Snape In Love: Chasing Darkness Away

Chapter 5

Attraction

Ella was sitting on the edge of their bed when he returned, and she held out her arms to him. He stepped up to her and pushed her shoulders so that she fell backwards onto the counterpane, still unmade from the night before. She giggled as he leaned over her and climbed on to the bed until he rested on his hands and knees, covering her, with his long black locks shadowing the smirk on his face. She reached up to him and cupped his face in her hands, pulling it down to meet hers. She rubbed her nose against his and he captured her top lip between his, sucking gently before opening his mouth to hers with a sigh as her own tongue flicked over his teeth. He took her in his arms then, and for a short while all that could be heard was the rustling of their clothing as they rolled across their bed. Minutes later Ella had pinned her husband down and straddled him, saying mockingly,

"If I'd known how unwilling you were to have anything to do with me, I would never have thrown myself at you the way I did!"

"You didn't throw yourself at me!" he retorted, flipping them both over so that he was in the dominant position once more.

"Oh, yes I did, Severus!"

"Hmm. Well, I don't feel like arguing the point, this time. So it's just as well you did, isn't it? If it had been left to me...we'd still be...sending one another...lovelorn looks...across the dinner table..."

Severus was busy leaving a trail of wet kisses along Ella's jaw line and down to her collarbone while his hand explored the satiny skin of her thigh, and she shivered and tangled her fingers in his hair.

"More..."

"Later."

"No, more of what you just did!"

"Oh. Mmm..."

Some time later, after a timeous Silencing spell had ensured that their vocal enthusiasm for one another would not disturb their baby and as a consequence curtail their mutual enjoyment, Ella lay prostrate across her husband's panting, sweat-sheened body, clinging to him in the bliss of her afterglow. He was incredible, she thought to herself. Amazing. He was every superlative she could think of, and even more than that, and he was bound to her forever. She buried her face in his chest and breathed deeply of his intoxicating maleness, kissing the saltiness from his skin and almost purring with satisfaction as he ran the hand that was not pressing her to him up and down her spine. She wondered when he would tell her more about the events that had caused the nightmares that plagued his life. As much as his reminiscences about their early relationship amused and enlightened her, still she felt that he was using them to steel himself for revelations he feared would shock and disgust her. She squeezed him more tightly. Nothing he could tell her would ever temper the ferocity of the love she had for him.

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She had returned the following evening, of course, full of ideas and an infectious enthusiasm. He, too, had been keen to continue their discussions although his eagerness was tempered with the unease that had been his constant companion since they had first met. Resigned to having no option but to work with her, he had decided to make the best of a bad situation and try at least to fulfil the Headmaster's remit. He was confident that he had sufficient control over his reactions to be able to contain them and even render them inert, and he was sure that repeated exposure to the acidity that was Severus Snape would, in turn, neutralise her nebulous attraction to him.

He decided that he would be able to tolerate seeing her for a few hours every evening, for after all, he did have the remaining hours in the day available for him to shut her from his mind. Excepting mealtimes, of course, where she was as much a distraction as ever, and where, unfortunately, his stolen glances across the Great Hall had not gone unnoticed.

"She's looking very lovely today, eh Snape?" Black grinned one morning, three days after Snape's first evening with Ella. Snape stiffened imperceptibly and tried to keep his usual bored tone as he answered his rival.

"To whom are you referring, Black?"

"Don't come over all coy, man! You know quite well who I mean!"

Snape ignored him and stabbed his sausage with a vicious jab of his fork. Black's eyes narrowed and he continued,

"Blue quite suits her, don't you think? Although I must say, I'd like to see her in my house colours..."

"I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, Black!"

"...Do you think she'd look good in silver and green? Hmm?"

"I don't think about it!"

"Are you sure? So what are you thinking, with all these looks you keep giving her? And why are you getting so worked up? Am I too close for comfort, Snape?"

"I do not keep looking at Ella Redemte, and it is your increasingly juvenile behaviour that has begun to annoy me!"

