What We Don't See

Millicent paused, panting behind the back of the closed door. Outside she could hear them passing by, a group, while she had nobody. Her breath seemed to be screaming in and out of her body, she was breathing so hard. This body was filled with pain. It disgusted her. She remembered back painfully, as she slid onto the wooden floor. The words came echoing back, ten times, a hundred times louder than when she had heard them, whispered amongst themselves, about her. "Bulky Bulstrode"... "Moronic Millicent"... "Fat bitch"... "Slug"... or this time, "That horrible Millicent completely destroyed my potion, she stood on my foot when I was supposed to be putting a pinch of aconite into my Deadly Nightshade sleep potion. This is the first time I have ever failed anything, even in Snape's class." She could remember Harry and Ron leaning close to the devastated Hermione, who was struggling not to cry.

"She's just a bitch, don't worry about her..." said Harry as he struggled to find a clean handkerchief in his cluttered pockets.

Ron just kept rubbing her back ineffectually and saying, "She is just a dumb cow, a dumb fat ugly cow".

She had been hiding behind one of the statues, around a corner, hoping to catch Hermione unaware. She had wanted to say sorry. But they were there as a group and she could see them out of the corner of her eye standing together. There was no way that she could lower her pride to talk to her in the middle of them. After a while she couldn't stand it, crouching low and hearing them say everything. Every single bad evil word that she could remember being told. They were saying all those about her. She didn't mean it. All the words skittering around her head. She wanted to put her hands over her ears and stop them, hold them out, force them out, but they weren't just words from Harry and Ron, they were everybody's words. She had tried to outrun them. But even the sounds of her running feet could not drown out the sounds of words.

Muggles had a saying; she had learned it in Muggle studies, even though she, like everyone else from Slytherin, pretended to be arrogantly disdainful of those classes that intimated that purebloods should understand the background of the mudbloods. A saying, "Sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you". That was a lie, they couldn't hear inside her head, or they would know different. They would understand that words can hurt more than anything else. Sticks and stones, well she had had enough of them thrown at her as well, but they bruised or bled, and then got on with existing. Whereas the words stayed in her head, multiplied; she even made some up herself, because she hated herself.

The wooden floor felt peculiarly right. She deserved to be pressed down onto the wooden hardness. She wasn't worthy of softness, or someone would have said it earlier and she would have eavesdropped it. This huge ponderous body disgusted her, she could not quite make up her mind as to whether it was really her body or not. It didn't feel quite right, as if it was a disguise. But she knew in her heart of hearts that she really deserved this body, as she deserved all the words.

She had run from them, hoping that they did not hear her, that they did not run after her, that she could ran far enough so that she could hide. There was no question of her being able to run far enough away that the words, slowing and lagging behind, would be unheard for a second of bliss. Running hurt, her lungs dragged air in and out, pulling it in. It did not feel like it was good air. The right air. The air she needed to breathe. Panting like an elephant on heat, she stared to the left and right for a door to a room that no one would enter. Her face seemed to throb in time with her heart, reddening far beyond the speed that she was capable of. She found a door and pulling it open she pulled her shuddering jellied body in with her. She leaned against the door panting. Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. Words that she had intended to say to Hermione, had instead got caught in her throat, and were choking her with their leaden length.

She had just... she hadn't intended to make Hermione fail. Unlike most of the Slytherins, she didn't really care about the distinction of Muggles and Muggleborns and Squibs and Purebloods. It was your actions that defined you rather than your background. Pureblood, what the hell did that mean? For how long were they Purebloods? Were they like a different race or something that they were never Muggles? That was a lie. She had learned otherwise in her investigations. She studied the history of magical users, as well as reading some biology books that she had smuggled in to her house. These had seemed to indicate that in a sense, they were all Mudbloods. It's just that "Purebloods" had more experience in hiding it.

