, too. And – here." Suddenly anxious, she shoved her hand into the bag and withdrew an envelope. "Receipts. For the furniture."
Madam Pince glanced at her from above her pile of parchment. "Not necessary. Keep them, though. I assume you've made copies?"
"Of course." She nodded quickly. "One set of forms at home, another set with Harry."
"How did you resolve the bedroom issue?"
"It's on the report," Hermione answered, wanting to just be right. "I extended."
Pince didn't look at her. "Magically or… otherwise?"
"I live in an area where not all individuals are of Magical descent, Madam Pince," Hermione said instead. "As I said, it's been approved, and all the information is there. Do you… Is there anything missing?"
She knew damned well there wasn't. What was it about being a young woman that made her hate to be anything other than polite and agreeable?
"No, no." The former librarian of Hogwarts fixed Hermione with her best crumbs-on-books look. "You do realise that your age…"
Hermione took a breath in, then out, and lifted her chin. "I've been approved, Madam Pince."
"Employment?"
Hermione cleared her throat. "I've secured a position with the Department for Magical Beings. It's a graduate program, with a permanent role at the end. The letter is there, Madam Pince. Signed and stamped by Professor McGonagall and Minister Shacklebolt."
She could see it all in the other woman's eyes. The doubt; the challenge. The room felt smaller, warmer, and it hemmed her in, drawing her hard-won surety out and replacing it with fear. She could see it, as plain as the frown on Pince's face. The witch was going to stall, or decline, or come up with something, anything, that would set her back, ruin all that she'd—
Madam Pince sighed, and the older woman's shoulders gave way just enough for her body to sag in the chair. Hermione saw her truly then, saw her as the witch really was: tired, old… giving up.
"I've been approved," Hermione repeated. "I want to see him. Now."
The witch answered her with a faint half-smile. "He's been waiting for you. Even though we tried to dissuade him… we never promise, you see. It wouldn't be fair on their poor minds to bear such a thing. But he knew. He's been asking after you." Pince paused, thinking. "He calls you Minny, you know."
Hermione stood swiftly, unable to stop her smile. Her body felt light; like she could fly to him and take him away right now, damn the paperwork, the signatures, the gathering of belongings.
"Take me to him, please," she managed, striding to the door.
She couldn't wait. She let Madam Pince open the door for her, but the older woman's pace wasn't quick enough. Hermione half-ran to the end of the hall, darting a look back to the witch who gestured with a weary hand to the right. She ran, then, picking up the skirt of her robes between her hands, feeling the heavy thud of her witch's boots on the wooden floor. The only door was mostly closed, just a sliver of light coming out. There were small sounds—oh, the small sounds—coming from inside, like the tinkling of wooden blocks being set, one on top of the other.
Hermione stopped there, at the door. She put a hand to her heart and felt it thudding, spreading hope through her body.
She knocked once. The sounds—those tiny, soft sounds—halted. Stuffing a fist in her mouth to force herself not to cry, Hermione swallowed roughly. She tossed her head and pushed the door open, her eyes snapping down to the figure sitting on the floor, surrounded by blocks, his body small and delicate, and his raven-black eyes watching her, the instant wariness slowly seeping away.
"Hello," she whispered, sliding into the room and dropping to her knees. "Hello, Rowan."
Hermione contained herself through sheer force of will. "It's good to see you. I've been so looking forward to seeing you here."
The last time they'd met had been a month ago, in a little room in the Ministry, with faded carpet and magical posters on the wall that listed nappy spells and proper hand-cleaning methods. Before that, St. Mungo's, where a stern-looking wizard had monitored her play with Rowan as he made notes she'd never managed to see. Just once more prior, when she'd met him for the very first time, in a surely once-cheery office in Diagon Alley, where they allowed already vigorously checked applicants to meet the child approved for them.
She'd had nightmares since last seeing him, wondering if he'd forgotten her.
