A Dish Served Cold

Chapter 31 – Explosion

Severus Snape was pretty sure that he had never been more shocked in his life, and that was saying something.

“Which oddly enough will make me your step-grandfather, dear boy,” Albus went on, apparently unaware that his audience was staring at him in horror and confusion. Severus was torn between staring in disbelief at Albus and glaring in fury at his grandmother.

Sabine sat primly in one of Albus’ wing chairs, a dainty teacup firmly grasped in one claw-like hand. Her face was utterly unreadable, but Severus had studied Legilimancy from the best and could feel her curiosity and amusement quite easily. He just didn’t know why she felt them.

“Are you certain that you will be up to the strain of fatherhood, Albus?” Severus asked coldly. He himself was rather nervous about the prospect, but he was still a young wizard, not an old man like Albus. The elderly wizard shot him an irritated look.

“I have handled an entire school, the Wizengamot, the Ministry of Magic, and wars against two Dark Wizards, I think I can handle a few small children,” Albus muttered back.

“Spoken like a man who has never changed a nappy,” Sabine retorted tartly. Severus eyed his ramrod straight grandmother and tried to imagine what his future half-uncles and/or aunts would be like with these two as parents. Formidable, no doubt.

Albus gave his fiancé a considering look, as though he wasn’t certain that she was serious. Her expression must have convinced him of her sincerity though, because for the first time in a long time, he looked rather uncertain.

“Perhaps I am a bit old for it, but I really have no choice at this point. Fudge has made it a law and he has been rather nasty lately in his hints,” Albus admitted with a flash of anger in his blue eyes.

“What did he do, threaten you with Delores Umbridge?” Severus asked and was relived to see a glint of humor in Dumbledore’s eyes.

“Nothing quite so fatal, my dear boy,” Albus reassured him and Sabine’s eyebrow rose in an eerily familiar gesture. Severus looked so unlike his father and had such different mannerisms, that he had never felt much connection to him. However, this stranger with his blood in her veins, was more like him than anyone else he had ever met. She was sharp, sarcastic, piercing of gaze and subtle of mood. He could see himself in her. There were things he admired and many things he despised in himself that were clearly mirrored in the elderly witch.

What made him shiver though was that when she turned those brown eyes on him. There was a boundless remorse in them, a deep sorrow that permeated her soul. He could see himself in that as well, could see all the regrets he had piled up finally smothering him until all he had left were the sharp pangs of things undone or done poorly. He could see how his own attitudes and behaviors were slowly driving him towards the dark cliff he had fought so desperately to avoid.

“Severus, there is something else, something far worse,” Albus interrupted his maudlin self-reflection, and Severus tried to imagine what could be worse than having the unwanted image of his grandmother and Albus sporting about under the headmaster’s purple and orange quilt.

“Merlin, I am not certain that I up for any more horrors today, Albus,” Severus groaned.

“Its about your Seer gifts, Severus,” Albus clucked and his grandmother frowned at him in a quelling manner that made Severus feel about five years old. The woman was a positive martinet.

“You know that I don’t believe in any of that rubbish, Albus, no one can see the future with any real accuracy. It’s all trumpery.” Severus was irritated at both of them. Surely they knew that he wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in fortune telling and all the rest of that nonsense.
Albus and Sabine exchanged glances and together they pointed their wands at him. Severus tried to dodge from an autonomic response rather than from a belief that they might be trying to hurt him.

“Severus awake!” they cried in unison and a horrible throbbing started up in his temples. It quickly escalated until he felt as though someone had just cracked open his skull with a hammer. Spots danced before his eyes and his vision seemed to double and then triple and then shatter into an infinite stream.

Possibilities opened to him, multiple pathways that bloomed and died with dizzying rapidity. He watched Voldemort winning a thousand battles and losing nearly as many. He watched Harry Potter dying and surviving and Hermione tumbling through a thousand possible futures. He had a brief flash of himself on a tower casting the Avada at Dumbledore, then he saw Draco killing Albus instead, and then it all shattered again and he flopped down into the overstuffed chair with the feeling that everything he had ever known was a lie.

He looked up to meet the compassionate gaze of his friend and teacher and the sad eyes of his grandmother and he wanted to scream at them. It was like having been blind for years and finally being able to see. They had crippled him, mutilated him and now that he was finally whole it was almost unbearable.

It was as though all the things that he should have seen were there now before him. He could see where this strange curse, or gift, could have saved his soul. Had he known the paths before him he would not have stumbled so naively into Voldemort’s grip.

“Had Sarit even guessed what you were, she would have stopped at nothing to possess you, Severus.” Albus’ voice was heavy and tired and Severus forced himself to calm down. He could see the futures that the headmaster had worked so hard to avoid and they were none of them pleasant places to be for one Severus Snape. Being Sarit Yidoni’s personal slave was not a fate he wanted to contemplate overmuch.

“I know, Albus. I can see that,” Severus retorted with irony heavy in his voice. Sabine nodded slowly, as though Severus was confirming something that she had up till then only suspected.

