A Merciless Affection

Chapter 31: Let Daylight Dry Your Tears

"What must the neighbors think?" Sarah said, burrowing against Severus's chest.

"No doubt, that we're considerably luckier than they are," he snorted. He was still a little breathless.

She giggled.

He flopped over on his back. "I believe the last of that Invigoration Draught just ran out." He shut his eyes with a sigh.

"Sleep," she said, feeling a pang of guilt at having demanded so much of a man who hadn't rested all night.

He shook his head against the pillow. "I must post those letters."

"I'll do it."

"Like hell," he said, opening his eyes slightly. "You will not wander around Knockturn Alley on your own. Particularly not out towards Diagon Alley."

"I'll get Miriam to go with me." The idea struck her suddenly as brilliant. She was tired of being shut up, of being shepherded around when she was allowed out. "I'll get one of the kids down there to take her a message."

"I won't have you risking--"

"I can take care of myself!" she said, so firmly that he had to look at her. Whether it was because he was so tired, or because the new Sarah was more convincingly unyielding than the old one, he shut his eyes again.

"Be careful, Sarah," he said. "My purse is in the pocket of my robe. It has a powerful anti-thief hex on it, so bring it here."

She slipped off the bed, figured out which puddle of black fabric was his robe, and tossed it over his most naked parts, then set about dressing herself. While she did so, he dug both wand and purse out of the robe. He modified the hex to prevent it from damaging her (and judging from the few words she heard of the murmured spell, it sounded rather as if the results of an attempt to pick his pocket would have been nasty indeed), then let his wand hand fall back against the bed with a weary sigh.

"Don't spend it all," he said, as she picked up the little leather pouch. "That's all we have for the week."

"Never fear," she said, bending to kiss the curve of his beaky nose. "I'm not a spendthrift, love. Sleep well."

He mumbled something about green as she left the room.

* * *

The state of things in the kitchen was rather alarming. The kettle had boiled dry and was turning a nasty color, while the potion in the cauldron was giving off puffs of purple steam that made her eyes sting and her nose water when she bent to check it. She quenched the fires quickly, then ducked over to the window and opened it. He must have been in a bad state to forget something like that.

She leaned out partway through the window frame, looking for a likely messenger. A small crowd of boys were playing a makeshift game of Gobstones in front of the warehouse next door. In trying to decide which of them would prove the most trustworthy, she spied a girl on the near edge of the circle, with bare legs and feet under her none-too-tidy brown dress. Her dingy blonde hair was braided down her back, and she edged back and forth as if anxious at the outcome of the game.

"You, girl!" she called down. A half-dozen unwashed faces turned to look up. The girl had a round, somber face. "Do you know where Miriam Snape lives?"

"Cos," the girl said. Sarah sincerely hoped that meant of course.

"If you take her a message and bring back her answer, I'll give you...two knuts." She stifled the impulse to be more generous. But the girl's face lit up.

"Wha's yer message?"

"Just a moment," Sarah said. She ducked back inside, grabbed a piece of parchment, and scrawled: Miriam, Can you come take a walk with me this morning? Sarah. She folded it up into a small packet and took it to the window. "Catch!"

The girl did, easily. Sarah felt a pang, wondering, if the girl were to go to Hogwarts--which she looked almost old enough to do--if she would be recruited as a Seeker. Which House would she be in? What are you thinking of? Sarah turned from the window. You don't give two pins about Quidditch, and that girl will likely never go to Hogwarts. And if she doesn't get a letter, in another ten years she'll still be standing around, waiting for those boys to pay to have sex with her.

Frustrated by these grim thoughts--because she had no power to change the outcome--she moved back to the table, where she had seen, as she wrote her own note, two letters sealed and waiting to be posted. She studied the addresses.

Franklin Nott

Notting Chase

Northumberland

Her uncle. Or rather her Aunt Fiona's husband. She remembered Fiona as a sharp woman, always fussing at her children (and at Sarah as well) to behave themselves. Her father had typically been jovial in company, but his older sister acted as if the presence of other people pinched her in the same way as a new pair of shoes might; she always carried out her husband's requests with a kind of arrogant long-suffering. Although she only had one daughter of her own--already a teenager and usually off at Hogwarts--she had never expressed any degree of fondness for her niece. "Don't let it worry you," was all her father had to say on the subject when Sarah had complained that her aunt did not like her. Perhaps Fiona had been upset at the idea that Malcolm might permit his daughter to inherit the Darkglass fortune ahead of her sons. Perhaps she simply didn't like anyone. Regardless, Sarah had no inclination to come back into contact with Fiona's family. Not even as her new self.

