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The Blessing
Title: The Blessing
Author:mary_j_59
Type: genfic
Category:short story, complete
Length: About 3,300 words
Main characters and/or pairings:Severus Snape, OFC
Warnings: Some religious imagery; a little minor bad language and implied violence. Nothing worse than the books, but some readers may find the traditional religious imagery disturbing. Please avoid if this bothers you.
Rating: G, or mild PG.
Summary: Autumn, 1978, and an old lady has an unexpected visitor.
Disclaimers and Notes: Thanks to my sister and aubrem for their criticism and encouragemnt. i'm glad you both liked it so much! And, of course, thanks to J.K. Rowling for writing such thought provoking books. I am merely borrowing certain aspects of her world and one of her characters. (But Margaret, and the themes of this story, are my own. They are just not for profit.)
Margaret was standing at the sink, peeling potatoes, when the lock clicked in the door. She didn't hear it, of course; her ears were no longer sharp enough to catch such a slight sound a room away, but something warned her. A pressure of eyes on her back, or a shift in the air - something made her turn to face the doorway, so that when her grandson walked through, she was facing him with a half-peeled potato in one hand and the paring knife in the other. He stopped just beyond the threshold and she saw him swallow. "Gran?" he said. His voice sounded young and uncertain. He was staring at her hand, and she realized she was clutching the knife so tightly her fingers hurt. She had not expected to see him; she hadn't seen him in over a year. What did he want with her now? Turning slightly, she set the knife down in the sink and the potato in the bowl of water she had ready. Then she looked up at him and said, "Well? What do you want?"
"What do I want?" he repeated softly, and grimaced. "A difficult question. I suppose I want to rehearse."
She had nothing to say to that, and would not give him the satisfaction of asking what he meant by it. There was nothing to do but to keep gazing at him steadily until he chose to explain himself. He would, or he wouldn't; it was no great concern of hers, either way. But heaven knew it was awkward to have to stare up at him! He was not tall, even now, but he was far taller than she. Her neck was growing stiff with her staring.
At last the boy turned his head. 'Ah, Gran,' he said. "Can you not help me? I don't know what to say to you."
There was a question she could ask now. "How do you reckon I can help you?" Then she said again, "What do you want?"
He had turned sideways in the doorway and had one hand on the frame. Quick as an adder striking, he swung back toward her and whispered, "I want you to listen. Will you listen to me?"
Margaret felt a flash of something like fear. It tingled in her spine and in her gut like the jolt you sometimes get touching a door handle in winter. At first the feeling startled her, but then she realized that her grandson was afraid. Fearful, perhaps, of what he had to tell her. He would need to be pushed. So she took in a deep breath and spoke out loud in response to his whisper. "Well? I'm listening."
His mouth twisted again, and his fingers clenched on the door frame. "Grace," he said, "our Gracie - I found out what happened."
"Aye?" Margaret's voice was calm, but she could feel her heart racing. Little Gracie; that lovely, laughing child. She would have been twelve now, had she lived; he had been twelve when she died. A sullen, hangdog lad he'd been, unable to look you in the face, and, God forgive her, she had sometimes wished he had been the one to die. But, to do him justice, he'd never been jealous. He had loved his little sister, just as she had. Just as Toby had. The father, the mother, and the little daughter, all dead on the same day, within an hour, and she had never believed the official story the police gave her. Toby would never have harmed a hair on that little girl's head. But the boy was speaking now; his voice had dropped again, but he was still talking. She must listen.
". . . three of them. They put him under the Imperius curse. One of them is dead now," and he smiled, a terrible, twisted smile. Margaret found she had stepped back, so that the edge of the sink was cutting into her hips. It was uncomfortable, but she felt that she couldn't move. The quiet tenor voice continued, "He never knew why. It amuses him when we quarrel; he likes to set us against each other. Another is in Azkaban; he won't live long. The third - well. I have to be a little careful; it will take time, but I'm not worried about that one. It will be easy enough. Only - he was the fourth. He was not there, but he told them exactly what to do. Whom to attack; the note they left; everything. And he - I can't - " Her grandson fell silent, and she saw he was no longer gripping the door frame; his right hand was clutching his left forearm as if he were trying to stanch a wound. He was staring fixedly at a point just above her head, as if he saw an apparition there. Maybe this "he", whoever he was.
"We," she said to him. "You said 'we'. What did you mean by that?"
