Epilogue I
2nd August 1997
Ireland
The pale blue robes hung in delicate folds from the door of the large, oak wardrobe. Made from the finest Chinese silk, they glistened cheerfully in the glow of the candlelight. Next to them hung a pair of well tailored and deliciously expensive looking trousers, cut from the same fabric as the robes. Accompanying this sky-coloured duet was a voluminous shirt of white linen, billowing sleeves collapsed by its side and it had just the hint of a frill cascading from the collar. It was a deceptively simple outfit, beautiful in its construction and impeccably tasteful. Any wizard would have been proud to wear such an impressive ensemble on his wedding day.
Severus Snape, however, wasn’t any wizard. His heartfelt dismay at the vision of sartorial elegance that hung before him made his face pulse with revulsion. It was several horror-struck moments before he could gather himself sufficiently to speak without exploding expletives all over the room.
“Surely,” his voice iced the air, “I am not expected to wear this. Perhaps there has been a mistake. Is this Lupin’s room?” Despite his best efforts a touch of desperation crept into his last question.
“No, Severus, this is your room and these” – Dumbledore cast his eye over the garments – “are your clothes. If you would permit me to say – I think they are rather dashing, touch of the Errol Flynn about them, don’t you think?”
“Errol who?” Severus asked, his eyes incredulous.
“Not to mention the fact that the blue will set off you hair exceedingly well.” Dumbledore ignored the question about Errol Flynn; perhaps a Muggle film star of old hadn’t been the best comparison for Severus, not when he was in this mood.
“My hair?” Severus sounded even more bewildered. “What does my hair have to do with it? My hair is black, my clothes are black, my outlook is exceedingly black at the moment, so why upset the equilibrium with… with blue?” He may as well have said Sapsucker vomit for all the disgust he loaded onto the word blue.
“I think the general idea is to do something different, for the bride, Severus.”
The reminder of Maeve eased Severus’ suffering slightly, but he had to tear his eyes away from the robes to gain any lasting relief.
“Was this her doing?” he asked.
“No, not at all. I was involved in some small way.” Dumbledore’s attention was drawn to a small damp patch on the wallpaper that was spreading out beneath the painting of a goat and its herder.
“Is there any way – any way at all – that I can exchange these things for something of my own choosing?” In Severus distracted mind the green of the valley on the other side of the discoloured window was clashing violently with the blue of the robes.
“I’m afraid not, the bride’s outfit matches your own. It’s all in the detail on these occasions.” Dumbledore looked rather pleased with himself at this knowledgeable statement. Severus couldn’t help noticing that the old wizard was altogether too jovial about this whole wedding nonsense. A man of his age and eminence should be above such inane frivolities. He was about to voice these thoughts when the sound of footsteps in the hallway prevented it.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” A new, irritatingly chipper, voice had entered the room, swiftly followed by its owner and its owner’s twin brother. Fred and George Weasley had been looking forward to this for weeks and were determined to enjoy every second of their former Potions master’s discomfort.
“Nice togs!” Fred whistled, eyeing up the costly silk with envy.
“Very nice indeed,” George agreed. “Colour will suit your rosy cheeks nicely, Severus.”
Severus wheeled around and fixed them with a look that would once have had the power to silence them, albeit temporarily.
“Kindly keep your opinions on colour to yourself, Mr. Weasley,” he said with rancour. “For someone with hair which is such a violent shade of red, I hardly think you are in a position to comment.”
“Keep your shirt on, Severus,” Fred grinned. “George was only saying how well you would look in your outfit, weren’t you, George?”
“Absolutely, Fred, and to think, we only came to deliver the ruddy buttonholes and we’re already getting grief.”
George placed the box of cornflowers trimmed with cream silk ribbons carefully on the bed with a sly smile at his brother.
“Not tampered with in any way, are they?” Severus sneered suspiciously.
“Would we?” Fred looked affronted.
“What sort of clowns do you think we are? We wouldn’t spoil Maeve’s big day,” George tutted loudly, although the implication was clear from his words that they wouldn’t be above ruining Severus’ big day in some small way.
“Why don’t you try one on, just to make sure they won’t make you sneeze purple snot all the way through the service?” Fred picked up one of the tiny floral arrangements and made a determined beeline for Severus cloak but the beleaguered teacher quickly stepped back and scowled.
“I have no idea whose suggestion it was to make everyone pin these ridiculous flowers to their clothes, but I think you will find I shall not be wearing one.” Severus was determined to exercise some sort of control over the event.
“Now, now, gentlemen.” Dumbledore gave an appreciative look at the flowers and reflected that he couldn’t have chosen better himself. “No time to be standing around— there are things to be done.”
Severus looked alarmed at the prospect of further unpleasant revelations about the wedding. When he and Maeve had last spoken about this it was to be a small affair in London so he had no idea how he came to be standing in a rambling, abandoned guesthouse in County Meath. The east coast of Ireland would not have been his natural choice for a holiday and he was dreading to think what she had planned for their honeymoon. With a sinking sensation he looked at Dumbledore’s happy smile and hoped against hope that the headmaster hadn’t been the one to organise that particular aspect of this farrago. Had it been left to him he would happily have decided to go dragon hunting in Romania; at least it would have had an upside in that if they killed a dragon they would eat well that night.
