Replay

Replay

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Chapter Twelve

A New Cruciatus

When Harry reached the kitchen, Tilda was already dishing up the food. Delicious aromas crept into his nose and made him think that just before dinner might not be the best time to confront her about the silver. (If there was a good time.) She seemed to have noticed, however, that he was being exceptionally quiet while they ate; she kept trying to bring up new topics of conversation, as though searching for something that would produce a response other than, "Mm hm," or, "No, I didn't know that."

At length he said, "Your dad was kind of strange, but you stood by him anyway."

She stared at him. "Well, that came out of the blue. Yeah, of course I did. He was my dad. What else was I supposed to do?" She frowned. "What made you think of that?"

He bit his lip, trying to come up with something that didn't include the silver. To accuse someone's dead father of being a criminal was not something he was eager to do. He remembered vividly what Aunt Marge had been saying about his own father after he'd spoken of Sirius being a murderer. He remembered the times that Snape had told him how arrogant his father was and how horrified he'd been when he'd gone into the Pensieve and seen the young James Potter for himself. He didn't imagine that learning the truth about her father would be pleasant for Tilda--assuming that she didn't already know.

He tried to shrug nonchalantly as an idea took shape in his mind. "During this last year, I found out something about my dad. He didn't go to prison or anything... Do you remember Snape, what I told you about him?"

"The one who was at your house this morning? Goodness, his voice carries. He sounded just like you described him."

Harry nodded. "Right. Well, he'd always told me what a prat my dad was when they were in school, how arrogant and full of himself he was, that sort of thing. And I never believed him. Hagrid always talked about my dad like he was...well, perfect. My dad saved Snape's life once, too. I thought Snape was being really petty to still hate him, and to hate me for being his son. And then..."

"What?"

He told her about the Occlumency lessons, which he hadn't done before, making her clutch the edge of the table with white hands. "Can he--can Voldemort see you here, in my house?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, suddenly terrified. If Tilda gets hurt because of me... he thought. But he remembered Dumbledore's protection spell and the lack of pain from his scar. He shook his head. "I don't think he's tried. I'd feel him if he did. He seems to be up to something else. I could tell that he was really happy recently, that morning when you found me in the living room. But I think I may have scared him off a bit when he tried to possess me at the Ministry. That doesn't mean he might not try again, of course...."

He explained to her that Snape had been putting some of his own memories in a Pensieve before his private lessons, but then he had to explain Pensieves to her. After that, he was finally able to tell her what he saw when he went into Snape's memories, the image of the young James Potter. She looked very grim but otherwise expressionless while he spoke. "And--and I just couldn't work out why my mum ever married him. I mean--I'd be complimenting him if I called him a prat, and that's not really a strong enough word..."

Tilda pushed some rice around on her plate with one of the chopsticks, reminding Harry that the silver was upstairs under the bed. (Luckily, the silver showed no signs of beating like a very loud heart, loud enough to be heard in the kitchen.) Nodding, she said, "I know just how you feel, Harry. Yeah, my dad was framed, like your godfather. But he volunteered the information about the aliens. When I was young I defended him, said my dad never told a lie. As I grew older, it became harder not to question the stories."

"Well, to be fair," Harry said, "he probably witnessed magic and an Obliviator from the Ministry must have done a sloppy job with his memory charm. You said he saw a green light? That could have been the Killing Curse--which was how my mum and dad died--or he could have seen someone firing the Dark Mark into the sky...." This necessitated an explanation of the Dark Mark, but he was finally able to say, "Did you ever--well, did you ever doubt his other stories when you were older? Since you started to doubt his alien stories?" He swallowed, watching her face as she cleared the plates from the table.

"How do you mean?" She furrowed her brow.

"Did you--did you ever wonder whether he was really framed?" he finally asked her, a nervous croak in his voice.

He swallowed and waited for her to betray a knowledge of the silver or grow cross with him for questioning her dad's word.

She sat down again, staring into space. "You have no idea, Harry.... Sometimes I wished with all my heart that he wasn't framed."

He frowned. "Huh?"

Giving him a half-smile, she said, "So he wouldn't have gone to prison for nothing. In my mind I gave him a defence that still made it all right, of course. It was to help support our family, all that. But sometimes the hardest part of remembering him being in prison was thinking of it being for nothing, because he was a good man who told the truth about what he'd seen and therefore was considered to be the biggest liar in eight counties. And therefore no one trusted anything he said in his defence...."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his resolve fading. He couldn't tell her. She said she had almost wished he really had done it, not actually wished it. He couldn't do that to her.

Why? another part of his brain demanded. But as he gazed at her, his stomach did several flops that told him why. He caught his breath, realising what had happened to him.

He'd fallen in love with Tilda.

He tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly completely dry.

I love Tilda.