“You will need training in this gift,” Albus continued as though Severus had been sweetly polite. It sometimes bothered him that Albus was so hard to rile up. Then he would remember Grindelwald and the stories of the final battle in Düsseldorf. If even half the tales were true, this serene old man had pulled apart Grindelwald’s retreat brick by brick with pure magic and then dueled the other wizard to death, all while never even breathing hard.

Maybe it was good that he kept calm most of the time.

“Exactly who is going to train me?” Severus asked with great reservations. Visions of hours spent in Trelawney’s company listening to her go on about his horrible fate made him green.

“Why Firenze, of course. He has trained several Seers in his tribe before, so he is uniquely qualified.” Albus dropped that little bomb with a small smile and Severus decided that the bait was too well secured to a nasty hook somewhere for him to rise to it.

“Of course, I should have known.” If his tone was a trifle petulant, well, let it be noted that it had been a long strange afternoon.

Hermione was certain that she was going to waddle. Her mother had waddled she knew that. Her father used to make jokes about it, at least until mum had threatened to make him a castrati. She looked down at herself and could see no outward signs of a child. She was only a few weeks pregnant and Mistress Goody had said that it would be months before she would show.

She had of course written to her parents and received happy replies and lots of motherly advice. It had helped, but she really wished that her mum and dad could live nearer. She wanted her mum especially. Her body was changing and it was a little frightening.

Years ago, she had gone with some of her Muggle friends to see an Alien/Aliens double feature at the local movie house. The idea that there was a little creature growing inside of her began to run together with the chest-burster scenes. It was rather nightmarish.

“You never used to be vain, Madam,” Severus murmured as he came in. She turned from the glass to look at her husband. He was a trifle pale and rather distracted looking, but who wasn’t these days?

“I feel different but I look the same,” she replied, still feeling confused and a little lost.

“Actually you look quite different.” His voice was like mink earmuffs, she mused, in the way that it tickled the ears.

“In what way?” she asked and turned to peer at herself in the mirror again. Same old Hermione, she thought, bushy hair, plain face and ink smudges on her fingers. He stepped up behind her and studied her in the glass, his reflection looking like a dark shadow with a pale moon hovering above it.

“You look like an adult,” he finally replied and her eyes went wide with surprise. She peered at herself in the mirror more closely and heard him sigh softly behind her. “It’s not in the mirror, Madam,” he snapped and she thought there was amusement behind his eyes, but he was so very hard to read.

“I don’t understand,” she admitted slowly.

“It’s in how you carry yourself and how you behave. You are still a hand-waving bookworm with little comprehension of the shades of grey in human behavior, but you are at least willing to listen now and again.” It was delivered in a grudging tone, but Hermione was warmed through. He didn’t dislike her, she realized with a happy feeling. He might never admit it, but they were taking their first tentative steps towards actual friendship.

Considering who he was, it was a huge accomplishment and she was very careful to hide how much it meant to her. She wouldn’t want him to be embarrassed after all.

“How was your meeting with Professor Dumbledore?” she asked politely and he frowned thunderously at nothing in particular.

“He is marrying my grandmother Sabine.” It was an utterly flat statement and Hermione could feel her eyes trying to start from her head as he spoke.

“He’s getting married? Why?” she blurted out in shock.

“For precisely the same reasons that you and I did,” he shot back with a look of impatience. Hermione’s mouth worked soundlessly for a while as she tried to fathom Dumbledore as a new daddy. It was a bizarre image, especially as she had met Sabine Snape. The woman did not seem to be the motherly type.

It also brought to mind her other question. She had been wondering how to approach Severus but couldn’t find a good way to ask.

“Um, can I ask you something?” she started tentatively. He raised the imperious eyebrow at her.

“You just have,” he returned with a repressive tone.

“It’s just that now that I am pregnant, does that mean we have to stop at page twenty?” She was bright red asking it, for she wasn’t at all sure how he would respond. His mouth opened and then snapped shut and she prepared herself for a scathing rake down. He studied her for a long moment, as though ascertaining whether or not she was serious. She stood twisting her hands together in nervous anticipation. He cleared his throat and finally spoke in a rather husky tone.

“No, of course not. Your continuing education is my responsibility.” She felt a wave of relief at his answer and was struck by how surreal the situation was. Who would have thought even a few weeks ago that she would be nervously trying to seduce Severus Snape?

“Well, I don’t quite understand the last figure,” she smiled shyly up at him and was rewarded with a smirk that heated her blood like a flame spell under a cauldron.

“Then we shall have to go over it thoroughly,” he purred and extended a hand to her. She went to him eagerly, glad that this at least would remain unchanged between them.

Georgian Tamarind straightened his robes and edged nervously into the hospital wing. Ever since the rather disastrous staff meeting he had known that this was the proper thing to do, but he was having a hard time screwing his courage to the sticking point.

