The Walking Wounded

Epilogue –

Severus constantly reminds me that I am the glue that binds he and Hermione together. They are so similar—intelligent, ambitious, and temperamental. Even if I weren’t part of their lives, they would be a perfect match as evidenced by the beautiful bundle Severus cradles in his arms.

Celine was born two nights ago, an event I missed due to my lycanthropy. I should be jealous, but I’m not. Jealousy has no place in our triune. Severus seems obsessed with the silky dark curls on the top of her head and keeps twirling one of them around his finger. I am amazed over the honest expressions that cross my lover’s face.

Holding my hands out, I smile. “Come to…Uncle Remus.

Something crosses over Severus’ face. Disappointment? Anger? I am uncertain, for the mask that he wears is back in place. “Uncle? You are as much Celine’s father as I am,” he states emphatically, cradling the baby’s head as he places her in my arms.

The baby stirs and turns her face, rooting against my chest for her next meal. Yes, I’ve had months to prepare for this moment, but my heart melts nonetheless. Our daughter has me wrapped around her little finger, and I cannot help but wonder how Severus will react when he realizes that he too has fallen victim to her charm.

He chuckles, glancing over his shoulder and stepping backwards. “I had hoped she would let her mother get some sleep, but it appears that I was wrong.”

As I carry Celine to Hermione, I am awed at how normal our lives have become. It is by no means perfect, but it is definitely better. Hermione and Severus ongoing bickering continues to amuse me. Severus, being a Slytherin, thinks he is so sneaky, but he doesn’t hold a candle to Hermione’s subtle way of manipulation. She is the puppet mistress that holds the strings to our hearts. I can see the desire for more children in her eyes and have no doubt that she will somehow convince Severus to give her what she wants.

Sitting up in bed and holding her arms out, Hermione smiles and raises her face for my kiss. Mindful of the baby between us, I devour her lips. The last weeks of her pregnancy were difficult and sexless, and her scent is enough to make me forget her delicate condition. Celine fusses, reminding us that she is there. Chagrined, I start to hand over the baby. “She’s perfect,” I whisper. “Just like her mother.”

Hermione’s smile turns into a frown, her eyes falling to the bandages that cover my hands. Moony tried to claw his way out of our cage, instinct guiding him to protect Hermione and the baby. “The next time I see that werewolf,” she growls softly, taking Celine from me, “I’m going to pop him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.”

Severus snickers, forcing me into the chair next to the bed and kneeling in front of me. He unwraps the bandages slowly and winces. “I concur. Moony needs to be put on a leash. We knew there was a good chance that Hermione would deliver during the full moon. I do not understand why he did this.”

The skin on my hands is raw, testament to Moony’s mindless desire to be present during the birth of the pack’s child. He was acting on instinct, an instinct that I fought with every breath of my body. The bloody beast had tried digging our way out of the cell, leaving me with bloodied hands. I give my husband and wife a reassuring grin. “Love me, love my wolf.”

Severus grunts, rubbing a salve into my palms. “Warts and all, huh?”

Hermione giggles, holding Celine to her breast and coaxing the baby to latch on. “I do love Moony. I especially love the size of his…” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

Severus does his best to give Hermione a chastising look, but he fails miserably.

“I can’t help myself.” She sticks her bottom lip out. “Even though I am sore and I can’t shag either of you senseless per doctor’s orders, I’m… I’m—”

“Amorous,” I supply helpfully, winking at Severus.

“I was going to say horny,” she grouses, settling the baby against her chest. “Months without going into heat. Being pregnant is almost worth not having to deal with that.”

Severus pauses in his task, his expression unreadable.

“Relax Severus,” Hermione coos, stroking the baby’s head. “I’m not going to jump you while I’m breast feeding. I would like a few years between children.”

Rewrapping my hands, Severus smiles—the transformation remarkable. Out of the three of us, he has overcome the most. He places a gentle kiss upon Hermione’s forehead and sits next to her. His ebony gaze captures mine.

“A few years at least,” he murmurs unapologetically.

