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.

Many thanks to my readers and reviewers.

Tuesday - Day 24 – Not now!

Boxing Day announced itself with a glorious sun that mirrored Hermione's feelings. Odd as it may seem, the Christmas she had just spent in that wrecked cottage – and with her most frightening professor - had turned into one of the most peculiar and most pleasant festivals she had ever celebrated.

The girl had passed the whole morning in the kitchen, trying to prepare something really special. Professor Snape had been disconcertingly quiet. He had insisted on wearing her jumper, and in spite of her fears, the effect had been surprisingly good. She had guessed his size, though approximately. Only the sleeves were perhaps a bit too long. Well, to be honest, the whole thing was a bit too long. Worried as she was for a possible mistake, Hermione had opted for "the longer, the better", thinking that he wouldn't look ridiculous with a longer jumper as he would with a shorter one. But he was tall, and consequently, the result wasn't that bad.

Professor Snape had been pleased to see that she was reading the book he had given her. And though the girl initially had opened it only to show him her gratitude, after a while she had become more and more engrossed in the poems it was presenting. They were effectively beautiful, and many of them were also very moving because they spoke of love, friendship and peace right in the moment in which those magnificent feelings seemed to be denied to her.

The only thing that had spoiled the day was his cold and his insistence in going out – though in the warmer hours – to carry in more wood for their fire. Winter and snow were giving a hard time to the little cottage and its occupants, and the fireplace was devouring piles and piles of wood.

So, Hermione had silently been near him, trying to be of help at least with her presence. For the first time, she had felt she was returning a part of what she had been given by him. He was looking so exhausted that her protectiveness was greatly stirred. Two or three times, she had to refrain from inviting him to go to sleep.

But of course, that quietness couldn't last for too long.

...

In the first hours of the afternoon, his increasing nervousness had begun to announce more and more powerfully a change of mood.

In the evening, Professor Snape was again a lion – an irritable lion – in a cage. A subtle anxiety seemed to corrode his mind. It was as if he were expecting something to happen at any moment. Hermione had mercifully thought that all those days spent in overwork had finally exacted their toll, and she had imposed herself to be quiet. Her calm attitude had surprised even herself. She hadn't reacted at any of his verbal outbursts. And then, when they had ended dinner, she had wordlessly prepared the chessboard.

His reaction couldn't have been more disappointing.

"Enough with this game!" Snape had exclaimed. "Really, is this the only thing you can think of in moments like these?"

But then, something unbelievable had happened. He had looked shocked at his own words. Incredibly, he had apologised, and Hermione had felt again a warm wave of sympathy invade her heart. They had played two games, and she had noticed with deep satisfaction that he was doing his best to keep his temper under control. She had savoured that precious feeling.

Yes, something had definitely changed between them.

…

So, Boxing Day. The sun was shining, breakfast was ready and the house was warm and cosy. Everything was perfect.

Perfect?

Er, not exactly… Now he didn't need to go out anymore in the cold but, though the thought should be a cheerful one, Hermione felt strangely uneasy. Another long day was opening before them. Staying there with him, all alone, with nothing to do, wasn't precisely… comfortable. Professor Snape had a restless mind that was unable to pause. There was nothing in the cottage that could offer him a diversion, except five old books - one of which was just a cookbook that he had proved to know by heart – a chessboard and, alarmingly, herself. She gasped in sudden panic: that was surely going to be the prelude for a violent quarrel soon or later. He couldn't bear that inactivity for too long. And, as a consequence, his temper would burst out.

Yes.

There was no escape.

Her eyes widened: she was doomed.

…

But the girl had undervalued his cold. Though keeping him in a state of constant irritation, his annoying illness was also weakening his forces. After weeks of exhausting tasks, his body was evidently asking for a rest. And finally, tiredness took over. In the afternoon, Snape chose one of his books and sank in the old armchair, pretending to read. But soon his eyes closed, and his head leaned back in the dusty softness. His muscles slowly relaxed until his hands released their grip. Hermione arrived just in time to catch the book at mid-air, avoiding a noisy impact with the floor that would damage its pages and abruptly awaken him.

