Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Osbaldwick, York, England, UK, Late October 1984

The second encounter between little Oscar and his serpentine friend happened three days later.

Lily was working late at the kitchen table, parchments spread beside her cooling tea, the low crackle of the hearth filling the cottage with warmth. Outside, the wind worried at the trees, scattering leaves across the garden like restless thoughts. Her father had taken Ossy out again, bundled in his little blue jumper, boots still a little too big for him, clutching his plushy, aptly named Smaug, under one arm.

The auburn-haired witch tried to focus on numbers and runes, but she found herself listening.

Her baby boy had been… quieter lately.

Not withdrawn — never that — but unusually attentive. As if the world had begun speaking to him in ways she could not hear.

From the open window came the sound of her son’s voice, soft and sing-song, followed by something else.

A sound the emerald-eyed woman couldn’t place.

A whispering hiss.

She stood abruptly.

Outside, the raven-haired toddler was crouched near the low stone wall, his stuffed dragon abandoned in the grass. A smooth snake lay coiled nearby, long and brown, its body gleaming darkly in the weak sunlight.

“Oscar!” Lily called sharply. “Step away from it.”

The small boy didn’t startle.

He didn’t even look up.

Instead, Ossy answered — not to her, but to the snake.

$$$“It’s okay,”$$$ the little one said, words hissed but unmistakably structured. $$$“Mummy scared, but you not bad. You cold? Stones are cold today.”$$$

The reptile lifted its head.

It leaned closer.

Lily’s breath caught painfully in her throat.

“Dad,” she whispered urgently. “Do you hear that?”

Harold frowned. “Hear what?”

Oscar tilted his head, listening intently. Then he laughed — delighted, musical.

“You silly,” he told the snake. “I can’t crawl in da wall. I got knees.”

The snake hissed again.

Oscar responded immediately, his voice dropping into something… different. The consonants stretched, the vowels flattened. It wasn’t English anymore — not quite — but it wasn’t nonsense either.

The young mother felt cold sweep through her veins.

“Ossy,” she said again, more softly now. “Sweetheart. Come here.”

The dark-haired boy finally turned.

His eyes — so green, so open — flicked to his mum's concerned face, then back to the snake.

“Mum, It says goodbye,” Oscar explained earnestly. “Says stones remember winter.”

The snake slid away, vanishing into the hedge.

Heavy silence fell.

Harold Evans laughed weakly hearing his small grandson's honest explaination. “Well. That’s… new.”

Lily didn’t laugh.

The auburn-haired witch crossed the garden in three long strides and scooped her son up, heart hammering violently. He protested mildly, wrapping his arms around her neck.

“Mummy, you squishin’ me.”

She pressed her forehead to the little one's dark hair, breathing him in — warm, alive, hers.

“Did… did it talk to you before, my sweet ?” the green-eyed woman asked carefully.

Oscar nodded.

“All da time,” the small wizard said simply. “They talk ssslow. But 'dey know thingsss.”

Lily’s fingers trembled.

That night, after Oscar was fully asleep in his room, his worried mother paced the length of the cottage like a caged animal.

“This isn’t normal,” the red-haired witch said, running her hands through her long, wavy hair. “Magic can do many things, but this—”

“Lil,” Harold interrupted his daughter gently. “Ossy is not afraid. He’s not hurting anyone.”

“Dad, I know,” she snapped — then sighed, rubbing her temples. “That is not what scares me.”

The auburn-haired witch had read enough. Studied enough.

There were very few abilities that manifested so early, so naturally.

And fewer still that came with… history.

That night, Oscar dreamed of winding paths and cool stones, of secret voices that curled around his thoughts like vines. He woke once, murmuring softly — not crying — and Lily sat beside his bed until dawn, listening to his breathing and wondering what doors had quietly opened inside her child.

In the weeks that followed, the young Charms Mistress began to take precautions.

Miss Evans warded the garden more thoroughly.

She redirected Ossy gently whenever he wandered too close to hedges or stone walls.

The young mother began recording — discreetly, meticulously — every unusual magical incident.

And still, the snakes came.

Not often.

Not boldly.

But they came...seeking her baby boy.

And little Oscar always understood them.

Lily did not yet have words for the fear blooming in her chest — fear not of her son, but for him. Of a world that might not forgive what it did not understand.

Somewhere far away, old ancestral magic stirred — patient, ancient, and very aware.