"What do you suppose I meant?" He was smirking, and that infuriated her; she'd always hated that arrogant little smile. When he got that look on his face, you could talk till you were breathless, and he wouldn't hear a thing. Not a single thing. Without thinking about it, she stepped forward with her hand upraised, as though he were still twelve years old, and shouted, "You! You daft little waster -"
"I know!" he shouted back. "Gran, stop! Stop it! It's not what you think." His voice was impassioned, but it was his eyes that stopped her. He had his mother's eyes. Beautiful eyes, her Eileen had had. It was strange to see them in this boy's face; he was so like his father otherwise. But, after all, he was Eileen's son, too. "So it's not what I think, is it?" she said, letting her arm drop by her side. "What is it, then?"
He took in a deep breath, licked his lips, and began to speak again. His eyes were again focused on a point above her head. "You're right, of course. I'm a daft little waster. I am every sort of fool. I've been telling myself that for the past month, but, Gran," and he looked straight into her eyes, "it doesn't help. It doesn't change anything. And I don't know what I could have done differently, anyhow." He paused for a moment, then continued, "The headmaster warned me that this - gang, you say - that they would want me. And that it is death to refuse them. He asked me to join them as his spy; to work to undermine them. I agreed; I told him that I would do it, but, when I was approached, I didn't say anything to him. I thought-" he swallowed, and then went on, "I thought I could do it on my own. It was my battle, and besides-"
"What has he ever done for you, this headmaster of yours?" She hadn't meant to interrupt, but she was furious. The idea of the man asking her lad to do such a thing! Didn't he know that it was for adults to protect children?
"Aye. Exactly. What has he ever done for me?" The bitter smirk came back, just for a moment. "But - I've been such a Goddamned idiot!" And he swung his clenched fist into the door frame with a sharp rap that made her jump, and began cursing viciously.
"Stop that!" she said sharply. As he turned toward her, snarling like a baffled dog, she continued, "Watch your tongue, lad. It's your grandmother you're talking to."
He had the grace to flush. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean you. It's just - He - the Dark Lord - there were times, -" She was straining to hear him now; he was almost whispering, "he would tell me that I was like him; that I was valuable; that he understood me, and there were times - sometimes I believed him. But now - I know I have to kill him, now."
"Do you?" she interrupted. "It might be that's not your task."
"Whose, then?" he asked immediately. "Who else is there?"
She was silent, thinking of that note the police had found with the bodies. It had been in Toby's handwriting, written with his pen on a scrap of yellowish paper, but it had made no kind of sense to the police, and little enough to her. "No half-blood Prince will kill me," it had said. The police had said Toby must have been on drugs, cocaine or LSD or maybe heroin. She had never believed it. Toby, for all his faults, wasn't that sort; he'd never taken any drugs except ale or whiskey. But she did understand one thing that escaped the police. Gracie was a half-blood Prince. So was her Eileen, and so was the boy - her grandson, Severus. He was the only half-blood Prince left in the world, to her knowledge, and he must have been thinking and planning for years, trying to discover how he could get his revenge. Such a little lad he'd been, only just twelve years old, and she had never told him about that note. But he'd never been a child you could keep a secret from. He would ferret out everything, no matter how cautious you thought you'd been. Then he'd carried that burden alone, for nearly eight years now. A heavy burden for a child. And now he had a name and a face, and a way to take his revenge, but it was a terrible thing, to kill a man. No wonder he was frightened. "Who is he?" she muttered. She'd been so lost in her thoughts she scarcely realized she'd spoken aloud, and it startled her when Severus answered.
"We call him the Dark Lord. Or 'master'; he likes to be called master. His name-" and he shuddered down the length of his body, like a high-strung thoroughbred tormented by flies, "I cannot say his name. I don't think I can do it, Gran. I cannot kill him."
"Will the police not help you?" But she could tell as she spoke that it was a foolish question, and his response didn't surprise her. His lips twisted in scorn and he repeated, "The police? What marvels did they do for us eight years ago? And our lot are worse than yours; they are corrupt and fearful. They will do nothing."
"But he's a man?"
"Aye. He is. He is a man - or was, once. I don't know what he is now. I don't think he's human."
"You say he's a man. If he's a man, he is mortal, and if he is mortal, he can die. He will die." And she repeated, "It might be it's not your task to kill him."
