A note on canon compatibility: You may have noticed from the (edited) first chapter and from this one that, while this story is AU as of HBP release, the elements of Snape's mother having been called Eileen Prince and of the poverty that Snape suffered in his youth have been retained; it seemed silly to fabricate a new name just to keep things decidedly AU.
A note on confusing flashbacks: As it is, it is a rather simple plot intertwined with Snape's melancholy recollections. This story was never meant to be easy to read, but sorry all the same if it gets a bit confusing. Careful reading will show you in what part of the time line the narrative is set.
Thank you so much to the faithful reviewers. Fanfiction . net now allows me to see who has added the story to their Favorites list, and while I appreciate that, I appreciate the time taken to give comments more. This story has been in progress for such a long time, and I'm very grateful to my readers for keeping up with this turtle of an author and with the persistent melancholia in this story, as well as with the constant, Ms Lydgate-ish corrections.
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CHAPTER SIX
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be--Robert Frost
- - -
Their marriage, however brief, had taught him a few things.
It was in being married to her that he learned of the unconditional nature of love, which suffered all and forgave all. He was willing to concede, despite his own feelings, that the marriage had not shown her to best advantage. He had discovered, in her, deep reserves of cruelty that he'd had no idea existed—reserves that perhaps she was only discovering herself; perhaps he imagined it, but he had often noted that if she surprised him by some cutting remark, then she surprised herself as well. He had known it from the outset, but in marriage he made and remade the discovery that she was not perfect.
He became aware, in that time when the plan was being perfected and enacted, that he was perhaps being unfair to his wife in only remembering the hurtful and the sad. For all their differences, in temperament and in interests they were quite compatible, and he was convinced that had he been a better person overall—handsomer, kinder, more trustworthy, less manipulative—she might have entertained some interest in him after all.
As it was they managed to get along, most of the time, quietly, though not entirely peacefully. He recalled returning home after a mission to find that the exam papers he hadn't been looking forward to grading were neatly arranged on his desk, with corrections and checks made with Hermione's pencil. There was no accompanying note. His gratitude was quiet and found itself expressed in a beautiful self-inking quill, stowed carefully in an elegant box that mysteriously found its way into her book bag. She might not have concluded as much, but he had meant it as permission to grade whenever she wanted—an expression of trust in her competence and sense of fairness.
In remembering those incidents he was filled with a strange melancholy at the thought that their most generous exchanges had involved no words and no interactions. Then the memory of her sitting in the drawing room, tickling her cheek absently with the quill-feather while she read, revived him.
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Even though they would, objectively speaking, have been his most pleasant memories, he often chose not to dwell—when he chose to dwell on anything—on thoughts of their time in Naples. Into the sweetness of those halcyon days had crept, over time, the bitterness of knowing that the expectations that he had allowed himself to build were nothing but castles in the proverbial sky.
But the memories themselves were sweet. They revisited him at odd times, and although after each recollection he reminded himself of the folly of having hoped, he could still manage a sort of smile for them. Neither of them played the piano very well, but when Hermione discovered old sheet music in the library, they had together removed the dust cover from the old upright piano in a sitting room. The house had once belonged to Snape's grandmother, and the sheet music, found in an old box covered with the dust of decades, was a sundry collection of spirited country airs, melancholy nocturnes, arias, and selections from the stage musicals that his cousins had favored. Sitting on the piano bench with her, attempting to simultaneously play the music and sing what parts he knew, he had felt something—a knot—in himself loosen slowly.
Her face was clear in his mind. Looking at her as he had in the warm light of the room, he thought she was very lovely, and that he was very lucky to have married her. She was extremely intelligent, kind to young children, respectful of her elders, and (usually) well-mannered. He'd thought that she would make a very good wife, and a good mother, and that he was very fortunate indeed.
- - -
In the present, he started awake. The room was full of light, but it wasn't that which woke him. Feeling somebody brush the hair from his face, he had the impulse to swat the hand away, but found he hadn't the strength—he had barely any even to open his eyes. When he did they met his wife's.
