Chapter Eleven – Ill?
In the early light of morning, Severus dressed himself with great care and sent his doe Patronus ahead to request a meeting. A sleepy sounding stag immediately responded. After checking on his still-sleeping wife and her untouched potion, he quietly Apparated away.
Harry greeted him at the door with a finger at his lips. "The boys are asleep," he whispered. "This way."
Severus nodded politely to Ginny who was still in her housecoat and looking quite put out by the interruption, as he followed Harry into his study. It was obviously decorated by Ginny who'd given much thought in how a proper study for someone destined to become Head Auror should look. Important trophies and certificates hung on the walls, surrounded by muted Gryffindor colors and upholstery, but Harry was unable to maintain the facade and his desk was a cluttered mess, including old wrappers from Chocolate Frogs.
"My home is always open to you, but what brings you by at six thirty on a Saturday, Severus?"
He made a small look of disgust. "Miss Vane has upset my wife."
Harry grinned good naturedly. "Probably. I saw the headlines too." He stretched and yawned loudly. "I figured it would give her fits, but it's nothing she hasn't dealt with before. 'Mione's a champ."
Severus leaned forward and pierced the wizard with his most intimidating glare. He'd grown into his maturity and come a great distance from the malnourished teen, but long standing history with the Auror dictated if Severus pushed too hard, Harry would rebel, just for the satisfaction of defying him.
"'Mione," he said bitterly, "shouldn't have to deal with this harassment. And as her supposed friends, you ought to protect her. I thought that's what you did for each other. Isn't that's what she's done for you?"
Harry chuffed, and Severus waited as he struggled to articulate a meaningful protest, but he gave up. "What would you have me do, Severus? Arrest Romilda? She hasn't broken any law."
Severus sat back and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "I'd like to hear everything you personally know about Miss Romilda Vane; then I'd like you to Floo Auror Headquarters and make a duplicate of her file for me."
"You know I can't do that. It's against regulations," Harry said seriously. "If you go after Romilda, I'll be an accomplice in a criminal conspiracy."
"Which is why I'll Obliviate your memory at the conclusion of this conversation."
Harry blinked. Twice. Then shrugged. "Well, since you put it that way…"
Thirty minutes later, Ginny heard the faint crack of Apparation and breathed a sigh of relief. Despite how Harry thought and felt about the wizard, he would always give her the creeps. Harry hadn't been there for his final year. He could never understand what it was like with Snape as Headmaster. She felt Harry brush up behind her to nuzzle her neck and shoulder with a kiss as she flipped an egg on the griddle.
"So, what did Snape want?" Ginny asked pensively.
"You know, I don't remember," Harry said a bit blearily.
Ginny frowned and plated Harry's eggs. "You don't?"
"Yeah, I think he Obliviated me." Harry scratched at his head. "I really think it's for the best though, I just hope whatever he's planning doesn't interrupt Hermione's work."
Hermione did not feel any bit better when she woke up the next morning. The nasty buzzing in the back of her brain was still there and though she thought the chocolate the night before worked miracles, what she really wanted was her bloody store-bought Headache Relief, which Severus was supposed to run out and get. Only it didn't take hours to buy Headache Relief. Even though most wizarding shops closed ridiculously early, and took every banker's holiday they could, there was still the dispensary at St. Mungo's, and that was open for business late and on weekends. Severus Effing Snape would know that.
Hermione was in a right foul mood until she spotted the vial next to her bed. Then her head dropped back onto its pillow and that felt infinitely worse.
He'd brewed. That son of a banshee.
He just couldn't let her have store-bought, could he?
Hermione rubbed the furrow of her brows. Her head hurt. It ached, felt too heavy to hold up. She didn't right care if the potion was made of monkey piss, though it was always best never to ask what the ingredients were. The only thing that mattered was; if Severus had brewed it, it worked.
The small note attached read: One small swig.
"Bottoms up," Hermione muttered, holding her nose.
As the potion went down her throat she appreciated the fact that it was only the single swig.
