Chapter 04

"So, tell me, why are you working as a chemist? It seems a little peculiar for a man in your position, don't you agree? Is it some kind of hobby-horse?"

Severus had soon realised that Mrs. Murray did not posses any sense of social tact. Even he would not have asked such an indiscrete question that put the one to answer it in a more than embarrassing situation. He tried to swallow any sarcastic remark along with the bite of deliciously spiced chicken, but it was too hard a temptation for him to withstand it.

"No, Madam, it is not. My father made some unfortunate decisions which caused me to realise at an early age that I, just as most other people, would have to work for my living. I do not think that working is anything to be ashamed of, and I certainly do not believe in the often proclaimed differences between nobility and commoners. With the exception, of course, that the former have at least some tact."

To his great contentment, his dinner partner looked extremely consternated after this and, not knowing what to reply, took refuge in her food, which left him with some time to recover from her incessant talking. Instead, he turned his attention toward the discussion that had come up at the other side of the table.

"...that railways have no future. Every sensible person should know this," Cornelius Fudge, a friend from Dursley's club, just claimed, sounding absolutely convinced of his position. "I cannot understand how people can be this obsessed with those noisy, smoky monsters. It's just the second line section they built, yes, but if it goes on like this, the whole country will be littered with them in a matter of years! And how could it not be dangerous? Humans were not made to travel at that speed – the inner organs will get squashed!"

He had talked himself into excitement, his round head with the sparse hair had turned red, and even across the table, Severus could see the droplets of perspiration on his nose and forehead.

"Well, then, Mr. Fudge, we should tell the inner organs of everyone who has been riding a train during the four years since they built the first railway, including myself, that they forgot to behave appropriately. I am sure they will be very grateful that you reminded them of this fact. Otherwise, we might have lived on unharmed for years, and we surely cannot let that happen!"

General laughter ensued after this reply from Mr. Smith's wife, an intelligent-looking young woman in a light blue dress and with bushy brown hair that seemed about to escape the shape into which it had been forced by clasps and ribbons at any moment.

Fudge had gone even redder and now was dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, in vain searching for an answer.

"From what I have read," she went on more seriously, "travelling by rail is perfectly safe. The laws of nature do not suggest any danger for animals or humans at that speed. Of course, that is not to say that there might not be a limit as to what speed is safe. But if so, it has not yet been discovered."

"If you would only let her, Hermione would tell you all about the studies she has read about it, and then we could not talk about anything else all evening long," her husband now remarked, sounding amused and proud at the same time.

"Oh, but why would you waste your time with something like that, Madam?" Dursley asked. "There surely are more interesting things for a woman to do than reading about science. And for aught I know, even most men have enough difficulties to comprehend that scientific babble to begin with."

"I happen to think that since woman, just as men, are in possession of a brain, they surely must be able to use it for something else than thinking about dresses, playing the piano, or being a pleasant hostess. A woman can certainly understand and do anything that a man does."

She sounded irritated and had spoken in a sharp tone, loud enough to draw general attention, and by now, every other conversation around the table had stopped.

"That may be so," Dursley replied, sounding anything but convinced, "but tell me, Madam, what about the children? Who will take care of them if women start behaving like men?"

Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say, since Mrs. Smith looked anything but pleased.

"Men and women are perfectly equal in abilities, and there is no reason whatsoever that men could not look after children as well. We should start putting that into practice instead of clinging to mediaeval ideas. Just as we are not mindless, pretty dolls to show off, we are not broodmares, either!"

"Now, now," a spice merchant named Milward rose to speak, obviously trying to prevent the atmosphere from getting ruined completely. "I believe not that Mr. Dursley meant to imply anything of that sort. We all value our wives to the highest degree, don't we, gentlemen?"

The embarrassed silence was broken by various exclamations of agreement, and Dursley was the first to rise for a toast. "To our wives! Where would we be without them?"

The other men followed him quickly and drank to the health of their wives, including Mr. Smith, who seemed to be relieved that the whole episode had ended without even greater embarrassment for him. Nevertheless, he found himself at the receiving end of pitying glances more than once over the next few minutes, and his wife was regarded with alienation by both, men and women.

Severus silently agreed with Mrs. Smith, although he would not have been so blunt in expressing his opinion as she had been. If he had ever married, he would have wanted an intelligent and sensible wife; someone with whom he could talk about various topics that interested them both: a partner, not just a 'mindless, pretty doll', as she had put it so fittingly.

Since Mrs. Murray was not showing any inclination to accept him into her good graces again, Severus turned his attention to Mrs. Dursley, who was sitting to his left. It would be appropriate to now make some civil conversation with the hostess, and he knew that it would please Dursley a great deal to see his wife interacting with his important guest. It was without doubt for this reason that he had placed them next to each other.