Holding the volume in her arms like a shield, she paused and watched him. He was completely and soundly asleep. It was the first time that she was offered such a sight: the moment was too special not to take advantage, so she lost herself in contemplation of his harsh features.

Ugly, the girl thought. There was no doubt that he was ugly, she considered again. Yet, there was something pleasant in that ugliness. Hermione tried to focus her thoughts and finally found a more appropriate adjective: interesting. Yes, he had an interesting face. Every curve, every angle, every detail was marked by something… intense. She nodded unconsciously at that word. Intense. And somehow compelling.

More thoughts crowded in her mind, anxiously asking to come out. His brows were dark arcs of terror… but his eyelids had long lashes that she had never noticed before. His nose was prominent like a tower… but that was a sign of his inner strength. And finally, his mouth, curled in a bitter line even in his sleep, reminded her of the many ordeals he had undergone in that terrible month.

And if only one month had reserved such cruel treatment to her professor, how many other horrors must have been inflicted on him in the previous years? His existence had been a continual chain of suffering, Hermione realised: now it was awfully clear why he had such a sarcastic, negative character. What else could he expect from life if not pain?

She gave his relaxed figure another long, careful and caring look. How vulnerable he was, after all. The students were frightened by his imposing height, by his harsh voice, by his acerbic remarks. But now, looking at him, she understood how deceptive was the armour he had built himself. Like an oyster in a shell.

No, not exactly. She watched him again and corrected herself. Like a pearl in a shell. A pale, solitary pearl…

All of a sudden, Snape opened his eyes. Taken by surprise, Hermione backed off, stifling a gasp.

"What happened, Miss Granger?" he said with a heroic attempt to sound intimidating. "Why are you looking at me? Bad news? Something to confess?"

For a long, tragic moment, she fumbled with words. Why exactly was she there? She had forgotten…

Then she remembered.

"Ah, er, sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. You were… I was… The book had fallen," the girl corrected herself at the last moment. She smiled, trying to look and sound as natural as possible. "Here you have it." And she handed it to him, but Snape didn't take it. He seemed to be waiting for something. At least, that was what his expression suggested, as his eyes seemed to mutely question her.

Then he reacted with an effort. "Thank you," he said harshly and grabbed the book. Hermione smiled nervously and hastened to leave the room, muttering something unintelligible as an excuse. She ran to the kitchen, closed the door and sat on a chair, breathing in short gasps.

Stupid! The girl thought bitterly, punching her front with her fist. Stupid! Now he wouldn't rest anymore. Now he would get up from that comfortable seat and wander in the house while his mood would become more and more irritated. But mostly, she reproached herself for having awakened him just while she was trying to protect his sleep.

Stupid! Hermione repeated furiously. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…

After a few minutes of insulting herself, the girl came to a decision. She would quietly go back and check the situation. Who knows, maybe Professor Snape had ceded to his exhaustion again. Or perhaps he had resumed his reading. In any case, she couldn't stay hidden in the kitchen for the whole evening.

Determinedly, Hermione opened the door and glanced out, gulping in apprehension. The silence was immense. Then she saw him standing near the fireplace. The flames created a vivid halo around him, making his shadow elongate on the floor with a suggestive effect. Reassured, she slowly went near him.

And there she stopped in panic.

His face had altered in pain. His right hand was tightened around his left wrist: the forearm had swollen hideously, and the Dark Mark seemed to pulsate rhythmically in a grotesque parody of a heartbeat.

Their gazes met, and for the first time, the girl acutely perceived his desperation. Immediately, she felt as frantic as he did, and that sensation was reinforced by her awareness of being pathetically helpless.

The man closed his eyes and whispered, "No! Not now! Not now!"

Hermione opened her hands as if in prayer, then clenched them in sudden rage. No, she wouldn't let him go. Or, at least, she wouldn't let him go alone. Enough of hiding. Enough of whining. Time to fight.

She jerked up her head. "We'll go together!" she said boldly.

Snape abruptly opened his eyes and seemed to realise only in that moment that she was there, in front of him. His eyes widened in understanding, and his brows furrowed in his usual angry expression.