The potion trickled. She swore, she could feel it trickling through her brain. It was the oddest, most disconcerting feeling ever. All the clouds and accumulated cobwebs that had gathered over the past stressful week were being brushed aside by this wonderful potion. The buzzing, that stomped and stormed through her head and temples, quieted – slowly. It was getting chased back, to whatever dark corner it had come from.
Hermione breathed slowly. She opened her eyes. And there was peace. She laughed for the joy of knowing it. Her store-bought Headache Relief had never done that. It just had given her temporary respite from the nagging pain, but not true relief.
"Brilliant, Severus," she said to herself.
"Mrrrow," an insistent voice loudly announced. Now that she was better, she was reminded of her duties to scratch and pet the familiar who had diligently kept watch over her.
"Mrrrow," another voice added, because Hermione had two hands and they ought not to be idle.
When the fearless and praiseworthy familiars who had kept their nightly vigil had been properly adored, they informed her that she was no longer necessary, Ushanka by hopping off the bed to find breakfast and Crookshanks by lifting a leg to lick himself. Hermione stretched and decided to get up, wondering what Severus was up to and how they might spend the day now that she no longer felt like a troll was stomping through her head.
In the kitchen Hermione found a surprise: dinner, plated and on Stasis from the night before. She looked at it with a pang of guilt before stealing a handful of perfectly steamed asparagus spears to tamp down her pang of hunger. He'd cooked this, for them, for Date Night. And éclairs, Hermione reminded herself as her stomach growled. The Stasis would keep for later. Hell, she knew from months on the run that a properly cast Stasis could last weeks if need be. Not that food had lasted particularly long when they'd been on the run, but mealy Scotch Eggs had been their least favorite food and the absolute last to get eaten. Hermione looked at the beautiful food sitting innocently on the kitchen counter and promised to make amends with Severus.
With a wrinkle to her forehead, she wondered where he was. The flat was abnormally silent and though she lived alone and had lived alone for a good many years, the absence of his presence was strangely discomfiting. Hermione brushed that thought aside, and resolved to entertain herself without Severus Snape, as she'd done countless weekends prior to his sudden and unexpected disruption of her life.
She grabbed a new bodice-ripper. A good and filthy one.
During the week she was fully committed to an intensive research position that required delving into some of the most arcane and obscure texts in the wizarding world, and had learned early on – the hard way – to never rely upon translation charms. She spent days and sometimes weeks mucking about in the most disgusting hellholes of the wizarding world in an exhaustive search, and she never came home to Severus without showering and refreshing her clothing. Bone-weary and often exhausted, her nights and weekends were for her. The last thing she wanted to read was another academic journal.
Hermione always chose the best, most ridiculous sounding romance novels she could lay her hands on, with extra heaving bosoms and turgid manhoods. Mental decompression, Hermione asserted. At least this reading material never made her eyes cross – except when the authors suggested positions that were physically impossibly, unless under the instruction of a trained yoga master or performed in outer space, but still… she'd read outer space porn, if she could get it.
The picture on the cover of this particular bodice-ripper had the trifecta: kilt, pirate, sworn vengeance. The swooning female in a too-tight corset was entirely incidental to the picture on the cover, which focused on the kilted, muscled pirate with perfect teeth, backlit by the setting sun.
By page thirty, Hermione knew it was the shifty innkeeper who had set up Desmond. Characters who needlessly received too much attention up front always returned later on to fill plot roles. The insurance subplot was also completely illogical for its time period, Hermione thought, but then, she wasn't exactly reading it for historical accuracy.
Hermione looked up with a sense of joyful anticipation as soon as she heard the tell-tale crack of Severus' Apparation. Odd, that in such a short time frame they'd become so familiar to one another, not just flatmates but friends. Wherever he'd been and whatever plans he had next, Hermione realized, she wanted to know. She wanted to be involved with his life. It was a strange, but comfortable realization.
Her curiosity could not contain itself. "Where have you been?"
"Out, plotting," he replied stiffly, starting to undo the miniscule buttons fashioned at his high-necked collar. "The swiftest and most expedient way of dealing with Miss Vane is to chop her body into bits and deposit them into a randomly selected bog. The bog may mummify the remains preserving evidence of the crime, but on the other hand it'll be centuries before she's found, if ever."
