Summary: Every day, a mysterious man picks a white flower from the gardens of Granger Cottage. Every day, Hermione watches him through the window. Determined to find out who he is, Hermione navigates a busy social season trying to solve the mystery of Severus Snape. Snamione Regency Era.
A/N: Hello! This is my first attempt at a long fic. The outline for this story is already set up, and I'm writing the following chapters. Updates won't be on a regular day, but I won't let more than a week pass before a new chapter is up. So, grab your bonnets and follow me into this Snamione Regency fic!
The man always arrived at four. Hermione would watch him from her window while he walked, wavering because of his cane, but otherwise the picture of dignity. His physique spoke of a man not older than thirty-five, although his austere style and posture were those of an older man. Every day, he would walk the path that ran along the back lawns of Granger Cottage and that led to town, and every day he would stop right next to the house to pick a flower from the bushes. Hermione had actually kept track of his choices but could not make nothing of it and had many times vowed to herself to learn more about the language of flowers. The one easily remarkable thing was that he always picked white flowers. The Cottage's bushes hosted numerous varieties, homage to her late mother's love for gardening, and thus there were plenty of coloured flowers to choose. But the stark-faced man always kept to white ones, and Hermione had observed how they were the only spot of light in his dark figure while he resumed his swinging walk down the path, illuminated by the summer sun.
Hermione had never seen him before that summer, and was eager to learn more about him. Had her father been aware of her interest, he would have kindly chuckled about "her new fixation", as he would often do about her ever changing objects of interest. Hermione had a curious mind and a fascination for learning, and her father would indulge her in her infinite pursuit for knowledge. Had she not been a girl, he often said, he would have found her a preceptor. However, Hermione had not told her father about her discovery and subsequent interest, for the fact that there was a man involved somehow embarrassed her. Her interest in a dark, mysterious man could be easily ascribed to one too many novels read during the winter and dismissed as a young girl's fancy. Or worse, her father could take her seriously and start gathering information about the man, and then what would happen? No, this was going to be her personal project for the summer: discover the dark man's identity and the reason behind his daily walk and flower picking.
She was sure of not having ever seen him in Hogsmeade, neither at any of the social gatherings she had recently took part in. He surely lived in the valley, for anyone who lived further up the hills would never walk such a long way just to pick a flower. The walking, as opposed of riding a horse or a carriage, spoke of a commoner; while his bad leg probably made riding a horse difficult, a man of high status would use a carriage for any journey longer than a mile. And Granger Cottage was more than three miles away from town and more than two from the closest neighbour. No, he was not an aristocrat. A clergyman, perhaps? His black frock could suggest as much, as well as his general countenance. However, Hermione personally knew the parson of Hogsmeade village, and wasn't aware of any new appointments in the area. So who was this gentleman?
«I assure you, my dear, that I don't know who this man might be» said Minerva. «There have been no new arrivals in Hogsmeade that I know of, surely none worth of notice, not recently». The old lady put down her cup and sighed. «I should know better than encourage you in this pursuit, dear, but I am as curious as you are. This valley is too small, and although I am not fond of gossip, seeing a new face is something so rare! ».
Hermione smiled at her godmother. Minerva McGonagall was a sturdy yet matronly-looking woman, the widow of a Scottish gentleman who relocated in the valley some thirty years before. Her husband, Richard McGonagall, had been a neighbour and somewhat of a mentor for Hermione's father. At the time of her birth, the elderly couple accepted to stand as godparents. However, Mrs. McGonagall's husband and Mrs. Granger died a few months apart when Hermione was two. The widow had since become a mothering figure to the girl, and having no children of her own, took great pleasure in guiding her through life. Hermione, in her turn, loved her like mother and held her opinion in high regard.
She would visit her every couple of days for tea, and they would discuss her readings, practice French and talk about whatever was happening in Hogsmeade. It was when she was late to one of those visits because she had been at the window looking at him, that Hermione decided to talk about the mysterious man to her godmother. While Minerva had reprimanded her for spying from windows, she admittedly was intrigued, especially by the gentleman's habit of picking flowers.
«He if he keeps this up, the gardens will run out of flowers by the end of summer! » exclaimed Hermione.
«Don't be silly, my dear. Your gardens could rival the Malfoy's ones, in abundance if not in width. At any rate, I shall enquire to Lady Weasley about this when I see her tomorrow. She is usually more up to date with the gossip and goes often to Hogsmeade. Perhaps she will know something», answered Minerva.
Hermione beamed. «Thanks, Minerva! »
«It is nothing, darling. But now, we cannot forget about our studies because of a man, can we? Come on, mademoiselle, let's see how your French is faring» Minerva answered. The rest of the visit was spent idly chatting in French and correcting Hermione's pronunciation. But in her mind the girl was wondering what flower had the dark gentleman chosen that day.
Two days later Hermione was in Hogsmeade to run some errands for her father. While other girls couldn't walk to the village unchaperoned, Hermione was granted this small liberty. She wasn't sure however how much longer this freedom would last; she was sixteen and already appearing in society, and soon the time would come for her to marry. And with suitors and arrangements away would go her freedom.
She shook these thoughts away when, after finishing her errands, she stopped in front of her favourite shop. Tomes and Scrolls was a small but surprisingly well stocked bookshop for a small countryside village. The owner, Mr. Cresswell, had contacts in town that kept him regularly updated on the newest issues. He had known Hermione since she was a child and revelled in her love for books, often setting aside copies of new poetry books or travels' records for her.
