(Here's the last chapter . . there will be an epilogue after this . . . that will be long and fluffy, however! Enjoy!)
Chapter 8
Severus nicked over to Dr. Cromwell's office as soon as he could escape from the kitchen, sneaking away while he employed Jennifer to find the garlic-press—a futile task, as he had the kitchen's only one in his pocket. She was sure to make a dreadful mess in the kitchen, sure, but she would remain thus safely occupied while he made this highly necessary visit.
The good Doctor was sitting at his desk, Severus saw through the reinforced glass window, about five cigarette stubs in the ashtray before him and a look of cold fire in his stark-blue eyes. This is probably a suicide mission, Severus thought, but since when has that ever stopped me?
He touched the doorknob, but found it locked. Steadily, calmly, he tapped on it with his wand, whispered a spell, and entered the room.
The doctor was noticeably startled, and stood up straight when Severus walked into his office with a cavalier manner.
"That door was locked! I tried it three times!" he exclaimed, eyes glowering. He dashed down his sixth stub into the dish, angry.
"It was not to me," Severus said, and calmly advanced on the doctor as if it were the most common thing in the world.
Shaking his head, the Doctor sat down again, but kept a keen eye on the patient. "What are you doing in here, Mr. Robinson? I'm incredibly busy."
"I heard this morning that you received a 'missing' notice for me, with an address upon it?"
The Doctor nodded hurriedly, beginning to rummage through his desk. He soon brought out the pamphlet, but did not show it to the patient.
"Yes, here it is."
Snape looked at him. "Have you called the number?"
The Doctor pondered, then shook his head no. "I . . . I was going to do so."
"If you have thus not, may I impose upon you to borrow your telephone?"
Examining the patient from afar, the Doctor shook his head. "Patients are not allowed any outside contact via letters or telephone," the man said, a sick smile appearing on his lips.
The patient scowled in return. "What kind of bloody rule is that?" he demanded hotly. "What do you call going to the market every day? Doctor, I do believe that you are playing games with me. Games, I might point out, which are ultimately useless."
The Doctor merely stared at him, as though he had started to bark like a chihuahua and run around in circles.
"Please, Doctor, I'm even being civil. Let me call my sister's number. That's all I ask. Then I will leave you to your work."
In reply, the Doctor swiveled his chair until he could easily look out the window. "Why now?" he posed. "Why do you want to call your sister now, after all this time? Didn't you think to search for her number before, even if you did not know it by memory?"
"I had no idea she even lived in England. Last I had heard of her, she moved to America, and I never thought she came back." Snape was obviously on his guard, and was revealing only the barest of facts. Never mind the fact that she was also a squib . . . a disgrace to me and the family . . . and I really wanted no association with her at all.
"Who's the other woman, then, the one with the address in Scotland? Minerva McGonagall?"
"An aunt of sorts."
"Why don't you want to call her?"
"She has no telephone. She's . . . old-fashioned, to put it plainly."
"Hm." The Doctor swiveled back to face Snape. "Well," he said shortly, "You will be allowed to contact her when you have received a clean bill of mental health from me."
"I believe I can prove that now I am completely sane, Doctor. Let me prove myself."
The Doctor shook his head. "It is good that you have reached this point, Mr. Snape. However, I would prefer that we wait a month—then we shall test you thoroughly. And, if you pass with satisfactory grades, you should be allowed to contact your family."
Snape calculated. "Why a month?"
"Why not? I'm the Doctor."
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
Two weeks later, Dr. Cromwell called Desmonda Yitter into his office.
"Desi, my dear, come in and make yourself comfortable."
A crotchety older woman of perhaps seventy, who had worked at the institution from the day it was built in the 1940s (long before he had arrived and turned it into a strictly-Christian environment) shrugged and scowled. "I'm never comfortable, young man, not these days I ain't. My arthritis alone makes me a right bitter woman, and I kin barely write straight 'cause of it. My back does me more complaining than a sailor's peg-leg, too, and my indigestion-"
He interrupted her by smugly bringing forward a chair.
"How cum you get all the good chairs in yer office?" She sat down anyways, feebly muttering about 'that darn Mr. Robinson's cooking getting too rich', and 'but he ought'a make that creem brulay again, that was darned good'.
Dr. Cromwell cringed at the mention of his least favorite patient, but just barely noticeably. The old woman's eyesight was bad, anyways, so she did not see.
"Desi, dear, the reason I called you in today was for the simple reason that I will be gone this weekend, leaving tonight and I'll be back on Sunday. An acquaintance of mine has suggested I go to visit him in London, and since things have been rather smooth lately, I thought it would be opportune for me to take a holiday. I trust that you, as always, will be able to manage?"
