Chapter Twelve

T/N: Thanks as always to exartemarte for the excellent Britpick.

Hermione looked at herself in the mirror, dressed in her beautiful wedding dress. She hadn't wanted to buy one of those elaborate monstrosities that would have transformed her into a cabbage or a meringue, and had settled on an unadorned strapless sheath of white satin, with a skirt that flared gently down to a hem embroidered with flowers and leaves. The dress was complemented by long white gloves, and jasmine flowers enchanted to stay fresh scattered through her subjugated curls. And the fine gold chain from which depended the tiny vial of golden potion.

It was still early, but both Molly and Ginny had insisted on having ample time to get her ready. They had pounced on her the instant she emerged from the fireplace, amid a clamor of cries that Ron mustn't see her before the wedding, and had imprisoned her in Ginny's room. There she remained at the mercy of the womenfolk, who stripped her bare, plunged her into a hot bath with aromatic salts and oils, dressed her, perfumed her, and even plucked her eyebrows.

And she had let them, insisting on only one thing: she wanted to wear the gift her professor had given her. The women, who didn't realize what exactly it was, saw only that it was a lovely ornament that didn't clash with her bridal regalia, and allowed it. Ginny even commented that she hadn't believed Professor Snape capable of making such a lovely gesture to a student.

At last they left her alone, and went to tend to the other last-minute preparations. Alone, where her thoughts and memories conspired to subvert her resolve.

She looked beautiful. She had never before seen herself as so beautiful. But the absence of any smile made her look as cold as marble. She tried to put on a dazzling smile, the kind a woman should wear on the happiest day of her life, but she was able to achieve only a grotesque rictus. She could draw back the muscles of her face and show her teeth, but her eyes remained expressionless.

Giving up, she sighed and threw herself down on the bed, grateful for the anti-wrinkling charms that kept her dress in perfect order. She closed her eyes, and immediately the memories of the night before flooded her mind. Only then did her lips curve in the warm smile she had been striving for.

There he was, looking at her from his fathomless dark eyes, watching her as if nothing else existed for him in the universe, with an expression of absolute adoration. His dark hair framing his gaunt face, his pallid skin covered with scars that she would have wanted to kiss again and again until she blotted out the memory of whatever pain he had once felt on receiving them. To stay by his side forever, taking away his pain, making him happy and provoking that marvelous , elusive smile over and over again.

She could still feel him touching her. Despite the bath and the perfumes, it seemed to her that even his scent still pervaded her skin. Or perhaps it was only the memory of his scent.

It had been wonderful, but it had been a dream. Maybe if she hadn't already been engaged things might have been different, but here she was, veiled in white, and there was no time for regrets.

She tried to imagine her life as Hermione Weasley. They would have a small flat in London; she would study Medimagic at St Mungo's and he would play for the Cannons. Weekends they would go to visit the family; perhaps on Saturdays they would go to her parents' house, and on Sundays to the Burrow. They would share the domestic chores, although she suspected that Ron would try to slack off, but she would keep him in line.

And they would have children. Once married, she would make him see the sense in waiting until she had finished her studies before getting pregnant... and they would definitely have no more than two. Not if she meant to go into research. Maybe Molly could lend her a hand with the babies...

The babies. What would they be like? She hoped they would have Ron's blue eyes. She imagined herself cradling a baby of indeterminate gender in her arms, a baby with big blue eyes and auburn hair, that looked up at her and reached out its tiny hands to touch her face. And then the features of her imaginary baby unaccountably changed, until it had dark brown eyes and jet-black hair, and someone came up behind her and enfolded both of them in an embrace, whispering into her ear in a velvety voice: "Do you suppose he'll be a Gryffindor or a Slytherin?"

Hermione groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. She had never wanted children, had even come to believe that she had no maternal instinct, but now she realized that what she had not wanted was to have children with Ron. Because as soon as the image of Severus Snape's child had coalesced in her mind, she realized that she did want it, with a desire so intense it was like a pain in her breast. She would have his children, she would love them, she would have as many as he wanted! If only they were Severus Snape's children she would have them!

OK, Hermione, she said to herself, blotting the tears that had not quite spilled over. Calm down. You can't change any of this now. This is your destiny; you chose it yourself. Accept it.

