Please note: This whole story will soon be called "Strong Poison", from the novel by Dorothy L. Sayers.
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Chapter Four: A Conversation"—O yes, I am poisoned, Mother; make my bed soon,
For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wad lie down."
--Lord Randall (Old Ballad)
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The answer, when he found it, turned out to be astonishingly simple.
He had been looking for the wrong thing all along. He'd combed all the books in his family's (admittedly meager) library, as well as those of his own and Hogwarts' and the Ministry's, for a poison that would leave no traces on a dead body. The reason that this idea was flawed was that no such potion could really exist—even though all traces of the poison itself would disappear, the damage left behind would leave evidence of the likely ingredients used. It would then be the simple task of a Potions Master or a Mediwizard to reconstruct the working parts of the poison in question. No, Snape couldn't have that.
It was ironic that it was his wife who gave him the idea. After dinner on Saturday, he had her come to the sitting room to discuss her post-graduation options; the deadlines for submissions of applications to wizarding universities and common apprenticeship programs were approaching. She was being very civil, which he considered a vast improvement on her past behavior. He asked the house-elf to bring in some tea and sat across from her.
"No doubt you have already discussed this with Professor McGonagall. Perhaps it would be best if you would make your decisions with her; you have no need to consult me, although, should you need my advice, you will have it. I have made a list of certain options she may have overlooked," he added, handing her a sheet of parchment, which she took curiously.
"Thank you; I'll have her look at this first thing tomorrow."
"I should also add," he continued, "that I have been reviewing my account statements from Gringotts. I think it would please you to hear that you will not need to worry about expenses. Brunges will take care of that," he added, mentioning the name of the small Potions business, found in Critic Alley, of which he was part-owner. He had taken her there once. A distant cousin on his mother's side, a squib, managed it and was part-owner as well; the old John Munting had been charmed by Snape's wife, and regretted that he was perhaps too old to take one of his own. Hermione had seemed to like him as well.
"Expenses?" Her smooth forehead wrinkled. "What do you mean? My parents mean to provide for that."
"I am your husband now," he chided her gently. "I have to protect you, watch over you, provide for you. I am responsible for you."
For the thousandth time since she married him, he'd said the wrong thing. She stiffened and stood up, dislodging a protesting Crookshanks. "You know, I think we'd get along better if you stopped treating me like a child."
"That is not what I am doing at all," he sighed, frustrated. He was getting tired of dealing with her temper and the barbs that she constantly threw his way. Thankfully his own murderous temper seemed to have taken a vacation. Was it because she was being more civil than usual, or was it the alcohol? Perhaps it was the firelight seen through the curtain of her hair. He opened his mouth to explain, and was interrupted.
"Being my husband, you might try to show me a little more respect," she murmured, looking at her feet.
"Being my wife, you might try to show me a little more kindness," he retorted, regretting the words as soon as they escaped his lips. It revealed too much of what he wanted from her. His foot was in his mouth, yet again. He took a swift swig from his glass of bourbon, noticing how Hermione followed the glass with her eyes, and attempted to explain.
"I am responsible for you in the same way that you are responsible for me," he clarified. Our assets are combined now. Surely you remember being told that. At the moment, because you are still a student and have no financially lucrative pursuits or any property, our assets are composed mostly of mine. Still, the funding for your studies will come from those combined assets. The same would be true if I needed funding because I suddenly decided that I wanted to establish a bowling alley in Hogsmeade."
She snorted, and he was irrationally pleased to see her smile as she sat back down again, coaxing Crookshanks back onto her lap.
"What do you know about bowling alleys anyway," she huffed, still smiling, as her cat swatted at her hand. She looked up at him again, and he watched the curious expression return to her eyes. "Does Brunges really bring in that much? John doesn't seem to have many customers."
"It brings in quite enough," he said, trying not to be overwhelmed by the fact that he was discussing money matters with her, like an ordinary husband and wife of an ordinary household. He swallowed, and kept his eyes on his drink rather than watch her wide eyes. "In case you haven't noticed, Brunges has something of a monopoly on the specialized potions market. Even though the location is terrible, wizards still seek out the store because the potions sold by the apothecaries in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley are very basic. They don't even stock Pepper-Up."
"I've never thought about that," she mused. "I was always able to mail-order hair potions or—" she stopped, as though she had revealed too much. It occurred to him that hair potions were not exactly things that she wanted to discuss with him. Those things belonged to her world as a young woman, and did not need to be taken to his notice. Bravely, she ploughed on. "—or ointments, from magazines. The other potions that I needed, I could brew by myself."
"Believe me, I remember," he said wryly, thinking of her botched Polyjuice. (Was he really joking with her? The sound of his own teasing felt foreign to his own ears. He was glad she did not run away screaming.)
"Can't wizards just brew there own?" she asked, as though she hadn't heard him say anything. "It's not as though they're hard to make."
"Not everyone has your, ah, penchant for potions, Miss Gra—Hermione." For a moment he felt like he was in the classroom with her again.
"Oh. Well, thank you. I guess it's much more convenient for them to just buy ready-made concoctions. Are the potions from Brunges very expensive?"
"Not very. Expensive enough, but then brewing takes a lot of effort and is a hard-earned skill. You have no need to worry that you will be taking advantage of the ignorance or laziness of wizards everywhere just because you'll be using that income to study."
She laughed again. He was beginning to feel light-headed. It wasn't the bourbon—of that he was sure. He took a swig again. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him.
"Don't you ever worry about your liver?"
"Evidently not."
"You're going to die early if you keep that up," she muttered.
"I might die early anyway," he countered. She looked stricken. Steering the subject to more pleasant matters, he said, "I only drink it to ease my nerves." Which are frayed whenever you're around. "The third-years today were evidently aiming to break Longbottom's record of melted cauldrons." It was a predictable thing for him to say, but still she laughed. It was charming. He wondered if she was ill—wondered why she was tolerating his company more than necessary. They had wandered far off the topic at hand. He cleared his throat.
"To return to the subject of funding," he said, "as you can see, I have been living rather frugally, and as a teacher, I haven't had to pay for these rooms. When you have graduated we will have to move to the Naples house, but as it is, my savings have accumulated quite a lot."
"You remind me of Harry," she mused, biting her lip thoughtfully. "He has money, too, but he's been living just as frugally as you." She caught the expression on his face. He stood up.
"Well," he said. His voice sounded distant even to himself. It was going so well. And then she'd had to bring him up. There was a distinct roaring in Snape's ears, and he suddenly felt the need to go to bed as soon as possible. To be as far away from her as possible. His face felt closed. He wondered what it looked like to her. "It seems that there is nothing left to discuss tonight. Do tell me what you decide with Minerva. Good night." He traced, woodenly, the path to his rooms, ignoring her as she raced to keep up with him, asking him what was wrong. He all but slammed the door in her face. The dejection there was amazing to see.
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In any event, the conversation had helped him discover a solution. It was perfect. The results would seem to be neither suicide nor murder—just natural causes, or carelessness. Just an old man fond of his wife and even fonder of his alcohol.