Author's Note: I should say – thanks to I M Sterling for not only the encouragement to write this silly fic, but also for helping me with writing a child. :) Woot!

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Chapter 3

Severus blinked slowly on the low twin bed. He was beginning to remember more and more of what happened during the day as a child, now that a few weeks had passed. At first, it had been disorienting, waking and knowing he'd been active all day, had bathed and been fed, but having no memory of it. The first night, Dipsy had come to get him from 'his' room once Hermione was asleep, and he'd answered her letter.

To be honest, he was surprised at how her first questions had been about the child – allergies, likes and dislikes – rather than curiosity about himself as the one leaving a child, though she had let him know she'd told her friends to stay out of it, but she'd better not hear about a child like Valemon having been kidnapped.

No worry about that, he thought with a frown. His fingers caressed the curve of the mug's handle as he sipped a mild tea in her kitchen. Even if he was kidnapped as a child now, no one would have batted an eye or even reported it. The thought was bitter – Hermione cared for him, for Valemon, so well.

He had a mild memory of snowball fights in the snow, of a warm floral scent – probably the greenhouse out back. It embarrassed him at first when he'd woken and found food in his pockets; he thought he'd broken himself of that habit, but clearly a four-year-old him hadn't done so yet. But it had been happening less, so he assumed that Valemon was growing more assured. Or was his ability to recall what happened as Valemon working both ways? He did distinctly remember – with a sneer at the mere thought – of being terrified of Potter.

That had been curious, that the boy had been so gentle with Valemon. It made Severus look at him with a grudging respect. Very, very grudging.

Severus spent his nights recalling Hermione's laughter, her voice as she read and perusing her library. It'd been a pleasant surprise to find that she had every book and article he'd written, even those under a pen name (how she'd discovered that, he wasn't sure, but they were clearly grouped together with the rest of his work, chronologically). They'd been read many times, judging by the gentle wear of the pages.

She was a puzzle, and he wanted to figure her out. She seemed happy with Valemon, with her books, and didn't seem to go to a job, so he had plenty of time with her to watch and study her and her habits. The more he saw, the more he longed for her to return his feelings.

"Master Potions Professor," Dipsy appeared with a quiet pop at his elbow. "Dipsy has made supper, come, come!"

He sighed, looking longingly at the books, then at the hall where the woman herself rested in lightly-sedated slumber. Tonight he intended to write to her, now that he knew more of her. She'd become so much more than his memories of her.

"Dipsy – fetch me a quill and parchment," he ordered softly.

---

"What's this?" Hermione belted her bathrobe tighter and set the kettle on the stove, then moved to the table, where a folded piece of parchment sat with her name. "For me?"

She scanned the letter, sitting heavily in the chair. It was so...sweet. Hesitant and clever, as if the writer was known to her but didn't want to be. She smiled softly, stroking the page. Alright, they were right and she still longed for praise, for recognition, and to be called intelligent and lovely was...nice. The last time Viktor, damn him, had complimented her had been their third date. The writer had asked about her work, what she was working on with her 'brilliant mind', if she was alright taking care of Valemon, and thanking her. It was sweet, and she folded it carefully, resolving to write a reply before bed.

The kettle whistled and she made tea, enjoying the quiet time while Valemon slept. She loved winter – the world was quiet and wrapped in snow, and ice grew on the windows in patterns. As a child, she'd drawn in the ice, watching her words and doodles appear and disappear in the frost. The lopsided snowman she'd built with him outside was smiling gaily, wrapped in an old Weasley-jumper-turned-scarf and her sun hat for gardening.

Only a few weeks in her care, and he'd wormed his way into her heart, her quiet boy with his silky hair. He let her brush it and seemed to revel in the attention. Hadn't anyone shown him even the smallest bit of kindness before? He was surprised when she called him for a bath, or gave him a hug, and once he took her hand for a walk he had a hard time letting go. It was like he didn't want to be apart from her until bedtime.

Hermione glanced at the clock. He'd be up soon, thumping heavily down the hall and rubbing sleep from his wide black eyes, sniffling, to stare blearily at his breakfast place. Smiling, she carried her mug back to the kitchen, intent on making bacon sandwiches. Maybe he'd like to explore a little today? She needed groceries soon, and could take him to a Muggle market. If she needed something Magical, she'd have to ask Harry or Ron to watch him for a bit.

Not that they minded – they seemed to like Valemon, who was quickly learning chess and had already beaten Harry with a solemn little smirk. Ron had sworn (and had been promptly hit with a mild Stinging Hex) when Valemon had suddenly crossed the board and taken his queen in their last game before he'd realised he'd left her undefended.

"'Mione?"

"Morning," she said, finishing his sandwich first and cutting it neatly. "I felt like bacon sandwiches this morning, how about you?"

"'Kay." He blinked sleepily at his plate, frowning softly. He'd have a strong profile as he grew, she thought to herself. Very striking. He'd have to grow into his nose first, but he was a handsome little boy.