***

The emerald-eyed witch did not panic.

Miss Evans did what she had always done when confronted with something frightening and unfamiliar.

She researched.

At first, it was cautious curiosity. A few carefully selected volumes pulled from her personal shelves after Ossy was asleep. Then, requests sent through Gringotts’ private academic channels — phrased neutrally, professionally, as if the question were theoretical rather than personal.

Early-manifesting magical linguistics in minors.

Rare hereditary talents and their documented bloodlines.

Non-wand-based magical cognition in pre-Hogwarts children.

The auburn-haired witch told herself she was being thorough.

Lily told herself she was being sensible.

By the third night, she stopped sleeping.

Parseltongue...

The word appeared again and again, coiled between footnotes and marginalia like something alive.

A rare magical ability allowing communication with serpents.

Almost exclusively hereditary.

Documented in fewer than half a dozen bloodlines around the world.

The young mother sat back in her chair, fingers pressed to her rosy lips.

Her emerald-green eyes slid downward.

Most prominently: the line of Salazar Slytherin.

Miss Evans' stomach tightened.

She read on, heart thudding harder with every paragraph.

Slytherin’s direct descendants were few. The line had narrowed over centuries, intermarrying obsessively, guarding what they considered sacred gifts of blood and magic. By the eighteenth century, the name most frequently associated with the inheritance of Parseltongue was no longer Slytherin.

It was Gaunt.

The Most Noble and Ancient House of Gaunt.

Lily felt a flicker of disbelief — quickly smothered by dread.

The Gaunts were...infamous. Even in sanitized academic texts, the language was careful but damning.

Blood purists.

Socially isolated.

Genetic degradation due to excessive consanguinity.

A history of instability, magical violence, and delusional grandeur.

One phrase stood out, underlined by a long-dead historian:

Marvolo Gaunt.

Incarcerated in Azkaban in the late 1920s for Muggle-baiting and assault.

Died in custody.

Lily stared at the name.

Her breath came shallowly.

“No,” the red-haired witch whispered. “That’s not—”

Of course it wasn’t him.

It couldn’t be.

The dates didn’t align. The crime didn’t fit. The man she had known — her Marvolo — had been composed, sharp-witted, magnetic in a quiet way. Opinionated, yes. Secretive, certainly. But not deranged. Not violent. He hadn't resembled a relic of a decaying bloodline rotting in Azkaban.

Still.

The coincidence sat heavily in her chest.

Marvolo...

Not an uncommon name, perhaps — but rare enough to make the young mother uneasy.

Lily leaned back, rubbing her eyes.

If Oscar’s Parseltongue abilities were inherited — and the evidence was overwhelming that it was — then it had not come from her. After all, she was a Muggle-born. Or so she had always believed.

That left only one possibility.

His father.

A man who had never answered her letters.

A wizard who had never acknowledged his son.

A blood-purist who might very well have recoiled at the idea of a child who was not “pure.”

That last thought made young mother’s mouth twist with anger and disgust.

“If that’s why you stayed away,” the auburn-haired girl murmured to the empty room, “then good riddance.”

Her little Oscar deserved better than to be claimed by people who measured worth by blood.

Still… the realisation of that fact did not erase fear.

Because Parseltongue was not merely rare.

It was feared.

Lily’s research confirmed what she had suspected but hoped was exaggerated: witches and wizards across Britain and Europe associated the ability with Dark Magic, corruption, and cruelty. Children who revealed the talent openly were often ostracized. Adults learned quickly to hide it — or paid dearly for not doing so.

And as if that were not enough—

The final blow came from a thin, brittle pamphlet archived in Gringotts’ restricted collection.

A survey of known Parselmouths in British history.

The last entry was recent.

Painfully recent.

The Dark Lord was widely rumored to possess the ability.

Miss Evans closed the pamphlet with shaking hands.

Her thoughts spiraled despite her best efforts.

A Parselmouth child.

A missing father named Marvolo.

A Dark wizard who spoke to snakes...

For one horrible second, the threads seemed to align.

Then the young Charms Mistress shook her head sharply.

“No,” she said aloud. “That’s ridiculous.”

The recent Dark Lord known as Lord Voldemort was a myth wrapped in terror and propaganda — a figure of enormous power and influence, surrounded by ancient families and political machinery. A man like that would not have been wandering Appleby-on-the-Moor under a false name, sharing firewhiskey and philosophy with a young, muggleborn researcher.