That was completely a ridiculous question for anyone who knew Desmonda Yitter. Although the only staff member who claimed to be 'jes plain old English Anglican' as opposed to participating in the unnamed sect that Dr. Cromwell headed, she had a good head on her shoulders and a strong will to match. She had complied with the change in management of the institution from her father (who died) to Dr. Cromwell easily, but she still was the head matron of the five nurses who worked in the institution. She could be a bit cantankerous at her worst, but she never meant any harm, though until Betty's little display two weeks before she had been the only one who ever was against changes in the structure of the institution, the only one who ever questioned the Doctor. He had been able to deal with her perfectly well, however, for many reasons.
"What day is it today?"
"Friday."
"Well, 'course, doctor. I've never failed to keep things well before."
"Undoubtedly, my dear, undoubtedly," he reassured her. "I do have one special request—while I'm away, I would appreciate if you kept Betty and Mr. Robinson under your watchful eye. Make sure they do not go into the yard together; Mr. Robinson's allergies are terrific, and we don't want him to get ill. Also, don't let Betty stay overtime; she's been working far too hard and needs to go home right at seven. Do you comprehend?"
The matron sniffled, nodded in understanding, and slouched out of the room at her dismissal.
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
"I'm going to stay over tonight, Severus."
"Why, because our wonderful Doctor Cromwell will be going out of town?"
"That's the idea."
They were on the balcony of the Recreation Room, trying not to stand too close together while in the eye vicinity of other people. Jennifer closed her eyes and held her arms to either side, letting the breeze sweep through her hair and across her fingers. She tried to remember how it felt when she was in New Zealand visiting her friend Chelsea from secondary school. Standing on the beautiful Piha Beach at Waitakere felt exactly like this.
Their month anniversary had passed some days ago, though Jennifer was the only one who took note of it. Severus, she knew, was not the sort who kept track of the days when he was enjoying something, rather the kind who would count them later when he had lost it and had filled with regret.
"That might be seen as . . . well, scandalous by those who are here," he suggested calculatingly. "I'm not certain that it might not get back to him."
"Not if done properly, it won't."
He nudged her in the stomach with the back of his hand, his fingers lingering just slightly too long against her to be platonic.
"Aren't you the cunning one," he half complimented, half teased. "What did you have in mind?"
"I'll say 'good night!' to Desmonda and pick up my keys and purse from the coat-room, and she won't think twice about it."
"Great Scott, I daresay it seems I've had some good influence upon you." He sounded genuinely pleased, and she giggled. "Although," he suggested carefully, "This does bring me to the question of what . . . what you imply by wanting to spend the night here. In my room, I presume."
"Yes." She did not know exactly what he meant, but . . .
"You . . . you think we ought to take our relationship to what is so often described as 'the next step'?"
"Oh." She had not been thinking of that at all. The idea of just being with him all night was what she thought of . . . falling asleep on each others' shoulders, hands intertwined, gazing out the window at the moon . . . however, she had been entertaining the idea since well . . . since at least the beginning of their better relationship, for sure, probably longer though . . .
"I'm not saying we have to, at all; I merely want to know if that was what was on your mind."
"No, actually." She turned to him, smiling widely. "But I don't mind the idea."
He did not seem sure how to reply. Then, nodding, he agreed. "We aren't just soppy teenagers, after all." He looked at her pointedly again. "But, you know, nothing's final. If you end up not wanting to . . ."
"No, I want to." She was decided on that point. "That is, if you want to." She could not tell if he was mutual on the subject.
"I haven't done so since I was in my early twenties," he admitted, "So I won't be any good, but . . ."
"Oh, shush, ducky, I've never done it, I won't know whether you're good or not!"
He grinned at her, looking quite relieved. "Well, you're the reader of all the romance novels. I'm sure you're knowledgeable in some way."
"Not those kinds of novels! They aren't my sort!"
"All the better, all the better."
They did not refer to their plans afterwards all day, but they were both eager, and it stayed near the forefront of their minds nonetheless.
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
Dr. Cromwell was gone for the weekend. He had taken the bus to the train station, and he would not be back for two full days.
Desmonda Yitter, though half-blind at her ripe age of 77 watched Jennifer Beeton as the nurse practically pranced to the cloakroom at the end of the day.
"I'm going off, ducky. Will you be watching for Sense and Sensibility tonight on channel 1? I can't wait to see Alan Rickman, there's something about that man that just sends shivers up my spine!"