The boy's eyes slid from her, to the blocks, then settled somewhere around her shoulders. "'Lo," he whispered.
/
When she took his hand in the foyer, he didn't cry. He held onto her hand with a fierce grip but he did not cry. She shouldered his bag, only half-full.
Bending down to as close to his height as she could get, Hermione smiled at the boy. "Would you like to come with me? I've made a room in my home. It's yours. Just yours."
He was still small yet, only really now losing the look of babyhood. He'd been cautiously walking when she first met him. He stood straight now, and her mind wanted to think that he knew what was really going on. That he knew he'd never return here. Only two, she reminded herself. She patted his shoulder. Rowan held his arms out and she hooked her hands gently under his arms, lifting him to her hip. She stood, unmoving, letting him adjust to her.
"We'll Apparate together, you and I," she murmured to him. He stared at her mouth as it moved. "And then we'll arrive on a road with a few houses. Mine is almost at the end. Remember my little red car? Toot-toot?"
Rowan's eyebrows rose. "Toot," he said once, chubby cheeks working. "Toot-toot."
"That's right!" she exclaimed. "That's where the toot-toot lives. There's blocks there, too." She made herself stop talking, not wanting to overwhelm the boy.
"All right," she said calmly. "Off we go."
And with Rowan on one hip, Hermione left the foyer and made for the Apparation chamber.
/
She tried not to ask him what he thought of the house. Instead she let him wander around it, exploring every nook and cranny. She followed him, a cup of tea in hand, as he opened cupboards, clumsily reached for door handles, and, once, as he sat in the driver's seat of her car, hands on the wheel, bouncing up and down where he stood on the seat.
He was a quiet boy, dark and serious. He had a head of curly hair, the colour of deepest brown; she thought it black in the shade, then when the clouds parted, it shone like gleaming forest wood. For all of this, the boy's skin was creamy white, pale in a way hers would never be. Jane Eyre would like him, Hermione rather thought, as she named his nose decisive instead of large.
His eyes caught her most. Black they were, like coals. Sometimes she shivered when she spoke to him, for she wondered who had given him those eyes. Not his mother, she knew. It couldn't have been a Death Eater. Rowan was born too soon for that. Professor Burbage hadn't even been on their radar until that article. Hermione could recall with perfect clarity how Draco had described it during his hearing, how the great head of the snake had—
"Minny?"
Hermione drew breath and placed her hand on the door frame. He had been in the garden, wandering after her beast of a cat.
"Yes, darling?" she said, folding her body down to better hear him. "What is it?"
Rowan's lips formed a delicate pout. "Cook gone. Gone, Cook. Out."
He was putting two words together now. Hermione had—privately—created her own checklists, and the night before had marked his language development with a proud grin. There were delays, inevitable ones given his experience in life so far, but she rather thought she was suited to the role of nurturing his mind. She didn't feel like a mother – his mother. The forms she'd sent off to Hogwarts to amend his records in that big old book in the Headmistress' tower named her as Guardian. She quite liked it.
Hermione stifled a smile. "Crookshanks slipped away, did he? That cheeky boy. Perhaps he wants some quiet time. Let's go and see what spot he's found to sleep in this time."
She took his hand and let the boy lead her into the sun.
/
That first evening, Rowan let her guide him into the shower, where he sprayed the tiled walls and his feet with the shower head. He held it in his little hand, a small smile escaping as he played. Hermione watched him from behind the screen, laughing each time he managed to get the water everywhere but himself.
"Shall Minny help you?" she asked, holding the towel in front of her. She'd taken out the thin ragged thing that had come in his bag and stuffed it into the bin, replacing it with a soft, thick hooded contraption that apparently was all the go these days.
"Ro' do it!" he crowed, giving a chuffed little "Hee!" of delight.
"Right. Rowan do it," Hermione repeated, cocking an eyebrow. "Rowan do it, indeed."