“What things?” he asked, not really wanting to know.
“There is a lovely young witch called Felicia Forfex coming up later to give your hair a trim…”
“WHY IS EVERYONE SO OBSSESED WITH MY HAIR?” Severus roared, making Fred and George grin.
“Well, now you come to mention it,” Fred began.
“It does need some… attention,” George finished. “It’s a little…” but whatever it was a little off they never got to find out because Remus strode into the room carrying a leather suitcase and wearing a smile.
“Afternoon, everyone,” he said. His face beamed around the room, a light tan making his complexion look healthier than it had in a long time. The sunny climes of the south of France were clearly agreeing with him. “Have we all arrived?”
“Not yet,” Dumbledore informed him, pleased to see that the colourless man who had departed England two months ago was now looking so healthy. “I believe the ladies are running late, as is their prerogative. We are waiting for the young witch who will sort out Severus’ hair and after that we will be having a quick walk around the castle chapel, just to get our bearings for tomorrow. It’s good to see you again, Remus.” The last words were said with such feeling that Remus was deeply moved.
“Sounds like a good plan,” he agreed, giving Fred and George a warm clap on the back. “Good to see you two; it’s been a few months. That shop keeping you busy?”
“Non-stop,” Fred said. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of people walking through our front door every day.”
“Marvellous, I shall definitely have to pay a visit while I have some time.” He turned his attention from the cheerful twins to the rather more sombre figure of Severus. They eyed each other up for a few seconds before Remus stretched out his hand, expecting it to be refused. To his surprise Severus shook it briefly and mumbled a short hello, the shock of what was going on around him had seemingly rendered him immune to old hostilities.
“You must be looking forward to tomorrow,” Remus said hopefully. He hadn’t seen Maeve yet but he could imagine how excited she was and he thought that Severus could manage a little more effort in the good cheer stakes.
“Not really,” Severus carped back. “I would rather it be over and done with as quickly as humanly possible so I can get back to normality.”
“There are people,” Remus reminded him, “who would give a great deal to be in your shoes, and don’t you forget it.”
“Well, how about we go for a quick shufty round this place,” Fred said, sensing the tension in the air and aiming to dispel it. “There must be a stock of Firewhiskey somewhere.”
“Excellent idea, brother of mine.” George turned and headed for the door. “Anyone coming?”
“I think I might be persuaded to join you,” Dumbledore said. He could feel the words that were unsaid trying to come out between the Remus and Severus and so, sensibly, he took the opportunity to leave them to it.
As the sound of their footsteps faded Remus sighed deeply before speaking again.
“You will do your best to make her happy, won’t you?” he asked.
“Of course I will. It’s hardly my fault that people insist on making me wear ridiculous clothes and have my hair cut!” Severus was annoyed at having Lupin be the one to lecture him on making the day go smoothly.
“I didn’t mean tomorrow, Severus — that should go without saying. I meant for the rest of her life. You know her; once she makes a promise she will keep it, no matter how bad things could get and I want to make sure you aren’t going to be the one to let them get bad.”
“I don’t need a lecture from you on how to make my future wife happy,” he said, his face white with pent up fury. “I am perfectly capable of seeing to it that she is content and wants for nothing. I certainly won’t be slipping my skin once a month to terrorise her with my madness.”
Remus frowned at the reminder that the potion Hermione had given him had had no permanent effects. He remembered the crushing disappointment the following month when he had turned, once again, into a werewolf. It was not all doom and gloom though. The formula had been sent to St Mungo’s, where several senior healers were getting very excited about its potential. He had agreed, once the war was over, if the war was ever over, to be a guinea pig for any trials they wanted to conduct. It was the one thing he felt he could do that could bring something positive out of the disaster that was his condition. In the meantime he was back on the Wolfsbane and controlling the symptoms. Maeve had recovered from her initial disillusionment and was now being very supportive about his role in the research.
“You can’t resist the low blow, can you?” he asked. “I hope, with everything I have, that some of Maeve’s goodness rubs off on you, Severus. It would be the greatest gift she could give you, besides herself of course.”
“Enough, Lupin,” Severus said, his voice sounding a warning note that made the room shudder. “No more sermons. I know what Maeve needs and you should not be presuming to tell me. You forget, I have known her for longer, and with more intimacy, than you. I know every inch of her in a way that you do not and I WILL NOT BE LECTURED TO ANY LONGER ABOUT HER.”
His eyes blazed with a certainty that Remus did not have. Severus had accepted, finally, that he was loved and could love in return. He was sick of being viewed as someone who could cause Maeve potential harm through this union and he would stand for it no longer. He lowered his voice as he addressed Remus once more. “I have been through too much to protect her and love her to ever allow her to be unhappy, remember that, Lupin.”
Remus nodded his acceptance, satisfied that he had heard what he wanted to hear from Severus. “Very well, then we have nothing further to disagree about.”
A clatter on the stairwell made them both turn towards the door as a pretty, young witch dropped an open bag of strange-looking equipment at her feet.
“Felicia Forfex, at your service,” she announced, in a soft Irish brogue that reminded Remus of Maeve’s own accent. “And would you be Mr Severus Snape?” she asked, looking directly at Remus.