"I probably will, dear. Now before you go, Betty, come over here, I want to speak to you."
Feeling a lump in her throat, Jennifer walked over to the older woman, bent over her galoshes in the process of fastening them.
"What is it, Desi?"
"Our Dr. Cromwell said something very peculiar to me today before he left. He wanted me to make sure you left right on time, and make sure you didn't stay with yer Mr. Robinson any longer than you ought. Now why would he ask me that?"
Jennifer felt her eyes fall to her feet. She thought a moment, considering what might happen if she told Mrs. Yitter the truth about her and Severus. Well, I've always noticed that she does not really think as highly of Dr. Cromwell as everyone else . . . tells him off sometimes, too. She's not afraid of him, and I don't think she likes him. Therefore, it wouldn't be in her best interest to tell him.
"Well, Desi, the thing is . . . well, Severus and I are in love."
A wide smile erupted on the old woman's withered face, and she sighed. "Ah, and the Doctor don't take kindly to the idea of being out of the way, so he can't watch and make sure you don't . . . do anything that he wants to do to you."
"You know?" She thought it best not to elaborate, but it seemed that Mrs. Yitter knew about the Doctor's fascination with her.
"Who doesn't know!" crowed the old woman. "Dearie, haven't you seen the way he looks at you? It's downright indecent, I always have said, but does anyone listen to me? No, they don't, they just think, 'oh, old Desi don't know anythin' and then they don't realize that I'm rather sharp at my age, though I do got arthritis and a bad back and all the rest of it."
Jennifer was so surprised at this onslaught that she felt rather embarrassed. "Well, what do I do about it?"
"Make like a candle and go steam up your good Mr. Robinson, dearie, 'cause there's no way in hell I'm about to let you marry that bastard who calls himself a doctor. Much less have sex with him."
So saying, she waved away the very astonished Jennifer with a smile and a wink, finding the audacity to call after the younger woman: "Be sure to bring something on the more fun side to entertain him, y'know! And rest assured, I won't be coming in yer Mr. Robinson's room any time tonight or the next!"
Jennifer had laughed at this, and realized that she was not as bad a judge a character as she had once thought.
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
Thus unhindered, Jennifer made her way up to Severus' room. The door was open, and she saw Severus carefully sorting through a bundle of unmatched socks, trying to make sense of the untidy roll. Entering, she realized that he was packing—not a lot, just one night's worth of clothes.
"I believe it would be easier if we went to your house, perhaps," he suggested carefully, "Easier at least from your standpoint. You go on ahead home, and I'll come out the window. I don't know why I didn't think of that earlier. This place is . . . a hospital. Nothing romantic about that, especially the bed that's no better than a block of wood."
"True," agreed Jennifer, and she quickly complied with the plan.
Although, of course, she did get a strange look from Mrs. Yitter, but she just gave the old woman a sly wink as she left, and her superior probably got a good idea of the goings-ons.
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
They did actually end up watching Sense and Sensibility on channel 1 that night, at least for a little while. It was still light out when they finally were situated in Jennifer's cozy living-room, so she found some ice-cream in the freezer and they watched the telly for an hour or so. Severus made sly comments about the movie continually, never able to just shut up and enjoy it, but he apologized for this vice in advance, and she actually realized his comments were pertinent and often very funny.
After the ice cream was completely gone—Jennifer found herself relieved that Severus had been the one to eat most of it—a sense of restlessness changed the mood. Throwing some sort of spell at the radio, Severus turned on a slow 30s jazz station, something Jennifer typically did not listen to, and deposited his wand on the mantel.
They just looked at each other for a few minutes, not sure how to proceed. It seemed almost a bit silly; Jennifer felt like she should know how to go about it, and Severus looked like he ought to know just as well, but they were awkward initially. Then, in a streak of boldness, she tugged at her hairpin and let a cascade of brunette curls fall.
The simple gesture was bolstering to both their confidences, and Severus replied by taking his dark jacket off, laying it neatly on the floor beside him. Her response was to begin pressing the buttons of her white lacy blouse through their eyelets, and Severus did the same with his green plaid shirt.
Her shoes. His shoes.
Her tights. His socks.
Her skirt. His pants.
Her bottoms. His bottoms.
Her brassiere.
And they were both completely natural before each other, admiring each other.
The initiative came from Severus this time, but beyond this knowledge, you need to learn to mind your own business. (And so do I.)
Two hours (or so) passed, and even though the lovers had exhausted themselves slowly, at this point they were both tired and happy. Instead of being estranged by their actions, they felt closer than ever. Safer than ever.
