10. Secrets Kept
There wasn't a single thing about the Experimental Charms Committee that Calista didn't like. She liked the sometimes-long walk through the labyrinth of corridors on the second level of the Ministry that usually ended at a tall, steel door, when she'd gotten it right and when the door was in a good mood; she liked the cool, white-walled room where all of the 'Experimental' parts took place; she liked the surge of usefulness she felt when they needed her to mend a bone or reverse an errant spell; she even liked the cramped side-office where she was often relegated to research duty or documenting the day's experiments; she liked the heavy smell of parchment in the air, and the crowded stacks of books that no longer had any hope of fitting into the shelves along the wall.
"Miss Snape."
Calista jerked her head up from the heavy volume that was cradled in her lap, tearing her eyes away from a passage about the runic enchantments on the legendary goblet that was used to choose Champions for the Triwizard Tournament.
"Mr. Ivanforth," Calista said, a bit guiltily, because she was supposed to be researching a counter-spell for a brood of abnormally gravity-resistant puffskeins that had been confiscated in a Ministry raid last month and dumped off on the department, "I'm — er, almost there — just a bit more research."
Mr. Ivanforth lifted a brow, but his expression remained otherwise unmoved. "Unless you mean to suggest that the Goblet of Fire holds the key to the enchantment on the puffskeins, perhaps you should try a different book."
Damn. Ivanforth didn't miss anything. He was a much more exacting supervisor than Astra, that was for certain. He expected her to stay late when her work wasn't finished, and to take her turn feeding the blasted puffskeins — preferably not her own fingers, though she'd had a few close calls — and unlike Astra, he didn't give a puffskein's rear end who her Uncle was. Despite all of that, she even liked him, so enamoured was she with everything that happened in those offices.
"I was just — I was only reading it for a moment," she lied, quickly, suppressing further outward signs of guilt from her features.
"I have no doubt that you'll compensate appropriately for any time taken for your personal research," Mr. Ivanforth said, tonelessly and quite matter-of-factly, "However, at the moment, I do have a more pressing matter requiring your immediate assist —"
A pained howl interrupted him, and Calista was on her feet instantly; Gerald would have cringed at the impact of the ancient, heavy book hitting the floor.
"Ooowwww, Ignus, hurry—"
Calista scrambled into the well-lit research space, heart racing — but as soon as she saw Mr. Wimple, she at once understood the source of his pained howl and had to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing.
"I've brought Miss Snape to assist you," Mr. Ivanforth said, dryly and with the characteristic touch of impatience that he seemed particularly inclined to dole out against Mr. Wimple, "I'm certain she'll solve the problem more efficiently — and more humanely — than I would."
"Mr. Wimple — how in Merlin's name did you — never mind, I don't want to know, just stop moving, you're going to make things worse."
"I was working on my Attachment Charm, and but I realised I'd forgotten to feed the dratted puffskeins. I thought I'd just take care of both problems at once, but —"
Mr. Wimple winced, shrugging and shaking his horned head rapidly, as if to illustrate the folly in his plan. "I had no idea their teeth were so sharp; did you?"
"Erm," Calista said, flexing her own oft-abused fingers, "Yeah, I had an idea. And there are still people think they're cute, what rubbish — anyway, I really need you to stop moving —"
Mr. Wimple complied, though she could see his jaw and his fingers clench with the effort. Calista took the brief opening and pointed her wand —
"Liberatius Mandibulus!" she cried, and a breath later, "Immobulus!"
Rounding up the puffkseins before their irritating tendency towards anti-gravity overtook even her extremely powerful Freezing Charm — and she knew from prior experience that it would — occupied her for several tense, frantic seconds; and only then, once they were secured in their Charmed and bolted-down cage, did she have a chance to survey Mr. Wimple for damage.
"Right," Mr. Wimple said, frowning, "It's lucky I have these horns, really — the ones that latched onto my hair didn't do much damage, I think. The ones that went for my bottom, however —"
Calista rolled her eyes. "Tergeo," she muttered, to clean the wounds, and then she fished in her pocket, and presented the sheepish Mr. Wimple with a tightly-corked, half-empty jar.
"Same Stitching Salve I gave you last week," she told him, studiously avoiding the injured area with her gaze as soon as she handed the jar over, "You'll want to rub it generously into the — er —"
"Cracks?" Mr. Wimple suggested, with an exaggerated air of delicacy, and Calista scowled.
"Merlin's bal — er, beard —" she grumbled, recalling Mr. Ivanforth's presence somewhere behind her just in time, "The wounds. I'm not doing it for you this time. In fact, just keep the bloody jar."
Mr. Wimple collected himself, and the jar, and took off to the washroom. For a moment, the silence was broken only by chirping of the puffskeins as they cheerfully floated to the top of their enclosure; and then, from behind her, a sigh so heavy it nearly caused her to start.
"I love my job," Mr. Ivanforth mused, seemingly to himself, though certainly loud enough for Calista to hear him, "I value our mission; I believe in the spirit of experimentation."
Calista half-turned, questioning. Mr. Ivanforth's face looked as grey and exhausted as his sigh had sounded.
"You know," he said, somewhat wistfully, and this time it appeared that he was at least partially speaking to her, "My husband works in the budget office. It's quiet there. There are no explosions; hardly any bloodshed; and certainly no puffskeins."
"Well, that last bit certainly sounds appealing; but you wouldn't really want to leave all of this, would you?"
Mr. Ivanforth blinked, as if he hadn't quite expected her to respond.
"I suppose there's a reason I haven't, even after forty years," he said, after a brief, rather scrutinising gaze; and then, abruptly, he turned, briefcase in hand, evidently having had his fill of 'all this' for the day, at least.
Calista felt her eyes slip wistfully towards the Research Office, even before she heard Mr. Ivanforth twist the knob on the far door. She could practically feel the soft, pebbled binding of a particular book against her fingertips.
"Ah, Miss Snape, before I forget —" Mr. Ivanforth's voice came from just beyond the half-open door, stopping her in her tracks, "I should inform you that I've laid a charm against the books in the office; I really do need you to resolve that puffskein problem before you go back to your, ah — personal research."
"I — what?" Calista gaped. "I'm supposed to figure it out myself now? Do you have any idea how long that will take?"
Mr. Ivanforth smiled thinly. "I suppose that depends on how badly you want to continue your reading. Good evening, Miss Snape."