It hadn't been intentional, she hadn't wanted to do that to Hermione; it's just that Millicent had not been looking at where her feet was going. She had seen Hermione in the bench next to her, talking to Neville and she just got so interested that she didn't realise. She didn't notice that her feet were moving her closer and closer to Hermione until she was almost on top of her. This was just as Hermione was putting the aconite in. All of a sudden she had looked up and realised that Malfoy was looking at her, with a strange expression on his face. Her face had gone bright red, and her childish clumsiness returned at an inopportune time. She had just wanted to get away, to leave the classroom, to remove herself from that expectant look. She didn't want to do anything, not to Hermione of all people. But what could she do? She couldn't let them think that she was a poor excuse for a Slytherin. Just because they worked as a team to beat Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, didn't mean that they played Happy families in their quarters. She was trying desperately to think of something to escape from that look. What could she do? All she could think of was to leave the classroom. But even though Professor Snape was the head of Slytherin, she did not think that she could get away with it. So she had stumbled back, kicking Hermione's leg as she almost dashed back to her seat.

Malfoy had smiled then, she couldn't stand it. She knew that he thought that she had done it on purpose and he approved. Out of all the people in Slytherin, Draco, unusually, did not tease her, indeed he almost tried to stay out of her way, most of the time. She thought she knew why. She could see it in his eyes sometimes, it was the same look that she had in hers, occasionally, when she looked in the mirror, and thought that she saw something that she shouldn't.

It was just that Hermione was so interesting, she explained everything so well. Millicent wasn't dumb, it was just that she hid what intelligence she had. She liked hearing someone who was intelligent and not afraid to use it, not afraid to be a tall poppy. She wished she was like that, but all she could do was try to crowd the back seat, the middle class position, the forgotten position. Unlike most other classes, in Potions she showed her intelligence, showed how well she did, because she understood that was what Snape wanted. She wanted to keep on his good side. It wasn't that she worried that he would have devoted his sarcastic tongue to her, she wouldn't have minded, there was a difference between his caustic remarks and everyone else's. His were never personally thrown, arrowed at her, to cut and wound. They were just part of him. It's just that sometimes she could see something in his eyes too. Something that she recognised. His voice and complaints were his answer, her bullying and hiding was hers, Malfoy, well he just tried to confront, to have an arch nemesis, to battle an enemy that was actually inside. But just because you know the problem, doesn't mean that you can solve it, you just exist with it.

It seemed to her that Hermione was everything that she was not, happy, with two friends, intelligent, and above all, not afraid to be herself. Millicent always had to work to get the marks she did, not that she was stupid at all. It was just that it was not a good idea to be smartest in Slytherin, unless you had back up, something behind you to support you from a fall. She rather that she knew the stuff and kept that information hidden, than that she could seen to be the head of a class. Remember to be dumb, not dumb but fit in, look normal, like everyone else, her Great-Uncle had taught her that. Fit in and no one will ever notice that you are different. Because if they notice, they will stab and pick more, weakness just drives them into a frenzy. She was weak now, but a controlled weak, she knew where she stood, and it wasn't a happy ground, but it was steady. Whereas if they knew, how much further could she fall?

There was a small tentative knock at the door. She ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would just go away. Sympathy or hate was undesirable. They burned. Filled her mouth with the unwashed scummy taste of vomit at the back of her throat. Silently pressed against the door, she prayed to some figure, any figure would do, just one that would make this person go away. But it wouldn't. The knocks grew louder. They even rattled the door handle. She began to get scared that it might attract the attention of a teacher. Whoever was out there, whatever they were going to do had to be better than being found out by a teacher. She scrubbed at her eyes trying to hide the drying lines of salt water. Scrubbing so hard with her jumper sleeves that she made her eyes more noticeably red than before. She resolved herself that if it was a boy, or even if it was a girl, she would say that it was her period. Maybe then they would leave her alone, staggering away in furtive disapproval that she had actually used a word like that to these prissy children. They pretended all the time to be so worldly wise, but it was just a sham. Just like her acting that she was just like a typical Slytherin, just like a normal Slytherin with nothing else on her mind but teasing and cunning, and the prospect of beating everyone else, through any means, to push her ambition.

