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Orpheus
Chapter 3
Just as Hermione had hoped and expected, her students were gradually
losing their interest in the more glamorous—that was, at least, the way they
perceived it—aspects of her life. She was now a teacher like all the others,
well-liked and respected. The nickname ‘Professor PGS’ (for
Potter-Granger-Snape) didn't overly bother her, as they never used it to her
face. Sirius had told her about it; he had, of course, heard it from
Agrippina Wilcox, Head Girl and his current paramour, and found it quite
funny. So did Hermione, although she knew better than to share it with
Severus, who wouldn't have reacted very well.
By the end of November, she had settled into a comfortable teaching routine,
and her relationship with Severus was progressing in a very satisfactory
manner. It was an open secret that the Headmaster and the Muggle Studies
teacher were romantically involved, and thus neither of them saw any need
for secrecy. Not that there ever was anything like a public display of
affection—the fundamental change of his personality notwithstanding, Severus
was still a very private person, who would never have done more than touch
Hermione's hand or whisper something into her ear while they were sitting at
the High Table. But they could sit side by side, and smile at each other, or
briefly brush the other's arm with their fingers, instead of having to
pretend mutual indifference. They had also worked out a schedule—much to
Sirius’s amusement—for the evenings and nights they spent together. Even
though Black muttered something about ‘anal retentive’ and
‘compulsive-obsessive’, it had its advantages: on Sundays, Tuesdays and
Wednesdays, they stayed in Hermione's quarters, because her lessons started
early on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday, and she hated having to leave
Severus's rooms in a hurry. Early-morning stress was something she preferred
to endure ‘at home’, where she felt it was her god-given right to use the
bathroom first. Monday and Thursday nights were spent in Severus's quarters.
The weekends… Well, the weekends were something different.
Since Hermione had arrived and decided she wanted to stay, Sirius had become
something like a second Deputy Headmaster. Nothing official, of course. His
position rather resembled the one Severus had held under Dumbledore's reign,
a Silent Third who was always there but never officially acknowledged.
Sirius didn't mind, and neither did McGonagall. For Severus and Hermione,
though, it meant that they would be able to spend the occasional weekend
away from Hogwarts. So far, they had only gone to Snape Manor once, but both
fully intended to make the most of this arrangement and allow themselves a
trip abroad once a month or every six weeks.
Whether at Hogwarts or elsewhere, they woke up next to each other every day.
Like every coin, this one, too, had two sides. The pleasure of seeing the
other still asleep, face caressed open and vulnerable by the fingers of
slumber; the pleasure of watching the other’s eyelids flutter open; the
first moment of disorientation; the smile, that absolutely fake-proof first
dizzy smile at the realization of where and with whom they were; the
half-automatic, sleep-warmed gentle touches; the kindling of a sleepy,
low-burning flame into full blaze. That was one side. The other were
different morning- and evening-habits. Snoring habits, sleeping habits,
reading-in-bed habits, wake-up habits—lots of blank spots on their personal
maps. In theory (there hadn’t been many occasions to practise it with Harry,
except for the first months of their marriage) Hermione knew that she was a
morning-cuddler. And she liked reading in bed. While Severus gladly welcomed
the former, he found the latter downright annoying, as he had long ago
established a habit of going to bed for sleep and nothing else (love-making
was an exception, of course), because of his still-persistent insomnia. A
simple Obscuro spell, cast on his side of the bed, had proved to be a
satisfactory solution to that problem. And so they were solving and sorting
out and devising compromises, became used to each other and learned to live
with all the little eccentricities and particularities they had developed.
In other words, their love was gradually gaining a solid foundation of
normalcy, something they both craved and needed.
On Tuesday, 4 December, two letters arrived during breakfast. Although not
life-changing in and of themselves, they marked destiny’s first attempt at
probing the surface of their happiness for cracks and crevices, so as to
insert first a fingernail and widen the opening, little by little, until the
breach was big enough to introduce the whole hand and crush that
ridiculously fragile construction to pieces with one well-placed squeeze. At
least that was how Hermione perceived it in hindsight. And she was sure
that, had she been more susceptible to whatever lay outside their bubble of
happiness, she would have felt the ephemeral turbulence in the air, caused
by enormous black wings beating high above, and the slight chill of being
looked upon by the empty eyes of destiny.
