DISCLAIMER: All characters and any pre-existing events, situations,
timelines or plots referenced to are the sole property of the ingenious JK
Rowling and whoever else she's given the go-ahead to over the years, not
me. My only editorial comment: Bummer.
And now, on with the show:
~ Chapter 4 : Reluctant Solace ~
It was nearly an hour later that they were bullied into moving by their cramped, exhausted bodies, tentatively stretching and then drawn in the magnetism of the bed. They lay on their sides facing each other, he with his back to the room and trapping her against the wall in unconscious desire to protect her. His gaze was completely deflated; defeat and sorrow in an ocean of shock and furious upset. Far from being angry with her, he was simply furious with the situation he now found himself in as a whole, utter ambiguity filling him completely.
The woman lying against him was his everything, the single person in his life he had ever let in deeply enough to truly love. Sirius and Remus he had admired and needed, Ron and Hermione he envied and just plain enjoyed, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley he adored, Dumbledore and Moody he respected and trusted implicitly, but his Gin he loved. She had been there for him for three years, to share and purge his pain with, to aid in his adventures and missions and be the stabilizing force he so desperately needed. She was his rock, his safe harbor. All he ever wanted was to be the same for her, and he had made every effort possible to return the life-giving favor.
Yet here he was, discovering that for years she had wrestled with the secret pains that had now been splayed before him, the seal of time shutting out any possibility of help. Finding out that he hadn't been able to help her through it, that he wasn't there for her, forced to view the gnarling scars he was powerless to alter, he felt he had failed her.
But his world too had been ravaged; the instrument of the scars had also taken *his* most precious and intangible possessions. He needed solitude. He needed company. He needed to walk. He needed to run. He needed silence. He needed noise. He needed to create. He needed to destroy. But first and foremost, he needed to reassemble to reassure her- to be her rock.
He knew reassurance was to be best had by letting her know that this changed absolutely nothing. He softly spoke to the air that she happened to inhabit, forcing his body and vocal chords to replicate total apparent relaxation. He spoke of fluffy afternoons and sultry nights spent in each other's arms in the fantasy land of their imaginations that they often visited while sharing the haze of old fuzzed blankets and soft thin sheets of inn chambers. She understood as soon as he began, exhaling not only air but also all of the energy that had been drained by the ordeal but refused to leave in order to see her through.
She knew, however, that he was forcing it; that the statements and intention were genuine but the delivery concocted to ease her back into life. But the fact that he cared for her so much to bother despite it all made her feel infinitely better than even if it were real. She then thought of the last person to do such a thing even remotely regarding the subjects of the night. She smiled - an odd reaction, she thought to herself, but that most hellish day was also the first instance of any level of regard (contrived or not) for another individual not of his own house that she had ever seen - few would follow in her four years in his realm. She could never tell Harry about it though - it would hurt him too badly to know that someone else had realized while he remained blind. But still she thought and deflatedly smiled.
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The stabbing pains between her wrenched shoulder socket and jammed wrist that had been with her all night had finally begun to fade, excused by an accidental fall out of the portrait hole and appropriately tended by the school's resident Nightingale. For her more pressing and private injuries she had managed only a spell to put a stop to bleeding - taught by her mother in case of emergency - and the layering of some gauze (acquired in a rare absence of the nurse from the ward) to prevent any friction with her undergarments and be sure that no mistake in her spell casting could be detected.
She had admirably suppressed the agony of said injuries, assaulted by searing waves, but showing no sign whatsoever through her numb but vigilant effort to constantly rove and therefore be everywhere and yet no where in the castle. She rarely passed others, and when she did would bustle past in silent pretending of incredible hurry. It was the best isolation that her healing conscious could muster, considering the fit to burst common rooms, recreational, and even academic areas of the school due to the over- populated break. She wandered through each hall of the castle, avoiding not only the corridor below the owlry, for obvious reasons, but also the unforgiving stone of the lower levels. It was the dank dungeons of her defense and potions studies that most potently reminded her of the sweeping lord of Malfoy manor, and would have been equally unbearable.
