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The Mourner by Daphne Dunham [Reviews - 2]

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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 5: The Recluse’s Daughter

He wouldn’t quite call her spoiled: He’s far from a pauper, but potion-making doesn’t quite afford him the ability to incessantly shower her with fine things, after all—even though he’d like to. And it’s not as though she asks him for anything unreasonable to begin with—just the occasional toffee from Honeydukes or, at Madam Rosmerta’s suggestion, some ribbons for her hair. However, he can’t say he’s particularly stringent with her either: The mischief she manages to get herself into is, after all, trivial compared to some of the things he saw from students over the years at Hogwarts—not to mention some of the things he himself did at her age.

“Proserpina, you haven’t finished your maths,” he calls one evening from the kitchen table, where he has had her sit to study while he bottled Calming Draught for his next delivery to the Apothecary. Severus stands over the abandoned parchment on which he’d written a few dozen simple addition and subtraction problems for her to work on; only half have been attempted.

Within moments, the curly, reddish head appears around the corner of the staircase. When she steps forward, she’s wearing a sheepish look and is protectively clutching a small, leather-bound book to her chest. “Sorry, Papa,” she says, her tiny six-year-old voice wavering.

“What have you been doing all this time if not your work?” Severus asks her rather sternly, a finger pointing down at her incomplete assignment staring up at him on the table.

Proserpina looks guiltily down at the book in her arms. Enough of the gold lettering on the spine is visible to gather that she’s carrying around a care-worn copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. “Reading,” she replies meekly.

Severus sighs and takes the book away until the math is finished. He knows Proserpina should be punished; the last time she did this, he’d tried to discipline her: He’d made her sit in the corner of the room by herself, staring at the walls, at the cobwebs in the crevices. She’d sobbed so hard that he’d given up on the punishment after three minutes—partly for fear that she’d make herself ill from the purging, and partly because he couldn’t bear to see the tears in her eyes. Madam Rosmerta had advised him to give Proserpina a spanking next time around instead, but Severus has never been able to bring himself to do it. In fact, any time he thinks to deny her or scold her, to restrict her or discipline her, he remembers his own cheerless childhood and quickly changes his mind.

It helps that Proserpina’s so naturally affable, too. She’s quick to grin, to giggle; she’s eager to help, to learn; she complies and usually behaves—and, especially with him, she’s patient, loving. She’d be, he’s often thought, in Hufflepuff if she attended Hogwarts. Severus doesn’t spend too much time dwelling on this, though; it is, after all, a moot point: Proserpina has never exhibited magical abilities—and given the fact that she was found so deep in wizarding territory, he can only deduce that she is a Squib, not a Muggle.

Severus can’t say he’s particularly disappointed either. It would have been nice to have a young witch to raise, to teach and explore magic with, to nurture as a protégé. But Proserpina is skilled enough in other subjects as it is; she proves most impressive in Latin and literature—and she really is quite useful as an assistant in potion-making, mashing roots for him or counting out dried Billywig stings. Watching Proserpina grow, Severus feels confident in her abilities to live in the wizarding world without magic; watching her grow, Severus feels proud of her, pleased with her progress in ways he wouldn’t if she were a witch—if magical life came easy to her.

* * *


“Awww, look at her—so happy,” Madam Rosmerta comments with a warm smile. Her eyes are fixed on Proserpina sitting on the floor by the fireplace, playing with the kitten Severus has given her for her Christmas. She dangles yarn in front of it, lifts it up and giggles as the cat bats at it, trying to trap it in its paws. She’d seen the kitten last week in the window of the Magical Menagerie on a routine trip to Gringotts and had instantly been infatuated with the fluffy, butterscotch-colored fur and probing eyes. Watching Proserpina glance over her shoulder longingly as they walked away from the shop window, Severus had known at once the gift he’d get her. And indeed, all day long today, he’s been rewarded for his thoughtfulness with her laughter, hugs, and smiles.

“You really did a good and noble thing when you took her in, Master Snape,” Rosmerta continues.

