Chapter 7
Dr. Cromwell called Jennifer to his office two weeks later as she walked into the institution.
"Betty, my dear. Please close the door; this will be rather a private conversation."
The matron complied, curious and a little frightened. Although she thought Severus' caution concerning Dr. Cromwell was a bit exaggerated, her new lover of a whirlwind romance had convinced her that, to some extent, her employer and suitor was not necessarily the most estimable of men. Her main preoccupying hope was that this call had nothing to do with his confession of affection he himself had made previously!
Since he event, she had generally avoided the doctor as much as possible. Obviously, she could not completely eliminate meeting him in the halls or from submitting her daily reports to his office, but she hurried through them nervously. His every glance was beginning to make her worry—was he simply affirming his approval, or admiring her figure? When his tongue passed over his lips, what was he thinking about? Why was his hand rubbing his thigh in such a manner? Being anywhere near him made her feel all giddy in ways she never had experienced.
In direct contrast, her time with Severus was most congenial, to an understatement. He never seemed to look at her with lustful eyes, only with soft adoration and sometimes irritation when, as he put it, she was being 'particularly dense'. Never lust, and never again the hatred he had displayed in his first months. Indeed, as their relationship had blossomed, his manner greatly improved. Instead of his morose depressive behaviors, he was inquisitive and passionate; not happy in the conventional sense but content with his life and surroundings. When she asked him about it, he said that he was "probably as happy" as he "would ever be". Which, from what she gathered about his personal history, that was saying a lot on his part.
"What is this about?" she asked Dr. Cromwell, pulling herself away from thinking about her favorite patient. In response, he picked up a leaflet and showed it to her.
"Here, Betty, take a look at this."
Jennifer did look at it. There was a picture . . . a picture of Mr. Robinson. He was scowling at the camera in an expression she well knew. Below the photograph was the caption:
MISSING: Professor Severus Snape. Dsp. May 20, 1998. Age 39. 6'1. 140lb. Wearing black wizard costume. Any information, please contact Sylvia Snape (phone number) or Minerva McGonagall (address)
"Do you know this man?" Dr. Cromwell grinned obscenely, laying down his cigarette. "The only thing I thought surprising was the fact that he actually was named 'Severus' after all."
Jennifer realized what this meant. Mr. Robinson was going home. Possibly to a wife, if this 'Sylvia Snape' was not some other relation.
"Have you called them?" She had to know.
He looked at her. "Not yet. I just got this today."
"Where?"
"Never you mind, Betty, that's none of your business."
She put her foot down. "I asked you, where? Where did you get that pamphlet?"
Surprised, the Doctor picked up his cigarette again, took a drag, and blew out again. "It was sent to every mental institution in England, for your information. Along with every other wanted notice ever issued nationwide. You've never been like this before Betty—why the sudden defiance?"
Defiance? Not defiance. I'm just not being subservient. "I'm not trying to be defiant, Dr. Cromwell."
He sighed. "How many times have I told you to call me Howard?"
She shook her head. "I don't want to call you Howard. It's more professional to keep it formal."
He blinked, and looked about ready to explode into a tirade. "I have to go, Doctor, see you in a bit!"
She skittered out quickly as possible, to find Severus. Mr. Snape, she knew now. Mr. Severus Snape.
What would it be like if my name were . . . hm. Mrs. Jennifer Snape. It has a good ring to it.
There has to be a good explanation for 'Sylvia Snape', though.
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
As far as Mr. Robinson went, he was waking earlier and earlier these days, and his morning runs were longer and longer. When she arrived at the institution, though, he almost always had a pot of coffee to share with her before they had to cook for the morning. He remained absolutely inseparable from her, as always, but it was clear that he would have refused to leave if she asked him to, whereas previously he would not have cared either way.
Their conversations were more and more animated, sometimes even verging on silly. He acted relatively normal when there were others around, but when they were alone he would bestow numerous means of endearment upon her—everything from wholehearted snogging sessions to simply holding her hand, as their mutual moods demanded. He did no ask or imply for more, though Jennifer would not have denied it if he had!
