The Conversation With Snape

Author's Notes: Another chapter my charming beta Verity has endured endless versions of. Enjoy!

Chapter 12: The Conversation With Snape

The next morning, after breakfast, Rowan resolved to see Professor Snape. She picked up the notes she had written the evening before and the pot of daffodils and went down the stairs to the common room and out the Ravenclaw portrait door. First she went to the owlery to post her letters. She put a couple of Owl Treats in her pocket; it was cold out and they deserved a reward beforehand, as well as whatever the recipients gave them.

After sending off the second owl, Rowan mapped out her course as she descended down the stairs. The daffodils would have to go to the greenhouse – they'd been lonely all alone in her dorm room, and there wasn't nearly enough sunlight for them coming through the tower windows this time of year.

First, though, the dungeon. Snape was probably expecting her, since she'd been told to see him. Best get that over with before she thought about it too much more. Rowan clutched her flowerpot as she descended the seemingly endless flights of steps to the dungeons.

Rowan knocked at Snape's office door. At his sharp "Come in," she opened it and glided silently to stand in front of his desk. There was a small carpet to muffle the sound of footsteps and keep the feet warm, and an unlit fireplace to her left. On the desk in front of her, there was a small sheaf of official-looking parchments and a stack of end-of-term Potions exams and essays. Of course, he wouldn't have been able to grade anything since the end of term. He must be behind on his work.

Snape considered her silently for a long moment, then gestured with his wand to the door behind her, which shut and locked with a 'snick.' He then stood and walked around the desk to stand at her side, facing the empty fireplace. Suddenly apprehensive, Rowan put the pot down on the edge of the desk and turned to face him.

He looked better than he had the day before washed and in fresh clothes. He had never looked so lank and unkempt before as he had that morning at the Ministry, no matter what the students liked to say about his greasiness.

He glared one of his most quelling glares and loomed over her. "It was not necessary for you to lie to save me."

Rowan, to her surprise, found that his near proximity still had the same effect on her as before. Her heart beat a little faster, and her palms felt damp. She tried to cover her confusion with a composed manner.

"No, it wasn't."

Snape searched her face, but Rowan had no idea what he was looking for or if he found it. His own features were purely impassive. When he continued, his voice was icy cold and exceedingly formal.

"Miss Bourne, when I was taken on the night of the Solstice, I believed that I had irrevocably forfeited my freedom, my home, and my good name. Through your offices, all these have been returned to me. Therefore, they are yours, if you wish them."

Rowan rocked back on her heels in shock. This was so far from what she had expected to hear – not that she had had a clue what to expect – that she was momentarily speechless. His tone was so strange, completely at odds with the apparent meaning of his words, that Rowan wondered if she had heard him correctly.

"What are you saying?" she asked carefully.

"I am offering you marriage, Miss Bourne," Snape replied coldly, as if explaining something utterly self-evident to a first year.

So she had heard him right, but it made no sense. Was this some Wizarding thing – he'd taken her virginity so now he had to marry her?

"Why? Because you think you owe it to me?"

"Because, I think it will be necessary," Snape answered in the same icy tone.

Did he think she was pregnant? That would explain it, but you'd think he'd have waited to find out, Rowan thought. "There's no baby, Professor. Madam Pomfrey already checked."

"I did know that. However, there are other considerations besides pregnancy. I suggest you take some time to consider this carefully before you make a decision," Snape said sharply.

What on earth was he getting at? Rowan wondered. And why was he in such a snit about it? It wasn't like any of this had been her fault.

"Meanwhile," Snape continued, "you and I will behave towards each other precisely as before this happened. Do you understand?"

Well, that went without saying; there were still months of classes before the end of the year. "Of course," Rowan answered.

He went on in his most silkily authoritative voice: "You will speak of this to no one. I will not have my authority in class disrupted by the sort of juvenile remarks and pranks which would inevitably arise if the facts were generally known. If you do not comport yourself with the utmost discretion, I will be forced to drop you from my class."

Rowan didn't care for his tone, but since he was right, there was no sense arguing. "I understand."

"See that you do."

Rowan knew when she had been dismissed. There didn't seem much point to hanging around here. She picked up her pot from the desk beside her and turned towards the door.

The daffodils had been watching this entire exchange with great interest, their bright yellow trumpets turning from Snape to Rowan in turn. They did not appear to care for Snape's treatment of Rowan in the slightest. Three of them honked rudely and turned to give Snape the cold leaf, while the fourth blew him a long raspberry over Rowan's elbow.

Snape brushed orange pollen off his black wool coat with a look of revulsion while Rowan departed with what dignity she could muster under the circumstances.

Rowan stepped into the empty dungeon hallway and heard the door snick shut behind her. She had meant to go to the greenhouse next, but right now she really wanted to speak to Professor Dumbledore. Rowan suspected there was something she wasn't understanding, and she was sure he could clear it up. Then maybe she could figure out what that most bizarre proposal meant.

"Sit down, Miss Bourne. Have a lemon drop."