She sensed the approach of another and instantly switched to the plan of escape, but found herself paralyzed in the stare of the single person who for reasons she had yet to understand surpassed even his dutiful son in her own mental association with the dreaded lord: Snape. As he came swooping around the corner, he suddenly seemed equally dumfounded by her; having stopped dead in his equal apparent hurry, he was now staring strait back at her, as though not having believed what he had seen upon his first assessment. She felt no fear, knowing it was pointless, but was generating the various conclusions he could be making from her unguarded eyes, and no possibility of what might happen next was at all appealing. An eternity later he still stood mesmerized, the look on his face containing both the disbelief of being presented with an extraordinarily rare item that he had not seen in numerous years, and a chill of horror - for said item was also inexpressibly dangerous.
"Ms. Weasley. . . " His voice met her ears without its characteristic air of infinite control for the first time in her memory "You will accompany me to the dungeons. *Now*."
As she followed his march into the flagstone and granite-lined bowls of the school, she could feel the lingering presence in her mind more and more vividly. She had always felt that the walls here had a deep power about them, as though they possessed an omnipotent knowledge of all that had ever occurred within them and were waiting only for the right moment to reveal their secrets. It was this quality that most reminded her of Lucius, and magnified her awareness as she descended into his element of dignified mire.
Finally entering the main potions corridor spurned a quickly rejected plea from her instincts to run - she would be implicating herself as having committed some crime were she too (and for all she actually knew he could only suspect her in some prank that had taken place near the area that she was unaware of), not to mention the pain that simply walking at previous sweet pace produced, meaning any attempt to run would soon be stalled. Ignoring instinct and swallowing memory she continued with him at his own brisk speed until they reached a passcoded door and whisked inside.
Long term potions were simmering about the counters, up on fires surrounded by temperature control bubbles (an advanced charm in itself - the work of no less than a sixth year or Ms. Granger), automatically telling her that they were extremely difficult and sensitive to error. The space was also far better maintained than any of the classrooms she had ever been inside of; the utilizers of this room had never melted a cauldron into the floor or spilt dragon blood on the counters. It was the classroom of advanced studies and N.E.W.T. level exercises; she had long wondered what it was like and hoped to see it one day, but under slightly different conditions.
She stopped just past the first row of preparation tables, correctly guessing that she was not intended to follow him into to back chamber to which he seemed bound. She occupied herself with slowing her own thundering heartbeat, then noticed that the shelves of the hutches lining the back of the room behind the scribe-style desk housed numerous ingredients that would never be found in the average potions class. The preciousness and potential danger of the items increased as one neared the right hand corner - home to a large, heavy and most probably locked and warded mahogany chest which under any other circumstances she would have been itching to get into, but she was at present too involved in audially spying on the potions master.
She waited as he purposefully opened a cabinet, removed what he desired and closed it again, then wrenched open a stubborn second that was left ajar for the duration of a pop and the sound of pouring liquid, then bubbling as though from carbonation and hinges squeaking as they were closed again. A new and larger door creaked open next, succeeded by the removal of several objects which were placed in a container that produced a dull metallic thud as they struck it. A tinkling came next, accompanied by a first increased and then dying fizzing sound, presumably stirring the gases out of the previously poured liquid. He then emerged, bearing an equipment-stuffed pewter cauldron under one arm and a lamely bubbling steel goblet in the opposing hand. He carefully placed the minorly rattling cauldron on a free stretch of counter at the left side of the room, then walked back to her and extended the goblet.
"Drink."
It was not a request. But still something prevented her from reaching for the proffered potion. Her lack of response was met with his jamming the vessel to her lips and forcing the tilt of her head to pour the sour frothy liquid down her throat. The drained goblet was then placed on the nearest table, to whom's most readily available chair he pointed and said in an equally un-requestive tone:
"Sit."
Her body greatly desired to do so and gave no argument, though the prospect of being gruffly seized and posed in the chair like a huge, irritating doll were she not to obey was no small motivator.