And he certainly would not have been this...young.

Thirty-five, perhaps forty at most — that had been her impression. Voldemort, by contrast, felt… older. Monumental. Timeless in the worst way. The sort of wizard whose shadow stretched across generations.

The coincidence was disturbing — but coincidence nonetheless.

Miss Evans forced herself to breathe.

No matter who Ossy’s father was, the danger was not abstract.

It was immediate.

Her son had a rare gift the world did not forgive.

And he was only two and a half years old.

“How do I tell you,” the young mother whispered, staring toward Oscar’s bedroom door, “that part of who you are must be hidden… when you don’t even know what hiding truly means?”

Lily rested her head in her hands.

The auburn-haired witch would protect him.

She would teach her little boy discretion gently, without fear or shame.

The young mother would make sure no one ever used his gift against Oscar.

Even if it meant carrying this burden alone.

Outside, the garden lay quiet.

And somewhere beneath the stones, something ancient listened — patient, knowing, and very much awake.

***

Lily did not forbid her son using his...rare talent.

That, she decided very firmly, would be the worst possible mistake.

Oscar was far too young to understand why something natural to him might be dangerous in the eyes of others. If the red-haired witch reacted with fear, he would learn fear. If she treated his gift as something shameful, her baby boy would learn shame.

And Lily would not do that to her small son.

Instead, she watched.

The next few days, Miss Evans rearranged her work schedule so she could stay home more often. She observed Ossy closely — not as a scholar dissecting a phenomenon, but as a mother learning the rhythm of her child’s mind.

Oscar was not seeking snakes.

They found him.

A slow grass snake warming itself on the stone path.

A smooth snake curled beneath the rosemary bush.

Once, even a tiny adder far beyond the hedgerow — sensed rather than seen.

Each time, her little wizard stilled.

His bright chatter faded into quiet focus, emerald eyes darkening with concentration. His magic did not flare — it listened.

Lily intervened gently.

She would kneel beside him, one arm slipping around his small body, grounding him with warmth and presence.

“Oscar,” the green-eyed witch said softly, evenly. Not a command. An invitation.

“Look at Mummy.”

Sometimes it took only a moment.

Sometimes the dark-haired toddler frowned, small brow furrowing as if he were torn between two worlds.

But tha small boy always turned back to her.

That was the first rule she taught him — though she never called it that.

Come back to me.

One afternoon, when the autumn sun was low and Oscar sat cross-legged on the rug with his wooden animals, Lily decided to try something more deliberate.

She waited until he was calm. Content. Building a crooked little “farm” out of blocks while softly humming to himself.

“Ossy,” the young mother said, using the shortened name her babu boy favored. “Can Mummy talk with you now?”

He looked up, green eyes bright. “Yes, Mummy.”

The auburn-haired witch smiled. Good. Present. Grounded.

“You know how sometimes,” she began carefully, “you hear things other people don’t?”

Oscar nodded solemnly. “Sssssnake-talk,” he said, drawing out the sound without quite realizing why. Then, as if catching himself, he added, “Quiet talk.”

Lily’s chest tightened — but she kept her voice steady.

“Yes. Quiet talk. That’s a good name for... it.”

She tenderly brushed his fine, dark curls back from his pale forehead.

“Quiet talk is special,” the red-haired woman continued. “But some special things are private. They’re just for you. And for Mummy. Do you understand, sweetheart?”

Oscar considered this seriously. He was very good at considering things — a trait Lily had noticed early on.

“Like… secret drawing?” the dark-haired toddler asked finally.

“Exactly like secret drawings,” his mother said warmly. “You don’t show everyone your secret drawings, do you?”

“No,” he said, firm. “Only Mummy. An’ Grandpapa.”

“That’s right.” She kissed his temple. “Quiet talk is like that too.”

The little boy leaned into her without hesitation, small fingers curling into her long, auburn har.

“Ossy quiet,” he promised earnestly.

Lily closed her eyes for a heartbeat.

Thank Merlin.

From then on, she introduced choices rather than restrictions.

When they walked in the garden, the young Charms Mistress encouraged Oscar to hold her hand.

“When you feel lots of thoughts or sounds,” she told him gently, “you squeeze Mummy’s hand. That tells me you need help.”

The small boy took to it immediately — sometimes squeezing too hard in his enthusiasm, then giggling when she pretended her hand was being crushed.