As things were, she was merely surprised when an overfed Ministry owl—she
could almost hear its Fudge-esque panting and puffing as it landed next to
her plate—brought her an important-looking letter. Severus, who leaned over
to see what it was, had to duck, because his movement had put him right into
the trajectory of a large eagle owl. It avoided the collision with his head
at the last moment, swerving upwards with an angry hoot, and, after an
elegant U-turn, came to land at his right side. He glared down at a few
students who had dared to giggle at the near-mishap, and untied a roll of
parchment from the bird’s right foot.
Hermione and Severus gasped and turned towards each other in perfect
synchronicity, saying,
“Malfoy—”
“Harry—”
and then abruptly closing their mouths. After two more absolutely
contemporaneous attempts at speaking, they smiled and merely swapped
letters.
The evening of the same day found them in Hermione's rooms, where McGonagall
and Black had joined them to discuss Malfoy's letter. The missive Hermione
had received was an issue of vivid interest as well, even though the two
deputies tried to disguise their curiosity. McGonagall’s attempts were
almost as unsuccessful as Black’s. Not that he put much effort into them.
But they had to wait, because Hermione was keeping her letter out of sight,
where it had been the whole day, in the pocket of her teaching robes, which
were now hanging near the door next to Severus's.
The second letter was now in McGonagall’s hands; Black was standing behind
her chair, bending over her, so they could read it together.
“Well, that's not exactly what I'd call good news,” Sirius said,
straightening up and moving over to sit in his own chair. “What—ah, thanks,
Hermione,” he interrupted himself and took the small espresso cup she was
offering him. When everybody had their coffee and brandy, he continued,
“That’s one hell of a problem, isn't it? It would be unfair to deny the girl
schooling at Hogwarts, but I can’t say I like the thought of having Malfoy’s
spawn here among the other children.”
McGonagall nodded and took off her square spectacles to polish them with a
crisp, white handkerchief she had taken from her pocket. Severus
smiled—compulsive spectacle-polishing was a sign of distress in Minerva
McGonagall. Almost as if things would become clearer, the cleaner her
glasses were. “Exactly my thoughts,” she said. “Lucertola Malfoy is on the
list of first-years to be invited next summer, and seeing as how the
Ministry have given their permission… But the idea makes me uneasy, too.”
“I met them a few times while Harry was Ambassador in France,” Hermione
observed. “And I distinctly remember the little girl—they brought her along
for the annual Garden Party—children were invited and welcome… She must have
been three or four by then, an adorable child. Very precocious, that’s why I
remember the day so well. She didn't win at Musical Chairs and was so angry
she made the Sangria bowl explode in her rage. Everybody was showered with
sangria, and none too happy…” She grinned at the memory.
“And how did Malfoy react?” McGonagall inquired.
“Funny you should ask. I have to admit I was surprised and a little ashamed,
because I had expected him to punish her—most of all because his head was
covered in orange peels. But he merely picked her up and scolded her,
reminding her that defeats had to be taken graciously, without temper
tantrums.”
“Surprised? Why did that surprise you?” Severus asked her.
“Well, because I thought that Malfoy was going to treat her like his own
father had treated him, and—”
Severus threw up his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “That's just so
typically—sorry,” he interrupted himself, when he saw three Gryffindors
shoot him menacing glares. “What I meant to say was that, yes, Lucius Malfoy
was a dangerous, power-hungry pervert, but that doesn’t mean he spent his
time at home beating up his wife and son. On the contrary. He doted on
them—I’d even go as far as saying he loved them. Or why do you think people
like Fudge bought his sanctimonious attitude?”
“Because Fudge was an idiot,” Black remarked dryly.
“That, too. But try to remember those times—”
“I’d rather not, to say the truth.”
“I know. In any case, people fell for Lucius-the-Saint, because it wasn't
all farce. He really was the loving father and husband. And nobody was ever
able to prove all the atrocities he had committed—until Voldemort's
downfall, that is,” he added. “But all this talk about Lucius doesn't get us
anywhere near a solution. I think I’ll have to accept Draco’s invitation and
see for myself.”
Hermione sat up with a start. “Are you mad? This could be a trap!”
“Spikes, try to be reasonable. Why should he set a trap for me now, and
above all, why should he do so with a letter I received in front of a few
hundred witnesses? If he really wanted to lure me to France in secret, he
would have chosen a different method of delivery, I assure you.”
