Dumbledore's Secret

Having spent the last three hours drinking bad wine and commiserating with Tonks, Charlotte wanted nothing more than a good night's sleep. Tonks, however, had other ideas; she sat in the middle of Charlotte's bed, attempting to open another bottle of wine.

Perched at the foot of the bed, Charlotte asked, "Don't you think you should, er, not drink so much?"

"Oh, we Metamorphmagi are great at holding our alcohol!" Tonks explained cheerfully, directly before throwing up all over the bedroom floor and passing out.

After making certain that the Auror had not fallen into an alcohol-induced coma, Charlotte turned to Lupa, who was hovering in the corner of the room, watching the two women with great interest.

"Er, I suppose someone needs to clean this up," Charlotte muttered, with a tentative glance at the house-elf.

"Lupa is so very tired!" the creature exclaimed, stretching her little arms and scurrying to her nest.

Left with a snoring house-elf, a bed-hogging Tonks, and puddles of puke, Charlotte grumpily cleaned up the mess and set off to find someplace to sleep. Although there were several spare rooms in the house, only one contained a bed, and Charlotte found the mattress so uncomfortable that, after fifteen minutes of tossing and turning, she came to the conclusion that sleeping on the floor would be a better option. Then, remembering that the drawing room had a sofa and, if that was unbearable, a carpeted floor, Charlotte made her way down the flight of stairs. She found it depressing that she had lived in the nasty old house long enough to navigate her way safely through the dark passageways, even after having consumed three glasses of wine.

When she entered the drawing room, her breath caught in her throat. Severus was stretched out on the couch, his long legs hanging over the armrest and his arms folded tightly across his chest. Charlotte stared at him, trying to dredge up the fury she had felt earlier in the evening when he had hexed Harry. His unfounded hatred of the boy was bad enough, but for him to stupefy the teen had been utterly unwarranted. As much as Charlotte was loath to admit it, Tonks had been fairly close to the truth when, an hour into their drinking session, she had declared Severus "a very scary bastard."

Charlotte had defended him, though not his actions. "He's under a great deal of pressure," she had protested, to which Tonks had replied testily, "Well, you don't see the rest of us hexing each other, do you?" And Charlotte, knowing that Tonks was correct but not wanting to admit it, had changed the subject while vowing silently to give Severus a piece of her mind the next morning.

But now, as she watched him, half asleep and squirming on the undersized sofa, she felt her chest tighten, not with anger but with some other equally uncomfortable emotion that she could not, in her partially inebriated state, define.

"Why do you like him?" Tonks had asked her just a few hours earlier.

Charlotte had sighed and said nothing, not wanting to enter into such a personal discussion with someone she hardly knew. Still, it was a fair question, one she had been asking herself repeatedly over the past several weeks. Logically, there was very little reason to feel an attraction. He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, handsome: his features were harsh and angular, and his coloring was sallow and sickly. His personality was no better: his tongue could be sharp and cruel, and he had little patience for anything or anyone.

Yet Charlotte couldn't help but feel that these traits, while unquestionably true, did not fully explain him. He was a man who lived below the surface of himself. There were so many buried moments, moments which, taken out of context, would mean nothing. But she saw the slight furrow of his brow when he spoke of Albus or Minerva, as if he cared for them in spite of himself. She noted the precision of his movements when he brewed his potions, especially the Wolfsbane that he made for a man he claimed to despise. She caught the softening of his customary scowl when he thought she wasn't looking at him. She felt the pressure of his hand, reluctant yet steady, when he instructed her in slicing potion ingredients. And she sensed the warmth in his eyes, so often at odds with the harshness of his voice, when she mastered a new spell or charm. Considered together, these pieces formed a man whose honor was as real as it was reluctant, and Charlotte could no more overlook these contradictions than she could ignore the more unpleasant aspects of his character.

When she closed the drawing room door softly behind her, Severus shot up from the sofa, wand in hand.

Taking a tentative step toward him, she murmured, "It's only me."

He lowered his arm and snorted. "Only you." Then, rubbing a hand across his eyes, he demanded, "Why aren't you in bed?"

"I'm not tired," she lied, except she realized quite suddenly that it wasn't a lie; her drowsiness had passed the moment she'd seen him. Not wanting to consider the implications of her sudden wakefulness, she turned his question back on him. "Why aren't you in bed?"