"You will stay here!" he hissed dangerously. "Your useless Gryffindor pride is going to kill us all. Haven't you learned your lesson by now? Do you want to graciously deliver yourself and the Cause to the Dark Lord on a silver platter?"

He staggered under the pain, then tightened his grip, gritting his teeth. "I must go," he panted. "The call is too strong. Something must have happened. I need to know."

Hermione raised a hand as if to touch him and comfort him. But he was a ball of pain, and she didn't dare. She walked with him towards the door. Snape took his cloak and wrapped himself in it. Then he went to open the door. It was snowing, silently and heavily, and he paled at that sight. The cold was stinging. They both shivered in unison, he at the prospect of a walk in that freezing whiteness, she in terror for his health and safety.

Impulsively, Hermione put a hand on his hand. The skin was dry and burning, and she turned savagely to look at him. "You are ill!" she exclaimed. "You mustn't go! This cold is going to kill you!"

Snape smiled bitterly. "The Dark Lord is going to do something worse if I don't answer his Summons."

But then he watched her, and his voice softened. "As soon as I am far from here, I will cast a medical spell on myself," he added. "I'll be better, don't worry."

Her brows raised, first in disconcertment, then in happy realisation. Yes. YES! How clever. And how considerate of him to use such kind words… The girl nodded and smiled bravely, trying to comfort him. Snape went down the steps and began to walk in the snow.

Keeping a now blank smile pasted on her lips, Hermione watched his tall figure advance further and further. He was moving with evident uneasiness, as the soft white mantle was impairing his legs. And he kept shivering. The cloak wasn't enough protection against the cold in his condition.

Her breath came out in halting puffs while she followed each one of his steps as if she were walking with him and sharing his suffering.

The cold was stinging, but Hermione watched until he disappeared into the blackness.

…

The girl entered the house and sat in the armchair. The fire was languishing, and she automatically got up to add more wood. Professor Snape needed to find a reinvigorating warmth when he returned.

But would he come back? Hermione stared at the wall with unseeing eyes. He had looked so upset this time! Only a pale trace of his old self-confidence had sparkled in his answers…

Did he know something? Was he afraid? This last thought was really terrifying. He never looked scared. The girl had initially thought that he was arrogant. Then she had admitted that he was brave. But now, that word carried a different shade.

"Brave" didn't mean thoughtless or reckless. In that sense, bravery was the foolish audacity of the children, the way Harry, Ron and she herself had acted so many times in the past: diving into danger without really knowing what the danger was, as if enjoying it. While Snape, he knew what he was going to face. He knew and he feared it, yet he kept struggling obstinately.

Hermione felt a knot in her throat. How mistakenly they had always judged him before, guided as they were by childish feelings of resentment and pride and anger…

And now he was gone, and perhaps he would never come back, accompanied only by the contempt and the hate and the scorn everybody had contributed to load on his shoulders.

The girl felt hot drops unexpectedly flow down her cheeks, and at that point, she ceded. She curled in the armchair and cried tears of desperate helplessness and regret, whispering broken words of apologies to the darkness around her.

Slowly, she fell in a sort of desolate stupor and let her senses take shelter in that trance, as if refusing to accept the horrid reality.

Finally she opened her eyes. Many of the candles were out, and the room had taken a sinister look. Hermione checked the watch: midnight, too early for him to be back from such a meeting.

"If" he would ever be back…

The anguish in her heart was growing too strong to be kept under control, and every minute seemed to increase that ominous sensation. Hermione began to act frenziedly, as if expecting their enemies to show up at any moment.

She got on and put new candles in the candlesticks and lit them. Then she had second thoughts and put all of them out except two. Better be prepared, she said to herself, and she closed all the shutters of the windows. Let's give them a hard time, she muttered. Then she realised that, doing so, she wouldn't be able to check the land around the cottage; therefore, cursing their enemies in a low, enraged voice – an activity that seemed to give her a strange relief – she opened the shutters again. Then she went to the kitchen and checked all the cupboards. Immediately after, she remembered the envelope. She put a hand in her pocket, and there it was, safely tucked away. She breathed deeply for a moment, then her mad run began again.

