Chapters 161-170

Defying Fortune’s Spite

When Hermione entered the living room, the phoenix perched on a shiny mahogany stand, her head buried in a metal bowl filled with fragrant herbs. The room was silent except for the tinkling sounds of beak hitting bowl with swift, hungry pecks.

Severus sat in one of the shabby wingback chairs, watching the bird.

‘Did you find anything?’ he asked without turning.

‘No,’ Hermione replied. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing. Just the nest, bits of shell, a few down-feathers. And the writing on the box. “To be delivered to Professor Severus Snape on Christmas Eve in the year 2000.” It’s definitely Professor Dumbledore’s handwriting. But…I don’t understand! Why? How?’

She sat down in the other chair, looking back and forth between the phoenix and her husband.

‘An egg of the right age and timed warming charms, I assume,’ Severus said, his gaze still riveted on the bird.

‘Of course,’ Hermione breathed.

He knew without looking how her nose wrinkled now, and how her teeth bit down on her lower lip, tell-tale signs of Hermione cataloguing all she knew about phoenixes in her mind. She could probably see the relevant pages of ‘The Secret Lives of Fantastic Beasts—Advanced Studies of Magical Creatures’ by Newt Scamander in her mind just as clearly as if the book lay open on the table.

‘The egg of a phoenix needs 1,461 days to mature,’ she began. ‘They hatch around Christmas. The breaking of the shell is actually triggered by winter solstice. But that date was close enough to Christmas for Christianity to appropriate the symbolism of birth and rebirth for its own purposes—’

‘Hermione. I’m quite aware of the basic facts pertaining to the species. I don’t need you to recite your NEWT textbooks.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

He winced at the sting of his words. She was only nervous.

‘As for why—’ His voice sounded scratchy. Before he could clear his throat, Hermione had already Conjured a glass of water for him. Frowning, Severus accepted the glass and sipped. Lois would be pleased if she knew that he still kept up her regimen to reduce the stress on his vocal chords.

At last he put down the glass and forced himself to face Hermione.

Why was this so difficult? She knew him at his most vulnerable—naked, sheathed within her body. She knew his very heart, damn it.

At the same time, he was forced to agree with her assessment of their situation, the way she had voiced it yesterday: she didn’t really know all that much about him.

While he had always known many details of her life at Hogwarts (both irrelevant and important)—such as her school files (grades, awards, and detentions; the exact date of her menarche), or such highs and lows of her adolescence as her flirt with Viktor Krum, or her rather unique boggart—she had no such knowledge of him.

She knew at once too much (those damn memories!), and too little of him. Yet…She was a Gryffindor. She made up for that lack of knowledge with brash curiosity and stubborn insistence. She was also very much a woman: She balanced out what she didn’t know with an almost uncanny perceptiveness. And she was his wife. She accepted him like no one ever had before. If he chose to remain silent, she would likely accept that, too.

But, he frowned, somehow that didn’t seem right.

And this morning…talking to her, telling her about his childhood, had felt…less awkward than he had feared. Almost comfortable.

He picked up the glass again and took another sip. Turning it around in his hands, he guessed that it had started life as a thimble. Small enough to carry around in a shirt-pocket, its material sturdy enough to withstand multiple Transfigurations. She must have done something to the ‘Aguamenti’ spell, though. This water tasted like Evian, not like the rather tepid mess the spell normally produced.

‘As for why,’ he repeated and raised his head to meet her gaze. Her brown eyes were warm and calm. She was waiting patiently for him to speak. Only the way she sat betrayed a certain tension—perched and poised, not curled up against the back of the chair like a relaxed kitten.

‘I don’t know,’ he went on, his voice soft, the effort it took him to keep calm and composed inaudible. ‘But I imagine it might be Dumbledore’s way to answer a question I asked him once. At that time…he threw the question back into my face.’

He swallowed painfully and looked into her eyes again, willing her to remember what she must have witnessed when his memories were displayed at the trial. He was not disappointed. Her breath hitched, her lips fluttered with a gasp.

‘Your soul,’ she whispered and raised a shaking hand to her lips. At another time he would have felt humiliated by the tears shimmering in her eyes.

But as he found that he had to blink quickly himself to keep his burning eyes from betraying him, he let it go.

oooOooo

‘You can tell Weasley that Miss Petrel can bring her Jarvey. I trust that she has taught him to behave.’

Hermione, who’d been about to Floo-call the Burrow, sat back on her heels and looked at Severus over her shoulder. ‘Alina has a Jarvey? I didn’t know that. Aren’t only toads, cats, and owls permitted as pets?’

‘Which didn’t keep Weasley from bringing a rat,’ Severus replied dryly. ‘Or Miss Petrel from acquiring an orphaned Jarvey from Hagrid.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’ Hermione muttered. Then: ‘But how do you know about that?’

Severus smirked. ‘House-elves.’

‘House-elves?’ She blinked once, twice—then an uncomfortable thought struck her. ‘The house-elves are spying on the students?’

His lips twitched. ‘Sadly not all house-elves. But the Slytherin house-elves most certainly do. I dare say it would have been easier to keep an eye on you and your dunderheaded friends if Minerva had agreed to adopt my methods…’