It’s not the first time Severus has heard this, of course, but he shifts uncomfortably nonetheless: In the seven years it’s been since he’s adopted Proserpina, he’s noticed a distinct change in the way the Hogsmeade residents treat him. The women smile and nod and wish him well when they see him in the village with his little girl, running errands or making a delivery of potions to the Apothecary. The men offer to buy him a firewhisky at the Three Broomsticks, should he ever decide to join them there, and the schoolboys no longer toss rocks through his windows or play games to see who can get closest to his door without fleeing in fear. Rosmerta herself has been quite supportive, ever-present, dispensing more parenting advice than Severus can necessarily say he’s wanted or needed, but he supposes she’s been useful nonetheless.

“You’ve been most obliging yourself,” Severus concedes with a stiff nod.

Madam Rosmerta’s face brightens, seems to beam; appreciation from Severus Snape is a rare thing, and she cannot help but feel flattered. She wouldn’t call him a changed man since Proserpina entered his life—he’s still generally somber and reclusive, and he has been known to wield his tongue in a biting fashion from time to time. But there is something vaguely softer, gentler, more polite about him. “I daresay that little girl’s done as much good for you as you have for her, Master Snape,” Rosmerta tells him kindly, acknowledging this.

A rosy hue rises high in Severus’ cheeks at her words, and he narrowly misses severing his index finger from his hand as he slices the fruitcake she has brought them as a token of goodwill for the holidays. He feels fortunate to be rescued from further humiliation by Proserpina, who appears suddenly at his side, kitten in tow.

“Papa, what do you think of calling him Beedle?” she asks him excitedly, lifting the kitten up in her hands for him to look at. The cat blinks at him blankly, unmoved by her proposal for its name and decidedly disinterested in him as well.

“A cat named Beetle… That may be a bit confusing for it, don’t you think?” Severus says skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

Proserpina giggles, positive that he’s only teasing her: She knows that a man as quick-witted as her father is very well aware what she means. “Not Beetle, Papa—like the bug,” she explains in mock frustration. “Beedle—like the Bard. From my book.”

“Of course, how foolish of me,” Severus replies in a sarcastic monotone and with a knowing, crooked half-smile that only makes her giggle again. He places a hand on the top her head, affectionately smoothing back her auburn curls from her glowing, heart-shaped face. “Before we settle on a name, though, I think you’d best wish Madam Rosmerta a happy Christmas,” he tells her; his tone is kind but expectant, clearly attempting to teach good manners.

Proserpina’s eyes are vivid, like fresh leaves in springtime, as she cheerfully does as her father suggests. It is a happy Christmas, after all—a perfect one. And it remains that way until later that night, once Rosmerta has returned to the village, once Proserpina has curled up with the cat named Beedle and gone to sleep upstairs, and once Severus is blowing out the last of the candles and heading for the stairs himself.

The tapping on the window is very faint; for a moment, Severus thinks he may have misheard—that it was a creak in the floorboards or a branch falling in the wind. Turning, he sees it: the large tawny owl that has visited about twice a year every year for the past several years. It is with great annoyance and reluctance that Severus opens the window and accepts the envelope marked in the familiar handwriting.

“Shoo,” he tells the bird coldly when it looks at him expectantly, as if to ask for a bit of bread or biscuit to sustain it on its journey back to Godric’s Hollow. He slams the window shut again before the owl has a chance to nip or squawk in protest. The creature should know better by now.

He considers tossing the letter in the fireplace and watching it burn in the dying embers, reveling in the way the parchment curls and darkens as it meets this slow, deliberate death. He also considers tossing the envelope in the enchanted box sitting on the mantel where it can join its discarded older brothers. But instead, Severus pauses as he approaches the fireplace, and in that moment’s hesitation he does something he hasn’t done in three years: He opens Harry Potter’s letter.

In the fading light of the fire and the tiny flame of his candle, Severus tears open the envelope. Slipping his fingers inside, he finds the parchment, across the top of which is written the usual salutation: Dear Professor Snape, Hoping this letter finds you well…. Severus’ eyes narrow to slits; the irony of the fact that Harry insists on calling him “professor” now—when he’s no longer his professor, when he so often refused this formality as a student—has never failed to simultaneously insult and amuse him. Annoyed by Harry’s lack of subtlety and innovation, he stops reading at once.