None of these actions was effectively useful, but there was nothing else that Hermione could do, except wait, wait and wait. And corrode her spirit in the wait. The night seemed to be eternal. She went watching from the windows every few minutes, and once even opened the door to take a quick glance. The cold was unbearable, and shivering in anguish, she hastened to get inside again.

Finally, the girl took his book of poems. Determinedly, almost ferociously, she sat and forced herself to read and savour every line. Slowly, her mind lost itself in the heartbreaking beauty of those immortal words of love and harmony.

…

Hermione was dozing, eyelids half closed, when she heard a sound outside the door. Her heart jumped in her chest. Was Professor Snape back… or were their enemies?

Hundreds of questions were flooding her mind, and the girl struggled to discipline her anxiety. A mistake could lead to a disaster. She simply MUST be careful.

She reached the door, just in time to hear the sound of something thumping against it, just like… just like a body that had suddenly collapsed. Her heart skipped a dozen heartbeats.

"Professor?" she asked, but no answer came. "Professor?" she tried again, and panic was easily perceivable in her trembling tone. Still no answer came and, too scared to think properly, Hermione unlocked the door.

Her blood chilled as a heavy mass seemed to fall brutally over her; she fell back, limbs trapped inexorably, then she hit the ground and struggled frantically to free herself from that unknown aggressor.

Her enemy, however, had neither will nor strength for an attack. As soon as she succeeded in pushing him back, Hermione recognised Professor Snape in that cold, inert heap of clothes.

"No!" she cried in horror. "You can't be dead! Please, Professor, speak to me! Please! Please! PLEASE!"

At her last desperate plea, something seemed to happen. The man moved a hand and tried to brush the hair over his eyes while murmuring drowsily with a menacing accent, "You don't… before opening… Going to…"

The girl let out a laughing sob. He was alive! She hurried to close the door, then carefully, very carefully, she knelt near him.

"Professor," Hermione called, and he shifted on the ground, opening his eyes in a sort of drunken stupor. "Professor, you are safe now, you are home."

"Are… are you here too, Miss Granger?" Snape asked in evident confusion.

Hermione shivered with apprehension. "Are you hurt?" she questioned him anxiously, and ran her hands over his clothes, opening his cloak. That gesture seemed to awaken him.

"Don't touch me," he replied with a low growl. "I'm perfectly all right."

Snape put his hands on the floor and tried to straighten himself. But he was too weary, and after a vain attempt, he dropped his head with a moan.

"Come now, let me help you!" the girl retorted in irritation while relief was singing in her heart. Damn stubborn man! Would he ever admit to be human?

Hermione took his arm. "You are frozen!" she exclaimed in a severe tone. "You must warm yourself immediately. Let's go near the fireplace. I'll prepare you a hot drink and then-"

"No, you'll leave me alone," the wizard stammered rudely, interrupting her and pulling away with a jerk. "I only need a bed."

He scrambled to his feet, refusing her help, but swayed in evident exhaustion as soon as he stood erect. Again, he disdainfully refused her hand.

"I don't want your help," he declared harshly. Then, still swaying dangerously, he turned and placed a hand against the wall to support himself. Without saying a word, Hermione crossed her arms and watched him go. Snape moved a step, then another, then another, until he reached the door of his bedroom.

There he turned around and watched her triumphantly.

"See?" he croaked. "No need of your bloody compassion."

And with an elegant bow, he fainted.

Message following the many PMs I received this morning (and many thanks again to all those who wrote them):

The author would like to apologise to those who have been reading this story in the expectation of finding "fluff" in the form of physical expressions of love. This is a different type of romance, more of a psychological journey - somewhat, if I may be allowed the comparison, in the same genre as the immortal Pride and Prejudice.

Unfortunately, being Italian, I may have chosen the wrong word to describe my novel, and I am deeply sorry if some of my readers now feel betrayed and disappointed. If you decide to stop reading, the blame is mine; thank you very much for your support till now.

(However, I've changed the description in the Prologue...)