Disclaimer: nothing in here that you recognize belongs to me. As you well know. Not that I wouldn't like ...
A/N: Thanks to my Beta, One Soul, for her time and watchul eye. This story would have been patched with mistakes without her.
The Importance of Having Flowers.
A vase of flowers. There always was a vase of flowers. Every 2 or 3 weeks, she would throw out the previous bouquet and set a new one out in cool clear water, the flowers cut in full bloom.
She had a gift at arranging them. The melting of colours and hues seemed natural to her.
There were several bunches of flowers in the house, which was also full of plants. There was one in each bedroom and one in the kitchen that was centred prominently on the wooden table.
The house wasn't big but still had 3 bedrooms. It was a neat and cosy place, with a well tended garden. It was spring, and the flowers endowed it with an amazing lushness and exuberance.
Inside, there were books everywhere, neatly placed on shelves lit by the sunshine flooding in through the wide French-windows and reflected on the glass of the pictures scattered here and there in the house.
As he heard the youthful voice of a girl, he lazily opened his eyes, which were immediately hit by a ray of sunshine.
How like her mother, he thought with a twinge of sadness.
"Godfather!" she said gleefully, delighted to see the man.
Technically, he wasn't her godfather. Well, he wasn't related to her in any way. However, he'd been living with them for some years now, and the girl had grown up with him around. She had called him 'godfather' for as long as he could remember.
The girl seemed to be hesitant as to how she would greet him and she stayed where she was, panting heavily from her sprint in the garden. Then, suddenly, she threw herself in his arms, holding him by the neck and nuzzling in the curve of his throat. She suppressed a giggle as he tickled her in a return greeting.
He still remembered their first encounter. She was but a baby, no more than 2 or 3 years old. She had been awed by the man her mother had brought home and she had cried her distress in response. He could still picture her round and rosy face contorting as she fought back fright and tears before giving in to it. She had opened her mouth very wide and big tears had rolled down her cheeks. Like thunder, the deafening sound arrived seconds later: the high-pitched scream of a baby girl terrified and asking for her mother through the medium of her uncontrolled wails. He had winced. It had made her yell even louder.
But, children are curious. And this child had inherited the feature from both of her parents. That was something to say. They had learnt to suffer each other and with time and understanding, their relationship had deepened. He loved her as the child he never had and as the daughter he had always dreamt of. But which he'll never have…
The girl seemed to sense the change in his mood and chastised him for the sigh she knew he was holding.
"What is it?" she said, narrowing her eyes in suspicion, much like her mother.
"Eithne. I've got the most wonderful woman hanging at my neck and I can't give a sigh of contentment? Tsk, tsk."
She laughed; a clear and innocent laugh like only children can muster. Once you grow up, it's never the same.
He watched the woman approach: she was slender, medium-height and had smooth curves. Her body moved gracefully as she walked quietly. She was a beautiful woman, in her full bloom, nearly 30. A ray of sunshine played on her hair, endowing it with various hues of brown. He could picture her curls flowing down on her back, descending almost to her waist, in a heavy cascade of soft silk.
The features of her face, well drawn and proportionate, had hardened with age and pain, chasing away the roundness of childhood.
He saw her reach down and caress some plants and flowers as she brushed past, slowly making her way to them.
He studied her face: the square jaw, the thin mouth. She rarely laughed. Well she did, especially with her daughter, but it was nothing like the clear laugh she had when she was a schoolgirl. In her chestnut eyes, he could read her sorrow. After all those years, she was still mulling over her lover's death. She had turned down —coldly and rather harshly, by the way— any man that had dared try to approach her. Her respect for his memory was admirable, but he had hoped that she would get over her grief and start living for herself again. She had already paid a high enough tribute to the war.
It had been such a long time since Harry had vanquished Voldemort. So many years. The man she had loved had died fighting in the war, during a mission that had gone amiss. He had been completely outnumbered by a troop of Death-Eaters who had jumped on the opportunity to take out their frustration on him, bearing their despicable skills at their height on him.
He had found him hours later, broken and half-dead, whispering his lover's name over and over again. He had taken him in his arms, struggling under the weight of the wizard, and Apparated to the Order's Headquarters. He had shielded himself, not knowing their feelings as far as he was concerned. If they thought him a traitor, which was the commonly accepted theory with plenty of evidence, they would kill him without a second thought. Of course, they had moved, just in case.
He cast an emergency signal with his wand and waited, trying to relieve the man's pain. Gone were the sharp wits and joking mood.
Gone was the happiness and hope.
There was only pain, the insufferable pain of a dying man realising all he has lost. He had waited with him so that he would not be alone until the Order arrived, then Disapparated.
From what she had told him, he died hours later. He never knew she was pregnant.
"How have your holidays been?" he asked casually as she settled herself in a comfortable garden seat, conjuring up tea.
She shrugged.
"Have you seen your family?"
He knew she had but thought it might provide him with a means to crack her protective shell.
"We dropped by," she said, sipping her tea and looking at her daughter playing in the garden. She was her only child. She would not lose her.
"I think it would be good for Eithne to see more of her father's family."
He had always been straightforward and forthright with her since she took him in. He would not change now.
"Her father's dead." she said evenly, sipping more of her tea.
"As if I didn't know it. She needs a fatherly presence around her," he said, concerned.
"Are you not providing it?"
"Hermione."
She was so stubborn; it was frustrating. He put his fingers to his temples, feeling a headache building but having no will to fight with her.
"Her father's dead." She repeated. "She'll have no other. Such is life and that's the end of it."
"As you wish. How are your friends?"
She shrugged again.
"Harry is still working at the Ministry and as an Auror. Luna is working with her father, taking in the subtleties of handling a newspaper. Neville is still working on his Herbology, running around the country to find new species or new applications. He stops by Muggles and Wizards alike, trying to know how they use such or such a plant."
She paused a moment, pretending her cup was empty and taking all her time to refill it.
"Ron is working with Harry. And Ginny got a degree in Charms. She is now working with her brother in a charm shop."
She averted her eyes from his gaze. She didn't want his pity. An unpleasant grimace twisted her lips in disgust and contempt at his next query.
"Have you seen George?"
"Not since the funeral" she said evenly, despite the tension.
"It's been almost 10 years, Hermione. He has changed since."
"How do you know that?" she asked nastily, scorning him with all her might.
He looked at her, arching an eyebrow quizzically: she was definitely trying to intimidate him.
But she forgot where she had learnt to master such caustic acidity. He smirked at her.
"He was his twin," she said darkly as she bore her eyes into his.
He was still appalled by the hollowness and deadness he found there. She definitely needed someone in her life.
She shot him a menacing look and added: "I don't need anybody to care about me. I'm doing fine."
"No you're not," he said flatly.
"Leave me alone, Severus. I'm not prying into your life."
"You did once."
"And for the best," he added to her scowl.
A/N: Eithne is a Celtic name which should be pronounced "enya". I just loved the spelling of it. As well asits sound.
A/N: Feel free to review. I won't bite.