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

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Chapter 8: The Squib and the Spy

Proserpina pauses, hand in mid-reach for the doorknob, when she hears the shouting. Distraught, she stops short, pulls back her hand, recoils. She’s never heard her father’s voice raised to such a level before, drenched with such resentment… and the other voices—the woman’s and the other man’s—she does not recognize.

“My father died regretting the years he called you friend—hating you for walking free, for being called a hero while he lived in exile for fear of facing Azkaban if he stayed in Britain,” Proserpina hears the unfamiliar man seething.

“Your father could take care of himself, Draco—nothing I did to betray him mattered,” Severus lashes back. “Lucius Malfoy would have done the same to me if given the chance—you know that as well as I do. We Slytherins are all alike in that respect.”

“And Perdita? What about her?” is the sharp retort. “Does she know the truth about you—does she know you’re a murderer?”

“Her name is Proserpina—you gave up the right to call her by your name when you abandoned her for being a Squib,” snarls Severus. “Just because your son is dead doesn’t give you the right to come here and try to reclaim her.”

At the mention of her name, Proserpina grows pale, feels her bones quake and her skin frost over. She can’t breathe, can’t feel her heart beating. All she’s aware of is how her mind is swimming, swelling, bloating with thoughts of terror and confusion, with anxious questions and panicked assumptions.

“Stop it, both of you!” Proserpina becomes faintly aware of the woman hissing. “Draco, dragging your father into this isn’t helping—Lucius wouldn’t have had anything to do with Perdita if he’d known she’s a Squib. And you… as for you, how dare you question my love for my daughter—you cannot even begin to understand how much I have suffered!”

The sound of those words—of hearing this stranger speak to Severus in such a way, lecturing him on suffering when that’s all he’s done his entire life, telling him what it means to love a child when Proserpina knows very well how devoted her father is to her—is enough to cause Proserpina to take action. She cannot remain silent, an unacknowledged observer of the scene, any longer: It breaks her heart too much to hear Severus face these abuses alone—and for her sake—when she should be there beside him. Proserpina inhales slowly, concertedly, trying to bolster a bravery she does not usually posses. When she reaches for the doorknob once again, her shaky fingers curl decisively around it.

“Papa?”

At the sound of the soft, feminine voice, a hush falls across the room and all eyes turn pointedly in the direction of the sound, in the direction of the doorway, where the hesitant, chestnut-haired teenage girl stands. Severus glances from the Malfoys to Proserpina. Seeing them together, he notices the family resemblance that validates Draco’s claim to paternity: Proserpina has her father’s heart-shaped face and regal stance—as well as her mother’s hair, eyes, and complexion. The moments seem to stretch on for Severus as he gazes at the girl he’s called his daughter for so long, as he realizes with great fear and disappointment that the Malfoys’ tale is true. Then, in the next instant, he becomes painfully aware once again of time—of the way Demetria Malfoy gasps with a sudden swell of maternal pride at the sight of Proserpina. She appears as though she’s about to break free from her husband’s side and ambush the girl in all manner of motherly affection.

“Oh, she’s so lovely!” Demetria bursts, unable to control herself. “Draco, look at her—look at our little girl! She’s all grown up!”

Proserpina whitens further, and her eyes widen. There is something of a startled doe in her demeanor as she glances, confused, from the Malfoys at one side of the room to Severus across from them, seated at the kitchen table. “Papa, what’s going on?” she whispers.

“Proserpina,” Severus says quietly, darkly, “meet Draco Malfoy, my estranged godson, and his charming wife Demetria.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Proserpina tells them, nodding in their respective directions. Her manner is polite but cautious, disapproving and wary of the owners of the cruel voices she had heard upon her entry into the cottage. When she steps forward and crosses the room, it is directly to Severus’ side; she stands shyly behind him, peering at the guests over his shoulder.

“Well, godfather,” Draco begins, his tone dripping with disdain, “do you wish to tell her, or shall I?”

Severus feels his daughter’s small hand inquisitively press him on his shoulder, and he can barely bring his eyes to meet hers. When he does, he sees that there’s apprehension in Proserpina’s eyes—those great, green eyes; she’s nervous, frightened, suspicious of what it is she’s about to hear, of what she already suspects from the little she heard at the doorway. Severus swallows hard, trying to push past the boulder in his throat. Then, he takes both her hands in his and urges her to sit down beside him. Losing Lily Evans, teaching her son, spying, facing death on a daily basis: They have been the most difficult things he’s had to encounter in his life, and telling his daughter the truth about her parentage—risking losing her—will be just as hard.

“Papa, what is it?” Proserpina prompts, searching Severus’ face for any clues; she may be frightened, but prolonging the anxiety is even worse.

