The Mourner
By Daphne Dunham

A child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts.
~ Wordsworth

* * * * * * *

Chapter 4: The Parcel

For a moment, it seems as though the little girl might cry; her bottom lip quivers and her eyes grow wide. It’s only when she doesn’t that Severus realizes that she is, in fact, shivering. Indeed, she must be cold: Her coat and mittens are lightweight—more fashionable than practical—and they’re soaked through with snow; worse, the soles of her boots are still slick with ice. She’s not dressed properly for this weather, not to mention to be alone—abandoned. In moments, Severus has her wrapped in a spare quilt and sitting on the edge of his worktable. He leans over her, struggling to untie the damp, dirty knots fastening her boots to her feet.

“I don’t suppose you can speak yet?” he asks her with an air of formality completely unsuitable for a toddler while he works.

But she’s too busy looking around the cottage to pay him attention, her eyes wandering wildly over her surroundings: the flames dancing at the hearth; the shelves lined with vials of multi-colored liquids and jars of amorphous, fleshy objects; the small kitchenette in the corner; and the tiny living space, cramped with a sofa and walls lined with overflowing bookshelves. The baby points and babbles incoherently as she admires the variety before her. Severus is still arguing with her shoelaces—and muttering frustrations under his breath—when she realizes that several of these wonders are within her reach: She flips through some pages of the book that sits beside her on the worktable, then finding it rather dull, grabs at a nearby beaker instead.

“Uh-oh!” she says as she watches it fall to the floor. The jar smashes instantaneously, narrowly missing a landing on Severus’ foot; a green gelatinous substance in a speckled liquid oozes into the cracks in the floorboards.

At once, Severus abandons the boots; his face contorts into a scowl, and he’s hissing angrily as he reaches into his robes and withdraws his wand. “Reparo!”

The little girl squeals with delight as she watches the glass shards knit themselves back together before her eyes. Her small hands clap as with another flick of the wand, the mess is removed and the beaker is back beside her on the worktable. In awe, she reaches for it once more, as if to examine it and make sure she can believe what her eyes have seen. Severus, though, intercepts her outstretched fingers before they have time to curl around the glass lip.

“No you don’t,” he tells her, holding her hand back and pushing the once-broken beaker just out of reach. “You’ve already done quite enough damage for one night.”

Regardless of the scolding, though, the girl only giggles, amused by his scowl.

“You think it’s funny, do you?” Severus asks her, eyebrow raised. Her smile doesn’t fade though, despite the severity of his tone. Instead, she reaches out to him, places her hand gently on his cheek, patting him affectionately. Despite himself, Severus can’t help but soften. “A more important question, I suppose, is who are you? And how did you get here?” he murmurs as he looks into her too-trusting face.

Although his questions have been spoken more rhetorically than in earnest expectation of an answer, the little girl turns to look over her shoulder. She extends a tiny index finger and points in the direction of the front door. “Outside with bad man,” she says vaguely, in semi-articulate baby-speak.

Severus looks toward the door; when he had left it ajar to go to the hothouse, he had been expecting to ease his reentry into the cottage, not open an invitation for a mysterious toddler to wander in and turn up at his hearth. Yet his curiosity mounts as he gazes toward the entryway, where the baby seems to have come from. He lifts her in his arms and walks across the room cautiously, unsure what to expect beyond the plank separating them from the snowy outdoors.

Just as the little girl indicated, he sees them now: the tiny indentations—footsteps, slightly blurred by the freshly falling snow—crossing over his from his excursion to the hothouse, leading up the walkway from the roadside. Severus squints through the shadows, stunned that the toddler could have made her way up the hill to the cottage, and still holding her, he steps further outdoors, following her trail.

He sees the body at the bottom of the hill by the roadside; he’s a round, middle-aged man, shabbily dressed and lying in mound of red-tinted snow.