He continued to wash himself, only stopping once the water spray hit his face. He cried out then, and she hurriedly opened the shower door and shut the water off. His little black eyes were shut tight as he thrust out his arms, crying for the first time that day.
"Oh, love. Come here," Hermione murmured, wrapping the towel around the crying little boy and cradling him in her arms. She held him to her tightly, rocking him, knowing without needing to see that when he quietened, it was with his thumb wedged in his mouth.
"Come on," she said. "Let's go to bed. It's been a huge day, hasn't it?"
She continued to speak to him quietly as she carried him into the new bedroom across from hers, dried him then dressed him.
"Shall we read a story? I've got one about a kitty cat that I think you'll like."
"Yes, story!" Rowan said, grabbing the book she offered. "Milk?"
"Right! Milk." She grinned and hoisted him up onto the bed. "Have a look at that and I'll get your cup of milk. We'll brush your teeth after, all right?"
Rowan gave her a look that almost made her snort with laughter before she swallowed it. It was imperious; almost commanding in its 'What are you about?' way. She could've sworn she'd seen it before.
"Well, my parents are dentists, darling," she said, shrugging. "First rule of thumb: clean teeth before bed. And guess what? I found a toothbrush with a red toot-toot on it. Not much better than that, eh?"
He harrumphed. She giggled and turned on her heel, intent on getting milk for the little boy who now lived in her home, and would for at least the next sixteen years.
/
"He looks a bit familiar, d'you reckon?" Ron whispered, crouching down to get a better look.
Hermione pushed a lock of hair out of her face and bent next to him. She didn't say anything, opting to silently watch the sleeping child. She'd had Rowan to herself for a week before owling Harry and Ron. She was being tactful, she thought, by not bringing up that Ron had been on her doorstep only moments after receiving the missive.
It was nice, though, that she didn't have to tell him to whisper, or not to let that big body of his make loud movements. For all that they misunderstood each other, Ron understood children.
"Look at those cheeks," he was saying. The warmth in his voice was enough to bask in. "Handsome little wizard, aren't you?"
Rowan stirred in his sleep. The bed was too big for his small form, and he wore matching pyjamas with orange cats printed all over. Ron carefully placed his hand on Rowan's back, rubbing in circles until the boy puffed a sigh and fell back into the deep sleep that their admiration had disturbed.
Hermione smothered a smile. "Come on, you big goose."
/
"He would be familiar, yes," she said as they entered the kitchen.
Ron sat down at the table, immediately reaching for the tin of digestives that he knew was always there. Popping one into his mouth, he met her gaze. "Go on."
She put the kettle on to boil then sat opposite him.
"Well, you know how I wasn't meant to share any details with anyone? In case I wasn't approved at the end?"
"Mmph," said the big bear of a man before he folded his hands on the table.
"He's… Well, he's Professor Burbage's son. Charity Burbage." Hermione held herself still. She was now used to the little twinge of envy that hit her when she thought about her former Professor, who knew what it was to grow the beautiful boy inside of her. And as it always did, the envy went as soon as Hermione pondered the fate of their Muggle Studies Professor.
Ron choked on the biscuit but said nothing. She rose and busied herself with the tea. By the time she returned to the table, pot and cups following in the air behind her, he had composed himself.
"Is he now? Who is the father, do you know?"
She shook her head.
Ron frowned. "Didn't they tell you? That's a bit—"
"No, no," Hermione said as she poured. "There's no name on the birth certificate. Professor Burbage registered him in the non-Magical way, and there's nothing. They performed a DNA spell with all the items recovered from different skirmishes and the like but nothing came up."
"Still can't believe they keep those things. Dad says the Department of Mysteries has them in one of their rooms."
"Rowan wasn't the only child in the orphanage."
"I know. I get it, I do. S'just… Not very nice to think about, is it? Poor mites."