Instead of answering, he stepped closer to her, his eyes narrowing. "You've been drinking."

"A little."

"A great deal."

"Tonks had much more than I did."

"You're drunk," he accused.

"No, slightly tipsy."

"Go to bed." As he turned away from her, he rubbed his arm.

She frowned. "You've been doing that a lot lately."

"Doing what?" he demanded. He must have caught her staring at his arm, for he glanced down at it, then back at her. "I..." As his voice trailed off, his eyes took on a sort of wild look that Charlotte found doubly frightening because she could see what was behind his dark gaze. His mind was almost completely unguarded, and with very little effort, she could have been inside his head.

She stared at him, uncertain what to do. There were so many questions she could answer simply by thinking, "Legilimens."

"Well," he sneered, the shaking of his hands negating the harsh tone of his voice, "what do you see?"

Taking several quick steps toward him, she touched a hand to his face and rubbed her thumb along the day's worth of stubble that had formed. To her surprise, he did not jerk away, and she allowed her fingers to trace his jaw. "I see a man who looks like shit."

Oddly enough, her response seemed to calm him. His face muscles relaxed, and his eyes resumed their usual, unreadable quality. "This, coming from a woman with wine stains on her - " He glanced down at her paisley pajamas. " - whatever it is that you're wearing."

She thought she'd never been so relieved by an insult in her life. "This is the finest sleepwear the 1980s had to offer!" she cried in mock distress.

He almost managed a smile. "I suppose it's better than the ... what was it ... Garfield shirt?"

"Oh, how sweet! You've memorized my sleepwear. And to think, we haven't even kissed yet."

His eyes flared at that, and she wondered if she had pushed the banter too far. "Leave me alone, Charlotte," he said, his voice flat.

She decided to listen to his actions - he still hadn't objected to her hands on his face - rather than his words. "How long has it been since you've eaten?" she asked, feeling the gauntness of his face beneath her fingers.

"When is the last time someone other than you cooked?"

"That's not fair!" she laughed. "Magical appliances are not very user-friendly! And in any case, you and everyone else in this house are free to cook for themselves." She sighed and moved her fingers to the dark circles beneath his eyes. "When's the last time you slept?"

He turned from her abruptly. "I don't want to sleep," he grumbled.

"Then why were you sleeping when I found you?"

He scowled. "I was thinking, not sleeping."

"Well, think in your own bed. The couch is mine for tonight," she declared, crossing over to claim it.

He sighed, realizing that she wasn't about to leave anytime soon, and seated himself in a chair opposite the sofa. "What's wrong with your room? Is your elf snoring, again?"

She smiled. "Yes. And I also have an inebriated Metamorphmagus in my bed."

"There is a spare room, I believe."

"That mattress is about as comfortable as a bed of rocks."

"The couch isn't much better," he warned.

She bit her lip. "Really, Severus, when is the last time you slept - really slept?"

He clenched his jaw and said nothing.

"What's wrong?" she whispered. "Lately you seem...you're losing control of yourself."

He scoffed. "You're thinking of Potter. Poor little Potter, hexed into silence. I was doing the world some good with that."

"Really!" she cried, leaning forward. "You can't hex him just because he annoys you! But it's not just what happened tonight ... since the Order meeting ... hell, even before the Order meeting, you've been...it's as if..."

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the chair. "Dammit, woman, finish a sentence!"

"You're frightening me!" she blurted out.

His eyes flew open. "Good! It's about bloody time you figured out that I'm frightening!"

She pursed her lips. "What I've figured out is that there's something wrong, that you need help -"

He laughed bitterly. "That I need help? And you're going to help me?"

Before she could respond, he jumped up, bounded to the sofa, and dropped down beside her. Raising the sleeve of his left arm, he demanded, "What color is that?"

She looked at the Dark Mark and sighed. "Oh, good god, you're not going to give me one of those speeches, are you? 'My heart is as black as the Dark Mark, and it always will be,' poor Severus, blah, blah, blah!"

When he did not reply, she glanced at his face and saw that the wild expression had returned to his eyes. "Severus?"

"What color is the Mark?" he insisted, emphasizing each word angrily.