It was more likely, she realized, considering their encounter with Lucius Malfoy, that the ultimate intended recipient of whatever message it contained was the Dark Lord himself.

She turned her eyes and thoughts to the other letter. It was addressed simply to: Remus Lupin, London. Curiouser and curiouser. Whenever the Potions master had substituted for Professor Lupin during her fifth year, he had given every indication that he had a very low opinion of his fellow teacher. The rumor, of course, was that Snape resented someone else being offered the Dark Arts post yet again. Whether that was the case or not, he hadn't reacted well when she'd mentioned the former Defense professor in connection with the Wolfsbane Potion. Why on earth would he be writing to the man (or rather, werewolf)? In reaction to what had happened with Malfoy? Or something else completely unconnected?

Did Lupin know--against all probability--where Professor Dumbledore was? Had that been Professor Lupin's almost-familiar handwriting on the letter they had received on Saturday?

It was oddly disturbing, as she stared down at the pair of letters, to think of Severus being in contact with both sides like this at the same time. No wonder he had needed to sit up all night writing. How many drafts had he burnt to ashes in that time?

She fingered the seal on the letter to Remus Lupin. She knew just the charm, courtesy of Professor Umbridge, to unseal and reseal it. The temptation was profound. The contents of both letters were almost certainly about her. The teeniest flick of her wand, and she would know what Severus had said about her and what he intended to do. Of course, he also might come charging out of the bedroom door, not nearly asleep enough to miss someone prying into his private business.

What decided her, finally, was that neither of the end recipients--if they were who she guessed--would probably trust the contents of a letter without casting revealing charms on it to determine if it had, in fact, come from the person it was supposed to have, and if anyone else had read it. That was something Severus could not afford. At least not from her.

She evanescoed the spoiled potion in the cauldron--a blood-cooling draught, she suspected, from the ingredients he'd left out (and the situation at the time)--and filled the still sizzling kettle with water, coughing at the angry steam it gave off as she rinsed it and filled it again. After checking to make sure that Severus was sleeping soundly, she made just enough tea for herself and was pouring out when she heard the snap of something hitting the windowpane.

She went to the window, ducking involuntarily as something small hit the glass right in front of her nose. She opened the window quickly, before another could be thrown. The girl she had sent on her errand was back, looking up at the window expectantly.

"I gots yer answer," the girl shouted up. "I wants me money."

Sarah took two knuts from the leather pouch and tossed them, one after another, into the girl's waiting hands. The same folded packet of parchment (if the girl had not actually delivered it, Sarah thought, she was going to hex her bare toes off) came sailing up into the air. Not quite high enough.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Sarah snapped her wand out, caught the packet on its downward arc and brought it floating up to the window, where she snatched it out of the air. She heard a couple of appreciative hoots from down below; the boys had been watching the exchange.

She unfolded the parchment and found the answer written below her own request:

Sarah, I would be happy to walk with you. I'll come by as soon as I can. Miriam

"Thank you," she called down to the girl, who was smugly studying the bronze coins. A boy, who looked enough like her to be her brother, closed in on her with his hand out, obviously demanding all or part of her windfall. She took off down the street with him after her. "It's hers," Sarah shouted at the boy, who paused only briefly in his pursuit to look disgustedly up at the window. Hopefully the girl had been able to use that moment to make good her escape. Sarah felt a twinge of despair, that her good intentions had only caused the girl grief.

She sat with her tea at the table, staring with helpless curiosity at the waiting letters. Does Miriam know where Severus lives? she wondered, as she listened for any sounds of the woman's approach outside. No, she must know, or else she had got directions from the girl. Sarah went reluctantly back to the window. The boys were still playing Gobstones. Her imagination roved over the thought of an impossibly young Severus among such a group once upon a time, and settled uneasily on the all-too-similar image of Severian, dirty and skinny, kneeling at the edge of a roughly chalked circle in ten years time. No, Severus had promised her better things for their son. The image still haunted her, though.

At the sight of Miriam coming down the way, Sarah sprang up and threw on her outer robes, tucking both the bespelled pouch and the letters into an inner pocket. Quickly restoring a couple of the more basic wards on the door of the flat, she scurried down the narrow steps. She was profoundly glad that the ladies who had been plying their trade in front of the house the day they'd arrived had not yet taken up their posts today.