“That would be me,” Severus said, making the girl turn to him with a vague look of unease as she took in the prospect of doing something with his greasy mop.
“Right, so,” she grinned, determined to make the best of a bad situation. She had only ever done one other wizard with hair that bad. Jimmy the Slick, so called on account of the vast amount of oil in his hair, had proved a challenge that she had risen to and which had made her name. She had become the talk of Dublin society in days as Jimmy the Slick became Jimmy the Gloss, took him three weeks to marry the most eligible girl in the South of Ireland. Not that that was a concern for this fellow. He’d already hooked some poor, no doubt ugly, woman, even with that unsightly mess on the top of his head. “Will you be wanting me to wash it for you or will you be doing it yourself?”
Severus rolled weary eyes to the ceiling as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Will it make any difference to the final result?”
“Aye, well looking at it you’ve not been having too much success yourself, have you now? I think it’d be best if I did it.” Her confidence was admirable and she didn’t flinch at the prospect of touching the black strands that hung limply over his face.
She picked up her bag and sat it down next to the buttonholes. Opening it up she pulled out several fluffy blue towels, giving Severus quite a nasty moment as he thought of his wedding outfit, which was still leering at him from the wardrobe.
“Away into the bathroom, then,” she instructed, flapping her hands at him impatiently. “And where do you think you’re going?” she barked, as Remus began to make for the door. “Looking at the shape of your hair, you’ll be wanting a cut yourself. You can wait here until I’ve finished with this fellow.”
It never occurred to Remus to argue; he just sat down in the chair by the window with a sheepish grin on his face as she disappeared into the bathroom. The last thing he heard her ask Severus, before she turned on the tap, was if he was going anywhere nice for his holidays this year.
The evening shadows pulled at the fabric of the soft, undulating landscape that cosseted the guesthouse. It was well concealed from Muggles with a plethora of charms that had been employed just for the weekend. The same went for Ardnarea Castle, a tumbling ruin that had been secured by the use of even more charms. If Severus could have been objective for just a moment he would have seen the beauty of the place and its inherent suitability for a romantic wedding. As it was all he could see was a rather inquisitive flock of sheep that seemed intent on staring at him, their low baas occasionally interrupted by the screech of a raven.
He knew she had not yet arrived, knew that she would not be arriving until the following day. Somehow he had to get through the assault on his sensibilities until he could once again look into her eyes and realise he had not gone insane and that there was someone in whose presence he did not feel uncomfortably superior.
He could hear the shouts of jollity from the inside of the house. Everyone apart from Professor McGonagall, who was escorting Maeve over the following day, had arrived and their familiarity bled from the house into the heart of the countryside that had proved so welcoming. It swamped Severus and made him feel even more alone in the midst of a great swathe of humanity. It had always been like this, he reflected. He had always been pushed to the edges by who he was, the way he looked, his grasping, abusive father, his knowledge of the Dark Arts, which at one time he had so foolishly thought would gain him respect from everyone, and by his need to prove himself, whatever it took. He had never belonged anywhere since he had finally wrenched himself free of the Dark Lord, and even then it had been a very tenuous sort of belonging. Even at Hogwarts he didn’t belong, whatever that word truly meant, whatever that feeling truly felt like. He hated children passionately with their tortuous laughter and endless incompetence, he disliked most of his fellow teachers and most of all he hated the house for which he had to feign pride.
A soft breeze lifted his now shiny hair from his collar and caressed his neck gently. If he closed his eyes for a moment and stoppered the sounds of laughter coming from the house he could almost imagine she was there. The light wind became her fingers as it stole across his skin and reached into his collar. Her voice flitted across the mountains in the distance and wound down the valley, passing the grazing animals and the rustling grass to arrive, disembodied, in his ear. He could hear his name spoken with gentleness and he forgot where he was, forgot everything except the golden promise that the following day would bring if only he could get through the ceremony in one piece.
“Having a quiet moment?” The words sent her voice rippling back through the ether, abandoning him to the ever-growing sounds of partying. He opened his eyes slowly, reluctant to relinquish the sensation of her being there. When he looked up he couldn’t, at first, see anyone because of the glare from the setting sun. It was only when he focused properly that he realised the glare was coming from the man standing before him.
“Lugh Lamfada,” he said quietly. “Come to give me a good talking to about your daughter, no doubt.” His voice was harsher than he had intended it to be and Lugh raised a regal eyebrow.
“Do you need a good talking to?” he asked. “I had always been under the impression that you knew perfectly well how to deal with my daughter.”
Severus was glad that he didn’t have to endure another Lupin-like lecture and he relaxed just a little as Lugh continued.
“I only have a few moments and I wanted to wish you well for tomorrow. You will enjoy it far more than you anticipate. I also wanted to pass on my gift to you both. It is a set of jewellery that I think you will find far more agreeable than the necklace that chains Maeve to her fate.”
Severus watched as Lugh reached into his cloak, a cloak so dazzling that it might have been made of the sun itself. From within he pulled out two small objects that glinted in the dying light. Reverentially, Severus took them from the man, admiring the two perfect circles for a few moments as their intricate patterns glinted in his palm.
