She had already risen, when his body had lurched itself into arousal. His fingers crept over to the crevice made by her body beside him, and his features tugged themselves into an disappointed frown. She was always disappearing on him, fleeing from the very crucial moments when he needed her most.


Severus stopped himself.


When he required her assistance.


Need was an often misused word, too strong for its own good. He had never known the need of anyone, nor had anyone known the need of him. In all his gloriously tormented years, he had learn to wean himself off of depending upon other people. Human beings were too capricious, too whimsical; it was better to simply rely on one's self, where the outcome of thoughts and actions would always be premeditated.


He chuckled to himself, the dryness of his throat causing his vocal chords to touch upon each other in sandpapery melody. He coughed, and sat up, sore muscles and aching belly all part of the large mosaic of unhapiness where he dwelled.


His eyes were bleary, and the fine, wispy stubble on his chin was beginning to sprout. Severus thought that he must have looked a sight when she had pulled him out of the shower, his limpid form the pallor of a drowned fish.


And, with a last and desperate strangled laugh, he knew that he could not hide from truth forever.


His magic was gone, wand probably broken, Albus severed from him, even his robes were bereft. Severus, first time that his fortuitious self reliance had crinkled, found that a drink would have been a lovely antecdote. He cracked his knuckles, the usually cheerful pops never failing to alleviate some stress, were wan in his ears.


He had been arrogant enough to consider that his magic was something that could never leave his body, something that lived in his skin, and was therefore inexorable from his own self. He stared ruefully at his palm, papyrus thin scar tinged with grey. Potter's scar had been the same, snaking its way ostentatiously down the center of his head, but his own was more sinister looking. Where Potter's had been blunt and rather crude, his own was etched, whittled with a fine and sharpened blade.


His own house had won him this; this last and most humiliating of betrayals. His own house had left him castrated.


And the girl. What of her? What stupid and unusual twist of fate had left her with this? His burdens were not hers to bear, yet they were suddenly glimmering in the cells and pores of her skin. Severus' heart grew sore with an unfamiliar emotion, and his mind was clouded with a large dosage of commiseration.


His blackened eyes narrowed, lean frame tense.


The unfairness of life was no stranger to him; in fact, he had rather learned to swallow a significant portion of his pride, and allow himself to be carried along turbulent, frequently upset rivers of other people's intentions.


She was far more vulnerable than he had ever foreseen, and this threw a particularly difficult obstacle to him. Sudden flare-ups of old magic did not just simply appear; it was a struggle for the Ministry to keep the Deatheaters from merely swarming at the door everytime a magical phenomena occured. He shivered; he could not help but dwell upon the things they could do to her, the horrors that he would have once so willingly performed.


Decidedly the worst part now was that he was firmly rooted here, his chivalrous and underused side of his nature knowing intuitively that he could never leave her alone. And, even under the threat of Crucio would he never have admitted this: he didn't want to leave her.


He shied from love, wilting in its sometimes oppresive sun, as others can seek renewal. Love was something he had been abused with, rather than nurtured.


And now that he had gone and fucked her as well, depriving her of a heart, he could hardly think that she deserved to be abondoned.

His present shame had come back to haunt him, accompanying his reminsince of these maudlin muggle plays.


He would never leave her.


Ever.