Smiling, as she always did while at Tomes and Scrolls, Hermione opened the heavy door and was met with a tall, black figure standing with its back to her. The man, for it was a man, sported a long, black frock coat over a slim and elegant frame. His hair, also black, was long and fell loosely on the man's shoulders. He had a hat in his left arm, while his right hand rested on a cane. It was him! The mysterious man from the gardens!
Hermione stood on the doorway, astonished, and didn't notice Mr. Cresswell greeting her. Not having received an answer, the old man called her again.
«Good day, Miss Hermione! » he exclaimed a little louder than before. This shook her from her trance and she responded.
«Good day to you, Mr. Cresswell. I hope you're well» said she, barely removing her eyes from the dark man's back to meet the shop owner's eyes. The stranger had not turned to face her. Mr. Cresswell addressed him.
«As I was saying, Mr. Snape, the title you have required will arrive with next load in about a fortnight. I will let you know as soon as it arrives. In the meantime, can I suggest something else? Perhaps you would peruse the travel section? » he said adjusting his glasses and gesturing to a shelf in the left side of the shop.
«No, thanks, Mrs. Cresswell. I will be back in a fortnight to collect my order. Good day», replied the man. Hermione almost jumped when she heard the deep, soft tone of his voice. He turned on his heels and, leaning on his cane in his right hand, made for the door. However, Hermione was still in his way and she hasted to the side, daring to look at his face when he passed her. A pale, severe face with a prominent nose and dark eyes. He walked past her without sparing her a glance. Hermione was equal parts mesmerised and taken aback: the gentleman's appearance was refined, but his manners were curt if not rude. He could have at least acknowledged her with a nod!
As soon as he had walked out, Mr. Cresswell was addressing her again.
«Are you feeling well, Miss Hermione? You look like you might faint», he said.
Hermione shook her head and swallowed. «I am perfectly well, Mr. Cresswell, thank you. I walked quite the distance, and the weather is particularly hot today», she answered.
«Very well, Miss Hermione. I suppose you've come to look at the load fresh from London! » the older man smiled. «It is right there in the corner. May I suggest you a novel? It has appeared only recently, and the author is recorded only as "a lady". I am sure it will interest you».
While the choc of finally seeing the mysterious gentleman's face was still present, there was hardly anything in the world that could prevent Hermione from enjoying a trip to the bookshop. With a sigh, she moved to the corner indicated by the owner and started perusing the new additions. She immediately found the one he was talking about. "Sense and Sensibility. A novel in three volumes". As Mrs. Cresswell had said, the author was just "a lady". Hermione was admittedly intrigued. From a young age, she had developed a deep passion for writing along her love for reading. She often wrote sketches and short stories about the village and its people, the nature in which they were immersed, and her own thoughts and reflections. She had often thought about trying to publish them, but always feared they would look boring to a publisher. And of course, she was a woman. There were no published female writers that she knew of. She suspected that some hid behind a man's pen name. This "lady" here had at least earned an acknowledgment to her sex.
Taking the volume with her to the counter, she noticed Mr. Cresswell's knowing smile when he saw what it was and smiled back.
«You know me, Mr. Cresswell», she said.
«That I do, Miss Hermione, and since you were able to read you were my most loyal customer. I was sure this novel would pick your interest» said he.
The mention of picking brought the strange man back to Hermione's mind.
«Mr. Cresswell», she said while paying for her book, «do you know the man who was here before? What was his name… Snake? » she asked, feigning nonchalance.
«That would be Mr. Snape», answered Mr. Cresswell. «I can't say I really know him, but he has been my customer for a while now, although he usually sends his orders via a servant. This was the first time I saw him», he answered.
«A servant? Has he a house nearby? » enquired Hermione.
«Oh no, my dear girl, no. He lives at Malfoy Manor. He's young Draco Malfoy's preceptor».
Hermione could barely keep her face neutral. Draco Malfoy's preceptor! Draco was the son of the Marquis Malfoy, the highest ranking aristocrat in the whole valley, and he was about her age. Hermione knew he had a preceptor, but had never even heard anything about him. She decided to press further.
«Has he taken his post recently? »
«Not that I know of. His orders started to arrive around six months ago. Mostly books for the boy, rarely something for himself».
Six months ago. So he was at Malfoy Manor since last winter! How come he had never shown his face before?
«It is strange that he entertains no social life. Sure, he's still a subordinate of the Malfoys, but preceptors are known to join their families in social outings when their charges are required to attend! I remember never seeing him at any gathering last winter» she wondered loudly.
«He doesn't like society much. And his bad leg bothers him during winter. So told me old John who works at Malfoy's stables », said Mr. Cresswell. «An old war injury. »
Hermione wanted to know more about Mr. Snape, but then remembered her manners and stopped herself from asking more questions. It wasn't proper, and she surely didn't want to come off as a gossip. So she thanked Mr. Cresswell for the book, bade him good day and exited the shop.
The long walk home had never bothered her, and it was now much more welcome for it gave her time to think. The mysterious gentlemen had now a name, Mr. Snape, and a face. Not a handsome one, but a striking one nonetheless. He had an occupation, a place in their small community. The matter only seemed to grow more intricate though, the apparent reclusion and the injured leg adding to his enigmatic aura. And then there was the daily walk, and the flowers. They were all like pieces of a puzzle, fitting together to form the picture of the dark Mr. Snape.
Hermione smile at the thought. She loved puzzles, and it looked like this summer had given her a complex one to solve.