“Bad man!” the child shrieks when she too spots the scoundrel’s corpse. She burrows further into the safety of Severus’ arms, and he feels the warm wetness of her tears against the exposed skin of his neck. He holds her tightly, in a reassuring embrace. He can only guess at how she arrived here with this man—or what he may have done to her—but he knows by her reaction that there was nothing good that transpired here. A cold fire burns in Severus’ blood at the thought of the possibilities, at the sight of the dead scoundrel at the edge of his property, at the memory of the neglect and abuse of his own childhood and the idea of similar horrors transpiring in the life of an innocent little girl. Disgusted, Severus turns away from the body.

“Shhhh,” he soothes, running a hand along the baby’s head, her hair.

* * *

A sudden hush falls across the pub: The piper in the corner lets out a final, fading note; the laughter from the rowdy group at the bar stops short; and even Madam Rosmerta—still coquettishly dispensing mead after all these years—pauses with a bottle raised in mid-pour. It’s clear that the sight of Severus Snape in the pub is nothing short of a novelty—let alone at this hour—and with a child in tow, too. And all are curious by the unexpected appearance of the recluse, standing in the shadows of the doorway, his dark robes billowing in the breeze, like a strange apparition.

In truth, it’s just as much a shock to Severus to find himself here as well. For so long, he’s eschewed contact with the world outside Raveloe Cottage. However, at this hour and under these circumstances, he could see no alternative than to Apparate into the village for help, for advice, for assistance. He shifts uncomfortably at the realization of the effect his appearance is having on the pub, but it can’t be avoided: In the darkened Hogsmeade streets, the Three Broomsticks is his only hope for immediate attention.

“Master Snape, what a surprise it is to see you,” Rosmerta says at last, emerging from the crowd and breaking the silence as she beckons him in. Her greeting is warm, though her astonishment is still evident. There is a rosy hue high in her cheeks, and her smile is kind; although white hair has begun to creep in at her temples, she’s still just as lovely as she was when she first came to Hogsmeade as a young woman.

“I see you have a little parcel with you, too,” Rosmerta continues. Her grin widens as her eyes, twinkling, rest on the amber-haired child swaddled in a quilt Severus’ arms. She peers into the tiny face with a maternal regard, admiring those wide, green eyes and that sweet, pink complexion. “And a pretty little one at that,” she coos.

Rosmerta sets aside the mead in favor of reaching out to brush the little girl’s cheek affectionately. The baby withdraws shyly at her touch, burying her head against Severus’ shoulder; once again, he can’t help but feel his grasp around her little body tighten protectively. “Oh, there, there, someone’s feeling quite bashful,” Rosmerta chuckles.

For a moment, Severus isn’t quite sure if she means him or the girl, then, remembering himself, he speaks. The silence hovers over the pub like a cold mist, like time suspended as he talks. All eyes on him, Severus tells them of the corpse lying at the edge of his property by the road, of the tiny footsteps up the hill to his house, and of how he found her—the little girl like fire and gemstone—at his hearth. It takes a moment for the dreadfulness of the events of Severus Snape’s evening to creep through the crevices of the room; not since the Battle of Hogwarts have such peculiar and Dark things transpired in Hogsmeade, after all. Only after he’s done with the tale does anyone dare to breathe, it seems.

It’s Rosmerta who, once again, breaks the solemn, stunned silence of the pub. She reels around in panic. “Why, we’ve got to do something!” she urges boldly. “We’ve got a dead body—a man may have been murdered, and this little girl’s got no family!”

At her vocalization, the pub is in a sudden stir, alive with alarm. There are barks of panic, of suggestion, of speculation. Chairs scrape against the wooden floor as troops of men abandon their firewhisky. Some move eagerly in packs, up to Raveloe Cottage, intent on seeing the corpse, on minding the corpse—removing it from the grounds and bringing it to the Ministry for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to tend to. Others, concerned about the grave events, rush home to their families, to make sure they are safe.

“Go on back up home, Master Snape—there’s little more we can do until morning, and you must be exhausted. I’ll keep an eye on this wee one tonight,” Rosmerta volunteers, reaching out to take the baby from him, as the pub empties and falls into quiet. “And tomorrow we’ll notify the Ministry and sort this out—find her parents or at least a suitable foster home.”