“They belonged to my son and his wife,” Lugh said, the sadness in his face more pronounced as he though of yet another of his children. “I took his from him as he died and gave him my word I would only pass it on when I found someone worthy of wearing it. The other came back to me when his wife died. I crafted them both as a wedding present and it seems only fitting they should once again serve the purpose for which they were designed.”
Severus recognised the importance of the gift. He bowed his head respectfully to the now smiling figure and accepted the gift with the promise he would substitute them for the wedding rings already provided.
“Enjoy each other.” Lugh instructed. “You have proven yourself fit to be my son-in-law many times over, Severus. You have gifts and talents that are not immediately apparent but nevertheless, I can see them, and I am happy for my daughter to go to you. I will be here for your wedding day. You will not see me but I am of the Tuatha de Danann and will be in everything you sense. Farewell for now, my son.”
And with that final, and most important, conveyance of his blessing, he was gone into the evening. Severus gazed at the spot where he had been for a few moments and allowed the fact that he had never been called ‘my son’ with such affection before wash over him. It seemed that Maeve’s love brought with it strange and surprising gifts that he could not have anticipated.
The sun dropped ever further and still Severus was reluctant to return to the fold of uneasy jollity. As the last rays of light set the hills ablaze Severus knew he could put it off no longer. The litany of names that awaited him threaded across his mind in a seemingly endless trail of dreadfulness. The entire Weasley clan (minus Percy, naturally), Liam O’Reilly, Hermione Granger, Professors Dumbledore, Flitwick, Trelawney and Sprout, Firenze, Rubeus Hagrid, Remus Lupin, Madam Pomfrey, Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, a strange red-haired girl that no one had introduced him to, that ridiculous House-elf Dobby, the hairdresser Felicia Forfex (who for some reason had never left), Neville Longbottom, several students representative of their respective years, Madam Malkin (who had turned up on the premise that she had to see that her garments were worn properly) and no doubt a few others that he hadn’t noticed or didn’t know. Was he sad that there was no one to represent his family? Given the amount of distress caused by his father, he had to admit he was glad there were no other Snapes there but perhaps someone from his mother’s side would have been gratifying.
Eventually, as darkness overtook the light, he moved toward the back of the house. Its grey walls rose abruptly from the land, an expanse of forbidding stone punctuated by bright windows and the reflective conservatory. He pushed open the glass doors and stepped into the still-sweltering heat that had been trapped within the clear walls. Even from here he could hear the noise coming from the public bar at the front of the building. The laughter and animated chatter had been joined by the lively strains of music and his mind refuted the notion that this party spirit was partly his doing. Severus couldn’t remember a time when he had been the source for such amusement, unless he counted the many times Sirius Black and James Potter had made him the butt of their many pranks.
He had made it as far as the main staircase and was just putting his foot on the bottom stair, when the noise level increased as someone opened the door from the bar.
“Where are you trying to run off to?”
Severus turned to see the homely figure of Molly Weasley, who was watching him with a tired smile. He couldn’t help notice that her normally flyaway hair had been gathered up into some sort of complicated hairstyle and as she noticed him looking she patted it warily.
“That lovely young lady did it. She’s very good with those scissors, doesn’t use any magic at all.” Molly was about to comment on Severus’ own, much improved, crowning glory but something in his face stopped her. Instead she tried to persuade him to join the fun. “Come and have a drink before you go to bed.”
“No, not tonight,” he said, hoping that would be enough to send her scuttling back to the others. It wasn’t and she planted her feet firmly on the floor, folding her arms across the unusually smart dress she wore.
“Surely you could join us for just a little while, just so we can drink to your health for tomorrow.”
The idea of anyone drinking to his health was a new one, one that had an air of the ridiculous about it. He looked at Molly’s eager face and could see the joy that had replaced the unhappiness of the past year. Was it that easy to mask pain, a few drinks and the laughter of friends? Severus didn’t think so but he hovered for a second, almost giving in to the temptation to try. Could he wipe out the past with a glass of Firewhiskey and someone drunkenly raising a toast to him and the future? His dry cough suggested he thought not as he shook his head at Molly, whose face fell with real disappointment.
“You know, Severus,” she said, her face shining with honesty. “If you gave people the chance, you would find you are better respected than you think.”
Had Molly not looked quite so pitying then Severus might have been tempted but there was a light in her eyes that instantly put him on the defensive.
“I think not,” he said politely and turning his back on her. The stairs were steep and his legs felt leaden as he climbed them. The laughter chased him along the corridor and only gave up when he closed his solid door in its face. The first thing he saw was his blue robes and he winced at their mocking presence. He pulled the curtains against the night and as he moved back towards the small bathroom he caught sight of himself in the floor-length mirror in the corner. No doubt it had been put there so that he could adjust those damned blue robes properly in the morning. Severus was never one to examine his own image, critically or otherwise, but now he found himself looking at the face that stared back with interest. He hadn’t weathered that badly; given there hadn’t been that much there to begin with. His nose still flew out from his face with abandon and his skin remained washed out and dull, but was it his imagination or was his newly shampooed and trimmed hair lending a new light to his complexion? He stepped away from the mirror in disgust at his own self-indulgent thoughts. What did appearance matter anyway?
