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Oswald Granger-Snape was having a fantastic day.
Best day of his life, really, which was the way it was supposed to be on your birthday.
It was his thirteenth, and his mum and dad had agreed to let him plan his own party. Since he'd been given the go ahead to do whatever he wanted ("Within reason!" his mum had added), Oswald had gotten Uncle Ron to help organize it all.
It was held over at the Burrow, Oswald and Ron's favorite place in all the world. Oswald knew his mum wouldn't mind, since she popped off to visit there almost as often as she dropped in on her own parents. As for his dad, the head brewer at stinky old Saint Mungo's? He'd let the location slide, even if he wasn't happy about the choice. Severus Snape still got a little twitchy whenever Molly tried to hug him. Or feed him. Or swat his bum as he walked by her.
The cake was chocolate, Oswald and Ron's favorite flavor, and it was baked by Grandfather Granger, who always loaded his baked goods with extra icing.
After he'd stuffed his gob with five pieces—beating Ron and George by two, mind you—Oswald sat down to open gifts. Oh, some were kind of lame. There was an elaborate quill set (Percy was such a stick-in-the-mud), a potions kit and some books from his parents, some dress robes from Andromeda. But all in all, it was pretty good haul! A new broomstick from his godfather Harry, who'd told him that thirteen was the perfect age to upgrade to a new model. A knitted jumper from Molly, along with a box of homemade toffee. Best of all? A Wizarding chess set where the pieces spurted out really disgusting stuff like pus and mud when they were taken. He couldn't wait to play a game and watch what happened!
That gift was from Uncle Ron.
After surviving a day in the presence of multiple Weasleys, Severus was happy to return to his home with his family. Those redheads were an exhausting bunch. A man had to be on his guard at all times there, dodging trick candy from the One-Eared Wonder and the occasional arse pinching from Molly.
Severus wandlessly tidied up the dust from the three Granger-Snapes before they all stepped out of the Floo into their living room.
He watched as his now-teenaged son bolted up the stairs to his room with a large bag of gifts. Hermione, on the other hand, carried the leftover cake as she walked with him into the kitchen. His lovely wife cut off another slab of the chocolate monstrosity, placing it on a plate with two forks.
After debating between coffee or something a little stronger, Severus walked over to the cabinet to pull out a nice cognac, bringing it and two glasses over to his wife seated at the kitchen table. She smiled her approval.
At this point in their relationship, they could operate without much talking. Coming up on year fifteen, Severus reflected. Marrying Hermione was the single best decision he'd ever made.
She handed him a fork, he poured the alcohol, the pair gliding around one another as they accomplished their tasks. They raised their forks to one another in a silent salute, clinking the metal before digging in.
They knew each other so well, Severus mused. It was this knowing that always brought him a sort of comfort. He knew her character and knew what to expect from his wife. She was still a swot, as well as a bleeding heart who picked up lost causes wherever she went. She was passionate and vibrant in all she did. He knew her. Of course, this was not to say that the woman was boring. Hermione was anything but dull; she constantly surprised him with her delight in the oddest things and her eccentric interests. Just last week, she'd come home from their local Muggle library with a stack of books in order to learn Arabic. Just because.
Their son, on the other hand, was a complete and total enigma to him. To both him and Hermione, it seemed.
Oswald had gone through his phase of parental adulation early on, as most children do. As a toddler, he begged his parents to bring him along with them to St Mungo's. He'd sit quietly in a corner of his father's lab or follow his healer mum on rounds with patients. Hermione and Severus playfully argued about what Os's true calling was—as a healer or a brewer—even more than they debated his future house at Hogwarts.
By the age of seven or eight, Os wanted nothing to do with St Mungo's. His eyes glazed over when his parents tried to teach him new spells or brought him into their garden to identify plants. He fell asleep when they took him to a concert or a play. Hermione enrolled their son in a variety of weekend programs, desperate to find something that piqued his interest.
It hadn't worked.
Os wasn't particularly driven. Oh, he was a sweet boy, a kind child. They loved him more than words could say, and they both told him that they loved him every day. It was just that he was so different from his parents, and they were never quite sure what to make of him.