For the briefest of instants, Severus hesitates before handing the child over. Of course Madam Rosmerta should take her: He knows nothing about babies, let alone little girls—and this one in particular has caused him nothing but trouble from the instant he spotted her at the hearth of his cottage. Reason overcomes his reluctance, and he passes the baby to Rosmerta with a nod. “You’re sure it’s no trouble?” he says.

“Oh, none at all!” Rosmerta insists warmly, accepting the bundle with a broad grin. “She’ll be a delight.”

Severus watches for a moment as she fusses over the toddler, readjusting the quilt around her to keep her warm and patting her tiny back as she holds her close. Rosmerta speaks to the girl all the while. Severus has always found it a bit humiliating the way women revert to incoherent, high-pitched baby speak when addressing such small children; suddenly everything becomes “teensy-weensy,” and nonsense phrases like “woo-woo” are appended to otherwise usual words. However, watching Rosmerta with the child, Severus feels confident in her ability to take good care of her—and the girl seems content enough in the witch’s arms. Feeling suddenly obsolete, unnecessary, he turns to leave.

It isn’t until he’s at the door that he hears it: The whimpering rising above Rosmerta’s high-pitched, hushed maternal tones. Severus’ hand stills on the doorknob, and he pauses mid-step over the threshold; he turns to look back. The baby is crying. Rosmerta’s doing her best to calm her, but there’s no consolation. Instead, she’s struggling to reach out to Severus, her hands extended longingly, as if to pull him back to her. And her eyes, glassy with tears, are staring after him, pleading with him. Green eyes, like sea glass, like Lily’s eyes. Severus hesitates at the sight of those eyes; he’d disappointed Lily before and has lived with regret ever since; he can’t bear to see disappointment in such similar eyes again.

With a sigh, Severus steps back inside, closing the door again. He walks toward where Madam Rosmerta and the baby stand, and he reaches out his arms.

* * *

“The Ministry sent you, didn’t they?” he asks Hermione Granger-Weasley crossly as he watches her move about the tiny kitchen.

Hermione declines to provide an answer and pretends she doesn’t hear him as she busies herself with the tea things. Her suspicious silence, however, makes the truth quite plain to Severus, and he lets out a long, loud hiss of disapproval.

“All the Ministry wants, professor, is to make sure that the girl’s best interests are being looked after,” she explains calmly at this. “The latest report this morning was that the man you found her with was most definitely not her father; he was a petty thief named Fagan—always in and out of trouble with the law, though nothing as severe as kidnapping before. We still don’t know who her parents are; no one’s reported a missing child. And I’m here because the Wizengamot is anxious to rule on the matter of the girl’s custody until the case is solved.”

“They think I can’t manage a child, is that it?” Severus seethes. “I’ve handled hundreds of children—thousands. I was a professor, for Merlin’s sake.”

Hermione pauses awkwardly, nearly dropping the tea tray in her hands. “Yes, but you were always a rather cruel teacher, you know,” she blurts, the comment slipping from her lips before she has the foresight to stop it. Hesitantly, she raises her eyes to meet Severus’, to see his reaction, that familiar fury simmering just below the surface of his skin.

“I don’t recall having asked you for your critique of my teaching methods, Ms. Granger-Weasley,” he says coolly. “And cruel or not as said methods may have been, they were nonetheless effective: My students always fared well on their Ministry-administered tests. Even Neville Longbottom managed to pass his O.W.L.s, if memory serves me.”

With a sigh, Hermione resumes pouring out the tea. Experience has dictated to her that Severus would rebuff any advice or assistance, and so she is neither surprised nor dismayed by his caustic phrases. Instead, she can only shake her head and suppress an amused grin. “A baby is quite different, professor,” she replies as her eyes rest on the little girl sitting on his lap. There’s something cherubic about the child—her round, pretty face and bright eyes, her auburn curls, and the way she giggles blithely as she plays with the doll she’s holding. “She’ll need love and tenderness,” Hermione says warmly as she watches her. Then, she looks up sharply at Severus as she hands him his tea cup. “You won’t be able to call her a dunderhead when she makes a mistake, you know, or deduct House points when she needs to be punished.”