Predictably, Hermione gasped.
"Oh, please. You specifically asked me not to murder the witch, and I told you I wouldn't. I don't hex nicely, but I haven't killed anyone, well, other than lamentable life choices involving the Potters and Albus. So not in cold blood, at any rate. I haven't even hooked a fish yet," he grumbled.
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.
"But I said I'd take care of Miss Vane and I will. Don't worry, Hermione, you've hired the right Slytherin for the job. It just needs proper plotting. And proper plotting takes time or else you get piss poor plotting, and nobody wants any of that, mind. These things don't happen by magic, you know."
"Can I help?"
She asked eagerly, he noted. Her eyes shining with the light of a woman who'd jinxed parchment – Severus guessed Marietta Edgecombe still used glamorous to cover her spots. And he'd heard all about the Centaurs – who hadn't?
"No," he said firmly, crushing her bloodthirsty dreams beneath his boot before they became too big. "I need you to have plausible deniability. We're going out today. Are you feeling up to it?"
"We are?" Hermione blinked and racked her memory. As far as she was aware they hadn't made any plans. "Yes, I'm feeling fine. Your potion worked wonders."
"Of course it did." She could practically hear him mentally say, silly girl. "Then get dressed in something suitable for the Muggles and bring a small blanket. I'll return in a few minutes."
Severus turned on his heel and left her feeling bewildered. He grinned smugly as he took the stairs to the back garden.
In the tent he faced the collection of shrunken crates from his former life and hoped the one he selected wasn't as badly damaged as the previous one had been, though this one was much tamer and far less toxic. The worst ills he could suffer were from moldy socks.
The crate resized itself, and without much else to do, Severus up-ended the contents all over the floor. It had been packed without rhyme or reason by the elves and that part of his wardrobe had always been neglected anyhow. Still, it took little time for Severus to find his favorite pair of denims. They'd been broken in years before – too many to count, and patched with enough charms to be downright embarrassing if anyone found out. But he'd once been told by a pretty girl that they made his arse look good and they fit right, so they'd stay in his closet until they couldn't be charmed any longer and all the threads fell apart. From the stack of shirts, he grabbed a worn checked shirt, black and green, and folded up the sleeves now that he could.
The rest of the mess went back into the crate because Severus preferred his hovels to be tidy-like.
There was only the small shaving mirror in the tent. Severus checked the rasp on his chin and grimaced at the salt-and-pepper grey that had accumulated at his temples. He noticed then that his hair was past the point of unruly and found a small tie, which might have at one time belonged to Hermione, and pulled his hair back. From the dragon hide boots on his feet to the top of his head, he hoped Hermione wouldn't think him ridiculous looking. He checked himself in the small mirror, to be certain… twice.
He met Hermione with a vague apprehension, from the lingering self-doubt of his younger years when faced with a pretty girl and strange new feelings. He had to firmly remind himself he was a grown wizard and this wasn't his first date. It wasn't even his first date with Hermione. He had only recently come to the conclusion he was courting her, fancied her, like a hormone-riddled teenager, that was all.
He found her exactly where he left her, in the kitchen, this time dressed for an outing, her hair swept up excepting the loose tendrils that framed her heart-shaped face. She wore denim jeans, like him, and a floral blouse, soft and feminine, and…
And he was a poor, smitten sod.
Fucking hell.
Hermione smiled at him which he returned, like an idiot school boy. Severus masked his features before he started mooning after her.
"Do you have the blanket?" he barked at her brusquely.
"Right here." Hermione pulled a small patch of red felt from her pocket.
"Fine, then I will Apparate us," Severus said, extending his hand.
"You didn't say where we were going."
"No, I didn't." He pulled her closer than expected, surprised by Hermione's willingness to melt into his body as she wrapped her arms about him. The intimacy of their touch was momentarily shattered by the sucking crush of movement as they traversed the plane of space.
Hermione took a moment to right herself, and Severus imagined she lingered before stepping back.
"Where are we?"
"My former living room," Severus replied. "The Ministry happily signed over my property rights while I was incarcerated because I wasn't entitled to any rights."