He could never topple her father from his pedestal. It would destroy her. Even though she might be receptive to the truth if she convinced herself that he had a really good reason for doing it, he saw that, above all, she still revered her father's willingness to sacrifice himself for his family and for the truth. It was impossible to cavalierly destroy that image; Harry didn't want to be Snape. He had no reason to convince her of Jim Harrison's guilt. Perhaps when he eventually left her house he could find a way to take the silver with him and get someone in the Order to return it. (For a moment he thought of Mundungus Fletcher, but then he realised that Dung might try to sell the stuff himself; Remus would probably be a better choice, if he avoided touching it.)

"Sorry about what? Are you all right, Harry?" she asked, peering into his face, concerned.

"I mean--I'm sorry on behalf of--of wizardkind," he said awkwardly. "When you think about it, it's our fault your dad was thought to be a liar. It wasn't his fault at all...." He swallowed and looked down, afraid that if he stared at her for much longer she'd guess his new secret, assuming that she hadn't already, even before he had.

I'm in love with Tilda.

She smiled and started to put her hand over his, but seemed to think better of it and sat back, crossing her arms. "But it's not your fault. You weren't even born. And the people who tried to fix it so he wouldn't remember--I'm sure the slip-up wasn't intentional. My mum leaving my dad was intentional," she added bitterly.

"But his going to prison is why they split up! And--and everything else you went through. How can you not be upset?" Suddenly this was more important than the silver.

She shrugged. "It's in the past. And as I said, intent is important. I've tried, over the years, to have faith that things will work themselves out. Things will probably even work out, eventually, between me and my mum. That sort of faith was required quite a lot when I was a girl and we were working on derelict houses, trying to go fast enough to prevent them falling down around our ears," she laughed.

Harry suddenly remembered something she'd said earlier: "Being a trusting person doesn't make you mentally deficient. You said that."

She smiled at him, bemused. "What made you think of that?"

He gazed at her, at her large, light eyes and blonde hair. The resemblance was only superficial, as he'd never thought Luna pretty but thought Tilda was beautiful. However, on the inside.... "You remind me of someone I just met this last year."

"A schoolmate?"

"Sort of. She's in the year below me. I met her through Ron's sister, Ginny, who's in the same year. Her name's Luna, but a lot of people--well, a lot of people call her Loony Lovegood. Because her head's a bit in the clouds," he explained, feeling somewhat ashamed, as though he were gossiping.

Tilda laughed. "I remind you of a girl whose head is in the clouds? Should I take that as a compliment?" She was still smiling and he didn't think that she was taking it as an insult.

"I didn't mean that that was what made me think of--I mean, it's something else. A few something elses, actually. She doesn't have a brother, but it's just her and her dad now. Her mum died. And her dad runs this rag called The Quibbler. Well, most people think it's a rag. Full of mad stuff about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and other rubbish..."

"Oooh," she said, comprehension dawning. "A wizard tabloid. How funny!"

He made a face. "And because the Daily Prophet was dedicated to making me look like a liar every chance they got, the only paper that would print the truth of what happened to me--about Voldemort coming back--was The Quibbler. Which just made it look more than ever like I was spouting rubbish. At least to some people. Others understood that for once The Quibbler was publishing the truth...."

Tilda frowned at him. "Being a bit judgmental about this 'rag,' aren't you?"

He looked sheepish. "Sorry. It's hard to--well, Luna always says the stories in The Quibbler are true. The madder they sound the more she defends them."

Tilda stood and carried the leftover Chinese food to the fridge silently; when she'd closed the fridge door again she leaned on it, looking thoughtful.

"Did it ever occur to you that whether she really believes what she's saying, for her own sanity, she has to say it and pretend to believe it? He's all she has in the world, right?" Harry nodded. "Right, then. I felt just the same way about my dad's stories."

Harry looked up at her, his throat tight; in the evening sunshine she looked more beautiful than ever and he felt his heart turn over. Tilda smiled warmly at him, meeting his gaze.

"I was reminded of Luna for another reason. On the last night of the term, we always have a big feast. I was so miserable over Sirius that I didn't want to go. I ran into someone else who hadn't gone to the feast, either. Luna." He told Tilda about Luna hanging up the notices to get her belongings back, her simple faith that it would work out.

Tilda was nodding again. "I admit, this girl does sound like a kindred spirit. And tell me, Harry, do you think that someone who wasn't as trusting as Luna would have kept you in her house for almost a fortnight?" She raised her eyebrows at him and he felt ashamed again for thinking she was stupid.

"No," he admitted, "probably not."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tilda surveyed Harry thoughtfully, remembering that he hadn't contradicted her when she had said that he thought she was stupid. She had felt painfully naive many times in her life, but with her pupils she had usually been able to determine when lies were being told. Most eight- and ten-year-olds were, however, not adept at lying, so it wasn't much of a strain for her to see through the flimsy excuses and tales of homework-hungry pets. She also hadn't wanted to trust most of them, which she thought probably made a difference. She'd taken to Harry from the first odd thing he'd done at school, wanting to believe whatever he told her. She remembered why now: It was because the odd things he'd done made her think that maybe, just maybe, her dad wasn't barmy. Maybe there were aliens in the world, and Harry was one of them.... She hardly thought she should be considered stupid for thinking that was the explanation, rather than magic.

