A Merciless Affection

Chapter 29: Can I Ever Prevail When I'm Only a Man

The pale light of dawn was a bitter thing. It laid bare all that had occurred in the night, in all its ugliness, unremittingly stripping away the fuzziness of overwrought emotion. It revealed the pillows on the floor against the wall where she'd thrown them. It lit the rumpled folds of the clothing they'd both slept in.

It demanded an answer to the question of how to go on.

What was it she had, to go on with?

I'm pregnant and I have no money. My husband is a Death Eater, or at least pretending to still be loyal to the Dark Lord. And I've just found out that he was like any other Death Eater in his youth. That he did terrible things to real people. That shouldn't come as such a shock, should it? But it does, somehow. Because.... Okay, admit it, Sarah. At one time he enjoyed it--that's the rub, isn't it? Even if he regrets it now.

She turned, raised on her elbow, looked at him.

There was no innocence in that face, even asleep. It had been marked by his past, as surely as his arm had been marked by the Dark Lord, if not as plainly. Old and subtle lines of cruelty and malice showed in the mask of sleep. Not that they weren't there when he was awake. But asleep...it seemed worse, as if it were a truth about his soul.

Was running still remotely an option? She wasn't sure why she hadn't thought of it last night, but the Witches' Protection League must have an office in Diagon Alley. On the other hand, unless she lied outright, whatever she told them (yes, I'm secretly married to one of my teachers at Hogwarts, who is also a Death Eater, and I'm five months pregnant with his child) would have repercussions far beyond getting rescued from Knockturn Alley.

In fact, no matter how or where she ran, Severus would suffer the consequences, one way or another. Lucius Malfoy would almost certainly report her words to the Dark Lord himself. And Lucius knew that Severus was involved in the matter in some fashion, since no one else to whom Sarah would logically have turned knew anything about her purported loyalties. He would have to answer for her whereabouts and her status to the Dark Lord, and while he might be clever enough to find acceptable excuses, it was not a safe position to place him in.

And that matters to you because...? said a self-serving little voice in her head. Isn't it as much as he deserves, for the things he's done?

While Malfoy and his ilk walk free, though they're just as guilty? This isn't about the past, it's about the future. If the Dark Lord triumphs, far worse things will happen, to far many more people. Severus is in a unique position to help stop that from happening. A bare whisper of thought added: And so are you.

And if his loyalties aren't what you believe?

Then none of this matters, does it?

She sat up. The motion was enough to rouse him, although he was clearly not happy to be roused. He reached around, presumably for a pillow to put over his head, and--upon not finding one--opened his eyes in a painful squint and groaned an oath.

"A hangover potion?" she said.

"If it's at all possible." He was near to begging, for him.

"Only if you're able to tell me the instructions."

"Not that hard. I'll do it myself if...." He tried to roll over and get out of bed, but he barely made it to a sitting position.

"I'll do it," Sarah said.

He grumbled out the procedure, which was very simple; it was probably created by some wizard who frequently needed it, but was sufficiently deluded about that fact that he couldn't be bothered to keep any on hand. The stores in the kitchen were more than adequate, and in less than a quarter of an hour, she brought him the desired dose.

He held it up to the light, still squinting painfully. Making no comment on her work (which was a comment of its own), he simply downed the stuff. With his eyes shut firmly, he sat and waited for the potion to begin to take effect.

"You will refrain from telling me again how stupid that was," he said, after a bit.

"Once was enough, I think," she said.

Now he was looking at her, clear-eyed. But troubled.

"Neither of us has any fondness for games," he said tightly. "Why didn't you leave?"

"Let's see," she answered sarcastically, "you expected me to wander off through Knockturn Alley alone in the dark?"

"I found your note."

Of course. She had left the quill and ink on the table. He must have got to the bin before the house-elf did.

"I threw it away," she pointed out.

"You should have burned it!" he snapped. "You said far too much for safety, had anybody else read it."

She remembered what she had written, realized that he was right.

"I was too upset to think clearly," she said, chagrined. "I'm sorry."

She fully expected a diatribe on caution; it was no more than she deserved. But as she waited, bracing herself, his anger seemed to transmute into something else. Suddenly he brushed a hand across his face, and stared at some invisible point on the wall.

"You should have left."

