Pain erupted through his body in a blinding flash of light, but the only thing Severus Snape saw was the hatred in her eyes. He suspected that he had sustained a broken nose, or at least a couple of bruised rips, but he pushed this information to the back of his mind. There would be time for such trivialities later; now he must survey the damages. Severus didn't have to try to remember the crucial moment that had just passed; it was already seared into his memory. The muscles of her face were pulled taut in their fierce contortions, her expression was wild, but her eyes were clear and cold with purpose. She hadn't hesitated for a second.

As Severus's vision began to clear, his first impression was of bone—pure exposed white bone. Then he realized that it was her, unfathomably close—enough so that a single part of her body distorted to fill his entire field of vision. The gown she wore had fallen to one side, revealing one pale shoulder blade and its painfully prominent bones. She bent over him.

"Severus…" said his wife.

Her voice, raw with sleep, resounded with sorrow. She sounded like she was calling for someone she had lost.

"...Severus. I thought that you were someone else."

She didn't need to clarify what she meant. Severus had been watching her sleeping face when he reached across the bed to touch her. When her eyes snapped open, she hadn't reacted immediately. She had waited for the caul of the nightmare to dissolve, lashes fluttering fitfully. Her fingers had closed tightly around his wrist. Only then had her lucid gaze made contact with his face. That could be no question of it. She had seen him. She had seen him, and then the hatred had flared in her eyes, and then her curse had thrown him against the wall with unbearable force.

When she awoke, she wasn't seeing any nightmare figure; she was seeing him in Death Eater's robes. She was seeing him holding her head back, forcing down a draught that would paralyze her, healing her so that she could be broken again. This Snape had felt the play of every small, thrashing muscle in her throat against his hands as she retched and struggled. Even when she was completely incapacitated, her eyes had been eloquently alive. They had taught him the meaning of the paradox living death. They haunted Severus Snape to this day.

"That is… understandable," he said at last. The fault was all his. As a matter of necessity, there had to be certain agreements in this marriage, and the mutual understanding that they were never to sneak up on one another was one of them. There was never any way of knowing who would actually sneak up on them. Severus hadn't been able to help it this time, though. It would always worry him to see his wife unnaturally still.

He jumped when her cool hand cupped his cheek, cauterizing the wounds he had considered too insignificant to notice in comparison with the burn of her eyes. He knew that he deserved it. Experiencing a rush of remorse, Severus jerked away from her touch. She arched her eyebrows at him skeptically, pragmatically, as if demanding if he was really about to keep his face broken forever in the name of guilt. This was the Circe he knew, and her presence gave him enormous relief.

"Are you all right?" Circe asked him once she had finished. By way of response, he adjusted the fallen sleeve of her nightgown, trailing his fingers across her warm skin. Hands trembling slightly, he brushed a damp strand of hair away from her forehead and studied her face. She was still breathing rather harder than was normal.

"I'm fine," Circe assured him indignantly. "You know better than anyone that such things leave a mark."

Rather sternly, she caught him rubbing at his left forearm, a nervous habit of his. Circe hated it. She said that it looked like he was trying to erase himself. She brought his arm to her lips, and then she kissed the ugly crescent-shaped scar on the side of his neck.

Severus stiffened and then relaxed in the embrace. He worried about Circe's affection for his scars. Severus, for his part, loved her darkly circled eyes and still-emaciated face, but he thought she simply couldn't redeem that part of him. There must be a catch. Either that, or they would change her mind.

He drew her to his chest possessively. He gave her a long kiss that was meant for brooding. He broke away when he finally found the words for what he had been meaning to say to her.

Words evaded him again, so he slid his hand down her gown and held it on the slight curve of her stomach. Although it was not apparent yet, she was carrying their child.

"There is talk everywhere of namesakes," Severus began slowly. "Every young couple in the magical world seems to have named their unborn children in advance. After casualties of the war—often the ones that saved their own lives. Young Albuses and Alastairs abound. They appear to actually believe that they can resurrect the dead."

"They're young. They probably do," said Circe, unperturbed. She was tracing the scars on Severus's chest with her fingertips, the most apparent remnants of the day he had almost died.

Severus Snape had been very fortunate. Not only had he survived; he had continued on. He was married to a woman who was, according the stares they received in public, much too attractive for him to plausibly have. That was the look he received when with most woman, as a matter of fact. Even after recognition dawned, the strangers still regarded them with a subdued and resentful disapproval. This was how Severus Snape gauged his success. Despite his own good fortune, the attitude of the rebuilding wizarding community continued to disturb him.

"They're optimistic beyond all reasonable expectation."

Circe shook her head. "It's more than just optimism. It's mass hysterical amnesia," she reported calmly.

"Precisely," said Severus, in a rather harsh tone. "They're utterly oblivious."

"They haven't lived through two wars," said Circe. "They don't know. They believe what they need to believe. So they can live."

"They're fools," said Severus softly, almost enviously.

Circe sighed deeply. "I know."

For a long time, Severus watched his wife sleep, peacefully as she ever did—peacefully as either of them ever did. Waking each other with their nightmares was a common occurrence. He thought with distracted melancholy of younger generations—of Harry and Ginny Potter—so healthy and untroubled. Seeing them in the aftermath, Severus had known that they would recover. They could begin again, unmarked, as the Snapes could not. They could forget.