--

Several years later—

Leaning back in my chair, I watch the scene before me unfold. Celine, our oldest daughter, and Hermione chatter softly as Hermione breastfeeds the newest addition to our family. Severus watches them silently, occasionally reaching out to touch the dark, silk tuft that covers Beatrice’s head.

The door to the maternity ward opens and closes, followed by hurried footsteps. Harry, our middle child has arrived from Hogwarts. I had sent word to the Headmaster several hours ago and am surprised that it has taken Harry this long to arrive. He opens the privacy curtain, steps into our small enclosure, and snaps the curtain closed behind him. His black eyes land upon his mother, and I see months of worry dissolve from his youthful features.

Unlike the two before, this pregnancy was complicated.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he whispers, “but the Headmaster had difficulty getting the Ministry to authorize a portkey.”

Hermione holds her hand out to him. “You aren’t late. Beatrice is early.”

Harry, our only son, is a sixth-year at Hogwarts. He looks like his mother, the close-cropped curls of chestnut brown hair and cinnamon eyes. He was born on Halloween. We hadn’t planned it that way, but all of us can’t help but appreciate the irony. Much to Severus’ chagrin, our son’s temperament is like Padfoot’s. He is oftentimes disrespectful, arrogant, and always into trouble. Of course, it doesn’t help that I’ve always indulged Harry’s inner Sirius.

Celine graduated Hogwarts three years ago and is my greatest champion. She has made Wolfsbane Potion more palatable, something Severus had worked on for years, but never managed to prefect. She is a radical movement all onto herself, constantly circulating petitions to stop the sterilization of witches and wizards with lycanthropy. Like her mother, she researches everything to death, and in doing so found that there was no information on the mating habits of werewolves.

So, she has taken it upon herself to write a book about it. She, of course, thinks I am being unreasonable since I won’t answer any of her questions. She is a precocious witch.

Severus thinks she’ll be Minister of Magic one day.

“I’m just happy that you and baby Beatrice are all right, mum,” Harry says softly.

Celine arches one of her elegant dark eyebrows, an expression so much like Severus’. “This coming from the one who said that it was disgraceful for “people your age” to be having children.”

Scooping his baby sister out of his mother’s arms, Harry shrugs his shoulders. “It’s nothing against you, Beatrice, but mum is too old to have any more children.”

“Harry!” Hermione protests.

Severus tries to scowl, but the lines of laughter on his face are too deep. “For once, we are in agreement.”

“Severus!” Hermione scoffs as the rest of us chortle. Poor Severus never mastered the art of flattery. I’ve lost count of the times a kind comment would have prevented an argument or weeks-long pouting match between my two lovers.

“Way to go, Dad,” Harry teases, swaying back and forth and soothing Beatrice as she fusses. “You certainly have a way with the women.”

Severus ignores the comment and sits next to Hermione on the bed, taking her hands in his and placing a chaste kiss upon her lips. “False flattery is little more than a lie. I owe your mother so much more.”

“Diplomacy never hurts, Severus,” I chime in, relishing the sense of normalcy that descends upon the scene. I can see that Hermione is biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing, and I remember a time when I never thought I’d see her smile, much less laugh.

Severus gives a noncommittal grunt, realizing that he is outnumbered. He twirls several strands of Hermione’s hair between his fingertips, demonstrating the years of affection that have ensnared his heart.

My eyes wander the room, soaking in every detail and every nuance. Harry and Beatrice. Celine. The past seems like some distant nightmare, its cold fingers wrapping around my soul in remembrance. I wallowed in it, letting the hatred and bitterness consume me. Hermione’s pain offered me distraction, while Severus’ connected me to my past.

But all of that is behind us now.

Beatrice hiccups, earning a collective gasp of appreciation from us all. Words are insufficient. There is no way to describe the spectrum of emotions as they course through me.

I look at the scars that crisscross my hands and grin, thankful that our wounds have healed.

--

FIN

Author’s Note: All mistakes are my own. Thanks to all who have reviewed.