"Good morning, Sarah," Miriam greeted her. She looked up at the window, clearly knowing exactly which one was Severus's, and raised her eyebrows. "He's not keeping tabs on you?"

"He's asleep," Sarah confessed, in a whisper.

"I hope he doesn't react badly to discovering you gone."

"I have his permission," Sarah said, bristling a little at her own words. "I need to post some letters for him."

"Not hiding your face today?" Miriam studied her.

"No." Sarah was tired of covering her face. If she was going to walk free in the air, she was going to walk free entirely. "Even supposing that someone recognizes me here, they can hardly make anything of another woman's company. And it may be too late to hide anything." She explained, in a low murmur, their meeting with Lucius Malfoy on Sunday night.

"He's a bad piece of work, that one," Miriam said, taking her arm and leading her off down the street. "Slick as an eel. And each of his fingers in a different pie. He was none too happy when Caius paid off the last of Marcus's debts. I imagine he's never stopped holding those old obligations over Severus's head, though."

"No," Sarah said. "And his little brat of a son is no better."

"I expect not."

"Oh, I haven't had breakfast yet," Sarah commented, spying the stand where they'd eaten the other morning.

"Laws, what are you thinking?" Miriam said, steering her toward it. She declined Sarah's offer to buy her something, and watched approvingly while Sarah ate two large pumpkin pasties. "You can't afford to starve yourself. You've all too little extra padding yourself, and he was one of the scrawnier babies I've ever seen."

"You were there, when he was born?" Sarah asked, surprised. Even though they were keeping their voices low, she noticed that Miriam was careful not to say her nephew's name.

"I was just an apprentice at the time, mind you," Miriam said. She gestured vaguely down the street. "I grew up out there, in Diagon Alley. My parents even had some notion of sending me to Hogwarts. But I knew what I wanted to be, right along. And everyone knew that Old Mother Bern was the best midwife in London, even though she worked down Knockturn."

"So you knew his mother, then?" Sarah asked, holding off from another bite.

"Yes, I did. Of course, Calpurnia was a few years older than I was. But when Caius started courting me, after Albert got himself killed, I saw a good deal more of her than I would've otherwise. I don't know as you'd say we were friends exactly--she didn't have many when I knew her, to be honest, because of the spot she was in: ill, and with Marcus raging about, and a child but no husband--but I would say there was a bit of sisterhood there."

Sarah could not help herself. "Did she ever tell you who the father was?"

Miriam looked at her a bit oddly. "She never told anyone, so far as I know. Old Mother Bern was good at prying out such things, but even she couldn't get Calpurnia to tell." Sarah wondered if the old midwife had taught her apprentice her astuteness, or if Miriam had come by it naturally. "Perhaps I shouldn't say so, but when she was travailing, she said things that...." Miriam sighed and shook her head.

"What?" Sarah asked, intensely curious. She swallowed the last bite of pie, and dusted off her fingers.

"I got the impression--" Miriam said reluctantly, "and don't think badly of her when I say this, because she wasn't that sort of woman--but I think that she may not have known herself...that she didn't want to know."

Sarah stared at Miriam, puzzled, the pumpkin pasties sitting suddenly very heavily on her stomach.

"I don't understand."

"Perhaps that's for the best," Miriam said, in a lighter tone, taking her arm and guiding her along again. "I've already spoken to more than I know for truth, and my hazy speculations are too dark for sharing, least of all with you." And that, clearly, was all she meant to say, leaving Sarah quite perplexed but without any remedy for it.

* * *

As they slowly threaded their way down Knockturn Alley, so many people greeted Miriam that Sarah began to wonder if her idea of remaining inconspicuous--just two women walking along together--had been been doomed from the start. But although she got a few curious looks (haven't seen that one before, they seemed to say), no one bothered about her. Hopefully that meant her mother's spell was still intact.

"What sort of letters are these?" Miriam asked quietly. "Common, ordinary ones? Or something more...private?"

"Private, I think," Sarah answered. "Why?"

"Then we won't want to go out into Diagon Alley. We'll want to go to the Shadow Post."

Miriam Snape led Sarah into a cobbler's shop. Seven League Boots, declared a sign over a display case containing a thoroughly battered pair with the large red tops folded down; the stated price would have been dear for the richest wizard in Britain. A set of stairs went up along the near wall, and Miriam proceeded to these without pausing to examine any of the shop's wares.