"Whose, if not mine? There is no one else. Not anymore." He was staring straight at her as he spoke, and his lips were still twisted in a mockery of a smile, but his eyes were full of pain. Dark, dark eyes he had, so dark they seemed almost black. Her Eileen had had those eyes, and so had the little girl. They compelled her; she must help him somehow. But what could she do, an old woman with arthritic hands and a flowered apron? Was there anything she could do?
"This headmaster of yours," she asked him, "will he help you?"
"Yes. Most likely. At any rate," and his lips twitched a bit, " he would doubtless claim that I owe him information. I've not been in touch with him for quite some time."
"Well, then," she sighed, "you must go to him, mustn't you? But first -" and a memory came to her, of a promise she had made when she was even younger than this boy was now. "Go into the front room, Severus, and wait. I've something to give you."
Her grandson looked puzzled, but he turned, walked the few steps to the sitting room hearth, and stopped there. Margaret followed him more slowly. Her legs ached from the way she'd been standing, pressed into the edge of the sink, and she felt weak with fatigue. She walked past the boy to the bookshelf and fumbled for a small box perched up about as high as she could reach; when Severus turned toward her with his eyebrows raised, she shook her head at him. Carefully she opened the box and took out what was in it: a string of beads made of rowan wood, with a silver cross dangling at the end. She clutched the rosary tightly in her right hand and took a step toward the boy, saying, "Kneel down."
"What?" His voice was sharp.
"You heard me. Kneel."
Severus frowned, but obeyed. She stopped in front of him, and he bent his head so that his black hair swung forward like a ragged veil. "Good," she said to him, then stopped, clutching the rosary, to gather her thoughts. It had been so many years, and could she remember? Reaching out with her left hand, she pressed her palm on the boy's head and held the rosary above him in her right. She was focusing so intently that she wasn't sure whether she was speaking English or Irish; she knew her grandfather had said the prayer over her in Irish. She let the words carry her.
The blessing of God upon you:
May Christ and his mother guard you;
May the saints and the angels keep you from harm.
May all creation shelter you:
The sun, the moon and the stars,
The still and the moving airs;
The waters on earth, and above the earth;
All things that are green and blossom;
All creatures that move on the earth;
May all of these be blessings for you.
May you find help wherever you look;
May no man harm you;
May no evil come to you;
May you be defended from all hurt.
Christ guide and guard you;
Christ's love shelter you
Now and always.
Christ's love shelter you
Now and always.
Amen.
With the 'amen', she made the sign of the cross with the hand holding the rosary, because it felt like the right thing to do. She could remember her grandfather doing so when she was a girl. The boy in front of her joined her in saying 'amen', and then looked up at her, his eyes wide. "Get up," she said to him. He got to his feet, still staring and frowning a little, his mouth pressed into a straight line. Margaret brought the rosary to her lips, kissed it, and held it out to him. "Take it," she said to him, "take it, and keep it by you." His eyebrows lowered still further, but he took the circlet of beads and slipped it into an inner pocket. "Good," Margaret said. She felt breathless, and paused a moment to gather her energies before speaking again. "Severus. Do you remember the words I spoke just now? Do you have them in mind?"
"Yes." His voice, like his face, was expressionless.
"Good," she said again. "They were from your great-great grandfather, my grandfather, Michael Griffin. You were named for him," and, at his shake of the head, she said, "I know it's not your Christian name, but I made sure your second name would be Michael. Your father and I agreed on that." She paused again, then continued, "My grandfather gave me that blessing, and the beads with it, when I was a girl, and he asked for a promise from me. I want that same promise from you."
"Grandmother, I don't make promises lightly."
"No. I don't ask it lightly. My grandfather gave me the blessing when I reached a turning in the road, and he asked me to pass it on when some child of mine came to a turning or a parting of the ways. That was what I promised him. Now your path is turning, and I've given it to you. I want you to give me your word that you will pass it on."
"Gran," and he laughed a bit, "whom will I give it to? I'm not likely to have a child. Chances are I won't live that long."
"No matter. You can't foretell the future, any more than I can. I want you to give me your word. Promise me you will pass it on."
"Very well. I give you my word."
Margaret looked at him searchingly, and he looked back, his expression serious. Responding to an impulse that surprised her, she stepped forward and embraced him. He stiffened at first, but then returned the embrace and bent his head down so that she could kiss his cheek. When she kissed him, his arms tightened about her a little. After a moment, she dropped her own arms and said, "Go now, lad. Go to your headmaster." At that she felt him stiffen again and straighten up. She pushed him gently and repeated, "Go. Go, and God go with you."
