A Merciless Affection

Chapter 16: Down that Path into Darkness Deep as Hell

For the next five days, Sarah made potions under Snape's supervision. Unfortunately, things did not always go smoothly. His tendency towards impatience with her when she faltered in the slightest resulted in a variety of unhappy moments, during which Sarah took to retreating either to his office or the bathroom, until she managed to cool her own temper enough to go on with her work. She would have been just as happy, on occasion, to walk out past the office door. But it wasn't going to happen, and the sooner she learned to deal with it, the better.

The new year had come in with scarcely any acknowledgement, although Professor McGonagall had shown up with a tin of shortbread. "We need all the luck we can get this year," was her only comment upon handing it over to Snape. With a troubled glance at Sarah, she bid them both farewell and retreated with all the air of one having completed a necessary but hardly an agreeable duty.

"Does she do that every year?" Sarah asked after she had gone.

"Yes," Snape replied sourly. "If you don't want these, I'm going to toss them in the bin."

Whether it was an actual hunger for something sweet or merely a superstitious urge or a sense of loyalty to her Head of House, Sarah rescued the tin and kept it under what had become, de facto, her side of the bed.

In reality, she was finding that nibbling on something for most of the day was the only way to get relief from the sick feeling that had settled in the back of her head. An assortment of potions had done little or nothing to help, and with Snape overseeing the process, that was unlikely to be due to poor potion-making. Finally she settled on attempting a simple decoction of ginger root, which, though it did not remove her misery altogether, at least prevented it from getting any worse.

* * *

Nothing further had been said about Professor Dumbledore's plans, and Sarah found that, in spite of her initial insistence on knowing the truth, she was now just as happy that they had never returned to the subject. On Tuesday of the last week of the holidays, however, something happened which brought the problem sharply to the fore again. In the evening, as they worked, Sarah heard an abrupt hiss and turned to see Snape clenching his left forearm. For a moment she thought he had somehow burned himself, but the look in his eyes said that something far more deadly was afoot.

"What is it?" she asked anxiously.

"He's calling," Snape said, wincing. It wasn't necessary for him to say who. "I have to go."

After he had left--with a folded bundle of cloth in his hands and not another word--Sarah began putting away the potion supplies almost woodenly, suspending the processes that were underway as necessary, not trusting herself to concentrate adequately to keep on working. When she was done, she retreated into the bedroom. She found herself pacing aimlessly. Could she risk Flooing someone...McGonagall? Dumbledore? Snape probably wouldn't thank her for that. If he had meant them to know, he would have given her instructions.

What was he telling You-Know-Who? Sarah had heard rumors about what had happened last spring. The headmaster had told them plainly at the end of the year that Cedric Diggory's death in the Triwizard Tournament had been due to the return of the dark sorcerer who haunted the nightmares of the whole Wizarding world so thoroughly that few dared to say his name. The Ministry of Magic had been denying it ever since, and with The Daily Prophet trying to suck up to Minister Fudge, and the presence of High Inquisitor Umbridge as the new Dark Arts teacher, no one in the student body seemed eager to remember what Professor Dumbledore had said. There were even dark hints going around that Harry Potter, the boy who had (in some unknown way) defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his infancy, was himself somehow to blame for Diggory's death. A lot of rot, undoubtedly. Sarah, for her own part, had done her best to ignore Potter ever since he came to Hogwarts, wincing in his behalf at the excessive attention that was being bestowed on him. He clearly did not appreciate it, and he hardly needed anyone else--least of all a former Death Eater's daughter--ogling at his every move.

Assuming that what Professor Dumbledore had told them was true--and Sarah had no reason to think it was not--You-Know-Who was out there right now, building up his power again. And Snape was...helping him? pretending to help him? What was happening at this moment?

Sarah shivered.