"Well, if you're leaving the field clear for me, so much the better..." Black mocked, sniggering as he noticed Snape's knuckles whiten as he gripped his cutlery. Suddenly he dropped his fork and with a swift movement made for the folds of his cloak where his wand lay before remembering himself and reining in his urge to hex Black into the middle of the following week. Black, however, noticed the reflexive gesture and chuckled softly as he tipped his head back and swallowed his morning tea in several easy gulps. Snape scraped back his chair with a clatter and stormed angrily from the Great Hall, not daring to cast his gaze across the room for a last glimpse of the subject of his discomposure. He just managed to hear Lupin's muttered,

"Now what have you been saying, you bloody stirrer?" and then he was gone in a flurry of swirling robes and black storm clouds, which rained acidity on his hapless students all that day.

If Snape had thought that Remus Lupin would know better than to approach him with his own words of dubious wisdom regarding Ella Redemte, then he was, yet again, vastly let down. A few days later, after he had settled into a very pleasurable routine with the lady, intellectually stimulating as well as providing him with a regular frisson of excitement which he had learned to enjoy, the werewolf paid him a late evening visit. Ella had left several minutes before, and Snape was staring into the dying embers of the fire, going over their evening's conversations and remembering the orange glow of the firelight as it danced in her hair. He was feeling pleasantly relaxed, and planned on retiring early to allow himself to think of her in the otherwise lonely comfort of his bed. His reverie was disturbed by a hesitant, almost apologetic tap on his door. He knew that alarums such as that came either from terrified first or second years, or Remus Lupin. Since student curfew was long since passed, he sighed heavily and called,

"What do you want, Lupin?"

The door opened and Lupin's head poked round it. The head wore an ingratiating smile which set Snape's teeth on edge.

"Well, come in then, if you feel you must!"

"Evening, Severus. Not disturbing anything, am I?"

"Would it make a difference if you were?"

"I, er, that is, we, er - "

"Spit it out, man!"

"May I sit down?"

Snape made an impatient gesture with his right hand, and Lupin took the seat opposite his, to the other side of the cooling fire. He was carrying an oddly shaped parcel wrapped in brown paper and fastened with twine, and he held it out to Snape as he said,

"Erm...we thought you might find this useful. It's a pensieve."

"Really? How novel. And why would I want another pensieve?" he said shortly, taking the parcel from Lupin's outstretched hands and opening it uninterestedly

"For your thoughts of Ella. It's been pretty obvious how you're starting to feel about her."

Snape's brows shot upwards and he leaned forward in his chair, almost dropping the pensieve at his feet as he spat,

"I feel nothing for her! How dare you come in here and accuse - "

"- I dare because it's true, Snape!" For all his mild manner, Remus Lupin was not easily intimidated, and the werewolf in him was evident as he unconsciously mimicked Snape's posture, continuing in a growl so low it almost matched Snape's deep baritone. "I dare because for once in your miserable life you have the chance to grasp at something pure and something beautiful, and I dare because it makes you vulnerable and if Voldemort ever realises it then you, the Order and the entire war effort could be at risk!"

Snape gaped at him, incredulous, then his shoulders slumped and he fell back into his chair.

"I already have two pensieves," he muttered sulkily, frowning at the shallow grey bowl on his knee.

"You're welcome, don't mention it!" Remus bit back. Snape glared up at him for a moment before resuming his examination of the pensieve. "Anyway, you don't," he continued. "Not like that one. Sirius and I - "

"Hah!"

"Sirius and I enchanted it; it will safeguard your emotions as well as your memories. I know you're very skilled at Occlumency, but I don't recall that you've ever been in love before, and - "

"What would you know?"

"- And this is a - a sort of insurance policy. For all our sakes."

"You doubt my ability to block him?"

"I would prefer to leave nothing to chance. And I get the impression that all this business with Ella might have...taken you by surprise."

Snape raised an eyebrow slightly and continued to read the inscriptions that curled around the rim of the bowl. Settling back into his chair Lupin remarked casually,

"Got anything decent to drink?"

"Thank you, yes," came the silky reply, and Snape's mouth curled upwards caustically as he continued, "You come bursting in here telling me not only that I am...'in love'..., but also that I am compromising the war effort, and then you seriously expect me to be so won over by your argument that I wish you to stay for a drink, and thereby have you inflict yourself on me for longer still? Of my own choice? Self awareness was never your strongest suit, was it, Lupin?"

Lupin's eyes narrowed and he looked at Snape speculatively.

"I haven't heard you deny it yet. Any of it."

"That is because I prefer not to grant your asinine opinions any undue weight by entering into an argument about their accuracy. If the giving of this - gift - makes you and your sidekick sleep more easily in your kennels at night, then good for you. But it's neither necessary nor welcome."