He stepped back and said, "Goodbye, then." His voice was hoarse, and his eyes were deep, deep pools of darkness in his pale face. She nodded sharply, unable to trust herself to speak, and saw him turn on his heel. Then the door clicked shut behind him.
Margaret's breath came out of her in a long sigh. She felt hollow, as if all the good had gone out of her like the meat from a cracked egg, and she was very tired. Automatically she walked into the kitchen, picked the potato she'd been working on out of the water, and began paring it again. It blurred as she put the knife to it, then came clear again when she blinked. She felt moisture on her cheek. All these potatoes - four of them - and she an old woman alone. What had she been thinking of? Then she remembered; she'd been planning to make champ. Severus must have been at the back of her mind; he loved champ. Why hadn't she asked him to stop for dinner? The boy was far too thin. She remembered the feel of his ribs as she'd hugged him; they stood out like a greyhound's. She should have asked him to stay. It was seldom enough that she saw him now, and she had pushed him out the door. "Well. At least I gave him the blessing," she murmured to herself. And he had promised that he would pass it on. God willing, that would be some protection for him, some guard against recklessness, though to do him justice, he wasn't often reckless. But she should have fed him. All this food she had, and the boy was too thin, and he had no one in the world who cared whether he lived or died. No one but her.
"I'll do better another time," she thought, "if I see him again." "If" - that was a dangerous word. The saying went, 'if is a little word with a long tail'. It could rule your life if you let it; you could wear yourself out regretting all you hadn't done. Still, if she could live the last hour over, she would give him a meal. Maybe someday she would have that chance. She'd said to him that no one could foretell the future. But it came to her mind with the force of a prophecy that she would never see her grandson again in this world.
She picked up the last potato and began carefully cutting out its eyes. As she worked, her lips moved, and she gradually realised that she was repeating the blessing over and over. Well. She had done what she could; she must hope it would be enough. He had promised he would pass it on, and her lad always kept his promises.
Mary Johnson, January 2007
Author's notes:
The blessing is mine, but is based on two or three old Irish blessings I found online, and particularly on "The Deer's Cry/St Patrick's Breastplate", which is one of the most beautiful prayers I know. But it's in the first person! Every blessing I found was in the first person, and I don't know *any* Irish to speak of and wouldn't have been able to change them round so that they would invoke a blessing on a second person. So I wrote my own, and am actually quie proud of it. I'm going to include the url for the wonderful website that inspired me; blessing number 10 seems especially appropriate for the Potterverse and young Severus's situation. Here is the url:
http://www.smo.uhi.ac.uk/gaidhlig/corpus/Carmina/
Champ is an Irish dish - mashed potatoes, milk, butter, and green onions. I was using it here as an alternate word for colcannon - the same dish, but with kale or cabbage added. The Snape/Prince contingent uses cabbage; my family uses kale.
Author:mary_j_59
Type: genfic
Category:short story, complete
Length: About 3,300 words
Main characters and/or pairings:Severus Snape, OFC
Warnings: Some religious imagery; a little minor bad language and implied violence. Nothing worse than the books, but some readers may find the traditional religious imagery disturbing. Please avoid if this bothers you.
Rating: G, or mild PG.
Summary: Autumn, 1978, and an old lady has an unexpected visitor.
Disclaimers and Notes: Thanks to my sister and aubrem for their criticism and encouragemnt. i'm glad you both liked it so much! And, of course, thanks to J.K. Rowling for writing such thought provoking books. I am merely borrowing certain aspects of her world and one of her characters. (But Margaret, and the themes of this story, are my own. They are just not for profit.)
Margaret was standing at the sink, peeling potatoes, when the lock clicked in the door. She didn't hear it, of course; her ears were no longer sharp enough to catch such a slight sound a room away, but something warned her. A pressure of eyes on her back, or a shift in the air - something made her turn to face the doorway, so that when her grandson walked through, she was facing him with a half-peeled potato in one hand and the paring knife in the other. He stopped just beyond the threshold and she saw him swallow. "Gran?" he said. His voice sounded young and uncertain. He was staring at her hand, and she realized she was clutching the knife so tightly her fingers hurt. She had not expected to see him; she hadn't seen him in over a year. What did he want with her now? Turning slightly, she set the knife down in the sink and the potato in the bowl of water she had ready. Then she looked up at him and said, "Well? What do you want?"