She heard the door click shut; she felt a surging, licking little flame of irritation begin to press itself against her forehead and a sudden, helpless sort of unease yawing in her gut; and still, if anyone had asked her at that moment, she would have said in that she liked it there, in the offices of the Charms Committee.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
The night is dark, almost entirely pitch-black, save for a faint, half-light from a narrow sliver of moon above. The trees around the lake have long since lost their leaves, even though it's only early October, and the bare branches are like knobbled fingers, clutching desperately at the tearing, screaming wind.
There's a chill in the air colder than anything the wind can carry; a chill like the rattling breath of dementors, or like the marble stillness of the grave. It whispers in the ear, urgent and somehow mirthful: Run. Run, now. See what's left to save.
The clouds shift; the moon slips free, and suddenly it's no moon at all. The light changes, bathing the lake and the bony trees around it in an eerie green glow.
Looking up is certain to bring nothing but dread and horror, and yet, it's impossible not to —
The wind rises, and suddenly it is a scream; a terrible, familiar scream that wrenches his heart out of his chest, up through his throat and he manages to hold it, just, between his teeth as he runs towards the source of the awful green light, wand drawn and ready even though he already knows it's too late.
She's there, at the edge of the lake, and he knows already what he will find, but he forces himself to look anyway, to confirm what the sign of the skull and snake above her limp form has already told him.
She is dead, black eyes unseeing, and yet somehow still full of accusation: You promised, he can still hear her voice, on the edge of a snarl, if he tries: You promised I would be safe.
He can't reply; there is nothing to say that will bring her back, and if he opens his mouth, surely his heart will leap out from between his teeth, and he doesn't deserve to die so quickly, so easily, when he has broken perhaps the only promise that ever really mattered.
He straightens, and turns away, at once sickened and resigned; he knows she is gone, has known it since the moment he recognised the eerie, brilliant emerald spectre of the serpent against the black night sky: but before he can grieve, he must know who has done it, this time.
He lifts his wand arm quite mechanically, as the shadowy figure approaches. Most of the time, it is her mother, but sometimes, lately, it has been the werewolf. It doesn't matter; whoever it is, he will kill them, and then he will wake in a cold sweat, and he will remind himself sternly that no one has seen the Dark Mark in a very long time…
It isn't Bellatrix. It isn't the werewolf.
A thin, lipless smile forms on an unnaturally serpentine face, and he feels his blood run so cold that it turns to ice in his heart, in his very teeth.
'Hello, Severus,' the Dark Lord says, 'It's been a long time, hasn't it?'
Severus woke, heart hammering and legs like jelly; he disentangled himself from his bed, and crossed the cool stone floor with his nightclothes clutched about himself and a scowl twisting up his mouth.
His neck swung automatically to give him a look at the door beside his as he exited his bedroom. It was firmly shut, which meant Calista was safely sleeping —
No, he reminded himself, as his scowl deepened, It means she isn't here, and now that he was fully awake, even the sliver of witchfire visible at the bottom edge of the door wasn't enough to fool him into thinking she was. He wrapped his cold fingers around the knob and gave it an irritable, jerking twist, sending the door leaping ajar, even though that had irked him just as much as the shut one did, not so very long ago.
He swept into the kitchen, casting a menacing look at the alien kitchen table, as if it were to blame for his haunting dreams, and then he went immediately to the coffeepot.
The mug was scalding, as he clutched it between his fingers and took his usual seat, if it could still be called that.
Coffee was something he'd once enjoyed only occasionally, but so many years ago it had been one of the first tentative bridges formed between his once-flighty daughter and himself, and drinking it now always reminded him of her. He let the warmth of that thought and the warmth from within the mug begin to work, feeling it penetrate the chill in his bones, and tried to pretend that he couldn't feel another, deeper warmth, tingling along the length of his left forearm.
He'd felt the burn of it on and off for weeks, but he'd been able to convince himself it was his imagination or his guilt, until the morning that Calista had come home unexpectedly, and told him the very last thing he wanted to hear.
The — the Dark Mark, she had said, and he had heard the shudder in her voice, had seen it wrack her narrow shoulders, Someone set off the Dark Mark at the World Cup.
Thirteen years, he had had, between that night and the worst of his life; thirteen years of relative peace, though he had never seen it as such at the time. After all, hadn't he always known this day would come? Hadn't Dumbledore told him, on the same day that he'd extracted Severus' promise to watch over Lily's son, precisely why her son would need that protection, someday?
He had thought, on that miserable, wrenching day, that he understood the stakes better than anyone; but ironically, it was only now, thirteen years later, that he understood them as well as Lily must have: it was only now that he had a child of his own to protect.
Despite himself, Severus pried his fingers away from his coffee mug, hooked them onto the edge of his sleeve. He made himself look down, at the exposed flesh of his forearm, where he could feel the burn of every mistake he'd ever made.
He clenched his jaw as grimly and tightly as if he really did need to hold his heart in his mouth, and he tugged his sleeve back down, but not before he was forced to admit the truth he had been expecting for thirteen years.
The lines were clearer.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
Gerald Boot woke abruptly, heart hammering and fingers trembling with unease, as he tore the blankets quickly away; he felt that he had to stand, right now, and face — and face —
He made it to his feet, and blinked into the darkness, as the shapes around him slowly came into focus. His brother's bed, empty and neatly made for once; the wide, neatly-cornered shapes of his own bookshelves, and the hulking, overflowing monstrosity that housed the majority of Terry's belongings.
He realised that his wand arm was up, even though his wand wasn't in it. He lowered it, slowly, shaking his head against the prickling sensation of fear that had woken him in the first place.
There's no one here. Gerald told himself this firmly, silently, even as his eyes narrowed in the direction of the nearest set of shelves, as if a hidden adversary might suddenly burst forth from one of his encyclopaedias.
"There's no one here," he muttered, and the flat sound of his own voice against the walls of the room convinced him that it was the truth. Frowning, he crossed the room and flipped the light switch on, searching for his wand, and ultimately freeing it from the tangle of blankets he'd left on the floor beside his bed.
Still, even squinting against the sudden brightness of his own bedroom, wand gripped securely in his fist, he could feel that something was wrong. His head still prickled uncomfortably, his skin was clammy, and his heart was thudding against his eardrums with a painful intensity.