The red-haired witch also began teaching him redirection.

If he grew still, listening to something unseen, she would softly engage him with something tangible.

“Can you help me water the flowers?”

“Which mighty dragon should guard our gate today?”

“Shall we count how many leaves fell?”

Magic, Lily had learned, flowed where attention went.

And Ossy’s attention, with a little guidance, could be steered.

It wasn’t perfect.

Once, when a snake slid too close to the fence, Oscar hissed back instinctively — a sharp, startled sound that made Miss Evans' heart leap into her throat.

She didn’t scold.

Instead, the young mother scooped her baby boy up, holding him close until his breathing evened out.

“That was surprising,” she murmured. “Surprises can be loud. But you’re safe.”

He nodded into her shoulder, sleepy now, magic settling.

“I safe,” Ossy echoed.

Every night, after Oscar was asleep, Lily reviewed her notes.

Not about Parseltongue.

About Oscar.

What calmed him.

What overwhelmed him.

What helped him let go.

This was not suppression.

It was scaffolding.

One day, the red-haired woman knew, he would be old enough to understand what his gift meant — the history, the danger, the prejudice.

But for now?

For now, Ossy was just a little boy who listened deeply.

And Lily would make sure the world did not punish him for that.

As she tucked the blanket around his tiny sleeping form that evening, Oscar shifted and murmured drowsily,

“Mummy… quiet talk… sleeping now.”

Miss Evans smiled through the ache in her chest.

“Yes,” she whispered, gently brushing a kiss to his curls.

“It’s sleeping. And so are you.”

***

Osbaldwick, York, England, UK, March 1985

By late March, Oscar was unmistakably three.

Not a baby clinging to the world by instinct anymore, but a small person — curious, articulate, observant — with a mind that moved faster than Lily could quite keep up with. His sentences were now well-shaped and thoughtful, his questions layered with meaning rather than whim. He listened, absorbed, and remembered.

Mr Evans had been reading to him every afternoon, and somewhere between alphabet cards and bedtime stories, little Oscar had simply… learned.

The red-haired witch discovered it one quiet morning when she found her small boy seated on the rug, legs crossed with deliberate care, a book resting properly in his lap.

A book he was...reading.

“On-ce up-on a ti-me,” Oscar read slowly, finger tracing each word, “th-ere li-ved a f-ox w-ho k-new ma-ny se-crets.”

Lily almost stopped breathing hearing her three-year-old boy read aloud.

He glanced up at her, emerald eyes bright and proud.

“Grandpa says words like being patient,” he explained seriously. “If I rush them, they hide.”

Her heart cracked wide open.

***

The party itself was small but perfect — just enough people to make Ossy feel important without overwhelming him. Three candles danced atop a modest cake, charmed to flicker gently rather than flare.

Oscar stood on a chair beside Lily, hands clasped solemnly.

“I have to wish quietly,” he whispered.

He closed his eyes.

The candles went out all at once — not blown, but decided.

No one commented.

Mr Evans applauded loudly, lifting his beloved grandson with a laugh.

“Happy birthday, my clever lad.”

Eulalie Hicks arrived first, elegant and warm, presenting her honorary grandson with a beautifully enchanted box of magical art supplies. The paints shimmered and shifted colour with his mood, brushes responding to intention rather than pressure.

Ossy gasped.

“They sparkle because they want to,” the birthday boy declared.

Leonore arrived soon after, smiling warmly — and her gift made Lily blink in surprise. A magical toy chest, keyed carefully to Oscar’s unique magical signature, expanded endlessly inside while remaining perfectly safe.

“A necessity,” the Potions Mistress said lightly. “For small homes and… energetic children.”

Excited Oscar climbed halfway inside immediately.

“This is my treasure cave,” the little, raven-haired boy announced happily.

Then Severus stepped forward, stiff and clearly uncomfortable — but thoughtful.

“For you,” he said softly, handing the small wizard a long, narrow box.

Inside was a child’s chess set — beautifully carved, non-violent, each piece animated just enough to bow politely or shuffle when moved. The charms were obvious to anyone trained to look: safety, patience, encouragement.

Oscar stared in awe.

“Uncle Sev, they wait for me,” he whispered with a wonder.

“They do,” Severus said quietly, gently ruffling little boy's short, dark hair. “Chess rewards thinking ahead.”