"And do you think Luna is stupid?"

She saw Harry hesitate. "Well, she is in Ravenclaw, which is supposed to be the house for the really brainy students. And it was her idea to fly the Thestrals to the Ministry. And she helped get my interview published in her dad's paper..."

Tilda smiled. "I don't think this girl is stupid or mad. She's loyal and loving to her father, doesn't have a melt-down when people treat her shabbily, trusts in the goodness of the universe to return her belongings to her, recognises when someone needs help to get the truth out, and found a good solution for you in a sticky situation." For a moment she faltered, suddenly feeling irrationally jealous of this girl she didn't even know. Don't be an idiot, she tried to tell herself. It would be nice for Harry to get to know this girl better... they might get on if he abandons some of his prejudices about her....

"So do you want to ask me anything else about being stupid or trusting? From the horse's mouth, you might say?" she said with a laugh, placing the rest of the dishes carelessly into the sink, trying to sound cheerful and hoping he would allow her to change the subject. Somehow the subject of her willingness to believe in things, whether she should or not, was not something she wanted to continue to explore. "Because I don't feel like washing dishes--I want to start celebrating early. Let's put on some music and just dance like fools!"

Harry followed her into the living room, looking uncertain. She glanced at his face as she turned on the radio and searched for a station with the sort of music she wanted. It was hard for her to tell whether he thought she was having mood swings or just considered her to be as mad as he evidently thought Luna was, but was doing a bad job of hiding it.

She finally found what she was wanted--music from the sixties and seventies, a driving dance beat, and she started moving with her eyes closed. One thing she did like about clubs was the dancing, but she could rarely hear music she liked at one these days, and there was the added problem of the men in the clubs always assuming that if a woman got up to dance she was doing it to put on a show, to lure a man to her side. Once or twice she'd said to a nosy man who'd approached her, "Did I look like I was trying to get you to come to me? Can't I just like to dance?"

He'd promptly said, "No," before stalking off. Pip had asked her why she'd agreed to come to the club if she was going to send every man packing in under a minute, and Tilda had felt her explanation of simply enjoying dancing would again fall on deaf ears....

Then she opened her eyes as the first song segued into another with a similar beat, seeing that Harry had gamely decided to dance as well. Or try. Unfortunately, it was very, very clear that he had no experience with this. He jerked around in the most awkward fashion she'd ever seen and she had to bite her tongue very hard to keep from laughing. But soon, as he took his arm flailing and head bobbing to new levels, she could no longer maintain her self-control and burst out laughing loudly, unable to keep dancing herself.

Harry stopped, looking hurt, and she tried unsuccessfully to stop laughing, holding her middle with her arms and clamping her mouth shut. It didn't work. Harry threw himself into a chair with a sulky look on his face, but Tilda, relenting, went to him, laughter still bubbling up inside of her as she held out her hands to him.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I should have realised... Come on, give it another go," she urged him. He took her hands and stood; where they touched it felt to her like a small electric current was connecting them and she had to fight the natural urge to immediately drop his hands. Instead she nodded at him, dancing again herself, and he began to move jerkily once more.

After watching him do this for several more painful minutes and yet another song, she couldn't hold her laughter in. The song to which they'd just been dancing ended and over the sound of the disc jockey talking, she gasped, "I--I--I'm sorry Harry!"

He crossed his arms. "I don't see what's wrong," he said defensively. "And you said, 'I should have realised.' Realised what?"

"That you're--well--you're so--so English!" she gasped as she laughed.

He also laughed. "What did you expect me to be--Mongolian? You're English as well!"

"Yes, but I've learned to dance like I'm not. And no," she said, laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes, "I did not expect you to be Mongolian. "It's just that--when you dance--you're so very English.... You've never done this before, have you?"

He grimaced, his arms hanging awkwardly by his side now. "Well, we had a Yule Ball at school in my fourth year and I had to go with a partner and start off the dancing, as one of the Triwizard champions. But Parvati just steered me around the floor--"

"Ah. She decided to lead."

"Right. Later there was some faster music and people were dancing sort of like you were just now, but I only danced that first one because I had to."

"Oh, your poor girlfriend!" Tilda said, feeling a pang for the abandoned Parvati. "Wasn't she pretty? Didn't you like her?"

"Pretty? Well, yeah. One of the prettiest girls in school, I reckon. But--well, she wasn't the first person I asked, and she wasn't my girlfriend..."

Comprehension dawned on her. "Ooooh. She wasn't the girl you fancied. I take it that girl turned you down?"

He sighed. "She'd already accepted someone else."

"New song," she said as the disc jockey stopped talking. It was just a little slower than the previous selections, and she said, "Here, watch what I'm doing with my feet..." Harry tried to watch and imitate what she was doing with her feet, and then duplicating what she was doing with her arms. "That's--well, better, anyway. So you didn't get to go with the girl of your dreams and you spent the whole night watching her with her date, did you?"