Until the phone rang.
"I don't want to answer," she whispered, pulling herself further under the covers. They had eventually made it to bed, somehow or another.
As her ear was pressing against his chest, she could almost hear his pulse quicken.
"No, you really ought to."
"I don't think it could be anything-"
"At this hour? No, go answer it."
So, sleepily, she reached over to the table and lifted the receiver. "Hullo?"
"Betty?"
It was Dr. Cromwell. Nervously, Jennifer pulled the receiver so that both she and Severus could hear.
"What are you doing right now?"
"Oh . . . well, I was just watching Sense and Sensibility, and I fell asleep in front of the telly."
"Is that all?"
Now she felt irritated. "Yes, doctor, that is all."
"It's Howard, dammit."
"Well, 'Howard, dammit,' I'm tired and I want to go to sleep."
Snape, at this, turned his head into the pillow and burst into muffled laughter.
"That was not amusing, Betty."
"Well, your waking me up isn't either. Good night, doctor."
So saying, she slammed the phone down dramatically. Severus caught her eye as he peeked at her from behind the curtain of his hair, and they burst out laughing again.
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
"Well, Mr. Snape, it seems that you have been very deceiving to us here at this institute. You never gave us your real name, you told us you had no living relatives."
And, yes, both Jennifer and I gave you bullshit when you discovered us together last night.
Their first night together—Jennifer and Severus--went fortunately unhindered, true. However, afterwards they met again in the same way—and met a very furious Dr. Cromwell, who was waiting for his Betty to come home in her very own living-room with a box of chocolates and a bouquet of roses. Snape had no idea what might have happened to Jennifer if he had not been there . . . but, therein, of course, laid the problem. Now Dr. Cromwell was livid. He faced Snape in his office, glaring and tearing unconsciously at his hair.
You look like the overly-worried father rather than the slighted lover, though, Snape jeered in his mind. I would know.
"Of course, part of the problem was your illness, granted, but still . . . it gives us something to think about. You have not, of course, been very compliant in trying to help us solve your psychological problems." The Doctor was pacing at this point, and Snape was wondering why he even bothered to stay in here to watch the man.
"I don't have problems anymore, Doctor." Because I didn't really have many in the first place.
Here the Doctor swerved his chair in such a manner that he looked Snape directly in the eye. "No, Mr. Snape, you most definitely do. You think you have magic powers, but you're not magic! There is no such thing! Your world is only in your head, you madman! No one cares for you; you're not anything to anybody! Don't you think, if they cared, they would have searched and found you by now? It's been over a year since you disappeared! You're so ill in the head you've come to imagine that you can go out in the world and be a normal man, but you can't! There's nothing for you beyond these walls, Mr. Snape!"
Snape mulled over this for a moment, then his eyes widened in disbelief as Cromwell tore up the 'missing' notice, and let the pieces fall upon the floor, one by one.
"Dr. Cromwell, I really do not appreciate-" he began, his voice infused with suppressed anger, but the Doctor interrupted.
"-Cease your words, filthy pagan!" exclaimed the doctor violently. He drew a large tome from his drawer and placed it in front of him, as a sort of means of protection. It was evidentially a bible. "You can't have my woman!" he snarled, desperately. "You care nothing for her; you know nothing about her. You can't. Your mind is filthy, disgusting, cunning, sly, and gluttonous! It is not coherent! You can't live the way you think you can—you are not normal! You'll die no matter what you do or say, since there is such an absence of the holy spirit in your body, you bloody heathen! You're a blemish to this Christian institution, Mr. Snape, and it's only because of my own good spirit that I let you stay, by showing my excess of mercy! You are insane, more insane than anyone else in this facility—and you cannot have my woman!"
Snape glared in return. "Your woman? Jove, you are so blind. Anyone who's even a half-baked imbecile can tell that, even if she was not affectionate towards me, she would never be yours. To own, like a slave. To corrupt, like a child. To possess, demean, damage, wreck, or torture like a toy. To throw out of a window when she metaphorically bites your hand, like a dog. Because, you see, one can never own another human being in entirety—especially in this damnable free country of England. I do not believe you completely understand that, Doctor.
Taking up the bible in his hands, the Doctor stood up and walked over to the man who so defiantly tiraded before him.
"Besides," went on Snape, coldly, "Your talk of being a heathen, a damnable scoundrel, a bastard of the Third Riech, or whatever else you may choose to call me will not affect me. I am not scared of what the Son of God, God, or anyone else may do to me. There is no God."