It was the work of a moment for him to recollect who she was and what he had done for her, and to deduce where he was. Suddenly alert, he felt the sick wave of failure wash over him, and he turned his face from her, unable to look her in the eyes.
She was crying. "You're a fool, Severus," she said. Her wandering hand found his, and she held his wrist in a vise-like grip. "Such an utter fool."
"I know," he managed to say, in a voice hoarse with sleep and disuse, thick with despair. "I made a mistake." I'm sorry I disappointed you.
"Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?"
"I had planned against that."
"Evidently you overlooked something."
"Yes." He was filled with shame. What a pathetic man you are, he thought, that you failed even in this.
Her voice was fading, and his perception was blurring. He closed his eyes, and allowed himself to sleep, and for the moment elude the consequences of his failure.
"You're a fool" was the last thing he heard her say before falling into slumber.
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It was also in the Naples house that she gave him her last gift. Two days after he had confirmed her faithlessness, a Tuesday, he asked her to accompany him to Naples to collect the flowers she had cultivated for ingredients. He himself was to go through the house to gather important, potentially valuable family heirlooms to sort through, upon the request of his solicitor, who thought it best to take stock of the things he owned now that his assets were no longer just his. Snape was careful in his manner with her. He was quiet with her, not exactly stiff, but how could he look her in the eye when he knew how little she thought of him?
They hadn't spoken of the incident—hardly spoken at all, except for that small request he made, early Tuesday morning as she was leaving their rooms for class. He knew her schedule for the day and knew that she could spare some time in the late afternoon, and hoped she would agree, because he didn't think he could bear to walk into the garden of Refuge. She had made it hers, after all, and like Mary Lennox's uncle he had given it to her without a thought, later to see it bloom and blossom under her fingers. The flowers weren't his to collect.
They portkeyed to the house, and she stepped away from him immediately, and set out in the direction of the gardens, mumbling. Since the Incident she had kept her eyes averted from his and seemed tense and worried in his presence, like a child waiting to be scolded by a disappointed parent. He almost wanted to tell her that she had no reason to be afraid of him. How could he blame her for seeking what happiness she could when, with him, there was none to be had?
She found him later on while he was in his grandmother's old sitting room. He was in his shirtsleeves, dirty and undignified, and he stiffened—but didn't look up—at the sound of her footsteps. He kept his eyes on the old trunk which lay opened before him. She sat beside him, her Muggle denim trousers stretching over her thighs as she poised, Indian-style, on the dusty floor. Her basket of flowers lay nestled in the diamond made by her legs.
"You'll get your clothes dirty," he said, not looking at her.
"That's all right," she said softly.
"I'm almost done," he said.
"No hurry," she replied.
He doubted it, but remained silent.
"What are those?" she asked some time later after an uncomfortable silence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her finger pointing to a handful of volumes stacked haphazardly beside the trunk.
"Family pictures," he said shortly. He was suddenly very sad.
"We've never had one taken."
"Yes."
"Should we?"
"If you like."
Hope, warm and unexpected, filled him. He internally shrugged it away. Guilt, he rationalized. She probably doesn't even know why she feels guilty but given who she is it's a predictable impulse. She will get over it.
"And that?" she asked suddenly.
"What?"
"The box you're holding. What's in it?"
He looked down at the smooth wood of the box in his hands, and ran his hand over the hinges at the back. "It's…" It was difficult to say the words. He forced them out, trying for nonchalance. "My grandmother's jewelry. They were to be given to my wife."
"Oh."
The silence was palpable. The feeling that his insides were slowly dissolving had not really faded within the span of two days, and now it renewed itself. He begged her silently not to ask more questions. His knees began to hurt from kneeling too long. After a while she spoke again, and he stiffened in anticipation.
"You're not giving them to me, are you." It wasn't a question.
He almost turned to face her. Her voice sounded melancholy. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the lock of the box as he sat down beside her, not too close, imitating her style. How incongruous we look, he thought, glancing at his black trousers, made grey by the dust, and at her Muggle attire and footwear. We will never be just right together.
"They have spells woven into them," he said, briefly but not coldly.