The words were blunt. Not laced with his usual sarcasm. For some reason that frightened her. She reacted with rage.

"Is that why you told me? To drive me away?"

"You really believe that?!" he shot back. Perhaps the potion hadn't finished working yet, because he lowered his head into his hands, as if the effort to shout had triggered a new surge of pain.

"I don't know," she said, more quietly. That would have been a good way to kick her out, wouldn't it, getting her to leave on her own? Although obviously not as satisfactory for him, she realized, as just ordering her to go. Was that what he was working up to now?

He raised his head again slightly, his lank hair still hiding his face.

"I want an answer from you, Sarah. It seems you had decided to leave. Why did you stay?"

"I don't know," she repeated. She looked out the dingy window; people were already coming and going in the street.

"I assure you, I intend to find out." The warning was so surprising, so irrational even, that she turned back to him. He had drawn himself up straight, and his eyes were hard.

"How do you propose to find out what I don't know myself?" she asked in frustration. "I'm not trying to be coy, Severus. This isn't easy for me." She took a deep breath. "In fact, think I have as much right to know why you told me what you did."

"You insisted upon knowing the entire ugly story of my life!" he accused. "Oh yes, you wanted to know!" It was, curiously, a less painful accusation now that he was sober.

"You could have told me no. You did tell me no. Then you got drunk and told me anyway. What was the purpose in that?"

He glanced away, and his voice grew quieter, but colder. "I came to the conclusion that, sooner or later, in the company I keep, you would hear more of the truth." He met her gaze again. "Or distortions of the truth. Insinuations. Meant to test you, at the worst. At the very least, to try to hurt you. As Lucius did last night."

"So," Sarah's voice quavered, "you decided to hurt me yourself, instead."

"Which would you have preferred?" he challenged angrily again, standing up. "Last night you gave me to understand that you would rather hear the truth from my own mouth."

"I just...I didn't know how I would feel about it." Her eyes went again to the window, scarcely seeing anything more than the square of light it made in the wall.

"And how do you feel about it?" There was that jagged, painful edge she had heard before on his words.

"Shocked," she admitted, still feeling it. "Frightened. I didn't think that you could have really done...things...like that."

"Then you have had a very mistaken opinion of me," he sneered.

"Have I?" She looked up at him, meeting those dark eyes in all their power. All he had done, all he might yet do, was hidden in that blackness, and fear shot through her. It was difficult not to look away.

"I thought I had made plain to you, from the very beginning, the kind of man I am. What I am capable of."

"You have," she said. "You haven't lied to me."

"And yet you believed me incapable of such things?" Disbelief clouded his expression.

"Can you really blame me for not wanting to accept that possibility?" she protested. "I knew you wished to keep some things secret from me. I confess you had good reason to. I was wrong to question you."

"Say that again."

"What?"

"You heard me. Say it again," he repeated, low and dangerous.

"I was wrong to question you?"

"Again, Sarah." His eyes bore down on her.

"No. Are you mad? You want me to bow down to you now? How far do you plan to push me? Out the door?"

"Isn't that what you want?" he asked bitterly.

"No!"

"The truth, Sarah?"

"Are you sure you can handle the truth?" she challenged him.

His upper lip curled.

"All right, then, here it is: if I had somewhere to go, someplace to run, I think I might. For a little while, at least. Until I managed to come to terms with...with what you told me. But I don't have a place to run. And I'm not sure I have time to waste on agonizing over these things the way I should. It can only be a matter of time until Lucius Malfoy reveals me to the Dark Lord. If I cringe from knowing this much...how can I be convincing if I have to appear before him?" Sarah was shuddering badly by the time she finished this speech. He pulled her to him, as if to comfort her, although he must have felt her balk at his touch.

He held her for a long time in silence, until her urge to push him away faded and the familiarity of his embrace loosened some of the tension that racked her frame. It did nothing for the confusion in her mind.

"I should send you away," he said, into her hair. "America, perhaps, or South Africa. If it's possible to arrange something before the week is out--"

"No. I won't go."

"You just finished telling me you wanted to go."

"Not that far. Or that long. Severus," she broke partway from his hold and looked up at him, "would it ever be safe for me to come back? And how would I live? An O.W.L.-level job--assuming I could get one in my condition--and a baby, too?"