Giving up on cerebral pursuits, Hermione had signed him up to the local cricket team. That had lasted less than a year.
Football? Less than a month.
She then encouraged Os's godfather to teach him Quidditch. Harry had a little more success with the boy, but it seemed that nothing would really stick.
Nothing at all.
Until Ronald Weasley showed up on the scene during one of Harry's Quidditch scrimmages.
Severus sighed as he remembered how Os had come home that day, chattering on about how his Uncle Ron was the coolest wizard who ever lived and how he wanted to be just like him.
How was it possible that his son idolized Ronald Bilius Weasley?
Life was cruel.
The house ended up being Gryffindor, to nobody's surprise. As for his future vocation, Severus rather doubted that Os would make it anywhere at the hospital. The boy's lofty aspirations? To sell brooms at one of the new Quidditch shops in Diagon Alley.
Just like his Uncle Ron did.
Os started to dress like Ron. Over time, his hair mysteriously morphed into something akin to Ron's short crop. Os talked like Ron, played chess like Ron, and even received lackluster marks at Hogwarts like Ron.
Hermione wasn't thrilled about the situation, either, but she didn't seem as worried as Severus thought she should be.
And so there they were, sitting together in their kitchen after their son's thirteenth birthday, eating cake and reflecting on the day's events.
Severus took a long, slow swallow of cognac, staring at his wife as she nibbled on the cake.
"Well," she said, licking her fork clean, "we have a teenager now."
Severus groaned. "Yes, it appears so."
"You held up valiantly today, dearest."
He rolled his eyes. "No need for such flattery. I wouldn't miss the boy's party for anything. You know that."
Hermione Granger-Snape peered over their shared plate at her scowling husband. "When I was Os's age, I thought that Gilderoy Lockhart was the most accomplished wizard I'd ever met."
Severus nearly spit out his drink. "You thought... WHAT?"
"I did," she insisted.
"No," he said, completely aghast. "What about your sycophantic adoration of Dumbledore?"
Hermione shook her head. "He was unpublished. Lockhart had five books to his name."
Severus scoffed. "Surely, you would have known better."
"I didn't." Setting the paper aside, she threaded her fingers through his across the small table. "I thought Lockhart was the strongest, smartest, most capable wizard I'd ever been lucky enough to have as a professor."
He growled in response and poured himself another glass of cognac. "So what you are telling me, my dear, is that our son's terrible judgment is thanks to some genetic failing on your part?"
Playfully swatting his hand, Hermione snickered aloud at her husband's distress. "No, darling." She climbed into his lap and ran her fingers through his dark hair, scratching his skull in the way he liked best. "What I'm telling you is that he'll grow out of it."
Before he had a chance to argue, his lovely wife cut off his retort with a kiss.
"Oi!" Oswald cried, taking stock of the vision that greeted him in the kitchen. His mum looked like she was eating his dad's face off, and the soft groan from his normally buttoned up father made Oswald nearly lose his lunch. He choked back the bile rising in his throat and contemplated bleaching his eyes. Or gouging them out with a blunt instrument.
Was his dad's hand under his mum's...?
He shook his head.
Ew.
"Get a room, you two!" Oswald cried, bounding out of the kitchen and slamming the door behind him. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, dug out the dirty magazine he'd been slipped by Uncle George, and tried to forget what he'd seen downstairs. He flipped page after page of the brand new catalogue of Madam Malkin's line of ladies' underthings.
Even page 29 couldn't block out the memory of what he'd just witnessed, so Oswald closed the pages and stuffed it back under his mattress. He laid back down on the bed, thinking.
His folks were so gross.
Uncle Ron would have been disgusted, too. He always complained when the pair was kissing in public. Granted, Oswald thought, that didn't happen too often. Thankfully. Come to think of it, the only time his parents were all kissy-kissy in front of other people was when dad snogged mum in front of Ron.
Whatever.
His parents were disgustingly sappy and way too affectionate—almost as bad as Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny.
Were they trying to have a new baby? Was he going to get a sibling?
Oswald groaned.
This was the worst day of his life.