Casting Shadows

Chapter 8

Another Way

Ella backed slowly out of the room, her eyes wide with horror at what she had seen. Her daughter was under the malign influence of a monster they had all thought long dead. How could they have been so wrong about his supposed defeat? How could they have carried on with their lives, careless of the threat that simply slept, biding its time until circumstance gave it yet another chance for revenge?

Her daughter. Her beloved child. Her all.

She turned as she reached the door to the landing, and fled along the short corridor, running down the stairs as desperately as if wolves were snapping at her heels. She burst in on her husband just as he had begun to decant a clear blue potion from one flask into another.

"Severus! Severus, it's getting worse, I know it is!"

Some time later, Severus Snape sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. He could allow himself a few moments of despair, since Ella was still to join him. They had agreed to try to rest, in the hope that a meeting with Albus Dumbledore in the morning might produce a possible solution. For many years, Dumbledore had been the only wizard Voldemort had feared. Snape hoped against all hope that the old man still had a few tricks up his sleeve, for it appeared that they might be running out of time.

He felt helpless. In all the years he had spent working for first Dumbledore and then the Order, he had maintained such mastery of his emotions, exhibited such cold efficiency, that he had, ultimately and to his grim satisfaction, prevailed. He had stayed alive. He had never let his mask slip, and Voldemort had not suspected where his true loyalties lay until it was too late. As a spy, he had been an unqualified success.

In all his years as a teacher, month after month after miserable month of trying to jam essential and elegant facts into heedless dunderheads, he had never given up on a student, however inept. Even such hopeless cases as Neville Longbottom and the youngest Creevey had benefited from his teaching. He brooked no failure in his students, and so considered himself a success in his profession.

His research, too, had been gratifyingly meaningful. Although his difficult position had prevented him from being as productive as he would have liked, and his history had tarnished whatever reputation his achievements might have allowed, still he had enjoyed limited success.

He had never thought to have a happy life, but then he had met Ella. She had always been, and always would be, the lodestone of his life. All that he did, all that he was, revolved around her. He had loved her to distraction from very early on in their acquaintance, and now, after eleven years spent basking in the warmth of her company, he truly felt that she was part of him, integral to his sense of who and where he was in the world. He knew she felt the same, but he worried about her because sometimes, and he did not know why, she would torture herself with groundless fears and wild imaginings, convinced that she would lose all she held dear for the incomprehensible reason that she was somehow not worthy of happiness. Of all women, he felt, she deserved to walk on rose-strewn footpaths all her life, surrounded by gladness and love.

He wondered whether her neuroses stemmed from the loss of her parents and baby sister when she was barely twenty years old. He had been responsible for the lethal poison that had despatched them so cruelly. He had witnessed their death throes, appalled and repelled as his fellow Death Eaters stood around making sport of their suffering. He had done nothing.

He had confessed all to Ella many years before, shortly after their marriage, and she had forgiven him; so, indeed, had the spectres of her parents. Nevertheless, he would never forgive himself. He loved her so deeply that to think about causing her any pain, or to remember the pain he had unwittingly caused her in the past, cut through him like a knife. He was devoted to making her happy, and to doing the same for the children she had borne him. All in all, and to his endless surprise, he had succeeded. Failure would have been unthinkable.

Failure was unthinkable. Finding a cure for his daughter was the single most important obligation of his life so far, and was proving to be the least attainable. He did not know what he would do, if he lost Persephone. He did not know what would happen to Ella. He could not bear to lose her too. As for Celsus, the son he had always longed for but had never hoped to have, who looked just like Ella but who had his eyes, his irrepressible boy...he would be crushed. Snape's entire family would be ruined.

He could not let it happen. He would not.

"Severus, what are you doing?"

He was gripping his knees so tightly that his knuckles were white and his shoulders hunched in fear. He opened his eyes with a start to see that Ella had re-entered the room and was slipping the silk robe from her shoulders, ready to climb into their bed. Naked underneath, her softly rounded body provoked an instinctive reaction in him and he let out an involuntary gasp. She drew near to him and ran her hand through his hair.

"Nothing, love. It was nothing," he murmured in what he hoped was a convincing tone. He heard her sigh and she gathered him to her so that his nose pressed into the comforting flesh of her belly, her breasts grazing the top of his head. His arms closed around her back, his elbows across her buttocks. Even after so many years of loving her, of making love to her and being loved in return, he still found himself irresistibly aroused by her.

He willed his erection to go away. It was completely inappropriate to be thinking about making love to her when their daughter was in such mortal peril. They had not made love since the eve of Persephone's birthday. How could they? They had been desperately worried, and their fears had hardly abated since their reunion. The atmosphere had hardly been conducive to passion or romance. Indeed, the atmosphere between Snape and his wife had been too jagged, too raw and painful for even the usual domestic civilities and they had spent day after day in distant yearning, each unwilling to emerge from their protective carapace to offer any commiseration to the other.

Breathing was problematic, with his nose and mouth enfolded by the jasmine-scented warmth of his wife, but he ignored his discomfort and pressed his lips to her skin, nuzzling softly as he held her close, wanting this rare moment of unity to last. He missed her so much, body and soul. She had been there and yet not there, and he had been painfully aware that she was drifting back into depression. Gentle fingers ran through his hair and he heard her whisper his name,

"Severus..."