Ossy nodded gravely, mimicking his favourite uncle's stoic expression. “I like that.”

Then came Mr Evans’ gift for his grandson.

A gigantic, plush, bright-green snake with big, black, glassy eyes and red, forked tongue.

Lily felt a spike of silent dread — but Oscar squealed with delight.

“It’s so sssoft !” He hugged the plushy fiercely. “It’s mine.”

Severus snorted at the sight. “Early persuasion toward Slytherin House. I approve.”

“Absolutely not,” Lily muttered, glaring at her smirking childhood friend.

The little, green-eyed boy considered the snake thoughtfully, then declared,

“His name is Mr Adder.”

The room dissolved into laughter.

From that moment on, Mr Adder did not leave Oscar’s side.

Leonore knelt beside him soon after, and the birthday boy studied her seriously — then smiled charmingly.

“You’re Uncle Sev’s friend,” he concluded. “You can be my Aunty Lenny.”

Lily bit her lip to keep from laughing at her small son's forwardness,

Severus turned faintly green. “You— you don’t have to—”

“She’s nice,” Ossy insisted firmly, furrowing his brows.

Leonore laughed warmly. “I would be honoured, sweetling”.

The afternoon passed in joy — chess pieces learning patience, paints glittering in response to Oscar’s imagination, toys rearranging themselves politely inside the enchanted chest.

The dark-haired birthday boy thanked everyone carefully, standing very straight.

“Thank you for coming to my party,” he said. “It made my day very good.”

Later, sugar-soft and tired, he curled into Lily’s lap with Mr Adder tucked safely beneath one arm, head resting against her chest.

As his green eyes drifted closed, the auburn-haired witch looked around the room — at her father’s quiet pride, at Eulalie’s knowing smile, at Severus watching Oscar with something like wonder, and Leonore beside him, warm and steady.

Three candles.

Three years.

And a precious child so loved, so brilliant, so unmistakably....special.

And for the first time in a long while, Miss Evans thought:

Perhaps the world is not such a terrible place after all.

***

Osbaldwick, York, England, UK, September 1985

Oscar Evans started kindergarten on a soft September morning, the air already sharp with the promise of autumn. Lily stood in the small hallway of their York cottage, smoothing the collar of his navy-blue jumper for the third time while Ossy bounced on the balls of his feet, barely containing himself.

“Mummy,” the little boy said solemnly, emerald-green eyes bright, “I will be very brave today.”

The auburn-haired witch smiled, her chest tightening with pride and something dangerously close to tears.

“I know you will, my sweet,” she said, crouching to her son's level. “And remember—if it feels too loud or too much, you take a deep breath. Just like we practiced. Alright ?”

Oscar nodded earnestly. He always nodded like that, as if the responsibility of the world had been placed gently on his small shoulders and he was determined not to drop it.

The kindergarten itself was small, warm, and blissfully ordinary. Bright drawings covered the walls. There were wooden blocks, finger paints, tiny chairs that made Ossy giggle when he tried to sit “like a grown-up.” Miss Evans chose it carefully—quiet, local, familiar. No magic. No questions.

The teachers adored him almost immediately.

Little Oscar was polite. Curious. Intensely focused when something caught his interest. He asked why far more often than most three-year-olds, and when he played, the small boy played with his whole heart—building elaborate worlds from blocks, arranging toy animals into careful patterns, narrating soft stories under his breath.

What they didn’t see—what couldn’t be seen—was how carefully the dark-haired child held himself together.

His mother felt it, though.

The auburn-haired witch felt it the moment she kissed his forehead goodbye and watched her precious child walk into the classroom without looking back, shoulders squared with determination. His magic hummed faintly at the edge of her awareness, coiled tight and obedient, like a sleeping cat...or rather a curled serpent.

It was clear to Lily that her son was learning very quickly how to control and conceal his Magic.

***

At home, their lessons continued—quietly, deliberately.

Lily never framed it as control.

It was always play.

They practiced grounding spells disguised as breathing games. Visualization became storytelling: Oscar imagined roots growing from his feet into the earth, holding him steady. Emotional awareness was taught through colors—What color do you feel today? Is it loud or soft? Warm or cold?

When the little boy's magic stirred—when flowers leaned toward him in the garden, when toys trembled with excitement—the red-haired witch helped her son redirect it gently.

“Let’s give it something to do,” she’d say calmly.