Four flights up, they came out in a dim and dusty room that smelled of bird droppings and feathers. The main source of light was the sunlight coming weakly through a bank of cages set into one wall, like an enormous dovecote, the avian occupants huddled down almost shapelessly on their perches. In a shadowy corner of the room sat a wizard so obese, Sarah wondered how he could get up and down the stairs. He heaved himself (somehow) out of his chair and approached the two women.

"Ah, Miriam is it?" He squinted badly.

"Aye, it's me, Hob. I've a friend with some messages to send."

Sarah handed over the two letters nervously. Hob held them up close to his nose and studied the addresses. When he named a price, Miriam spoke up in protest.

"That's three times what you'd ought to charge!"

"Times is rough," Hob said. "The Ministry's tightening things up. I got risks to take, too."

Sarah debated whether she was really meant to spend so much on the letters. Were their contents really so secret that the normal owl post wasn't safe? Or had Severus phrased things carefully enough, in his night-long writing session? "Maybe we should just go to the post office," Sarah said to Miriam.

The comment prompted a bargaining war between Miriam and Hob. Sarah listened in confusion and mild disbelief as Miriam managed to get the man to lower his price to half of what he first named.

"Well, cherub?" Miriam asked, finally. "Is that good enough for you?"

Still befuddled by Miriam's finesse, Sarah handed over the coins to Hob. He dropped them into a wooden box with no other opening (to all appearances) than the slot on top. Then he ambled with the letters toward the bank of cages. The birds to whom he was giving the letters, Sarah realized with amazement, were ravens. Hob took out a stubby wand and tapped each bird, whereupon it took on the appearance of a ragged-looking owl. He tripped some levers that allowed the outer door of each cage to open, and both birds took off.

"There you go," Hob grumbled. "Good day to you."

* * *

"What was that all about?" Sarah asked, as they made their way down the stairs.

"Well, he doesn't give out the secrets of his trade, of course," Miriam said. "But to hazard a guess, I imagine that whatever method the Ministry uses to monitor owls doesn't pick up ravens."

"I didn't know the Ministry monitored owls," Sarah said, shaken. "Severus said something last fall about the post not being safe, but...."

"It's fairly random, from what I've gathered," Miriam said. "In the past it's just been to check and make sure all the mail carried by Ministry-owned owls goes through as it should. No snooping, at least officially. But from what rumors I've heard, there's been a lot more unofficial snooping since last summer, and of more than Ministry owls."

"I wish I had my own owl, all the same," Sarah sighed. Of course, if she'd had one, the events of the past two days might have turned out rather differently.

"You haven't a familiar?" Miriam asked.

"I had a cat, but it got hit by a Muggle lorry a couple of summers ago, and I didn't have the heart to replace it. I've always used Aunt Portia's owl." Sarah sighed.

Miriam gave her a sidelong look. "Tell me: is your Aunt Portia your mother's or your father's sister?"

"My mother's. I haven't seen my father's sister or her family in ages. Not since before my father died. My mother's family wouldn't let me," she added, still trying on the feel of being her father's loyal daughter. "I guess they didn't know his...associations...before my mother married him."

"So, did you break with your mother's family over your own...choice of a lover?" Miriam asked shrewdly.

"I guess you could say...they broke with me." Sarah frowned sheepishly.

"Hmmm. Well, owls are a bit dear," Miriam said, as if they'd been continuing to talk about that all along. "Cats are easily come by, though. At least your garden-variety cat. My Gypsy had kittens a couple of weeks back. You're welcome to one of them."

"Thank you, I'd love one," Sarah said, touched by Miriam's generosity.

They had descended to the street. "Come home with me and pick out your kitten. Caius'll not be home till past noon, and it's not eleven yet. Have a good bite while you help me get lunch, then duck out before the men get back." She smiled conspiratorially.

Sarah smiled back. She had not realized just how much she missed being in the company of another woman--an adult, not the silly girls with whom she shared a dorm room. The interruption of her heart-to-heart (if one could call it that) with McGonagall last week had been more stressful than she realized. She felt a wrenching regret for her relationship with her aunt, which would likely never be salvaged.