She looked in the mirror.

"You're a Gryffindor. Show your courage," she said to her reflection, lifting her chin defiantly.

"Calm down, dear," said the mirror. "It's normal to have jitters before the wedding, but that doesn't mean you have to act as though you're preparing for battle. It's just a wedding."

***

Severus finally dragged himself to his feet. He had no idea how long he had been kneeling on the floor...it could as easily have been a few hours as a few minutes. But he had not wept. From somewhere inside himself he had gathered the force of will necessary to keep from shedding tears. He had given the best of himself, and he had lost again... but he was used to it by now. If there was one thing he knew how to do after all these years as the fool of the gods, it was to endure punishment with grace and dignity. His life had been one long round of struggles and failures... but he was tired now, and didn't know if he could take another one without breaking.

He knew what he had to do.

Struggling to produce a sound from his aching throat, he called his house-elf in a broken voice.

"Trixy."

Crack

"Master Severus, you are bleeding!"

Severus raised a hand to his neck and swore. He had been so overwhelmed by the pain of his loss that he had not even realized that his wretched wound had reopened and the warm blood was oozing out, staining his robe.

Trixy quickly conjured a bandage and tended to his wound.

"Trixy, I need you to place an urgent summons to Castor Robinson, the family solicitor. I don't care if he says he's busy, I don't care if he's with the Queen herself, drag him here against his will if you have to. I need to see him right away. I'll be waiting in the library. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir, Trixy will bring him to you right away." And snapping her fingers, she disappeared from the bedroom.

***

Hermione was toying with the little vial of potion, waiting patiently for her destined hour to arrive, when Ginny arrived, dressed all in lavender and terribly excited.

"It's time, can you believe it? You're going to be my sister-in-law!" she cried, taking Hermione by the hands and bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Hermione tried to appear equally excited, but bouncing was beyond her.

At that moment her father entered the bedroom, dressed formally and prepared for the ceremony. It seemed to Hermione that her heart stopped for a few seconds, and she understood that the moment of truth had irrevocably arrived.

Visibly moved, he drew closer to her and kissed her on the forehead.

"You're beautiful, Princess," he said, sounding near tears. "My little girl's a grown woman now."

He took her by the arm and they went out to the garden, where the guests awaited her, along with the Ministry official... and her future husband.

Walking down the aisle on her father's arm, she managed to produce a nervous smile to greet all the familiar faces that surrounded her. Hagrid was seated at the back; there was Luna in one of her outlandish getups (although without it she wouldn't be Luna, thought Hermione); Neville; Kingsley; farther forward Professor McGonagall, her maternal grandmother, her godmother... everyone. They were all smiling at her, doubtless thinking of the blissful life she would have as Ron's wife. That this was the happiest moment of her life. But the closer she drew to the altar, the more frantically her heart pounded, and the more she felt as if she couldn't get her breath, the more her hands sweated profusely inside their immaculate white gloves.

Her mother had told her that all brides experienced doubts and anxiety just before the wedding, that this was completely natural, but that after the ceremony the nerves would pass and she would be perfectly happy, like every other bride.

But she knew that this was not the normal, healthy jitters of the typical bride. It was a full-blown panic attack.

Ron was waiting for her at the end of the aisle, with Harry just behind him. He looked so handsome in his formal robes, his blue eyes brilliant with anticipation. Her father passed her hand to Ron, who took it firmly and without hesitation. They turned to face the Ministry official, who began to speak.

Hermione closed her eyes and prayed fervently that she might faint, but to no avail, and the ceremony proceeded on course.

***

Severus sat before the small desk in his bedroom to review calmly the parchment that contained his will. The solicitor had not been best pleased to be taken by force to Severus's house, but he put on a willing face, anxious to secure this client for the future. The petition had seemed strange to him, but in the end he shrugged his shoulders and revised Mr Snape's last will and testament, naming Hermione Weasley as his only heir, with the sole proviso that her husband not be able to touch a single Knut of her inheritance.

The professor smiled to himself, satisfied with the result. It would ensure her economic well-being forever. Even if her husband turned out to be a bastard like Tobias, she would be protected, along with any children she might have, and she could spend all the money she liked on whatever education she fancied, and buy a gold-and-diamond-encrusted edition of Hogwarts, a History if the notion took her, without having to take any shite from her git of a husband.

