Harry sat in Madam Pomfrey’s office, swinging his legs back and forth, as he waited for news of his Mother. It was past his bedtime, but somehow nobody had remembered – and Harry wasn’t about to remind them! His Uncle Albus had transfigured two hard plastic chairs into large, squishy armchairs – upholstered in a pattern of garish swirls of red and gold that had made Harry’s Father appear positively sickened, muttering something about ‘insufferable Gryffindors.’

As far as Harry knew, Severus was now sitting by Mummy’s bedside, looking very much like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Harry wasn’t allowed out of the office. Daddy had mentioned something about ‘scarring him for life’ and ‘so-called bloody miracle of life…’ Severus had then threatened to eviscerate Harry if he put ‘so much as one toe out of line’ whilst he was minded by Uncle Albus, so Harry swallowed his pride and decided to sit on the armchair and play gobstones like a good little boy.

****

That had been five hours ago.

****

It was now one in the morning. The castle was shrouded in a blanket of slumber, even the ghosts seemed to be resting. Thankfully no students were in the infirmary, otherwise the sounds emitted by Assistant-Professor Evans would have had them weeping in their beds.

Lily didn’t remember it taking so long last time.

Twenty years old, in the prime of her life, she vaguely remembered popping into St Mungo’s and leaving a few hours later with a bouncing baby boy and dishevelled husband in hot pursuit.

Lily didn’t remember it being so painful.

Sure, she was young and agile back then – just out of Hogwarts, the world at her feet - but she wouldn’t exactly consider her current twenty eight years ‘past it.’

Lily didn’t remember having her wand snatched away from her by the nurse.

That was probably because she hadn’t attempted to curse James’ genitalia into fairy cakes. She supposed that had been a bit harsh, it wasn’t entirely Severus’ fault that she was in her current predicament: but the middle of an excruciating labour (with his child!) was not the appropriate time for her husband to remind her of this.

One thing was certain, Lily would be sending a howler to the Wizengamot. Weren’t they supposed to be living in a civilised and modern wizarding world? There were spells to wash clothes, heal wounds, and chop vegetables… There were potions that cured petrification, took away your dreams, forced you to tell the truth... How on earth had the ban on research into childbirth lasted all these years? Patriarchal toe rags, that’s what they were! Albus Dumbledore was going to get a piece of her mind. It was utterly archaic that there wasn’t a spell to make this easier, for Merlin’s sake, even muggles had developed a technique. What Lily wouldn’t give right now for an epidural…

****

“Uncle Alby?” Harry asked, slurping his hot chocolate loudly. “How did the baby get inside Mummy’s tummy?” Harry giggled behind his cup, knowing that his question was going to provoke some sort of amusing reaction from the usually serenely calm and controlled man.

Albus Dumbledore - Headmaster of Hogwarts, vanquisher of Grindelwald, acclaimed alchemist, Supreme Mugwump – was, for the first time in his life, truly stumped. He didn’t have any children of his own, but he had been teaching for many, many years. Never before had he been asked to explain the facts of life. Albus took a deep breath, counted from one to ten in English, Mermish and Gobbledegook, and began to speak.

“Well Harry, when a man and woman love each other as your parents do, they may wish to make a child together. The man, err… ahh… err… The man has a seed, and puts his seed inside the woman. The seed grows, like Professor Sprout’s plants do in the greenhouse. Yes, yes. Your Mother’s tummy is rather like a greenhouse, protecting a seedling and encouraging it to flourish until it is ready to be planted elsewhere.” Dumbledore finished, abruptly, feeling rather self-satisfied at his non-explicit analogy. There was yet hope that Severus would not be lacing his morning cocoa with an untraceable poison.

Harry frowned, screwing up his face perplexedly, attempting to put on his patented ‘innocent boy’ look – the one that always got an extra Chocolate Frog out of Professor Flitwick.

“So Mummy’s got a flower inside her, Uncle?” Harry asked, wondering if he was slightly overdoing his routine.

“Err… Not quite, my boy. I wonder if you’re not a tad too young for metaphors… No, Harry. She has a little boy or girl inside her. I was just describing the whole biological process---”

Harry began giggling out loud, bring Dumbledore’s monologue to a halt.

“Harry?” Albus enquired, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

“You looked almost as funny as Daddy did, when I asked him!” Harry lost all resolve and fell off his chair in a fit of laughter.