Thinking all this and leaning against the door for support, she pushed herself up from her foetal position. She held her stomach region, hoping that this would fool them and she would be left alone. She opened the door and peered out. Her eyes assuming the familiar angry snarl look. And stopped. Professor Snape stood against the inside of the door staring at her. She sagged. He just looked at her. She could see the sympathy in his eyes and it burned. She wanted to scream, die, swoon with the pain, the agony of seeing that he knew. Knew her dirty little secret. All she could do was stand there looking at him. Her body taut. He reached for her. His arm out. She shrunk back. It was an unavoidable response. He stopped that hand before it reached her, and smiled awkwardly. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean anything. Just come inside before anyone sees you, and it gets all over Slytherin, let alone all over the rest of the school." All she could do was nod, and she let him in moving from against the door, to stand without outside support. As he quietly, like a cat almost walked inside the door, closing it behind him before turning to face her.

"I saw... saw you running... heard them and I thought that you might need someone..." For someone who always seemed to have the perfect insult, he seemed to stutter along with sympathetic helpful remarks. She couldn't say anything. Didn't know what to say. What could she say? Nothing came to mind. Her mind was empty except her remembering her recoil from him. She was sorry for that.

"Sorry," she muttered swaying. It felt wrong to stand.

"Sorry what for?" he asked back.

"Sorry I turned from you. It wasn't you..." she said. She was almost glad now; he had not said anything about Him yet. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe she had mistaken the comprehension in his eyes... maybe. She hoped with crossed fingers that lay curled behind her back.

"I should have known better. I should have said something earlier... I thought that I recognised it earlier... but... but I couldn't believe my eyes... didn't want to believe them. Wanted to think that the only broken thing in the wizard world was me... I was wrong.... I'm sorry. I should have known better... said something anything..." The words spilled out of his mouth. Raining over her like a winter downpour. He had known.

Did he know what it felt like to have dirty fingers on his body? Fingers that were wrinkled and mottled with age. That clutched a wand... that had clutched a wand... and said the words "Imperio". Did he know what it felt like to drop, like a puppet with the strings removed and then now lies slumped on the floor to be played with by the children? She crumpled onto the floor. It was an unconscious habit almost. To hear the word, remember the word "Imperio", and then collapse onto the floor until he decided what he wanted. Snape got down on his knees, and moved closer. He moved closer, and then stopped, keeping a certain distance between them.

It felt good to know that he would only move closer on her word. She said it: "Come closer". He came closer still, but not touching, never touching. An empowered feeling arose as she told him to "come closer, come closer". Until she could reach out and touch him. She did. He felt soft and pliable, but hidden under his robes. He let her touch him and stayed still, he would not touch her back. Not like those fingers that grabbed and clutched meaty handfuls of her flesh. Crushing her breasts under its grasp. Grasping and grasping and grabbing and pulling and she couldn't do a thing. She couldn't stop it. She couldn't move. Sometimes it had felt so good that she had wanted to bite on her lip until the blood choked out and dribbled onto her chin. That she was so disgusting that she could actually enjoy it, when she hated it. She was a vomitous mass of playdo in someone else's fingers, and it hurt to know that she could almost enjoy it sometimes, when she hated it so much. How could he know what it felt like, this pain and pleasure and immobility?

She retched briefly, remembering the afterwards, when he had finished with her, and she was left lying in the bed. When he had taken the Imperius curse off, but she still couldn't move against his will. Just lay there like a moist used towel that has been thrown in the bin. How she had lain there until he had left, always, every time. Then she always dragged herself to the bathroom and knelt before the porcelain bowl and retched over and over again in the direction of the bowl, even trying to put her fingers down her throat to pull the taste of his thrusting slobbering tongue out of her mouth. She had never been able to vomit. Just as this time she couldn't. If at least she could, then maybe, just maybe, she would be able to forget, get over it. But never ever was she able to, she almost pinned her hopes of salvation on this one act. To vomit up her old placid self who lay and couldn't resist. All her muscles exhausted from the attempts to resist and always, always failing.

She looked up at Snape, who had just stopped and looked with eyes that knew. Black eyes that held her mesmerised. For a second, just one second, but it was almost enough she could forget all this, forget everything. A blessed moment of peace from the surrounding world around her. Choking sobs, started to rip her up, as she imagined herself, without memories of sticky legs, which she scrubbed at, and tried to hide with food. The kind of person she could have been, and wasn't. He saw her arms reaching out, and gently pulled her into his arms. It was not an intimate sexual hold, but rather like a baby being rocked in its weeping drowsiness to sleep.