In a flash, his dream came back to him: a vast, cavernous courtroom; shadowy figures crowding the edges of the room, eyes fixed in a hard, silent judgment. His father, somehow as tall as if he were half-giant, glaring down at him with that look, the one that told Gerald it was time to make sure Terry was safely out of sight…
'I'm telling the truth,' Gerald remembered insisting, so fervently that he had probably even said it out loud, probably had mumbled it, desperately into his pillow, 'He's the one that's lying, he always lies…'
They didn't believe him; he had felt that in the hard stares of the figures all around, in the chill of the courtroom as it seemed to expand around him, defying the laws of even magically-influenced physics, until he couldn't even see where the room ended anymore.
"I can prove it," he'd said, or at least his mouth had moved; but it was as if the air had thinned as the room expanded, and he could hardly breathe, let alone speak — and then —
Gerald shuddered, as the last bit of his nightmare, the bit that had awoken him, slipped back into the forefront of his mind, replaying itself.
'Hem-hem,' a terribly high-pitched cut into the thinning air and into Gerald's last bit of hope simultaneously, as Dolores Umbridge stepped suddenly into view; in this vision, she was nearly as tall as Gerald's father, and her smile put him in mind of a wolf's fangs, despite her unnaturally perfect, even teeth.
'I think that's an excellent idea,' Umbridge announced to the cavernous room, 'Let's see just how much of the truth we've been getting from you, young man.'
She smirked, and then another familiar face had appeared at her shoulder. Gerald started, and for an instant he felt a spark of hope, as he recognised his teacher and Calista's father, Professor Snape; but then, beside him came Calista's horrible uncle, the one who always gave him an uneasy, prickling feeling in his mind…
'Mr. Snape,' Umbridge smiled sickeningly, 'Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for joining me. I think this will be more effective if we all do it at once, yes?'
Before he could even attempt to appeal to Professor Snape for help, before he could so much as lift his own wand in defense, all three of them had pointed theirs squarely at his face.
They did not Stun him; they did not hurt him. Instead, they attacked the very thing that had always been his safety, his refuge.
'Legilimens!'
Gerald shivered, from the memory or from the now-cold sweat that was coating his body, and rubbed insistently at his temples. Now that he was awake, he knew it was a dream; he knew that he wasn't really under attack, that this horrible, prickling feeling in his head was a symptom of the panic that was the only thing truly invading it at the moment, but knowing didn't ease it.
He clenched his jaw grimly, a trick that he'd used throughout his childhood to keep himself from crying, when doing so would only have made his father's punishments worse; and then he used another trick, a steady, measured inhale and exhale that he'd learned from his books.
It was a dream, he reminded himself, over and over again, even when the words stretched and shifted and didn't quite seem like real words anymore, It was a dream. It wasn't real. The trial hasn't happened yet, and Professor Snape — Severus — would never help Umbridge or my father…
He couldn't quite tell himself that the man wouldn't invade his mind; after all, he had, or at least he had attempted to, and Mr. Malfoy had made the same attempt nearly every time he'd seen the man.
He'd never told Calista. He knew it would upset her, and he hadn't wanted to cause any further trouble between her and her family, and he'd always been able to resist the attack (hadn't he?) but now…
Now, it was three o'clock in the morning, and his head was still prickling and his heart still pounding insistently, and his father's trial was less than a week away, and he wasn't feeling particularly confident , suddenly, in his ability to resist much of anything.
Despite his panic, there was one thing that he always had, and that was an extraordinary ability to cling to hope, however faint its glow might be. When he'd been very small, he'd hung on to the hope of his mother coming home from work each day, and tucking himself and his younger brother safely into bed; when he'd gotten a little older, he'd had the crisp parchment of the Obfuscation Order to recall in his dark times, a paper shield; a little older still, and he'd had the image of a fierce, empathetic girl that didn't back down when she was outsized or outnumbered by bullies or shadows.
He felt the corners of his mouth twitch, and his heart settle, just a little. Mon colibri. He could see her now, refusing to back down once again; and this time, it wasn't her stepping between him and Flint that he saw, it was something far more consequential, and far more relevant.
He recalled the rigidity of her profile and the intensity of her reassuring presence beside him, while her fingers worked the shapes of runes and her gaze tore into his father's.
His head still didn't feel quite right, and in the absence of a racing heart, Gerald felt weak and slightly wobbly; it would surely be a long night, and returning to sleep didn't seem likely, but at least he had an idea, a solution to something that had obviously been troubling him, more and more, for far longer than he should have let it.
If there was anything that could comfort Gerald even more than hope, it was a plan.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
Calista slipped hurriedly through the narrow gap her Aunt Andromeda allowed in the doorway, donning her winter cloak against the unseasonable chill in the air, and trying not to imagine the added weight of her guilt upon her shoulders.
She reminded herself sternly that this had to be her last visit here, to her aunt's house, until Sirius Black was no longer staying there — and then she reminded herself, just as sternly, that she'd promised herself the very same thing the last time she'd come, and yet here she was again, with words crowding the back of her throat, and shadows crowding her heart.
She should have left well enough alone, after that first time meeting him; she told herself that again, as well, though she knew it wouldn't be of any use. She was drawn there, drawn to that comfortable house and the decidedly uncomfortable silences that passed between her and Sirius, between the stilted, uneasy attempts to talk about something, anything besides the thing they always ended up talking about.
It made sense, in a horrible, morbid sort of way; after all, nearly everything they had in common led back to the same place: he had known her, he was related to her, he had rescued Calista from her, and then… and then, he had spent twelve years in Azkaban, listening to her.
"What if you hadn't been able to become a dog?" Calista had pressed, this time, and that was how they'd gotten started on it again, "But you still knew you had to escape, to — to go after something very important —"
"Pettigrew," Sirius had growled, and she'd suppressed a shiver at the animalistic growl in his words; there were moments when she sat beside him that she had to double-take, and be certain he wasn't becoming a dog again. "Once I saw Fudge's paper, and I knew that miserable, low-life scum was roaming free, and that he was going to be in the same building as James' son — my godson… I knew I had to escape."
But if you hadn't been an Animagus…? Calista bit her tongue, knowing there was a chance he would stop talking, if she interrupted him.