“Why, you little…” Albus stopped, remembering Severus’ wrath when Hagrid had accidentally let slip the word ‘bugger’ in Harry’s presence (and hadn’t he decided to repeat it every other word until Minerva suggested a soapy mouth charm). “How many people have you asked that question, young man?”

“Mummy told me how babies are made when Seamus told me and Neville about the ‘S’ word… S’pose I asked Daddy, Aunt Minerva, erm Professor Flitwick, Madam Pince, oh but I wanted to ask Mr Filch only I forgot.” Harry admitted sheepishly.

Professor Dumbledore opened his mouth to admonish his young charge, when all of a sudden the door to the office flew open with a bang and a slightly crazed Severus Snape beckoned them to follow him.

****

According to Poppy’s watch, little Asphodel Iris Eileen Snape was born at precisely two in the morning, April 15th 1988. Poppy was unsure if she approved of such a name. Wasn’t it slightly macabre? Well, she supposed the pair had their reasons (though they seemed a bit preposterous to her). As a child Lily had had an obsession with Greek mythology and became quite taken with Hades and the Asphodel Meadows, to her family’s horror. Severus felt that it would be quite fitting to name after one of the more prized potion ingredients.

Poppy was too tired to further ponder the workings of Lily and Severus’ minds. They were both a little too ‘abstract’ for her, anyway. All Poppy wanted to do was herd all these well-wishers out of her domain, give Lily a drop of dreamless sleep, and get a few hours kip in her office. She sighed, issuing Albus with a withering look. He really should have known better than allowing Harry to stay up all night. The boy was now excitable and would be grumpy all tomorrow for his lack of sleep. Poppy knew from experience that this was a bad thing, a grumpy Harry made for a moody Professor Snape… so she might as well start restocking calming draughts in preparation for the hordes of emotionally distraught Hufflepuffs that she foresaw running out of their potion lessons.

****

Severus Tobias Snape had not expected to live past his twenty-first birthday. He had not expected to rekindle his relationship with Lily. He had not expected to get married. Above all, he had not expected to father a child.

Here he was, living and breathing. No longer chained by the mark of his old master, no longer bound in servitude. Severus was a free man – and that, he would remain.

Severus had cheated his own destiny.

His own Father (not that he deserved that title) had wasted away during his childhood years. Severus had but a few vague recollections of Tobias: the smell of whisky perpetually on his breath, his jaundiced skin, obscenely swollen belly and his heavy hand when aggravated. Tobias was a man quick to act, with a temper that flared violently without thought for the consequence. Perhaps that what was why Severus liked to be painstakingly careful in his actions – slowly extracting the necessary information and only then formulating a response – he would not become his Father. Tobias drank himself into an early grave, leaving behind his downtrodden wife and child to fend for themselves in the muggle world that he had forced them to live in. Perhaps that was why Severus was still slightly distrustful of non-magical beings. Tobias would not drink merely a glass or two of wine, or even a tumbler of scotch. As soon as Severus could walk Tobias had had his son navigating the seedy streets of East London to fetch bottles of Bell’s Finest on tick from the off-license. Perhaps that was why Severus never allowed himself to drink around Harry. Perhaps he was scared of who he might become. Even though he lived to be Tobias’ antithesis, Severus was most familiar with the expression ‘the apple does not fall far from the tree.’

Generations of Snape men had drunk themselves into oblivion and beyond. In Dublin, Cork and London one could find graves baring fake epitaphs of ‘loving husband’ or ‘beloved father’ pertaining to a male Snape in his early thirties who had died ‘unexpectedly.’

Severus had not cried at his Father’s funeral, but he had cried at the birth of his firstborn.

Asphodel Iris Eileen Snape.

A paragon. Utter perfection personified. This tiny, breathing ball of flesh belonged to him more completely than anyone ever had. She had his blood running in her veins. Holding her in his arms, watching her dark eyes trying to focus on his face, made him realise all the more that he was NOT his Father. Tobias would have been sprawled on the floor, in a drunken stupor, reeking of alcohol and totally uncaring or unaware of what was going on around him.

Asphodel closed her little eyes and yawned. Severus softly traced a finger down her cheek, feeling the softness of her touch.

Without glancing away from his daughter, Severus made a solemn vow to protect his two children with every ounce of his being. Harry and Asphodel: forever reminders that he had not become his Father.