And Ossy would comply, tongue poking out in concentration as he focused his magic into safe outlets: making paper animals flutter instead of fly, coaxing seeds to sprout just a little faster, turning pebbles warm rather than explosive.

Eulalie helped from afar, sending carefully worded letters and diagrams—child-safe magical theory disguised as games. Severus contributed too, in his own way, suggesting structured routines and praising Oscar’s discipline with rare, genuine approval.

“He doesn’t fight his magic,” Snape observed once, watching the dark-haired boy carefully pour imaginary ingredients into his toy cauldron. “He listens to it.”

Lily held onto that thought like a talisman.

Osbaldwick, York, England, UK, September-December 1985

Ossy loved kindergarten.

He made friends quickly—children drawn to his warmth, his earnestness, the way he listened so intently when they spoke. He shared his snacks. Helped clean without being asked. Once, the small boy gently took another child’s hand during story time and whispered, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

The teachers praised his empathy. His imagination. His unusual calm for someone so young.

There were moments, of course.

Once, another child cried—hard, heartbroken sobs—and Oscar froze, utterly overwhelmed by the sudden surge of emotion. Windows rattled faintly. Lily, called in quietly, knelt and guided him through breathing until the magic settled.

Afterward, the little dark-haired boy clung to her, whispering, “It was too much, Mummy.”

“I know, sweetheart.” the emerald-eyed woman murmured into her son's dark curls. “But you did so well.”

And he really had.

***

Evenings at home were still warm and safe.

The youngest Evans curled up with his grandfather for reading lessons, proudly sounding out words with serious concentration. Lily watched from the doorway, half in awe, half in disbelief at her baby boy's progress.

The small wizard drew constantly now—pictures that sometimes moved if he got excited, colors shifting with his moods. The auburn-haired witch gently charmed the art supplies to remain harmless, no matter how creative her son's imagination became.

At night, when the green-eyed girl tucked him into bed, Oscar often wrapped his small arms around her neck and whispered, “Thank you for helping me with my Magic, Mummy.”

The young mother's heart broke and healed all at once every time.

 ***

Oscar Harold Evans did not know he was extraordinary.

The little, dark-haired wiard only knew that his world felt big, and sometimes loud, and that his mother taught him how to make it...gentler.

Lily watched her son navigate a muggle kindergarten with grace, kindness, and growing self-awareness—and felt something settle inside her at last.

They were doing all right.

Not perfectly. Not easily.

But together.

And for now, that was more than enough.

***

Osbaldwick, York, England, UK, November 1985

The local park was full that afternoon.

Sunlight filtered through late autumn leaves, dappling the grass in gold and green. Children ran laughing across the playground, their voices bright and unguarded. Ossy sat beside Lily on the bench at first, his small legs swinging slowly, his beloved stuffed snake, a gift from his granfather, tucked carefully under one, small arm.

The small, dark-haired boy wasn’t playing.

Lily noticed his unusual behaviour immediately.

His emerald-green eyes followed everything—too carefully. A father lifting his daughter onto the swing. Another kneeling beside a wobbling bicycle, steady hands guiding small ones on the handlebars. A mother crouching to wipe muddy knees, pulling her child into a hug that lasted a little longer than necessary.

Oscar watched it all in silence.

Then, very softly, he finally asked,

“Mummy?”

Lily turned toward him at once. “Yes, sweetheart?”

The little wizard hesitated, chewing on his lower lip the way he always did when something felt too big in his head. His emerald eyes flicked back toward the playground, then returned to his mother's worried face.

“Why don’t I have a Daddy… like them?”

The dreaded question landed like a physical blow.

The young mother’s breath caught—but she did not let it show. The red-haired witch reached out and pulled him gently into her arms, settling her small boy against her chest so he could hear her heartbeat, steady and real.

“Every child has...a father,” she said carefully, honestly. “You do too, my Ossy,”

Oscar frowned, brows knitting together in concentration.

“Then… where is he, Mummy?”

Lily closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then opened them again.

“He isn’t part of our lives,” she said quietly, gently ruffling her son's soft hair. “That was his choice, my Sweet.”

The little, dark-haired boy thought about that. He always did—really thought, weighing words like they mattered.

“My friend Mark,” he said after a moment, voice wavering just slightly, “his daddy doesn’t live with him either. But he comes from London every weekend. He brings him cars. And they go to the zoo together.”