“I don’t think,” McGonagall said slowly, “that ‘why now’ is a valid argument
where the likes of Draco Malfoy are concerned. If he really wanted to avenge
his father, he would wait a hundred years, if necessary. And Lucertola’s
more or less imminent eleventh birthday would provide such a seemingly
harmless opportunity…”
“If you go,” Black chimed in, “you mustn’t go alone.”
Severus snorted. “And who, pray, should accompany me?”
“Sirius or myself,” McGonagall replied promptly. “And you will, of course,
ask the Ministry’s permission—”
“With all due respect, Minerva, have you gone crazy? Why should I ask the
Ministry's permission?”
“Because,” McGonagall explained, rolling her eyes, “it provides additional
safety. By asking their authorization, you let the Ministry know where
you’re going—after all, Draco has been officially banished from England, he
is something like a public enemy… Of course you wouldn't have to ask, but
they won't be surprised if you do, what with being the Headmaster of
Hogwarts…”
“How surprisingly Slytherin, Minerva,” said Severus, raising his glass to
her.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, my dear boy,” she answered, smiling. “And
now to more pleasant matters: am I right in guessing that the letter you—”
she turned to Hermione “—received this morning contained news about your
divorce?”
Hermione sighed, but her faked exasperation merely made the older witch
smile. “Yes, it did. As a matter of fact, it contained the official divorce
certificate. I’m Hermione Granger again.”
“And when,” Sirius asked, with a malicious sideways glance at the
Headmaster, “will you be Hermione Snape?”
“Black!”
“What? I was merely asking her a question!”
“Careful, Black. You don’t want to lose a duel against me!”
“Ah,” Black said, leaning back and grinning at his friend, “So you don't
intend to marry her?”
“Black, I’m warning you—” But Sirius had transformed into his dog form and
was currently scampering around the room, emitting small, happy barks that
sounded suspiciously like laughter.
With an ominous growl, Severus whipped out his wand, aimed, and shouted, “Pulcifex!”
The dog stopped, looking thoroughly surprised, and started scratching
himself with abandon.
“Good one,” McGonagall said, nodding appreciatively. “That should teach him
some manners. Considering—” she took her glasses off again and smiled at
Severus “—that you’re too much of a gentleman to hex me, do you have any
plans concerning marriage?”
Severus fell back into his chair with a groan and covered his face with his
hands.
*
My darling Spikes,
Alive and well here in France, I hope you are as well (and well-fed) at
Hogwarts. The food, as you may have perceived from the parenthesis, is
absolutely divine, something that cannot be said about the company. The
atmosphere is arctic, to say the least. Draco’s constant display of
teeth-grinding politeness and his wife's frosty haughtiness are a permanent
reminder that this is, indeed, a business trip. The only source of pleasure
being the little girl.
Lucertola Malfoy is an intelligent child, whom I would not hesitate to call
adorable, were I at all inclined to applying such terms of praise to
miniature humans, however fetching they may be. She has an innate talent for
Charms, and her father—as was to be expected—has spared neither money nor
trouble to get her the best tutors his galleons could buy. Sirius, too, has
been completely captured by her, sentimental old fool that he is.
It seems that the only purpose of inviting me to France was to make sure
Lucertola will be treated ‘decently’ once she starts school at Hogwarts.
Needless to mention that it would never occur to Draco that I might take
offence at his rather blatant insinuations as to the dire fate that would be
awaiting his daughter, had he not had the brilliant idea of inviting and
convincing me that she deserves the best of the best.
The guest rooms are lovely and the beds comfortable. But I would prefer
sleeping on a naked stone floor with you in my arms to the Malfoys'
sumptuous guest quarters. Or should I say ‘sleeping on a stone floor with
you, naked, in my arms’? Yes, I think that comes a lot closer to what I
meant to express.
Yours lovingly
Severus
*
Dear Hermione,
Just a quick note: Severus and I are perfectly well and alive. The Malfoys
are as cold and arrogant as was to be expected (maybe even more) but there
doesn’t seem to be any imminent danger. The food is delicious, though, and
if Sev continues eating that way, he’ll have sprouted a pot belly when we
return.
Love
Sirius
*
Dear Minerva,
It's not a trap, and that's about the only positive thing I’m able to tell
you about our stay—no, make that sojourn, I becoming so sophisticated
here—in France.