“The Malfoys, I have just learned, are your natural parents, Proserpina,” Severus tells her softly. With a pained sigh, he proceeds to piece together her past from what he’s learned from Draco and Demetria; the pair looks on eagerly, nodding periodically in affirmation of his words. Severus tells her how nearly eighteen years ago, twins were born to them, how the boy grew to be a wizard, while the girl—as they found out by hiring some Knockturn Alley outcast to sneak into Hogwarts and check the registry of magical children born that year—was not. He tells Proserpina how the scoundrel the Malfoys had hired was vicious, vindictive—that he was so spiteful as to abduct the little girl in attempt to hold her ransom, and that he died trying to make his escape—Splinched himself in his rush and fury, leaving the child—the Squib—to fend for herself through the cold winter’s night.

“I was that little girl,” Proserpina murmurs dazedly in conclusion to the story, weaving together the final threads of the tapestry. Stunned, bewildered, she stares ahead—not quite at Severus but slightly past him, to the empty space just over his shoulder. There are tears in her eyes, and her lips tremble at the realization that her own parents didn’t want her—not really, anyway. “I was the Squib daughter the Malfoys were ashamed of. It was me who was left alone that winter night and wandered up to your doorstep, into your cottage….”

“Yes, Proserpina,” Severus confirms quietly, sadly. “It was you.”

For a moment, she is silent, still staring numbly into the distance. Then, she nods, and by so doing, the tears welling in her eyes fall, dripping down her cheeks in solemn streams. She blinks them away hurriedly, trying to dispose of the embarrassment of them any way she can: on the backs of her hands, on the folds of the sleeves of her robes. The tears continue to flood, though, prompting Demetria to step forward with a sympathetic sigh; she reaches out to Proserpina, but quickly withdraws again when she sees the look in Severus’ eyes—the stony glare that warns her to keep her distance; her interference is not wanted.

“The Malfoys—your parents—have come for you at long last,” Severus continues to tell her, adding the latter syllables with great resentment and through clenched teeth. “They want to take you home with them… to France. They’re quite wealthy; they can offer you things I can’t…. You would be… immensely happy with them.” He pauses as Proserpina shifts her focus on him. Their eyes meet, and Severus sighs again as he holds her small hands between his more tightly, more desperately, than before. “You’re of age, Proserpina,” he adds softly. “The choice is yours to make.”

Over the years, Severus Snape has grown accustomed to being shunned, abandoned—even by those whom he cares about. It has become second nature to him to expect to be discarded, and from the moment Draco Malfoy arrived on his doorstep this afternoon, he has felt it inevitable that Proserpina would choose her birth father over him. However, Proserpina’s response to the Malfoys’ offer is instantaneous, automatic, spoken before she even has time to notice Severus’ fear of the possibility of losing her—the uncharacteristic insecurity that hangs in his dark eyes and the way he sits stiffly, full of dread, at the edge of his chair awaiting her answer. And it is because of the immediacy, the urgency, in Proserpina’s reply that Severus has no doubt in the genuineness of her decision: He knows she is sincere; he knows it is love, not pity, that ties her to him.

“No, I won’t go—I won’t leave you,” she blurts immediately, with great conviction. Proserpina turns to look up at Draco and Demetria, eyes simultaneously glistening and fierce. “I won’t leave him; he’s my father.”

At once Draco is bristling, Demetria gasping. “I advise you to think carefully about your decision, Perdita,” Draco warns vehemently. “A dozen girls your age would leap at the opportunity we’re offering you.”

“The choice is hers, Draco,” Severus reminds him sharply. “You can’t force her to go with you.”

But Demetria has already followed her husband’s lead, drowning Severus’ words in her own desperate appeal to Proserpina. “Dearest, try to think what you’re giving up,” she pleads with the girl. “Paris, wealth, luxury, parents who love you—”

Proserpina is not fooled or easily tempted by the mask of affection and the lure of material goods, though. Her skepticism and horror at the Malfoys’ return erupts from her in a burst of intense disgust. “Parents who love me?!” she cries. “You abandoned me!”

“We searched for you—we tried—I swear it!” Demetria protests, tears welling in her own eyes as well at the memory of the ordeal and accusations, the strain it placed on her marriage and the lies she told to her family to conceal the truth of what she and Draco had done. “That scoundrel who took you from us Disapparated—we had no way of knowing where he’d gone with you or what had become of you.”

“But I may have been dead!” Proserpina sobs. “And you didn’t care—just because I’m a Squib—just because you were ashamed of me!”

