Lying very still he listened to the noises Claire made downstairs, then he heard her go to the bathroom and to her bedroom. The house became quiet. But Severus couldn't sleep. The painful after effects of the Cruciatus had not ceased completely and spasms caught his body at regular intervals. From fitful naps he woke soaked in sweat and shivering. Finally he'd had enough of the tossing and turning and got up. He put on the bathrobe and limped downstairs into the kitchen. The clock over the door showed five o'clock. Too early for breakfast, but he could do with a coffee. He opened the cupboards until he had found everything he needed and put the kettle on.
"Severus! What are you doing here?"
Claire was standing in the doorway, tousled and bleary-eyed.
He snorted. "Well, what does it look like?" She sat down at the small table tiredly.
"Sorry, I can see that you are making coffee. Can you make me a cup as well?"
Cursing himself for his words he ladled coffee into the cafetière and added the boiling water, then took another mug from the cupboard and carried everything to the table. When the coffee was ready, he poured it into the two mugs and handed her one. Claire cradled it in her hands and stared at the steaming black liquid.
"You couldn't sleep?" she asked. He shook his head, biting back a comment on her stating the obvious.
"Nor could I." After some minutes of silence he cleared his throat and started hesitantly, "Claire, I – I think I owe you an apology for last night."
She looked up.
"It's OK. Maybe you were right with the helper's syndrome. But I don't believe that there isn't anybody who likes you. Everybody has friends of some sort."
"I haven't", he stated flatly. And after a pause added hesitantly, "Do you – do you want to know?"
Claire was aware of how hard it was for him to make that offer. She nodded. He leant across the table and forced his eyes into hers. Once again she felt his presence in her mind, but this time it was inviting her to enter his. Images swirled past her, then slowed down. She found herself in a small terraced house; it was a sunny day, children were playing in the street, a thin black-haired boy was sitting in his bedroom, reading. The same boy, watching his parents argue, watching his father beat his mother, trying to protect her and being beaten himself. A large ancient building in spacious grounds, lots of teenagers in strange school uniforms - a public school by the look of it all - again the awkward, gangly black-haired boy, always alone, being bullied by three other teenagers, who called him Snivellus, being laughed at by other students, withdrawing himself from their ridicule into the library and a gloomy room that looked like an alchemist's laboratory. The same boy, a little older, falling hopelessly in love with a red-haired girl who ignored him and then was introduced to a dark and sinister society by older students, lured into their midst by the promise of power, receiving the tattoo on his arm from a dreadful-looking man. The Death Eaters and their Dark Lord. Then the images she knew already: Violence, murder, rape. The attack on a young family – Claire recognized the red-haired girl and one of the bullies – and then there was utter remorse and the wish to die. An old, venerable-looking man with long, white hair and an equally long beard, promising forgiveness and a second chance. But the injured soul couldn't heal. Same school, so this had to be Hogwarts, long years as a teacher, keeping the relationship with his colleagues on a purely professional basis and that with his students founded on fear and mutual loathing. Always preferring solitude to company. And then the necessity of going back to the Death Eaters in the role of a double-agent, the necessity of trusting nobody. And not being trusted by anybody. All this culminating in the killing of the white-haired man, the only one who had shown some kindness to Severus.
Claire felt herself being carefully pushed out of his mind and landed back in the reality of her kitchen. She looked at him.
"Do you believe me now?" His voice was hoarse. He was staring at his hands on the kitchen table. So much loneliness and misery.
"Severus," she said softly.
He didn't respond. She wanted to get up, put her arms around him and comfort him, but was sure he would not allow it, would shrink from her touch and become furious again. So she stayed on her chair, helplessly hoping that her presence would comfort him somehow.
When her eyes fell on the clock, she uttered a small cry of surprise: 7 o'clock!
"I must get ready for work," she said.
He looked up. His eyes were red, his face drawn.
"I'll make breakfast."
His voice was back to normal.
One hour later Claire was ready to leave. She was still rather pale, but otherwise there was nothing to tell of her bad night. Severus was still sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper.
"Severus," she said, "please don't do anything stupid today."
He grimaced.
"I'll be back at four-thirty. And in case you go outside and run across my neighbours: You are my cousin from Scotland, you are an artist and recovering from a mysterious tropical disease. That's what I told Linda Davis yesterday morning."
"What?" he exclaimed.
She shrugged. "It accounts for your appearance. Long hair means artist. And, sorry, you look like death personified. And please – be civil to the neighbours, especially to Mrs Davis," she waved a hand in the direction of the left wall, "I have to live next to them."
Thanks to JKR for the inspiring characters.