The door opened and someone walked quietly in. Professor Snape stared up and cursed himself for not locking the door. It was just he had been so urgent to hide her from the corridor and unfriendly misunderstanding eyes. He held up his wand, mentally preparing memory charms, while still rocking the closed eyes crying Millicent. It was Hermione with all her books for her next class. She stared open eyed for a second before she silently closed the door, leaving the room. He quietly whispered a locking spell hoping Millicent didn't hear, locked as she was in her memories, with her head curled into his chest. Millicent didn't, not in her agonised misery. He put the wand away, wondering briefly what on earth he was to do about this. He didn't know whether he could trust Hermione, but she was a Gryffindor, with all that implies, so maybe he could. Her eyes had looked so shocked. He hoped that he could trust her; there was no way that he could leave Millicent alone long enough to check. He just had to hope.

He had kept an eye on Millicent; for a little while, there had seemed to be something wrong, that had been wrong for a long time. But he just could not believe that it was happening to someone other than him. He had kept an eye on her and Draco, knowing their relatives it was probably not the most unexpected thing in the world. It was just, he honestly had hoped that this sort of activity only happened in the Muggle world. That he had been the anomaly in the wizarding world.

He remembered seeing what happened in class between Millicent and Hermione, but had randomly attributed it to Slytherin ambitious cunning. It happened regularly enough in his classes; the animosity between those two groups was enough to break up nearly any class. Except his, he had prided himself on that. He had had to find a pride of sorts from somewhere. He had let Hermione think that she had failed that one small potions class because it felt surprisingly good to fail such a know-all. After he had said that words he had felt that brief feeling of almost happiness, before feeling as though he had killed something, a feeling that he never wanted to feel again, but felt far too often. It was Hermione's face staring at him, so distraught that he consoled himself with the thought that he wouldn't let her fail the subject. Dear Merlin, he even passed Neville, there was no way that he would fail anyone else. He thought ruefully of Neville, it was amusing to have someone who would cringe before his awesome power. It compensated in its little ways for certain memories, sometimes, other times he could hardly believe what came out of his mouth.

Millicent clutched feebly at Snape's cloak, bringing his face closer to hers. Looking into each other's face the words she had been going to say were somehow hidden. Not choked away but rather forgotten. They leaned closer than they had intended. Gently their lips touched. She wonderingly brought her hand to touch his face, it felt smooth and pliable under her questing fingers, and then into his hair. It curled into her fingers, and surprisingly, for she had half believed all those "greasy haired git" comments that all the Gryffindors used, it felt soft and dry. Black against her pink fingers. Their tongues met, and she could taste his whole mouth, it tasted sweet, like caramel toffees. She wanted to explore his body. It didn't feel wrong with him like it had when it had been against her will and wishes. Now she could control the movements. To turn him inside out with her explorative tongue.

He could not believe that this was happening. To have this pliant body in his arms and mouth against his mouth, when he had been physically alone for so long time. He had kept a physical distance from everyone, and had masked his emotional feelings, so they had felt distanced as well. And now, he had only expected to comfort her, he hadn't expected at the time what this would lead to.

He had kept an eye on her for a long time, but unlike his known favouritism with Draco he had kept hers hidden. He had thought that she would not welcome it, would indeed be frightened off, whereas Draco leaned towards the power implicit in such a relationship with a teacher. She had been an anomaly. She did medium well in every class. As the Slytherin head he had checked her marks, for all her subjects, and found in every one she was almost the absolute medium. The middle. In everything and had been since halfway through first year, after the holidays. Before that she had seemed to be reasonably intelligent and had indeed seemed to challenge Draco in many subjects to be the top in Slytherin. And then slipped back to the middle to be hidden in the masses. There had been something strange in that, he had not noticed it at first, attributed it to the usual boy troubles or homesickness, or even what occasionally happens is that the purebloods seem to be doing fantastic in the first semester simply because their parents or tutors, usually taught them something before they went to Hogwarts. With other worries that came along that seemed to indicate the re-emergence of the Dark Lord he had become increasingly distant from the concerns of Slytherin House, and it was only now, when the threat had been here so long that he had become accustomed to it, that he began to notice things like her.

