A/N: Again, thank you everyone for your reviews! Please keep them coming.
Chapter 4
The next morning, Beatrice found herself awakened by the light filtering through the blue curtains on the window. She felt warm, cozy, and lazy, not wanting to get up just yet. Blue? This wasn't her bedroom at home. The feeling of comfort she awoke with drained swiftly away as she remembered the events of the day before. Her new husband was down stairs, and that he probably expected her to play the role of a good pureblooded wife and run the household. Well, she could do that…or at least prepare a decent morning cup. The rumble in her stomach prompted her to further action; she needed to prepare a decent showing to make up for her blunders of last night. A hiss escaped as her left foot made contact with the floor and she forced back and errant tear at another reminder of her ineptitude. She had forgotten about the damage she had managed to cause her ankle, and dreaded having to ask for help.
Stepping gingerly over to the wardrobe, Beatrice dressed in another plain, high-necked garment that she had managed to find among the frippery in her bags (she doubted her new husband would be a fan of lace), and then made her way to the bathroom to complete her morning ablutions.
Downstairs, she found herself in the presence of a still-sleeping Snape. Severus was fully dressed and sprawled out on the couch with his long legs awkwardly splayed out on the too short space, his left arm hanging towards the ground and the other hugging a pillow to his chest. His blanket had slid its way down to his waist; it covered only one leg and the rest was piled haphazardly on the floor.
"Sev—" Beatrice caught herself. If there was one thing she had learned in life, it was to let sleeping wizards lie, especially dark ones. She had no desire to be hexed first thing in the morning. Instead, she carefully made her way halfway up the stairs, before using her boot heels for maximum effect on the wood of the stairs. When she could see Severus again, he was sitting up, blanket folded to one side, and tiredly rubbing his face.
"Severus," she greeted cheerfully.
"Beatrice," he grunted.
He was obviously not a morning person. As Beatrice made her way down the last step, her heel wobbled, and she couldn't hold back the whimper escaping her lips.
Severus' head snapped up. "What is wrong?"
"Nothing," she murmured.
His lip curled. "Hardly. I'll ask you again, and remind you not to lie to me in my own house, wife."
The rebuke brought a flush of colour to her face.
"Now again, what's wrong?"
"I tripped last night, and my ankle…"
"Foolish woman," he cut her off. "Why didn't you tell me last night?"
"You were angry, and I…I didn't want to bother you any more than I already have," she admitted softly.
His ire softened as he took in the discomfited look on her face. "Come here." She swiftly complied and he had her sit at the armchair across from him, propping her foot up on the ottoman. Shifting forward, he kneeled at her feet, and reached for the laces on her boot. He took her downcast eyes as silent permission, and unlaced the brown boot, placing it down at his side. He averted his eyes as she unhooked her stocking, and then pulled the white silk off and placed it to the side.
The pale skin of her limb was discoloured by the angry bruising around the ankle. He felt her shiver at the feel of his hands on her skin, and couldn't tell if it was from disgust, or something else. Her foot was tiny, dainty, the skin smooth and pale. He was captured by the contrast with his rough, potion-stained hands.
"Where does it hurt?" he finally asked.
"There on the left," she said, gesturing towards the outside of her ankle. He palpated the joint, finding the tender areas, and directed his wand towards them, tapping the tip against her skin as he murmured softly under his breath. Beatrice was scarcely breathing as he worked, afraid to break the silence that surrounded them. A sensation of intense warmth filled the area, and then dissipated. She wiggled her ankle experimentally, and there was no more pain.
Beatrice leaned forward to where she could reach him. "Thank you, Severus," she whispered. Boldly, she reached forward and touched his face with her hand, skimming the rough stubble of his jaw with her fingertips as she gave him a soft smile. Severus felt his face color, and ducked his head, hiding behind his hair. Hastily clearing his throat, he stood and strode off towards the kitchen. "I'll see to breakfast."
"I can get it...Oh, all right." Before she could finish her thought, Severus had already disappeared into the kitchen. It was once more her turn to blush. It was the first day of her marriage and he was already cooking for her, and here she was, making herself a burden. Wouldn't mother be proud?
The remnants of toast and jam littered the kitchen table where they sat in a parody of domestic bliss. Severus was reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet, and Beatrice had retrieved an embroidery sample from her valise upstairs. The only sounds came from the flap of a page and the ticking from the clock on the wall.
"Will I be allowed to visit my parents?"
"Parents?" His eyebrows shot skyward. The innocent question shook him more than expected, and he closed his paper with a snap. He hadn't had a chance to think through the implications any further than sleeping arrangements, and now he had to worry about her parents? He was too old for this, and had little desire to involve himself in anyway. He finally responded, "Why weren't your parents at our, ah—ceremony?"
Beatrice felt her heart begin to race; she missed a stitch as her hands began to shake. How was she to explain their reticence to him without being questioned about her loyalty?
"They wish to support our L…lord from a less public position," she finally cobbled together.
"Right."
Severus stared at her, and she fought the urge to fidget.
"You may visit them at any time, but warn me before you invite them over."
She could have melted with relief. "Thank you, Severus."
He grumbled a reply and reopened the paper.
"And your parents?" she asked, fishing for more about him.
"Dead." He didn't even look up as he answered.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not."
"Oh…" Beatrice wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Well, was it your mother that was the witch?"
He turned a page. "I'm surprised Lucius didn't send you my pedigree in triplicate," he commented loftily. "Or did he and you've simply forgotten? Probably a poor study at Hogwarts, as well," he mused.
She visibly bristled, but held her tongue. "I attended Beauxbatons, actually." Well, that would explain why he had never seen her before; she looked young enough have been one of his students. He hoped that was the end of their inane conversation, but it seemed that he was not that lucky.
"Mother felt that it would be more proper for my station if I were to perfect my French."
"Did you?"
His response was a ducked head and renewed fascination to the stitches in her lap.
"Ah, I see." He couldn't help throwing in another dig. "I suppose that's why you ended up with me."
"Clearly."
This time, the silence was less difficult.