"How did you know?" he gasped.

She shrugged. "Lucky guess. You don't strike me as the type to let go that easily."

He sighed as he continued to imitate what she was doing; she winced as he miscalculated and banged into a table. He swore under his breath and she struggled to keep a straight face. She could tell that he hadn't meant to tell her, but soon the whole painful saga of the dead boyfriend, the mistletoe, the disastrous Valentine's date and his ex-girlfriend being asked out by his friend's ex-boyfriend had all come tumbling out. In the meantime, he wasn't being as self-conscious about his dancing and had improved greatly. He only banged into the table twice more in five songs.

"So, Cho wasn't right to suspect something between you and your friend--?" she asked, wondering whether he'd tell her if Cho had been right.

But he looked horrified. "No, no! Hermione's like--well, not really a sister, but--well--like a really strict headmistress who sometimes also likes sneaking about and breaking the rules. She gave me a shouting homework planner for Christmas. And she has some brilliant--and sometimes mad--ideas. But she's, well, she's Hermione. And besides, I think Ron fancies her..."

"Ah. So even if you fancied her as well, you'd back off?"

Harry looked like he was thinking about that. "I reckon. But I don't, so it's not a problem anyway."

She nodded and then felt irritated with herself. Why should I care if he fancies this Hermione? But somehow it was good to know that he didn't....

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry looked down in amazement. I'm dancing. And he wasn't making an utter fool of himself. Anymore. Then, as soon as he thought this, the music changed. A slow ballad washed the room in sound, in violins and harps, while background singers hummed and a man with a low, mellow voice sang about the woman he loved. Tilda looked up at him and it seemed inevitable that they should move closer together, until her arms were around his neck and her head on his shoulder. He tentatively put his hands on her back, holding her against him, acutely aware that her entire body was pressed to his, something that was making all of his senses stand to attention, both anxious and hesitant, just like when they'd been hiding in his room on Privet Drive. They didn't talk about it, just did it.

When he'd danced with Parvati at the Yule Ball there had been enough space between the two of them to drive a lorry, it had seemed. And even when he'd kissed Cho Chang under the mistletoe in the Room of Requirement, the only place where their bodies had touched were their lips, until she was sobbing on him and he was comforting her, which was not how he had wanted that moment to go. When their mouths had actually been in contact he had been too paralysed with fear to reach out and hold her to him, too afraid that he would wake and discover that he'd dreamt it. (He wished that he had dreamt more of Cho, but unfortunately, his true dreams were rare because of Voldemort...)

Until Tilda, he'd never held a girl's body against him exactly like this, and he'd certainly never swayed to pulsing music that seemed to have entered his bloodstream, changing the rhythm of his circulation, his breath. He closed his eyes and pressed her to him, relishing her warmth, not caring that it was already a hot night and this was making him feel hotter. He wanted to feel hotter, he wanted to burn up like Fawkes, to give himself over to the feelings he'd so feared in his room on Privet Drive, the feelings she was producing in him just by dancing this close, her body moulding itself to his, her hands soft on the back of his neck, which suddenly seemed to have ten times the normal number of nerve endings.

He felt her breath on his neck, the regular inhalation and exhalation, very softly, as though she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder; he turned his head slightly to look down at her, seeing first the pink shell of her ear, very close to his mouth. He let out a breath that sounded very loud to him; he might have been holding it, but he didn't remember making a decision to do so. She shivered when the hot air blew across her ear and he stifled a moan in his throat, for she had brushed against him in a way no one else ever had, at least not when he was in this state. (He'd managed to carefully avoid this sort of contact when they'd been hiding under the Cloak.) Sure she was going to back up from him, appalled, he turned his head further, so he could see more than her ear.

She gazed up at him for a moment, her cheek still on his shoulder. Then the luminous eyes came closer and she looked, it seemed, at his mouth. They continued dancing and Harry didn't know how much time had passed; he was starting to feel like she had been staring at his mouth forever. He couldn't see the expression in her eyes, but he thought she might be on the verge of making a decision. His heart was ready to leap right out of his chest and he finally decided that he couldn't let it be like it was with Cho, letting her make all of the decisions and all of the moves.

It had been so odd, as though he was watching someone else under the mistletoe with the girl he'd fancied for two years, someone else standing there like a stone while she pressed her lips to his. And then, when he'd finally decided to be less passive, to see what would happen if he opened his mouth a tiny bit, she'd started crying, ducking her head, and then he was patting her back awkwardly while she sobbed about Cedric. The moment for him to do something had passed. How could he initiate a kiss after that, in her grief? He'd told Ron and Hermione the truth; if it was up to him he wouldn't have done anything, because he would never have imagined in a million years that he could do that and not have the girl back up in horror, laugh at him, or respond violently.

And then, shock of shocks, just before they left the Room of Requirement to return to their respective common rooms, she had quickly turned and, standing on her toes, brushed her lips against his again, this time opening her mouth slightly. He had responded in kind, getting only the briefest, most frustrating taste of her before she moved her mouth to the side and kissed his cheek, saying goodnight to him, tears still glistening on her eyelashes.