Glancing down at his forearm, she noticed that the skin around the Mark was red and inflamed, as if he'd been scratching at it. "The Mark is black," she whispered shakily.

He shook his head violently, and his breath came out in uneven gasps. "It's green!"

Fear settled into her stomach, causing her to feel slightly nauseous. "Severus, it's black, it's black." She grabbed a strand of his hair. "Look!" she cried, tugging his head down so that the piece of hair brushed the Mark. "Black and black. The Mark matches your hair, you see? Black, not green."

He stared down at his arm for a long moment, and his breathing gradually became more regular. Finally, he tugged his sleeve back over his arm and whispered, "I'm going mad."

"No, he's trying to get into your head, perhaps, but we can stop it somehow - "

He cut her off with a bitter laugh. "Gods, Charlotte, you're bloody hopeless." He stood up. "Do you really think there's a way to remedy this?" he sneered.

"I don't know." After a pause, she exclaimed, "We could talk to my grandfather! He might know of a way -"

"If there were a way to get rid of the Mark," Severus muttered, throwing himself back into the armchair across from the couch, "the Dark Lord would have lost his Death Eaters long ago."

"But maybe the problem is more psychological than magical!"

"Good, I'm glad to see that you agree with my assessment: I'm going insane."

"No, that's not what I meant!" she protested. "If the problem is coming from him, well...but if it's coming from inside you, you can stop it."

"Such a fountain of wisdom, aren't you?" he sneered, but without his usual malice. He dropped his head in hands and groaned. "Perhaps it's nothing to do with the Mark." He lifted his sleeve again and glanced down at his arm.

"Does it still appear green to you?"

He shook his head. "No ... maybe ...I don't know, I don't know. I'm just so..." His voice trailed off.

"Tired," she supplied. He didn't respond, and she knew she was correct. "You need to sleep."

He shook his head. "I can't." He paused, and she thought he might leave it at that, but then words came rushing out of him. "I've tried, I've tried, but I don't sleep for more than forty-five minutes, an hour at the most, and when I do ..." He paused and glanced at her.

"The nightmares are that bad, are they?" she asked quietly, and he looked away from her. She bit her lip, then suggested, "Dreamless Sleep..."

"No!" He took a deep breath. "No."

"I don't like it much, either," she murmured, and he glanced at her in surprise. "I..." She shrugged. "It doesn't seem to work correctly for me. Oh, it lulls me to sleep, and I don't exactly dream, so I suppose it does its job. It's just that, when I'm sleeping, I'm also aware that I'm sleeping, and I feel as if..." She searched for the best way to explain it.

"You feel as if you're in a half-sleep, and you never feel completely rested," he finished for her.

"Is that how it effects you, too?" she asked, astonished.

"No." He scoffed. "Not initially, at any rate. Studies have shown," he continued, his voice falling into its lecture cadence, "that approximately ten percent of patients are immediately resistant, in some form or another, to its properties. And a sizeable percentage of that group, yourself included apparently, finds the potion to be more trouble than it's worth." He hesitated, then muttered, "Consider yourself fortunate."

"Yes, I think I've read that somewhere," she replied softly. "I've also read that another five to ten percent of patients form an addiction to the potion." His eyes flew to hers, and she added, "They form addictions quite in spite of themselves, through no fault of their own."

"My own little counselor," he mocked, but not unkindly.

"Listen," she said, an idea occurring to her suddenly. "May I try something?" She jumped up from the sofa and pulled out her wand.

"No." He shook his head and began to rise as if he knew what she was about to do.

She pushed him gently back into the armchair. He was either too tired or too curious to resist. "Please," she begged, "let me look for something. I think it will help."

He gritted his teeth. "You've never asked permission before. What's stopping you now?"

"Don't use Occlumency against me."

"I will do whatever I feel is appropriate. Try whatever you like, but I will not allow you waltz about in my head -"

"I promise," she interrupted, "not to look for anything you don't want me to see."

"And how would you know what that is, hmm? You think you know me so bloody well!"

"I know that you need to sleep or you're going to drive yourself mad!"

"And how is riffling through my head supposed to help?"

She sighed. "You had to have slept well at some point in your life!"

His shoulders drooped slightly, and she knew he was considering the idea.