Her and her face, which had become more and more wan as she shrunk more into herself, as each year had gone by it got worse, and nothing had happened to stop this. He had started following her and watching, and wondering, hoping desperately that it was something else than what he had always thought. Always thought, but had tried to hide from himself.

He had watched her learn her lessons in forgotten classrooms, so well that she could have given Hermione a run for her money in the magical knowledge she knew. He had hidden in the classroom, watching her leave after everyone else and after securing his important papers away, he had drunk an invisibility potion and followed her out, locking the door. He had heard them; Harry, Ron and Hermione in their Gryffindor huddle, before walking on, on cats feet, to where Millicent sat crouched behind the statue. Had seen her face as hidden behind the statue, it became free with its emotions. He had run after her, and when she slammed the door, he stood outside silent. Saw the three Gryffindors pass him before drinking the visibility potion, which left an aftertaste of caramel in his mouth and knocked.

He couldn't explain it to himself. Good sense alone told him that no-one, especially not a Slytherin, would want anyone, even one of their own, to see them in such unmitigated misery. He just had to, there was no rhyme or reason for his actions, except for an overwhelming desire to comfort the girl who always hid herself, and was a mystery to him, his mystery.

And now this mystery girl was in his arms, he held her very tenderly, his arms were not restrictive, but rather encircling. He would not show her what someone could do with the strength in their arms alone. People did not need magic to control, and for all that it hurt him, he would not hold her as tightly as he wanted to. He wanted to be able to hold her forever like this, even though it hurt to sit like this, but he wanted her to know right now that at any moment she could leave him. Walk away, run away if she wanted to, and he would not stop her, because he would not if that was what she wanted. He could only hope that she would stay. Her body was warm and soft in his arms, and her lips pressed so tight against his that he had hopes that she would stay this way. Let them be together.

It felt so good to be the one in control, to be able to use her arms and know that they were under her control. They caressed his hair, which fell forward and gently tickled her face. She had always felt something for him. Something undeniable in his face, even in first year. She had been stumbling up, short and stubby, with long black hair that threatened to come out of the prim braids that they had been confined into by her nurse, who then waved her off at the station, and left her alone. Then she had got to Hogwarts. She had been separated from the rest, staring up at the walls, talking to the portraits until she had got lost. She had sat down and sniffled and she had seen him, and he had taken her back. He had still been mouthing those usual insults, but she had looked above his mouth to his eyes. Her nurse had told her to never trust someone's mouth to show you their personality. Study their eyes instead: "Those are the windows to the soul," she had told her, and Millicent had listened. She had stared up at him as he held her hand and guided her back to the corner before, the place where all the others were gathered. He had left her there, telling her that the others had been around the corner, and they had been. When the sorting hat had been on her head, she had told the hat that she wanted to be in the house that the tall man in black was, the one with the nice eyes. It seemed very childish now, but then she had been so solemn, she knew that she could trust him.

Just as she did now. He still had his wand, he could do anything to her, but she trusted him all the same. Because she knew that despite the fact that he knew all the words and had all the accoutrements, he couldn't do what her great-uncle had done to her. It wasn't in his eyes. Those were what she trusted. She was growing uncomfortable with this twisted position. She moved slightly, and he took it that she wanted to leave his embrace, he stiffened and moved back. There was hurt and acceptance in his eyes. "I want you," she said firmly, and pushed him gently back on the floor.

He stared at her. "I want you too." He was lying back flat on the floor, he reached up for her. She crawled over his legs, until she was straddling him. She leaned down and kissed him, and sat back up again staring at him. He was breathing heavily.

"Why don't we make this a little more comfortable?" She pulled out her wand. "Transformo Cubicularis Lustrum grandis." The room, which had previously been a old classroom, which studious students would use to practise in, was now a large bedchamber, with reds and blacks everywhere. The bed which Millicent and Severus now lay on was the size of a small room; the sheets were black silk, and caressed those bits of their bodies which were already naked to the air.