"I need to go out to the store today," she said, keeping her expression calm even as he looked up sharply, fear etched on his features. "To get groceries; would you like to come along? You can help me pick out veg."

He watched her carefully, his breath quickening. Oh, sweet boy, what had she done that bothered him so? Hands balling into fists, he asked: "'Mione wants me to come?"

"Well, yes," she told him. His brow furrowed. "There's nothing wrong with you coming to the store with me, as long as you don't run off. I'd be worried if you went missing."

"I'm not supposed to go out. I'm a freak." The last was whispered.

"Oh, Valemon, you're not a freak, love, I promise." She sank to her knees beside his chair and hugged him gently, angry at whomever had hurt him. He was just a little boy! "How about we finish breakfast, I'll make a grocery list, then we'll dress in warm clothes and walk to the shop."

"'Kay." He hugged her back, his voice soft in her ear.

When she wrote that letter tonight, she'd bloody well have a thing or two to say to her mysterious correspondent.

---

Your concern for the child is appreciated, and...touching. I had forgotten how ill-treated he was, truly. Having had incredibly similar experiences, Miss Granger, I assure you, I mean him no harm. I wish that I had had someone like you when I was his age. He and I were both quite alone, and friendless. Not allowed to go outside, no food unless it was scraps. No crying, lest we be hit.

You do him and me a great service, and it only magnifies my respect for you. You are a caring soul, a singularly wonderful woman, to allow Valemon in your home and heart this way.

He likes to read – he should be able to do so on his own already; he taught himself, you see. It is a hard-won skill of his. I doubt you'll need to be concerned about uncontrollable bursts of magic, and in truth, his magic would likely defend you rather than harm you, so deeply have you found a place in his heart.

I do not have words, Miss Granger, to express my gratitude to you.

You have inquired about me; allow me to be vague. I am quiet, prone to temper, and prefer solitude. I read a great deal, and your last contribution to Arithmancy Quarterly did not pass me unnoticed. It was so brilliant that I longed to reach out to you, but felt that I could not. Now, I have the freedom to do so and I find the experience both liberating and terrifying.

If I could approach you as myself, I could. I would enjoy taking you to dinner and discussing with you the most recent publications.

You are, and always have been, brilliant. You gleam so brightly among your peers that I cannot help but be entranced. Your mind only accentuates your physical beauty, Miss Granger, and your heart is even more so.

Yours.

Hermione had kept that letter, and the several dozen after, in a drawer in her coffee table. It had been four months since Valemon had come to her, and she'd begun writing back to her admirer, as she now called him, with increasing frequency. But that letter was her favourite. They talked over dreams for the future, of Valemon, of various academic subjects.

Whoever he was, and she was sure it was a he, he was brilliant. Quick-witted. And so tender with his words, his letters carefully crafted that she caressed each parchment with a cautious hand. She wished he were real, flesh and blood, and here in her life. How quickly she forgot Viktor, in light of the somewhat acerbic words penned by her admirer, the hesitant wishes he expressed for a family.

"Are you really mine?" Hermione murmured to the letter, pressing his signature of 'yours' to her lips one last time before placing it with the others. She was certainly his by now, her heart enraptured. Harry and Ron had expressed concern over it, but they hadn't found any evidence of foul play involved, so they let it be.

At the same time, she felt horribly, horribly guilty. Here she was, having dated Ron briefly, having dated Viktor longer, having held a crush on a teacher for more years than she cared to recount, and now falling for someone who didn't exist in her life outside ink and paper.

"'Mione!" Valemon skidded into the living room, all gangling limbs and swinging hair, a wide smile on his face. "It bloomed! Come see!"

She loved his smile – he smiled so rarely and when he was excited it spread across his lips it and made her return it in kind. She took his hand, following him out to the yard where the little rose plant was that she'd gotten him when he'd looked at it, shrivelled and nearly withered in the shop, and given her the most beseeching look.

They'd defended the little thing from Crooks's attempts to eat it and he'd been taking excellent care of it once the ground was warm enough to break.

"Oh, it's lovely," she said, dropping next to him in the grass. He certainly had a green thumb to go with his voracious reading habit at least, so keeping him active out-of-doors wasn't too difficult. "I didn't realise it'd be pink."

"Pink is pretty." His cheeks were flushed as he crouched, bony knees hugged to his chest. A pale and gentle hand reached out and brushed a petal. "Like 'Mione."

She kissed his cheek and he traced more of the rose, the gesture oddly familiar.

"I grew it, 'Mione."

"Yup; I'm so proud of you."

He beamed and she tousled his hair. "I wish 'Mione was my mummy."

"You're still my boy," she told him after a quiet moment, and kissed his cheek.

Later, in the privacy of her bedroom as she grew more and more tired, Hermione sighed. She'd wanted children and had been disappointed when things with Ron really hadn't worked out, and had been devastated when Viktor wouldn't even hear of it. She couldn't be Valemon's mum, and she wished she could be. She'd missed so much of his life, and now it seemed like he'd always been there, an old soul in a young body.

