Well friends we are more than half way through the story. I still love and adore my betas . Harry Potter still does not belong to me.
Severus stood in the doorway of what had been Melissa's room, willing himself to step across the threshold. It had been eight days since they had been buried, and in the five days since he had sent Ms. Granger on her way, he'd been attempting to gain control over his life. He had managed to remove the smaller items: Lena and Bee's belongings from the loos, the toys from the family room, and assorted inconsequential items from other places in the house—but he had not yet been able to remove his wife's belongings from the rooms they shared, nor even enter his daughter's room.
It was the same as it had been the night the Death Eaters Voldemort had sent had walked in and snuffed out her life. The bed clothes were turned back, revealing the pink fairy sheets she had slept on; a doll lay neglected in the corner; and her favorite book of bedtime tales was on the bedside table, marked for the next story. If he closed his eyes, he could still see her laying there as though she were asleep—her braids lying dark on the pillow upon which the indentation of her head still remained. In truth, when he had first returned home, he had thought perhaps her life had been spared.
Taking one last deep breath, Severus squared his shoulders and entered the room. He walked over to the bed, intent on stripping the linens—he would change it over into a spare room, a study, anything just so he did not have to see these reminders of his lost Bumble Bee—but as soon as he pulled back the comforter,it hit him: the talc-and-heather scent of his little girl. Sinking to his knees beside the bed, he clutched the blanket to his chest, rocking—much as he would have rocked his daughter when she awoke, frightened in the night.
That was how Hermione found him. She had tried to reach him by Floo, phone, and owl to schedule tomorrow's visit to the cemetery—it had been nine days since the burial, and tomorrow was The Lament of the Child. When she had not been able to reach him all day, she canceled her dinner date and Apparated to the house. After spending five minutes knocking on his door with no response, attracting the attention of the neighbors, she decided she had no choice but to, again, invade his home with a silently cast Alohamora.
She entered the house quietly in case, against all odds, he was sleeping at six o'clock in the evening. Feeling like a Muggle cat burglar, she silently walked from room to room—she had just entered the kitchen when she heard a sound. She entered a hallway she didn't recognize, following strange sounds that reminded her of Crookshanks just before he had died—he'd been in such pain. Did Severus have a familiar she had never seen? Perhaps Melissa had had a cat?
Then she saw him—the sounds of a tortured animal were coming from him.
She knelt by his side and made to draw him into her arms as she would anyone in pain. He startled at first contact, but then fairly collapsed, winding his own arms so tight around her she could barely breathe. As before, she rubbed circles onto his back and hoped it might help. Gradually, he calmed. After she shifted so she was sitting on the floor with her back braced against the bed and Severus' head pillowed on her chest, she asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"
He shook his head 'no', obviously embarrassed.
Hermione feathered her fingers through his hair, finding it not greasy, but fine, and quietly replied, "All right—but how about we get you up off this floor?"
He reflexively tightened his grip as Hermione shifted to stand. "It's all right, just come with me." She took his hand and led him towards the room in which he'd left him after a not dissimilar bout of grief.
He halted when they reached the doorway. "No, not here… everything in this room reminds me of Lena."
"Of course," Hermione murmured, realizing how fragile he had become. "Do you have a spare room?"
Severus nodded and silently led her to a spacious and airy room filled with antiques. She continued walking toward the bed, and after watching the linens ripple with her silent Freshening Charm, instructed, "Come, you need to rest."
He nodded his assent and stumbled to the bed, never releasing her hand. He sighed as he settled back against the pillows and watched as Hermione silently moved to remove his boots, before drawing a lightweight throw up over his legs and turning to leave.
Before she took a step, he grabbed her hand. "Please don't… don't go. Just stay."
Squeezing his hand in reassurance, she sat at his side. Not wanting to make him uncomfortable, Hermione looked around the room decorated in soft blues and earthy browns—she looked anywhere but at the man whose hand she held. After she heard his breathing deepen and the death grip on her hand loosened… she chanced a look—he was asleep, the tears still moist on his cheeks.
With one last look over her shoulder, Hermione carefully untangled their hands and left him to rest. It seemed a good time to prepare something for a late supper.
Rifling through her former Professor's cupboards, Hermione found the makings for chicken soup. If her Yiayia was to be believed, it could heal anything from sniffles to pneumonia and was a comfort to the soul. Just now, she thought they both could use some good, old-fashioned comfort food.
As she sliced, diced, boiled, and chopped, Hermione let her mind wander. When she felt her heart tighten at the thought of Severus nearly prostrate in grief and clinging to her hand, she gave herself a good talking to—he was a client, and she needed to remember this and nothing more, not his sacrifice and bravery during the war nor anything else. Her treacherous heart would have to be ignored—there was no way she was going to allow herself to get any closer to the edge of ithat/i slippery slope. One of the cardinal rules of being a Funeral Director was to remain removed from the situation— don't let your own emotions get involved, for to do so was asking for trouble.
Severus stretched, relieving some of the tension in his muscles as his mind tried to catch up. Once he opened his eyes and realized he was in the guest room, it all came flooding back—the crippling grief that had assailed him in Melissa's room, blindly throwing himself into Ms. Granger's arms, and then being so weak as to request she stay by his side. Groaning, he leaned back into the pillows… Would his humiliation never end? Resolutely, he tossed the throw to one side and sat on the edge of the bed. The bout of grief had been cathartic, but draining… he was reminded just how draining when his stomach rumbled. Sighing to himself, he decided to see what he could find for dinner before he'd have to phone Ms. Granger to apologize for his behavior.