"What do I want?" he repeated softly, and grimaced. "A difficult question. I suppose I want to rehearse."
She had nothing to say to that, and would not give him the satisfaction of asking what he meant by it. There was nothing to do but to keep gazing at him steadily until he chose to explain himself. He would, or he wouldn't; it was no great concern of hers, either way. But heaven knew it was awkward to have to stare up at him! He was not tall, even now, but he was far taller than she. Her neck was growing stiff with her staring.
At last the boy turned his head. 'Ah, Gran,' he said. "Can you not help me? I don't know what to say to you."
There was a question she could ask now. "How do you reckon I can help you?" Then she said again, "What do you want?"
He had turned sideways in the doorway and had one hand on the frame. Quick as an adder striking, he swung back toward her and whispered, "I want you to listen. Will you listen to me?"
Margaret felt a flash of something like fear. It tingled in her spine and in her gut like the jolt you sometimes get touching a door handle in winter. At first the feeling startled her, but then she realized that her grandson was afraid. Fearful, perhaps, of what he had to tell her. He would need to be pushed. So she took in a deep breath and spoke out loud in response to his whisper. "Well? I'm listening."
His mouth twisted again, and his fingers clenched on the door frame. "Grace," he said, "our Gracie - I found out what happened."
"Aye?" Margaret's voice was calm, but she could feel her heart racing. Little Gracie; that lovely, laughing child. She would have been twelve now, had she lived; he had been twelve when she died. A sullen, hangdog lad he'd been, unable to look you in the face, and, God forgive her, she had sometimes wished he had been the one to die. But, to do him justice, he'd never been jealous. He had loved his little sister, just as she had. Just as Toby had. The father, the mother, and the little daughter, all dead on the same day, within an hour, and she had never believed the official story the police gave her. Toby would never have harmed a hair on that little girl's head. But the boy was speaking now; his voice had dropped again, but he was still talking. She must listen.
". . . three of them. They put him under the Imperius curse. One of them is dead now," and he smiled, a terrible, twisted smile. Margaret found she had stepped back, so that the edge of the sink was cutting into her hips. It was uncomfortable, but she felt that she couldn't move. The quiet tenor voice continued, "He never knew why. It amuses him when we quarrel; he likes to set us against each other. Another is in Azkaban; he won't live long. The third - well. I have to be a little careful; it will take time, but I'm not worried about that one. It will be easy enough. Only - he was the fourth. He was not there, but he told them exactly what to do. Whom to attack; the note they left; everything. And he - I can't - " Her grandson fell silent, and she saw he was no longer gripping the door frame; his right hand was clutching his left forearm as if he were trying to stanch a wound. He was staring fixedly at a point just above her head, as if he saw an apparition there. Maybe this "he", whoever he was.
"We," she said to him. "You said 'we'. What did you mean by that?"
"What do you suppose I meant?" He was smirking, and that infuriated her; she'd always hated that arrogant little smile. When he got that look on his face, you could talk till you were breathless, and he wouldn't hear a thing. Not a single thing. Without thinking about it, she stepped forward with her hand upraised, as though he were still twelve years old, and shouted, "You! You daft little waster -"
"I know!" he shouted back. "Gran, stop! Stop it! It's not what you think." His voice was impassioned, but it was his eyes that stopped her. He had his mother's eyes. Beautiful eyes, her Eileen had had. It was strange to see them in this boy's face; he was so like his father otherwise. But, after all, he was Eileen's son, too. "So it's not what I think, is it?" she said, letting her arm drop by her side. "What is it, then?"
He took in a deep breath, licked his lips, and began to speak again. His eyes were again focused on a point above her head. "You're right, of course. I'm a daft little waster. I am every sort of fool. I've been telling myself that for the past month, but, Gran," and he looked straight into her eyes, "it doesn't help. It doesn't change anything. And I don't know what I could have done differently, anyhow." He paused for a moment, then continued, "The headmaster warned me that this - gang, you say - that they would want me. And that it is death to refuse them. He asked me to join them as his spy; to work to undermine them. I agreed; I told him that I would do it, but, when I was approached, I didn't say anything to him. I thought-" he swallowed, and then went on, "I thought I could do it on my own. It was my battle, and besides-"
"What has he ever done for you, this headmaster of yours?" She hadn't meant to interrupt, but she was furious. The idea of the man asking her lad to do such a thing! Didn't he know that it was for adults to protect children?