"Your husband told me, Madam, that you came to London six years ago and lived in Plymouth before that. I spent two years there when I was still a child. I was only twelve when I left, but from what I remember, I must say it is a very appealing city."

What he did not mention was that his stay in Plymouth had been anything but pleasant. He had been living with an elderly grand-uncle of his mother's side of the family – his only relative beside his father at that time. Uncle Theodore, as his father had hoped, would be able to discipline him better than he, himself was capable of. Severus was a wild and stubborn boy, Lord Snape had emphasised in his letters, and needed a strong hand. The grand-uncle had taken this to heart and had been more than generous with the rod. Severus had been incredibly relieved when the old man had died unexpectedly and he had been allowed to return home.

"You are right, it is," Petunia now replied with a smile. "I was most sorry to leave, but my husband wanted to expand his business, and there is no city like London for a man of his profession."

"Well, I, at least, am glad that you moved here. Doing business with your husband is certainly a gratifying experience." He did not even have to lie considerably, for even though Dursley was anything but pleasant company – boisterous, self-absorbed, and eager to please his aristocratic customer, Severus found his presence annoying at best – his wares were always of the highest quality, and his prices were more than acceptable. Severus could not wish for more.

Having discovered that they had both lived in the same city, they continued to speak of it, making light conversation about things they both remembered. But although he tried to concentrate on what was being said, Severus could not help getting momentarily distracted again and again. The feeling of dejà-vu that had assaulted him so unexpectedly before dinner was now returning even stronger – could it really be no more than coincidence?

"And have you ever been to France, Madam? To Paris, mayhap?" he finally asked. It was possible, after all, that they had met there years ago, although it did not to seem very likely to him.

"Paris? Oh, no." She shook her head. "I have never left England. We were hardly ever away from my father's estate in Kent when I was a child. When I was sixteen, my parents decided that we needed to be introduced into society, as was befitting for the daughters of a baronet, and we spent the next two summer seasons in London. I married my husband at the age of eighteen and moved with him to Plymouth, and after that to London."

Severus was not truly surprised to learn that she was from an aristocratic family. Nowadays, marriages between commoners and members of the nobility were not unthinkable any more, especially when the commoner, like Vernon Dursley, was rich, or, in the case of a woman, her parents were able to bestow her with an opulent dowry.

"You mentioned 'daughters'," he inquired. "So you have a sister, or several?"

A shadow seemed to settle on her face, but her voice was still pleasant and calm as she replied. "I...had a sister. Her name was Lily; she was a year younger than I. We married at the same time, but she and her husband, Lord James Potter, died four years later in an accident."

Severus stared at her for several moments, then he raised his glass and downed the rich, red wine in two large gulps that contradicted every etiquette. Suddenly, everything made perfect sense.

"Your father was Lord Rupert Evans, am I not right?" he asked when he had put the glass down again. "I was sure that I had met you before today, but I could not remember where, or when. But now..." He found it hard to control himself and keep his voice calm. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he inwardly scolded himself for being ridiculous. All of this lay seventeen years in the past! It was unbelievable that the fact of Lily's death should make him feel so upset.

"I knew your sister," he finally managed to say. "We met when I was seventeen, and she sixteen, in Hyde Park. She was taking a walk with her family. When I walked by, I was distracted by a wasp, and so I got too close and stepped on her dress."

Thankfully, he felt himself calm down, and it did not seem as if anyone else had noticed his excitement, since nobody was paying attention to their conversation. There was much laughing at the other side of the table, where Mr. Fudge had apparently once more earned himself ridicule.

"I managed to stumble and fall flat on my face." He could not help smiling slightly at the memory. "It was not the perfect manner of getting to know a young lady, but it did work. My nose was bleeding, and Lily gave me her handkerchief. Your father allowed me to bring it back the next day, and he gave me your address in London."

Mrs. Dursley had looked confused at first, but now her face lit up with recognition.

"Yes, I remember you," she said slowly. "You visited several times, but I did not see you often. I was very ill that summer and had to spend most of the time in bed. From what I remember, Lily always spoke very fondly of you."

.-.-.

Petunia found it hard to stay composed as they talked about her sister. All evening long, she had tried her best not to think of Harry, or rather, not too extensively, since it was outright impossible to fully ban him from her mind. The sight of all the exquisite food alone, together with the knowledge that her nephew would not receive any of it although there would be many leftovers, made her heart clench and left her unable to relish any of the dishes. To her, everything tasted as insipid as starch.

She had succeeded in her role thus far, however, determined to please her husband. It had been a relief to find a topic about which she and Lord Snape could talk easily, for she knew that Vernon expected her to entertain his most valued guest and make a positive impression.

Under any other circumstances, learning that they shared a connection and had known each other – be it ever so briefly – in the past would have been a fortunate occurrence, but as it were, she wished that she had kept the existence of her sister secret. She had not mentioned her deliberately, but had simply spoken of "daughters" because it was true and she had been too distracted by the pleasant conversation to watch her tongue.