He returned to the cauldron at the counter, removing the various devices and ingredients and placing it on a simmering stand. He then combined several of the ingredients, his back to her and blocking any view, but she was sure by the smell that he had used wolfsbane, as well as some amount of dragon's blood. Setting a high fire beneath it with his wand, he strode back over to the table at which he had ensconced her.
He swiftly pulled out the chair across from her and swooped into it, halting in midair just before softly settling into the seat out of respect for the furniture. This sudden slowing of motion was also carried in his elbows' placement on the surface before him, hands intertwining as his face attempted find the proper expression for the question ahead - it settled upon the softest expression of respect for the person being addressed that it could muster. His voice was at its most silken, not for the purposes of intimidating the person addressed, but an effort to not.
"Exactly how long ago did Lucius force himself on you?"
Her jaw slacked with shock. How could he *possibly* have known, short of long suspected telepathic ability?
"Well?"
"Last night"
"Have you addressed those injuries not excusable to Madame Pomphery?"
"Yes . . ."
His calmly blinking expression communicated that she was intended to elaborate - he was apparently offering some assistance in the area, and therefore required knowledge of previous efforts. This assumption was supported by her realization that since his forcing of the potion she had been in steadily less pain, warmed in the process.
"A bleeding restrictor . . . and gauze to cushion things."
His eyes closed momentarily, an unreadable expression on his face, and then opened as he returned to the cauldron and continued to go about preparation of an appropriate healing compound.
The calling up of skills for the compound and the calculations necessary also brought the memories of the years in which he made it frequently, abandoned until now in lack of necessity. Most vivid was the image of the then-existent personality of his partner, apparently rediscovered. He had dealt with and secretly cared for more rape victims than he allowed himself to estimate, but Lucius' were always special. Even others who employed Legilimency to further invade their prey never quite reached the levels that he did, his indescribable fire somehow deepening the impact. They always had the same look, rooted in the blanket gaze of all so violated, but above and beyond it. He had known it instantly, even after seventeen years.
"I assume that like all the others you have deemed it futile to report the incident and have no intention to do so?" The statement was spat with a permeating tinge of disgust, the object of which she could not discern. She softly answered to the positive, grateful to not have to look him in the eye as she did so; afraid to attract the predator. She then returned to studying the previously unnoticed and apparently fascinating anatomy of her own hands, clenched in her lap.
He reminded himself to soften his demeanor, knowing that her actions were she not hollowly soothed would be unpredictable and possibly destructive. He then read her subconscious question, despite her intentioned passiveness.
"No, you are not the first. The first in many years, but not the first."
The completion of the brew and passage of an hour of warm silence found her standing as she was presented with the results and given instructions of its usage. She knew there was no pressure to respond to the information and turned to leave, but was called to a halt by his voice, having regained some tinge of its authority.
"Ms. Weasley . . ."
She stopped and turned, fearing the lashing would come at last; disappointment or aggression for some action, or more probably lack of action - but he surprised her.
"Do remember where the room is. Your appreciation of potions as well as knowledge and precision in the art is quite outstanding - I have been meaning to engage you about joining my advanced studies course next year. I do not usually invite students until their fifth year, but I feel you would greatly benefit from the proper environment and appreciate the privilege."
"Yes . . . Thank you, professor."
"Ms. Weasley . . ."
She turned back again -
"I shall inform no one."
She walked away from the room in a far better condition than when she had entered. His confidence in her, and respectful word that he would not defy her wishes had strengthened her, reinstated some amount of her power. She would later understand that it was a façade, constructed for her benefit only, but that he possessed the decency to do so meant something of its own accord.
Upon her exit he was left with his own furious thoughts, contemplating the implications of the incident. Her position in his confidence was pre- existing and genuine, though the delivery of it and any delicacy regarding the matter were contrived. The irritation she had detected was very real, and he intended to break his word the instant he could next see Dumbledore. He was concerned not with the victimization of or pity for the girl, but the danger of regression to the Lucius he originally knew; so much more dangerous for lack of hampering by any civility. So unpredictable a person in so high and controlling a seat of power, the universe's automatic prevention by the need of discipline and control to wield true control over others having been over-ridden by mental regression. Any retribution for the crime that embodied said regression was in fact a hollow hope, but the man who headmastered far more than the confines of the school needed to be aware of the new and greater danger of a Lucius so desperate for the power that he thirsted for, possibly even *needed* to physically survive, that he would revert to the fiercely suppressed hellion within.