"My, the schooling has changed since I first was here... I wish that they had taught me how to transfigure a classroom into a room from a Bordello..." Severus said staring around at him.

"You are just jealous... and incidentally I didn't learn this from school technically. I found a book in the library and I practised...". She smiled briefly and then looked sad. "I suppose it does look like a brothel... am I the whore?"

"What are you saying?" He had to stare up, straining his neck.

"It feels like that is all I ever am. Some sexual object, not even particularly sexual right now, who gets used, and then forgotten..." She got off his lap and crawled to the edge of the bed and sat there staring out. "If I am not his whore then I am my own. Why am I so disgusting?"

"Don't say that. You aren't a whore, and I am not...I'm not.... I want you," he seemed to struggle with the words, it hurt to say them, but that was not going to stop him. "But I am not going to keep you... or make you do anything you don't want, if you don't want to. I want you right now, but by Merlin I'm not going to let you keep on calling yourself a whore, we don't have to do anything. I just wanted to tell you that. That I want you, but that doesn't have to mean anything to you. I have some idea of what you are going through... and if you need me for whatever reason I will be around for you..."

"Your eyes are so cruel, you know. They make me want to sit next to you, over you under you, feel your body and your soul, if that doesn't sound too dumb. I really feel something for you... but I don't know what to do about it...I don't know what to do about anything, me you, the..." she said looking at him, staring painfully. "Words themselves seem to stick in my throat, the real ones, and all I am left with are these clumsy words that don't say the truth half as much. I like you, so much, so long, and you sit there...one of the only people that I felt that ...that meant something to me... even though they didn't know that they meant something to me. And what does this mean... all I know for certain is that I feel scarred inside, and now I am probably going to fuck around with your head... because if I can't understand my own mind how can I be stable enough for you?"

"You don't have to be stable for me... you just have to be you, because that is who I like... just I do know something of what you have felt... a little... everyone is different... and the only expectation I have from this is that I like you because you are special..."

"Really," she turned to face him, almost childlike in her happiness.

"You are so beautiful..." he said.

"I can't believe that...."

He looked at her full on and moved closer to her crawling across the sheets. "Well you are... and I will convince you of that. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder right? Well this beholder is beholding someone very beautiful." She just looked solemn at these words, unlike any other girls who would be simpering with pleasure, but she stayed still and let him approach. Let him put his arms around her, reaching from the back to loop his fingers just above her own laced fingers. She leaned back into his embrace, and felt his lips gently press fiery kisses down her neck to the collar of her cloak, and left his lips pressed there gently.

Her head felt guilty for the thoughts she had had of them, that while she was with him she could still remember the other arms. The arms that felt so different to these ones. Those had been plump and yet sagging, drooping onto her face, whereas these were warm and strong and comfortable, safe.

They let each other just rest in their mutual silent presence. A physical oneness that had largely before for the both of them been against their struggling will.

"I can help you, legally, officially as the head of Slytherin, but only if you want..."

She paused, the silence seemed to last too long but this was her life that she was giving into his hands with this. Awkwardness was beginning to settle in before she told him, "Yes I would like that." She looked at her watch; it was half an hour until suppertime. "Maybe we should go now, and get this 'official stuff' done." He nodded and reluctantly let her out of his arms. She turned around and rubbed her face against his, before moving back. Her back felt cold now, deprived of a psychic limb. But she had to be strong. He was already strong, but he had years of practise behind him.

She stood up and nonchalantly waved her wand. "Contra Transformo," and the room returned in all its dusty glory, as the black and red ribbons of the fabric of the room came fluttering to the centre before disappearing into thin air.

He smiled briefly, it was unusual, and lit up his whole face. "To business then my dear?" She smiled too, and they walked hand in hand to the door, a short distance, until they must present the same faces they always had.

He opened the door and they walked, him in front, and her struggling behind in the wake of his waving cloak. Walking along the corridor, past the Potions room to his office that was only a short distance behind. Inside he was the same as he had been in the room, almost like a little boy, eager for her approval, despite the fact that he was nearly twice her age. He solicitously led her to the chair opposite his, and while he moved around the desk, she stared around her. It was a modest room. Sparse almost, with only the desk and two chairs really as furniture to this room. He sat across from her, the desk separating them. It felt wrong somehow. They awkwardly shifted in their seats, that they must be separated even when away from prying eyes seemed wrong.