She stifled a quiet sob. She wanted children of her own, a family. A man to share it with. And now her admirer seemed like an unattainable dream.

---

"'Mione, did you see the news? Hi, Val," Ron said by way of greeting, clambering out of the Floo.

That familiar miniature scowl crossed his pale features. "Valemon."

"That's what I said."

"What news, Ron?" she asked before Valemon could follow that with an insult. He'd gotten more open over the past months, his words better and his tongue quicker to lash Ron and Harry when they were particularly silly. Last time, he'd called Harry a dunderhead, and she had no idea where he'd heard the term.

"Budge over, I'm coming out, too," Harry called, and Ron quickly moved over. Hermione cast a quick Cleansing Charm over them both to get rid of the soot. Valemon's lip lifted at the mess before it disappeared, and he moved his picture book to safety.

"It's great news!" Ron said, handing her the Prophet. "Vector's retiring; they'll need a new Arithmancy teacher. And who do we know who's awesome at Arithmancy?"

"Me," Hermione said, leafing through to find the article. She loved Hogwarts! Going back to teach would be incredible! "Do you think I have a chance?"

Green eyes sparkled at her. "Of course you do – McGonagall adores you, and you're Hermione Granger. They'd be daft not to hire you on the spot."

"Unless the black list from the Ministry keeps them from doing that," she said grimly. They'd kept her from finding a job for months now.

"Doubt it," Ron said, dropping onto the couch and Summoned a bag of crisps. Valemon snatched it out of the air and raised an eyebrow challengingly, opened it, and started digging in. "Cheeky kid. I knew I liked you. Accio crisps! In any case, 'Mione, the Ministry can't decide on teachers at Hogwarts – the only time they got away with it was Umbridge, and there's been new ruling since to avoid that. The governors can oust someone, but not the Ministry."

Hermione took the bag away from Valemon. "Not until after lunch, love. But what about Valemon? I can't leave him!" Her tone was anguished. "And I don't want anyone to hurt him or take him away."

"I can take care of myself," Valemon told her with a sullen look, eyeing the bag in her hand calculatingly. Something in the way he tilted his head made Harry frown.

"You can ask," Harry said. "I'm sure that between the teachers, you, and the elves, something could be arranged. It's only, what, another seven months?"

"Perhaps. Valemon? What do you think?" She knew better than to make such a big decision without him.

"You'd be a good teacher," he said honestly, looking straight at her with those expressive black eyes of his, then went back to his book.

It wasn't until later, after the boys had left and she'd owled the Headmistress, that Valemon hugged her and whispered, "Don't leave me."

"Never," she murmured, kissing his silky black hair and tapping his nose lightly.

---

She couldn't wait to write to him. He'd been snarky to her this month, complaining over the lack of intelligent conversation as she and Valemon had prepared for the move to Hogwarts. Minerva, as she was to call her now, had offered to let the two of them move in early to prepare for teaching and learning the castle. Her rooms were quite large and even had a small balcony – they'd already potted Valemon's rose and placed it there. It was thriving still, and the sweet pink blush had darkened. It was beautiful, and she was so proud of him.

Stop fretting, her last letter from him had said. You will perform admirably, Hermione. The staff and students will be lucky to have you.

Hermione had come up with an idea, and penned her note quickly to him one night after Valemon had gone to bed in his new rooms. He even had a house-elf assigned to his care named Dipsy, who was shy but sweet.

And tonight she'd meet him, after a fashion. Her admirer was willing to have dinner with her late, in darkness, with obscuring charms. She'd offered to blindfold herself, and her nerves jangled with anticipation. This was Hogwarts; she was safe.

Valemon was in bed, and she changed into a cream-coloured dress, hoping he'd think her pretty. A touch of make-up, a delicate necklace, and she closed her eyes as the clock chimed, waiting. The whisper of silk against her face made her skin pebble, and it was charmed in place.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"My pleasure," came the faint rumble. A masculine voice, obscured with a spell, but the cadence was familiar. "Allow me."

A gentle hand with long, calloused fingers led her to the small dining table in her quarters.

"It is... lovely to meet you," she said cautiously.

"Again, yes," he replied, and the scent of food filled the room. "As you are unable to see, Hermione, I have opted for foods we can partake of without stabbing the table accidentally."

She laughed, relaxing and feeling carefully for her plate. He smelled divine, like man and parchment and herbs and sunshine. Familiar, but strange. His voice felt off to her, but their conversation lasted for hours. She'd missed this so much, having someone to talk to, to discuss things she'd read of ask questions and he had answers.

"It's late," he said softly, and her smile faltered. "You must rest, if you are to care for the child."

"Can you come back?" she blurted suddenly and he froze, fingertips against her arm.

"Yes," he said after an agonising moment. "But you may not see me, Hermione."

"I know." His fingers skimmed down her arm to her hand and he brought it to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

"Good night, woman I could so love."

"Good night," she managed breathlessly, electricity zinging from her hand to her heart. And then she knew he was gone.

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