"Aye. Exactly. What has he ever done for me?" The bitter smirk came back, just for a moment. "But - I've been such a Goddamned idiot!" And he swung his clenched fist into the door frame with a sharp rap that made her jump, and began cursing viciously.
"Stop that!" she said sharply. As he turned toward her, snarling like a baffled dog, she continued, "Watch your tongue, lad. It's your grandmother you're talking to."
He had the grace to flush. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean you. It's just - He - the Dark Lord - there were times, -" She was straining to hear him now; he was almost whispering, "he would tell me that I was like him; that I was valuable; that he understood me, and there were times - sometimes I believed him. But now - I know I have to kill him, now."
"Do you?" she interrupted. "It might be that's not your task."
"Whose, then?" he asked immediately. "Who else is there?"
She was silent, thinking of that note the police had found with the bodies. It had been in Toby's handwriting, written with his pen on a scrap of yellowish paper, but it had made no kind of sense to the police, and little enough to her. "No half-blood Prince will kill me," it had said. The police had said Toby must have been on drugs, cocaine or LSD or maybe heroin. She had never believed it. Toby, for all his faults, wasn't that sort; he'd never taken any drugs except ale or whiskey. But she did understand one thing that escaped the police. Gracie was a half-blood Prince. So was her Eileen, and so was the boy - her grandson, Severus. He was the only half-blood Prince left in the world, to her knowledge, and he must have been thinking and planning for years, trying to discover how he could get his revenge. Such a little lad he'd been, only just twelve years old, and she had never told him about that note. But he'd never been a child you could keep a secret from. He would ferret out everything, no matter how cautious you thought you'd been. Then he'd carried that burden alone, for nearly eight years now. A heavy burden for a child. And now he had a name and a face, and a way to take his revenge, but it was a terrible thing, to kill a man. No wonder he was frightened. "Who is he?" she muttered. She'd been so lost in her thoughts she scarcely realized she'd spoken aloud, and it startled her when Severus answered.
"We call him the Dark Lord. Or 'master'; he likes to be called master. His name-" and he shuddered down the length of his body, like a high-strung thoroughbred tormented by flies, "I cannot say his name. I don't think I can do it, Gran. I cannot kill him."
"Will the police not help you?" But she could tell as she spoke that it was a foolish question, and his response didn't surprise her. His lips twisted in scorn and he repeated, "The police? What marvels did they do for us eight years ago? And our lot are worse than yours; they are corrupt and fearful. They will do nothing."
"But he's a man?"
"Aye. He is. He is a man - or was, once. I don't know what he is now. I don't think he's human."
"You say he's a man. If he's a man, he is mortal, and if he is mortal, he can die. He will die." And she repeated, "It might be it's not your task to kill him."
"Whose, if not mine? There is no one else. Not anymore." He was staring straight at her as he spoke, and his lips were still twisted in a mockery of a smile, but his eyes were full of pain. Dark, dark eyes he had, so dark they seemed almost black. Her Eileen had had those eyes, and so had the little girl. They compelled her; she must help him somehow. But what could she do, an old woman with arthritic hands and a flowered apron? Was there anything she could do?
"This headmaster of yours," she asked him, "will he help you?"
"Yes. Most likely. At any rate," and his lips twitched a bit, " he would doubtless claim that I owe him information. I've not been in touch with him for quite some time."
"Well, then," she sighed, "you must go to him, mustn't you? But first -" and a memory came to her, of a promise she had made when she was even younger than this boy was now. "Go into the front room, Severus, and wait. I've something to give you."
Her grandson looked puzzled, but he turned, walked the few steps to the sitting room hearth, and stopped there. Margaret followed him more slowly. Her legs ached from the way she'd been standing, pressed into the edge of the sink, and she felt weak with fatigue. She walked past the boy to the bookshelf and fumbled for a small box perched up about as high as she could reach; when Severus turned toward her with his eyebrows raised, she shook her head at him. Carefully she opened the box and took out what was in it: a string of beads made of rowan wood, with a silver cross dangling at the end. She clutched the rosary tightly in her right hand and took a step toward the boy, saying, "Kneel down."
"What?" His voice was sharp.
"You heard me. Kneel."