Draco Malfoy is worse than his father, I think, because he’s even smoother,
silkier and slimier. Merlin help us if that little snake is ever allowed to
return to England. He worships his father in a way that makes me sick,
nothing outspoken (of course) but there’s a portrait of Lucius hanging over
the fireplace in the library, magical, but it doesn't speak one single word.
Somehow, I have this creepy feeling that this is less a fireplace and a
portrait than a kind of sinister altar around which the family life moves in
very narrow circles. As I said, Draco himself doesn't actually say anything,
but his daughter does, and it chills me whenever she does. She’s a really
sweet child, I’ll have to grant her that, and intelligent as well. But this
morning, while Severus was discussing Merlin-knows-what with Malfoy and his
wife, the little girl offered me a tour of the grounds (impressive, by the
way). That’s when she told me about her grandfather, and how she’d have
liked to know him, and how her Mummy and Daddy love him, and… well, I’m sure
you get the gist of it.
As to ‘Mummy’—I remember that Cho Chang disappeared without a trace sometime
during her seventh year, and the ensuing uproar and that she suddenly turned
up in France, some years later, as Malfoy’s wife. The woman is an enigma,
and not one I’d like to solve. For all her beauty, I wouldn't like to have
less than a ten feet’s distance between her and me. Which says it all.
Did I ever complain about the abnormal quantities of noise our dear students
produce? Well, you may hex me if I complain again. Right now, I’m actually
pining for it, because it’s a healthy, living sound, nothing like the eerie
silence of this mausoleum of Lucius Malfoy, peopled by silent creatures
gliding through it.
Till tomorrow then, my dear, and I hope the brats are manageable.
Yours
Sirius
*
“Sometimes,” Hermione said, giving Sirius’s letter back to McGonagall,
“Sirius is really endearing, isn’t he? I mean, didn’t he consider that we
might actually swap letters? Let alone that Severus might write to me, too?”
They were having tea at the Deputy Headmistress’s quarters on Sunday
afternoon, awaiting Severus's and Sirius’s return from France. Hermione, who
had genuine affection for her former Head of House, had been overcome by
sudden nervousness on her way to the older witch’s rooms—the same kind of
apprehension she had always felt when, during her life as Harry's wife, she
had to meet somebody from her past. The ever-present, nagging fear that
those people, who had known her back in her days of brilliance and great
expectations, might compare the woman she had become to the one she might
have become, the brilliant academic, the successful mediwitch, the star
Auror. Not that she dreaded open criticism; no, it was more the idea of
being silently examined, measured and weighed, and consequently labelled
‘failure’. This, and nothing else, had been the reason why she had never
sought a closer friendship with Remus Lupin. Or why, after Harry had become
Minister of Magic, she had scanned guest lists and appointments so
obsessively. Was there a former schoolmate? A female student, maybe, married
and not recognizable by her last name anymore?
Since she had gotten together with Severus and started teaching, these fears
had abated. But she could not deny that, where McGonagall was concerned,
there still was a residue lurking at the bottom of her mind. She had been a
little tense at the beginning of their conversation. McGonagall had
certainly noticed it, maybe even drawn the right conclusions. But she was
treating Hermione with such sincere affection that the looming dread was
quickly forgotten.
“Endearing?” McGonagall snorted. “I’m not sure whether you can call this
amount of naďveté endearing in a man of fifty-six. But I suppose he wanted
to spare your delicate sensibilities.”
“I’m glad you don’t want to spare my delicate sensibilities,” Hermione said.
“Of course I’m worried—nothing good has ever come from the Malfoys. But
Severus has taken every imaginable precaution. There’s not much left to
worry about, really.”
“Probably not. And the thought of Malfoy having to endure Sirius's presence
in his house is rather amusing.” She refilled their teacups and spooned
sugar into hers. “Listen, Hermione, not that I want to intrude or interfere,
but—” she took off her glasses and polished them “—it’s almost Christmas,
and I was wondering… do you need any help with Severus's present?”
Hermione, who had expected a question about the date of their wedding, was
greatly relieved and hoped that it didn't show on her face. “I’ve been
thinking about it for weeks,” she admitted. “The problem is—could you pass
the milk, please?” She added the milk and stirred pensively. “The problem is
that, while I was married to Harry, I never wasted much time, energy or
thought on presents of any kind. I merely went into the most expensive shop
and told them I needed a present for the Minister. Not really nice, I know,
but at least I did it myself.”