Severus ignored her pitying glance.
"Keep this keep as a keep ought to be kept, my Da used to say – he was in the Regiment. Remember a keep will not keep itself. Still, this is the cleanest I've seen the place."
They were in a parking garage that was nearly empty save a battered station wagon and a motorcycle. Dust and petrol fumes mingled with the stale air from the lazy river. The Municipality had demolished his tenement housing and the blighted surrounding areas to make way for urban renewal. Thousands of spindles had stopped spinning in the mills, but progress was coming to take the town kicking and screaming into the new century. The motorway brought tired commuters hungry for a bit of quiet country living out of the city; abandoned downtown buildings were refurbished and whitewashed so they could look respectable again. They were posh and gentrified now, but all the loft apartments from converted factories couldn't mask the stench of the river, slowly making its way out to sea, carrying with it the detritus and pollution from generations of industry.
For Severus, it could never be anything but a dirty old town. Shabby and well-worn like an old sweater, but one that fit him most comfortably.
"Come, I have something to show you." He gestured.
There was pavement now, he noticed with a faint bit of surprise. Harder to play kick the can on pavement, but they didn't stay on the pavement for long. Severus led Hermione through a detour, negotiating new streets that hadn't been there when he was a child, his innate sense of direction pulling him. When he found the path that sloped towards the old town center, the bit they hadn't started to polish up, he couldn't help share a grin, a secret smile with Hermione. Despite the years, he'd found it.
If Hermione found his behavior puzzling, she didn't comment. She allowed him to pull her along, trundled after him as he found his way around and returned his smile whenever she caught him at it.
Before long they arrived at a green space in what once had been the city center or marketplace. There were some small tents up and other people were selling from the backs of vehicles.
"A Farmer's Market?" she asked.
"Well spotted," he replied.
"I don't understand," Hermione said guardedly, gazing at the area with a mix of uneasiness.
With more patience than Severus knew he possessed, he bit back the urge to insult the intelligence of the believed brightest witch of the age. She'd passed his N.E.W.T. score for Merlin's sake. "What's not to understand?" He clenched and unclenched a fist. "Farmers and craftspeople from the local area gather to sell their wares."
"But what does this have to do with the plot against Romilda Vane? Are we meeting her here? Abducting her here?" Her voice rose in pitch. "Or is this the place of our plausible deniability – is something going on right now?"
Severus sighed in frustration and dispelled the urge to tug on his hair.
"No," he snarled. "It's just a Farmer's Market."
"Oh."
Hermione was quiet and less tense as they crossed the green and approached the vendors.
Severus realized he might have accidentally misled her. She'd always been a part of the planning – the boys relied upon her, needed her desperately. Perhaps Hermione always assumed she would be included. He stopped her just before they came upon the Muggles.
"Look, I shudder to think what you're accustomed to with Potter and Weasley, but before I lead you out into mischief and possible death and destruction, I'll give you the courtesy of a bit of advanced warning. We'll even plot everything out thoroughly together and even have proper spy names."
Hermione grinned. "Oh that would be nice for a change, thank you."
"You're welcome." Severus inclined his head politely. "You'll be Miss Bella Broadchest, my personal attaché."
She swatted his shoulder.
"Miss Tiffany Titswilder, my personal trainer?" he asked.
"Incorrigible!"
He smirked. "Perhaps, but we're here because I thought we'd enjoy the day, make a picnic and not think or talk about Miss Vane."
"Like a date?"
Severus felt his cheekbones filling with warmth. He wasn't accustomed to blushing and hoped she wouldn't notice. "Possibly," he said evenly, watching, waiting for her reacting.
"Hmm." Hermione sidled next to him and slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow with a sly grin. "It might be best to keep up appearances then."
Hermione wanted cherries. The season wasn't fully in yet and they weren't likely to be sweet enough, Severus told her so, but Hermione wanted cherries and the conversation was quickly ended with swift purchase of a small bag. Severus excused himself while she sampled the local honey to have a word with one of the produce vendors to buy a bottle. Mr. Barrett was selling fresh apricots and rhubarb, but he was also quietly known as the man with the best still around. With a small word and a slight nod, Severus returned to Hermione's side with a weighted burlap bag.