Then came the chilling knowledge that this was evidence some victory for the cause pursued was coming, fueled by either Lucius' own fire or that of the competition who's success had spurned the feeling of fear or inadequacy that had brought him to the girl, desirous of a regaining control. Supported by the reappearance of the mark, Karkaroff's nerves, and attempts at Potter's life, all of which he had previously convinced himself were the result of some hollow effort, he was forced to accept that a revival was threatening to strike; it was merely a matter of time. The thought of the cool, weightless porcelain of the magically fixed mask on his face again, night black ribbons charmed to repel spells cast at the back knotted at the base of his skull on smooth braided hair resulted in one half of his psyche desperately pulling in the cool reassurance of breathing again, while the other cringed at the prospect. He would have to prepare himself to lower into the pit once again.
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But bit by bit the balm of her lover's words and voice smoothed over the scars, partially masking them from so painful of a view for the silken- voiced appeaser. The thoughts were driven from her mind and her last few drops of consciousness finally left her, embodied in trickling tears as she feel deep into a rolling sea of slumber next to him.
His fingers ran along her spine as he continued to speak for nearly half an hour after he felt her body crumple and breathing slow. She did not feel him leave her, nor was she disturbed by any sounds thereafter, protected by dreamless exhaustion. She was only awakened by his return four hours later, his very presence standing over her stirring some instinct to wake. She blearily studied him, stalk still and staring at her from the open foot of the bed, and finally spoke his name in the form of an inquiry as to the logic of its possessor. He said nothing, too filled with emotion to respond as he clamored on hands and knees up her outline, reaching the intersection of lips to stake what he intended to re-claim in his own mind.
The stars above glinted knowingly at them, almost as a human coyly smiling slyly but approvingly, for no spell could block the penetrating gaze of the cosmos.
~*~*~*~
And now, on with the show:
~ Chapter 4 : Reluctant Solace ~
It was nearly an hour later that they were bullied into moving by their cramped, exhausted bodies, tentatively stretching and then drawn in the magnetism of the bed. They lay on their sides facing each other, he with his back to the room and trapping her against the wall in unconscious desire to protect her. His gaze was completely deflated; defeat and sorrow in an ocean of shock and furious upset. Far from being angry with her, he was simply furious with the situation he now found himself in as a whole, utter ambiguity filling him completely.
The woman lying against him was his everything, the single person in his life he had ever let in deeply enough to truly love. Sirius and Remus he had admired and needed, Ron and Hermione he envied and just plain enjoyed, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley he adored, Dumbledore and Moody he respected and trusted implicitly, but his Gin he loved. She had been there for him for three years, to share and purge his pain with, to aid in his adventures and missions and be the stabilizing force he so desperately needed. She was his rock, his safe harbor. All he ever wanted was to be the same for her, and he had made every effort possible to return the life-giving favor.
Yet here he was, discovering that for years she had wrestled with the secret pains that had now been splayed before him, the seal of time shutting out any possibility of help. Finding out that he hadn't been able to help her through it, that he wasn't there for her, forced to view the gnarling scars he was powerless to alter, he felt he had failed her.
But his world too had been ravaged; the instrument of the scars had also taken *his* most precious and intangible possessions. He needed solitude. He needed company. He needed to walk. He needed to run. He needed silence. He needed noise. He needed to create. He needed to destroy. But first and foremost, he needed to reassemble to reassure her- to be her rock.
He knew reassurance was to be best had by letting her know that this changed absolutely nothing. He softly spoke to the air that she happened to inhabit, forcing his body and vocal chords to replicate total apparent relaxation. He spoke of fluffy afternoons and sultry nights spent in each other's arms in the fantasy land of their imaginations that they often visited while sharing the haze of old fuzzed blankets and soft thin sheets of inn chambers. She understood as soon as he began, exhaling not only air but also all of the energy that had been drained by the ordeal but refused to leave in order to see her through.