"Please, Severus, maybe if I can find that memory, if I can make you relive it, maybe you will - "

"It won't work. The problem is not falling asleep, it's staying asleep."

"But perhaps if you found a safe memory -"

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

"No, I don't!" she admitted angrily. "But things can't get much worse, can they?"

He scowled. "Fine, try it, but I'm not letting down my guard, I -"

"Please, Severus, you're too skilled an Occlumens for me to overcome, especially when I'm tired and tipsy and ... I won't think of anything except sleep when I cast the spell."

After a moment of tense silence, he nodded. "But if you dare..."

She let out a long breath. "Trust me." Closing her eyes, she forced herself to think only of sleep - warm, restful sleep. Then she opened her eyes, raised her wand, and whispered, "Legilimens."

He was eleven, perhaps twelve, curled up on his side, his arm wrapped around a pillow. A smile flickered across his lips, and he snuggled below the thick pile of blankets. Then he sat up suddenly, his breathing erratic. Removing his wand from beneath his pillow, he glanced about the room frantically. But when all he saw was a series of empty, canopied beds and a dying fire in the hearth, he released a long, anxious breath and burrowed himself back below the covers. The smile returned to his face, and his breathing slowed, but he never released his grip on his wand.

Charlotte drew back from him, disappointed that she hadn't found a better memory. When she saw his eyes, still half open, she knew she had failed. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, falling back against the couch. "I thought I could - "

"No, that was ... I had forgotten about that," he murmured, and she caught the smile on his lips, a smile so similar to the one she had seen in his head.

"Where were you?"

"Hogwarts, my first Christmas there."

"You looked ... frightened."

"Frightened? No, on guard, perhaps, but not frightened."

"I wanted to find a better memory."

"It was a good memory. A good sleep."

"That's your idea of a good sleep?"

"No classes to wake up for, no roommates to guard against, no ..." He stopped. "It was a very good sleep." He met her eyes. "Again."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Really? The same memory?"

"The same one."

"You wouldn't rather find it yourself?"

"It feels ... more realistic when you recall the memory," he admitted quietly.

She nodded. "Very well."

When she pulled back from him the second time, his eyes were closed, and she could have sworn that she saw the boy he had once been behind that weary, lined face.

She curled up on the couch and watched him for a quarter of an hour. His head was tipped back against the head of the chair, and she found herself wishing that he had been on the sofa when she had tried her experiment. Still, he didn't move or shift as if he were uncomfortable. His breathing came at regular intervals, and his body appeared relaxed, boneless even. When she was convinced that he had truly fallen asleep, she allowed herself to doze off, as well.

*

His eyes opened at the sound of her voice.

"Wake up, Charlotte," she whispered. "Wake up."

She was kneeling beside the sofa, nudging Charlotte, who shook her head and murmured, "Let me sleep."

"Wake up, Charlotte," she repeated in a singsong voice. "Wake up." She hid behind a curtain of black hair, but he knew who she was.

Rising from his chair, he took a tentative step toward her. She ignored him and continued prodding Charlotte.

He took a deep breath and said, "Let her sleep, Dor, just let her sleep."

She went absolutely still.

"Please, just for tonight, let her sleep," he pleaded hoarsely.

Dorcas turned and met his eyes. It was the first time she had looked at him in years.

"Why should I let her sleep?" she asked, rising to her full height. She'd been tall and willowy, much like their mother.

He shook his head, unable to speak.

"Do you know," she whispered, circling him, "that I can't even remember what it feels like to sleep?"

He shook his head again.

"They say that death is eternal rest, but it's rather like staying awake forever and ever." She paused and smiled grimly. "Henry doesn't sleep, either."

"Please, let her sleep."

"She has to wake up sometime." Dorcas smiled, and Severus shivered. "Then she'll see you!" his sister sang, her voice off key.

He felt his eyes fill with tears. "No."

"Oh, poor Severus, who will save you now? I was the only one who stood up for you, and you sent me away."

"I didn't mean to, Dor, you have to know that I didn't mean -"

"In any case," she whispered, circling him again and again, "she has to wake up, whether you want her to or not. Isn't it better to wake her sooner than later? You're just delaying the inevitable. You're making it more difficult for yourself."

"Just for tonight, Dor."

