My boy builds coffins for the rich and the poor
Kings and queens, they've all knocked on his door
Beggars and liars, gypsies and thieves
They all come to him because he's so eager to please
"My Boy Builds Coffins" – Florence And the Machine
Hermione's question brought a dead silence in its aftermath.
Though Nora should not have been shocked at the question, it was clear that on some level, she hadn't been expecting it all the same.
Finally, she bobbed her head. A woman seemingly defeated.
"Then your name is Eileen Snape?" Hermione asked, her words slow. "Or Prince, now, perhaps?"
"Snape."
There was another beat of awkward silence.
"Well go on, girl! Write it down for the damn paperwork!"
Hermione sighed, but she didn't immediately reach for the quill. "What do you imagine will happen if I write your name on the paperwork Mrs. Snape?"
Eileen flinched. "How do you even know my name, for Merlin's sake?"
Hermione coloured with embarrassment. "Well, you didn't seem surprised that Voldemort should know who I was... I imagined that you knew who I was."
The older witch planted her hands on her hips "I don't know you from Arthur, girl—all I know is you're awfully familiar with dark wizards."
"Dark wizards?"
Eileen sniffed delicately, "Tom, and... and my son."
Hermione gave a shocked laugh, "Your son! Your son was no dark wizard!"
When Eileen was too shocked to respond, Hermione continued, "He changed sides in the early eighties. He was the Order of the Phoenix's spy—he... he was Albus Dumbledore's sole confidant in the very end!"
"I didn't..." Eileen dabbed at her eyes, "I didn't want to know, I just... I was just a muggle. For many years. And when the bridge in London was destroyed... I knew, I knew that was them, that that was probably my boy doing that... And it -hic- it was hor-horr-horrible," she finally gasped.
Hermione held fast to Eileen's hand as the woman sobbed. "So, you didn't know anything? About your son's life after leaving Hogwarts?"
"N-n-noo," Eileen moaned, looking even more like a banshee than normal.
Hermione sighed. If this was necessary, so be it. It fell to her to explain the finer points of a right bastard of a man, who had largely made her school life unpleasant, to his bereaved mother, who, incidentally, believed her son to have been a dark wizard.
"I knew your son, because he was my Potions Master. Dumbledore hired him to work at Hogwarts when he switched sides."
"Really? A Potions Master?" Eileen had an almost wondrous look on her face.
Hermione nodded and chose another crisp, "Yes. He wasn't, er, he wasn't easy on us—but he, ah, that is to say—we learned a lot." She finished, feeling somewhat lame. "Mrs. Snape, I hate to ask, but... you seem to know—right? That he's not... that he's no longer with us?"
Surprisingly, Eileen was more composed for this question that some of the previous ones. She nodded, her expression somber.
"I paid attention—just for a month or so—when I'd heard the war had ended. And I bought a couple of copies of the Daily Prophet."
"So you saw his name in the lists of casualties?"
A nod.
"I am so, so sorry that Harry was never able to clear his name posthumously,"
"Harry?" Eileen broke in. "That Harry Potter boy? You know him too?"
Hermione gave a small shrug and a sheepish grin, "He's my best mate," she chuckled.
The raw astonishment on Eileen Snape's face might have been funny had they not been discussing a very serious, very recent war.
"Imagine," she marveled, "my bleeding social worker, friends with the bloody boy-who-lived."
"I thought you didn't pay any attention!" Hermione joked with a laugh.
"I didn't, not for the most part," Eileen mumbled into her tea, "Just when the wars ended, during the celebration bit—stuck my head out to see what was what."
She continued to nurse her drink "And that boy—I knew a bit of him, so imagine my surprise when the bloody Prophet said he'd killed Tom!"
Hermione was confused now, "But what did you know about Harry?"
"Well he's the son of that flower girl my boy was always on about, isn't he? And that nasty boy—that Potter boy that gave my Severus such trouble."
