She had known something was wrong from the moment she saw him. They stood awkwardly in the staff room, their promise of secrecy preventing her from running to Severus and snogging the living daylights out of him as she so desperately wanted to. She was becoming increasingly irritated by the gaggle of other professors around them, between them, issuing their customary welcome-backs. She wanted one man, and one man only.
He, however, could not seem to bring himself to look at her. He avoided her skillfully in the crowd of professors, and she had been reduced to staring unabashedly at him from across the room, trying to deduce what on earth was going on.
At last, following him down to his office, she was free to embrace him. The smell of him was so familiar it was painful, but the rest was painful in a different way. His arms around her felt cold and rigid, with none of the passion that she usually sensed in his embraces. After a too-brief moment, he pulled away from her.
"Penelope," he muttered hoarsely. "We cannot… we cannot do this anymore."
She gave him a long, calculating look. She ran her eyes over his high cheekbones, the sweep of hair in front of his dark eyes, the downward curve of his mouth; she knew these things so well now, it was as if they were part of her own reflection. He could fool the Dark Lord, she thought, but he could never fool her.
"Severus," she said lightly. "I'm not even going to dignify that pathetic attempt at a breakup by getting mad at you." She crossed her arms and rocked on the balls of her feet. He looked surprised. "Do you still love me?" she asked.
"No."
"Liar." Where had her anger gone? she wondered. A younger version of herself would have screamed at him until she went hoarse. Yet war and love seemed to have drained everything out of her, everything except that low, supporting note of certainty. She had no doubt anymore. She had no doubt the two of them would hold.
"Don't do this." His voice was soft, pleading. "You have no idea what… what is coming. What this war could do to us, what my work could eventually entail…"
"I don't need an idea," she whispered. "I don't need to know. I trust you absolutely." Her fingers shook and she made no effort to stop them. Fuck, she needed a smoke.
"Don't say that."
"Bloody try and stop me." He seemed to smile despite himself.
"Penelope, I-"
"I know," she interrupted. "I understand that at some point your work may make it impossible for us to be together. I'm not naive."
"I know. You're not." He sighed softly and pressed his forehead against hers. "Dammit, why do you have to make this so hard…" She let him stew for a moment, then pulled away.
"Because the hardship is worth it. Because you're worth it." She knew full well he would never believe her. She looked into his dark, sad eyes, eyes that had seen too much to ever fully trust her as she trusted him.
"I can't make you stay with me. At the end of the day, it's your choice. But as for me, Severus… I am with you till the end."
He bent down and kissed her, roughly, possessively, and she knew she had his answer. At least for now.
"Now who's making things hard?" she murmured. She broke the kiss gently and left him there. She didn't look back at him, didn't let him see the tears that might change his mind.
He was playing the piano for her. His fingers shook on the worn white keys. She had laughingly offered to lie down so he couldn't see her, if that would make it easier for him. But, no, her disembodied voice from behind the piano, the wisps of smoke rising up from nowhere and trailing out the window was so much worse… Like he was already playing for her ghost, her memory… The smoke was heady and horrible-smelling and he snapped at her to open the window wider just so he could see her again…
He was inside her, deep, and she was clinging to him as she begged him not to stop. She gripped his back painfully, her nails digging into the raw, scabbed flesh of his latest injury, but he ignored it, felt the pain ebb away as he neared his climax…
He was burning her letter, watching as the lines bearing "all her love" caught and curled into black char, feeling the soft ash between his fingers…
She was singing to him, her voice low and hoarse and yet very beautiful. She was just a blur, a dark-haired blur, but he felt warm fingers in his hair, smelled smoke and knew it was her… When had she ever sang to him? he wondered in the dream. Did that really happen…
Severus awoke with a start. He glanced at the clock beside his bed. Five in the bloody morning—not his worst night's sleep of late. The back of his neck was damp with sweat, though it was winter; Penelope's bare back was pressed against him, and the witch was like a bloody furnace. He disentangled himself from her, careful not to wake her as he staggered to the bathroom and threw up as quietly as he could.
The side effects of his increasing use of Occlumency were growing worse, and he had a suspicion why: the effort of hiding Penelope from the Dark Lord was costing him. All that he tried to suppress came back to him vividly in his sleep, the new memories tangling with older, deeper regrets until it all became one thing. Until she was just another vengeful ghost haunting him, though she was sleeping peacefully in his bed even now.