"Well, we'll agree to differ," Lupin replied amenably, grabbing the arms of his chair and pushing himself up before stretching tiredly. He looked down at Snape for a moment, but the other man did not try to hand the pensieve back. With a dismissive

"Hmph!" and a hidden smile which broadened considerably once he was safely back in the corridor, Remus Lupin left Snape alone with his thoughts.

Snape threw the brown paper and the twine into the grate and muttered,

"Incendio," watching and brooding until they had burned away.

He did not love her, he knew that. He had neither the temperament nor the inclination for love. Voldemort had nurtured his ingrained feelings of alienation and distrust until they had become so much a part of his psyche that he could not remember ever having felt any other way. He admitted that he had become accustomed to her presence each evening; and it was true that her face and her figure pleased him more and more as they became more familiar, if that were possible, until he had begun to crave the sight of her; he thought of her during the day, making mental notes of questions he wanted to ask her that evening, about botany, or perhaps some Muggle peculiarity that he would like her to explain. He had certainly grown to appreciate her intelligence, and enjoy their collaborations and the long conversations afterwards. His body still reacted to her gaze, her scent, her nearness, her occasional accidental touch, her hand on his arm...and he ached to embrace her, caress her and make love to her. And then, of course, there was something inside him that exulted and sang whenever he saw her - but he was not in love. He was not meant for love. He neither deserved it nor wanted it.

He placed the pensieve on a shelf in his bedroom. He saw no harm in keeping it. It could come in useful, and its design was pleasing, evidently fashioned by a true craftsman. He wondered idly where Lupin and Black had obtained it, but knew that he would never give them the satisfaction of asking. And he told himself that he did not need to thank them for their gesture since they had obviously acted only out of misguided self-interest. As such, the subject was not mentioned again.

It was Ella herself who gave him the shove he needed in order to start using it. Their cosy evenings spent at his desk, and more particularly afterwards by the fire with a goblet each of the finest claret (her favourite, he soon learned), had quickly become the high point of his day. She would take her place opposite him by the roaring fire, and they would talk of all things and anything. It did not seem to matter on what subject they touched. Whether it was literature, art, science, society, economics - he would be mesmerized by whatever she had to say, and he would often keep her in his company until both were nearly falling asleep as they spoke.

And then one evening, Ella did not take her seat in the chair opposite his, but instead sat on the luxuriant black fur rug before the fire. Nonplussed, nevertheless he had the perceptiveness to bite back the comment which sprang so readily into his mind, which was to ask her what was wrong with the armchair. He had to edge past her in order to sit down, and his robes brushed her cheek. The effect on his state of mind of that small contact was completely out of proportion but he suspected that its meaning was highly important, and he wondered what, if anything, he was supposed to do next; apart from the obvious, which he could not allow himself to do.

Once he had taken his place and picked up his wine, he was even more at a loss for she said nothing at first, simply shifted closer to him and leaned slightly, resting her head on his knee as she gazed at the fire. He stiffened, and his hands gripped the arms of the chair, but after a moment he forced himself to relax and they sat in silence.

He could scarcely believe that she was sitting at his feet, leaning into him, in such an intimate and yet non-threatening way. Usually such liberties with his personal space would result in his flinching away, stalking to some safe corner where he could be left alone, his self made fortress his sanctuary, his safe haven. And now, with Ella at his feet, the last thing he wanted to do was recoil. He hardly dared move, so afraid was he of breaking the spell.

Eventually he plucked up the courage to reach out and stroke her hair, tentatively, unsure of how to proceed and whether or not it was what she wanted. He freely admitted that she was a mystery to him. To his surprise, and utmost relief, she simply sighed, and leaned further in to him by way of encouragement. Gently at first, and then more firmly, he let his fingers burrow through the mass of curls until they were caressing her scalp, stroking and massaging and exploring. Her hair ran through his fingers and he swallowed, his mouth dry.