"Ah," Yes, Hermione could remember something of that little love triangle being explained to her in the twilight during the Battle of Hogwarts.
"Don't mistake me: I didn't know they had a kid, or that they'd married, at least not until Tom fell... But I knew their names when the papers talked about that Halloween. I'd heard Severus mention them hundreds of times." She paused. "It made me worry. That he'd had something to do with it."
Hermione's heart clenched. "He sort of did..." she hesitated, seeing the renewed grief in Eileen's expression, "But it wasn't really his fault. I think... I think it was what made him change sides, ultimately." She offered, hoping it would be enough to assuage the hurt.
"I doubt he'd have told a chit like you about it," Eileen huffed, indignant.
Hermione decided she'd best not take offense— Eileen could be as acerbic as her son when in a mood to be. Now, she simply understood the familial resemblance.
"He didn't tell me, no. To him I was an absolute pain in the arse. I heard the whole story second hand, in bits and pieces."
Eileen suddenly seemed amused, her pointed face looking almost spritely. "A pain in the arse, were you? Why'd my son not like you, girl?" She leaned back in her chair, studying Hermione closely. "You're bright enough. He wouldn't be stupid enough to miss a thing like that. No—no, you're an eager one, aren't you? Over eager. You tried too hard to please him, I'll bet, and then he felt he couldn't praise you."
Hermione gave the old witch a steely glare. "Maybe. On the other hand, he was the Head of Slytherin, I was a Gryffindor,"
"—I knew it!"
"Yes," she began again repressively, "And I was best friends with Harry Potter—he was a spy for Voldemort. There were kids in class, the children of Death Eaters. I don't know how he might have treated me if he were free to act as himself. But it's possible I'd still have been just another annoying 'know-it-all' to him." she finished with a shrug.
"Ooooh— a 'know-it-all'," Eileen crooned, "That boy." She shook her head in fond remembrance.
Hermione said nothing. It was childish, but she felt like sulking in embarrassment. It shouldn't sting so much what Snape had thought of her more than ten years ago, but discussing it with his mother somehow brought home how... truthful... some of Snape's criticisms of her had actually been.
She had been swotty, almost unbearably so. She had been obsessed with proving herself. She'd not realized it at the time, but her first order of business at Hogwarts had been to attempt to ingratiate herself with each of the teachers, and that had been more or less successful. Except, she had always known, with Snape.
"I used to call him a know-it-all."
Eileen's words shocked the younger witch out of her reflective reverie with a jolt.
"Oh yes," the older woman chuckled at Hermione's wide-eyed expression. "He memorized all of the books in the house by seven, you know?
"Used to go around parroting them to anyone who would listen—which, more often than not, was no one," Eileen reflected. Her slumped shoulders belied the terrible sadness recollections from the time brought her.
"You must have reminded him of himself: and he would never, never go easy on himself, Ms. Granger."
"Maybe." Hermione remarked, without any real commitment. It felt like there was little to say after that. The words hung between them and Hermione couldn't for the life of her figure out what to do with the information.
It wasn't like that proved he'd liked her, of course! That just wasn't on.
But you never heard him call anyone else know-it-all before, a voice reminded her.
The diminutive witch was left awkwardly picking at her crisps. She eyed the parchment for a distraction: anything to avoid the uncomfortable questions and recollections that thinking on Snape's behavior wrought.
The sound of soft chuckles brought her round again. She glanced up.
Eileen was chortling into her mug, and when the motion of it slopped bits of tea over the edge, she brought her napkin up to delicately wipe at the droplets clinging to the Queen's youthful face.
"If I had any doubt that you knew my boy, Ms. Granger—my, my. He seems to have left an impression on you," Eileen couldn't seem to control her laughter.
Hermione might have felt bad that it was at her expense, but she'd not yet seen the old woman express any joy or happiness whatsoever—she was loath to interrupt, even to defend herself.
