Solace

I'll be around
When there's no reason left to carry on
And every dream you've ever had is gone
And the dark is deep and black without a sound
And every star has been dragged to the ground
Know at that moment I will be around
(Trans-Siberian Orchestra, "I'll Keep Your Secrets")

She knows, better than any other, perhaps, why he wears the robes he does. Not the black, though he has explained that to her, but the answer to that is plain for nearly anyone to see. He wears the guise of a corbie, a creature of death incarnate -- and he wears the colour of mourning, for the stains which never come off of hand or soul. The long sleeves, though, with the tight fitted cuffs that he does not roll up even in the heart of summer or when working over a steaming cauldron ... those she knows the reason for.

It is she, after all, who sees the marks of his so-called penance -- who wipes away the blood and kisses the scars. They line his forearms, pale against already pallid skin, a testimonial. He, the Slytherin, sees them as a sign of weakness; she, being Gryffindor, views them as born of strength. It does not do to dwell overlong on thinking which of them is right. She has long since stopped trying. The world in which they dwell together is painted only in shades of grey, with no room for absolutes.

And still he cuts, and he bleeds, but before it becomes too much he always seals the wounds, whether from bravery or fear or some other motive entirely. The reasons matter little. He knows this is not yet over, and it is that which counts.

She knows, too: knows that, while he finds comfort in her arms, he does not love her first or foremost. His heart is given over to Death these long years now, and whatever warmth she may steal from him is far more transitory and fleeting than even the briefest of affairs. They are an unlikely pairing, each selfish in what they want from this, but respect commanded honesty, and from honesty grew a certain understanding. She knows why he does this, even if she does not approve. Most nights, it is enough.

Tonight, when she finds him sitting amid broken glass and crimson ribbons, she does not speak. Words would only complicate things. Instead she coaxes him to his feet and out of his robes, daubs his forearms gently with damp cloth, traces her wand over the wounds to finish the healing. And then, when he has been cleansed of the blood, she takes him into her arms and kisses him, and he seems to wake up for the first time as she tries, if only for a little while, to heal his soul.

Much later, he lies sleeping beside her, and she gently smoothes his hair. He seems so young, so fragile -- and yet stronger, in his own way, than any of them, to have not yet broken. She knows, though she wants to lie to herself, that it is only a matter of time before he does take Death's hand, and the thought no longer brings grief. He has accepted it, and she could not but do the same. Instead of weeping for the inevitable, she strokes one wrist -- so thin, with scarred skin stretched tightly over sharp bones. Oh, yes; she understands, though at times she is not sure what. His scars are only the more visible of the two.

That, perhaps, is why she stays with him into the night, slipping out only before dawn. To keep his nightmares at bay, and maybe stave off her own as well. To dwell here, for a time, on the hinterlands of possibility, where one can imagine waking and finding the nightmares only that -- imagine peace, if only in dreams.

Skin stretches over muscle, sleek beneath fur, as she changes and pads across the blankets. She tucks herself in the hollow of his shoulder, head nestled beneath his jaw, sparing him one last look before curling up a little more comfortably. Reassured by his presence, reassuring him with hers, she gives herself over, however briefly, to the sweet oblivion of sleep.