The auburn-haired witch felt her chest ache.

Ossy looked up at her then, searching her pale face with that unnervingly perceptive gaze.

“Why doesn’t my Daddy visit us?”

The red-haired witch held him tighter.

“Because sometimes,” Lily said gently, “grown-ups make choices that aren’t about the child at all. And sometimes those choices are… wrong.”

Oscar’s green eyes filled, tears clinging stubbornly to his dark lashes.

“So…” the little boy's voice trembled. “Does that mean he didn’t want me?”

The painfully honest words broke something open inside her.

“No,” Lily said at once, fierce and certain. She tipped his chin up so he had to look at her. “No, Oscar. Listen to me very carefully, darling.”

The young mother brushed her thumb beneath his eye, catching a tear before it could fall.

“You are wanted. You are loved. You are perfect, exactly as you are.”

The small, green-eyed boy sniffed, shoulders trembling.

“I can be better,” he whispered desperately, cuddling his mum's arm. “I can clean my room. I can put toys away. I promise, Mummy. If he comes, I’ll be good. I’ll be a very good boy.”

Her heart shattered.

“Oh, my darling,” Lily whispered, voice breaking despite herself. She pulled him fully into her arms, rocking him gently. “You never have to earn love. Ever. Not from me. Not from anyone.”

Oscar buried his face in her coat, sobbing quietly now.

The green-eyed witch pressed her lips to his dark curls, breathing him in, grounding both of them.

“Your daddy not being here,” she said softly, “has nothing to do with you. It is not because you weren’t good enough. It’s because he couldn’t be what you deserved.”

The small boy’s crying slowed, his small fingers clutching at her sleeve.

“You have me,” Lily continued. “You have Grandpa. You have people who love you more than anything in the world. Families don’t all look the same—and ours is just right.”

Oscar lifted his head slightly, green eyes red-rimmed but trusting.

“Will you stay with me, Mum?” the confused boy asked in a tiny voice.

The auburn-haired woman smiled through tears and tenderly kissed his forehead.

“Always,” she promised without hesitation. “I choose you, my Sweet, Every day. Forever.”

The little wizard nodded slowly, then curled back into her chest, exhausted by the weight of the feelings. His magic stirred faintly—soft, sad ripples—but stayed contained, responding to her calm.

After a while, he whispered, almost to himself,

“O'kay.”

Lily held him as the park buzzed on around them—swings creaking, children laughing—her arms a shelter, her heart aching and resolute all at once.

The auburn-haired witch had known this day would come.

But She had not suspected how much it would hurt.

But as Oscar sighed and relaxed against her, trusting her completely, the young mother knew one thing with absolute certainty:

No matter who was absent from his life,

her precious son would never be alone.

***

A few days later, Lily found herself walking the familiar path toward Severus’ cottage in Hogsmeade with a heaviness that hadn’t quite lifted since the afternoon in the park the day before.

Ossy’s innocent question still echoed in her mind—soft, earnest, devastatingly sincere.

Why don’t I have a Dad like the others?

Severus noticed at once that something was wrong. He always did. Even before Evans spoke, before she wrapped her hands around the mug of tea he wordlessly placed in front of her, his dark, obsidian eyes sharpened with quiet attention.

“You look exhausted,” Potions Master said, not unkindly. “The sort of exhaustion sleep doesn’t cure.”

Lily huffed out a weak breath. “That obvious?”

“To me,” he replied evenly. “Always.”

That was all it took.

The words came slowly at first, then all at once. Oscar. The park. The question. The tears he tried so valiantly to hold back. The way her little boy had promised—promised—to be better, tidier, quieter, if only that would make his father want him.

The young Charms Mistress pressed her fingers to her eyes, furious at herself when they burned.

“My little boy is three, Sev,” she whispered. “Three. And already wondering what he did wrong.”

Severus’ jaw tightened, something dark and protective stirring behind his stoic composure. He waited until she finished before speaking, as he always did.

“You didn’t fail him,” he said calmly. “Children notice patterns. They ask questions. It’s not cruelty—it’s a sign of intelligence.”

The auburn-haired witch looked at him, emerald-green eyes shining. “That doesn’t make it hurt less.”

“No,” Snape agreed. “It doesn’t.”

A silence settled between them, companionable rather than awkward. Finally, Potions Master leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers.