Finally, her hooting lessened until she was merely coughing mild exclamations of amusement.
Unfortunately, that wasn't before she saw the censorious look on her social worker's face.
"Oh don't be like that—you knew Severus, but you don't seem to have known Severus." Eileen sobered some, her face regaining some of the grief that had previously been obscured by mirth. "I've no doubt he made a poor professor. He would have hated to have become one in the first place.
"Don't misunderstand me, now—my boy was... he was brilliant. He was smarter than any of those Oxbridge academics have any right to claim—but in an institutional setting? My Severus could hardly remember to clean his face—barely remembered to eat unless I made him—I just have a hard time imagining him holding up well... all that responsibility foisted on him, and for twenty years..."
"He wasn't the kindest professor,"
"Well and why would he be?" Eileen intercepted again, warming to the topic. "What did kindness ever do to prepare someone for how difficult life will be?"
"Well it wasn't better to mock and belittle us all the time!" Hermione scathed, "Maybe life is difficult, I can admit that—there were actual murderers about, actually planning on killing us—sure, life wasn't planning to be kind, but he could have made a better effort to not be cruel,"
"I'm sure he should have!" Snape's mother all but shouted, "I'm SURE he should have! But it sounds that he didn't. Now I want YOU to consider why he was there! You said Dumbledore employed him, after he turned sides. I knew my child—he would have NEVER volunteered to teach. We'd talked about it before, he hated the idea. If he took that job, I can't imagine he actually had a bloody choice, did he?"
Hermione rubbed at her eyes. She'd begun to manifest a slight headache. A combination of her joint frustration and fatigue. "Yeah, okay? I don't think he ever wanted to be a teacher." She sighed deeply and thought back. "After the war there were a lot of stories going around. Stories from before Voldemort's first fall. Stories from before I was even born. But yeah, yeah, I think I remember Harry telling me."
"And what did the Potter boy tell you?"
Hermione wrung her hands around her teacup with mounting resentment. "That the choice was to remain a Death Eater, or work for Dumbledore at Hogwarts, where he could keep an eye on him..."
"So it's true!" Crowed Eileen. Her black eyes were scorching hot with a mother's righteous fury. "He really did— that man, that... that... he made him. He made him his... his errand boy— his prisoner."
Eileen's furor had crescendoed into another round of sobbing, though this time Hermione had a difficult time making out why. The old witch's words were garbled through her histrionics.
"In thrall to t-t-two tyrants," she gasped into her hands. She was doubled over in pain, as if she'd been stabbed in the gut.
"Do you have any, Granger?" Her client moaned, still hunched over.
"Any what, Eileen?"
"Any children?"
"Er... no,"
"You deliver them to the world, and then -hic- the world breaks them and never gives them back..."
It was clear that Eileen was somewhere else. Probably sometime else. Instead of continuing the discussion, which she worried would only distress the old witch more, Hermione scooted her chair around the corner of the table and gathered Eileen's stooped shoulders into her own. It was a bit awkward at first, for one thing, Eileen was almost a head taller than the diminutive brunette, but she managed after a bit of coaxing to rest her silver head against Hermione's shoulder.
They sat for a few moments that way. Eileen sobbing into the soft cotton of her social worker's t-shirt.
"Mrs. Snape," the brunette began, feeling her way out with caution, "I know this has been a long afternoon for you, would it be okay if I returned tomorrow with the paperwork? We can finish up then, if you like."
"You're not... you're not going to tell anyone?"
Hermione shifted uncomfortably. "Well... we never got around to talking about whatever it was you were afraid would happen if I put your true name down."
"So you haven't... yet?"
"No, not yet. The field is still empty." She replied, turning the parchment about so that Mrs. Snape could see it.
"I suppose there's no harm. I don't think the Ministry would want anything to do with me..." Eileen mused. "I was afraid... maybe that Toby would find me... Or that I'd be brought in because of what Severus had done... to be questioned, you know?"