Also, she discovered something that she had barely glimpsed before in his personality: his amazingly hilarious wit. He was really very funny when he tried, she noticed. However, she did also notice that he never said specifically 'I love you'; indeed, the word 'love' never entered his vocabulary, almost as though the word did not exist to him. He said any manner of other words: adore, worship, admire, and 'something akin to that', but he never actually said 'love.' Jennifer did not resent this—she understood that he nevertheless loved her.
This particular morning, as she raced out to find Mr. Severus Snape (nee Robinson) she found him out running like Forrest Gump, completely complacent and obviously well practiced. He stopped when she opened the sliding door and stepped out into the dull cloudy morning.
"I would embrace you, but I fear I would make you smell quite indescribably nauseous," he said, stopping and kissing her hand reverently. Jennifer was wild about his scent after running, actually. He smelled virile, somewhat primitive, and definitely tres sexie.
"Nauseous?" she asked. "I don't mind."
"But I do." He took her hand, kissed it again with the fervor of Maximilien to his Valentine (or so Jennifer thought . . . she had moved on from Jane Austen to The Count of Monte Cristo lately) and dashed inside. "I shall be merely thirty seconds," he called, and slipped through the door of the nearest loo.
Indeed, just as Jennifer sighed of disappointment for not getting her morning kiss yet, he emerged again, hair neatly combed and set straight, to sweep her into his arms.
The truly amazing part about it was that he looked as though he had changed his clothes—though that was virtually impossible in the five seconds he had spent dressing himself up again. He was wearing the same black shirt and dark denim, but all the sweat spots had been disappeared, and he even smelled freshly laundered. Pressing her head into his chest, he smelled sweet and clean—with nary a whiff of the stifling cologne that the Doctor wore.
"I can't imagine how you got so clean so fast; you must use magic," she joked.
Silent amusement shook his chest. "You could say that."
His tone scared her, as though he was being literal. She turned her head up in askance, wondering . . . she had no idea what she expected.
He had his eyes ready to meet her, considering her, attempting to calculate her potential thoughts. Then, suddenly, he drew his arms from around her and, carefully, withdrew the polished stick he liked to carry out of his sleeve.
"I pray this won't scare you," he said solemnly. "And I swear . . . I swear you won't be hallucinating."
She did not see anything out of the ordinary yet, so she just watched. He raised his hand slowly, pointing the stick away from them both at an unsuspecting tree. "Watch now," he said carefully, and suddenly, a strange and fantastic gray dust exploded from the end forming into a vaporous figure. It took a few seconds to fully configure, but the materialized manifestation soon showed itself to be an animal.
Not a cat. Not a bird. Not a doe.
A stallion. It looked at them for a moment . . . it seemed to be raising an eyebrow in observation of the two solid humans . . . and then it began to nibble at the grass.
Severus' eyes got wide at this, emulating Jennifer's astonishment. "A horse?" he gasped, almost disgusted. "I thought it must have changed . . . but couldn't it have changed into anything but a horse? For crying out loud . . ."
Hearing itself talked about, the horse meandered over to the pair and circled them, slowly. Finally reconciling with himself, Severus gave a sharp laugh and patted the nose of the horse. At that, it vanished into thin air.
"So, Jennifer, what do you think?"
She had to ponder a moment before declaring what she thought. Her initial reaction had been terror, true, but at seeing how gentle the . . . the spirit, she could think of it no other way . . . had been, she had given way to admiration. "It was beautiful," she said simply. "Like you."
A peppermint-sweet smile graced his face, although he did glare as he whipped his hair scornfully over his face. The veil did not hide his slight delightful tinge of color on his cheeks. His ostensible aversion to compliments really was cute, especially since she knew he really enjoyed them.
"So, do you understand what that was?"
"Not really. Does it matter?"
"Somewhat." He shrugged. "I am magic. In the literal sense. I taught at a school for witches and wizards, I lived with them all my life. Then they destroyed my life. It is surprising that I've scorned your sort all my years, yet your sort has been the only revival I needed to be rejuvenated again."