"I am very sorry to hear of her death," she now heard Snape say. "She was a remarkable woman." He sounded genuinely saddened, which made her feel only worse. She had loved Lily, and her death had hit her hard. Caring for her son had, in a way, helped her to cope with the grief. It had been as though in Harry, a part of Lily had stayed with her. But even that had been taken from her.

"You are right, she was." She reached out for her glass and found that her hand was shaking. Hastily, she took the glass and drank, hoping that the wine would help her to calm herself.

"If I may ask, did she have any children?"

Snape had spoken softly, and she knew that nobody but she had heard him, but to Petunia, it felt as though the question were echoing through the entire room. Her chest suddenly felt constricted, her breathing shallow, and she lowered her eyes to the only half emptied plate in front of her.

"No," she said, her voice sounding flat and shaky to her own ears. "No, there...were no children."

The dining room was warm and brightly lit by a multitude of candles, but all of a sudden, it was as if the darkness and cold from outside the large windows had crept inside, and it made her skin crawl. Staring down at the chicken, potatoes and sauce on the delicate china, she suddenly felt nauseous. To think that she had just denied the existence of a child that was being kept under worse conditions in this very house than one would keep any animal, a child that she loved as her own, the only of her children that was left to her...

Before she could think about what she was doing, she had gotten up from the table abruptly, almost knocking over the chair in her haste.

"I...I am sorry, you must excuse me for a few minutes!"

She felt a sob rising in her chest, and she covered her mouth with a hand to prevent it from breaking free as she quickly hurried toward the door, unaware and uncaring of the astonished glances that followed her.

.-.-.-.

All conversations stopped around the table as Mrs. Dursley suddenly rose and, after a murmured apology, ran out of the room in a most undignified manner.

Severus, like all the others, stared after her in surprise. He had not thought that the topic of their conversation would upset her like this. After thirteen years, could her sister's death still disconcert her so much? He could not have known, but he nevertheless felt responsible for what had happened.

"I fear this is my fault," he said into the silence, addressing their host. All eyes immediately settled on him. "Mrs. Dursley and I found that we shared a connection over her sister. We met here in London before they both married. I did not know that she had passed away and inquired after her. It must have upset her more than I imagined it would."

Dursley frowned for a moment. "You could not have known," he then said, "but my wife was indeed very fond of her sister. They were close, and she never fully recovered from her loss." He rose from his chair as well. "It will be the best if I look after her, but please, worry not. I shall be back soon, and in the meantime," he now looked around the table to address all of his guests, "please enjoy yourselves. I am sure that my wife will recover quickly and join us again. She would not wish to miss your company tonight."

With these words, he left the room, and once more, an uncomfortable silence fell.

"Oh, the poor woman!" Mrs. Murray finally exclaimed. "It is as Mr. Dursley said: she never got over her sister's death. Whenever it is touched upon, she becomes quite miserable; I have witnessed it myself in the past. It is sad, but it must also be wonderful to have a sibling that you love so much. I wish I could say the same about my sisters and myself."

Apparently, the incident had made her forget about her indignation concerning Severus, for she now turned to him. "Do you have any siblings, Mylord?"

"No," Severus replied curtly. Around them, the other guests slowly began talking again – about Mrs. Dursley ad her sister, no doubt, or about their own relationships with their siblings – but he felt no inclination to participate in this kind of conversation, and least of all with Mrs. Murray.

"Please excuse me," he said, "but I think it would be appropriate to go and offer my apologies to Mrs. Dursley privately. After all, it was I who brought up this unfortunate topic." Before Mrs. Murray could contradict, he had already risen and was on his way to the door.

Outside the dining room, Severus leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths. It was true that he intended to apologise to Mrs. Dursley, but more than anything, he had wanted to get away from the assembled party for a few minutes in order to be alone with his thoughts.

Despite having gotten over his initial shock, he still felt greatly saddened about the fact that Lily was dead. Had it been any other acquaintance from the past, he would have acknowledged it with no more than vague pity, like most did when hearing about the death of someone they had once known and did not dislike. Lily, however, was different.

He had only been seventeen, and he knew with hindsight that it had been foolish, but at that time, he had been madly in love with her. Lily Evans, with her green eyes, dark red hair and rosy skin had seemed to him like the epitome of feminine beauty. She had laughed often, had been friendly and intelligent, and if she might have had any negative sides, he had not noticed them in his youthful infatuation.

She had appeared to take a liking to him as well, and for a few weeks in the late summer of 1812, Severus had been in heaven. He had visited her for tea, and they had taken walks in the park, all under the watchful eyes of either her father or mother. As the summer had been nearing its end, however, she had more and more often been indisposed, and finally, her mother had explained to him in kind but determined words that they would prefer it if he stopped visiting, and that he would not be allowed to write her once they would return to Kent.