“Yet more insipid drivel, I see, Mr. Potter,” he hisses with disapproval to the empty room, as if his former student is present to squirm under his critique.

Then, as he’s about to crumple the letter and condemn it to the flames, Severus notices something else tucked inside the envelope, resisting his grasp as he starts to crunch it in his palm. He rescues the photograph within, smoothing the edges wrinkled by his assault on it. In the shadows, he can make out the smiles and hand-waving of the Potter family: Harry with his arm around Ginny’s shoulders; little Lily—who is, disappointingly, not a likeness of her late paternal grandmother—standing shyly in front of them, grinning hesitantly; young James, eyes squinted mischievously and apparently hiding something behind his back; and, to the far side of James, keeping his distance by a cautious shoulder or so is Albus Severus.

The boy looks slightly harassed and a bit more dour than his older brother, who clearly has some vile form of torment in store for him as soon as the picture-taking is through. Albus Severus’ dark hair is rumpled, and there is something introspective about him, a sadness in his eyes… green eyes, his grandmother Lily’s eyes. Severus startles at noticing this; it’s like peering into the eyes of a ghost, a haunting much more acute than looking at Proserpina, whose eyes are a slightly different shade and shape and whom he knows couldn’t possibly a relative of Lily Evans Potter.

Unable to bear staring at the eyes of his namesake—at the eyes identical to the one he’s loved so dearly—Severus hurriedly tucks the letter and photograph back into the crinkled envelope. He removes the lid of the wooden box on the mantel and shoves the unwanted correspondence inside as if it’s something contemptible, something tainted.

* * *


Severus sees them as he makes his way back to the cottage from the hothouse: Proserpina and the vaguely familiar, tall, messy-haired young man standing by the roadside. Curious and slightly alarmed, he can’t help but pause and watch in secrecy from the shadows of the crab apple tree at the side of the cottage. They’re laughing, Proserpina looking up at the young man adoringly, her arm linked in his, staring into his eyes—eyes that, Severus is quite sure, are a vibrant shade of green behind the rim of his glasses. The boy draws her nearer to him—says something sweet, Severus guesses, by the blush and bashful smile that crosses his daughter’s face. She looks away shyly, but the dark-haired young man, undaunted, reaches out to touch her cheek. His fingertips balance on the edge of her chin, nudging it upward, higher, while he lowers his lips, downward, further. They kiss, her arms suddenly around his neck, his around her waist, two bodies melding into one.

Severus sinks deeper into the shade, embarrassed to watch, to witness this intimate scene. He retreats back into the house quickly, feeling numb and a little betrayed. Certainly, when he started giving Proserpina permission to go into the village on her own last year, he hadn’t foreseen this outcome. However, Severus supposes he has known all along that this has been inevitable: Proserpina, like all other children, must grow up sometime, must become an adult—a young woman. And she is a beautiful young woman, which complicates matters even more. And she’s kind, her demeanor infinitely more gentle and amiable than most would conceive the likes of Severus Snape capable of cultivating. And she’s a clever one, despite the fact that she may have certain limitations in the magical realm…. No, this shouldn’t be surprising at all.

Nonetheless, as he resumes his stance at his potions workstation, Severus is distracted, his mind wandering from thoughts of the asphodel roots and wormwood leaves at his fingertips. He can’t help but feel stunned, question why Proserpina would lie to him about the boy—it’s a lie of omission, of course, but it’s deceit just the same. He can’t help but wonder if that young man is indeed who he thinks he may be—and, worse, how he’ll be able to live with the truth if he is. Further, he can’t help but feel a bit more lonely, separated from his daughter, who has been his sole savior and hope for so many years. And, most of all, Severus can’t help but be dimly reminded of the hurt and anger that he felt when he found out Lily Evans was engaged to James Potter. It’s like being rejected by her—of losing her—all over again.

He wastes no time in questioning Proserpina about the incident. Giving up on his infusion of wormwood, Severus sits by the fireplace, his fingertips pressed together meditatively as he watches the flames, waiting for her to come back inside. When he finally hears the front door open and her light steps on the threshold, he clears his throat loudly, ominously.