"What spells?"
"Fertility," he said. "Fidelity."
In the ensuing silence he returned the box to its trunk, also placing there the photograph albums from the stack on the floor. He turned his back from her. He couldn't erase from his mind the image of her, eyes closed sweetly, while she kissed someone else. He tried, but there was nothing for it. He busied himself with Summoning random items from the fairly large, pink-papered room—a music box from the delicate table beside an armchair, a silver photo frame from an intricately-bordered shelf near the door. There were not many objects to gather, around the house, and this was the last room. His was a small inheritance; the trunk was not even half full.
Outside the sun began to set; the room began to darken.
"Sir," he heard her say softly, behind him. "Sir. Severus."
He was busy wrapping the photo frame in tissue paper, and did not immediately look up.
"Severus. I—I am sorry."
His hands stilled. Are you? He wanted to ask, but resisted the impulse to do so. He still couldn't look at her.
He almost jumped when he felt her hand touch his elbow, tentatively.
"It didn't mean anything. I promise. It wasn't… I thought I wanted… But I… You're—he's not—"
He could bear to hear no more of her stumbling excuses, her insincere apologies. He cut her short, not unkindly. "I do understand," he said, putting the wrapped picture frame in place and warding the trunk shut.
"Please," she said. Her voice sounded like it was thick with tears. "Please."
"You don't have anything to worry about." He prepared to stand, dusting the dirt from his trousers, but she caught his hand with two of hers, squeezing it as it lay limp in the circle of her fingers.
"I was so lonely," she whispered. "I felt trapped. It just felt nice at the time to—If you could just—"
"Yes," he said, to quiet her. "Yes."
"It won't happen again. I promise. Please believe me."
"Yes," he lied.
"Please look at me."
He couldn't resist her any longer. He had longed to hear an apology from her lips but now that he had it, he couldn't believe her.
He remembered, from her youth, the episode of the troll in a bathroom at Hogwarts—when she had lied and said she had gone after it out of a misguided confidence in her abilities, and when he had seen right through her. In the many years since then it seemed that she had gained some practice in the art of dissembling, and in her words now he could not resist wanting to believe her sincerity, although his heart knew the truth.
He turned to look at her small and earnest face, now above his as she, kneeling, tugged at his arm. She was so close. He felt ill with disappointment in her.
"It won't happen again," she repeated in a whisper. She released his arm and, keeping her eyes trained on his, she reached inside the trunk for the jewelry box. She opened it and took out the first thing she saw—a silver chain, lonely and plain without its pendant. He saw her fingers shaking as she clasped it around her neck.
"It won't happen again," she repeated. Even as her face descended toward his own, he couldn't really believe what she was doing until her lips touched his, shortly. Sweetly.
"Yes," he breathed when she pulled apart, and for the moment he believed her.
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(end of chapter)
Author's note: Mary Lennox is from The Secret Garden.
As for comments regarding the surprise that Hermione expressed at the end of chapter four, I think the matter is cleared up a little bit by the end of this installment, when she, childishly, assumes that the matter has been cleared up between them and that they are now starting with a clean slate. It's immature, but I think tolerably realistic, given personal experience. Further clarification is found in future chapters. The relationship between them is more complex and full of misunderstanding than even I had anticipated it would be.
I think that a clarification of the time line helps at this point, for those who didn't reread the earlier chapters.
They get married in December.
Mr and Mrs Snape spend three weeks, more or less, in Italy, including the term break.
They return to Hogwarts. Snape chastises her for staying out late and begins to detect signs of her infidelity (see chapters two to five). After about a week, his suspicions are confirmed (chapter five).
They return to Naples for a few hours (chapter six), and make a kind of breakthrough.
Days later, the so-called Final Battle, that standard in fanfiction, takes place. Snape locks his wife away to protect her. Animosity on Hermione's part (and a resignation on Snape's) is renewed, and is compounded by her having to stay in the castle.
Snape conducts research to perfect his plan. Remember the Hogsmeade chocolates and the conversation about Brunges.
At last, Snape perfects his plan.