Half an hour later, and dressed for bed, he slipped between the sheets and gave himself up to the nightmares of a crowded castle and the joy that the exuberant wedding would doubtless bring. He didn’t hear Fred and George’s Wildfire Whiz-bangs as they flew up into the darkened sky, exploding in cascades of violent lights and he missed the warmth and security of the atmosphere that only a room full of true friends can bring.
Time was already winging its way towards ten o’clock and still the company showed no sign of breaking up. Molly Weasley, normally the one to be shooing everyone off to bed, was the life and soul of the party as she served drinks and produced countless treats for the wedding party to nibble on. She was pleased that they had employed a group of caterers for the main event tomorrow and this little impromptu party gave her the chance to show off her culinary skills in a smaller way.
Professor Dumbledore was holding court in the corner as he talked at length with Harry and Ron on the subject of weddings. Ron’s eyes had long since glazed over, which could have been the copious amounts of Savour-All punch he had drunk or it could have been the subject matter at hand. Harry was very interested though. In his position as best man he wanted to be sure he didn’t make any blunders during the ceremony. It was bad enough that he was best man to Severus without making mistakes. He had sensibly stayed away from the lethal punch and was content with a Butterbeer, watching as Ron became more and more vacant. It was Arthur who finally dragged his son away and sent him up to bed with Ginny, who muttered something about it all being so unfair and why should she be the one who had to look after her stupid brother.
“Everyone is so happy,” Molly said to Kingsley, as they paused over the snuffling truffles. “It could almost make you believe there wasn’t a war on.”
“Almost,” Kingsley replied, trying to eat the truffle without getting the filling all over his hands. “It’s good to be able to escape it for a short time.”
“Well, I’m determined to enjoy this. Never thought I’d see Severus getting married though,” she confided. “It seemed so unlikely and yet, when you get to know him, he’s a good enough man.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever thought about him much. I think I’m here as added security in case anything goes wrong.” He wiped his hands carefully on a napkin, crumbs from the truffle still clinging to his robes.
“Nothing will go wrong,” Molly said with certainty. “And that reminds me.” She set off across the room towards the corner occupied by her most mischievous sons.
They looked up at the sight of their mother bearing down on them and immediately stopped talking, a sure sign that they were up to something. Fred grinned at her while George hurriedly stuffed something in his pocket.
“Now, you two,” she said, the effects of the wine making her voice a little shrill. “I don’t want any trouble at the wedding. You know you can’t help yourselves sometimes but be warned, if you cause any embarrassment to me or your father tomorrow then you will have me to answer to… and it will not be pleasant!”
“Now, Mother, calm yourself,” George grinned. “We aren’t planning anything.”
“Not a sausage. Those Whiz-Bangs were the only thing we brought with us and you can see how much everyone enjoyed them,” Fred smiled proudly. “We will be the souls of discretion.”
Their mother looked doubtful as she took in their innocent faces. “Just you make sure you keep yourselves well clear of any mischief and do not be upsetting Severus. He’s a bit nervous about the whole thing.”
“He’s nervous about having some fun, that one,” Fred said.
“Should let his lovely shiny hair down a bit further, if you ask me,” George added.
“I didn’t ask you, George, and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions about Severus to yourself. They are to be left alone to enjoy their wedding and if you do anything, anything at all, to spoil it for them I will personally see to it that your shop gets closed down for something appropriately serious… do you understand me?” Molly looked so discouraging that they both nodded mutely and promised that they would do nothing in the way of magic between now and the end of the wedding. Satisfied, Molly tentatively put a hand to her chignon to make sure it was still in one piece and went to talk to the girl who had done wonders with her hair.
Felicia was sipping from a cup of coffee and deep in conversation with Remus when Molly arrived next to them.
“It’s a lovely evening, Mrs Weasley,” she said brightly, breaking off mid-sentence to talk to Molly. “You’ve done yerself proud, so you have.”
“Oh, it was nothing really. I had a lot of help.” Molly simpered under the praise and couldn’t help thinking how lovely the girl looked, despite her over-abundance of freckles and slightly off-centre nose.
“Aye, well it’s a grand job. First time I’ve had the chance to meet so many English witches and wizards… you’ve a bit of catching up to do with us in the party stakes but it’s a fine attempt.”
“You could teach me a thing or two,” Molly laughed as she waved her wand over the cup of coffee and filled it up. Felicia gave a little tinkling laugh and pulled out her own wand. With a flick she added an extra ingredient to her mug and whispered, “Sure, you can’t have a cup of coffee without a little something special in it, can you?”
Molly nodded and gave Remus a pat on the arm before moving away. Was it her imagination or did he have an extra sparkle in his eyes tonight? She put it down to his happiness for Maeve and carried on circulating.
“So, when are you going to invite me to the South of France?” Felicia asked, in her lilting voice. “From what you have told me it’s just the place for a girl to let her hair down, and I bet I could find some well-paying customers down there.”
“I’m sure there are a lot of people willing to pay considerably for your talents,” Remus said thoughtfully and then with a start realised he hadn’t paid her for his own haircut. When he tried to insist on payment she waved her arm in the air and gave another small laugh.
