37 - Strange Truths

It's a strange truth that, the larger something looms, the harder it is to focus on. As April marched on and the tension of oncoming NEWTs started to smoulder into life, all through Seventh Year, people seemed to be growing more and more obsessed with studying, and not just the scholastic types. It was as though all the tension and worry about the war was being put into revision, and the more people panicked, the less they panicked about what was real.

While Laura might have been watching this with some amusement, she certainly wasn't immune to it, either. Severus' spying was the most momentous, important, and life-defining thing she had ever had to deal with, and yet, as April wore on, it got further and further from her mind. She wasn't quite to the level of some of her compatriots – Xiang Chang, in particular, didn't seem to have raised her head from her books in about a week – but she was still a Ravenclaw, and a good student, and she had her pride to maintain. Besides, the oncoming exams were less terrifying and heartstopping than the thought that she and Severus might be all that stood between the Death Eaters and some of their victims.

That had dawned on her slowly, over the days since Frances Runcorn had been attacked. Laura had been elated at first. How could she not be? Severus had done it, and she'd helped. They'd saved an innocent woman's life, and given the Aurors the drop on a Death Eater group in the bargain. In a way, a small way but one that might make a great deal of difference, they'd diverted the course of the war.

But the more she thought about it, the more she came around to Severus' point of view. Yes, they'd saved one woman, but that was like trying to divert a river with one stone. They had to keep going, and it had to be them, because nobody else could do it. Worse, knowing how heavy that responsibility weighed on her when she was only a go-between, she was coming to realise just what a terrible thing she'd done to Severus. She was only facing a small responsibility, to keep his secret and help cover his tracks. He had to do the work, the spying, the calculating. He was the one putting his life in danger every day, and she'd made him do that. No matter how hard she told herself that he was a better person for it, that she'd done the right thing, that was a heavy weight to carry.

It got heavier when, a couple of weeks after the Runcorn incident, he slid a note under the table in Potions which said DA 21/4 17:30 22 inc me. She didn't look at him, just fed the parchment into the fire under her cauldron and hoped nobody would notice, but the acid taste of terror burnt her throat. This was so much worse than Runcorn. This time, he'd be there.

But she took the intelligence to Dumbledore, visiting his office under the pretence of talking to him about NEWTs arrangements, and on the 21st of April, while twenty-two of Voldemort's followers clashed against seventeen undercover Aurors in Diagon Alley, Laura had put it out of her mind and was bent over her Arithmancy textbook. By the time she remembered the significance of the date, it was almost six o'clock and, in London, the survivors of the battle were Apparating away.

She sat for several long minutes, staring at her watch, and all the fear and worry she'd pushed away burst into her throat like a dam breaking. She didn't cry, or even feel like it, but her throat felt full, and what she did want to do was scream. She'd forgotten. How on earth could she have forgotten? Severus was out there, putting his neck on the line, fighting in a battle where both sides were his enemies, and she was sitting in a warm library, copying out lines of figures without a second thought.

He was dead, she knew. Dead, or slumped in an alley. Or he'd killed someone, maybe even the Aurors who'd saved Runcorn. Or he'd killed one of the other Death Eaters, and the jig was up, or someone had seen her burn the note and called off the attack, or the Aurors hadn't trusted Dumbledore's intelligence and hadn't shown up, or...

Or he's just dead. Or you killed him. Sent him out into a trap and killed him. Her fingers tightened on her quill, so hard that she felt the hollow stem of it crack under her fingers. She knew that was a stupid thought. Severus was a Slytherin, and while he was brave, he was also self-serving. He'd gone into this knowing the risks, better than she did. He was the one who'd passed on the message, and he wouldn't have if he thought it would get him killed. He was the one who was fighting. What right did she have to sit around and feel miserable, when she was being so useless herself?

Groaning, she dropped her head forwards onto the book. It didn't gain any attention – bashing one's head off books wasn't really unusual behaviour around NEWT season, as Hogwarts students attempted the time-honoured revision technique of smashing in knowledge that wasn't getting there any other way – but it did make a satisfying thunk which she totally failed to register. She could feel herself thrumming with nervous energy, and she had no idea what the hell she was going to do with it. Walk it off? Like that was going to work. Maybe she should have taken Xiang up on those tai chi classes. Maybe she shouldn't have got Severus in this mess in the first place.

But you could only wallow in self-pity for so long, and unfortunately, Laura was aware of that. Eventually she sat back up, the clawing tension still harsh in her throat, and swallowed hard before going back to the Arithmancy tables. The numbers didn't make the easy kind of sense they had a few minutes ago, when it had all come sweeping in on her, but it was something to do, at least. She couldn't do anything else. She couldn't go and ask after Severus, or follow him to Diagon Alley, or even check up to see whether he was back. Until suppertime, or maybe even breakfast, she wouldn't know.

At 6:05 precisely, just as she was about to start wrapping up her revision, someone brushed against her bowed shoulder. She didn't think much of it, not until she saw the boy who'd knocked into her walk past towards the shelf, but she knew that lank hair and stiff posture anywhere. He was limping slightly, and when he reached for the bookshelf she saw a burn mark on his skinny white hand, but he was there. He was okay. The nervous lump dropped out of her throat and landed hard in the pit of her stomach, making her eyes sting for a moment. Now she wanted to cry, with happiness and relief, and to go and tell him she was sorry, that he shouldn't have to do that ever again, that neither of them should.

But she couldn't, and he wouldn't want her to. Instead, she ducked her head again, hiding the smile that came, broad and unbidden, to her face. Closing the book, she began to pack her things away, with her heart fluttering madly in her chest, sudden adrenaline spiking through her veins. It was strange, she thought, to be so galvinised by something that should relax, to be almost more nervous now she knew he'd survived.

Her hands were trembling. That was strange too, she noticed with detached surprise. Knowing he was safe should let her relax, let her off this ride she'd never wanted to be on. And yet, even before the elation of relief had faded, the voice of reason was speaking up. But you're not off the ride. He'll have to go again, and again, and again...

Now, though, he was back. He was alive. And, as Laura passed him to shelve her book, carefully not looking at him straight on, she still saw the tiny curl of a smile appear at the corner of his mouth.

That helped a little. Slowly, the adrenaline ebbed. Slowly, she started to breathe easy again. Slowly, she started to forget that reasonable voice, and remember only that he was alive, he was okay, and – when she read the headlines the next day – that they'd won. Slowly, but still all too fast, she let go of that thought that the danger was real.

It's a strange truth that, the more inescapable a situation is, the less imprisoned we allow ourselves to feel. Laura Baines was learning that the hard way.