At such criticism, Severus’ eyes flicker dangerously and his brows move to form a deep, displeased ravine down the center of his forehead. Then, grudgingly, he accepts the proffered cup. “Thank you for stating the obvious,” he scoffs; his hold on the baby becomes increasingly protective. “However, I’ll have you know that, contrary to popular belief, I am not altogether unfamiliar with… tenderness, as you call it. I had a mother, you know.”

“Did you?” As she takes a seat at the table opposite him and the curly-haired toddler, Hermione cannot help but be shocked by the thought of Severus Snape having a doting mother. From the little she’d gathered of Eileen Prince from the newspapers she’d unearthed all those years ago as a student at Hogwarts, she’d envisioned Severus’ mother as the cold sort or the absent sort—the sort incapable of showing affection to a small boy, of combing his hair or taking him to get his first wand. The idea that he should have been raised any differently causes her to choke on her tea a moment.

Severus glares. “My mother cared well enough,” he snaps indignantly. “She sacrificed for me—she worked common Muggle jobs to send me to school—and she tried to protect me from my worthless drunk of a father. Furthermore, as you have—no doubt—been made aware, there was someone dear to me….” His voice trails off uncomfortably at the allusion to Lily Evans Potter, and he hurriedly clears his throat before Hermione can either confirm or question him further on the nature of his relationship with her—or, worse, interject unbearable words of sympathy for his loss. “The point is, Ms. Granger-Weasley, I am not wholly unversed in how to be affectionate,” he adds tersely.

Accepting the cue not to dwell on the matter of whether or not Severus Snape has loved and been loved, Hermione draws them back to the matter at hand. She peers more carefully around the cottage; it is tidy enough, secure enough, comfortable enough—though small. And she looks at the little girl, obviously freshly bathed and dressed in green to match her eyes, nourished and safe—and, most importantly, visibly happy. And she watches the way the sallow-skinned wizard holds the baby and how his hard eyes soften when he glances down at her; there is a gentle manner about him, a kindness she’d never seen in him at school when she was his student. Hermione nods in approval of it all—from the home to the care to the caretaker.

“I see you’ve done some shopping for her,” she remarks kindly, indicating the new clothes and doll. Out of the corner of her eye, she can’t help but notice a few other very un-middle-aged-bachelor-type items in the sitting area, on the sofa, on an end table: some brightly-colored children’s books and stuffed animals, as well as some freshly laundered clothes—tiny dresses in telling shades of pastel pink and purple.

“Rosmerta helped,” Severus replies quietly. “And the girl chose the doll.”

Hermione chuckles good-naturedly. “I think it’s time we stop calling her ‘the girl’, professor,” she tells him. “If you’re to be her foster father, perhaps you best think of a proper name for her. Have you any ideas?”

For a moment Severus is quiet. Hermione watches him think, watches him watch the baby balanced on his knees; there is a sadness about him as he ponders an answer to her question, and even as he opens his mouth to reply, Hermione suspects she has an inkling of where his thoughts are roaming, of the type of name he’ll select for the green-eyed, auburn-haired toddler smiling up at him.

“I will call her Proserpina,” Severus says softly at last.

Ever the know-it-all, Hermione’s been right in her assumption, of course. Although Severus declines to elaborate on his reasons, she knows the truth behind his choice: This little girl is vaguely similar in looks and demeanor to Lily Evans, is like Lily reborn to him in the form of a daughter, brought back to him from the dead.

“That’s beautiful, professor,” Hermione tells him with such gentleness that it causes a not-so-subtle shade of scarlet to rise in the cheeks of the otherwise sallow-skinned wizard. She smiles at this, half touched, half amused to see his discomfort. “Proserpina looks quite nearly the same size and age of my little Rose, you know,” she tells him cheerfully. “Harry has a son around the same age al—”

At the mention of Harry Potter, Severus looks up sharply. “Yes, I’ve been made aware of Potter’s son, Ms. Granger-Weasley.”