He had been a Death Eater. He had witnessed depravities the like of which she could never imagine and, he hoped, would never know herself. He had, in all likelihood, produced the terrible poison that had robbed her of her family. He knew that had she been fully aware of his past deeds, she would never have allowed him near her, but even knowing what little she did, her behaviour was unfathomable. His eyes bored into the back of her head, and eventually she turned to gaze at him, flushed, her lips slightly parted, desire etched on her face. Desire for him. He had never seen such a look before. As she turned he stayed his hand, and his fingertips grazed the curve of her cheek, feeling her heat. He stared into her eyes, fighting the urge to plunge into the clear, cool, soothing green depths, fathomless, like the ocean on a sun-filled day. Time seemed to slow to a halt, and he did not know how long it was before his own voice came to him from far away, the rational part of him betraying his instincts in its contradiction, saying softly,

"It's late, and we are both tired. You should go."

Still he did not move his hand, and she arched her back a little, inclining her head in order that her cheek nestled into the curve of his fingers. He stroked across it with his thumb as one in a trance, all the while staring perplexed into her eyes, before withdrawing his hand at last and feeling the warm breath of her reluctant sigh.

At the door she turned to face him, reaching up to caress his cheek as he had done hers. He closed his eyes when her fingertips, bolder than his, brushed his lips, and he heard her whisper,

"Goodnight, Severus."

For a wild moment he thought she would kiss him, that he would kiss her, slide his arms around her and pull her to him, enfold her and adore her, ravish and seduce her and obey his body's insistent pleas, but he did not dare. His rational mind was telling him to retreat and take stock, and to ignore his foolhardy and inexperienced heart. The time was not right, and he had to ask himself whether it ever would be, for one so undeserving as he.

Once she had closed his door behind her, he had gasped for breath and lurched into his bedroom, finding and grasping Lupin's pensieve with both hands and setting it down before him before taking his wand with a trembling hand and beginning the incantation that would remove gossamer threads of thoughts and sensations from his wildly reeling mind. That done, he returned to his office and the unfinished goblet of wine, and sat down heavily in his chair in order to compose his thoughts, but, try as he might, he could still feel the brush of her thumb across his lip.

He sat so long in his chair that he became stiff-necked and his head felt thick. The ashes were cold in the grate and the last of the candles sputtered out as he rubbed his eyes groggily. Darkness filled the room now and the only illumination that remained was the moonlight slanting in through the small windows of his gloomy office. He stood slowly, his aching joints complaining almost as much as the creaking leather of his favourite armchair, and he left his office for the comfort of his bedroom, unfastening and shrugging off his frock coat as he went.

He could not sleep. Damn it all, not even the most lily-livered excuse for a man would be able to sleep after what he had just experienced. The woman was a siren, an enchantress, a seductress, an angel. It had been a complete waste of his time even to try to sleep. He had done nothing to warrant her unprecedented interest in him, indeed he had done everything within his power to discourage it, but still she had persisted and he, like the milksop he was rapidly becoming, had been beguiled by her completely. She filled his every sense and he had begun to rejoice in it. They had reached a new level in their relationship tonight and he felt like one who had climbed to dizzying heights on a broom and was about to take a dive and lose himself in the headiness of a pure adrenaline rush. On a hair trigger, the slightest, smallest sign and all self control would be lost. He sprang from his bed and dressed hurriedly, pulling on his boots and dragging his hands through his hair as he strode from the room. He needed to walk, and he needed to think.

Pacing along Hogwarts' endless corridors had always been a favourite pastime. Apart from the obvious joy of coming across curfew-breaking students attempting covert assignations in empty classrooms or dark corners, there was another less tangible pleasure to be had from his nocturnal peregrinations. At night, the castle seemed sentient. He could almost fancy that its very bedrock spoke to him. Its stones breathed, its rooms whispered, its cloisters and quadrangles sang on windy, stormy nights of darkness, of mystery, of age and of unfailing strength, unchanging permanence. He drew great comfort from its constancy.

By the time he encountered the Bloody Baron the castle had soothed his nerves and he no longer felt the giddy need to rap on the doors of the entire faculty, and even the House dormitories, to inform every living being under Hogwarts' many roofs that he was madly in love with Ella Redemte and could they all please advise him how best to woo her. No, now he was calm, and the better able to analyze his psychological and physiological reactions of the last few weeks.

"Well met, good Professor! Well met! It is a particularly fine night, is it not?"

"Good evening, Baron," Snape replied, inclining his head slightly and slowing his pace a little as the spectre turned to glide alongside him.

"The Room of Requirement might be worth a look tonight, Professor," whispered the Baron conspiratorially from behind his translucent hand.