****

Albus Dumbledore was trying to get a reluctant Harry Potter to put his pyjamas on and get into bed. He’d thought himself rather a good babysitter, at least, the child had never complained about being left in his company before…

Harry had started to whimper the moment Albus had taken his hand to lead him back to the apartment. He had clung to his Mother for quite some time after being introduced to his baby sister. Albus liked to think that he understood the boy’s awkwardness. Harry was feeling insecure, worried that he had been replaced. It was only natural. Now, if only could get the child into bed he could explain to Harry the immense capability of the heart to love. Why, he had an exquisite little speech planned out in his head that he was sure would improve Harry’s spirits…

“Shan’t.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I shan’t go to bed. You can’t make me. I won’t.” Harry petulantly whined.

Albus was perplexed. Harry had always regarded him so fondly. He’d known the boy since birth! It was really too late for these shenanigans. It wasn’t as if what Harry was saying even had a ring a of truth about it – obviously, he was Albus Dumbledore ‘greatest wizard of his age.’ Therefore, he was quite capable of ‘making’ young Mr Potter do whatever he wanted.

“Harry, whatever is the matter?” Albus’ patience finally wore thin.

Harry stamped his foot on the stone floor and looked up into Professor Dumbledore’s concerned blue eyes. His anger began to seep away, and his sulky bravado with it. It wasn’t fair that Albus could look at him in that way, it made Harry feel guilty and sad in equal parts that he was the cause of such an expression on Uncle Albus’ face.

Harry screwed up his face and felt all his resolve begin to crumble. He was mortified, aged seven and three quarters, and here he was blubbering like a baby in front of the Headmaster. Harry swiped angrily at his tears with a sweaty hand. He kicked the floor again, letting out a gasp of pain as his foot impacted with a heavy crack against the solid stone surface.

Dumbledore bundled Harry on to his lap as his crying began in real earnest. He rocked the child back and forth in his arms, when Fawkes swooped onto his shoulder (albeit nervously, remembering Harry’s habit of pulling his tail) and began to sing a soft, beautiful melody that lulled Harry into a state of calm.

“Now, now little one. Why don’t you tell me what is bothering you?” Dumbledore asked, brushing Harry’s hair out of his puffy red eyes. The intensity of his gaze made Harry feel like he was being X-rayed, and he knew that this was one of those occasions where the only option would be to tell the complete and utter truth.

Harry sniffed, his pride now a little more sore than his foot, and sat up on Dumbledore’s lap. He tucked one hand under his chin and stared resolutely at Dumbledore’s pink and purple paisley socks.

“I was about your age when my brother, Aberforth, was born. Most disconcerting, I seem to recall feeling awfully anxious at the disruption to the status quo. Of course, I grew to love him dearly, even throughout all that goat business. But, I digress Harry. There is no need for you to be fearful of your parents’ affection waning… Absolutely none at all…” Dumbledore said, attempting to placate the child.

Harry had stopped listening after the word ‘goat,’ wondering what is was Dumbledore’s brother possibly could have done to earn the expression ‘goat business.’ Harry was not at all fond of goats. He’d developed a real fear since his school’s trip to Edinburgh Zoo last year when Seamus had pushed Harry into the goat pen, and Harry had found himself consequently head butted by an angry looking nanny goat. Therefore, Harry could understand if Aberforth had sent the odd hex or curse in a goat’s direction.

Harry’s musings were broken by the sound of the door opening. Dumbledore looked up in surprise at a weary Severus who was raising an eyebrow in his direction.

“Good evening Severus, Harry and I were just getting ready for bed. There was a spot of bother with his pyjamas but it’s nothing a little transfiguration can’t sort.” He flicked his wand and Harry’s scruffy robes were instantly replaced by snitch patterned nightclothes. Albus looked at Severus over Harry’s head, and mouthed the word ‘upset’ with a shake of his head.

“I see. Well Harry, do thank the Headmaster for his kind hospitality.” Severus drawled, hoisting Harry onto his hip and walking into the drawing room to show Albus out. Harry mumbled something incoherent. Dumbledore nodded his head politely like Harry had just delivered an incredibly wise speech, and with another pointed stare in Severus’ direction, the older wizard took his leave.

“What mischief have you been up to, then?” Severus said to Harry as he carried him back into his bedroom.

Harry flung his arms around his Father’s neck. Daddy had come back for him! He’d not been forgotten. And that was all that mattered.

“Well really,” said Severus with a gentle frown, “a simple ‘none’ would have sufficed.” He patted Harry’s back and leaned back against the headboard, resting his head on Harry’s mop of hair.