"Albus Dumbledore has contacts, I'm certain. You would be protected."

"And leave you to face the risk of exposure?"

"Don't concern yourself with such things," he said, taking her by the shoulders, holding her at arm's length.

Sarah tried to shrug off his hands, anger seething through her. "Heaven forbid I should worry my pretty little head about anything! I'm not a child, Severus. Women are not children, whatever the men who raised you led you to believe. Surely you don't think a woman like Professor McGonagall is incapable of dealing with problems on her own. Or your Aunt Miriam."

"Neither of those women is my responsibility! You are!"

"And what about that girl? Was that just 'taking care of your responsibilities'?" she snapped.

Abruptly, he shoved her away from him, almost throwing her off balance. His face darkened.

She raised her hands to her mouth and turned away, gasping. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"Why? Surely it's no more than I deserve." There was pain in his voice. Tremendous pain, and anger, too.

"I still shouldn't have...." She wasn't sure why she felt so guilty, or why such a strike at him, however well deserved, should wound her own heart.

"Sarah," he said, sounding as if he were trying very hard to master himself. He laid a hand on her upper arm from behind.

"Don't touch me!" She flinched. But he took both her shoulders in an iron grip.

"I will touch you. I am going to say this."

She waited, shuddering. When he spoke, his voice was preternaturally quiet.

"It is hardly to be expected that I shall escape a more...eternal form of punishment for the things I've done. If you are able to take comfort in that, as I'm sure the souls of my victims do, feel free to do so." From the moment she had accused him, Sarah had felt a sob rising in her, and at this, it choked its way into her throat. "To whatever extent I have become anything...better...or achieved any recompense whatsoever, it is in consequence of her. For the first time since I had sought power in the Dark Lord's circle, I wanted to preserve a life instead of destroying it." She felt his hands slip from her shoulders, heard him sit down on the side of the bed. She risked a glance over her shoulder and again saw the curtain of black hair that shrouded his face where it had sunk between his hands.

"I'm sure you would like to believe that change to have happened instantly, but it didn't. It took a long time of...being plagued. Mad, improbable ideas about what might have occurred had she lived. It became an obsession I had to conceal. And in doing that, I discovered I still had thoughts of my own. I resented having been made to forget that. I saw that the power I had been offered required more of my soul than I was willing to part with."

"You went to Dumbledore?" Sarah murmured, having turned so slowly to face him that she hardly realized she had done so. "How did you dare?"

"He had told me once, before I was willing to listen, that the greatest power anybody possessed was the ability to choose, not just once and for all, but over and over. I believed that if anyone would accept a change in choices, it would be he."

"But he sent you back...."

"Free, Sarah. He sent me back free to make my actions, no matter how necessary and unpleasant, serve my own purposes...and his, of course, as I chose. He gave me something the Dark Lord would never have offered." He looked up at her, the harshness in his eyes full of new shades of meaning. "I had done things that could not be changed. But it was possible to change their purpose. To try to change the ending. Even though I couldn't change hers."

Sarah had never before felt any consciousness of a serious rival. It was strange beyond reckoning now to feel that this girl, so many years dead, had a unyielding place in him--his heart or mind or soul, she didn't know which. Nor was it a place, upon sober reflection, that she desired to have. Undoubtedly the girl had not wanted it either. It was all too easy to conjure up the terror of that scene from the sympathy of her own memories. She wondered how she could ever again bear his intimacy. Then, as she closed her eyes against the thought, she wondered how she could bear never having him again.

What kind of person am I?

"I cannot ask you to stay here," Severus said. When she opened her eyes, he was staring out the window. "There is a place you might go, for the remainder of the week. It was suggested to me, in that letter, as being a safer place to spend the holidays, with Connor on the loose, but I felt at the time it was better that you not know about it." He turned back to her, frowning deeply. "I still believe it would be best for you not to go there. But under the circumstances, that is the only refuge I can offer you."

Refuge. Was there anyplace she could go that would make her forget all she had learned? Well, she thought wryly, the Oblivation Office at the Ministry of Magic. That was hardly an option. Still, breathing space...? It was so tempting.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she paced around the little room and found herself sitting on the other side of the bed with her back to him. Was it possible, this time, to pretend that nothing had happened? Or would her knowledge of the truth keep bleeding through, like blood on the bandage over a wound? On the other hand, she had much more serious things to worry about in the present--such as the very real possibility that she would be brought before the Dark Lord himself to account for her threatening boasts to Draco. That, too, was something that would not go away for the wishing.