She knew, however, that he was forcing it; that the statements and intention were genuine but the delivery concocted to ease her back into life. But the fact that he cared for her so much to bother despite it all made her feel infinitely better than even if it were real. She then thought of the last person to do such a thing even remotely regarding the subjects of the night. She smiled - an odd reaction, she thought to herself, but that most hellish day was also the first instance of any level of regard (contrived or not) for another individual not of his own house that she had ever seen - few would follow in her four years in his realm. She could never tell Harry about it though - it would hurt him too badly to know that someone else had realized while he remained blind. But still she thought and deflatedly smiled.
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The stabbing pains between her wrenched shoulder socket and jammed wrist that had been with her all night had finally begun to fade, excused by an accidental fall out of the portrait hole and appropriately tended by the school's resident Nightingale. For her more pressing and private injuries she had managed only a spell to put a stop to bleeding - taught by her mother in case of emergency - and the layering of some gauze (acquired in a rare absence of the nurse from the ward) to prevent any friction with her undergarments and be sure that no mistake in her spell casting could be detected.
She had admirably suppressed the agony of said injuries, assaulted by searing waves, but showing no sign whatsoever through her numb but vigilant effort to constantly rove and therefore be everywhere and yet no where in the castle. She rarely passed others, and when she did would bustle past in silent pretending of incredible hurry. It was the best isolation that her healing conscious could muster, considering the fit to burst common rooms, recreational, and even academic areas of the school due to the over- populated break. She wandered through each hall of the castle, avoiding not only the corridor below the owlry, for obvious reasons, but also the unforgiving stone of the lower levels. It was the dank dungeons of her defense and potions studies that most potently reminded her of the sweeping lord of Malfoy manor, and would have been equally unbearable.
She sensed the approach of another and instantly switched to the plan of escape, but found herself paralyzed in the stare of the single person who for reasons she had yet to understand surpassed even his dutiful son in her own mental association with the dreaded lord: Snape. As he came swooping around the corner, he suddenly seemed equally dumfounded by her; having stopped dead in his equal apparent hurry, he was now staring strait back at her, as though not having believed what he had seen upon his first assessment. She felt no fear, knowing it was pointless, but was generating the various conclusions he could be making from her unguarded eyes, and no possibility of what might happen next was at all appealing. An eternity later he still stood mesmerized, the look on his face containing both the disbelief of being presented with an extraordinarily rare item that he had not seen in numerous years, and a chill of horror - for said item was also inexpressibly dangerous.
"Ms. Weasley. . . " His voice met her ears without its characteristic air of infinite control for the first time in her memory "You will accompany me to the dungeons. *Now*."
As she followed his march into the flagstone and granite-lined bowls of the school, she could feel the lingering presence in her mind more and more vividly. She had always felt that the walls here had a deep power about them, as though they possessed an omnipotent knowledge of all that had ever occurred within them and were waiting only for the right moment to reveal their secrets. It was this quality that most reminded her of Lucius, and magnified her awareness as she descended into his element of dignified mire.
Finally entering the main potions corridor spurned a quickly rejected plea from her instincts to run - she would be implicating herself as having committed some crime were she too (and for all she actually knew he could only suspect her in some prank that had taken place near the area that she was unaware of), not to mention the pain that simply walking at previous sweet pace produced, meaning any attempt to run would soon be stalled. Ignoring instinct and swallowing memory she continued with him at his own brisk speed until they reached a passcoded door and whisked inside.
Long term potions were simmering about the counters, up on fires surrounded by temperature control bubbles (an advanced charm in itself - the work of no less than a sixth year or Ms. Granger), automatically telling her that they were extremely difficult and sensitive to error. The space was also far better maintained than any of the classrooms she had ever been inside of; the utilizers of this room had never melted a cauldron into the floor or spilt dragon blood on the counters. It was the classroom of advanced studies and N.E.W.T. level exercises; she had long wondered what it was like and hoped to see it one day, but under slightly different conditions.