The second kiss had been the one to leave him shell-shocked, the reason that he appeared like a zombie when he returned to the common room. That was what he had originally been hoping would occur the first time he kissed Cho, only he would have preferred a more prolonged version. It was so quick he might have imagined it. He hadn't really wanted to discuss the incident with Ron and Hermione, but Hermione had rather forced him to, and then Ron had made him smile in spite of himself because of his exultant reaction....

Harry looked at Tilda's lowered eyelids, at her nose and lips, and thought about what he wanted to do. Somehow he just knew she was different from Cho, and while she was yet staring at his mouth and hovering on the edge of a decision, he decided to make it for her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I'm kissing Harry.

He had surprised her, moving his head forward suddenly by a mere two inches so that his lips were in contact with hers; even more surprising was that he was gently opening his mouth, his warm tongue touching her lips in a light, tentative question. She exhaled in a kind of giddy relief, letting him feel her own tongue, breathing with his breath. She twined his hair in her fingers desperately, trying to deepen the kiss still more, trying to reconcile something in the Harry she could feel with her lips and tongue and hands and body with the boy she had known, but he seemed to be gone and this new Harry was in his place.

She was already aware of the fact that he was aroused, but she hadn't thought about that the first time she realised it, as she rather assumed that was the constant state of teenage boys. But now, kissing him deeply and feeling his arms spasm across her back, hearing the small moans in his throat, she felt excited to know that he was responding to her, excited to know what she did to him. While they were still kissing, she backed up from him only enough to get her hands between the two of them, to work at the buttons of his shirt. He froze for a second, perhaps with surprise, before starting to help her.

She'd never felt this way before, feverish with want and yet also overwhelmed with emotion. She couldn't remember a single time in the previous ten years when she had slept with a man out of anything other than a feeling of obligation. It had been different when she was twenty--and then she had learned that he was married, that he was never going to leave his brilliant, beautiful, wife, and that he had only pretended--everything.

Harry could not be further from that. She could not get over the feeling that, even before she had started on his shirt, he had laid his soul bare, exposing himself utterly. Once he'd told her the unvarnished truth about being a wizard, there was no artifice in Harry, at least not for her, and her chest hitched as she thought of his faith in her, his simple trust that she wouldn't steer him wrong. He trusted her even though he was still amazed that she trusted him. He had told her his deepest, darkest secrets and she had told him hers. As she slid his shirt off his shoulders she heard him expose himself again:

"Oh, Tilda," he breathed against her mouth; "I love you so much...."

She tried to say something but he was kissing her again and she was overwhelmed by his passion. She held his face between her hands, then slowly slid her fingers down his sharp cheekbones and jaw as they kissed, caressing him like the precious thing he was to her, moving down to his smooth chest, which was as soft and unused as a baby's....

The thought made her pull back and stare at that chest, at the flat, pink nipples, the white, hairless skin, translucent and unblemished. He's a child. She continued to stare, as though he no longer had a head, as though he only existed from the neck down. This is wrong; he's not a man, he's a child. You can't do this.

She raised her eyes to Harry, who was frowning, confused. Her mouth worked soundlessly for a minute before she could finally manage to choke out, "I'm sorry, Harry."

Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes as his face screwed up in a plaintive, forlorn expression that intensified the impression of his being a child. "Sorry? I--I don't understand--" Tilda backed up so that they were no longer touching and she tried not to notice that he was still aroused. Don't look, she scolded herself. Be the adult.

"I'm sorry I let--I let this happen--"

"You let!" he said, growing angry. Then he changed it to, "You let? I thought--the pair of us--" He seemed unable to put his thoughts into words, a clear frustration on his face that didn't seem to be solely physical.

"Yes," she said softly. "I'm sorry Harry," she said again, for a different reason; "I didn't mean that we weren't both--that it wasn't mutual. I'm putting this badly," she whispered, floundering about, trying to work out how to say what she meant, pacing and wringing her hands. Harry's face clouded over; she had to admit, he looked far more like a man than a child now--above the neck. But she couldn't help but look down at his chest again, the evidence of how young he was. He appeared to be even younger than many other sixteen-year-olds she'd seen, and she thought of him in a cupboard under the stairs for ten years, eating the meagre helpings of food the Dursleys allotted him. Damn you, Vernon Dursley, she thought, suddenly wanting to take Harry in her arms and comfort him like a mother far more than she wanted to take him in her arms like a lover.

Tilda swallowed, looking up at Harry's face again, seeing his distress; she shook her head sadly, the maternal instinct winning. "We can't do this, Harry. It--it just isn't right."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry stared at her in disbelief. He should have known, when she was undressing him, what it was leading to. A part of him did know, but most of his brain was still in denial, still not assuming that that was what was happening. He'd never assumed with Cho. They'd barely kissed. And she was young; he just assumed that she wasn't interested in that. But what if she and Cedric already did that? he thought for the first time. She did manipulate him so he was alone in the Room of Requirement....

