Archive of Our Own

Carrying On - 2030

Severus sits in his customary spot on the end of the sofa, hot mug of tea on the lamp table beside his right elbow, papers spread out on the low table before him. It is Sunday, and he has stayed at Hogwarts to wrap up end-of-term business instead of accompanying Harry to the Burrow.

He is steadfastly ignoring the tangled ball of yellow fur curled up against his left thigh. Yellow is exactly the wrong color for a house cat when one’s wardrobe is primarily black. His strategy of ignoring the beast and letting it acclimate to their quarters seemed solid when he brought it here from the Gryffindor common room six hours ago. Clearly, Severus knows very little about cats. They are very good at ignoring you when you want their attention, and all over you when you don’t.

The cat purrs in her sleep. Her weight is warm against his leg. It’s comforting, though he’s loath to admit it. He prefers Harry sitting beside him, or better yet, Harry supine on the sofa, head in Severus’ lap.

Harry finds them there nearly an hour later, when he steps neatly out of the Floo with an ease born of long years of practice. He leans his broom against the wall beside the fireplace – he’ll turn fifty next month but he’s still playing Quidditch with the Weasleys – and walks toward Severus, running his hand through his still-unruly hair.

“Sorry I’m late – the weather was perfect and Ginny was in town. We played a bit again after dinner….”

Severus looks up over his reading glasses and watches Harry’s face as he takes in the sight of the cat snuggling against him.

“Severus, why is Gus here?”

Harry eases himself down on the sofa, reaching out to caress Gus behind her ears. Gus is the Gryffindor House cat, permanent resident of the common room since a seventh-year left her behind three years before.

“Minerva always cared for her during term breaks,” Severus says. That is all the explanation he gives, and Harry leans over the cat and turns Severus’ face toward him, kisses him lightly on the lips, runs one hand through his hair.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “The house elves….”

“I want to do it,” Severus says. He does not say for Minerva, but Harry has been with him long enough to hear his words, both spoken and unspoken. “It is not an imposition, despite anything I may have said previously regarding the felis genus.”

Harry smiles. Severus has made his opinion on furniture-scratching, hair-shedding, hairball-tossing felines well-known over the years. “What? That the only good cat is a dead cat? That you’d rather have a blast-ended skrewt in your quarters than a cat? Something like that?”

“This one has grown on me,” insists Severus. “And she’ll be our guest for only two months. I suppose even I can tolerate a pet for that long.”

Harry strokes a hand slowly over Gus’ back. “She’s fat,” he says. “They're feeding her too much.”

“She’s pregnant,” Severus corrects. He has returned to working on an accounts ledger. “And the only other feline with access to her was Ian Finnigan’s kneazle.”

“We’re having kittens?” Harry’s hand stills on the cat’s back and he looks up at Severus, smiling. He looks far younger than his 49 years with that pleased little-boy grin on this face.

“We are not. She is. Though it will be your job to find homes for them.”

“Half-kneazle kittens,” Harry murmurs. “Hermione will want one for sure.” He stands then, regards his husband and the cat. Severus continues to read, not looking at him, but his hand strays to the cat’s head and rubs behind her ears. Harry cannot help but picture Minerva, sitting on her love seat with Gus curled against her side, frail hand resting on the cat’s warm flank. Only two months have passed since Minerva’s death, the last two busy months of term. Harry hasn’t given much thought to Hogwarts in summer, to the small flower and herb garden Severus and Minerva tended together, to their thrice-a-week afternoon teas.

“You know I’m naming one Minerva,” he says.

“Minerva is an acceptable name for a kitten,” Severus responds. He scratched the cat’s head again thoughtfully. “Though I shall insist you not shorten it to ‘Minnie.’”

“It’s certainly better than Gus,” says Harry. “You do know why she’s called that, don’t you?”

“I’ve no idea,” says Severus. He tries to look disinterested.

“Short for ‘Disgusting,’” says Harry. “She’s prone to hacking up hairballs.”

“Ah – so that’s what’s on your pillow,” comments Severus dryly.

“Git,” says Harry. But he says it fondly, and Severus lets slip the tiniest smirk.

ooOoo

Gus gives birth to five tiny kittens while Harry and Severus are at the Burrow the following Sunday. Their parentage is confirmed – three have kneazle-like tail tufts and all have overly large ears. She has given birth on their bed, on Severus’ pillow. Harry finds this extremely humorous, and insists on placing the pillow case inside the box they’d prepared for her in advance and which she has, of course, ignored completely. They transfer her there now, along with her kittens, and she seems to sigh and settle in.

Gus is a good mother, which is fortunate, because neither Harry nor Severus has much experience with cats, and even less with kittens. The kittens grow, and open their eyes. They crawl out of the box, tumble all over each other on the floor, stalk invisible bugs, pounce on their mother’s tail when she flips it against the floor.

It is a relaxing summer, and they trip over kittens, and laugh at their antics, and together they tend the small garden that was once Severus and Minerva’s. Severus grows catnip this year, along with the other herbs and flowers, and sits on a bench in the sun among the growing things. He sees Minerva’s aged but able hands among the flowers, remembers her strength, wonders where the years have gone. He is beginning to feel old, and Harry’s milestone birthday does nothing to assuage the feeling.

Yet he honours it with a surprise party at Hogwarts, a party that is truly a surprise for Harry as Severus has never deliberately invited a crowd of people to his home. But the evening is lovely, and Harry is happy. There is a pick-up game of Quidditch on a real Quidditch pitch, dinner in the courtyard, a string ensemble as the sun sets, and dancing. Harry dances with Molly, with Hermione, with Fleur and Luna and Ginny and even with Charlie. But when the strains of the Blue Danube fill the air, Severus stands, approaches his husband, and offers his hand. Everyone gathers round to watch them dance, smiling at the look on Harry’s face as Severus waltzes him into tomorrow.

ooOoo

Summer passes, and the kittens are small monsters with razor sharp claws, climbing the furniture, leaping off ledges, expending so much energy terrorizing their quarters by day that by evening they collapse in a heap on the sofa between Harry and Severus. They are exhausted bundles of spent energy, their sweet sleeping faces masking the plans they are making in their half-kneazle brains to conquer the world, beginning with Hogwarts and its current Headmaster.

By the weekend after term starts, four of the little terrors have found homes and one scrawny creature, the runt of the litter, the one Harry has christened Minerva, remains. She is mostly black, feisty and playful, with a wild gray tuft of a tail, bat-like ears and large green eyes. She likes them both, showing true preference for neither, though she hates most everyone else. When she lies sleeping in a tiny ball beside Severus on the sofa, she blends in against his black robes. When she sits on Harry’s shoulder, curled up against his neck as he reclines beside Severus, she looks nothing more than an extension of his mop of black hair touched with grey.

She fits.

She has Severus’ temperament, Harry’s courage, and twice as much energy as both of them together.

And when Harry holds up a tattered pair of black boxers and states “Minerva’s gotten into your pants again, Severus,” he giggles like a teenager and Severus shakes his head fondly.

She is not Minerva reincarnated, not a replacement for the friend Severus has lost, the mentor Harry loved so dearly.

She is a reminder, though, of days gone by, and of the woman they loved, who stood up to Severus when the world was crumbling around them, who believed Harry in his true hour of need, and who, when all was said and done, forgave, and forgot, and carried on.

Fin