"And then tomorrow night and the next night ... I know you, Severus. You always want more."

"I want ..." He stopped, uncertain.

"You want to delay the inevitable. This is just the calm before the storm, Severus. You remember what happened when you delayed the inevitable, don't you?" Dorcas stood directly in front of him now. "If you had done what you were supposed to do, everything would have been different." Her whispers had turned into hisses. "You were supposed to deal with Father, you were supposed to do it, but you left it to me, you left it to me!"

"I was frightened," he confessed, shoulders shaking.

"You were a coward," she corrected, turning from him abruptly. "Charlotte, wake up," she sang, kneeling down beside the sleeping woman once again.

"Charlotte, wake up!"

"Hmm, what?" Charlotte's eyes fluttered open. "What's the matter?"

"Charlotte, wake up!" He was gripping her shoulders, shaking her roughly.

"I'm awake, I'm awake!" She struggled from his grasp and raised herself to a sitting position. He knelt beside the sofa, his hands still reaching for her shoulders.

She leaned forward and brushed her fingers against his face. As the pad of her index finger slid across his cheekbone, he realized that he'd been crying. "Don't!" he snapped, standing up and turning away from her. "Just go back to sleep."

He heard her rise from the sofa, but instead of leaving the room, she came up behind him and placed a hand on his back. When he tried to jerk away, he felt her fingers press into his shoulder blade.

"You managed to sleep for an hour and a half," she murmured, close enough that her breath tickled the back of his neck. "And in that uncomfortable chair. That's not too bad, I suppose. But why don't take the couch this time? And maybe I can find another memory, a better memory ..."

"Why can't you leave me alone?" Her hand slid off his shoulder, and he immediately missed the pressure of her fingers. "Where are you going?" he demanded as she moved to the door.

"To my bedroom. Perhaps Tonks has made room for me by falling off the bed." He could hear the odd mixture of amusement and weariness in her voice.

"I...this is ridiculous," he decided. "I'll undo the wards to my room. There's no reason for you to share a bed with Tonks when mine's not being used."

Her eyes widened, but she didn't protest when he grabbed her hand and led her upstairs. You're just delaying the inevitable, Dorcas whispered, and he squeezed Charlotte's hand more tightly, releasing it only when he undid the wards to his room.

The door creaked open, and he said quietly, "Good night."

"Good night," she repeated, stepping over the threshold. But instead of closing the door, she leaned toward him and placed her hands on his shoulders.

They stood looking at each for a moment. Then, before he realized what he was doing, his feet had crossed the threshold and his hand had closed the door behind them. Her arms snaked around his neck, and his fingers tipped her chin up so that their eyes met.

"The calm before the storm," he murmured, and then his lips brushed hers.

When she sighed against his mouth, he jerked away, suddenly afraid of what he was doing.

"Shhh," she soothed, pulling him back to her. She took his lower lip into her mouth and sucked gently.

Groaning, he held her face in his hands and deepened the kiss. She tasted of wine and sleep, a combination he found inexplicably desirable. Even as his tongue slid over every part of her mouth that it could reach, he felt as if he were unable to taste enough of her.

"More," he moaned into her mouth, and her moan of agreement echoed in his throat.

His hands slid down her body, relishing the warmth of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the jut of her hips. He cupped her rear and pulled her body flush against him, and still it seemed as if she weren't close enough. Needing to feel more of her bare skin, he slipped one of his hands beneath her pajama top and pressed his fingers into the flesh of her back.

She gasped at the contact, breaking the kiss as her head tipped back slightly.

"No," he growled, missing the pressure of her lips. He grabbed her hair and yanked her mouth back to his. The kiss was a brutal collision of lips and tongues, and he welcomed the bruising sensation of her teeth nipping at his lower lip.

A few moments later, she panted, "Wait!" He drew back, dazed, as she quickly reached down and pulled her pajama top over her head. Running his fingers along her rib cage, he watched her eyelids flutter and her teeth clamp down on her lower lip as if to suppress the groan that still managed to escape. When his thumbs grazed her nipples, her eyes and mouth flew open, and that small part of his brain still functioning realized with sudden clarity that this woman who wanted him so badly had no idea what he really was.

"Severus?" she asked uncertainly, as his hands stilled.