Severus frowned, but obeyed. She stopped in front of him, and he bent his head so that his black hair swung forward like a ragged veil. "Good," she said to him, then stopped, clutching the rosary, to gather her thoughts. It had been so many years, and could she remember? Reaching out with her left hand, she pressed her palm on the boy's head and held the rosary above him in her right. She was focusing so intently that she wasn't sure whether she was speaking English or Irish; she knew her grandfather had said the prayer over her in Irish. She let the words carry her.
The blessing of God upon you:
May Christ and his mother guard you;
May the saints and the angels keep you from harm.
May all creation shelter you:
The sun, the moon and the stars,
The still and the moving airs;
The waters on earth, and above the earth;
All things that are green and blossom;
All creatures that move on the earth;
May all of these be blessings for you.
May you find help wherever you look;
May no man harm you;
May no evil come to you;
May you be defended from all hurt.
Christ guide and guard you;
Christ's love shelter you
Now and always.
Christ's love shelter you
Now and always.
Amen.
With the 'amen', she made the sign of the cross with the hand holding the rosary, because it felt like the right thing to do. She could remember her grandfather doing so when she was a girl. The boy in front of her joined her in saying 'amen', and then looked up at her, his eyes wide. "Get up," she said to him. He got to his feet, still staring and frowning a little, his mouth pressed into a straight line. Margaret brought the rosary to her lips, kissed it, and held it out to him. "Take it," she said to him, "take it, and keep it by you." His eyebrows lowered still further, but he took the circlet of beads and slipped it into an inner pocket. "Good," Margaret said. She felt breathless, and paused a moment to gather her energies before speaking again. "Severus. Do you remember the words I spoke just now? Do you have them in mind?"
"Yes." His voice, like his face, was expressionless.
"Good," she said again. "They were from your great-great grandfather, my grandfather, Michael Griffin. You were named for him," and, at his shake of the head, she said, "I know it's not your Christian name, but I made sure your second name would be Michael. Your father and I agreed on that." She paused again, then continued, "My grandfather gave me that blessing, and the beads with it, when I was a girl, and he asked for a promise from me. I want that same promise from you."
"Grandmother, I don't make promises lightly."
"No. I don't ask it lightly. My grandfather gave me the blessing when I reached a turning in the road, and he asked me to pass it on when some child of mine came to a turning or a parting of the ways. That was what I promised him. Now your path is turning, and I've given it to you. I want you to give me your word that you will pass it on."
"Gran," and he laughed a bit, "whom will I give it to? I'm not likely to have a child. Chances are I won't live that long."
"No matter. You can't foretell the future, any more than I can. I want you to give me your word. Promise me you will pass it on."
"Very well. I give you my word."
Margaret looked at him searchingly, and he looked back, his expression serious. Responding to an impulse that surprised her, she stepped forward and embraced him. He stiffened at first, but then returned the embrace and bent his head down so that she could kiss his cheek. When she kissed him, his arms tightened about her a little. After a moment, she dropped her own arms and said, "Go now, lad. Go to your headmaster." At that she felt him stiffen again and straighten up. She pushed him gently and repeated, "Go. Go, and God go with you."
He stepped back and said, "Goodbye, then." His voice was hoarse, and his eyes were deep, deep pools of darkness in his pale face. She nodded sharply, unable to trust herself to speak, and saw him turn on his heel. Then the door clicked shut behind him.
Margaret's breath came out of her in a long sigh. She felt hollow, as if all the good had gone out of her like the meat from a cracked egg, and she was very tired. Automatically she walked into the kitchen, picked the potato she'd been working on out of the water, and began paring it again. It blurred as she put the knife to it, then came clear again when she blinked. She felt moisture on her cheek. All these potatoes - four of them - and she an old woman alone. What had she been thinking of? Then she remembered; she'd been planning to make champ. Severus must have been at the back of her mind; he loved champ. Why hadn't she asked him to stop for dinner? The boy was far too thin. She remembered the feel of his ribs as she'd hugged him; they stood out like a greyhound's. She should have asked him to stay. It was seldom enough that she saw him now, and she had pushed him out the door. "Well. At least I gave him the blessing," she murmured to herself. And he had promised that he would pass it on. God willing, that would be some protection for him, some guard against recklessness, though to do him justice, he wasn't often reckless. But she should have fed him. All this food she had, and the boy was too thin, and he had no one in the world who cared whether he lived or died. No one but her.