He took it as a reproach and he began to withdraw, half-guilty, half-resentful at the implied rejection. Could she not see how he needed the comfort offered by her warmth? However, he had been too quick to misinterpret her meaning as she refused to let him go, leaning over him to prevent him removing himself from her embrace.

"I need you," she said. He looked up, into her eyes. Green as a stormy sea on the cusp of twilight, they were, and he wanted to drown in them, in her, to sink into her and let her caresses envelop him and carry him off into darkness. Her hands had been stroking his hair, pressing his head to her, but now they fluttered across his face, searching its lines and contours for the comfort that years of familiarity and mutual need could offer her.

Ah, but he needed her too. As he reached to pull her down to him with a gesture that was as natural to him even as breathing, he felt a calm wash over him in waves. She was here and she was his, and she would heal his soul and soothe his anguish. She would ease the worry away, if only for a little while.

Acquiescent, she allowed him to pull her down until both lay side by side across the bed. Her skin was peach and ivory in the flickering candlelight, soft and cool as he ran his hands along her curves. Her eyes darkened and she pulled his head down to her for a kiss, tender at first and then, as his hand crept along her spine, more urgent. His tongue met hers surely, expertly winding together as they gave and took in turn. He ended the kiss and she sighed, the sweet exhalation pulling an invisible cord that led straight to his groin. This was wrong, it was right, he was frantic with worry for his daughter but oh, he needed his wife. He dipped down and buried his nose in the luscious warmth of her breasts, bringing his hand to knead them and then teasing the underside with slow, feather-light strokes of his tongue. As she arched into his caress her nipple brushed his cheek, and he covered it with his mouth with a moan. Nipping lightly, he felt it harden still further and her hand tightened in his hair as she hissed his name. He began to suckle in earnest, feeling the pebbled areola rub against the inside of his lips and her taut nipple scrape against the roof of his mouth. He was almost delirious with the sensation as his hand stroked along her belly and delved into the soft wet warmth that proved to him beyond all doubt that this was right, so right, and so vital.

"Oh, Ella..." he murmured as he felt her scrabbling to shrug his robe from his shoulders, skin losing contact with skin for a few long moments as he threw it off and let it fall to the floor. She wrapped her legs around him now, ready for him and flushed with want.

"Now, Severus!" she said. "Please, now!"

He did not need to be told twice. Still lying on their sides, he hooked her leg high on his hip and placed his hand on the small of her back, pulling her towards him, holding his breath as he concentrated on gazing into her eyes and seeing his own passion reflected there and magnified tenfold. He groaned, the knowledge of her unconditional love for him overwhelming him as it always did.

Connected in the most exquisite way he knew, they wrapped their arms around one another and pressed their foreheads together. It was so right, this mutual need, the giving and the taking of the best comfort each could offer; the comfort that affirmed that they were stronger together than apart, that they belonged, no matter what.

No matter what.

He ran his hand up Ella's back and tangled it in her hair, winding the locks around his fingers until they were imprisoned in wild knots. Ah, but she ensnared him still and he was glad of it. The hair at the back of her neck was damp now and her forehead was beaded with sweat as a result of their passion. It commingled with his own, and he drew away to gaze down into her eyes. I love you. He managed to withdraw his hand from her hair and ran it down her cheek. Tasting the salt sweat on her top lip, he groaned, blindly searching for release.

He slid his hand down between their two bodies, over the swells of her breasts and her belly and down deep into the thatched forest where they joined. He sought out her most sensitive place and used the lightest touch of his long, sensitive fingers to flick across the hardened nub until she gasped and tensed, crying out his name as if it was a prayer. He came in a heated rush of ecstasy, a ball of fire that began in his groin and flowed in a rush along his shaft with such exquisite force that it left him short of breath, breathing her hair into his mouth with each gasp.

For those few moments of bliss, and the moments of drugged satiety that followed, they were all they were and all they needed, and their worries ceased even to exist.

***

Ella was awake at dawn the following morning, anxious and pale as she slipped from the bed and drew on her robe before looking out through the casement window over the rolling fields that led to the mist-shrouded edifice of Hogwarts school. They were to meet the Headmaster there later that morning and she feared the worst. What could be done for her daughter that her brilliant husband had not already tried?

She turned back to the bed. His long lean frame was outlined under the white cotton sheet and his chest and arms, just shades darker than the bed linen, held her gaze like a starving man's would be riveted by a laden table. Her pulse quickened as she remembered their lovemaking. It had been such a long time and she had not known until they had joined how profoundly their separateness had saddened her; and yet, she had done it to herself. She had instigated their distance and he, proud, reticent man that he was, had allowed it.

His eyes were open, and he was watching her. His black hair lay across her pillow and his eyes entreated her. Come back to me.

"Did I wake you?" she asked softly.

"No. I barely slept," he replied.

It was true. Each had drifted in and out of sleep once the satiety of their passion had worn off. Clinging to one another like flotsam on an ebb tide, one offering comfort while the other slept, they had helped one another through the still silence of the night until at last both had succumbed to fitful slumber.