Together they wound around tables, looking at the offerings of the springtime season. She spent a long time admiring the pottings and cut flowers.
"Is there a particular flower that's your favorite?" he asked.
Hermione shook her head. "I like them all." She looked up at him with a smile in her big brown eyes. "Honestly, it wouldn't matter if they were cheap carnations, I'd love and appreciate the sentiment of the giver."
He was about to select a flower for her, but Hermione twined her fingers in his and tugged him onwards.
They purchased fruits and homemade bread and sausage pastries, more food than was necessary for a picnic, Severus thought, but he kept that to himself and moved Hermione along. As much as he wanted her to enjoy herself, there were still too many familiar faces at the Farmer's Market, and he didn't want her to pause too long to get into an uncomfortable conversation. Severus was thankful local custom dictated they walk away at least six or seven paces before the tongues started wagging in fanciful speculation.
Once the small Farmer's Market was behind them, Hermione inhaled fresh air and turned to Severus with a look of anticipation.
"So, what next?" she asked with a smile, returning her hand in his.
"Ducks," Severus replied cryptically.
She followed along with him, as the path from the Farmer's Market twisted around two streets and down a hill, past his old Muggle school, until they reached the pasture with the duck pond. Severus anxiously waited for Hermione's reaction. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the square of red wool felt and lifted her sparkling eyes up to his.
"Where's the best spot?"
"Over there, by the willow," he responded, tilting his head to the far end.
They circled around the pond, disrupting the ducks who quacked and skittered to the other edge in protest, but didn't fly away. That would take effort and energy, and these ducks weren't accustomed to exerting effort and energy, but they made a fuss of flapping.
As soon as Severus had a decent spot picked out, they enlarged the blanket and Hermione removed her footwear and dug her toes in the soft grass. Severus paused for a moment before he dispatched his own. Hermione grinned.
As Hermione spread out the day's treats on the picnic blanket, Severus began gathering tiny yellow flowers. Wild Ranunculus repens, or creeping buttercups, threaded through the grass as it had for generations, and Severus set to the task of deftly collecting them to weave a circlet for her Hermione's hair.
"How did you learn to make these?" Hermione asked softly, looking over his shoulder.
"My mother," Severus replied wistfully. "We used to come here in the afternoons before I started school. She let me plait them into her hair and crown her Queen Mab."
"How sweet."
He finished the circlet and tucked the ends together, then handed it to Hermione with a slight stain of pink dusting his cheeks.
"It's rubbish," Severus muttered. "You don't have to wear it, you know."
"Nonsense. I told you, I like all flowers." She smiled and plopped it on her head, and Severus was momentarily arrested by the thought that he was looking at a vision of a fey goddess. A wild thing of earthen beauty, of untamed hair and reckless freckles.
"Will you tell me about her, your mother? What was she like?"
"Wickedly funny," Severus blurted. It was the first thing that came to his mind. "A dark humor though."
"Like yours?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No, she was always more clever. I'll never possess her level of shining wit – must be a Ravenclaw trait I missed."
"Harry mentioned you had a difficult home life."
"He did, did he?" Severus' countenance soured. He'd shared much with Harry in the span of time spent in Azkaban, but he never expected those personal conversations would come back to haunt him. "How much did he say?"
"That was it. That was all he said."
Severus scrubbed his face and looked about. The afternoon was pleasant, the sky was appropriately blue and dotted with random fluffy clouds. The temperature was neither too hot nor too cold, and there was a refreshing light breeze in the air. By all accounts it was supposed to be a perfectly ideal picnic and ought to be left at that. If Severus played his cards right, Hermione would slip her hand into his and possibly hold him tightly again for Apparation. And if, by gods, he were a very lucky boy he might be able to manage without cocking it up badly or fumbling too terribly – a kiss. A conversation about his parents failed marriage was dousing ice water on all those lovely plans.
Hermione had opened up a wrapper of pastries and distributed one to him and tore greedily into one for herself before she motioned him to get on with telling his story.