Rowan accepted a candy and sat in the squashy armchair in front of the fireplace where Dumbledore led her. He sat down opposite and listened patiently as she explained what had transpired in her meeting with Professor Snape. When she had finished, he sighed deeply and tried to explain.

"I fear, Miss Bourne, that you did not realize how much difficulty your gallant defense of my Potions master will bring you when the court records are unsealed. This is entirely my own fault. I knew you were from a Muggle household, but I forgot what that would mean. I failed to comprehend how little experience you would have with Wizarding society outside of Hogwarts."

"I don't understand, Professor."

"I know, you could not have understood, and there is the source of the problem. You see, the Wizarding world is small, insular, compared to the Muggle world, Miss Bourne. Many of our ways have remained unchanged or hardly changed since the Separation. There are certain conventions to which young witches are expected to adhere, and if they do not, the consequences can be ... uncomfortable."

Now Rowan started to feel alarmed. "What sort of consequences?"

There was a pause as Dumbledore tried to find a way of explaining that would be meaningful to her.

"May I ask, what were you planning to do after leaving school?"

"I'm planning to apply for an internship in the Department of Mysteries; I'm hoping to be a researcher there."

"I must warn you, Miss Bourne, that unless you are married, your application will certainly be rejected."

"What? That's ridiculous. On what grounds?"

"The Ministry has a moral standard which it feels all its employees must uphold. The details of Professor Snape's trial are sealed till the end of the school year, but since the Wizengamot is filled largely with Ministry staff members, it is highly unlikely that your story is not known. Even if it remained a secret and your application were to be accepted, it would be withdrawn when the records become public."

"You can't be serious! I could hardly have helped what happened."

"I know you are not at fault, but that has little bearing on the matter. What our society will not excuse is your statement before the Wizengamot. You must pardon me for being so blunt, but it is very necessary for you to understand. Nice young witches do not speak about sex in public. They definitely do not announce that they willingly had sex – they may do so, but they never, ever talk about it."

Rowan thought she might be ill. Even the lemon drop seemed like it might have been a bad idea. "So, what you are saying is that my reputation is ruined?"

"Yes, entirely." Dumbledore sighed.

"I never thought I'd hear that phrase this side of a Regency novel."

"In many ways, Miss Bourne, Wizarding society is still living in the Regency period. I believe the Muggles have the better of us in this, but my personal belief does not change your situation."

"And this is why Professor Snape offered to marry me?" Rowan asked sharply. "Did you make him do it?"

"It is why I am very glad he has done so, although I was certain he would. If it aids your peace of mind, I did not speak to him about it."

"And if I do marry him, will that fix the scandal?"

"It would shorten its duration to something of a nine-day wonder. If you remained at Hogwarts for a further year after leaving school, you could apply for the Ministry position in the following year. By that time the entire thing would have blown over."

"I really find that extremely hard to credit."

"There is also the small matter that anyone who insulted you would have to deal with your husband." Dumbledore managed a twinkle.

Now that she could believe. Rowan enjoyed the highly entertaining image briefly before returning to reality. "This is going to take me a while to think through," she replied carefully.

"Of course, that is entirely understandable. Still, if you do choose to marry Severus, I would recommend you do so before the records are unsealed. When you have decided, please let me know. You will need some assistance with the arrangements," Dumbledore said kindly.

Rowan looked around the office; the portraits of the former headmasters weren't even pretending not to listen. They all watched her and Albus avidly, as if this were a soap opera to which they were all addicted.

Rowan thanked Dumbledore and left his office, still holding the flower pot. Thankfully the daffodils had been somewhat awed by the headmaster, or at least had had the tact to keep quiet for once.

So much had happened, she didn't know where to even begin thinking about it. Numbly, she carried the pot of daffodils to the greenhouse. She placed them next to Professor Sprout's specimens and left a note on the pot requesting to be able to keep them there till spring. The house-elves would see they were watered and fed along with all the other plants that weren't special projects of Professor Sprout or the advanced students. She left them hooting merrily with their new friends and went deeper into the greenhouses.

Rowan felt a need for someplace peaceful, where she could sit undisturbed and think about what Dumbledore had told her. If it had been warmer, she would have gone for a walk in the gardens. The dead of winter in Scotland made that a very uninviting prospect, so when she was blue, she went for the next best thing.

Hogwarts had several greenhouses; some of them were used for student lab projects, others for Professor Sprout's research. Several were dedicated to Hogwarts' collection of rare and interesting plants, which were available for study. One row of these greenhouses had been arranged so that each replicated a particular environment. There was the Desert house, the Cool Temperate house, the Tropical house, and the Hydrophyte house. This is where Rowan headed, slipping through several other houses on the route there. She carefully skirted the pots of Fanged Geraniums on her way past. The last time she had come here, she had harvested some leaves for one of her potions and gotten several painful nips for her trouble.