He looked at Tilda. Of course she'd assume that intense snogging and removal of clothes would lead to sex. She was a woman, not a girl. She was experienced, she knew what she was doing. He frowned, not liking these thoughts, not wanting to think of her with other men. Although he'd been unable to prevent his mind from repeatedly conjuring up the image of her exposed body, he had never seriously entertained the thought of sleeping with her, and could have been perfectly happy with just kissing her. Could still be happy with just that...

"But I love you," he said helplessly, unable to stop himself. Damn! Why'd I say that again? "And--and you asked me about those other girls, like you were jealous--"

"Oh," she whispered. "You noticed that. Damn..."

So she was jealous! "--and you kissed me, and were taking my clothes off," he added, hating his cracking voice, the way it made him sound so young.

She shook her head. "I know, it was wrong of me. I need to be the adult and--"

"Adult!" he cried. She looked shocked by his anger. "What am I?"

She swallowed. "A child, Harry. You are a child." Yes, keep saying that, he thought, and maybe you'll actually start to believe it. He remembered the feel of her hands on him, her lips; she hadn't been treating him like a child.

"I'm not a child!" he roared, the very childlike frustration he felt making him even angrier, but mostly at himself. "I'm sixteen! Or as good as!"

"You might as well be six," she argued. "If--if we did do this--"

He grasped her by the shoulders and spoke in a low, fierce voice very close to her mouth. "I am not a child."

He lowered his mouth to hers again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It seemed a very un-Harry-like thing to do, and she wondered for a terrifying moment whether Voldemort was possessing him; however, she remembered his telling her that his love for Sirius had caused Voldemort to flee from his mind. Very likely the love he felt for her would make his mind an intolerable place for Voldemort again. This was all him, even the physical aggression, in which she did not think he would usually engage. She opened her mouth after a second, responding again, drinking him in, pulling him to her. She could feel his surprise; he clearly hadn't expected to win the argument so easily, yet here she was succumbing to him. He need never know that that wasn't the case.

But even as he held her to him, even as he shivered from the sensual slide of her tongue against his, she knew somehow that he could tell that something about it was different; as she pulled gently away from him she knew that he'd worked out what it was.

"That was for pity," he whispered. "A goodbye kiss. Nothing has changed."

She nodded. "No, nothing has changed," she said softly, her heart aching.

The ballad on the radio sounded smarmy and false now, the overdone violins hackneyed and trite. The romantic music seemed to be mocking them.

She drew a deep breath, as though about to dive into a very, very deep pool. I have to do this. I owe it to him. He should know. He told me... She'd only just come to realise it herself, to realise just why it mattered to her whether he fancied his friend, whether he still thought of his ex-girlfriend, whether he fancied the girl at the ball...

"I love you too, Harry," she finally admitted, standing apart from him. "I don't deny it. And I want this. But I shouldn't. It's wrong. And--and I hope you don't hate me, but if I have to choose a night with you and the rest of my life, I'm going to have to choose the rest of my life." Once she started, the torrent of words wouldn't stop. "If anyone ever found out--I would lose everything. My job. My home. I would be run out of the village. I don't know--perhaps I could even be arrested. Well, okay, maybe not... but my life would be over, the life I've known. I mean--who would let me teach their children if this got out? Who in their right minds would hire me? It doesn't matter that I wasn't messing about with you when you were ten; it wouldn't matter to them that we love each other..."

She took a great shuddering breath, blinking tears out of her eyes. "It was wrong of me to get you all worked up. I'm very, very sorry, Harry. You can never know how much. If it's any comfort at all, please understand that I don't want to stop, that I'm as frustrated as you are. But one of us has to be strong. When all is said and done, I have the most to lose. I hope you don't think me selfish, but--that's how it is. No one could approve of the two of us, you know that? They would blame me, only me. They wouldn't consider you capable of deciding to do this of your own accord, as wrong as they would be. The world sees you as the child and me as the adult. Anything that happened between us would be my fault."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tilda was now crying freely, and with every word, Harry knew she was slipping away--and that this was also right. She was right. That was the way of the world. He'd been railing for a year against being considered a child, and he was still considered to be a child by the world at large. It was going to keep them apart, it had to keep them apart, or he could ruin her life. He couldn't bear to think of that happening. And yet--maybe there was another way.

"Well, we don't have to--I mean, I'm not even convinced I'm--I'm ready for--" he stammered, unable to say it aloud: sex. The thought of it, moments ago, had seemed exciting, but as he thought about it in cold blood, about being expected to know what he was doing, about--everything involved--a panic started to seize him, only ebbing when he remembered that she'd said they couldn't do that. He was actually relieved, but didn't know whether she would appreciate knowing this.

"What would you have us do, Harry? Sit on the couch and snog like--like teenagers?" she said archly, crossing her arms and raising one eyebrow.