"But, Mrs. Snape—how would your ex-husband find you, if the paperwork is in the magical system?"
She shrugged one shoulder, a behavior Hermione was quickly coming to recognize as something quite signature to the woman's body language. "Well, I don't know, do I? The muggles guaranteed that I was protected—and I didn't see hide nor hair of him, neither. But you didn't guarantee nothing.
"And then you said my Severus had changed sides, and I'm relieved to hear it: but that doesn't mean the lads he spent time with as a boy did too."
"You're afraid of being attacked by Death Eaters?" Hermione supplied.
Another unilateral shrug.
"I think that's a legitimate concern," she aggreed, patting her client's pale hand. "Most of them, I think, were rounded up in Aethelfromm's purges right after the battle, but I'll tell you what: how about I fill these out—with all of the information correct—I think I've got enough now; I don't see why you wouldn't be approved—and when I take them to the department head, I can ask about requesting a protective order from Magical Law Enforcement."
Snape's mother glared impotently at the empty plate before her. "What would that do for me?"
"Well, it'd guarantee you housing, for a start. And I happen to know a few people in the MLE, I think I could at least talk them into a few caterwauling wards, perhaps some dark detectors? I'm not sure, but you're probably right. You're the mother of their most hated spy—I think I could at least get Harry to give you a foe glass."
"Potter, again?"
"He's the Deputy Head of the MLE, Eileen. It'd help to have his support."
Eileen grumbled under her breath.
"And besides, he has a... a special respect, for your son." At Eileen's curious glance, she decided to lay it on thicker. "Professor Snape hated Harry. I think you could have guessed that. In life they fought like a cat and a dog but Harry... he respects everything the Professor did for us. I think, now, now that it's harder to remember being yelled at in Potion's class, he might even see him as one of his greatest heroes."
"You're having me on," Eileen snorted, "You needn't butter me up, girl—I know what my boy was like, he was no one's hero—certainly not a Potter's."
Hermione simply shook her head. "Have it your way, Eileen; but I happened to attend the christening of an absolutely beautiful baby boy earlier this summer. Harry's second child. Do you know what they decided to name him? Hmm?"
No answer was forthcoming.
"Albus Severus Potter."
Eileen was too shocked to respond, so Hermione continued, hoping that she wouldn't have to further underscore her point.
"He said he named him for the two bravest men he'd ever met. Harry never liked Professor Snape in life, I won't lie to you and say he did. I'd say Professor Snape hated him even more: but he saved us—he hated us, and he still saved us so many times. No matter what, we know he was our hero."
"It's odd to hear you call him that. 'Professor Snape'."
Hermione smiled—a sheepish curl of her lips, "I wouldn't know what else to call him now."
"You could try 'Severus,' I thought it was a nice name when I gave it to him," Eileen griped petulantly.
"You're barmy! If he could hear me call him that he'd murder me—for sure!"
Together they laughed for a moment, glad to relieve even a small amount of tension out of what had seemed a perilous conversation.
The sun was setting outside, and the small kitchen was rapidly becoming too dark to be able to comfortably see in. While Hermione busied herself with washing up and attending to the magical lights, Eileen sat and watched in mute fascination.
"How long will these stay lit?" she asked, hands shoved in her armpits and her arms crossed over her small bosom.
"Probably for a few hours, or until you put them out."
There was silence after Hermione's response, so she turned around to see if Eileen had heard her reply. The older woman was staring forlornly at her knees, looking very small and frail.
Suddenly, like a Weasley whistling whizzbang, it hit her.
"You... you've been sitting here in the dark for a month, haven't you?"
Eileen only hunched forward more.
"You couldn't have made yourself any light without a wand! Oh, Eileen, I am so, so sorry—we'll make this right, I promise!"
Her client had begun to cry once more but she nodded her head gratefully all the same.
"If you need something, please, please ask—I'm deathly serious: my whole job here is to make sure you have what you need while you're in our care."