"Hey, Mum!" a voice above them called. Miriam paused and looked up, compelling Sarah to do the same. A young woman, a few years older than Sarah, waved from a first story window above Grimm's Groceries. She had dark, molasses-colored hair, and a narrow, pointed face on which her broad, friendly mouth seemed out of place.

"Cornelia!" Miriam waved back. "Do you need anything?"

"I need to borrow Stewart's Household Spells. The plumbing's going wonky again."

"Can you come by, or do you need to me to bring it?"

"I'll come by after lunch."

"Good, then." Miriam waved a farewell.

"You have a daughter?" Sarah asked, as they moved on. She was surprised and, to her chagrin, a little jealous; she had thought that perhaps she was the only other female in the family.

"Two," Miriam said. She took Sarah's arm again. "Both well married now. Cornelia's the elder, no children yet. Flora has a little girl with Martin Mantua, a tailor at Gladrags, out in Diagon Alley."

Not sure how to put the matter politely, Sarah decided to simply be blunt. "Are they Caius's?"

"Yes. Much to his chagrin." She chuckled faintly at Sarah's perplexed look. "He wanted a son of his own, of course, you see." Miriam sighed and her expression grew more somber. "After two daughters he was desperate enough to try a potion to make sure I produced a boy, though I warned him it wasn't safe to meddle with such things."

Sarah's hand had strayed involuntarily to her stomach, but Miriam's sharp look caused her to pretend she was merely smoothing out her clothes. Severus wouldn't have done such a thing; he hadn't wanted any sort of child to begin with. Miriam's story, though, could not possibly have a happy ending.

"Aurelius was stillborn," Miriam confirmed the supposition, in a quiet voice. There was less pain in it than Sarah would have thought, but it was present, nonetheless, like something seen from a far distance. Her lips pressed together tightly for a moment and the area around her mouth hardened. "That was enough of that, I told Caius. I was over thirty, by then, and mark my words, Sarah, there's no great joy in bearing a baby nine months when you reach that age. Nor had I any great fondness for the idea of suffering that over and over until Caius got his wish."

Did you put him out of your bed? Sarah wondered in shock, although she would not have dared to ask. Does he go to those girls? If he does, how do you endure it? She also found it more difficult yet to keep her hand from her stomach, contemplating a hundred nameless dangers--even aside from the ones she had been bracing herself against--that might end in her child's death.

Miriam went on with her own musings. "I daresay that if that's a boy," she whispered, "as I'm guessing it is, Caius may be a bit more kindly disposed toward you. He doesn't like to think that he and Severus will be the last of the Snapes. If you'll let me, I'll check you over when we get home."

* * *

The kittens were in a basket in Miriam's room. The mother cat, Gypsy, was a dusty grey with a patch of white at her throat, laying sprawled along one side of the basket with her teats showing, as proud as if she were the nursemaid to a duke. The kittens were more of a grab bag. There was a black one with a white bib, another grey one, a greyish tabby, and two that were all ugly patches of orange and black. Sarah picked up the black one--it was still quite wobbly and it meowed piteously at being taken from its mother and littermates.

"That's the only male, that one," Miriam said. "They're too young yet to leave their mother, but I'll hold yours back until you can collect it."

Sarah cradled the kitten in her hands, feeling his down-soft fur, wincing at his tiny claws digging helplessly for a purchase that would let him escape. Gypsy chirruped, as if she were trying to call him back.

"I'd like him, please, if I may?" Sarah asked, still a little awed at Miriam's generosity. Pumpkin, her old cat, had come from a shop in Diagon Alley and had cost a fair sum, and here was Miriam, giving her one.

"Very good." Miriam said. "Have you a name in mind, so's I can get him used to it?"

Sarah held him up to her nose, trying to think in spite of his wailing. The sight of those Seven League Boots had put her in mind of the old story of Puss in Boots--the animagus, trapped in his animal form, who had helped a miller's son marry a princess. "Carabas," she said.

Miriam chuckled, as if she had caught the joke. "Carabas, then."

Sarah settled the kitten back into the basket next to his mother, who gave him a few perfunctory licks, which did not do much to quiet him. Only when he had begun burrowing up to her belly did he settle down again.

Out in the kitchen, Miriam set a half-dozen knives to peeling potatoes and put a pot of water on the big black stove to boil. Then she sliced up a cabbage head, and once all the potatoes were snug in the pot, she layered the cabbage over them. "That'll do," she said. "Now, let's see about you."