As he stared down at her, a voice in his head whispered, What does it matter? She doesn't want to know. She closes her eyes, she wants to believe you're good, so let her, just for tonight, let her. "Just for tonight," he whispered, and his hands resumed their exploration of her skin.

But she stiffened in his arms, and he waited for her to push him away. Instead, she leaned into him, trapping his hands between her warm skin and the scratchy material of his robe.

"No," she said softly, reaching up to push his hair behind his ears, "not just tonight."

Even in the darkness, he could tell her eyes were trying to find his. Their eyes locked, and he felt her slip into his head. "Good," he whispered, even as his bleary mind worked frantically to put up some kind of barrier. How long it will take until she finds Henry, Dorcas, Father? he wondered, his heart pounding so hard that it seemed to press all of the air out of his chest.

"Who are Henry and Dorcas?" she asked quietly. He became immediately aware of how soft and warm her hands felt against his face, and he realized that she would not touch him again when she knew.

Panicking, he pushed her away from him.

She folded her arms across her naked chest, an action that somehow soothed and aroused him at the same time. "You didn't fight me very much," she murmured. "You're still very tired. Come to bed. Come to sleep." She held out a hand.

He looked at her for a long moment. She was nothing more than an outline in the darkness, but he found it easy enough to fill in the features he'd memorized over the past six weeks: hair, slightly wavy, very rumpled by this time of night; eyes, always searching but never looking in the right places; lips, curled into a bemused half-smile as if she still didn't quite believe that she was here, as if she wanted to forget and remember something at the same time.

He wanted to forget and remember, too.

"I don't want to sleep," he snarled, moving toward her in a few quick steps. She seemed to sense his abrupt shift in mood, for she backed up rapidly, her calves colliding with the edge of his bed. Standing inches from her, he whispered, "Neither of us is going to sleep." He placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her into a sitting position.

"Severus, you need to sleep," she breathed, staring up at him. He couldn't decide if she sounded frightened or aroused; he wondered if the answer even mattered to him.

Straddling her, he pressed her shoulders into the mattress. "Perhaps I need something else," he whispered as he ran his fingers along the waistband of her pajama pants.

Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. But when she spoke, her voice was surprisingly even. "You're not going to use me to hide from yourself."

He felt his hands - now rubbing the skin just above the elastic band of her knickers - begin to shake. But he managed a sneer that she probably couldn't detect in the darkness. "No? But aren't you trying to rescue me? Reform me? Come now, Charlotte," he mocked, leaning down to kiss a spot just below her navel, "you could save me from myself."

She gently tugged one of his hands from her waist and brought his palm to her lips. He closed his eyes and she whispered against his hand, "I'm not trying to save you."

He slid up her body and began to kiss her neck. "Then tell me what this is about," he demanded as his lips moved up to her ear. "Tell me."

"You," she breathed as he kissed his way down her jaw line.

"Me? You don't know me."

"What if I know you better than you think?" She reached inside his robe and tugged his shirt from the waistband of his pants.

As her fingers traced circles across his bare back, he had to work to keep his voice even. "You haven't the slightest idea of who I am."

"You don't give me enough credit," she whispered, her hands roaming up and down his spine before making their way to his chest.

He allowed himself just a moment to enjoy the shivers of arousal that raced through him. Then, he grasped her wrists with one rough hand and pinned her arms above her head. Pressing his index finger to her lips, he growled, "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

She kissed the pad of his finger as if he had been whispering endearments. "You think this a game?" he hissed, tightening his grip on her wrists until she gasped in pain. He leaned forward so that his lips were just above hers. "Oh, no, does that hurt?" he taunted.

"Tell me," she asked, her voice now shaking angrily, "do you get off on threatening me, or are you simply afraid?"

"I wouldn't antagonize a Death Eater who has you pinned to a bed," he warned.

"Ah, you are afraid," she murmured, raising her head to kiss the corner of his mouth.

He growled and pressed his body into hers. "I can hurt you," he insisted.

"Why do you act this way?" She glared up at him. "You're no longer a Death Eater, and you don't have to prove anything to me!"