"My Da was doing his national service when he met my mum. I can't imagine what he looked like to her; she was in a bad spot having just left the wizarding world and he was a strapping tin soldier come to save the day." Severus paused and snorted.
"A fairy tale come true," Hermione said. "Must have been romantic."
"At first, perhaps, but there aren't too many happily ever afters around here. Eventually all the gold flakes away to brass. By the time the honeymoon was over, his service had ended, there was a baby on the way, and he was back in the mills, even though the lint clots a man's lungs stealing his breath before he's ready to die."
"As long as the marriage is happy, there are ways to make the best out of a bad situation," she said, giving his hand a small squeeze. "It can't be bad all the time."
"It wasn't," he acknowledged. "They loved each other, but they got on each other terribly. Today they'd probably call it an abusive home, but in those days nobody ever did and my parents would have laughed at the label."
He saw her opening her mouth, a half formed syllable came out and he cut her off –
"My mother gave just as good as she got. She yelled and browbeat and occasionally wholloped my father. It doesn't make it right, but that's how their marriage worked. They simply didn't know how to communicate without screaming. Whoever yelled the loudest and stamped around the most, won the argument. When I was little I hated the screaming – even now I rarely raise my voice in anger. I used to think it meant they didn't love each other, but they did. They just fought. It didn't help that Da got nicked a few times for disorderly."
Severus paused and tore off a bit of the pastry Hermione had given him and chewed without tasting. He needed to collect his thoughts and memories.
"In my fifth year, Da had a fall at the mill. We thought he'd pull through, but he didn't make it. When she lost him." Severus shrugged. "She was lost. Mother wasn't welcome back among wizards, and Da was the only person who really tethered her to Muggles. She became unmoored."
The ducks, lazy opportunists that they were, slowly drifted towards the picnickers. Generations of schoolchildren and locals had taught them and their forebears to angle for bits of stale bread. Severus quietly advised Hermione to tear up one of the rolls and feed them. There was no reason to disrupt the delicate balance of their harmonious coexistence. He also seized the moment to ground himself.
The coronet of buttercups was crookedly sliding down one side of her head and Severus gently straightened it for her as she threw bread to the ducks.
"I notice you speak about her in the past tense."
Hermione's tone was gentle and even, for his benefit, Severus recognized. She was feeling him out, probing with words to test how forthcoming he would be, with his history and emotions. His wife wanted to get to know him; there might be hope for a relationship, he thought, with a slight curve to his upper lip. The small measure of happiness was brief and overshadowed by old memories.
"She died in my seventh year," Severus said, carefully neutral. Years of withholding emotion threatened to crack his breath, but he was a master at it, and their relationship was yet tentative. At any moment, he expected her to brush away crumbs, politely thank him for a lovely afternoon and Disapparate away. "There was an outbreak of Horklump Virus that year, and she was infected."
Hermione's brow furrowed. "I didn't know it was deadly."
Through clenched teeth Severus muttered, "It's usually not. I could have brewed the antidote in the kitchen if I'd known. The school declined to tell me she was sick because they didn't want to interrupt my N.E.W.T. testing."
"Dumbledore," Hermione spat.
He nodded morosely. "It made sense at the time, I suppose. I understand his decision. When I was Headmaster I had to make so many similar decisions…" Severus trailed off and shrugged. "It was only the Horklump Virus, with magical medical care she should have gotten better."
Hermione placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "She sounds like a great woman; I wish I could have met her."
He lifted his eyes to meet hers and felt the warmth of her words. "She would have liked you very much, Hermione."
A duck quacked and they turned to feed the hungry blighters, happy for a distraction.
Hermione couldn't stay out all afternoon. She had some project to finish and wouldn't allow Severus to leave without promising to return for dinner; his well-prepared meal would not go to waste. As he stood close to her, close enough to feel her body heat and the crackling fission of tension between them, he promised not to miss dinner. Not ever. But before dinner he had something pressing to attend to.
Picnicking near the ramshackle mill
They hold hands and feel such a thrill
They feed little ducks
make a chain of buttercups
But Hermione - is it true that she's ill?