Was he telling You-Know-Who about her? He didn't want to do that, or so he'd said, but the powers of...that person...were legendary. You couldn't lie to him, they said. At least Snape had taken off his ring--she had noticed that a few days ago, although she wasn't sure when he had done so. She had not seen her own again. She wasn't anxious to have it back. The circumstances of their marriage had not been such as to make her feel sentimental. It hardly seemed possible that they were married, although the days and nights together without interruption would never have happened in the lives they were leading before. It was disconcerting to think that Dumbledore and McGonagall knew that he was shagging her down here in the dungeons. Probably disconcerting for them, too, if she thought about it. She would rather not. And the idea of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named being aware of that fact, being pleased about it, was too horrible to ponder for an instant. She would be happiest if he remained unaware of her altogether, as her mother had surely intended.

Yet the headmaster had said that such a revelation would be to Snape's benefit....

Disloyal as it might be--though he had done nothing in particular to inspire her loyalty--Sarah had no desire to make herself a sacrifice for her lover's safety. He was perfectly capable, she was sure, of protecting his own arse.

When is he coming back?

In a dark mood, she paced along the line of the bookcases. Despite the usual allure of books, she had stoutly resisted the temptation to peruse these shelves very closely. She found, as she examined them now, the expected mix of Potions books and Dark Arts texts. But the uncomfortable aura that emanated from the collection felt like a fine sheen of oil spreading over her skin.

A title, Hexing for Protection, caught her eye. Uneasily, she drew it off the shelf. Would he feel the same way about his books as he had about his workroom?

You know what? I don't care.

She took the book to her bedside and laid down with it on the covers, touching the pages gingerly as she started reading, her mind braced against being persuaded to who-knew-what viewpoint the author might have taken. She let herself relax a little as she determined that the book was not propounding earnestly in favor of the Dark Arts. Still, anxiety kept her on edge, taking a toll of her energies. And the questions played on ceaselessly in the back of her mind: What's he doing? What's happening to him? What will happen to me?

* * *

She didn't realize that she had fallen asleep until she woke with a groggy start. He was easing the book out of her hands, and she surprised him by sitting up abruptly. He looked too exhausted to tolerate surprises.

"You're back," she said with relief.

"Obviously," he said. "I see you've been putting your time to some advantage."

Sarah blinked sleepily at the book he had taken. "I had to do something," she said. "I couldn't concentrate on the potions."

"Hmph," he snorted. "And if lives depended on your ability to concentrate under any circumstances?"

"Do they?" she asked, unable to cope with the idea in her present state of alertness.

"Someday they very well may." Unexpectedly, he pulled her to her feet. "Come with me."

He took her out the portrait door and up the back stairs.

"I'm not allowed to be out here," she pointed out, stumbling along, still trying to wake up properly. "What time is it?"

"Nearly three. No one will see you. I thought you'd been complaining about the lack of fresh air?"

He led her along side passages and up little-used stairs until they came to the entrance to the Astronomy Tower and began to climb. Now that she was fully awake, she was tempted to ask him what this was all about. But speaking aloud was apt to draw attention...in the event that there was anyone's attention around to draw. Even if there weren't, she would get lectured later about the risk she had taken. And one thing she had learned was that Snape wasn't likely to answer questions until he was good and ready to. It was all too probable that this...whatever it was...had something to do with where he had spent the evening. Having already had such an ugly scene over the subject that first night, Sarah knew to her chagrin just how easy it was to anger him regarding it. Consequently, she kept her mouth shut until they came out in the dim moonlight on the top of the tower.

The arctic air hit her like the blast of a spell. She didn't like to complain--not after her repeated requests to sneak upstairs in the middle of the night so she could have a chance to breathe--but within seconds she found her teeth chattering uncontrollably.

"Here," he said, swinging off his cloak and draping it around her shoulders. She was surprised at how warm it was, a little warmer than his body heat should have made it, even after climbing up a dozen or more flights. She noticed, too, that he seemed less cold than he ought to be without his cloak.

"How...?" she queried, holding up the front edge of the cloak before she brought it tighter around her.

"How would you cast a warming charm?" he asked in return.

"On myself," Sarah said, as if that were obvious. But another idea started to dawn on her.

"And is that effective?"

"No, warming charms aren't usually very effective."

"Why?"

"I...I don't know."

"Could it be because you're trying to interfere with something that already has an internal heat source? Something, in fact, living?"