Sock-footed, he padded down the hall. As soon as he approached the kitchen, his nose was assailed with the fragrant aroma of simmering chicken, herbs, and… was that freshly-baked bread? Cautiously, he crept into the kitchen just as Hermione was setting a tray of buns on a trivet.
"Now there's timing. You're awake." She smiled cheerfully.
Wary as a caged animal, Severus' eyes darted about the room—on the stove, there was a pot of what must be chicken soup, simmering; plus the bread scenting the air with yeasty aroma—his stomach rumbled in response to the olfactory stimulation. Severus felt his face heat.
Hermione giggled. "Well, I guess I don't need to ask if you're hungry. Go sit down; I'll bring everything to the table."
Severus turned to do as she bid, only to realize there already were place settings, glasses of iced water, and to the side, a bottle of chilled chardonnay. He felt his throat tighten in with overwhelming gratitude—he couldn't remember the last time someone had treated him with such kindness. In fact, before Ms. Granger, the last person to show him any kind of genuine kindness was Lena.
Severus sat down and blinked away the tears of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.
Hermione had been watching him as she layered buns into a napkin-lined basket and poured the soup into a serving tureen. To give him a little more time, she retrieved some butter for the rolls and took her time carrying everything to the table—as she sat down, she noticed Severus had himself under control.
"This looks and smells wonderful, Hermione. Thank you."
Her heart leapt at the use of her given name. "Thanki you/i. Again, it's one of my Yiayia's recipes—she claimed chicken soup was food for the bodyi and /ithe soul."
Severus closed his eyes in pleasure as he spooned soup into his mouth. He could tell she had availed herself of his herb garden; the freshness of the parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme mingled together, enhancing the flavor of the tender chicken and brightening the soft noodles. "I have to agree with her assertions about the soup—it's delightful."
Hermione blushed at the compliment as she tore a roll in two, offering him half. "I must apologize for the rolls—these had been prepped and frozen at home, so they are not as fresh as they could be."
Severus buttered the roll and raised it in toast to Hermione before taking a healthy bite.
She realized she'd been watching him with apprehension when he soothingly commented, "Ms. Granger, you have nothing to worry about—this meal is wonderful, and I am grateful to you for your kindness."
Hermione's eyes fell to her own dish. "Thank you, sir." Why was she disappointed? He had complimented her and thanked her … oh.i Ms. Granger./i
As they were clearing the dinner dishes, Severus querried, "As grateful as I am for your assistance, Ms. Granger, one does wonder how you came to be here to offer it in the first place."
"Oh! I am so sorry; I nearly forgot myself," she stammered, not sure how he was going to respond after the earlier events. "Why don't we finish here and move to the sitting room so I can explain?"
Once they were seated, Hermione explained the importance of the next day's cemetery visit, according to Greek Tradition.
"Ms. Granger… Hermione. I don't really think that's wise."
She looked at him, puzzled.
He surged to his feet and began pacing before the hearth, clearly frustrated. "Do you recall the state you found me earlier?'
She nodded.
"Today was the first day I managed to enter my daughter's bedroom, and the instant I removed the bedding, I could smell her—I could smell my child, and I couldn't bear it!" he explained, his voice laden with grief.
Realization dawned, and Hermione's Funeral Director instincts kicked in. "That, Severus, is precisely why you must do this tomorrow—the ritual specifically relates to the loss of a child. This is the time for you to say goodbye."
Severus ran his hands through his hair before looking over his shoulder at her. "Do you think standing over her grave and saying a few words is going to be all it takes? To say goodbye?"
She approached him and laid her hand on his shoulder. "All at once? No. But I do believe that it will help. Why don't we go back to Melissa's room and you can find some small trinket to leave for her—if you can't enter her room again, tonight, then I won't force this tomorrow."
Severus walked angrily down the hall, cursing know-it-all, interfering Gryffindors under his breath. He didn't pause at the doorway, but strode straight to the window box and retrieved a spun glass unicorn. He marched past Hermione, standing in the doorway, and thrust it at her before continuing down the hallway to the spare room, slamming the door in his wake.
She stood in place, staring after him, with the unicorn held in her open hand. Hermione had no doubt he would go tomorrow, but she thought it best she leave now.
The next day, Severus' hands trembled as he took the box Hermione handed him. He was knelt at the side of the graves, having already dug a small hole in the earth. Hermione spoke the Greek Lament of Loss as he placed the box in the hole and covered it with dirt. Once finished, he stood and took a deep, steadying breath.
He had fought her again, this morning, before leaving for the cemetery. In the end, though, Hermione had prevailed.
Once Hermione finished the reading, she turned to walk a few paces away to give him some privacy. "Wait." Severus stopped her with a hand to her upper arm. "Just wait. Please?"
She nodded, and he turned back toward the graves that stood side by side—mother and daughter. At first, she did not realize he was speaking. She took a small step forward, and his softly-spoken words carried on the breeze:
c"Tomorrow, at dawn, as the countryside whitens,
I shall leave. You're waiting for me; I know.
I shall go by the forest; I shall go by the mountain.
I can't stay away any longer.
I shall walk with my eyes closed in on my thoughts,
Seeing nothing beyond, hearing no sound,
Alone, unknown, back bent, hands crossed,
And sad. Day for me will be like night.
As golden evening falls, and distant sails
Make for Harfleur, I won't be looking.
When I arrive, I shall place on your tomb
A posy of green holly and of heather in flower."/c
As he finished, he bent and laid a blooming sprig of heather on the mound of dirt that protected Melissa.
"Victor Hugo?" she asked.
"Indeed," he replied. "He wrote it in response to the loss of his own daughter—he understands."