"I was the only one who knew," Sirius went on darkly, "I had to find him, to make him pay —"
"Then how?" Calista pressed, almost desperately, despite herself; a terrible vibration was rattling her from the inside, and she had to clench her hands together in her lap to stop herself from visibly shaking; if Sirius saw it, he might refuse to tell her any more. "How would you have escaped, if not as a dog?"
"I'd have found a way," Sirius said stoutly, darkly; "Perhaps I'd have nicked Fudge's wand, found a way to fend the dementors off long enough to slip away." He chuckled, utterly without humour, and Calista had told herself that the blackness, the bleakness in his eyes, was not her responsibility to address, because he was so close to revealing what she was really asking, what she had to know.
"I was starved enough to slip between the bars as a dog," he smirked, teeth bared. "So why not as a man?"
So it could be done, her mind had whirled, she could do it; if she grows desperate enough, or angry enough, or…
"Or skinny enough," her mouth choked on the words, but there were so many building up in her throat, that she shouldn't have been surprised that a few finally eked their way out.
Andromeda had come into the sitting room then, and both of them had moved abruptly, as if they'd known she wouldn't approve of the way they sat, at opposite ends of the low, looming sofa, each wallowing in their own personal darkness
"I ought to write Moony," he'd said, aloud, and only then had Calista recalled the flimsy excuse she'd given herself for returning to the house, this one last time — she realised she hadn't even remembered to ask him if he or Remus had any ideas on reversing the anti-gravity enchantment on the puffskeins at the Experimental Charms office.
I was meaning to ask, she tried to make herself say, as she'd told herself she would, Since the two of you worked on that map —
But she couldn't; she couldn't force those innocuous words past the ones jamming up her windpipe; couldn't suddenly bring the subject back around to perhaps the one thing they'd ever discussed that had nothing to do with her — she could only force herself to rise steadily from the sofa, and nod a stiff good-bye to her aunt.
"I'm sorry I can't stay for dinner this time," she said woodenly, finding a path through the thorned phrases filling her insides at last, "Gerald's supposed to meet me, at home…"
"I understand," Andromeda had said, warmly enough, though Calista was never quite certain she was fooling her aunt at all, "I'll see you next week, I expect."
"Probably not," Calista had said, just as she'd said last Friday, and the Friday before that, "I expect I'll be working late."
After all of that, it was hardly a wonder that her shoulders felt particularly heavy when she left; she was lying to all of them, to Sirius and Andromeda and even herself about her reasons for stopping by, every Friday afternoon; to her Aunt Narcissa about the fact that she was stopping by Andromeda's at all; to Gerald, every time she told him she'd gotten everything out of Sirius she needed; and somehow, though she'd learned her lesson multiple times over, she was lying to her father again, so egregiously that even thinking about it made her ill.
She told herself, as she wrapped her cloak stubbornly against the wind, that she would simply stop thinking about it; but then, wasn't that just another lie?
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
"I suppose," came a low, reproachful voice from Severus' fireplace, "You're busy tonight, as well; just as you were last weekend, and just as you'll undoubtedly be next weekend."
"You suppose correctly," Severus replied coolly, lifting his gaze to the mantle, just out of reach of Ferada Yaxley's resigned, narrowed glare.
"You've been busy since September," Ferada said, quietly.
"Yes," Severus agreed, sourly, "Since term started at the very school where I teach; do you suppose there's a correlation?"
"That's one way to look at it," Ferada agreed, "Another, of course is that you've been busy since Calista found out about us —"
"This has nothing to do with Calista!" Severus snarled, nearly before the words had even reached his ears, and his fingers curled, glance shooting towards the door; if he left the room, would Ferada leave? Or would he return, hours later, to find her face still floating, patiently and forlornly, in his fireplace?
"Has it occurred to you that perhaps she would want you to be happy?" Ferada challenged, "Perhaps if you would actually speak —"
"Shut up," he hissed, "I've told you, this has nothing to do with —"
"Oh, I think we both know it does, Severus," Ferada snapped an interruption, patience having evidently worn thin at last, "And I suppose you still allow her to have her boyfriend over to your home — yet, you don't demand the same courtesy of her?"
"Get out of my fireplace."
Ferada flinched, and then something in her visage stiffened, as if she were bracing herself.
"That's what you really want, is it?" she asked, quietly.
"Obviously," Severus sneered, petulantly, despite the fact that he didn't quite know what he really wanted; Ferada nodded, with finality.
"Very well," she said, "I'll leave you to yourself; I won't call again."
"I —" Severus felt himself blanche, "I'll call you, then, once…" He trailed off; what was he supposed to say? Once I'm not busy? As she'd said, they both knew damn well that wasn't really the reason he was pushing her so adamantly away.
"No, Severus," Ferada said, quite firmly, "I'm tired of calls, and I'm tired of excuses; if you want to speak with me, you'll come see me; you know where I live."
She disappeared, then, and Severus' eyes were glued suddenly and anticlimactically to an empty fireplace; and all at once, he had had enough of empty rooms and empty hearths.
He told himself that he merely wanted to see Calista, to ensure she was all right after the eerie, haunting dream he'd had several nights prior; he told himself that he had absolutely no intention of broaching the subject of Ferada with her, and then he tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace.
"Spinner's End," he said, because he'd never quite been able to call the place home.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
Gerald was thoroughly startled from the pages of his book by a gentle, crackling whoosh and a soft snarl that came an instant later.
"Gerald," Professor Sn — no, Severus — said, emerging from the lit fireplace, "Where is Calista?"
Gerald leaned forward, plucking his bookmark from the coffee table, and settling it neatly into the pristine binding of his book, as his gaze lifted to meet the older man's.
"She's in the kitchen," Gerald said, wearily and candidly, "Studying, and also insisting she's not hungry, ineffectually enough that I don't believe her, but insistently enough that I'm not going in there to cook anything until she's decided to occupy another room."
Severus frowned. "Did something happen? Is she all right?"
"Nothing unusual happened," Gerald said, "She's nearly always like this after —" Merlin. He cut himself off, just before he'd accidentally said after she talks to him. "Erm, after she has a bad day at work," he finished; he offered up a prayer to any god that might listen that he'd managed to keep his tone steady.
Shite. Severus' eyes were boring into his, suddenly. In the space of his skipped heartbeat, he decided to hold his gaze steady, even though it would make him an easier read; surely, looking away would only raise Severus' suspicion.