"So you..." Of course, he must cast the spell on his clothes. "Fabric is more stable. It holds the spell better." While his poor students froze all winter in the Potions classroom, he stayed perfectly warm. "Why doesn't everyone know that?"

"How can I be expected to account for the stupidity of others? I didn't bring you up here to teach you Charms. Thankfully that is Professor Flitwick's job, not mine." He grimaced.

"But that's bloody brilliant!" Sarah said.

"Having the command of a few items of esoteric knowledge does not qualify as 'brilliance' in any subject. Never deceive yourself into believing that to be the case."

Sarah was sobered by the caution, certain that he meant more by it than for her to stop raving on about the warming charm.

"Why did you bring me up here?" she asked. "Does it have to do with...with You-Know-Who?"

Snape frowned deeply. "First lesson," he snapped. "You will call him 'the Dark Lord.' I am quite sure that you heard the term in your childhood, and you had better get used to saying it again."

"Did you tell him about me?" Sarah glanced fearfully up at the night sky, where the waxing moon hung fat and pale above the western horizon. An odd and terrible fancy had struck her: a huge black bird swooping down out of the darkness to carry her away.

"Of course not! Do you think I'm daft?"

"Then why did you bring me up here?" Did the wards on the castle protect people standing on the battlements? She had never had reason to wonder until now. I'm getting as paranoid as he is.

"I thought," he said slowly, "that it might be better to have this conversation in some other circumstances than we had it before. Perhaps the cold air will keep your head clear."

So...this conversation. The one they'd been avoiding for days. Sarah took a deep breath of the frosty air, deep enough to tickle her lungs; she resisted the urge to cough. "I'll keep my head clear," she said, "if you keep yours."

He frowned even more sharply, but seemed to ignore the comment when he spoke again. "How much of the Dark Arts did your father teach you?"

The question was unexpected, although not especially surprising. "I...I don't know. A little," she admitted, not wanting to remember. But a memory did arise, unbidden and frightening in its power over her, although there was no dark magic in it at all. It was of the first time she had ridden on a real broom instead of a baby one. She had soared up, to what had then seemed the dizzying height of fifteen or twenty feet, scared and exhilarated at once, and glowing with pride as her father called up to her, Well done! That's my Sarah!

"It will be necessary," Snape said, jarring her back into the present, "for you to learn a little more. Enough to convince anybody who might wonder that you've been attempting to pursue the subject on your own since you came to school."

"I don't...." Sarah began, then said, "It doesn't matter, does it, whether I want to or not?"

"No, it does not. At least you understand that."

There was something odd, almost presumptuous, about the way he looked at her when he said this that suddenly made Sarah want to ask the one question she knew she must not: Whose side are you really on? But that question, once asked, would remove all possible comfort from her life, whatever his answer. In all likelihood, he would refuse to say anything, or give some oblique answer that would tie her in knots trying to guess what he meant. Even if he should say outright that he was on Dumbledore's side, she could never be sure he was telling her the truth. And if, in some fit of improbable honesty, he should admit that it was his side...the Dark Lord's....

How could I have told myself it didn't matter? But then, that was when she believed it would be easy to turn her back on him and walk away. She had never anticipated that he might not let her walk away. And now she was bound to him by ties that made all her former protestations of not loving him just as moot as her feelings about learning the Dark Arts. Like it or not, love him or not, the choices he made had an impact on her now. And if he had made those particular choices....

She could not endure the agonies of spirit that knowing for certain would bring; how her mother had done so for so many years was beyond Sarah's ability to imagine. If Snape had convinced Professor Dumbledore of his true stance, then she would let the matter lie where it was. But there was another question that continued to prey upon her mind, another that came far too near to destroying her peace, and to satisfy the urge to know something, she asked it.

Her voice shook. "How likely is it that I'll be called before him...the Dark Lord, I mean?"

The dark eyes began searching her own. For evidence, she supposed, of how she would react. She found herself looking down at his feet.