Another feeble nod.
"For tonight, I can put a permanent light in the sitting room, kitchen, and in the loo until we can come and charm the lights to respond to your verbal commands, probably sometime this week. That way, you can use those rooms whether it's light out or not.
"Now, is there anything else? Anything at all before I'm back next week?"
Eileen looked as if she desperately wanted to remain quiet, but the oppressive solitude of her life in her small apartment had likely begun to wear on her. The struggle was writ large on her expressive, melancholic face.
"I saw... I saw your jumper a few times past. I thought—it looked handmade."
Hermione nodded, not sure where the older witch could be going. "I knitted it myself."
Eileen breathed what looked like a sigh of relief, "Would it be too much to trouble you for some needles and a skein of yarn?"
Hermione's mouth formed a little 'o' of surprise. She gaped for several moments, looking quite like a fish out of water, before she jumped up from her seat and retrieved her purple bag from the counter.
"I've got—hold on," Hermione muttered, extending her arm deep into her bag again. This time, she was obliged to follow her arm with her head and shoulders, rooting about with the better part of her torso before she emerged, victorious, with a fluffy wool confection in a riotous speckled pink, and a pair of chunky plastic knitting needles. "This is all I have on me at the moment, but I can pick up anything you like from the store in the future, if you ask."
Eileen received them with a look of some wonder.
"This is... quite the colour. I don't believe this was in vogue back in my day." She said with a small sniff. She then clutched them to her breast, however. "Thank you. I don't mean to be ungrateful... thank you."
"It's no trouble, Eileen, I mean it." Hermione smiled. "I'm sorry for the color, I quite like pinks."
"It's not so bad—it's just, er, vivid. Perhaps you could transfigure the gauge of the needles a mite smaller though," she replied, handing them back.
Hermione set about shrinking their circumference. "Better?"
"Yes, thank you."
"I can stop by the craft supply store sometime this week: was there something specific I could get for you?"
Mrs. Snape thought for a moment or two. "Perhaps, a set of those very long double points—metal, if possible, and thin too. I'd also like some fingering weight... er... I think a neutral hue may suit best."
Hermione tried not to laugh. She hadn't taken offence that Eileen Snape didn't care for her taste in yarn. The conversation itself was so surreal that she could scarcely think about it for too long, lest she risk her mind rejecting the idea of it outright as some sort of psychotic break from reality.
"I can do that, that's no trouble." Hermione gathered her bags, and the empty box from the Weasley's bakery, and moved throughout the house, lighting the rooms she had promised to. At last, she made her way back to the front of the small house.
"Well, Eileen," she started, meeting the woman at the door, "I should be back next week, same time, with the papers for you to sign. And I'll have someone out to do your lights as soon as possible. Was there anything else I could get you before I see you next?"
"Er... no, no I think I'm quite settled, Ms. Granger." Eileen seemed to dither, looking anywhere but in Hermione's face, before she ultimately grabbed hold of her, in an awkward one-armed embrace.
It took Hermione a beat to respond. The move was sudden, and rather out of the realm of what she had expected from the reclusive Mrs. Snape.
"—and thank you, thank you—" Hermione heard her whispering against her shirt, "Thank you for telling me my boy wasn't... that he was good." She suddenly felt a fierce urge to hug the grieving mother back—and so she did.
The two women stood hanging onto one another for the better part of a minute.
Eileen stepped back first. She seemed to feel humiliated, and this time, true to what Hermione might have predicted of the woman, she compensated by being rude.
"Some of us like to get to bed at a reasonable hour, Ms. Granger!"
Hermione snorted with amusement. "Yes, of course, Mrs. Snape. I'll see you next week."
My boy builds coffins and I think it's a shame
That when each one's been made, he can't see it again
He crafts every one with love and with care
Then it's thrown in the ground, it just isn't fair
"My Boy Builds Coffins" (reprise) – Florence And the Machine