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Chapter Text

The topic for this day was: Deeds of great generosity.

In the years after the war, Severus observes that not much changes.

There are still bigots and liars. There are still those who wish for more power than they could possibly handle or should have. Marginalised, shunned and desperate people still haunt the fringes of society, only venturing forth when needs must, for food or shelter.

The wizarding world has chosen not to see these people.

But Severus sees them.

Perhaps it’s because he himself is part of that disagreeable subset; even though Potter has vociferously lauded him as a hero in the press, he’s not foolish enough to believe that the world would ever turn a blind eye to his misdeeds. This is evident in the contemptuous looks he receives when, for example, he dares to publicly walk in a heavily trafficked area of Diagon Alley. So he usually sticks to what he knows best, what he is comfortable with: the shadows of Knockturn Alley.

The forgotten make their home here, after all.

Occasionally, however, he is compelled to venture into the sun, into society, when he wishes to purchase a certain herb or a highly regulated ingredient. When he has a few extra Galleons, he avoids this by procuring the services of one of the Runners (Squibs, who know the ins and outs of the wizarding world and would otherwise be dependent on their families, many of whom are not always kind to those without magic). This mutually beneficial exchange allows him to avoid the crowds and the Runners to make more than they would in a week.

He has a modest business on the edge of the Muggle world that skirts the fringes of wizarding society, where former students and discerning wizards and witches are his primary clientele. He hates the attention Potter’s interviews bring, even though it briefly floods his coffers when customers come to gawk at the indestructible Death Eater (Rita Skeeter's words, never his). The attention doesn’t last long, thank Merlin; he suspects Potter does it on purpose when he thinks Severus needs a boost in sales. Arrogant brat. He uses the extra profits to make potions and other sundries for those who will not or cannot see a Mediwitch.

Skulking around the corner from Borgin and Burkes (he’d heard that Draco Malfoy had been cursed with taking over the business), Severus clutches his bag closer to his chest. He navigates his way down slick steps that lead to a darker alley, the streetlamp’s light never reaching the bottom. He pauses at the first alcove, hearing footsteps in the shadows growing closer.

“Take yer mind off yer troubles for a bit, sir?” The voice is low and husky.

“Not tonight, Ann,” Severus says with a faint smile. “I brought you something to ease the pain.”

The witch, still lovely after all these years, gasps softly as she recognizes him. “So sorry, Mr Snape! I didn’ mean no disrespect!”

Severus gently grasps her by the elbow as she tries to retreat. “It’s all right.” He presses a heavy jar into her hands. “Now remember, three times a day, and stay out of the damp if you can.”

Tears fill her eyes, and she brushes them away quickly. “Yer a blessin’, Mr Snape. A blessin’.”

He shakes his head. Blessings mean nothing to him. The gratitude is misplaced. He provides for them because he must. Because he is one of them, and he knows what it is to go without. “Are there any new arrivals?”

Ann tucks the jar into a pocket hidden within her skirt. “There’s a wee babe that was left on Gabe’s doorstep last night. Not more than a year old, if that.” She tugs her flimsy shawl closer about her shoulders. “Still sucklin’, not that Gabe’s tits are any good for that.”

Severus snorts. “I shudder to think on it.”

He squeezes her hand and makes his way further into the darkness. The wails of a hungry infant bring him to a wooden door next to the Gagging Gannet. He raps three times, the door swinging open before he can knock a fourth.

“Thank Merlin, thought I was going to have to go find you myself!”

Severus eyes the haggard innkeeper, a squalling child in his arms. “No milk on hand?”

“Wot d’you think?” Gabe glares at him. ‘I’ve got ale, lager, bitters, wine, and some green stuff that’ll make your tight and curlies straighten out real quick. But milk? Ain’t had the slop since I was ten and puking it on me mum’s shoes.”

“Spare me the imagery.” Severus pushes his way past Gabe and the fretful babe to set his sack down on a table. He digs through the contents and pulls out a small dark bottle and a large glass jar of powder. “Warm some water.”

Gabe huffs and shoves the baby into Severus’ arms. “Mind him, then.” He disappears into another room.

Severus holds the child at arm’s length, grateful that at least he’s stopped crying. The boy has the bluest eyes he’s ever seen, magnified by the tears he’s shed. But there’s something...off about him. Severus bends his head and inhales deeply near the little one’s temple.

Nothing. Not a whiff of magic.

He pulls back and studies the boy. It’s a safe bet the parents are magical, and likely Pureblood. When the child manifested not so much as a spark, he was discarded like a crumpled piece of parchment. Severus runs his hand over the boy’s sable curls. This one will have to be protected; there are those in the world who would be drawn to his innocence, just for the pleasure of watching it die in those beguiling eyes. Even if he survived infancy, he wouldn’t make it as a Runner; he’d make his first run and never be seen again. Leave him in the Muggle world, and the poor boy would be dead within a few months, if not sooner.

A familiar feeling is creeping over Severus the longer he holds the child. He recognizes it from the years he spent looking after Potter: obligation. But it’s different this time.