"So . . . wait." She had to think about this, so she settled down on the grass. He followed suit. "You aren't just exaggerating . . . you aren't just a magician like the normal kind of magician? You . . . do other magic?"
"Yes." He paused. "Is that scaring you?"
She shook her head. "Not really . . . you never have seemed exactly like everyone else."
He snorted. "I should hope not, to you! But, you see, I have a good deal of explaining I ought to do."
So, in short, he related the sad story of his life, from as early as he could remember until the day she picked him up in front of Lily Evans' old house. He never, she noticed, mentioned his last name.
Some of it was crazy. Some of it she oughtn't have believed. But she did, for some strange reason, his vivid descriptions of broom flying (though he described it as being as common as driving a car) and potions making and wand waving were all too unreal. But she believed him nonetheless.
Finally, he got to the point from which she knew the rest. "I was frankly shocked that anyone would . . . well . . . try and take care of me. For all my life, I was determined to be an independent individual. I had to be. It was the only way I could survive. Oh, Jennifer, you aren't crying, dear?"
She was.
"You've been through so much," she whispered, throwing her arms around his neck with all the generosity of her nature. "I can't believe anyone could . . . so many people kill themselves for less! I wouldn't have been so brave! I just couldn't!"
"Shush, I'm no martyr," he replied crisply.
"No, I'm not saying that, but . . . you know, the lady who inhabited your room before you came . . . she killed herself the morning that I found you. And she had absolutely no reason!"
"Merlin! How morbid! What was her name?"
"Marybelle something or other."
He frowned, taking his arm around Jennifer in that subtle way that she had grown to love. "That's just terrible. I don't like the idea that my serendipity would have been so disastrous to someone else."
"Serendipity?"
"It's a restaurant in New York."
"That makes no sense," she replied laughing a bit through her tears. Then, wonderingly, she looked at him. "Why aren't you crying, Severus? Why aren't you crying every single minute of every day? It seems you would deserve such a means of consolation . . ."
"I've done my tears enough, my dear. And there's no need to cry over me. I am a murderer, and that will weigh on my mind for the rest of my life. However . . . I found you in the midst of my desolation, and that makes up for everything."
It was more touching to hear this from the broken, brittle man than anything said by Mr. Darcy, the Count of Monte Cristo, or even Humphrey Bogart. The idea of such reality overpassing fantasy was so astounding that it brought fresh tears from Jennifer. Understanding more than she thought he did, he drew her into a consoling embrace to share a very salty kiss.
Once she was somewhat more composed, she remembered the pamphlet found by Dr. Cromwell. They were still sitting outside on the lawn, in complete silence, when she decided to bring it up.
"By the way," she asked timidly, "Who . . . who is Sylvia? You didn't mention her in your story, so I suppose she wasn't important, but . . ."
"Sylvia?" He was suddenly rigid. "She's my younger sister. Why . . . how . . ." He paused for a moment, then exclaimed: "She's been to see me?"
"No, actually."
"Then how do you know about her? I vowed never to see her again; she's a disgraceful child, having a child when she did not even have a steady job, living purely for drink and dancing . . ."
"Well, I don't know anything more than her name," admitted Jennifer. "You see, the Doctor showed me something this morning that I'm not sure I liked . . . a 'missing' notice, with you on it. Severus Snape. Please send information to Sylvia Snape and Mary McDonald. That sort of thing."
"Really? Are you sure it wasn't a 'wanted' notice? Just a 'missing' notice?"
"Just 'missing.'"
He closed his eyes, nestling his head in the crook of her neck. "I don't want to go back to them, still."
"Well, what are we going to do?"
"We." He looked at her. "You still want it to be 'we'? Despite everything?"
"Naturally. Do you think I would just abandon you, Severus? I'm not like your wizard friends. I'm not like Lily Evans. I'm me, and I love you."
With an exclamation of joy, he hugged her tightly. His actions spoke louder than any words.
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