“That is an untruth!” Draco seethes. “We never gave up on you—we hired investigators to find you. But we had to keep everything quiet—following our association with the Dark Lord during the War, the Malfoys were keen to avoid another scandal. We fled to France; my father—your grandfather—would have been sent to Azkaban if we’d stayed here, for Merlin’s sake! Breaking into Hogwarts, parenting a Squib, having a child go missing—society, not to mention the law, would have been merciless; we would have been finished.”

Demetria continues then, joining Draco in defense of their actions. “The investigators finally found you—in Hogsmeade, to our surprise, where we had last seen you. We found out that that vile, horrible man who stole you from us had died while making his escape. And you… our little girl… we learned that you were safe—and that Master Snape was taking care of you, loving you like his own child.…” She pauses to wipe a tear from under her eye.

“What we did was wrong, Perdita,” Demetria finishes. “I don’t deny it, and I only hope you can forgive us. But you must understand, your life would have been miserable as a Squib being raised in a family as old and proud and pure as the Malfoys. With Master Snape, you had a chance at happiness. It was best for everyone—especially you—if we let you be. Please, Perdita… please try to see the logic in this.”

But Proserpina is unmoved. She stares at her mother, two sets of identical jade eyes locked, transfixed on one another: one pleading—the other hard, unyielding, like stone. When she speaks, it is coldly, in monotone. “Why now?” is all she says. “Why—after all these years—have you come for me?”

The two Malfoys exchange somber, uneasy glances. For a moment, there is silence, heavy like an anvil, and when Demetria finally has the strength to respond, her voice is tremulous, and there are fresh tears in her eyes. “Your brother—your twin, Scorpius…” She chokes back a sob at speaking her son’s name. “Scorpius has had an accident—spell damage. He was experimenting, studying for his N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts. He’s a brilliant wizard, your brother…. Sometimes I think that he got the magic you should have had in addition to his own.…” Demetria stops speaking abruptly; she looks up weakly at Draco, hesitant to continue.

Draco gives his wife a reassuring squeeze around her waist. “Your brother died a few days ago, Perdita,” he says solemnly, finishing the tale Demetria couldn’t bring herself to complete.

Proserpina blinks, stunned. She remembers the somber decorations—the black wreaths and ribbons and tapestries—that she’d seen strewn from the Hogwarts castle windows and gate before they left for Spinner’s End earlier that week. They had been, she realizes, for Scorpius Malfoy—for her brother. A piece of Proserpina can’t help but feel pity for the Malfoys, for their loss; she even thinks to offer her condolences—or to try to empathize with them. After all, Scorpius—whether she knew him or not—was her flesh and blood, too.

But then Proserpina remembers the reality of her situation, of having been deserted by them—the very people who were meant to love her most. It was them who thieved from her—not her who was thieved from them, as Demetria had claimed: The Malfoys denied her the chance to feel a mother’s embrace, to befriend her brother before he died, and to grow up knowing even the simplest things about herself—her name, her birth date, her home. Now, Draco and Demetria have come back for her—their second-choice child—as a last resort, for lack of other options. Comprehending only now the extent of the shallowness and selfishness of her natural parents’ actions, Proserpina’s loathing for them is renewed.

“So you’ve come for me now because having a child—even if it’s a Squib—is better than having no child at all?” she retorts. “Is that it?”

Demetria blanches, but she does not attempt to deny the truth, to make excuses for herself; she knows it would be futile. “Perdita, darling, please—”

“My name is not Perdita,” the girl hisses in as cruel a tone she can manage. “It’s Proserpina.”

A furious flush fills Draco’s pallid cheeks at being rebuffed by his own daughter. “Your name is Perdita Malfoy,” he tells her, firmly, “not this foolish Proserpina Snape nonsense.”

Severus lurches in his seat at that, instantly eager to defend Proserpina—and his choice in naming her, in the connection her name bears to his past, to Lily Evans, to his mourning and his repentance. At the challenging flicker in Draco’s eyes, though, he hesitates: He does not wish to upset his daughter further—and besides, Proserpina is already speaking on their behalf.

“My name is Proserpina Eileen Snape,” she seethes. “It’s the name given to me by my father when you abandoned me. It’s a beautiful name; it’s a meaningful name—it commemorates his past. I wouldn’t trade my name for any amount of Galleons.”

“But I am your natural father—not Severus Snape,” Draco protests. “You will use the name I gave you.”

“My natural father?” Proserpina bursts indignantly. In an instant, she’s on her feet, impassioned. “This man,” she says, wrapping her arms affectionately around Severus’ neck, “is more my natural father than you’ll ever be. From the moment he first saw me, he has offered me everything you refused to give me—a comfortable home, clothes, an education, a future, and—beyond all—he’s given me love. He didn’t care about my bloodline or even that I’m a Squib. He didn’t care if I was rich or poor, smart or not. He has given me everything a natural father should give, and he did it all willingly—because he wanted to, not because he had to or because he was being forced to. Severus Snape is my only true father.”