From his studies, which have spanned many ages and many cultures, a Hebrew word comes into his mind: tzedakah, commonly meaning charity. But it has a deeper meaning, a stronger imperative, an overtone of justice or righteousness. The connotation of tzedakah is not simply the spontaneous act of goodwill and generosity. No, it is a moral and ethical obligation.

For the first time in his misbegotten life, Severus feels the impact of tzedakah. With Potter, he had had no choice but to fulfill his promise. This time? A fierce protectiveness overwhelms him and he clutches the child to his chest. This time he is choosing for himself, to protect this fragile soul that no one wants.

Giving to these, the forgotten and neglected, is not something extra; it’s simply the right thing to do. The money he makes from Potter’s schemes is not his, so he redistributes it to those that need it. That same conviction is at work now, as Severus gives his life over to protecting this lost child: his life was never really his own, so there’s no need to start being selfish now.

Chapter Text

Hermione dug deep into the soil in her mother’s garden, extracting a last stubborn onion. She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

“You could always cast a Cooling Charm.”

She looked over her shoulder at Harry, who was just as sweaty. “Take your own advice,” she quipped, pointing her spade at him. “Besides, Cooling Charms only go so far in this Australian heat.”

“That’s the bloody truth,” Harry mumbled. He sighed and pushed his foot down on his shovel. “How much do you think they remember?”

Hermione glanced towards the bay window of her parent’s house in Melbourne. They had been here a week, and while her parents (who didn’t yet fully understand or accept that as fact) seemed tentatively welcoming, she could see the strain in their eyes as they tried to recall who she was exactly. “I’ve shown them pictures of us, growing up. Mum said she found baby clothing packed away in the attic. That helps.” She shrugged. “I used a detailed Obliviate. It’s going to take time to unravel.”

“They’re being terribly accommodating, given everything.”

She and Harry had shown up with the (to them) outrageous claim that she was their long-lost daughter, and that she had brought along her best friend for moral support. Of course Wendell and Monica (as her parents were now called) were shocked, but being the pragmatic people they were, agreed to let them stay in the detached guest house until things were settled. In a bid to coax more memories from them, Hermione began helping her mum around the house, hoping the interaction would trigger something. When she’d spied the vegetable garden behind the house, she’d offered to tend to it.

“You know you don’t have to stay, Harry.” Though she desperately wanted him to.

He crouched down beside her and nudged her shoulder. “Where else would I be?” He smudged a bit of dirt on her nose and laughed. “Better here than in London, listening to the Ministry ramble on about how they’re going to fix everything now that Voldemort’s gone.”

She cast a silent Cleansing Charm to rid her skin of the soil. “I don’t blame you there.” She grew pensive. “I… I just know that you left things up in the air with Ginny, and Ron was being a prat, and Molly didn’t want to let any of her children out of her sight for long, but--”

“Hermione,” Harry interrupted. “I’m where I want to be, all right?” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Come on, these veg won’t unearth themselves. Well, at least not without magic. Which we can’t do in front of your parents.” He glared at his shovel. “This sucks.”

“I know.”

She pushed the spade into the ground again as Harry made his way over to a hill of potatoes. She was about to point out that Harry ought to put on a wide-brim hat, because his nose was starting to burn, when her spade hit something hard. She set the spade to the side and dug with her hands until she’d uncovered the object the spade had hit: a large, wildly shaped carrot with a slender metal band around the top portion of the root. She brushed off the packed dirt and saw that it was a ring, perfectly embedded in the orange flesh.

“Harry! Look at this!”

Harry, looking relieved to have an excuse, stopped what he was doing and squatted next to her. “Whoa, what is that?”

Hermione dusted it off some more. “It’s a ring…” She gasped. “It’s my ring! From when I was in primary school.” She turned the carrot around. “They gave it to me when I entered fourth year.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I thought I’d lost it.”

“Thought you two could use some lemonade,” said “Monica” as she sat a tray down on a patio table.

Harry and Hermione both rose and gratefully accepted the refreshment. Monica glanced at the odd-shaped carrot Hermione was holding. “My word, what is that?”

Hermione grinned and handed it over. “I found my primary school ring that you had given me.”

Monica frowned and studied the carrot. “I… I don’t…” She touched the ring and ran her fingers over the fragile band. She inhaled sharply, tears welling in her eyes. “Hermione?” She glanced up at her daughter, and her eyes widened. “Oh, love! Where have you been?”

A sob caught in Hermione’s throat as she threw herself at her mother, both of them clinging to one another. Monica ran her fingers through her daughter’s thick, wild hair, burying her nose against her temple.

“How on earth did my ring find its way into the veg patch?” Hermione asked, her voice quavering.

Monica pulled back and looked at the ring again. “I think… yes, I think I wore it on my pinky for the longest time. I had no idea where it came from, I only knew it was precious.” She cupped Hermione’s cheek. “I refused to take it off, even while gardening. I lost it one spring, and was heartbroken. It must have been in the garden this whole time and a carrot just happened to grow around it this year.” She gave her daughter a watery grin. “Amazing that it happened the year you came back.”

Hermione hugged her mother again, smiling through happy tears. “Yes, amazing.”