"Who said I'm trying to prove anything? Perhaps this is simply who I am." He brushed his lips against hers, and she relaxed beneath him. "But you don't know, do you?" He ran his tongue along her upper lip, then her lower lip, until her mouth opened slightly. Slipping his tongue between her lips, he began to kiss her deeply, gently. Then, when she moaned, he withdrew his mouth abruptly, leaving her panting beneath him. "You have no conception of what I've done or of what I can do."

With a growl of frustration, she pulled her wrists from his grasp and attempted to shove him away. But he leaned into her and hissed, "I warned you to leave me alone."

She laughed softly, bitterly, and said, "You don't want me to leave you alone." She pushed at his shoulders again, and this time, he obliged her by rolling away and sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her.

"I want..." He wanted her, he wanted sleep; he wanted nothing and everything all at once. He shook his head and, rising abruptly, moved toward the door.

"You don't know what you want," she whispered to his back.

He turned and bellowed, "I want you to see me for what I am!"

She jumped up from the bed. "You won't let me!"

"You won't look! The other day, before the Order Meeting, I told you to look and you - "

She ignored him and stormed, "I have looked! What the hell do you think I've been doing for the past six weeks?" She strode toward him and grabbed his shoulders. "You know what you are?"

"Do tell."

"You are, despite all of your attempts to appear otherwise, an honorable man." As she spoke, she shook him, as if to make him believe her through physical, if not verbal, means.

He laughed bitterly. "Oh really!" He grabbed her wrists. "Is that why there will be bruises there tomorrow?"

She looked away from him. "That was not very ... nice," she admitted. Then she looked back at him and declared, "You brew Wolfsbane for Remus, even though you dislike him..."

"Albus's orders, though do keep trying to delude yourself, Charlotte. I find it amusing."

She lifted her chin. "It matters very little to me if you make the Wolfsbane for Remus's sake or for my grandfather's sake. You must care for Albus if you -"

He sneered. "He is my employer, Charlotte."

She shook her head. "I know you care for him. I've seen it, in here." She tapped his temple insistently. "And I know that when it comes to making tough choices -"

"Hmm, yes, choosing to be a Death Eater -"

She glared at him. "You chose to save my life, how about that? You risked your life that night. There was nothing to gain by doing that!"

"I see." Smiling grimly, he pressed his hands to her breasts and rubbed insistently. "So this is all about gratitude, is it?"

When she jerked away from him, he could almost feel the anger radiate from her. She raised her hand, and he waited expectantly for her palm to strike his face. But her hand froze mid-swing. "You want me to hit you, don't you?"

"I haven't decided. You've been so eager tonight to tell me what I want and what I don't want - enlighten me!"

She let out a screech of frustration. "Why do you do this? Why can't you just leave whatever it is in the past and stop berating yourself and everyone else around you for whatever happened years ago? Please just let me ..." She stopped suddenly, almost as if she had run out of breath.

"That would certainly make things easier for you, wouldn't it?" he sneered. "Fuck me, fix me, and your debt is repaid."

She reared back as if he had struck her. Then, turning away from him, she whispered, "Please don't suggest that this is about gratitude. This isn't about gratitude..." She stared down at her feet.

He felt the angry knot in his chest loosen as he gazed at her. She stood with her head bent, her shoulders rounded forward, and her arms wrapped tightly around her bare waist. She looked completely vulnerable, and he realized that he much preferred her stubborn naiveté to this defeated acceptance. Muttering a curse, he bent down to retrieve her shirt. "Here."

She glanced at him in surprise. "Thank you," she murmured as she pulled the top over her head. Then, as if she had just donned a suit of armor, she tilted her chin, crossed her arms, and declared in her most antagonistic voice, "This is not about gratitude!"

Whether it was her words or the way she said them, he wasn't certain. But something about that moment overwhelmed him: desire and weariness, bemusement and fear mingled somewhere deep in his chest and formed a strangled laugh that emerged from his lips in harsh fits and starts.

She gaped at him. "You're laughing. We're in the middle of a horrible row, and you're laughing."

Wondering where all of his anger had gone, he raised an eyebrow and asked, "Why not? This is an utterly surreal moment."

"It is four in the morning. We seem to have odd ...discussions at this time of the night." She smiled, and he knew she was thinking of that night on the roof.

"Indeed."

"Then there's the fact that you're sleep deprived. That can make one do strange things."

"Very true," he agreed softly.