“Sure, there’s no need. The man himself paid for it all. Said I was to do whoever needed doing because you were all bound to be an appalling mess.” She took a swig of her heavily laced coffee. “And you know, he wasn’t so far wrong in my estimation.”
“Dumbledore said that?” Remus looked surprised that the headmaster had been so candid with her.
“What, that gentleman over there?” Felicia looked over towards Dumbledore and Harry. “No, that wasn’t him at all. Tall fellow, good-looking, must have been someone doing all the legwork for your man in the corner.”
“Yes, indeed,” Remus looked relieved and immediately had a mental image of Percy with his clipboard instructing caterers and florists. “And you’re welcome to bring yourself down to France any time, although I should warn you, my flat is small and I am away a lot.”
“And who said I’d be coming to see you!” Her laugh ripped through the room, making everyone smile at her infectious humour.
The party finally began to break up at around eleven, Molly alert to the fact that Harry and Hermione had been yawing for the past half an hour. With a flurry of activity she managed to get everyone heading for their beds and as she turned out the lights out on the stragglers, she heaved a sigh of regret that Severus had not seen fit to join them. Still, she thought happily, there was always the reception to look forward to; he couldn’t fail to attend that.
3rd August 1997
The Wedding Morning
Despite the previous late night, several people were up early to greet the fine day. Sunlight was already forcing its way through thick curtains and unwashed windows, refusing to be ignored. Felicia was in the kitchen only seconds behind Molly, who insisted on setting kettles to boil and pans to simmer for breakfast before subjecting herself to Felicia’s combs and clips. In a few skilfully used minutes the young witch had tugged and tucked strands of hair into an understated hairstyle that took years off Molly and made her feel almost flirtatious again.
“I wonder if Arthur will notice,” Molly commented, as she admired herself in the mirror above the fireplace. Felicia laughed bitterly at this and pointed out that men never noticed such things. It was always left to women to admire the peacocks not the other way around. Molly was warming to this sensible Irish witch and insisted she sat down while a cup of coffee was made for her.
“Aye, I might as well,” Felicia said, tucking her neat legs under the table as she occupied one of the few chairs. “I’ll be busy soon enough.”
As soon as she said the words the door flew open and a still sleepy Tonks stumbled across the raised step between the hall and the kitchen. She croaked a good morning to the two women before gladly accepting the cup of tea that Molly handed to her.
“Nice barnet!” Tonks said, nodding at Molly’s hair.
“Would you like me to do something with yours?” Felicia asked quickly, eager to earn her substantial payment for the function. She had a feeling that she didn’t have scissors sharp enough to deal with Tonks’ sky-blue spikes, but she had to offer.
“No thanks, but kind of you to ask,” Tonks replied. “I do it myself, no offence.”
“None taken,” Felicia grinned, drawing Tonks into further conversation about hairstyles.
As Molly continued to prepare breakfast, setting bacon on the griddle and eggs frying in the hot pan, the kitchen began to slowly fill up with witches and wizards in various states of dress. Ron and Harry were still in dressing gowns and dropping toast crumbs down the front of them, grumbling that Neville’s contented snores had kept them up for most of the night. Neville meanwhile was fully dressed in smart robes that his gran had bought specially for the occasion and enjoying the attention of a second year called Naomi Fenton. Hermione was also fully dressed and scolding Ron for spilling toast crumbs over himself, while Professors Sprout and Flitwick were having a deep discussion about the misuse of shamrocks in advanced Herbology.
As Molly shooed Harry and Ron away to get dressed they passed Fred and George, who came bounding into the kitchen with their customary enthusiasm. They both wore their navy blue usher’s robes with flair, looking very handsome and mischievous. They both grabbed a bacon sandwich each and headed straight back out, looking like they had a purpose.
“You remember what I said about tricks!” Molly called after them. “And for Merlin’s sake don’t get grease on those outfits.”
Arthur dodged out of the way of his sons as he walked over to his wife and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He was also still in his dressing gown, making Molly frown.
“You should be dressed, Arthur,” she hissed. “You are supposed to be setting an example.”
“All in good time,” he said calmly. “Pass me some scrambled eggs, please.” He sat down and was immediately eyed up by Felicia, who was sure she could do something with his wisps of hair.
It didn’t take Molly too long to have everyone fed and watered. As soon as they had finished eating they were sent to Felicia for a good grooming and then packed off upstairs to either get dressed or add the finishing touches to their appearances. Fred and George were given the task of transporting all the presents across to the castle, which they set to with a good deal of whispering and conspiratorial glances. As everyone prepared to leave for the brief walk up to the castle they had to pass the critical eye of Molly and Dumbledore and receive their blue buttonholes. Unfortunately Dumbledore didn’t prove too adept with the pins and drew the occasional spot of blood, but no one seemed to mind too much.
The only two people not subjecting themselves to this scrutiny were the groom and Remus, who had shouldered some of the duties of best man by offering to make sure Severus was dressed and ready to go on time. It freed Harry up to be with his friends and saved a lot of antagonism between the two. Despite Maeve’s best intention, Remus knew that Severus would not take kindly to being hurried along by Harry.
Both of them were standing in Severus’ room, one dressed and the other standing there in fine silk underwear and little else.