She couldn't touch him, couldn't bear to be touched by him, it just felt so similar. If only she could take some potion and let it all be forgotten, and then she would just lean across and touch him. But even though she felt physically sick at the thought of anyone touching her, she still could not refrain from the thought of what it had felt like in his arms.

She took a deep breath in, "What can you do for me?" It felt weird to have it all in the open to have said it, and now he would protect her, be her shining knight in armour for no reward or what reward. What was to be his compensation? These thoughts clashed and bounced among her head til she could breath for the infernal thinking of it all.

"Who is it?" he said.

How could she tell him? How could she let the words past her lips? It was almost incomprehensible that after all these silent passive years, she could just let all this out to someone else. She had dreamed, hoped for it, but never really imagined the physical realities. He could sense her discomfort, her unwillingness to talk. How do you say what has been bottled up inside for gods knows how long? He couldn't stand to be behind the desk any more and stood up. Too fast and jerky, it dragged her thoughts from her inner contemplation to his confusion. He didn't want to hear and yet he needed to, she needed to, and he didn't think that there was anyone that she would trust as much as she trusted him right now.

"This feels wrong," he said uttering the words that they had both been feeling. "Come into my room...". She stood up and followed him, anything to delay the inevitable of speaking. He pulled aside a curtain and seemed to open the wall itself up. She followed him inside. Inside he sat her on the couch. Mutely she followed all commands, and he turned to a corner where bustling he made her a drink. The steaming hot Butterbeer he brought to her like a courtier, very gracefully and not spilling a drop. Then he picked up a blanket that had been tucked underneath the couch and wrapped it round her, without managing to touch her at all. She was grateful for that.

Suddenly the words needed to be said. She had thought over them, over and over again and still no resolution there was only the need to speak, and right here right now seemed right. "My great-uncle Mortimer," she said pausing anxiously, as she watched his back, while his front paused in its setting up of a fire. He said nothing, but finished setting out the fire, he then set it alight and turned to face her. He sat on the ground and looked at her face, she became the storyteller in this tableau. His very silence impelled her to speak.

"When I was in first year I ... in the holidays of first year, my uncle, great uncle that is, but we just called him uncle for convenience, well he... in my first year... you are not going to understand anything... I have to explain, You see it all comes down to a few things, ... my um parents did not particularly care for my company, they rather preferred that of their own and their other overbred friends... I was sort of... well a mistake, well not a mistake but more a duty, that's it.... Because it is every purebloods true mission in life to propagate their 'species' in order to drown out the muggle borns with sheer numbers. The only thing was once they had me they really didn't want me around much... except sometimes as a prop, so I was pretty much left to my nurse. When I came to Hogwarts my nurse was sent away, I didn't realise that it happened until I came home, they all thought that I was too old for a nurse now and should be left to my own devices rather than them paying a woman to entertain me, so I never got to say goodbye. Goodbye to her... I couldn't stand it in the manor with my parents inane pureblood chatter, which it seemed was about all that they could talk about, so when I heard from them that my uncle, great-uncle Mortimer had returned from Romania to live permanently in England and that he wanted to invite me to stay with him.... well I said yes.... And so it was all my own fault, I just couldn't stand home without my mum, my nurse that is, I used to call her mum because she was my mum, more than the one who had me in her belly for nine months. Couldn't stand my parents and their not... not even considering me or her... and so I went and I stayed with him. So it was my fault." She said this with bitter pursed lips. Regret the knowledge that it was really her own fault tore at her, crushed her body and mind. She deserved it.

She stopped, the words no longer flowed as freely as they had before. He sat silent and just let her talk, if she wanted to talk anymore. He was a silent sympathetic presence and she almost felt like she could say anything and he wouldn't mind, but only in these rooms. Everywhere else he put up the façade but here. Here was him and her and it felt like home. She hadn't felt that for a while. It felt good.