Sarah followed Miriam into the small sitting room. Or perhaps office was a better word, despite the sofa and chairs. The walls were lined with bookshelves, although most of the books on them appeared to be ledgers.

"First..." Miriam said, raising her hands and running them over Sarah's hair. "Ah, there." She held up a strand of hair to the light and examined both ends. Seeming to find one to her satisfaction, she took it to a desk in the corner. A tiny cauldron and fire pan stood on one side, and she ignited a fire there with her wand, selected a big square bottle from a collection on the shelf above the desk, and poured a large dollop of the yellowish liquid it contained into the cauldron.

Sarah moved closer, fascinated. "Is that Pregnancy Determination Solution?" She had read about it in her book, but since she had already known she was pregnant, it hardly seemed worth the effort to make it.

"Yes, it is," Miriam said distractedly. The solution was steaming in a trice, and Miriam used a long pair of tweezers to lower the end she'd selected into the liquid. Immediately, the steam began to constrict itself, twisting closer and closer around the strand of hair. Gradually it began to turn a lovely shade of blue. "A boy, as I thought."

"Yes, I knew," Sarah said.

"Did you?" Miriam asked, sounding slightly put out that Sarah had not mentioned this before.

"I didn't do a test," Sarah stammered. She decided not to mention that Severus had--probably this very one. What had he felt, she wondered, standing there alone in his workroom, watching the curling steam turn blue? "I just sort of knew."

"When did you guess?"

"From the very start, really."

"Good," Miriam concluded. "There's plenty of witches that haven't a bit of sensitivity for it--bad as Muggles. Now, when were your last courses?"

"Right after Halloween." She had wondered if the fright had brought them on; certainly the cramping had been worse than usual.

"And do your cycles run with the moon?"

"No."

"Long or short?"

"Long."

"So, you'll have conceived sometime in the latter part of November or early December. Does that sound right? Possible, I mean?"

"Yes." Sarah felt her face grow hot. She wondered again if Miriam had figured out that Sarah was still a student, not an official apprentice. She remembered those nights and weekend afternoons, sneaking breathlessly back and forth between Gryffindor Tower and the dungeons, in fear of being caught. There had been something of that old hazard again, last night, although the dangers had been different. And I succumbed to them, she thought. I wanted them. Sarah raised her hands to her face, an instinct to cover whatever it was telling.

Miriam chuckled. "If you didn't enjoy it, I'd be worried. Are you willing to tell me: did he initiate the relationship or did you?"

"It was sort of...mutual." Sarah forced her hands down into her lap.

"Hmmm, that's promising at least. What about the child?"

"That wasn't...it was my idea," Sarah confessed.

"You got pregnant on purpose?" Miriam was looking at her more quizzically.

"Not exactly. I mean, I don't know the right spell or whatever to stop it from happening. So I let it happen."

"You don't know 'Tempus Conceptus'?' Miriam sounded surprised, and perhaps a little dubious.

"That was the one that M...that the medi-witch mentioned. But I don't know it. My mother...was dead...before I was old enough to need it, and my aunt didn't teach me."

Miriam bristled. "That's unconscionable! Do those high-born families expect that their precious daughters are born with their legs glued shut?"

For all her affection for Miriam, Sarah felt a sudden surge of loyalty, both to her class and to her Aunt Portia. "Maybe my aunt didn't know it herself. She was never married, so far as I know."

Miriam shook her head, as if this only confirmed her opinion.

"I'll be teaching it to you, as soon as it's needed again." Miriam regarded her carefully once more. "But surely a Potions apprentice knows how to end a pregnancy she doesn't want?"

Sarah looked down. "I didn't want to end it."

"And yet, I seem to recall you saying that you had no thought of marrying Severus either?"

"I didn't." Sarah kept her head down; she wasn't sure what more to say to defend herself.

"Sarah?" Miriam's forefinger was suddenly under her chin, forcing her to make eye contact. "It's all right, you know. Foolish, I grant you. Terribly foolish. But not beyond understanding. Both of your parents dead, before you even reached the cusp of womanhood. Obviously you had no brothers, but I take it you had no sisters either?"

"No."

"It's a difficult thing, to be so alone in the world." Maybe Miriam was speaking from her own experience, but Sarah had the odd feeling that she was talking about Severus. But Miriam let her chin go and was back to business. "So, the baby will come sometime in August. The latter part, more likely. Hard onto the beginning of school, isn't it? Have you two discussed that?"