“You know, Maeve will have arrived by now,” Remus said tetchily. “If you don’t get a move on they will start without you.”
“They can’t start without me,” Severus said, the dread of wearing such pale colours overtaking him and forcing him into defensive truculence.
“I think you’ll find that there are plenty of people willing to fill your unoccupied shoes.” Remus’ tone was dry as he hovered by the window, willing Severus to hurry up. Felicia’s dark curls suddenly captured his attention as she stepped out into the bright morning with her bag in her hand. She had to sidestep rapidly to avoid the smirking figures of Fred and George Weasley, who were heading up the path towards the house. Severus, who was still grumbling, broke into Remus’ admiration for her attractive figure.
“As long as they are prepared to fill that bloody outfit, I really don’t mind.”
“Just put them on and stop snivelling about it,” Remus snapped, his patience finally worn thin. It was an unfortunate choice of words as it immediately transported Severus back to a childhood of constant teasing.
“Get out,” he said, ice forming in the air between them.
“I didn’t mean…” Remus began, trying to repair the damage.
“I know what you meant,” Severus said. “So you can leave now.”
Unfortunately without his wand and wearing only silk underwear, Severus didn’t quite cut such an imposing figure. Remus merely looked at him with a regretful expression before walking towards the door.
“You know, Severus,” he said quietly. “You really should stop acting like a spoilt brat, put the clothes on and get yourself ready to leave. Your ridiculous behaviour is impressing no one.”
The sharp crack of the door as it closed emphasised his anger and Severus felt momentarily deflated.
Felicia loved mornings like this, with the sunlight draping itself over everything and everyone. There was nowhere in the world she would rather be than in Ireland on days like these. Unfortunately days like these were rare and for the rest of the rain-soaked year she would much rather have been draping herself across a beach in the Mediterranean. The bride was using Bridie O’Leary’s cottage to get ready. Poor old Bridie had a son who had suffered a rather embarrassing collision with a train while riding his new broom and was in the Kilkenny Institute for the Incurably Dim, where Bridie was spending some time at his bedside. The cottage itself was a pretty whitewashed one, so beloved of travel brochures, rather than the modern bungalow that now blights much of the Irish countryside. The gardens were neat and the open door painted a welcoming shade of red. She lugged her bag of tricks through the entrance and into the sitting room, where two witches stood holding a friendly conversation. As she announced her arrival they turned to face her and Felicia was more taken aback than she should have been. Sure, she hadn’t been expecting an oil painting, but this woman was so much older than the man she was marrying. The other woman was lovely, though, must be her daughter, Felicia mused.
“So pleased to meet you,” Felicia said, walking up to Professor McGonagall with her hand outstretched. “You must be Miss O’Malley?”
“Goodness gracious me, girl, of course I’m not!” Professor McGonagall gave poor Felicia a very stern glare. “Whatever made you think that? You’ve seen the groom, surely?”
“Yes, I have.” Felicia wasn’t normally lost for words but now she was stammering over them. “But I thought, well...” She turned to Maeve in desperation. “But you’re so pretty, miss!”
“Thank you,” Maeve said graciously, taking pity on her. “Don’t worry, he’s a lot nicer than he looks. I would probably have thought the same thing in your shoes.”
Professor McGonagall gave a snort of disbelief and offered to take Maeve’s bag up to the bedroom. With her departure Felicia was able to turn her attention to the job in hand. She quickly unpacked her things and ran her agile fingers through Maeve’s long hair, getting a feel for it before deciding what to do. In the end the decision was fairly simple. She picked up a comb and slipped it through the red strands before quickly dashing out into the garden. Maeve watched her go in bewilderment but all became clear as Felicia returned bearing a handful of cornflowers. With her deft fingers she wove them into a ribbon-like crown through Maeve’s hair.
“I really don’t think there’s much else I can do with it,” Felicia said, almost sadly. She had been expecting the bride’s hair to prove the most exciting and challenging and here it was, perfect in itself.
“It’s lovely,” Maeve said, looking in the mirror. She had expected her to do something fussy and complicated and was rather relieved with the simplicity of it as it fanned over her shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Well, the groom’s took a bit more effort, I can tell you. Does he ever…well…does he ever wash it?” Felicia blushed a little as she asked the question, realising it might have been a bit personal.
“You wouldn’t think so, would you?” Maeve said, her voice sparkling with humour. “But he does. I should make him a potion to sort it out really.”
“I think you’ll find the Irish water will do wonders for it while he’s here. You should consider moving here to get the benefit of it.”
“I can add that to my list of reasons for living here.” Maeve was in good spirits and was amused by the twinkle of fun in the girl’s eyes. “Why don’t you help me dress and you can tell me what you think? Professor McGonagall is a good woman but not the best fashion expert in the world.”
Felicia readily agreed. “What’s the dress like?”
“I have no idea,” Maeve admitted. “I haven’t seen it. All this was organised by Dumbledore and I haven’t had a hand in any of it.”
“Are you mad?”
“Quite possibly, but I didn’t want the hassle, and it’s not as if I really care what I look like. I just want to be able to spend all my time with Severus, and this was what it took.”
“You should enjoy your wedding though.” Felicia looked scandalised.