"And there's this," she said, gesturing vaguely between them. "We've thoroughly botched it up."

"Oh yes, please don't forget our botched attempt at this." He mimicked her gesture, and she began to laugh. He watched her, lips parted, head tilted back slightly, and he felt the fear creep back into him. She still didn't understand, and he couldn't make her understand, not without telling her, and that was something he wasn't ready to do. Just for tonight, he thought, let me have this just for tonight.

He closed the distance between them, and she threw her arms around him.

"It seems you have every right to act madly," she whispered against his ear.

"And your reasons?" he asked, his hand stroking the back of her neck. "Because this is mad, Charlotte."

She leaned back slightly so that she could meet his eyes. "It seems that I like you."

He pulled her back against him. "You've been in this house for far too long."

"Most definitely. But I still like you."

He frowned. "You have no idea..."

"Oh, not this again!" She pulled back. "Tell me we're not starting all over again."

He shook his head. "I'm too tired."

"Good," she said, tugging on his hand. "Then come to bed."

He watched her crawl into his bed and nestle beneath the blankets as if she belonged there.

This changes nothing, he told himself firmly as he kicked off his shoes. Unbuttoning his outer robe, he sensed her gaze fixed on him. He felt naked suddenly, though he still wore his pants and shirt. "You'll not sleep well. I wake frequently, the nightmares -"

"I sleep through most anything," she responded, throwing back the blankets.

"Liar," he whispered, standing at the edge of the bed.

She only smiled and patted the mattress.

Just for tonight, he promised himself as he slipped in beside her. Just for tonight.

*

Nothing and everything had changed.

Charlotte awoke to find him sitting up in bed, breath uneven and body shaking. "Just a dream," she murmured, as she rubbed a hand up and down his back.

Looking away from her, he nodded.

"The sun is up," she said, squeezing his shoulder.

"Yes, it's sometime after seven."

She thought his voice was calmer than it had been the night before.

He pushed the blankets off of him, and she protested, "You haven't slept much."

Rising, he reached for his robe. "More than usual. Besides," he added, shooting her a glance, "I believe we have an appointment at eight. Defense today."

She stared at him, trying to read him, but his eyes and face were expressionless. "Right," she agreed as he left the room. She fell back against the mattress and closed her eyes, allowing herself to imagine, for just a moment, that last night had unfolded differently, that this morning had unfolded differently, and that he was beside her right now, his lips and hands on her body.

Later, after both had showered and dressed, they sat in the kitchen, a plate of toast and fruit between them, books spread across the table. Between bites of breakfast, he quizzed her on Defense spells; she answered between sips of tea. He disparaged her responses; she argued with his criticisms. He scowled at her; she laughed at him. He watched her behind hooded eyes; she stared openly at him. What he found in his study of her, she wasn't certain. But she noted with pleasure, and just a bit of pride, that the circles under his eyes had diminished somewhat. And he did not rub his left forearm once in the hours they spent together.

Yes, on the surface of things, nothing had changed. But Charlotte knew that everything important was changing - slowly, perhaps, but changing undeniably.

*

Nothing and everything had changed.

Dorcas had found him, again. She had promised to find him every time he closed his eyes, unless he told Charlotte the truth.

When he jerked awake, he felt Charlotte's warm hand sliding up and down his back, and he knew that she would never listen to him unless forced to do so.

In the shower, he devised a plan. The Pensieve, he thought, leaning against the cold tiles of the stall. Yes, that would work. Then she would have no choice but to see the truth. Closing his eyes against the spray of hot water, he allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, that last night had unfolded differently, that this morning had unfolded differently, that she was leaning against him now, her wet hair plastered to his chest, her wet skin touching his.

Later, when they had both showered and dressed, they sat in the kitchen, a plate of toast and fruit between them, books spread across the table. As he quizzed her on Defense spells, he forced himself to eat, knowing that she was watching. He disparaged her answers, though his heart wasn't in it. His gut twisted at the sound of her laughter. As he watched her work, he tried to recall her taste, her scent, the feel of her skin. When she stared at him, he fought to keep his expression cool and neutral. And though the skin on his left forearm itched and burned, he forced himself to leave it alone.

Dorcas was still with him, and the Mark still looked green. Nothing had changed, yet after tonight, nothing would remain the same.