"A bad day at work?" Severus questioned; Gerald simultaneously felt the uncomfortable prickle of — what had Severus called it before, a rattling at the door in his mind — and a flash of mingled fear and anger. "I thought she was with the Charms Committee on Fridays?"
"She is," Gerald said, and of course, since he was trying desperately not to think about it, the words Sirius Black, she's like this after she talks to Sirius Black were slipping about the forefront of his mind. "She — erm, perhaps you should ask her, she wasn't very clear —"
The pressure in his head increased, or else in his fear he imagined it did; he thought the set of his mouth might have faltered slightly, too, and it felt like a last resort when he muttered, abruptly: "Something about puffskeins," and finally, the pressure abated, as quickly as it had begun.
"Ah, yes," Severus said, as if the last few seconds hadn't happened, as if he, Gerald, hadn't almost accidentally revealed the most critical secret that Calista was trusting him with, "She did mention something about them in her last letter, I believe."
With that, Severus turned, and it wasn't until the kitchen door slid closed behind him, and he heard the low murmur of Severus' voice beyond, that he felt the panic drain from his suddenly tired limbs.
He felt his fingers tremble, and automatically, he snatched up his book to disguise it, lest it get the better of him, in case Severus came back. He perched gingerly on the edge of the sofa, and forced himself to stare down at whichever page he'd placed the bookmark in; he probably read the same sentence a hundred times without understanding any of the words.
He half-expected the rising pitch of an argument from the room beyond; but for perhaps ten minutes, there were only murmurs, low and indistinct, and long silences between. Just when he wondered whether it would be best to go home, the door slid open again.
He glanced up just long enough to ascertain that Severus was the first one to leave the kitchen; surely he imagined the tension in the back of his mind that made him lower his eyes stubbornly back to the page, and surely it was just as certain that he was imagining the tell-tale whoosh of Floo powder clouding the grate; and just as soon as he'd made up his mind to look up and prove it to himself, he saw Severus step into the fireplace, and Calista frowning, in his wake.
Gerald blinked, and pressed his finger to the spine of his book. "Where is he going?" he asked warily, simultaneously attempting to decipher the odd expression on Calista's face.
"To Mrs. Yaxley's house, I suppose," she said, so softly that Gerald almost didn't catch what she'd said. "Since I told him I didn't care if he did."
"Erm — but you do care, don't you?" Gerald replaced his finger with his bookmark, and set the heavy volume down again, rising to his feet; it was certainly the impression she had always given him, though he supposed she'd never outright said she was against it.
"Doesn't really matter, does it?" Calista's mouth twitched, as if in protest against the bitterness in her voice. "I don't really have a right to complain about anything he does, given where I've just come from, now do I? I told him whatever I thought would make him leave, before he realised I was hiding something…"
"He's bound to realise it eventually," Gerald said, and if his tone was more fervent than he intended, who would blame him, in that moment? "Calista, you can't keep this up forever…"
"I'm not," she snarled, facing him directly for perhaps the first time since she'd met him outside the front door, face drawn. "I'm not going again; and he's not going to find out. He can't find out."
"You said that last week," Gerald reminded her; he winced, either at the all-too-recent memory of the unwelcome rattling her father had subjected him to, or at the glare she aimed at him, suddenly full-force. "And the week before; surely, there's nothing more he can tell you, at this point…"
"You're the one who told me I should ask," she reminded him, a bit viciously, as if he hadn't already considered the point, didn't already feel wretched enough about it.
"I did," he admitted, "Because I thought asking — I thought knowing — would make you feel better. Instead, whenever you come from your aunt's house, it's like you've just woken up from a nightmare, and I have to wait until Wednesday for you to seem all right again —"
He stopped, heart sinking at a familiar shuttering of her expression.
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Calista snapped, "And I — I think you should go."
Perhaps not so long ago, he would have acquiesced; even worse, he would have gone home, racked with the belief that he had somehow done something wrong, and she undoubtedly would have sunk further into whatever pit she'd asked Black to dig for her tonight.
But it seemed there was something to be said for carrying such a strong rune of protection around, always, in his heart; it had left a mark.
"No," he said, in rather the same tone he'd reserved for only the most difficult students during his tenure as Head Boy, "I came for dinner, and I'm not leaving until we've eaten it."
Calista gaped. "Excuse me? You can't — it's my house. I said I wanted you to go."
"And I've said I won't until we've eaten dinner," he repeated stoutly; and then, on a sudden inspiration: "If you really want me to leave sooner rather than later, I suggest you help me in the kitchen."
With that, he stepped neatly past her, towards the kitchen; he could practically feel her fuming behind him, but he ignored it, and went to the cupboards, rummaging through their meagre spice collection.
Five minutes passed, and then ten; and then, just when he'd begun to wonder if perhaps he had done something wrong, he heard the sound of running water behind him, and when he turned his head, he saw Calista rinsing vegetables in the sink.
She caught him looking and shot him a reproachful glare; he pretended not to see it, and continued sorting through the spices, taking as long as he could to choose; and when that was done, he took his time selecting a large pot, and filling it with a stream of water from his wand.
He glanced down the length of the small kitchen towards her; she had moved on now, to chopping the carrots with her wand, in small, methodical slices, and so he took up a spot nearly an arm's length away and started on the onions.
"It is like a nightmare," Calista said, at length; when he chanced another glance, her head was bowed studiously over the carrots, "For both of us, I think; but ever since I found out about his escape, it's as if there's a part of me that knows she'll manage it too, unless I can — unless — "
She'd run out of carrots to chop, and predictably, she'd stopped speaking. He could see her jaw tighten, and her shoulders stiffen.
"Unless you can — what, precisely?" Gerald murmured, and he slid a stalk of celery in her direction, neatly and discreetly maneuvering himself a bit closer to her with the same motion, "She's not an Animagus; she's hardly going to become one in Azkaban. If there were another means of escape, someone would have found it long before Sirius Black ever did."
"Well, there is another means," Calista said, and he could hear her wand making quick work of the celery; hurriedly, he snatched up the rest of what he'd brought, and set it down beside what she'd already chopped. "The one that almost worked for her the first time; through me."
Gerald swallowed; suddenly, the sharp scent of the onions beneath his wand was assaulting him, and he set both down quietly, and slipped beside her, running his hands under the tap, rinsing his hands while her own wand kept moving, tip tip tip through a quantity of celery they'd never need.