"Indeed?" asked Snape with interest. Along with Argus Filch, the Baron had long been an invaluable accomplice in his lonely crusade to drum some sense into the school's hormonally challenged and notoriously determined young charges.

"Yes...tonight it can be found on the third floor of the East wing. It is a rather amusingly decorated Spanish bordello, made for two..." the Baron leered. Snape rolled his eyes.

"Don't tell me. De Souza's missing his homeland, and Miss Marchand is trying to console him in her own inimitable way?"

"Your perspicacity is a joy, Professor."

"Thank you, Baron," he replied graciously. "Would you care to lead the way?"

"Delighted, delighted!"

There can be few sights at Hogwarts more terrifying than the sight of a coldly vicious Potions master outlined in a dimly lit doorway, black robes swirling around him in the wake of a madly circling, screaming phantom. Ariadne Marchand certainly thought so, clutching red satin sheets in a panicked attempt to cover her modesty as she sat up shrieking in dismay. Her companion stumbled to his feet, hampered by his falling trousers which he tried with fumbling hands to pull back up.

Once the echoes caused by the slam of the solid oak door against the protesting stone wall had died away, the Professor spoke.

"Mister de Souza. Miss Marchand. I do hope that I have disturbed something? Thirty points will be taken from both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw for this transgression, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," came their mumbling replies.

"I beg your pardon? Contrary to popular belief my aural acuity does not rival that of a bat!"

They repeated their affirmations and Snape allowed himself a malicious smirk, knowing that the soft glow of the many candles around his feet was not sufficient to illuminate his face.

"The Baron, I am sure, will be only too delighted to escort you both back to your respective dormitories."

The two miscreants swallowed nervously and looked at one another while the Bloody Baron gave a bloodcurdling cackle and began to circle the room restlessly. Turning on his heel, Snape strode off along the corridor with a renewed vigour and a spring in his step.

Some time later he realised that far from his confident footfalls leading him back to his dungeon realm, he had in fact ventured in to the Hospital Wing and reached the end of the corridors that led, respectively, to the Infirmary and to Ella's small suite. Stopping in his tracks, he sat down heavily on the third step of the wide staircase to his left, and rested his elbows on his knees and wondered how on earth he had got there. Running his hand through his hair and massaging the back of his neck in an absent fashion, he rephrased his rhetorical question. What had brought him to this? Bemused, he looked across to the entrance to Ella's corridor. What in Merlin's name did he think he was going to do, now he was here? Wake her from her slumber in the middle of the night and seduce her, perhaps, or declare his undying love for her? He was in the middle of scoffing at this last when he felt a sharp pang in his stomach, and a sickly, fluttering sensation. Was that really what this was? Love?

He felt something brush against his leg. Startled, he flinched and looked down to see a large, ugly ginger cat. Crookshanks, Miss Granger's flea-ridden cur. In a low, menacing voice he muttered,

"If you don't bugger off back to Gryffindor Tower immediately, it will be a further twenty points from Gryffindor tonight!"

The cat did not even have the good grace to look sheepish, fixing him instead with wide unblinking orange eyes. Prodding it away from his pristine trousers with the side of his leg, Snape stood up and the two went their separate ways, at least one of them having much food for thought.

He was revisited by his nightmare that night. Sleep had claimed him at last and plunged him into a miasma of pain, cruel laughter, degradation and regret. He awoke shivering and sweating, his black eyes snapping open in panic as he tried to collect himself. He took in the details of his room little by little but then found Ella's face superimposed over all that he saw. Her face, her smile, her hair, her skin, her eyes. He took several deep, ragged breaths and managed to half fall out of his bed and stagger to the bathroom before he was violently sick.

Sitting cross legged on the floor of his cool black marble shower, soothed by the relentless pounding of the water jets, he realised that the nightmare had been the first he had had in over three weeks. Since he and Ella had begun their evening collaborations, in fact. He had no idea of what he should do next. He had to assume that he loved her. He had to know whether his feelings were reciprocated, for if they were, then he suspected that he would feel more joy and more despair than he had ever imagined. He was suddenly and inexplicably eager to see her again and once he had dried himself with one of his huge green monogrammed bath sheets, he dressed with especial care.

