Chapters 161-170

Foxes and Swans at Spinner’s End

In the deepening dusk the park looked dreary; the trees bare, the bushes cut back. But in summer it would be nice, with just enough lawn for picnics. And the nearby stream smelled fresh and clean.

In the middle of the park was a fountain. A reluctant Severus in tow, Hermione circled it.

‘Normally I don’t really like modern art,’ she admitted finally. ‘Most of the time, I have no clue what to make of it. But this is quite nice.’

‘It’ was made of metal in a warm, muted coppery colour. Something that looked like an angel with a bush on its head was bending over a large wheel and kissing it. A second, much smaller statue lived on the edge of the basin. This one was positively cute: it was a fox, its distinctive fluffy tail curled slightly as it bent down to lap up some water.

Next to the fox, a copper plate inserted in the edge of the basin explained the monument.

‘It’s supposed to commemorate the “victims of industrialization”. The latest of which were inhabitants of houses that stood in this place who were killed in the explosion of a leaking gas pipeline. It was done by a local artist. Umm…that angel is actually a dryad,’ Hermione said, squinting at the plate.

She felt, more than heard the choked inhalation next to her.

Her face prickled with apprehension, the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck standing on edge, as Severus’ reaction registered with her. ‘That was not a gas leak, was it?’

He exhaled heavily. ‘No,’ he replied very softly. ‘It was not.’

He drew another deep breath. ‘Death Eaters. After the final battle. They didn’t like it when they found out about my true allegiance.’

oooOooo

It was love at first sight.

Aided and abetted by the efforts of the house-elves, but still: Hermione fell in love with Severus’ tiny house the very first moment, when its hazy contours—hidden behind multiple wards—solidified into the chopped-off remnant of an ancient row of brick houses. With its towel-sized front garden, Victorian-style iron fence, fanciful bay windows (obviously added later on), an old-fashioned door knocker, and a cast-iron boot scraper inserted in a niche in the wall next to the door, it was certainly quaint, but charming.

When they entered the little house, and the very first room was filled with books from the floor to the ceiling, all four walls, with the exception of the windows, the fireplace, and the door, of course, she was head over heels. When she discovered the magically enlarged, black-and-white chequered kitchen with the old cast-iron Aga cooker, she squealed. When she sighed reverently over the ball-and-claw feet of the bath tub on the first floor, she caught how Severus just shook his head in a bemused fashion.

oooOooo

When he exasperatedly pointed out the bad insulation, the dismal condition of the old-fashioned utilities, and the small size of the two bedrooms, one tinier than the other, she had the nerve to shrug and call them ‘darling’.

oooOooo

‘Oh, look! There’s “Swan Lake” for Sunday’s matinee!’

Later he could never reconstruct what had prompted him to say ‘yes’.

oooOooo

Of course he knew the tale staged in the ballet. The dream of true love. The motifs of transformation, purification, and regeneration. He also knew the music. He was an educated man; of course he knew Tchaikovsky. Lucius Malfoy had even seen it fit to invite him to Muggle London once to enjoy it on stage.

But he had never before experienced it with Hermione next to him, her hand searching his, her eyes riveted on the dancers, her lips parted in a sigh as she gazed upon the stage…

Suddenly he did not want to die.

He wanted to live.

He wanted to live, and every single Christmas he would share with Hermione, he wanted to find a Sunday’s matinee somewhere, to drink in the beauty of this music and this dance, and her sighs, and her smiles, and…

oooOooo

…later, to scrub her back in that ridiculous bath tub.

oooOooo

She loved the music. Loved it. It was on one of the first LPs her parents had given her. If she remembered correctly it had been a gift of the elusive Easter bunny when she was three or four. She’d been searching for the promised bounty frantically, but she just couldn’t find it. On the verge of tears, she’d finally looked up. She still didn’t know why. Maybe an amused cough of her parents had alerted her? Whatever the reason, she’d looked up. And on top of the sideboard—high above her head at the time—sat the LP of Swan Lake.

Yes, that was what a couple of British dentists regarded as an appropriate gift from the Easter bunny to their little daughter.

Hermione didn’t mind. She simply loved the music. And when she was old enough, her mother had taken her to London to see the ballet on stage.

But nothing could have prepared her for how she felt seeing the ballet with her husband at her side.

Granted, it was not London quality. The choreography was traditional, the music not as inspired as it could have been. But there was Severus next to her, and once she even dared to reach for his hand…

‘I think I really like the oboes and the harps best,’ she whispered. ‘The oboes are so sonorous and sad, and the harps so light and dreamy.’

oooOooo

During the intermission they talked about swans.

‘Did you know that swans mate for life?’ Hermione asked. ‘And swans of the northern hemisphere are white, but in Australia there are black swans.’

He nodded but didn’t comment.

‘And did you know that there are legends about swans in most cultures?’ she went on. ‘In the Finnish “Kalevala” there’s a swan living in the River of Death. And Hinduism ascribes to swans the power to travel between spiritual worlds.’ She smiled sadly. ‘If only that were true. I would have asked for a swan for Christmas.’