She stopped just past the first row of preparation tables, correctly guessing that she was not intended to follow him into to back chamber to which he seemed bound. She occupied herself with slowing her own thundering heartbeat, then noticed that the shelves of the hutches lining the back of the room behind the scribe-style desk housed numerous ingredients that would never be found in the average potions class. The preciousness and potential danger of the items increased as one neared the right hand corner - home to a large, heavy and most probably locked and warded mahogany chest which under any other circumstances she would have been itching to get into, but she was at present too involved in audially spying on the potions master.
She waited as he purposefully opened a cabinet, removed what he desired and closed it again, then wrenched open a stubborn second that was left ajar for the duration of a pop and the sound of pouring liquid, then bubbling as though from carbonation and hinges squeaking as they were closed again. A new and larger door creaked open next, succeeded by the removal of several objects which were placed in a container that produced a dull metallic thud as they struck it. A tinkling came next, accompanied by a first increased and then dying fizzing sound, presumably stirring the gases out of the previously poured liquid. He then emerged, bearing an equipment-stuffed pewter cauldron under one arm and a lamely bubbling steel goblet in the opposing hand. He carefully placed the minorly rattling cauldron on a free stretch of counter at the left side of the room, then walked back to her and extended the goblet.
"Drink."
It was not a request. But still something prevented her from reaching for the proffered potion. Her lack of response was met with his jamming the vessel to her lips and forcing the tilt of her head to pour the sour frothy liquid down her throat. The drained goblet was then placed on the nearest table, to whom's most readily available chair he pointed and said in an equally un-requestive tone:
"Sit."
Her body greatly desired to do so and gave no argument, though the prospect of being gruffly seized and posed in the chair like a huge, irritating doll were she not to obey was no small motivator.
He returned to the cauldron at the counter, removing the various devices and ingredients and placing it on a simmering stand. He then combined several of the ingredients, his back to her and blocking any view, but she was sure by the smell that he had used wolfsbane, as well as some amount of dragon's blood. Setting a high fire beneath it with his wand, he strode back over to the table at which he had ensconced her.
He swiftly pulled out the chair across from her and swooped into it, halting in midair just before softly settling into the seat out of respect for the furniture. This sudden slowing of motion was also carried in his elbows' placement on the surface before him, hands intertwining as his face attempted find the proper expression for the question ahead - it settled upon the softest expression of respect for the person being addressed that it could muster. His voice was at its most silken, not for the purposes of intimidating the person addressed, but an effort to not.
"Exactly how long ago did Lucius force himself on you?"
Her jaw slacked with shock. How could he *possibly* have known, short of long suspected telepathic ability?
"Well?"
"Last night"
"Have you addressed those injuries not excusable to Madame Pomphery?"
"Yes . . ."
His calmly blinking expression communicated that she was intended to elaborate - he was apparently offering some assistance in the area, and therefore required knowledge of previous efforts. This assumption was supported by her realization that since his forcing of the potion she had been in steadily less pain, warmed in the process.
"A bleeding restrictor . . . and gauze to cushion things."
His eyes closed momentarily, an unreadable expression on his face, and then opened as he returned to the cauldron and continued to go about preparation of an appropriate healing compound.
The calling up of skills for the compound and the calculations necessary also brought the memories of the years in which he made it frequently, abandoned until now in lack of necessity. Most vivid was the image of the then-existent personality of his partner, apparently rediscovered. He had dealt with and secretly cared for more rape victims than he allowed himself to estimate, but Lucius' were always special. Even others who employed Legilimency to further invade their prey never quite reached the levels that he did, his indescribable fire somehow deepening the impact. They always had the same look, rooted in the blanket gaze of all so violated, but above and beyond it. He had known it instantly, even after seventeen years.
"I assume that like all the others you have deemed it futile to report the incident and have no intention to do so?" The statement was spat with a permeating tinge of disgust, the object of which she could not discern. She softly answered to the positive, grateful to not have to look him in the eye as she did so; afraid to attract the predator. She then returned to studying the previously unnoticed and apparently fascinating anatomy of her own hands, clenched in her lap.