He took his seat in the Great Hall long before the breakfast bell sounded, such was his eagerness to see her again. He loved her, and he was absolutely terrified of her. His eyes were fixed on her empty chair, and only when the Hall began to fill with the hubbub of noisy students did he tear his gaze away, darting it to and from the doorways, even the one behind his chair which he knew she had never used. As breakfast commenced he scanned all four House tables several times, just in case she had awoken that morning and, for some reason, decided to sit amongst the student rabble instead of in her rightful place, in his line of sight.

It was no use. She was not there. She had not come to breakfast, and the only possible explanation for her absence had to be that she was embarrassed and had such profound regrets about what had happened between them the night before that the only way she could deal with them was to avoid him. His gut twisted and he pushed away his bowl. Crestfallen and chastened, he slunk back to the dungeons having not even broken his fast with a spoonful of porridge or a sip of coffee.

He vented his frustrations on his first class of the day, the third year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, reducing one particularly incompetent Hufflepuff to tears. At morning break he headed for the library, unable to keep his mind on his work. He had to find out whether what had happened the night before had hit her with the same force as it had him.

He came upon her in a dark, dusty, little-used aisle towards the back of the library. Her head was bent, and she was obviously deep in thought as she frowned down at one of the lower shelves. He hardly had the time to register her figure-skimming magenta robes and the way tendrils of her hair had escaped her loose chignon, falling in soft curls around her face, before she had noticed his approach and jumped backwards, startled. Several books were displaced as she backed into the shelves behind her, and a cloud of dust puffed around her shoulders. Her eyes were burning into his and the sudden tension in the air was almost palpable, a physical presence coiling around them. Her shoulders were covered in dust and all he would have to do was rest his hands on them and pull her to him. His fingertips were itching and he rubbed them against his thumbs and flexed them as they hung at his sides.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said, rearranging the books on the shelf behind her.

"I was miles away!" she said breathlessly with a small, nervous laugh.

"Evidently!" he smiled, unable now to resist the compulsion to reach out and brush the dust from her shoulders. "You missed breakfast today, and I...needed to ask you something"

"I overslept, it took me half the night to fall asleep."

She looked at him levelly, and he knew with a thrilling certainty exactly what she was implying. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears as it surged joyfully southwards, and the corresponding constriction in his trousers alarmed and encouraged him.

"I had some difficulty relaxing, too. We...worked too hard."

"Maybe we need a break."

Of course she needed a break. He had been wrong. He had been a fool to think that she had been enjoying his company as much as he had hers. His initial impression of her had evidently been correct. She was a dilettante, a butterfly, flitting from man to man and refusing to be entrapped.

"Ah. I see. Of course, I've taken up too much of your free time; the Headmaster wouldn't want you overworked." he said coldly as he turned to leave. "And I'm sure Lupin misses your company!"

"No! Severus, I just meant that we should maybe have some fun, relax a little. It would do us both good. I could show you how!" she said hurriedly, reaching out hesitantly but stopping short of touching his arm, once he had stopped and turned back to her once more.

"Together?" he asked, wanting to be convinced of her sincerity.

"Yes, why not?"

"Why not, indeed?" he said thoughtfully, eyes downcast. "And what would we do? Together?"

She said nothing, and simply stood before him waiting for him to raise his eyes to meet hers. He could not move. She rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned in to him, stretching up. He could smell jasmine, and woman, and his self control was fading fast. He hardly knew where he was in the world as his surroundings shrank and winked out of existence leaving only Ella, her moist, parted lips coming nearer, ever nearer, and her eyes reading his very soul, his deepest desires. He was dimly aware that he could no longer read her, and then her mouth brushed against his, light as the fluttering of a lacewing, and he moaned involuntarily, about to lose himself in her.

Then, in a fraction of a second, everything changed. A faint prickling on his left forearm reminded him of who and what he was, and then it was Voldemort's face in front of him, Voldemort's laughter ringing in his ears, Voldemort's rank stench assailing his senses, and Snape knew that he could not let himself love her. His sanity could not stand it; Voldemort's years of abuse and the seeds of fear, and misery, and loneliness planted deep in his psyche would not be uprooted. And besides, he feared for her safety. Once Voldemort discovered her importance to him, he would do all in his considerable power to despoil and destroy her, for that was his way. He took a step back from her, murmuring,

"I don't think so, Ella," and he left her in the dark, dusty library, staring uncomprehending after him, as he made good his escape.