He swallowed, feeling very, very young suddenly, feeling too young for more than following her around like a puppy and calling her Miss Harrison. "You make it sound like--like something stupid," he rasped. "Just because--because--it doesn't mean that we have to--I mean, how could anyone find out about--"

She sighed deeply, looking like she wanted to reach out and touch him. "I know. And I trust you, Harry. I know that you wouldn't let things get out of control--the way I did," she said softly, nodding. "But you're young, and it's harder for you to want something you've never experienced. I know you think that you think about it all the time, like most boys your age, but you can't, not really, not until you know what it is you're thinking about. It's all still so abstract for you. But I know what I'm keeping myself from doing with you. I know and--and I can't just kiss you, feel your arms around me, and not--want there to be more.... It's my failing and not yours, Harry, but it means--no. We can't kiss again. Not even a little."

"You said you love me," he whispered, suddenly realising this.

She shook her head. "How could I help it, Harry?" she said, smiling through her tears. He tried to smile back, but failed. "That still doesn't mean that we're going to--"

"Oh, I know," he said quickly, before she could say it and frustrate him further. "It's just--just nice to know," he finished lamely, his heart beating very fast. He wasn't certain how he'd had the nerve to tell her first that he loved her, but now that she had said the same thing he didn't feel quite so stupid. It was something. Tilda loves me.

"Well," he said smiling a little more successfully now. "I won't be sixteen forever."

She laughed, making his heart turn over at how beautiful she looked when she did this. "That's true. But Harry--your first time--it shouldn't be with an old woman like me--"

"Old woman!" he said, appalled, as though someone else had insulted her in this way.

"--it should be a girl near your age. You should be in love with her, and she with you--"

He sat on the couch, running his fingers through his hair. "Easy for you to say. Everyone I know thinks I'm barmy or doomed. I'll probably be killed before I can finish school--"

She shook her head. "No, you don't. Don't try to lay that brand of guilt on me." Her voice shook as though she remembered what he was very likely facing once he left the safe cocoon of her home. "For one thing, I'm here to tell you now that you are not going to let him beat you. You're better than that and you know it. For another--if we did do this, do you know what you would think?" He raised his eyebrows at her and she felt a wave of heat move up her face. "Other than that. You would think, 'Well, now I'm not going to die a virgin, so it doesn't matter what happens to me.' Wrong. It matters. And when you put that great ponce in his place, I expect to get an owl from you telling me that you did!" she exclaimed.

He smiled sheepishly at her, sitting back on the couch, while she dried her tears and smiled back at him. Going into a crouch, she looked up at him and patted his hands. "You're going to be fine, Harry. You have such inner strength and such purpose. You don't need me to tell you these things. You probably already know them; you just need to remember them. And trust me; you don't want your memories of your first time to include me. They should include someone far younger--and prettier."

"You're pretty!" he said quickly, making her smile and put her hand on his cheek.

"And you're sweet." She stood and then bent to kiss him on the top of the head. She went to switch off the radio, then turned to face Harry again. "Again--I'm sorry, Harry. Now, we're both tired and need some sleep. Or if you're not tired yet you can watch some television. I'll get you a fresh sheet to put on the couch."

He shook his head. "No. I'm fine." He saw her look very pointedly at his trousers. He grabbed a pillow, putting it on his lap. He didn't exactly appreciate her knowing smile.

"Yes, I'm sure you will be. Get some rest and we'll go to Brighton tomorrow." At the foot of the stairs, she turned and said, "Happy birthday, Harry."

He sighed as he turned to look at her, still clutching the pillow. "Happy birthday, Tilda."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The moment she entered her bedroom she collapsed in tears, leaning against the door and sinking onto her haunches, shaking silently, arms wrapped around her knees as sobs wracked her body. How could I do that? she demanded of herself. What sort of person am I? But she knew what sort of person. She was in love. Hopelessly and terribly in love...with someone who was strictly off-limits. And he loved her too, which made it worse. If he was married...if he didn't love me back...if he was a famous politician... But he was none of those things, and she continued to sob into her knees, aching for him, a hollow, yawning feeling in her chest, as though one of the Dementors he'd told her about had sucked all of the happiness from her....

At length, she dried her eyes and sighed deeply. She looked at her watch; it was almost eleven-thirty. He's probably asleep by now, she told herself. She didn't know whether she'd be able to sleep. Wonderful birthday present, she thought. You love me Harry? Oh, that's grand, I love you, too. But we can't do anything about it, not even kissing, because I'm a dirty old woman who will attack you if you try even that...

She started to feel a choking sob come on again and forced herself to swallow it. Then, staggering into the bathroom, she knelt before the toilet, spewing her dinner into it, shivering as though with fever. Afterward she brushed her teeth mechanically and then decided that she was hot and sticky and wanted a nice cold shower. I could use a cold shower for other reasons, as well...

As the water sluiced over her it was very difficult not to think about him, to imagine he was there. But that brought her to her senses again as she remembered the way the sight of his chest had sobered her, brought home that he wasn't an adult, as much as he might seem to be, as much as she might wish it. It wouldn't be fair to steal this part of his childhood from him. That was some other girl's part, not hers. It would be stealing.