Albus had told the staff his ideas for pairing them off, but had left it ultimately to their discretion. They had to marry, that much was certain. Fudge’s job was at stake here, after all. He had to appear to be doing something, no matter how boneheaded it might be. Georgian wasn’t a critical person in the war against Voldemort, he knew that. The best that he could do was to shield anyone who might be a target.

Margaret Goody was a target.

A Muggleborn with extraordinary healing gifts, she had graduated top of her class. Death Eaters had killed her parents a year ago just for having known about the Wizarding World. She was vulnerable and marked.

Georgian knew what he had to do, but he was still rather reluctant. Mistress Goody was plain, dull and mousy. She had been a Hufflepuff and it showed. Georgian was a Slytherin and certain prejudices died hard. He didn’t care that she was Muggleborn; it was the Hufflepuff thing that really bothered him.

“Mistress Goody?” he called softly, trying not to disturb any of the patients. Madame Pomfrey poked a head out of her office and smiled sympathetically at him. She was excluded form the law herself, being unable to bear children, but she knew that a few years earlier it would not have been the case. “Is she about?” he asked and Poppy nodded towards the Maternity Wing.

“She’s brewing anti-nausea potions.”

“You must be glad to be out of all of this,” he said, trying to banter, rather than snarl.

“Who knew that I would be blessing an early menopause,” Poppy snorted with such a comically rueful expression that Georgian had to chuckle. He waved at her and headed for the archway that led to the new maternity wing. Time to corner the badger in her den, he thought with some bitterness.

He had practiced the formal requests in front of the mirror for some time. She had no Head of House to appeal to, no father to beg from, so he was left with far fewer of the flowery phrases than he felt was strictly proper. He wanted to do this right; he didn’t want her to feel slighted or underappreciated. This was a forced marriage, yes, but he wanted her to know from the start that she would be respected and given her full rights and powers as a wife.

She was standing over a cauldron, her hair damply curling against her cheek, her nimble fingers stirring, and her plain blue eyes intent on her task. He took the opportunity to study her. She was shorter than he was, slight of frame and with a fragility that gave the impression that one stiff breeze could blow her away. Her features were fine and her skin good, it was just that there was absolutely nothing remarkable about her. She would have made a perfect spy, he decided. She blended into every surrounding as though she was a part of the furniture.

He looked around the room, a rectangular space with a sitting area on the near end and a few beds farther along. Mistress Goody’s small province was spotless. His eyes traveled over the perfectly made beds, the gleaming bottles and neatly labeled jars, the scrubbed stone floors, and the paintings and hangings that all looked recently scoured.

The room was warm and homelike, far more inviting than Madame Pomfrey’s domain. The beds had brightly patterned quilts and the armchairs were upholstered in cheery colors. The paintings and hangings were all cheerful landscapes, not one portrait amongst them.

He corrected himself. A tiny knight on a donkey was riding through one of the tapestries, waving frantically with his helmet, so, there was at least one portrait.

Mistress Goody looked up at the tapestry and frowned.

“Sir Cadogan, what have I told you about popping in here?” she scolded the knight. Her voice was honey rich and melodious, quite lovely and in direct contrast to her plain face.

“I came to fight off the invader, fair damsel!” the comical little man replied with much slashing of his sword. Mistress Goody looked startled and whirled to catch Georgian lurking in her doorway. She flushed and Georgian straightened, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.
He watched her gather herself visibly together under his gaze and prepared himself to launch into his speech.

“Don’t bother, Professor Tamarind, I accept your proposal,” she cut him off completely with an expression of annoyance. “I doubt that we shall get on at all well, but neither of us has a choice, do we?” He was so startled by her abrupt derailing of his proposal that he was momentarily speechless.

“No, we haven’t a choice, mistress, but what makes you so sure that we won’t ‘get on at all well’?” He tilted his head and studied her curiously. She blew out her breath in exasperation and gave him a look that implied that he was rather deficient in intelligence.

“Well, let’s see, you are Slytherin, I’m Hufflepuff, you are a social butterfly with an uncertain temper and I prefer to stay home in peace and quiet. You like Quidditch and I hate it. You are a confirmed bachelor and I have always wanted to be married. I cannot see how we could be any less similar,” she retorted with anger and hurt in her eyes.

It slowly occurred to him that she was scared. She was certain that the marriage would be cold and loveless and was trying to hold back her tears with a dam of anger.

“We both like children,” he countered and she looked up at him in surprise.

“I didn’t know that,” she admitted with a frown.

“Well, based on your assessment of our compatibility, there is a great deal about me that you don’t know.” He was rather stung by the ‘social butterfly’ comment. He liked people on the whole, but he wasn’t some habitual partygoer who was always dancing till dawn. What was the gossip around here saying about him anyway?

She was giving him a very uncertain look, as though she wasn’t quite sure that she trusted him. It made him sad, because he had always fancied himself a kind man. He had always tried to act nobly and as befitted a Tamarind.

“Perhaps I have judged you too hastily,” she replied with a doubtful tone.

“Well, you will have a lifetime to decide that for yourself,” he reminded her and she shivered at the words.

After all, Wizards lived a very long time indeed.