Reading the Will

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Reading the Will

Chapter 3

Angelica Wilkes rose slowly from the cold ground. She glanced back over her shoulder, then turned toward Hogsmeade, where she would Floo back home from the Three Broomsticks. Since she came before the sun had found its way to the valley floor, she would once again be unseen as she left his grave. She knew he would prefer it this way, to continue in secrecy, unseen and hidden.

For the last twenty years, Angelica had hidden. Bella had seen to that without even knowing what she had done. It mattered not that no mark graced Angelica's arm, or that Severus had hidden her years ago. The Ministry assumed she was as guilty of the same unspeakable acts as her husband was, as Bella had been with hers. As if marriage were a contamination. Angelica Wilkes, the widow of a Death Eater finally taken down, they deemed guilty by association.

As time went on, not only the Ministry looked for her, but also the dark side sought her out as a blood traitor. Again, Severus spirited her away, and bore the cost of her keep. He walked between the two sides, always a step ahead of the hunt, pulling her along from place to place, refusing to give her up. Then refusing to give them up.

At first, he had protected her as the wife of a friend; later, he protected a friend's widow. Only after he allowed her to share his life so closely had she seen him for what he was. Only after she had accepted him in her bed from loneliness had she found she was lonelier still when he was here, dreading the time he would leave.

Now she hid from three worlds. Two were worlds of war and retribution, belonging to the Ministry of Light and the Death Eaters still fighting for the dark. The third world, that of a Secret Keeper's secret life that he would still want hidden.

So, Angelica hid today from habit, and from her knowledge that he would want their lives kept secret, out of the Daily Prophet's columns. Away from that Potter boy that seemed intent of digging into his past. She was careful never to use her magic near the grave, or to lay flowers over his name in fear that her magic would be traced or the scent of the flowers linger on her clothing.

Severus never mentioned her name to others or brought her gifts when he would come to her late at night. It was enough for them just to have the time together, as just the time at his grave was enough for her now.

She reached the Three Broomsticks and found Rosmerta waiting with a hot cup of tea, the sign still turned to closed on the front door.

"Ah Ro, 'tis uncalled for," she said in her lilting voice.

"It's getting colder at night. I always find just before the light the worse for it." Rosmerta pushed the cup across the table and nodded to the empty chair. "I got fresh bread in the oven and managed to find some late season berries. I didn't go getting up just to let you use the Floo. You eat, girl, you look peaky. "

"Tea smells good," Angelica said with a smile.

"It's the last of the tin. Only one other would ever order it. Too bitter for most, what they call an acquired taste." Rosmerta picked up her mug with both hands and sipped the hot brew, peering over the rim. "So, think I should put in more? You ask for it every time you come."

Angelica leaned back in her chair, pulling her cloak tight. She looked back at Rosmerta, unsure of how to answer.

"You are the only other that knew I carried it." Rosmerta leaned over the table, setting down her cup. "Now, say what you will, but after thirty years sitting in this chair I see a lot, and what I see now is a witch not keeping her secret very well."

Angelica blanched and stood quickly, turning to the fireplace when Rosmerta hurried to her and grabbed her elbow. "No call to be running off, just us two in here. You are welcomed, as was he."

"I have to leave." Angelica yanked her arm away. "I am sorry to bother you at this time of morn."

Running to the fireplace, she threw down the powder and as the green flames carried her up, she turned to look at Rosmerta, wondering how she could have been so foolish as to slip up like this. She stepped out into her cottage shaking, knowing she had been careless, and thought for a moment that Severus would be angry before she remembered why he would not.

She still expected to see him come walking up the path, or to see him out on the cliffs, his black robes and hair caught up and flying around him in the salty wind. On quiet nights, she could close her eyes and hear his voice call to her in the breeze and feel his breath on her shoulders as the warm summer currents floated in the window.

She had tried to remember the times his tongue had cut with some caustic remark, or how he had scowled if she was walking in the meadow when he came, not waiting for him in the doorway or asleep in his chair. She tried to remember his anger and rage when she had first told him she would leave, and take care of herself, that she would no longer hide.

Then she would remember how his eyes had not matched the anger, how his breath had hitched as he demanded she stay inside for her safety, and how gentle his arms had felt as he pulled her to him instinctively in his sleep.

She fell onto the bed, fully clothed, and wrapped the blanket around her, hugging his pillow to her face, breathing in his fading scent, wondering how much longer it would stay. She fell asleep to the sound of his snores in her dreams and the memory of his embrace.

She woke as the sun was setting. This had been the time she would most look forward to. The times he did not have patrol, or during the years of Voldemort's reign, when he would not be called away. She would curl up in his chair and read a book he had brought from the Hogwarts' library and hope that he would come. More times than not she would sleep alone in the chair waiting for him, then wake to face the new day alone.

He was not here, and he was here still. His robes still hung by the door. His books rested on the shelves, and scattered around the small cottage, a lifetime of remembrances still sat where she could see. She had tried four times to clear the place of him, to pack his clothing and empty his lab. Each time she had spent the entire day picking up each item and remembering when they purchased it, or how it fit in his hand. Unable to be rid of anything, she had stopped each of those four times, knowing he would scowl at her and call her foolish, insist she finish the job, then gently chide her and tell her to stop if she did not wish to finish.

He had told her he would not survive the war, that he would fall in the final battle. Unsure of Voldemort's outcome, he was sure of his own. Both sides would throw curses at him. Both sides would look at him as a traitor. He would rush headlong into the foray knowing it would be his last decision, intent only on making sure Lily's son completed his duty. Intent on insuring that both children born in the seventh month would survive. It was a decision that came easily to him, without a thought, as if no decision had been made.

Today she would finish what she had started so many times. Today she would finally manage to put him behind her and walk away. She walked through the cottage, opening every drawer to dump the contents on the floor. She pulled everything out of the closets and let the clothes lay where they fell.

His books, she pushed off shelves and the pensieves she had forced him to keep, smashed and his memories released. She no longer needed to prove his innocence. She no longer needed assurance that he had been hers. She closed her eyes and tipped up her chin, wondering what it felt like to pray, and then with a sigh she continued to search for the journals she knew he kept secret even from her.

Finding a stack of deep red notebooks on the topmost shelf of the closet, she flipped open the first and smiled as she read the inscription on the inside cover. She looked at the remaining journals and knew what he planned for her to do.

"Git," she said aloud. "Still pulling the strings."

She looked around the room, seeing nothing that she needed to remember him with, and, pointing her wand at the mess of the floor, set his clothes ablaze. She waited, watching as the fire consumed his life. She watched as it licked the walls and sent out hungry tongues of flame until the ceiling exploded with building heat and roared into life, forcing her to step backwards out of the door.

Hugging the journals to her breast, she walked away from their home, knowing there was nothing to keep her here, and knowing that he would insist she leave, to keep moving, to be safe. She heard the roar of raging wind as the flames engulfed the structure, and smelled the last of him in the acrid black smoke that billowed up to the sky.

Without looking back, she walked down the sloping hill to the dirt path that led to the road. She would walk to the village and have tea. She would order two cups of his favourite bitter blend, and pretend, just this one last time, that he would met her there and walk her home.