He saw the corners of her mouth flicker downward; he saw her hands, her wand, tremble just slightly, and then he dried his hands and reached for hers, gently releasing both the wand and the vegetables from them.
Cold; he'd known they would be. And her heart, he knew, would be pulsing a quick, thready beat in her throat. He settled his chin on her shoulder, cheek to the side of her neck, confirming that as well.
"You know better, mon colibri," he said quietly, curling her fingers underneath his own, so he could warm them, "You've told me yourself that the curse she used to manipulate you is broken; and even if it weren't, you've told me how strong you are, now; you know that's not possible."
He heard her breath catch; he felt her stiffen, but her fingers remained securely in his, and the light staccato of her pulse still beat close against his cheek.
"Well, and you know you've got all the right evidence, and all of the right knowledge, to win your case," she said, quietly, "And yet — I know it's still keeping you awake; and your hands are shaking now, just as much as mine are."
It was his turn to catch his breath, and then he lifted his chin away from hers, carefully releasing her hands.
Damn it; she was right. Swiftly, he busied his hands, gathering up handfuls of the vegetables they'd chopped.
"It's not quite the same," he told her, lowering the vegetables into the pot, arranging them carefully around the small, whole chicken he'd put in earlier, with the water. "No matter how prepared I am, I've still got to get a judge to agree with me."
He felt a warmth at his side, as Calista slipped closer, closing the small distance he'd created by shifting his attention to the pot.
"Do you really think he might not not?"
"It's certainly a possibility," he admitted, hoping she wouldn't pick up on the catch in his voice, but knowing she undoubtedly would.
Calista frowned. "Well," she said, and despite everything, he felt the knot in his gut loosening just a bit at the light pressure of her hand on his shoulder, "What if you could know what he might disagree with, and… and alter your testimony, based on that?"
"Of course that sounds ideal in a rhetorical sense," Gerald admitted, realising at once what she meant to imply, "But it doesn't work like that; I have to tell the exact truth, as I'm asked, no matter what; and besides, you can't use legilimency on a judge."
"You mean, you have some sort of moral objection to it that I'm certain I'm about to hear about," Calista said shrewdly, by his ear, "Because I assure you, I can."
"It's not just my moral objection," Gerald said, "It would violate the entire judicial system — it's just not an option, no matter how much I might wish it were."
Calista sighed; he felt the warmth of it tickle his ear.
"Only the Muggle judicial system," she muttered, "And it's not like they'd even know…"
"Calista, I don't know if you understand; I'll have to swear an oath, to be utterly truthful."
He felt her pull back in surprise, then.
"Really?" she asked, "Like an Unbreakable Vow? How can they enforce it, without magic —?"
"No, no, not like that, it's… well, it's a very solemn and — and sacred promise, that you'll tell the truth in its entirety."
"But you won't die if you lie?" she pressed.
"Well, no, but there are other penalties for perjury in the Muggle world; and besides, I do have a moral objection, just as you said. It's a legal trial, mon cœur, it's not like that meeting you accompanied me to."
She frowned again. "What if I don't use legilimency on the judge, then?" she asked, "What if I use it on your father, or on his solicitor, to find out what they're going to argue?"
"Calista, no, that would still be wrong…"
"But he's not going to tell the truth — you must realise that —"
"Calista, please," Gerald said, wearily, "It's not that simple; and at any rate, even if it were, I've been studying the relationship between the Muggle and wizarding justice systems quite extensively of late, and there are bylaws in our own legal system that you'd be breaking, by interfering in the Muggle courts. I can't imagine quite how the Office of Magical Law Enforcement might find out, but if they did, you could have your wand stripped, or worse."
He didn't feel the need to specify what worse was; he knew by the shadow that slipped across her features that she understood.
She sighed, heavily.
"I wish I'd thought of it earlier," she mused, "I could have tried to brew Felix Felicis for you; but I'd need months, even if I could get it right on the first try."
"Erm," Gerald blinked, and hid his expression under pretense of hunting down a wooden spoon to stir the pot's increasingly fragrant contents with. "I appreciate the thought, but that would definitely still constitute tampering by magical means; besides, the ingredients would cost a small fortune."
"Well, there isn't enough time, anyway." She leaned over the pot, and inhaled. "Soup? Is it almost finished?"
Gerald pressed his lips together briefly, before he trusted himself to reply.
"Ah, no, not quite; this is only the stock, actually."
Calista tilted her head, nose wrinkling in that tantalising manner that still made him a bit dizzy, sometimes. "How long does this take to make?"
Gerald cleared his throat, and took a careful, measured step away from her; just in case.
"I'd reckon on — ah — at least another three hours. Actually, if I'm being perfectly honest, I planned this for tomorrow's dinner; we should probably order takeaway tonight."
A series of expressions crossed her face too quickly for him to have any chance of interpreting them all; he picked out surprise, and what he sincerely hoped was amusement, and then —
"Merlin's blood — And you think I was Sorted wrong? That's easily the most Slytherin thing you've ever done."
Gerald grinned weakly, relieved that she didn't appear particularly cross. "I think I'll elect to take that as a compliment."
"It was one, obviously."
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
Playing Slytherin had worked out rather well for him, Gerald reflected hours later, as he positioned his arm between Calista's pillow and the curve of her neck; she shifted, curling her body even closer to his. He decided not to consider the very real possibility that she had only done so to avoid falling off the opposite edge of what was, after all, quite a small bed for two people, and he ducked his head, pressing his mouth to the crown of her hair, inhaling the crisp, vaguely floral scent of her shampoo.
"Je t'aime, mon colibri."
She shifted again, and he felt her fingers reaching for his; as soon as she had them in her grasp, she squeezed them, tightly and reassuringly.
"It will be all right," she said, quietly, "Next week; it will work out."
"I hope you're correct, mon cœur."
"I'll still do it," she said, and she didn't have to explain what she meant, "If you change your mind, if you want me to."
"Non, mon colibri. It… it will be okay, without that."
If only he could truly believe that; but he had to be careful. If she knew how desperately he wished she could do what she'd offered, she might very well decide to use legilimency during the trial, despite what he'd said.
Would it really be so awful? part of his mind whispered, even though of course it would;but it was like the matter earlier of Sirius Black; once he tried not to think about it, it was all he could think about.