Dr. Cromwell did not seem to be terribly moved by this, and perched himself on the corner of his desk to watch the patient. Both men were more than heavily suspicious of each other, and each made his moves slowly and deliberately.
"There is no God," Snape repeated snarling, stepping away from the doctor—not retreating to the door, but keeping a healthy distance. "Dr. Cromwell, not t be disrespectful, but you can't force 'God' to always be of your opinion, anyways. By what human right would you think yourself so superior to all others, by what divine right were you ordained 'better'? Simply because you think yourself a fearless crusader for an entity you've never even seen or heard? For, after all," he continued, "I'm sure you cannot really logically pinpoint any hour, date, or memory where you actually have heard God or seen God. And, you will understand, 'faith' is a sickening concept, when you think about it deeply. I've put my faith in many men who were gods in their own right, and it has ruined me. I did once put my faith in God, I will admit—but I was a fool. "
"He failed you because of your uncouthness, your defiance, your lack of love for him!"
Snape had to laugh at that. "What are you trying to do exactly, Doctor Cromwell?" He pronounced every syllable with such prominence that the Doctor seemed a bit taken aback at his confidence. "Are you trying your hand at converting an old tired soul—or trying to scare an old tired soul from converting?"
"I am attempting to show you your idiocy, Mr. Snape!"
"My idiocy?" Again, Snape took the initiative to laugh in the man's face. "You sir, I think, disrespectfully, are the idiot." He thought a moment, then recanted, "No, actually, I shall give credit where credit is due—you're brilliant, doctor, to a degree—but your level of perception is dead dull. The tangible is the only way to base one's beliefs. For instance, I believed that I truly was insane, just because you now told me so, I would be no better than you, who believe in a fancy elongated fairy tale about an invisible omnipotent entity."
Lips pouting, Dr. Cromwell's fingers found a ribbon bookmark poking its head out of the pages of the Bible, and he stroked it for comfort.
"The Bible is no fairy tale, Mr. Snape; it is the culmination of a perfect God's words through the tales of his great works."
"If there was truly a god, he would not be perfect, for perfection—and justice, for that matter--is only relative to whomever is judging it."
He seemed to have hit the Doctor's argument's underbelly, for the Doctor had nothing to add to that statement.
"And I have a question for you, Doctor—where is the proof? Where is the proof that Jesus made a blind man see, cured lepers, and taught a cripple to walk again? Where is the proof that the Red Sea parted before Moses? Where is the proof that a burning bush talked to the same man, and where is the proof that Moses actually followed the guidance of such a bush? Where I come from, a burning bush that could speak would be regarded as dark magic, and in your world a cheap parlor trick. What man in his right mind would carry out the order to kill his own son, orders from a creature he could not even see or rightfully love without fear? And, on the reverse side, what truly caring, loving God would tell a man to kill his son, then say to the effect of 'oh, I was just joshing you' afterwards? What truly caring, loving God would make his people walk around the desert for forty years, occasionally dropping some manna and pigeons upon them so they didn't starve? What truly caring, loving God would encourage his so-called 'chosen people' to be superior to the Philistines, the followers of Baal, and everyone else, if, supposedly, he 'loves every man equally as his child'? The God of the Bible is discriminatory, intolerant, unjust, unloving, and has a sadistic sense of humor that is not flattering to the so-called 'perfect' being image. A reasonable man can only conclude, thus, that the Bible lacks consistency, continuity, and should only be read for the sake of understanding the culture and religion of the ancients, regarded as only the Epic of Gilgamesh or the Greek myths are regarded—as superficial and improbable, evidence only of the misguided thoughts of generations of deluded men and women—men and women who, by modern day standards, would be considered mad."
This long-winded soliloquy to atheism seemed to make Dr. Cromwell think deeply. His eyes glistened as though he had gained a new enlightenment, as though he had reached a new epiphany, and his face shone as though he had seen shapes and color after years of blindness.
Severus was almost surprised. Had he made a difference in this man's life, a difference so great that it might even have cured him of his obsessive religious observance, a difference-
He did not have time to finish his wondering. In a flash, Dr. Cromwell opened his Bible—which revealed itself to be hollow—and drew a ready syringe. Before Snape could even think of reacting, the Doctor reached to stab it into his patient's jugular vein.
Snape staggered with the combined effect of the pain and the rush of substance into his bloodstream, and he fell to the floor. For a brief moment, he reflected that it was rather a deja-vu of his encounter with Voldemort and Nagini . . . but within thirty seconds he could think no more.