Draco’s face reddens with rage. His nostrils flare, and his jaw clenches, hard as rock, as he looks from Proserpina to Severus. “Well,” he informs the latter contemptuously, “I see that whatever enchantment you’ve placed on her has been a great success.”

Proserpina’s eyes narrow to sharp, resentful slits at the implication that it is anything but familial affection that binds her to Severus—and Severus, too, is at once incensed. Before he can lash back at his godson, though, Draco has his wand pulled from his robes, raised on the offensive and aimed menacingly in Severus’ direction, poised to dispose of the aging wizard at its owner’s will.

“But there are always ways to break enchantments,” he spits as jerks back his arm in the beginning motion of a curse.

Severus is on his feet and has his wand drawn in an instant. He stops short, though, when he sees a flash of auburn before him.

“No! Please!” Proserpina shrieks, lunging in front of Severus at once, shielding him from Draco’s impending curse with her body and preventing the older wizard from taking action as well. “Don’t hurt him—he’s suffered enough in life already!” she begs Draco.

For a moment, the room is silent, all within stunned. Time seems to tick by slowly, the clock on the mantel serving as the warden of the awkward moments that pass as they gape at one another. Staring at the back of Proserpina’s reddish hair, Severus has an instant in which he thinks of Lily Evans: how she used to come to his defense at school against James Potter—and the way she died for her son, how the last sight Harry Potter must have seen of her would have been so similar to this. It makes Severus’ lungs heavy, as though filled with tears, to think of it—to think of Lily—to think of Proserpina’s willingness to make a similar sacrifice for him.

And Draco pauses mid-curse, his wand dangling limply at his fingertips, disempowered. He stares quizzically at the pair of them: There’s his godfather—his former professor whom he had admired years ago, before the War, before he found out Severus had betrayed every ideal they once shared. And then there’s the girl—Proserpina, his daughter, Severus’ daughter—so desperate to save the latter’s life that she would give her own for him. Then, Draco chuckles, softly at first, then loudly, cruelly, coldly, as he tucks his wand back in his robes. The idea of it is so absurd he cannot help himself: The powerful Severus Snape—the man who has made thousands of Hogwarts students quake fearfully with a simple glance, who had once been among the greatest Potions masters alive, who had managed to outwit the Dark Lord himself for years, who might have had his name known for centuries like Merlin or Flamel or Dumbledore—parenting a mere Squib, producing such loyalty in her that she would willingly enter a magical fray, of which she knows nothing, and die for him.

“So you’ve really made your choice then, have you?” Draco challenges Proserpina with a smirk once he’s calmed.

“Yes,” she, emboldened by and indignant at her natural father’s mockery, replies without wavering.

Demetria sniffles sorrowfully, but Draco’s hauteur prevents from doing anything but remain scornful. “So be it then,” he snaps. “Apparently you prefer to live like this—” He glances disdainfully around the small, modestly appointed room in clear disapproval—“and to spend your time in the company of – of –” Draco sputters angrily as he glares at Severus, trying to find the right words to describe him, to summarize his loathing for him. “–traitorous swine. It’s an insult to your ancestors and to your class, but far be it for me to stop you. I wash my hands of you.”

At Draco’s slur, Proserpina withers a bit, the rosy rush of wrath that had colored her cheeks just moments ago fading once more. Severus can see her trembling, and wand still extended defensively, he stands tall behind her, as strong and steadfast as a gilded sword. He rests a hand on her shoulder to support and protect her—just as she has tried to do for him—and when he speaks, there is a stony, unyielding authority to his tone. He is pitiless as he stares at the Malfoys.

“I will not permit you to speak to my daughter like this,” Severus hisses at them. “You’re finished—get out, both of you!”

Now is Draco’s turn to wither and blanch: Seeing the senselessness of his presence at last, he complies. Defeated, he pivots sharply on his heel and wraps his arm around his wife. Demetria leans, sobbing, on Draco’s shoulder; too distraught to protest any longer, she allows him to escort her away. The shuffle and click of their boots on the wood floor as they stalk across the room reverberates darkly through the otherwise quiet cottage like deadweight, like a dirge.

“You two deserve each other,” Draco sneers bitterly, glancing back to look at Severus and Proserpina one last time as his hand lingers on the doorknob. “Both of you filth—the Squib and the spy—each a disgrace to the name of wizard.”

And then he’s gone.

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