Since she was of age, and was no longer subject to the Trace, and since he had already gotten away with using legilimency on his father once, the odds probably were astronomically low that she would be caught; and even though he really did have a moral objection, he couldn't help but think about what she'd said, about his father. She was right; he was hardly likely to play fair, and wouldn't accepting her help, to keep his father from hurting Terry, be choosing the lesser of two evils?
"Well," Calista murmured, rather sleepily, "I could always just hex him after the trial, if he wins." She shifted again, and then: "Or poison him."
"Non, ma chérie," he said again, though he was quite certain she wasn't serious; and then, something stirred in his chest. It took him a moment to realise that his heart had started beating faster, in anticipation, and another moment still to realise what he was in anticipation of, what he'd decided to finally ask her.
"There is something you could do to help me, though," he said, quietly, because his mouth was quite close to her ear, "It's not directly related to the trial, but it could help me with — other things. With my father and —"
With yours. He cut himself off. He still hadn't decided whether he should tell her about that.
"I'll do it," she said, "Whatever it is."
He released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and squeezed her hand briefly, already relieved.
"I should have asked ages ago," he admitted, wondering precisely why he hadn't, "I want you to teach me teach me to be a better Occlumens."
All at once, everywhere that she had felt soft and warm — her hands, her hair, her back curled against him — she went hard, and stiff, and cold. His fingers felt like ice, as she dropped them, suddenly, exposing them to the air.
"No."
It took several seconds for Gerald's mind to catch up; once it did, he propped himself up on his elbow, utterly bewildered. "What do you think I've just said?"
"I know what you said," her voice was like ice water, suddenly, and she was sitting up in bed, intent on disentangling her legs from the blanket. "And I said no; I won't do it. Don't ever ask me again."
He blinked, partly in confusion, and partly against the sudden bright light, as she snatched her wand off the nightstand and lit it.
"This bloody blanket," she muttered, clutching and tearing it away from her legs, by the light of her wand.
"Why?" Gerald asked, tugging at the other end of the blanket, to help her; as soon as she was free, she bounded out of the bed, and stood several paces away, eyeing him warily. "It makes sense; you're so much stronger in the art than I am, and —"
"Of course I am," Calista practically hissed, from across the room, "That's the whole point; that's why I can't."
"Erm." He rubbed his eyes; her wandlight was practically searing them. "I'm afraid I'm not following."
"Don't you realise how I'd have to teach you? I'd need to —" she shivered, but he didn't dare approach her, with the blanket or otherwise, "I'd need to enter your mind; I'd need to use legilimency on you; I'd need to attack you."
Gerald took in a slow breath, and let it out, all the while watching her carefully. "I know that," he finally said quietly, "And I admit, it's not ideal, but I think the benefit —"
"No," she said again, with utter finality, "I won't do it."
"Please," he said, voice strained and thin, "I need — I need to know that I can defend myself adequately, and I don't think I really can, now; and it isn't just for me, you know — some of what I need to guard are your secrets."
"From who?" she asked, "Who would try to —"
He saw a terrible expression slide over her face, in the same instant that her spell, and the light from her wand faded, leaving them both in darkness, and in a sudden, charged silence.
"Uncle Lucius," she said grimly, into it, "That's who you mean, isn't it?"
"Yes," he said, cautiously, "And also —"
"I'll kill him," she said darkly, cutting him off, "How dare he — it was bad enough when he attempted to read me, but at least I —"
Her voice stopped briefly, and when it came again, it sounded slightly closer. "Did he learn anything?"
"I don't know," he said, and he wasn't actually talking about her Uncle Lucius at all, "I don't think so; but I — well, I got the impression that he wasn't trying particularly hard."
"I'll kill him," she said again, and then: "Just — we won't go there anymore, to the manor," she said, "You'll never have to see him, and if for some reason you do run into him, just don't make eye contact, whatever you do — he's not strong enough to penetrate your mind without it."
Gerald felt his mouth pull down.
"I don't… I don't think that's going to work." How could it, when it was Severus he was truly worried about?
"It has to," she said, and he had never heard her sound so formidable, so utterly unmoveable in all the time he had known her, colibri de marbre that she always had been. "I meant what I said; don't ever ask me again."
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
Calista couldn't even make it to Friday, before she broke her own promise. On Tuesday, her fingers clutched at the knocker of her Aunt Andromeda's front door, hands gold and gut in a slithering, writhing knot. What the hell was wrong with her?
Her aunt's brows arched to see Calista standing at her threshold, but she ushered her in, nevertheless.
"Calista, sweetheart, are you ill —?"
"What? No."
Her aunt frowned, and lifted her hand. If it had been Narcissa, she would have felt a cool, light touch at her forehead, and a moment later, she would have been wrapped in a reassuring, albeit perfumed, hug; but she and Andromeda didn't quite have that ease with each other, and instead, her aunt's hand faltered, and dropped.
"You're looking peaky," Andromeda said, "I can — I can make you some soup, if you'd like…?
Calista swallowed a harsh, humourless excuse for a laugh. "No thank you," she said, "I've had quite enough soup, recently."
"I see." Andromeda frowned briefly. "Well — Dora isn't home yet; I think she's out looking at flats, actually."
Calista blinked. "Flats?"
Andromeda nodded. "She's been saving for her own place for quite some time — surely, she must have told you, what with all the evenings you've been spending here?"
Calista felt something catch in her throat; when she finally swallowed it, it burned all the way down. Had Tonks said anything to her? She had no idea, she hadn't listened to anything lately that any of them had been telling her, except for…
"Erm," Calista said, hoping she managed to sound casual, "Sirius is around, though, I suppose?"
"He is," Andromeda said slowly, "He's sleeping upstairs, I believe."
"Oh." She knew she should drop the subject; but she had already made the wretched decision to come here, so she pressed on: "At six o'clock in the evening?"
"He's had a difficult few nights," Andromeda said, softly, "I'm sure you can imagine… the terrors of a place like Azkaban don't leave one so easily."
"He… he couldn't sleep?" she asked, "Was it —" she swallowed another bitter lump, "Was it a nightmare?"
"I expect so," her aunt said, "They seem to plague him particularly around the weekends. I expect by tomorrow he'll be more or less himself, again."
Unbidden, Gerald's words slipped into her mind; and once they had done so, she couldn't let them go.
Whenever you come from your aunt's house, it's like you've just woken up from a nightmare, and I have to wait until Wednesday for you to seem all right again.