“Lily,” he began, carefully, “you are doing too much right now. For everyone. You’re allowed to step away for a moment without the world collapsing.”

The young mother raised an eyebrow at her friend'd words. “And how exactly do you propose I do that?”

Severus' thin lips twitched—just barely.

“Leonore and I could take Oscar for a day,” he said. “A proper distraction. There’s a magical zoological reserve not far from here—wards, handlers, safety protocols. Creatures safe enough for small children, fascinating enough to keep his mind occupied.”

Miss Evans blinked. “You… want to take my toddler on a magical outing?”

“I am not completely incompetent,” he drawled with a amirk. “And Leonore is terrifyingly efficient.”

Despite herself, Lily laughed—a real one, surprised out of her chest.

“He’d adore that,” the young mother admitted honestly. “He’s been obsessed with creatures lately.”

“Exactly,” Snape said. “You, meanwhile, will take the day off. No research. No worrying. No silently blaming yourself for things beyond your control.”

The red-haired woman sighed heavily. “That last one might be impossible.”

“Try,” Potions Master said gently. “For a few hours. For him. And for yourself.”

The Charms Mistress studied her friend for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll consider it.”

A pause followed—lighter now, the tension eased. Severus hesitated, then cleared his throat.

“There is… something else,” he said carefully.

Lily straightened instantly. “That tone means news.”

His ears pinked faintly. “Leonore and I—well. I’m planning to propose.”

For a heartbeat, the red-haired witch simply stared.

Then she gasped. “Severus—oh, Sev—that’s wonderful!”

The young Charms Mistress reached across the table without thinking, squeezing her friend's hand. “I’m so happy for you. Truly. She’s brilliant, she adores you, and frankly, you deserve something uncomplicatedly good.”

The dark-haired wizard looked faintly stunned by her enthusiasm, then—rare as a comet—he smiled. Softly. Unguarded.

“I was hoping you’d approve,” he admitted softly.

“Approve?” Lily scoffed. “I’m delighted. When were you planning to tell me about your plans, my friend?”

“After you stopped looking like you might collapse,” Potions Master said dryly.

She laughed again, wiping at her eyes. “You’re a good friend, Severus Snape.”

“And you,” he replied, “are doing far better as a parent than you think.”

As Miss Evans left later that afternoon, the weight on her chest felt—if not gone—at least shared. Oscar would have an adventure. She would have space to breathe. And somewhere between worry and hope, the red-haired witch allowed herself to believe that perhaps—just perhaps—they were going to be alright.

***

Osbaldwick, York, England, UK, November 1985

The small, dark-haired boy treated the outing as though he had been invited on an expedition of the highest importance.

He insisted on wearing his good jumper—the green one with the blue dragon—despite Leonore gently suggesting it might be a bit too warm to wear it under his winter jacket. Oscar packed his plushy snake, Mr Adder, under one arm and announced very solemnly that he was “ready to see real magic animals now.”

Snape, for his part, had not been prepared for how naturally Ossy slipped his small hands into both of theirs as soon as they stepped onto the path leading to the reserve—one hand in Severus’, the other in Leonore’s—like it was the most obvious arrangement in the world.

“Uncle Sev,” Oscar said seriously, peering up at him as they walked, “you must walk slower. Aunty Lenny has shorter legs.”

Potions Mistress laughed outright. Severus cleared his throat. “I assure you, she is keeping pace just fine.”

The little, dark-haired wizard stopped walking entirely, forcing both adults to abrupt halt.

He looked at his Aunty, then at Uncle Sev, then nodded decisively. “She is cold.”

Leonore blinked. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Oscar said, with complete confidence. “Aunty, you need a hug.”

Severus stiffened. “We are under at least five warming charms.”

Ossy frowned, clearly unimpressed with his Uncle Sev. “Hugs are warmer than charms.”

The brown-haired witch’s smile softened into something openly fond. She crouched and opened her arms. “Well, who am I to argue with our little expert of Magical Theory, hm?”

The dark-haired toddler happily wriggled into her embrace. Then, after a thoughtful second, he tugged on the Potions Master’s sleeve.

“Uncle Sev too,” the small wizard added, magnanimously.

Severus hesitated—only for a fraction of a second—before carefully bending down and allowing the meddling little boy (a trait he certainly inherited from Lily) to wrap himself around both of them. His ears turned faintly pink.

The Potions Mistress caught it. Said nothing. And smiled brightly.