30 DAYS, A MARRIAGE
by Lady Memory
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit tribute to the works of J.K. Rowling, who created and, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and settings elaborated herein.
Thanks to my readers and reviewers.
Tuesday - Day 10 – Company
The noises were almost imperceptible yet Hermione woke up in panic, curling under the sheets. Then she remembered that she had locked her door before going to bed, and relaxed a bit while trying to understand what was happening outside. She could hear him moving in the living room as he did every morning, but there was something strange in his pacing pattern. He seemed to return constantly before her door, as if he were waiting for her. She froze and held her breath, carefully keeping silent. Finally, she heard him sigh deeply. Silence fell again for some interminable minutes, then she heard the sharp sound of something being violently ripped. Her eyes widened in fear but, immediately afterwards, his steps faded away, becoming barely audible, and the main door closed with a soft thud. Without delay, she got up and ran to lock herself safely inside the house.
She moved to the window to watch, and hidden by the curtains, she could see him advancing with great difficulty in the snow, carrying the usual black bag and a pile of books. It was still dark, but his even darker silhouette was clearly visible against the white mantle. He was proceeding slowly, head lowered against the wind, and everything in his figure suggested a deep exhaustion. She felt unexpectedly sorry. Why did he have to suffer so much?
Compassion invaded her heart and she slowly returned, stopping to inspect the living room. There were a few little fragments of parchment scattered on the table, and she had a sudden intuition. Quickly, she knelt beside the fireplace… and there she found them: strips of half-carbonised parchment, distorted by heat and emitting a white smoke. She picked up one of them, just in time to read the words "sorry for" before they were suddenly incinerated by the flames.
She watched the little heap of ashes and shook her head in incredulous wonder. So, she had guessed right. He had tried to speak to her that morning. He had waited for her in front of her room. Then, realising that she wouldn't come out, he had tried to write a letter of apology. But pride had evidently been too strong.
She smiled. He couldn't overcome the habits of a whole lifetime. Yet, something was changing between them. She felt an immense hope and joy filling her heart; and still smiling, she went to the kitchen to start her day. The evening needed to be planned carefully.
...
Professor Snape entered, narrowing his eyes at the dancing light of the flames, and inclined his head in a mute greeting. She hurried to take the plastic bags and replied to his nod with another silent, respectful one. He frowned, looking uncomfortable, and seemed to be searching for words. He was evidently struggling with himself; so, letting silence do the work for her, Hermione went back to the kitchen.
A few moments later, he joined her. His face was grave, and his lips were curled in his typical pout. He crossed his arms and sighed deeply.
"Miss Granger", he began to say with a rough tone. Rather than the beginning of an apology, it seemed more like an accusation. But she didn't give him the chance to go on; she just put a dish of hot soup before him, raising her brows in meek invitation while her heart thudded with anxiety. He stiffened, clearly wrong-footed, but finally he sat and began to eat.
The few words they exchanged were carefully neutral. She tried to avoid any possible cause of tension, but her effort almost betrayed her when she noncommittally asked, "Is it cold, outside?"
His brows raised, and she immediately realised the utter stupidity of her question. She blushed and murmured some hurried words while he observed her with a suspicious gaze.
...
At the end of the dinner, her first planned surprise made its appearance on the table: a cake, a very simple "do-it-yourself" preparation she had unexpectedly found on one of the shelves (sometimes the house did seem to have a magical power of its own). She had never noticed that product before, but finding it had been a blessing. It had been easy to prepare (she needed only to add milk and eggs before baking it), looked tasty, smelled delicious… and now all she had to do was wait and cross her fingers in hope. Would her plan be successful?
For a moment, she feared not. He had frowned, his face darkening in a cautious, disbelieving expression. And then she perceived his thoughts. He was the one who should have apologised, but he hadn't. Yet, the person he had hurt was returning nastiness with sympathy. He was not used to such attentions, and she could see that he was trying to figure out the reasons behind her actions. Again she felt an immense compassion well up in her soul. Poor, miserable creature the man before her was; he had never experienced friendship and love in their pure, absolute magnificence!
She let his eyes bore into hers, and his mind probe her intentions. His head lowered with a sigh, and he muttered, "That was really… unexpected. Thank you, Miss Granger."
That was all: nothing less, nothing more, but it was enough for her, mostly because she suspected that the word he had effectively wanted to say was "undeserved".
After dinner, they went to the living room, and she showed him the second and the last of her surprises. The research about potions had been finished, and the parchments lay on the table, gathered in ordered piles. His eyes widened with astonishment. Silently, he examined the many pages written in her precise calligraphy and carefully divided by subjects.
"Perfect!" he whispered, and she radiated with joy; then she dared ask, "My homework is finished, Professor, unless you have something else for me."
He shook his head, still immersed in the pages, and replied with that distracted tone so typical of those lost in their thoughts.
"No," he said. "Classes will soon be suspended for winter holidays, and my only task will be marking assignments."
She clasped her hands nervously. "Then perhaps I have a suggestion…" she ventured with hesitation.
"Would you like to help and grade at my place?" His tone was ironic, and his eyes still focused on the pages.
"Of course not," she hurried to reply. "But could I ask you to stay in this room while you work? It's much warmer than the rest of the house. I have a book to read, and I won't bother you."
He was busy reordering the parchments, so he just glanced at her in a mute question. She felt extremely uneasy.
"Please," she gulped. "You see… I would appreciate some company, this evening."
His hands stilled. "Even if it's me?"
"I'd be honoured", she said simply.
"The honour is mine," he replied with a little bow.