He reminded himself to soften his demeanor, knowing that her actions were she not hollowly soothed would be unpredictable and possibly destructive. He then read her subconscious question, despite her intentioned passiveness.
"No, you are not the first. The first in many years, but not the first."
The completion of the brew and passage of an hour of warm silence found her standing as she was presented with the results and given instructions of its usage. She knew there was no pressure to respond to the information and turned to leave, but was called to a halt by his voice, having regained some tinge of its authority.
"Ms. Weasley . . ."
She stopped and turned, fearing the lashing would come at last; disappointment or aggression for some action, or more probably lack of action - but he surprised her.
"Do remember where the room is. Your appreciation of potions as well as knowledge and precision in the art is quite outstanding - I have been meaning to engage you about joining my advanced studies course next year. I do not usually invite students until their fifth year, but I feel you would greatly benefit from the proper environment and appreciate the privilege."
"Yes . . . Thank you, professor."
"Ms. Weasley . . ."
She turned back again -
"I shall inform no one."
She walked away from the room in a far better condition than when she had entered. His confidence in her, and respectful word that he would not defy her wishes had strengthened her, reinstated some amount of her power. She would later understand that it was a façade, constructed for her benefit only, but that he possessed the decency to do so meant something of its own accord.
Upon her exit he was left with his own furious thoughts, contemplating the implications of the incident. Her position in his confidence was pre- existing and genuine, though the delivery of it and any delicacy regarding the matter were contrived. The irritation she had detected was very real, and he intended to break his word the instant he could next see Dumbledore. He was concerned not with the victimization of or pity for the girl, but the danger of regression to the Lucius he originally knew; so much more dangerous for lack of hampering by any civility. So unpredictable a person in so high and controlling a seat of power, the universe's automatic prevention by the need of discipline and control to wield true control over others having been over-ridden by mental regression. Any retribution for the crime that embodied said regression was in fact a hollow hope, but the man who headmastered far more than the confines of the school needed to be aware of the new and greater danger of a Lucius so desperate for the power that he thirsted for, possibly even *needed* to physically survive, that he would revert to the fiercely suppressed hellion within.
Then came the chilling knowledge that this was evidence some victory for the cause pursued was coming, fueled by either Lucius' own fire or that of the competition who's success had spurned the feeling of fear or inadequacy that had brought him to the girl, desirous of a regaining control. Supported by the reappearance of the mark, Karkaroff's nerves, and attempts at Potter's life, all of which he had previously convinced himself were the result of some hollow effort, he was forced to accept that a revival was threatening to strike; it was merely a matter of time. The thought of the cool, weightless porcelain of the magically fixed mask on his face again, night black ribbons charmed to repel spells cast at the back knotted at the base of his skull on smooth braided hair resulted in one half of his psyche desperately pulling in the cool reassurance of breathing again, while the other cringed at the prospect. He would have to prepare himself to lower into the pit once again.
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But bit by bit the balm of her lover's words and voice smoothed over the scars, partially masking them from so painful of a view for the silken- voiced appeaser. The thoughts were driven from her mind and her last few drops of consciousness finally left her, embodied in trickling tears as she feel deep into a rolling sea of slumber next to him.
His fingers ran along her spine as he continued to speak for nearly half an hour after he felt her body crumple and breathing slow. She did not feel him leave her, nor was she disturbed by any sounds thereafter, protected by dreamless exhaustion. She was only awakened by his return four hours later, his very presence standing over her stirring some instinct to wake. She blearily studied him, stalk still and staring at her from the open foot of the bed, and finally spoke his name in the form of an inquiry as to the logic of its possessor. He said nothing, too filled with emotion to respond as he clamored on hands and knees up her outline, reaching the intersection of lips to stake what he intended to re-claim in his own mind.
The stars above glinted knowingly at them, almost as a human coyly smiling slyly but approvingly, for no spell could block the penetrating gaze of the cosmos.
~*~*~*~