Purplish shadows underlined his dark eyes and her heart wept, for the man she loved, the lover she needed, the father whose role was such a terrifying yet yearned for responsibility. All his fears were right there in his eyes, plain for her to see.

She crossed to the bed as he lifted the sheet, and pressed her body against his even as she drew his head to her chest. He wound his arms around her and let out a deep, shuddering breath and she screwed her eyes tight shut, willing the burning, prickling sensation to fade. For a moment they clung together once more and then he pushed himself away from her and got out of bed. She knew what he was doing, and she knew why. Withdrawing into himself, putting on his mask of impassive control, he sought the strength to save his daughter.

***

Hermione had offered to take Celsus and Persephone in to Hogsmeade that morning. As a treat, they were going to Jolyon Dearborn's Magical Munchtime for brunch. The proprietor, cousin of Gilderoy Lockhart, would fuss over them and ply them with fairy cakes and quiche, and then they would no doubt empty their purses at Honeydukes. At any rate, Ella and Snape would be able to spend as long as they needed with Albus Dumbledore. Snape just hoped that it would be time well spent.

The Headmaster welcomed them in to his office with a smile, but the customary twinkle in his eyes was noticeably absent. After they had taken a seat by the fire, Snape asked,

"Well, Albus? Have you any idea where we should start?"

"I have been giving the matter much thought, these last few days. Oh yes," he added, looking over the top of his spectacles at their surprised faces. "Ever since Poppy came to me with the results of her examinations of Seffie. I suspected that she might... deteriorate."

Ella let out a sob, and her husband stood and began to pace the room.

"And?" he asked waspishly.

"And...I am very much afraid that I have, ah, drawn a blank."

"What?" Snape wheeled round to face him with incredulity. It was unthinkable that the great Albus Dumbledore could be at a loss. Even though he, Snape, had failed in that most primeval instinct of protecting his daughter, still he had thought that his friend and mentor, greatest wizard of his generation, would be able to help.

"Severus, you must understand, Voldemort spent half a lifetime immersed in the darkest of magic, moulding it and shaping it to his will, absorbing it into the very fibre of his being. His abilities were incomparable, his skill at bending and grafting arcane procedures unthinkable."

"So you can't help her?"

"I fail to see how any wizard could replicate what he has done to infiltrate your daughter. I fear that the convolutions he has wrought have been woven into her essence."

Fawkes shifted on his perch and purred sadly. Ella looked up hopefully, wiping her eyes.

"I am sorry, Ella, but no. Fawkes can be of no help this time. Poppy brought me a small sample of Seffie's blood and together we encouraged him to shed a tear...it had no effect."

"This can't be," Ella whispered, shaking her head. "It can't!"

***

Persephone was bored. Mr Dearborn had been his usual unctuous self at lunchtime and she had giggled as Hermione tried to keep a straight face while ordering for them, but soon she had found herself looking around for something to do. Celsus had been listing all the sweets he intended to buy at Honeydukes and his piping voice had grated on her nerves until she had itched to lunge out at him and muzzle his mouth with her hand.

Instead she had concentrated on Mr Dearborn, trilling away to himself in the café's kitchen, concentrating on the nasal quality of his tone. Soon, to her immense satisfaction, his singing stopped and he began to cough, phlegm obstructing his breathing in a most noticeable fashion.

Persephone smirked to herself and sat back in her chair, pretending to listen indulgently to her little brother. She felt energised and empowered and wondered on whom she should practise next. Neither of her companions, of course; it would not do for Hermione to notice her potency. Perhaps Mr Honeyduke could choke on a sugar quill? That might be amusing. In fact, if the shop was busy, she might even be able to experiment! Then again, an outbreak of asphyxiation might attract attention. Questions might be asked.

She needed a steady supply of creatures on which she could experiment with some of the less socially acceptable curses. She still had no wand, it was true, but that mattered less and less as her powers grew. Perhaps an expedition to the Forbidden Forest was required. Alone, of course. She chuckled to herself and did not see the worried frown that flickered over Hermione's face.

***

After their meeting with Albus Dumbledore, it was a very dejected Ella and Snape that returned to their home on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Neither wanted the comfort of the other. That had been for a time when there was still hope, and none remained now. Now each had withdrawn into themselves, shoring themselves up by erecting a protective barrier against complete and irrevocable collapse.

They could well imagine that the death of a child was the worst that could happen to a parent. They knew too well that coping with the abduction of a child was searingly painful. What, then, of the slow descent of a beloved daughter into madness and possession, with no hope of a cure? How could they carry on, after that? And yet, how could they not? Persephone would always be their daughter, whether she was the perfect product of their love or a psychopath rotting in a secure cell in an asylum. And then there was Celsus, their son, no less beloved but always following in the hallowed footsteps of his sister. They had to be strong, for his sake. They had to show him that he was no less loved, and that he still warranted the attention that was lavished on him before their lives had taken so desperate a turn.

Such were the thoughts that consumed them as they flew home, only to find an anxious Hermione waiting for them at the front gate.