That morning she'd hung the freshly washed man's shirt she liked to sleep in on the bathroom door; she put it on when she was done her shower, then flushed the toilet again to help clean the smell of vomit out of it before brushing her teeth yet again. She finally turned out the light and returned to her bedroom, knowing that she very likely had a restless night of staring at the ceiling lying ahead of her....

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry was jolted awake by heavy footsteps overhead. Tilda seemed to be stomping to the head of the stairs, then back to her room. What's going on? he wondered. Did she start to change her mind--then change it back? After her explanation that she didn't trust herself not to escalate things if they started off merely kissing (and she had been the one to take his shirt off, which still sat on the couch next to him) he was actually rather relieved that she stayed upstairs. On the other hand, the idea of sleeping in her bed with her--just sleeping--was rather appealing. He'd liked watching her fall asleep and he imagined lying by her side and holding her tightly, the closeness, just that and nothing more....

He looked around in confusion. His glasses had been removed from his face and the television had been turned off. He'd tried to watch a number of things but had instead simply sat changing channels every few seconds, slouched on the couch until he'd dozed off. He wished he'd woken sooner, such as when she'd removed his glasses from his face. She would have been very close, and then he could have--

No you couldn't. Don't be stupid. You don't want to destroy her life.

He sighed. It was true. Giving in to this would be very dangerous for her. If he got up the nerve, among his peers he'd be hailed as a hero (at least by the males), but she'd be considered a monster by the world. There was no point in dwelling on it. He had to let go of it all, even the thought of just kissing her or holding her while she slept. The idea of staying in her house now seemed like a worse torture than the Cruciatus Curse. However, he had been looking forward to the Brighton trip....

After our birthday, I'll go. I'll sneak next door and turn myself in, even if there are Aurors there. I'll face the music. I know Dumbledore told me to stay put, but I don't think he anticipated this happening...

Suddenly a shrill scream cut the silence of the sweltering night.

Tilda! he thought, springing to his feet, leaping over the couch and bolting to the stairs. There was a brief break in the noise; then the shrill squeal started up again, and he thought he heard her make another noise, a strange pained grunt. Then suddenly, all was silent.

Almost.

He thought he heard her voice through the bedroom door in a hushed whisper. It was impossible to make out the words. Is she talking to herself? He remembered her saying she loved him, too. Perhaps it would be worth the risk of being together, however briefly. They could be very careful to make sure that no one ever found out....

He'd been standing at the foot of the stairs, unsure of his course of action, but finally started up. There was no other way to find out whether this was the right thing to do...

He came out of his reverie when he reached her bedroom door, then tentatively knocked. "Tilda? Are you all right? I heard you scream." His voice was shaking. What would he do when she opened the door?

But she didn't. He heard her clear her throat and say, "I--I'm fine, Harry. Go back downstairs. I just stubbed my toe. I'm going to sleep now. Good night."

Harry hesitated. Then he said helplessly, "Oh. Okay, then. Good--good night." He couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice. Turning slowly, he walked back to the stairs and loped back down them, his heart feeling even heavier than his feet.

He threw himself down on the couch again, sighing, then removed his glasses and put them on the table. With his eyes closed all he could see in his mind was Tilda not pulling back from him. Now that it was no longer a frightening possibility, the idea of having sex with her was more appealing, and thus very frustrating to think about, because it was never going to happen. His eyes snapped open again. He heard her get into bed. Groaning, he turned over and tried to blank his mind. Think of it like an Occlumency exercise. Don't feel anything, wipe all emotions from your mind....

He was never sure whether he'd actually achieved his goal of not feeling, but he eventually dozed off again, sleeping restlessly, awaking frequently from vivid dreams of Tilda, his entire body aching for her in a way he'd never known was possible. Perhaps he'd been wrong to assume he could have just kissed her and not wanted more; she was perceptive enough about herself to know that she couldn't tolerate that. But despite his physical frustration, the worst thing of all was his heart feeling like it would never work quite right again....

He always managed to get back to sleep, but he also always woke up again. At one point he heard the bedroom door slam, followed by the sound of the bathroom door, then the bedroom door again. He wondered what she'd do if he went upstairs, if he knocked on her door again. Would she change her mind?

No no no. Her life, her future, gone. Because of you. Don't even think about it.

He sighed and closed his eyes again, waiting for sleep to overtake him once more. The next time he awoke his watch told him that it was just before seven o'clock. He stretched and yawned, staggering to his feet, making his way to the stairs, then backtracking to get his glasses. At the top of the stairs he remembered belatedly that Jack had fixed the downstairs loo. However, he was already upstairs and didn't think he could wait to go all the way back down, through the living room and kitchen, down the corridor...

Instead he shuffled toward the bathroom. He was already here; no point to turning back. But just when he'd reached the bathroom door, the bedroom door suddenly swung open.

And everything went black.

---