“Proserpina Eileen Snape,” he says sternly, unable to bear to turn to look at her, “who is that young man I saw you with?”

Admitting to anything but the truth is unfathomable to Proserpina. She’s never told her father a lie; she’s never wanted to, never seen the need to. Even now, detecting the unmistakable danger riding in the undercurrent of his tone, she can’t imagine doing so. “His name is Albus Potter, papa,” she replies timidly. “He’s a student at Hogwarts. In his final year.”

It is as Severus has suspected; the resemblance had been too undeniable to be coincidence. Severus is quiet a long while, dark eyes stony and jaw clenched precariously. Proserpina watches him nervously, surveying his harsh profile, her hands trembling and barely able to bring herself to breathe as she waits for his judgment.

“And how… did you meet?” is all he asks at last in scarcely more than a whisper.

“I… I met him in Hogsmeade this past autumn. I was making a delivery to the Apothecary for you, and Albus was there—he’d come from the school on one of their trips to the village…. We’ve been writing letters and meeting when he’s in town ever since.” Her voice trembles as she speaks, and she says the last part with especial guilt, as though it is tantamount to betrayal or using an Unforgivable Curse.

“Papa, I’ll never see him again if you won’t allow it,” Proserpina promises quickly, eager to reassure her father of her allegiance to and love for him. She hurries to his side, to sit beside him and take his hand lovingly in hers. “Just say the word and I’ll end it with him.”

Her words catch Severus off guard. At last, he turns to look at her; there are tears welling in her great, green eyes, and her bottom lip quivers at the thought of having alienated the man whom she knows has given her absolutely everything he’s had to give. And the same can be said for Severus: For so many years this docile, devoted, tremulous girl has been his only happiness; causing her pain is inconceivable to him—let alone doing so for his sake. The idea of Proserpina making such a sacrifice for him is revolting to him—an abomination, a horror, something he could never allow.

“No, Proserpina, not at all,” he reassures her, patting her hand affectionately over his. Severus’ demeanor may have eased and his voice softened, but there is discomfort—sorrow, even—lingering about him. “I want you to be happy.”

Relief relaxes her, the worry melting from her face. She squeezes his hand warmly and leans contently against him as they watch the flames of the fire, peace and affection restored between them once more.

“Albus is in Slytherin,” Proserpina tells him conversationally after a few quiet moments. “That was your house, wasn’t it, papa?”

It takes a second for the awkward, surprised lump which has formed in Severus’ throat at this information to subside. “Yes,” he confirms when it does. “He must be ambitious, then, Albus. And clever.”

He feels Proserpina’s head bob against his upper arm in a nod. “He wants to be an Unspeakable, actually,” she replies.

“Really?” It’s difficult for Severus to mask the fact that he is both taken aback and impressed by such lofty and noteworthy aspirations from any descendant of James Potter.

Oblivious of his feelings on the matter, Proserpina chuckles at his surprise. “Why sound so shocked?”

Her comment is intended to be a rhetorical question, to tease her so-often sour-faced father. Instead, it provokes a twinge of guilt and remorse: In the garden just moments ago, Severus had been disappointed in Proserpina’s deceit, in her lies of omission regarding Albus Potter. Only now does he see his hypocrisy. For all her faithfulness to and fondness for him, Severus has told his daughter precious little about the man he had been before her. He has restricted names, places, dates, facts—stripped them down to their bare essentials. Proserpina knows, for instance, that he used to teach at Hogwarts; she knows that he fought in the Wars, though his loyalties remain left to her imagination; and she is vaguely aware of the fact that he has spent the majority of his life recovering—from bad memories, bad habits, and bad love. Severus has always told himself that he has glossed over the details in an effort to protect his daughter from the horrors of the things he has done and seen. In truth, though, he knows he has probably done it more out of fear of losing Proserpina, of her finding him unlovable if only she knew the extent of the man he has been and the things he has done.

“Proserpina,” Severus says quietly, “there are some things about… my past… that you do not know.”

* * * * * * *


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


The Mourner by Daphne Dunham [Reviews - 2]

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