"I — I'm sorry," Calista heard herself say, and then, at her aunt's quizzical look: "I mean, I know what that's like."
Andromeda nodded, not unsympathetically. An increasingly awkward silence stretched out between them, and then —
"Calista. Come with me; there's something I think perhaps you should see; something I think you should know."
Calista lifted her gaze to her aunt's face, but it was impassive; it struck her that perhaps it was not only from her father's side that she had inherited her aptitude for Occlumency. Wordlessly, she followed her aunt, through the dining room and into the quiet sanctuary of the study beyond.
Andromeda tapped her wand to a locked drawer in the mahogany desk; after shuffling through a series of papers that all appeared to be mouldy and blank — but of course Calista knew better by now — she selected one, and very carefully placed it into Calista's hands.
Instantly, words spread across the page; the writing was heavy, and spiky, and quite familiar, after having read a particular letter in that hand as many times as she had.
I think you've got more guard dogs than you know, her letter had said, but this one was quite different, though it was still a letter.
It was addressed to Andromeda; the first few lines made brief reassurances of safety and of being well-hidden, but the tone quickly shifted.
I don't wish this darkness on anyone. I don't know that I would last through it myself, if my goals weren't clear, but fortunately for me they are. I have to find Pettigrew. I have to protect Harry. I have to make sure he knows that his mother and father loved him dearly, even when the horrors in my mind make me question whether anything as good and true as love could be real.
Calista felt the writhing mass in her gut solidify; it was heavy enough, suddenly, that she truly was in danger of becoming ill; but still, her eyes carried themselves across the acrid lines of increasingly hurried, frantic writing.
I hear them screaming, in my head, nearly every night, though I wasn't there the night they died. Perhaps that's the reason I almost crave it, sometimes. Perhaps I deserve to hear it, over and over, for handing them over to a traitor. I hear Harry crying out for them; I hear Moony howling in pain, writhing in pain under an endless series of full moons, because he's alone now, too. I even hear the girl sometimes, your sister's girl — I suppose when the dementors have sufficiently wrung the rest of my pitiful memories out of me — and I know they all cry out because of me, because of my mistakes, because I could not save any of them, or at least not soon enough.
So don't tell me, Dromeda, that I shouldn't write to Harry so often. Don't tell me it's risky. Don't tell me he's all right without me. I might be in hiding, I might be a convict. I certainly am a wretch, I think — but if there's any worth left in me, let me use it to aid the son of the dearest friend I ever had. Let me have one reason to keep this worthless body alive.
Yours,
Sirius
Calista's vision blurred, and she managed not to spit out the bitterness in her mouth only by clenching her jaw so tightly that it made her temples ache. After a moment, slender fingers reached to take the parchment from her, and she let her own hands drop to her sides, trembling.
She was granted a brief and merciful respite, while her aunt quite conspicuously and quite deliberately busied herself returning the paper to where it had come from, and locking the drawer; it was only a few seconds, but it was enough for her to dash the burning moisture from her eyes, to tighten her jaw even further, to shutter her expression.
"Sirius wrote me that letter perhaps a month after I knew he was innocent. I knew he'd only narrowly avoided being Kissed by the dementors at Hogwarts, and I was afraid that his contact with his godson would draw attention to his whereabouts."
"I…" Calista managed to unhinge her jaw, "I don't understand why you showed that to me."
"Don't you?" her aunt asked, softly, and then: "Something tells me that I won't be able talk you out of asking questions that only hurt yourself; but I suppose I hope you have enough empathy to stop, when you're also hurting someone else."
"I don't — I — that's not what I mean to do."
Andromeda smiled sadly. "I know, sweetheart. I know what you're asking, and why you're asking; but I need to ask you to stop, for the sake of two people that I care for very much."
Calista felt her mouth twitch, but for a moment, she couldn't force any more words out of it.
"I miss seeing you smile, when you come here," her aunt said, gently, "I miss pretending not to notice you and my daughter drinking a bit too much and giggling over — over boys, or Quidditch, or whatever it is you two used to go on about, up there."
Something in her aunt's kindle, casual tone loosed a stone from the mass in her gut.
"It wasn't Quidditch," she managed, a good deal more weakly than she liked, "It...definitely wasn't Quidditch."
"Well," Andromeda said, shifting towards her; and this time, she took Calista utterly by surprise, when she did wrap both of her arms around her niece in a hug that was somehow felt uncomfortably tight, uncomfortably long. "Whatever it was, it certainly used to sound amusing."
She ached, suddenly, for the familiar affection of her other aunt; the one who knew precisely how tightly and for how long Calista would allow herself to be held; the one that almost certainly would know that it was time, now, to talk about something else.
Andromeda didn't know, though; she didn't know that Calista was a well-meaning touch, or a soft, kindly look away from shutting down; didn't know that the quiet study, the sea of spiky, heavy words, and the lingering grip of hands at her shoulders felt suddenly like manacles. She didn't know how badly Calista wanted, suddenly, to run.
"I —" I need to go; she wrenched herself free from her aunt's grip, and felt the tell-tale ratcheting of her own heart; for the second time since she'd arrived, she asked herself what the hell was wrong with her?
"Calista," her aunt said, and at last, she took a measured step back, and Calista could breathe again, "I want you to know — I want you to understand — if there's anything I can do, anything I can tell you that might help, then I will."
Anything? That reminded Calista of what Gerald has asked, what she'd promised and then immediately revoked, once she'd understood.
A sick, cold feeling crept up her throat, from the pit of her stomach.
"All right, then," she said, "I want you to teach me your charm, for the papers; how to work it, and how to undo it."
The charm, she knew, was how Andromeda had always kept her secrets; how she protected herself, and those she held dear; and just like Calista's occlumency, it was a skill best not shared.
She braced herself with a perverse satisfaction for a reaction rather like the one she'd given Gerald; perhaps her aunt would even throw her out —
Andromeda smirked. "Well," she said, "It's about time; I was beginning to think you'd never ask."
The weight inside her suddenly evaporated, leaving an equally jarring emptiness in its wake.
"What? You're actually going to teach me? Even if it means I can break your charm?"
Her aunt nodded, and as if to prove it, she carefully withdrew her wand from her pocket.
"Of course I will," she said, "After all, it's one thing to be able to protect myself; but what good does it really do, if I cannot teach the ones I love to be protected, too?"