"That depends," Snape said at last, "on a great many things. Not least of which is how long our relationship can safely be kept secret from him. There will come a point when the questions that will be asked once he does learn of you will begin to focus more and more pointedly on my duplicity in keeping such obviously favorable information from him. Once you are out of school, for instance, it will be harder to excuse. The fact of your apprenticeship, of course, will help keep my secrecy on that account more credible. Not all of my associates would be sorry to see me ignominiously sacked, no matter how that might damage the cause. Nevertheless, the more reason he has to doubt me, the more likely your presence is to be required, so that he can evaluate the situation for himself."

He shifted his stance, in obvious uneasiness, and Sarah looked him in the face again.

"One thing, however, is certain," he went on, his eyes hard, his expression grim. "If the Dark Lord should triumph, you will most certainly be required to come before him and swear your allegiance. I have already told you the consequences, should you fail to be convincing."

"If he...wins...?" Sarah raised her hands to her face, letting the cloak fall open; she scarcely noticed the cold. "Will we still be alive if that happens?" The image that thought conjured was terrible--everyone she knew, dead: Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, her dorm mates, her House mates, her other teachers. Her aunt, who would certainly never concede to life under the Dark Lord's rule. And herself, alive, because she was bound to the Death Eater Severus Snape.

"Unlike you," Snape answered coldly, "I would rather be alive than dead, whatever happens. And while I'm sure that your Gryffindor sense of honor will compel you to make some final, foolish gesture, I would prefer that you restrain that impulse until the only life you will waste in doing so is your own."

He meant the child, she realized. She had never supposed that it actually mattered to him. Now, it seemed, it mattered more than she did herself. And this child she had wanted so badly, could she bear for it grow up under the Dark Lord's shadow? With such a heritage as her son possessed, could he fail to be touched by that shadow, no matter who won this war? Sarah found herself shaking all over, and not from the cold. Severus took a step towards her, as if he meant to still her trembling in his arms.

"Don't touch me!" she said, taking a step back herself. "Just...just let me calm down." She laced her fingers together, clenching them until they hurt as much as the dart that had passed through her soul.

Although it took a long while, she found, to her surprise, that she was calming down. When the most ready alternative was an all-too-easy leap from the top of this tower, it was equally curious and horrible to find that, whatever suicidal impulses she had inherited from her mother, she was no more interested in dying at this moment than Snape was.

Bloody cowards, the both of us!

Maybe that was part of why he had brought her up here--to see what he was dealing with. She'd like to think that if she had felt compelled to the edge of the battlements, he would have stopped her.

Even if it was only for the sake of his son?

"What else do you have to tell me?" she asked. The charm on the cloak was wearing off, and she was cold; she wanted this over with.

"What else can you bear to hear?" he said in return.

"Is there anything worse I need to know? Learning the Dark Arts, I understand, even if I don't like it. The other...."

"You are not remotely ready for the other. Preparing you for that is a process that can have no clear or definite course; it will be as complicated as the layers of your thoughts and the truth of your memories. As I determine each step you must take, you must be prepared to do as I say, however difficult you may find it." He folded his arms tightly across his chest. "So, is that something worse? I know the idea of obeying me offends you," he added snidely.

"What you're really saying," Sarah chattered out between her teeth, "is that I have to trust you."

"Why, I do believe that is what I'm saying."

"Then you should just say it," Sarah snapped.

His arms unfolded and his face lost its sneer. He approached her, brushed back her hair, held her face between his hands. "Trust me, Sarah," he said.

His voice seemed to be drawing her very heart out, where he could cradle it or crush it as he chose. Her breath grew ragged in the effort to hold it back. She couldn't frame an answer. She wasn't about to lie, not when she didn't know the truth herself. She didn't know what she would do when some moment came to choose whether or not to trust him. She could no more answer that than he could answer whose side he was on. She let her head droop forward, sliding out of his hands until her forehead rested on his chest. He slipped his arms around her.

It really was getting very cold. "I would rather not make the effort of another warming charm," he said.

"I'm ready to go back."

"Are you sure?"

Steadier. "Yes."

"As you wish, then."

As they began the long trek back to the dungeons, relying on the cover of night, the sleeping castle swallowed them up in its shadows.