McGonagall’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Are you saying that Potter sent
somebody to choose your presents?”
“Uh-huh.” By now, these slights—made worse by the awareness that Harry would
have been very surprised indeed, had he known she perceived them as
such—seemed to belong to a distant past and merely made her smile. “Dennis
knew my underwear, nightwear and jewels much better than my own husband…”
Only when she heard the echo of her own words in her head did Hermione look
up and into McGonagall's eyes. The memories of a recent past, which she felt
was so very distant, had completely cancelled the knowledge that Dennis
Creevey… “Minerva, I forgot about him! Can you believe that? I really,
completely forgot about poor Dennis! And nobody told me—what did happen?
What have they done with him?” Suddenly breathing became difficult, and the
scar on her back sent a sharp, stinging sensation up and down her spine. Her
sight blurred, and she grabbed for something to hold on to, as an acute
feeling of dizziness washed over her, making her nauseous. Finally, her
fingers found McGonagall’s cool, firm hand.
The older witch was talking to her, trying to soothe her, and gradually the
words became clearer, the glass wall separating Hermione from the world
dissipated. “Are you all right?” McGonagall asked, her voice hoarse with
concern.
“Yes, I think I’m… Sorry, Minerva, I have no idea what—”
“Shush, let me…” The cool fingers deftly opened the first three buttons of
Hermione's blouse, so she was able to breathe freely, in great, deep gulps.
“Better?”
Hermione nodded. “Yes, I’m almost fine again. Just that dizziness…”
“You were hyperventilating, no wonder you’re feeling dizzy,” McGonagall said
grimly. “Stay where you are, I’m going to get you a calming potion.”
More out of necessity than obedience, Hermione did indeed stay where she
was, wondering what was happening to her. Was it possible to fall into shock
six weeks after the trauma had occurred? Did such a thing as delayed shock
even exist? And if it didn’t, what had this sudden fit of… well, of
whatever, been? Maybe the thought of Severus being in potential danger,
remote as the possibility was that any harm might come to him, combined with
the flashback of harmless, oh-so-nice Dennis? Was that enough to trigger
such a powerful reaction?
Footsteps from the adjacent room and the creaking of a door heralded
McGonagall’s return, and Hermione did her best to force her lips into a
smile. “Thank you,” she said, taking the proffered vial that contained a
gelatinous, light-blue potion, and bringing it to her mouth. The sensation
of cool glass against her lips had barely registered with her, when the vial
was abruptly snatched from her hands. “Er…” Hermione looked up at the older
witch, who was scrutinizing her with a rather peculiar expression. “Didn't
you… I mean, wasn't I supposed to…” She gestured at the vial.
“Are you sure you should drink this?” McGonagall asked, a weird little smile
playing around her lips.
“Well, yes…” Hermione tried to shake off the feeling of being in the middle
of a very bizarre dream. “You said it was a calming potion, and I think it
might help… No?” she asked, seeing the other witch wag her head.
“I’m not so sure. Did you say you were feeling nauseous? Dizzy?”
“Dizzy, yes, but—Oh!” Despite her weakness, Hermione had a hard time
fighting the urge to laugh—an outburst of hilarity might hurt McGonagall,
after all. “No, it’s not what you think, Minerva. The world is not about to
be graced by a little Snape. I suppose it was merely the aftershock…” The
slightly disappointed look on McGonagall’s face made Hermione grab for her
hand and give it an affectionate squeeze. “Sorry if that’s a disappointment
to you, but I’m afraid we won’t be thinking of procreating anytime soon.”
“Oh, well, one can always hope…” The nonchalant tone of voice was belied by
her frown.
“It would be too early,” Hermione said while uncorking the vial once again.
“Don’t you think we should have some time for ourselves, just the two of
us?”
“Of course I do. Forgive an old woman for being sentimental… Anyway,”
McGonagall continued, visibly pulling herself together, “this takes us right
back to the question of Christmas presents. Any idea what you’re going to
get Severus?”
Glad that at least she didn't have to discuss Severus's and her—merely
theoretical—progeny, Hermione dedicated her attention to the less touchy but
by no means simpler subject of Christmas presents.
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