Finally she reached her favorite spot, the Hydrophyte house. This was arranged for the comfort of the water-loving plants which lived in it. Besides the mundane rice, papyrus, and water lilies, there were quite a few specimens she had studied earlier in Magical Properties of Swamp Plants. Here there was a small bench facing a filtered, circulating tank disguised as a little waterfall and stream with a patch of gillyweed thriving in the stagnant corner. The bench was carefully placed to be out of reach of anything with fangs, tentacles, or which squirted poison. There was a small plaque announcing that the bench was dedicated to the memory of a student who hadn't heeded the warning sign about the Devil's Snare.

The air was warm and moist in this room, and the glass roof let in what natural sunlight was still available. Here Rowan sat and contemplated the mess she was now in.

What, by Merlin's toenails, had she done to deserve to be in this predicament? As far as she could tell, nothing. She had been kidnapped and at least technically raped, then had to expose her feelings in public. She could have kept her mouth shut and let Snape go to Azkaban. If anyone was at fault, it was him. She understood what had compelled him, but if he hadn't been sneaking around, spying on Voldemort, playing a dual role, she wouldn't have been grabbed, and he wouldn't have been forced to make that choice.

Rowan felt angry and betrayed. She wanted to blame Snape, but an inner voice, a suspiciously snarky one, reminded her where the real blame lay. Voldemort had been responsible for all of it. It was his evil mind that set the whole plan in motion. Honest folk were never safe when a Dark Lord was rising in power, growing in audacity as his reach spread.

She took a deep breath of the warm, humid air, then let it out with a sigh and sat staring into the water of the artificial pond. Vegetative tentacles swayed in the slow flow of the water. The Devil's Snare twitched longingly in her direction, but it was kept well pruned and the bench was safely out of reach.

She went over her conversation with Professor Snape in her mind. That had seemed utterly unreal, but in light of Professor Dumbledore's explanation, it made more sense. Both his proposal and his attitude. He probably didn't like being forced to marry her either. That was a galling notion. Rowan squirmed uncomfortably. There had been a moment, right before those Death Eaters came, when she thought he might actually like her, find her attractive. Her heart had been in her throat as their fingers had touched, and she'd been on the verge of saying something – anything – to find out how he felt.

Now she had to face the unpleasant notion that, while he might have been attracted to her, marriage was not likely on his mind. Well, honestly, it hadn't been on hers either. That was supposed to be for well into the future, after she'd had a chance for a little fun.

Now she wasn't even sure about the fun part. She had been surprised, no, shocked, to realize she was still attracted to him when he had stood so close to her in his office. The notion of following through on that attraction was deeply disturbing now. There was so much baggage of awful memory and dismal emotion associated, could she ever break loose from it?

What was she going to do? Live in the Wizarding world as a pariah? What would she live on if she couldn't get a decent job? Of course, since she was Muggle-born, she had a place in that world. She could go home after school and live with her mother. What would she do there, though? She hadn't been home except for summers and Christmases since she was eleven years old. As far as the Muggle world was concerned, she didn't have anything better than a primary-school education. She couldn't earn her keep as a Muggle any better than she could in the Wizarding world.

No, that decision, at least, had been made a long time ago. A witch she was, and a witch she would remain.

Well, then, what were her choices? Dumbledore had made it abundantly clear – she had to marry. The obvious candidate, and her only current offer, was Professor Snape, but did it have to be him? What if she encouraged Edgar? He liked her; could he be persuaded to marry her by the end of the school year? It seemed entirely possible. From what she had seen so far, it appeared that wizards and witches generally married younger than Muggles.

Rowan found she had a hard time working up any enthusiasm for this prospect. That told its own story; Rowan gave up the idea.

What if she accepted Snape's offer? Rowan tried to imagine it now – what would life be like as Mrs. Snape? She supposed she'd continue to live at the castle during the school year. Did he have a home anywhere else?

What about children? Would he want them? She tried to imagine Severus Snape cuddling a soggy, gurgling baby, but the picture simply refused to coalesce in her mind. Would he not want to have any? Now there was a point that would have to be agreed on, or there could be no marriage, regardless of the consequences to herself.

The subject of marriage and children inevitably brought her back to the more physical aspects of marriage, and her only experience of it, the night of the Solstice. Rowan had been diligently avoiding thinking too much about it, but now she really had to face it.

That had hurt. A lot, although she hadn't made much fuss. There hadn't seemed much point, and she hadn't wanted to give them the satisfaction. It was good, knowing she had kept that from them.

It was really good knowing she'd ruined the potion. She'd been bound, helpless, violated, utterly humiliated. Still she'd set the Dark Lord back on his arse.

There it was, she could be at peace with herself over that at least. She hadn't done anything to make it happen, and she hadn't been helpless, no matter what. Could she be at peace with Snape and the choice he had made? Maybe, in time. He was working to defeat Voldemort, and that was a goal to which she gave her wholehearted approval. Was that enough? Could they have a real marriage? Rowan wasn't sure. If they didn't, she was going to be pretty stuck. So much for happily ever after. Fortunately, she didn't have to decide today.

Author's Notes: Rowan's favorite thinking spot bears a strong resemblance to mine when I was in college.