“Oh, I’ll enjoy it all right. But the planning and choosing dresses and all that malarkey, that wouldn’t have been fun. Much better to have it done for you.” Maeve gave a shudder at the prospect of choosing fabrics and flowers and other fripperies.
A knock at the open door announced the arrival of the bridesmaid and Hermione’s flushed face peeked into the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” she breathed. “Ron looked such a mess and he needed help.”
“Just in time, Hermione,” Maeve said, relieved to see that Hermione had no SPEW badges on her. “We are about to go and see what Dumbledore has chosen for us.”
Hermione looked as doubtful as Felicia as they traipsed up the stairs to the master bedroom. The stairs creaked beneath their feet and the door outdid the stairs as the three women entered the bedroom to find Professor McGonagall stroking down the skirts of two gowns. She was doing her best to put on a brave face but it was clear from the lime green shock of taffeta that peeked out from behind her robes that something had gone badly wrong.
“You are both going to look beautiful,” she said, allowing just a waver of dismay into her expression. “I think the colour is a brave decision but it will match your hair.” She paused to compose herself, wondering if she should offer to help them charm the garments into something wearable. In the end she decided she had better let them get on with it. If they wanted help they could ask for it. “I’ll leave you to it and you can call me when you are ready. I have the Portkey.”
With a brisk flick of her tweed robes she left the room and Maeve walked across to her dress, feeling more than a hint of worry. It was all well and good speaking fine words about not caring what you looked like but when faced with the prospect of looking like a shiny ball of ruffles that had been dropped into a pot of acid it wasn’t as easy to be blase. Hermione’s face was now the same colour as the dresses and she was amazed that Maeve could calmly remove the plastic wrappers without adding a nice vomit texture to the ensembles. Felicia did start to weakly protest against the wearing of the garments, in her opinion it would be an affront against sanity, but she kept quiet as she watched the two women bravely touch the stiff fabric.
Looking like martyred heroes both Maeve and Hermione slipped out of their ordinary clothes and began to tug the scratchy gowns over their hips. Felicia wanted to laugh but the situation was so grave that the laugh almost escaped as a sob. They stood in their limey splendour; the ruched fabric gathering at the front to give them the appearance of tightly wrapped slugs. At the floor the skirts splayed out in the sort of eighties nightmare that Felicia’s own mother would have loved.
“Oh,” she sighed. “I don’t know what to say. You look…well… you look…” for the second time that day she was lost for words. As she walked across to zip them into their fabric prisons she kept her eyes fixed on the carpet. With a good deal of tugging she finally had both of them zipped in and stood back to wince at the results of this final insult. But what she actually did was open her eyes wide as the lime fabric began to drip slowly towards the floor as a creamier sheath of material usurped its position of dress of choice. With a final shimmer the last droplet of green nightmare was gone and in its place they were wearing something quite special.
The cream linen sat well against their pale skin, the fabric skimming their figures with grace. Maeve’s dress was fitted tightly into her waist, spreading out below into a wide skirt that seemed to be an endless bleach of linen. The delicate embroidery that plunged through her breasts and to a sharp V at her waist was formed of pale silver knotwork that symbolised the never-ending circle of life.
She breathed beneath the constriction of the tight bodice, relief radiating from every pore. She had a vague notion of who had given them that brief moment of madness, but she couldn’t prove it, yet. As for her real dress, Maeve had never thought Dumbledore capable of such subtle taste and yet here she was, a study in elegance.
“I think we’re ready,” she said, smiling at Hermione, who looked equally graceful and equally relieved with her pinned hair and feminine curves.
“You look great, absolutely fantastic,” Felicia said, clapping her hands together in excitement. “Is that normal in England, to charm the bride’s dress?”
“No, that was someone’s idea of a joke,” Maeve said, her good humour restored now that she had a decent dress clinging to her skin. “And when I find the proof that Fred and George have been in here I will have their guts for garters.”
“That’s the red-haired twins, I seen them coming back to the house earlier,” Felicia said. “And they looked like they had been up to something.”
“Excellent,” Maeve grinned, rubbing her hands together. “That’s all the evidence I need.”
Felicia fell silent and looked a little downcast. All the excitement of preparation had left her with a desire to go to this wedding with its strange, yet warm, group of people. “I wish I was coming,” she said in a small voice that was unlike her normal, strident tone. Apart from anything else she would like the opportunity to see the rather attractive Remus Lupin again.
Maeve turned to her with an easy smile. “And why don’t you? There’s plenty of room in the chapel and one more at the reception won’t hurt.”
“I’ve nothing to wear,” Felicia said, gesturing at her plain clothes. They suited her and made the most of her slim figure, but they were in no way suitable for a wedding.
“I’m sure we could do something about that,” Maeve said, drawing her wand from the pocket of her cloak and waving it in Felicia’s direction.
Twenty minutes and a bottle of wine later they were ready to go and Professor McGonagall, who was relieved to find them wearing timeless elegance rather than instant grotesque, held out the week-old newspaper that she had made into the Portkey. Maeve knew, with a tug of excitement, that she was just moments away from being with Severus for the rest of her life and for the first time she felt that a Portkey was the slowest means of transport on the planet.