He leaned over the sink, his muscles aching and weak, and reminded himself yet again why he was doing this. He would stay with her as long as she wanted him; the choice was hers. He would endeavor to be a better man for her, until…
He rinsed his mouth out with lukewarm water and spat into the tiny sink, more forcefully than was necessary. Be a better man? Cook her a nice dinner and play the piano to make up for murder and betrayal? He stared at the scars lacing his thin chest, some old and puckered, some red and raw and aching. She didn't understand, he thought. She was so mistaken in her trust, in her unyielding faith in him.
He stalked into his small kitchen and summoned a house elf to bring some ingredients from the castle larder. Penelope would need a hearty breakfast after the long night they had had… He smirked, indulging himself in the pleasant memories as he chopped onions by hand. Now that they were back at Hogwarts and seeing each other regularly, cooking for her gave him an excuse to eat anyway. He had a suspicion that she encouraged his hobby and flattered him perhaps a bit more than necessary for that reason. He was just cracking the eggs when she stumbled into the kitchen, and he grinned in spite of himself.
She was wearing one of his old t-shirts and nothing else, her delicate feet bare and her hair a wild tangle from last night's lovemaking. He heard a low, mumbled, "good morning", as she cracked the window and lit a cigarette, the smoke blowing out into the cold air.
"Smoking on an empty stomach?" he asked by way of greeting.
"Gotta have something to keep me warm on a cold morning."
"Surely not clothes." She laughed. There were bags under her eyes, he realized. Her fingers shook as she ashed her cigarette into an empty mug. It was still dark out, the sky just beginning to fade into gray, and the feeble light of her cigarette looked like a ghostly flame.
"Severus…" she said softly after a while. "You have cuts on your back that don't look too good." The sound of sizzling filled the room as he dumped chopped onions into a pan. He stared into the fragrant steam, not at her.
"The Dark Lord gave them to me. I see no reason why they should look too good."
"Are you taking proper care of yourself?" He scowled.
"You're not my mother."
"No, thank fuck for that." She stared angrily out the window, smoke swirling around her bushy-haired head. "But Poppy and I are the ones who nurse you back to health time and time again, when you come back…" He threw bell peppers into the pan so hard they scattered all over the counter and she laughed at him, coldly and without mirth.
"So it's my fault, is it?" he snarled. "Next time I'll try not to inconvenience you." She sighed, leaning on the sill.
"Could you just not be an arsehole to me this morning?" There was no trace of anger in her voice. Her eyes were heavy and distant, and she looked very tired. He left the hot pan for a moment and went to stand next to her.
"I'm sorry." His fingers stroked her hair tentatively and she nuzzled into him like a cat, almost reflexively.
"Apology accepted." He returned to his cooking, glancing up at her drawn face occasionally as she continued to stare out at the dark grounds. She was very beautiful, even when she was distant like this. He wondered what could be troubling her, what bad dreams had disturbed her sleep. Perhaps memories of her terrible childhood, he thought as he tipped the eggs into the pan.
The rich aromas that filled the kitchen seemed to revive her, he noticed gratefully. She discarded the butt of her cigarette and strolled over to him as he plated up scrambled eggs and toast for the both of them. She hopped up onto his counter and ate right there, mumbling, " S' delicious," in between large bites.
They chatted about this and that for a while. He found himself increasingly distracted by her breasts through the thin t-shirt, the way they swayed temptingly as she laughed at something he had said. It was a Saturday; he had work to do, potions to prep, but the day was young yet and they had time…
"Severus," she was saying quietly, and something in her voice shook him from his pleasant train of thought.
"Mm?" Her eyes were very sharp and very green.
"Are our days numbered? For sure?"
He stared at the small witch wearing his t-shirt. She was gripping the handle of her mug so hard her knuckles were white, the way she did when her hands were shaking. He wondered briefly if this was what she had nightmares about. The sun was breaking over the horizon and it shone in her hair, danced in the depths of her eyes so they glinted all different colors. It was going to be a beautiful day.
Her voice returned to him with painful clarity: I trust you absolutely…
He looked into her strange eyes and lied.