Sarah shook her head. All those old unsolved worries about what would become of both their child and their relationship gave her gut an uncomfortable twinge, as if to remind her that the problems were, indeed, still there. And it suddenly occurred to her that it was altogether likely, if they came back here for the summer, that Miriam would be the midwife who helped her birth the baby. That was a far more appealing, Knockturn Alley and all, than the idea of giving birth under the stern care of Madam Pomfrey.

"You might want to consider talking to him about it," Miriam observed. "Well, lie down on the sofa, and let's see how you fare."

With much pushing and pulling of clothing, Sarah managed to end up supine on the sofa with her belly bared. Miriam, kneeling beside her, was whispering something under her breath--wandless magic, perhaps, since she'd laid her wand aside--and when she spanned the curve of Sarah's abdomen with her fingers, Sarah felt a tingle of magic.

"All seems well," Miriam said, after a long half-minute. "Have you felt him quicken yet?"

"Yes," Sarah said, unable to keep from smiling at the thought, even in this undignified position.

"Excellent. So," Miriam levered herself to her feet, "the best advice I can offer for the time being is to eat well, sleep well, and be careful about your potion-making."

Sarah rearranged herself and sat up. "Thank you. For watching out for me." She felt vaguely as if she ought to pay the woman something for her services, but she had a strong sense that Miriam might take offense if her niece-in-law attempted to give her money in exchange for kindness.

"You're family now, Sarah. Let's get lunch made up and I'll walk you home before Caius shows his face."

Back out in the kitchen, Miriam brought the fire down to the barest flame under the pot, evaporated the water inside it, plopped in a huge portion of butter, plenty of salt and pepper, and set a large potato masher to work. Before too long, with an eye on the clock, she scooped up a serving onto a dish, and offered it to Sarah along with a spoon.

Sarah realized, as she tasted it, that she'd had something like it before. It was rather like bubble-and-squeak, only boiled instead of fried. And it only lacked several ingredients of being like the colcannon she'd first encountered at school. It was tasty, nonetheless, and she said so. Noting Miriam's increasingly restless eye on the clock--it was a quarter of twelve--she finished it up quicker than she would have liked, and put her plate into the sink.

"Let's go then," Miriam said.

* * *

"No one in the family will tell anyone else, will they?" Sarah asked, as they descended the stairs.

"What do you mean?"

"About me? About the baby?"

"What? Gossip about Severus's private business?" Miriam snorted. "Laws, as if even Caius would dare to do that!" She looked so troubled that Sarah had to ask:

"Is Caius afraid of him?"

They had reached the bottom of the stairs, but Miriam paused with her hand on the door handle. "Not of him, really. But we're all afraid of meddling in his affairs." Miriam studied her sharply again. "Aren't you?"

Yesterday, Sarah would have known how to answer: Yes, terrified. The small corner of her mind that was still the girl she'd been was screaming it, but it was of no productive use, and she silenced it.

"What choice do I have?" Sarah asked.

Miriam's mouth thinned a little, but her eyes grew lighter. "You're no coward, are you?" She squeezed Sarah's arm.

They were silent, at first, as they walked back, Miriam setting a rapid pace which reminded Sarah of the time. The silence forced Sarah to think, to wonder: what did Miriam really think of her? She had been more than kind, but was that just her way? Or did she have the genuine fondness for her new niece that she seemed to have? Did Sarah's involvement in Severus's dangerous game make Miriam afraid for her, or of her? Was she considered part of the affairs that they dared not meddle with?

"As I told you before, come to me if you ever need help...with anything," Miriam said, when they reached the house.

"Thank you, Aunt Miriam," Sarah said, throwing her arms around the older woman, hoping that somehow her gratitude and her goodwill would come through in her embrace. "You have been so good to me. Better than I deserve."

"Laws, what makes you say that?" Miriam sounded, for the first time that Sarah had known her, a little unsure. They stepped back from each other, and Miriam's expression was guardedly puzzled.

"Just...appearing out of nowhere like this. Married to him. Pregnant."

Miriam chuckled, although her face did not lose all of its anxiety. "Are those the least of your worries?"

Sarah gave a world-weary sigh. "Those are the best of my worries."

"Dear cherub," Miriam said, laying a hand on her arm. "Then hold to them. And to him."

Sarah nodded, her throat too full of tears to answer. Another quick squeeze, and Miriam was walking away.