As it turned out, Lily's parents had made their own enquiries about Severus's family in addition to what he had told them, and what they had heard had left them anything but pleased. Let aside his obvious youth, with a father who had been forced to sell all his estates except for his house in London, and who was constantly diminishing his already frighteningly shrunken fortune by drinking and gambling to excess, the advantage of Severus's noble birth was insignificant. An uncertain future and an ill-reputed father-in-law were unthinkable for Lord Evan's daughter.

Severus had been devastated, but there had been nothing that he could have done. Only a week later, the Evans family had left London, and a lengthy billet-doux that he had sent regardless of the interdiction had been sent back unopened, along with a letter by her father, consisting of stern admonitions to stop trying to contact his daughter immediately. He had had no chance but to obey, and although it had flared up again when a year later, he had incidentally learnt that she had married a rich baron by the name of Potter, he had eventually overcome his heartache and anger. But he had not been able to look favourably at any woman since then, and the idea of marriage had never crossed his mind again.

Knowing that she had died so young, he now could not help wondering what would have happened had their ways not been separated so abruptly. Could she have been happy with him? Would she still be alive? It had been years since he had last engaged in such inane speculations, and he felt stupid for doing so, but it seemed that they imposed themselves upon him without his own doing.

Severus had walked some steps away from the dining room, and suddenly, his musings were interrupted by what seemed to be a raised voice. To his left, he noticed a narrow corridor, and as he took a look into it, he saw light falling through a door that was only ajar. It was from there that the voice was coming, and now he recognised it as the one of their host.

"...of that creature! Is it asking too much of you not to embarrass me like that in front of our guests? I will not tolerate anything like this in the future, do you understand me? The next time, there will be consequences!"

With growing unease, Severus realised that the person Dursley was berating at the top of his voice must be his wife. The yelling had stopped now, and instead, there was a much lower voice speaking, interrupted by occasional sobs.

He knew that the only correct course of action was to leave immediately and go back to the dining room. What a man did to discipline his wife was of nobody else's business. It would only embarrass everyone if it was discovered that he had witnessed such a scene.

Severus was about to turn and leave when the crying was abruptly stopped by the unmistakable sound of flesh connecting with flesh, and he froze in his tracks.

There was a short silence, then Mr. Dursley spoke again. "I will go back to our guests. I await you to join us within then minutes, and I will not accept any excuses."

A low, almost inaudible answer, then footsteps into the direction of the door. In just a few seconds, Dursley would notice him. Quickly, Severus turned around and hurried to the opposite side of the corridor, away from the dining room, and disappeared behind the corner. Carefully looking around the edge, he saw Mr. Dursley come out of the smaller corridor and walk toward the dining room, which he then entered.

He took some moments to allow his pulse beat to return to normal before he wondered about his further course of action. It was out of the question that he should ever let on that he had born witness to what had happened, although he would have more than gladly told Dursley his opinion on men who hit their wives. It was commonly accepted that it was their right to do so, but Severus found it to be detestable. To use one's greater physical strength against the own wife when there were no other arguments left was nothing but a sign of weakness. This evening, Severus's respect for Dursley had sunken considerably.

It would be for the best, he finally decided, if he waited for Mrs. Dursley to show herself. Then, he could come forward and simply pretend that he had been searching for her in vain, and they could return to the others together.

Severus did not have to wait long, for only a few minutes later, she stepped out of the corridor. He took a deep breath, then he walked around the corner and approached her.

"Madam, I had been looking for you."

She flinched at his words and spun around, and he could see that she was even paler than she had been. There was a frightened look in her eyes, which made his disdain for her husband only grow.

"Oh, it is you, Mylord." She smiled weakly, relief clearly written on her face. "You had me startled for a moment. I thought that everyone else was still at dinner." Within seconds, it seemed, she had adopted an appearance of composure again.

Severus forced a smile as well, although it was the last thing he felt like doing. "I had been searching for you, because I wanted to offer you my apologies," he said, now serious. "I had not believed that talking about your sister would cause you so much grief. Had I known, I would not have inquired after her."

Her façade of calmness seemed to waver briefly, but then she composed herself. "It was not your fault at all," she replied softly. "It is...unusual that it should still upset me so, after so long a time. It is silly of me, and it is I who must apologise."

Severus shook his head. "I know of nothing of which you would have to be ashamed."

There was a short, awkward silence before Severus offered her his arm. "Let us go back to the others. It would not do to deprive your guests of their hostess's presence."

Together, they headed back to the dining room, which they entered under the curious glances of the other guests, both wishing to be anywhere but here.

for aught I know ------------ for all I know

billet-doux ---------- love letter