Harry let out a deep sigh, knowing that everything would be okay. He closed his eyes, relaxing his hold on Severus, falling into a deep and contented sleep.

****

Lily had been required to spend a further three days under the beady eyes of Poppy Pomfrey before she was permitted to return to the apartment. Her new charms theory had been put on hold, and she found herself up to her eyes in dirty nappies, baby vomit and overreacting husbands.

Asphodel was a somewhat fractious child. She would not sleep without absolute silence, she would not drink her milk unless it was at a categorically perfect temperature, and she would not sleep more than two hours at a time. She reminded Lily a great deal of Severus, if truth were told.

It was now late April, spring had most definitely come to Hogwarts that year, and brought with it afternoons of lazy sunshine. There was a gentle breeze from the continent that, along with the sun, made for ideal quidditch conditions. Harry was sprawled languidly on the sofa, watching his Mother attempt to change Dell’s nappy all the while trying to calm the baby’s ear-splitting screams. Harry was bored, he had been watching the students out flying by the lake. It looked like so much fun, there was no chance that Lily would let him go flying on his own – then again, she would be stuck in the dungeons all afternoon – so it wasn’t as if she need know.

Harry grinned, and decided to take advantage of his sister monopolising Mummy’s attention. Over the past few days he had discovered the perks of no longer being an only child – relative freedom. Yesterday afternoon Harry had hoodwinked Lily into allowing him to spend a few hours in the kitchens, and he had been able to scoff about six cream cakes before Aunt Minerva ruined his sugar rush, pulling him by his ear back to the apartment. The day before he had gone swimming with Charlie and Veronica, Mummy obviously was too preoccupied to keep her usual close eye on him. So, yes. Harry had come to realise that having a little sister was not the nightmare he had thought it would be.

“Mummy…” Harry faux whined. “I want to go for a waaaaalk. I have to collect some flowers for school or I’ll get in trouble for not doing my homework.”

Lily looked up from the baby and gave Harry a calculated look.

“A walk? And where exactly do you propose to go? If you’re even thinking about going hunting for unicorns again…” Her voice trailed off as she narrowed her eyes at Harry.

Harry smiled, flashing Lily a quick glimpse of his pearly white milk teeth. “I just want to walk down to Hagrid’s and back, Mummy,” he said sweetly.

“One hour. Mind, if you put one foot in the Forbidden Forest then you’ll be stuck inside until Christmas! And don’t you dare go in the lake---”

Lily stopped talking. On hearing her acceptance, Harry had whooped gleefully, and he was now sprinting into his bedroom to get his shoes and socks. A black haired shape whizzed past her, and she heard the door slam. Asphodel started to cry again, and Lily cursed Severus for having to teach…

****

For some bizarre reason, the Hogwarts’ broomshed was always left unlocked. After each and every one of Harry’s airborne escapades, Severus had stormed into Professor Dumbledore’s office, seething at this blatant lack of security. However, since Harry had been big enough to balance horizontally, there had been a whole variety of different brooms just waiting for him to test drive.

Today he had selected a shiny new Nimbus1500 that was just too tempting to resist. He hummed a little tune to himself as he mounted the broom, kicked off the grass, and set off soaring into the blue skies.

There was nothing quite like the feel of flying. Harry knew nothing that could surpass it. He had taken the floo with his parents a few times, but he didn’t like that. He always fell over and grazed his knees, or got soot all over himself, which peeved Daddy no end. They went on the Knight Bus to the Dursley’s house once, and the bus conductor had spilled hot chocolate all over Daddy’s shirt. So Harry chose brooms, and had been ‘borrowing’ them for the past three years – much to the chagrin of his parents.

He decided to be really daring and attempt a figure of eight over the lake. He’d seen Charlie do it a few times, it was certainly an impressive stunt. Harry accelerated, looping in the air a few times. He dived downwards, his stomach doing summersaults as he plummeted to earth, and he kicked forwards just inches from the surface of the lake. Instead of flying back up in the air Harry ricocheted off his broomstick, zooming of his own accord into two outstretched arms that roughly yanked him out of the sky and plonked him onto dry land.

Harry’s stomach had now progressed from summersaults to cartwheels and then to backflips. He tried to act nonchalant, but he knew that his shaking shoulders were a dead giveaway.

“Hullo Daddy.” Harry stuttered.