Sighing, he looked at the clock on his bedside table. It was already one o'clock; the hour was approaching. He stood, and opening his wardrobe, took out his best robe, the black silk one. He passed a comb through his greasy hair and put himself to rights as best he could.

He had decided to leave this world in style.

Sitting back down before the little desk, he looked around the bedroom. Yes, it was the perfect place, the place where for a few minutes he had known happiness, the place where she had given herself to him and where she had slept in his arms. At least he could carry that memory with him until the end.

It wasn't cowardice. It was weariness. He had tired of being the plaything of the gods. He had tired of a world that considered him unworthy of it, of the rejection of his peers. He had fought in two wars, risking his life more than anyone else; he had won, and survived, only to discover that he had nothing in life...not family, nor friends, nor love...fuck, he didn't even have a dog! He had loved deeply, twice, only to be faced with rejection. The cursed wound on his neck had appeared to heal, only to reopen when he least expected it, and he realized that he would probably never be rid of it altogether.

He looked bleakly before him at his future: day after day in this house, accompanied by three house-elves, old, sick, and alone.

What a lovely prospect.

Considering that no one would mourn for him, that he was tired and could do more good dead than alive... it was not such a difficult decision. If only she could have stayed...

Severus Snape was not a romantic man. He was not a person given to fantasies, and he did not waste time in conjuring idyllic fantasies. But at some point he had dared to imagine what his life would have been with her at his side. Even while remaining his acerbic self, he would have managed to cherish her, to gratify her every whim. He would have let her run his house and his life however she wanted. He even (yes, his stupid fantasies had even gone this far) would have married her if that's what she had wanted. He would have loved her, adored her, worshiped her. Anything at all to wake up every morning and see her asleep at his side.

How had he dared to dream such foolishness? It didn't matter any more. He looked again at his clock and knew that at that very moment she must be standing before the Ministry official, on the verge of saying, "I do." How quickly time flew when the dreaded, irrevocable moment was drawing near! She, Hermione Granger, would be changing into Hermione Weasley, dressed all in white and surrounded by her loved ones.

He touched the three small bottles that stood in a row before him. Three insignificant-looking bottles that contained the promise of liberation. Being the Potions Master had its advantages.

He had not yet decided which of the three to use. Hemlock, despite its Muggle origins, had the cachet of its association with no less august a personage than Socrates. It would send him into a gentle sleep from which he would never wake...the sweet death that everyone hoped to meet some day.

Acromantula venom would not be so benevolent...oh, no. But he was accustomed to pain. It was the venom of a magical creature, and beyond that would have the advantage of preserving his body indefinitely. The idea that his remains would be impervious to natural corruption was attractive, but... did it really matter so much? It was not as if there would be anyone to appreciate it.

And finally there was cyanide. Another Muggle toxin...how obsessed Muggles were with this poison! It was so effective that one barely had time to realize what was happening. In less than a minute it would be all over... for him, at least. Because afterwards the air would be fragrant with hydrogen cyanide, a lovely surprise for whoever found him.

Each of the three promised an elegant death. Well, the acromantula venom might twist his features into a ghoulish rictus. Not that he was that fair of face to begin with, but he didn't relish the thought of spending eternity with a ghastly grimace on his face.

Muggle or not, cyanide was unrivalled. He reached out a hand and caressed the little vial, thinking how ironic it was that something so small could put an end to him in seconds...something the Dark Lord himself had not succeeded in doing.

As he raised the vial he saw that his hand was trembling. Was Severus Snape's courage failing him? Of course it was...there was no use deluding himself, he was clammy with fear. But he would do it nonetheless. This was the difficult bit, to summon up the courage to open the vial and raise it to his lips. But once he had done that, only seconds would separate him from eternal rest...

His hands were trembling and clumsy as he fumbled to get the stopper from the vial. And just as he sensed it coming loose, he felt a cold breeze on his face that sent a chill through him. Invisible, glacial fingers laid themselves over his, and a familiar, beloved voice whispered in his ear.

Stop, Severus. Wait just a moment...

"Lily?"