"I'll do better another time," she thought, "if I see him again." "If" - that was a dangerous word. The saying went, 'if is a little word with a long tail'. It could rule your life if you let it; you could wear yourself out regretting all you hadn't done. Still, if she could live the last hour over, she would give him a meal. Maybe someday she would have that chance. She'd said to him that no one could foretell the future. But it came to her mind with the force of a prophecy that she would never see her grandson again in this world.
She picked up the last potato and began carefully cutting out its eyes. As she worked, her lips moved, and she gradually realised that she was repeating the blessing over and over. Well. She had done what she could; she must hope it would be enough. He had promised he would pass it on, and her lad always kept his promises.
Mary Johnson, January 2007
Author's notes:
The blessing is mine, but is based on two or three old Irish blessings I found online, and particularly on "The Deer's Cry/St Patrick's Breastplate", which is one of the most beautiful prayers I know. But it's in the first person! Every blessing I found was in the first person, and I don't know *any* Irish to speak of and wouldn't have been able to change them round so that they would invoke a blessing on a second person. So I wrote my own, and am actually quie proud of it. I'm going to include the url for the wonderful website that inspired me; blessing number 10 seems especially appropriate for the Potterverse and young Severus's situation. Here is the url:
http://www.smo.uhi.ac.uk/gaidhlig/corpus/Carmina/
Champ is an Irish dish - mashed potatoes, milk, butter, and green onions. I was using it here as an alternate word for colcannon - the same dish, but with kale or cabbage added. The Snape/Prince contingent uses cabbage; my family uses kale.
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That's pretty sad all around, but a great read and a great young Severus!
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... do you mind if I friend you? Your writing is awesome and you have a deep and tender feeling for Severus Snape. I like that this is so emotional without being "schmoopy" or having to have sex in it.
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Based on this and your comment on my essay, I think I'd be happy if you friended me. Go right ahead, and thanks for your responses. To have such an alert and appreciative reader is all a writer can hope for!
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This is one of two fanfics I actually showed my (nonfan) parents, and my dad thinks I should change the names in this one and publish it. It's very tempting; it feels entirely my own, unlike the earlier fanfics, and I love Margaret as a character. But, as my sister said, it casts such an interesting light on the potterverse characters, and might not have that depth as a stand alone. What do you think?
Thanks for reading (and grannies rule, don't you think?)
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Oddly enough, I have been thinking about grandparents lately (maybe because of you!). As I measure ahead the decade-plus that it will take me to achieve official "crone" status and wonder what I'll be like, I look back on different passages in my life and wonder what perspective accessible grandparents could have given me at the time.
Sure, in some ways my parents failed to have information because my grandparents failed to have information, and the incredible rate of social, technical, and financial change during the last century overtook us all. But unless granny's been living under a rock she's got a significant edge over one's parents in the life experience department.
And from now on there will be a reasonable possibility that our grannies saw military service, so you will mess with her at your peril. ;D
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Congratulations on crafting a story that transcends Potterdom! The issues here of love and forgiveness, of things meant but never said, resonate so clearly, even without the framework of the Potter universe. This is the everday tragedy of families. People mean well, but they still make mistakes and fall short of their lofty goals.
I smiled when I first started reading, because in my personal canon, I've always imagined Gran Prince as a Margaret. She's a tough old thing, isn't she? I see so much of Severus in her, including a great capacity for love, but an real lack of ability to express that affection. He'd have sensed that love if she'd invited him for dinner, but it never occurred to her until the moment was gone. My heart aches for both of them.
By the way, I've friended you. I hope you don't mind, but I've found your perspective fascinating.
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Neat that you also thought of Gran Prince as Margaret! And you're right about her similarities to her grandson; that was exactly what I was trying to express. She is, indeed, a tough old bird.
And thanks for friending me. I'll friend you back. Actually, I'm feeling a bit alone in the fandom now: I don't absolutely hate all aspects of DH as much as Sigune, for example, but I cannot rejoice at Severus's story as my sister did (she sees him as a redeemed figure and hero, just as Rowling wrote him, and she found the love story between him and Lily touching. I didn't, because, as written, I couldn't believe Lily ever even liked him much, and because Severus never seemed to fully transcend/sublimate that early love. It seemed to me that Rowling was TRYING to make him an emotional cripple - and far more crippled, at that, than I had imagined.) As someone else said, the ending of DH left me feeling flat, empty and depressed - just blah. At first, I couldn't even weep for Severus; his death seemed so utterly cruel and pointless.
Sorry - I'm nattering on again! Thanks for reading the story and for friending me.