"Severus," she whispered.

"What?" he asked tautly, as if expecting to be displeased by whatever she said.

She steadied herself. "If you think it unwise for me to leave now or to go to this place you spoke of, I will cede to your judgment." Such yielding words. Speaking them gave her a curious rush, not altogether pleasant, but not altogether unpleasant. Driven by the sensation, she spoke again. "You are my husband, and you know more of these things than I do."

She heard his sharp intake of breath. It gave her a strange sense of power to know that, whatever he was thinking, whatever he said next, she had caused it, and not by any force of her words. It was a weirdly heady feeling.

"Then you will remain here, if you can bear to do so. We shall proceed with your lessons as planned." Although he sounded something like his usual stern self, there was an odd quaver in his voice. "Aside from that necessity, nothing shall be...required of you."

Can you not put it bluntly? No, probably not. And as of this moment, I refuse to consider what it will be like to lie next to him in this bed at the end of this day. Borrowing trouble. I have more than enough.

"What now?" she asked, still riding that strange high of concession.

"Breakfast. To settle my head and both our stomachs. Then more Occlumency. This will not be a pleasant day."

* * *

In one sense, he had spoken the truth. The Occlumency sessions were grueling, broken only now and again by breaks to eat and to nap, both of which were profoundly necessary, due to the strains of the constant employment of magic on top of the difficult night they had spent. But her dreams during these naps were filled with troubling images of the past imposed upon the present. Scenes in which her father might suddenly become Severus, or vice versa, and in which she herself likewise failed to maintain a steady identity. Toward evening, she had a kind of nightmare in which she turned into her father, as he stood before the Dark Lord, and made bizarre accusations about Severus that only made sense in the context of the dream, but that she felt sure the Dark Lord must act upon to destroy him; then she was herself again, and desperate, without a clue how to undo the damage she'd done. She woke from the scene shaking, wishing she dared to huddle up to him, to assure herself, on a level that logic could not reach, that it had only been a dream.

That she could think of doing so was a testament to the power that a day spent working in close company with him, enduring mental attacks that brought them into closer proximity than any embrace, had had toward inuring her to his continued presence, in spite of everything. She would have sought the comfort of his closeness, deliberately not thinking too carefully about anything, if she had not been so worried that he might take the matter the wrong way. That he might make assumptions about her ability to cope that she was not prepared to have made.

He went out to bring back fish and chips for supper, unwilling, for the time being, to risk having her seen by anyone else. She paced the flat while he was gone, worried about so many things that they had to stand on queue for a moment of her attention. When he came back, she ate so entirely as if she were starving that he offered her part of his share, claiming that he wasn't particularly hungry. And when he pulled out his wand for another session, after the wrappers had been crumpled and thrown away, she buried her face in her arms against the table.

"I'm so tired," she begged.

He responded harshly. "You know you cannot count on being fully rested when you are forced to use these skills."

"I know," she whispered.

"You do understand what's at stake, Sarah?" His voice was razor-edged.

"Yes, I do." She raised her head slowly, trying to will herself to have the energy to meet his demands.

She was surprised, when she met his eyes, to see his anger at her weakness giving way to frustration, thinly veiling a look of defeat.

"We will begin again tomorrow," he said, tucking his wand away again. "Expect to start early and work hard. It will be worse than today."

No, nothing could be worse than today, she thought in response. She was a witch. What good was that if it could not let her somehow erase the past twenty-four hours?

"Go to bed, Sarah," he chided, and she realized that she was dozing.

"You're not leaving?" she asked. She could not help fearing a repeat of last night.

"I'll come to bed shortly. There is a matter I need to deal with."

She put on her red flannel nightgown in the shadows, and came back to the door. He was sitting at the table, writing. Or rather, tapping the feather end of the quill against his lips as he stared at the parchment in front of him in deep concentration.

"This may take some time," he said, when he noticed her there. "Go to sleep."

The urge to ask him what he was doing was strong. But not as strong as her weariness, or her reluctance to pester him.

She fell asleep to the mouse-scritching sound of his quill on the parchment.