His voice is cold, as if to freeze the topic of the Potters in mid-mention, like breath on a winter’s morning. And his already-black eyes darken further; they drift up to the mantle over the fireplace. For a moment, they linger there, on the intricately carved wood box he still keeps. Indeed, he does know about young Albus Severus Potter: Harry keeps writing to him—once around Christmastime, once mid-year. Every year. Since the Battle. Severus has continued to keep the letters, some opened, others not, in this box—just as he admitted to Harry the last time he saw him, the day the young man brought him his Order of Merlin. And Severus has continued not to reply to the letters: Even after all this time, Harry is nothing more to him than a bitter reminder of how he has loved—continues to love—Lily without return, that Lily betrayed him as much as he betrayed her—choosing James, having his son. Even after all this time, Harry is nothing more to Severus than a reminder of his horrible mistakes, of his role in causing Lily’s death, of the regret he’s endured daily since.

“Harry means well, professor—you’re the only link he has to his mother anymore, and he does feel very sorry,” Hermione lectures. “He’s been trying for years. If you could just write to him—just once—”

Although she’s attempting to be gentle, there’s still something bossy, something reprimanding in Hermione’s tone. It causes Severus to glower with resentment. “If I’m not mistaken, Ms. Granger-Weasley, we’re meant to discuss Proserpina—not Potter,” he hisses. “After all, I believe the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is paying you to investigate the safety and well-being of an abandoned child, not give me a sermon on the virtues of Harry Potter.”

Hermione’s face flushes; she closes her mouth abruptly and focuses her attention on her tea cup while she regains her composure. She takes a final sip, draining the last of the liquid, and clearing her throat, stands up from the table—a definitive indication that their interview is at an end. For a moment, Hermione ponders telling him that it’s been pleasant seeing him again after all these years but thinks better of it; it’s a lie that neither of them would believe. “Thank you for the tea, Professor Snape,” is all she says instead.

Severus only nods vaguely, barely interested, as she prepares to leave: His attention is instead focused on Proserpina, watching her dutifully, adoringly, fascinated. She drops her doll, and he immediately sweeps his arm down to the ground to retrieve it for her. She giggles and claps her hands in appreciation as she accepts the toy once more. Then, hugging the doll close, she leans back against Severus’ chest, completely comfortable, completely dependent on him. There is the faint hint of a smile tugging at the corners of Severus’ mouth as he cradles the child in his arms—Hermione notices it as she pulls her traveling cloak over her shoulders; she’s never seen the semblance of a smile on Severus Snape’s face before and can’t help but half-smile herself.

“Well, Ms. Granger-Weasley? What, may I ask, do you have to report to the Ministry about your visit?”

Severus’ question is sudden, unexpected, and his tone is urgent. It catches Hermione off guard. She hesitates a moment, pausing mid-step by the doorway. When she turns to look at him one last time, she sees that his ghost of a smile has faded to make way for soberness—worry, even.

“I’m sorry, professor, but we don’t usually divulge—” Hermione begins to explain, but when she sees the fleeting flicker of disappointment dash across Severus’ face, she hesitates. Her eyes rest on the little girl sitting on her former professor’s lap, gurgling happily as she plays. Watching them together, two discarded, forgotten souls quite content in one another’s company, she can’t bear to cause them stress. Hermione reminds herself that she has been known to break the rules on occasion before—and that she certainly could stand to do so now as well.

“I’ll tell them,” she says with a broad, genuine grin, “that Proserpina is very well adjusted and perfectly well cared for—that she couldn’t have a guardian more devoted to her…. And I’ll tell them that I highly recommend that she stay where she is, here with you.”

* * * * * * *

A/N: I gratefully acknowledge that this story is loosely based on George Eliot’s Silas Marner. To be continued…