He sipped at the tea. Hermione still found it amusing how his large frame and sturdy hands could handle such a dainty cup without breaking it. In his flat above the shop, Ron had mugs almost as big as her hands. She could bury her face in the warm steam that rose from them. They had slogans on them, funny ones, though most bore Quidditch logos.
"I didn't really think you'd do it, at first," Ron said suddenly. He put the cup down and laid his hands on the table, studying them as if they were riveting. Hermione found that she didn't quite know what to say, so she said nothing.
"I mean, I thought it would be a bit like school," he continued slowly. "I thought you'd get the idea, get passionate, then settle down with it and work on other people taking it up. Older people. Ones with families already, or… or partners."
She wanted to tell him that if life had gone another way, then perhaps things would've quietened for her. Perhaps she wouldn't have felt a kinship with the boy that had been left behind by war, by a woman who Hermione had always seen a bit of herself in.
"It could've been me," she whispered, unable not to tell him.
He met her gaze, grimacing. "What do you mean?"
"Professor Burbage. Me in a few years, Ron. Can't you see the similarities?"
The colour drained from Ron's face. His right hand inched toward hers then retreated. "Is that what made you do it?"
She shrugged. She hadn't been able to answer that herself. "I don't know. A little. All I can tell you is that as soon as I knew she had a child, and he was alone… I felt it." She put her hand on her chest. His eyes followed the movement. "I could feel this burning guilt, and I knew that if I didn't do something, I'd go mad. Now that he's here, it feels right. Truly. It's inexplicable but I know this is where he's meant to be."
The kitchen was silent for a long while. Ron took several deep and quiet breaths, lulling them back into the calmness of the night.
"Harry been?" he said then, pushing the biscuit tin towards her. "Eat a bit."
She rolled her eyes, grabbing one nonetheless. "Not yet. I think he wants to bring Teddy."
"Good idea, that. A boy his own age. Do him some good to play a bit, socialise."
"Mmm. I've got another week's leave and then we'll be transitioning for nursery."
"So soon? How many days a week d'you think he'll go?"
"I know. I hate the idea." She drank deeply from the cup, then put it down and sighed. "I'm scared he'll think he's… being left again."
Ron's blue eyes met hers. He gave a twisted grimace. "Mum would do it in a heartbeat, you know. She keeps dropping hints. You're going back part time for a year or two aren't you? Put off nursery. Have you asked her?"
"I've thought about it, believe me. But he doesn't know her either. What's the difference, really, between a strange woman and a strange place?"
"A lot, I reckon. And it won't be safe for him in your local Muggle nursery either, if he starts to manifest soon. I reckon he will, too. Strong thing like him."
"I hadn't thought about that…" Hermione winced. "I mean I just assumed that there were… things in place to support such events."
"Not like you to assume, I thought."
"I have planned for absolutely everything else."
Ron took another biscuit. He ate it slowly, bit by bit. Finally, he Summoned a parchment and quill before giving her a look that meant everything and nothing.
"Do you trust the Ministry?" he said, sliding the parchment over the table. "Even now that Kingsley's heading it. That Harry's in it. After all of the reforms and the enquiries. All the good box ticking." He placed the quill carefully beside the parchment. She bit her lip. "Do you trust them?" he said again, leaning back in the chair.
Hermione glanced back to the hallway, where little Rowan was asleep in his bed, the night light bringing a faint golden glow out onto the wall.
She picked up the quill and pursed her lips. "No. No, I don't."
"There you go then. I could write to Mum but no doubt she'd want to talk to you instead anyway."
Hermione bent her head and began to write before she gave a little growl. "I feel so guilty. I've only just got him, and now I've got to—"
"Mother's guilt," Ron said sagely, looking satisfied. "Read it in one of Mum's magazines once."
"The ones she keeps in the loo?" Hermione shot back, eyes narrowed.
Unperturbed, Ron grinned. "Those would be the ones. Anyway – think he's ready for a broom yet?"