Chapter Seventeen

"Will you stay, Emma?"

"Where else would I go to; back out into the snow?" she had wondered. "I wouldn't have left last time if you'd let me stay."

"I meant will you stay here, with me?"

Time was a strange thing, and time, it would seem, was passing strangely.

Try as she might, Emma could not work out how long she had been caught in Severus' world. Days seemed to roll into one another, the weeks, months and years sweeping past her. Was this only the third night she had spent here? At times, everything seemed to rush by her in a blur, and she would be certain that she had only been caught up in the spell for a matter of moments. Other times, especially when she was tired or lost, it would feel as though she had been battling against the swirling darkness for months on end.

Regardless of how slowly time could move for her, it was becoming obvious that Severus' life was rushing ahead. The gaps between their meetings seemed to be growing wider, and the moments she got to spend with him seemed to be racing by with increasing speed.

It made lying there, holding his hand, seem infinitely precious.

Honestly, she hadn't even considered that she might not spend the night with him. It was the only way to be certain she wouldn't simply vanish into the night and besides, she had never felt any qualms about climbing into bed with him before. Yet having him put the idea into words, to actually ask her to stay, was a forcible reminder that this Severus, though still the same in so many ways, was no longer the boy she had met. Truthfully, there was nothing boyish left about him at all. She didn't know what had happened to him since first they had met, but it had obviously lefts its mark.

She had glanced up at him, hoping that a sneaked look at his face might go some way to answering the questions his words had raised, but he had let his hair fall to cover his eyes. She'd never seen his hair look quite so clean before; it shone almost blue-black in the wandlight, and she'd had to quell the sudden urge to reach up and push it back from his face, wondering if it could really be as silken soft as it appeared.

If he had felt her gaze he gave no sign of it, hiding behind the curtain of hair, his body tense and still. It was only then that she had understood that he was nervous.

He expected her to refuse, she'd realised. He, too, had come to doubt the strange bond between them, had felt them begin to drift apart. She'd given his fingers a little squeeze.

"Of course," she'd answered.

-x-

Despite her tiredness, Emma fought the urge to sleep. It was difficult; she felt so happy and secure, not to mention warmly sleepy, that it would have been so easy just to drift off. But she could tell by his breathing that Severus was still awake, and she was loath to waste one second of her time with him. Who knew how swiftly the horrid darkness would descend to snatch her away? She was determined to savour every moment she had left until it did.

Ideally, she would have liked to snuggle closer, maybe wrap her arms around him, or rest her head against his shoulder. He probably wouldn't have objected, but she was terrified of ruining the perfect sense of peace she had discovered by his side. Besides, he had been very careful not to touch anything but her fingers despite the narrowness of the bed. He, too, seemed to be aware of the fragile nature of their new friendship. And so they lay there, side by side, listening to the sound of one another's breathing, occasionally daring to run a thumb across the other's hand.

She had been oddly nervous before, racing to clean her teeth before the spell could steal her away, then hastily repeating the lengthening spell upon one of her loose hairs to bind her discarded cloak and shoes to her, just in case. The nerves had vanished, though, the moment she had returned to his room to find him waiting, his feet bare on the worn carpet, his face oddly open. Getting into bed beside him had felt delightfully natural; both still mostly clothed despite the closeness of the night air, they lay in silence, hand in hand.

The window was open, the curtains swaying in the warm, fitful breeze that did little to relieve the stuffiness of the night. Emma watched the shadows it caused as they chased across the ceiling, feeling her eyelids begin to droop.

This must be what home felt like.

-x-

The rain came suddenly; the quiet sounds of a town at night swiftly drowned out by the heavy drops as they drummed down on the roof and slapped against the window. The breeze turned cooler, and Emma finally found the courage to edge her way closer to Severus, stopping once his arm rested warmly against her. His fingers tightened round hers.

The rain was fierce; the fat round drops that only seem to fall in summer, hurling themselves noisily downwards. There was swift flash of lightening, throwing the ceiling into sudden relief, but Emma couldn't hear the replying thunder over the noise of the rain. She hoped there might be an electric storm but, just as the rain reached crescendo, it ceased, disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived. The silence that followed held a new quality. It felt as if she was holding her breath, waiting for the next flash of lightening, the next peel of thunder.

"Summer storm," she murmured, pulling the blanket higher with her free hand. When Severus didn't reply, she glanced across to see if he had fallen asleep. He had turned his head to face her; it was hard to tell in the darkness, but she was certain he was staring at her again, that odd, considering look on his face that meant he was carefully weighing what he was about to say.

She wondered what it might say about their relationship that she found it easier to read his face when she couldn't see it.

"Do you know what I liked best about you?" he asked, his voice pitched low and soft, little more than a whisper. "Back when we first met, before I got to know you?"

She twisted slightly to face him, unsure if she should answer or simply let him speak. Knowing Severus, he had wanted to say something since the moment they had got into bed, perhaps since she had arrived.

"I liked the fact that you didn't know a single thing about me," he continued. "You didn't have any preconceived ideas about me. Everyone else has always judged me on my home, my parents, my friends – even my house at school. You were one of the only people who took me at face value. And you seemed to like me, regardless."

"Of course I did," she reasoned, but he wasn't listening. Instead, he griped her fingers tightly, his voice becoming harsh.

"I can't help feeling like I'm lying to you," he admitted. "I know there is no way you would be willing to stay with me like this if you knew what I was really like, what I had really done. I know I should tell you all the things you deserve to know, but I can't bring myself to do it." His grip was almost painful now. "What if you leave and never come back?"

Emma blinked. Once again she was feeling lost amid the conversation, uncertain of how she was supposed to respond. "I won't go anywhere," she promised, "not as long as you want me here – and you don't have to tell me anything, Severus. I know you."

"I've done things," he hissed. "Said things—"

"Do you regret them?" she demanded softly.

"Of course! I've tried to hard to make amends but it never seems to be enough." He sounded half wild as he desperately tried to make her understand whatever it was he was telling her. Even in the darkness, she could see the flash of the whites of his eyes, and for a moment, she felt real fear. Then, just as swiftly as the storm had ended, the fight seemed to go out of him. "You would hate me," he finished quietly.

Emma shifted closer to him, pulled her hand free of his death grip and wrapped her arm around his shoulder, pulling him against her in a fierce hug. He didn't push her away, but then he didn't move to hold her either. Undeterred, she began to speak, pitching her voice to be as soothing as possible.

"You forget, Severus, I've met your parents. I know you were in Slytherin. You called me a filthy Muggle the first time we met," she recalled, smiling at the memory, the sullen boy-Severus lounging against the doorframe, his face full of contempt. The sullen boy who had then helped her to drink when he realised she couldn't hold the glass steady herself. Who had been the one to discover that she was a witch. "None of that's important; what matters is that you did your best to help me even though you wanted nothing more than to be rid of me."

She reached up then, finally allowing herself to brush his hair back from his face, the superfine strands slipping through her fingers. It was even softer than she had imagined. "You didn't know me either – I could have been anything, anyone. I still could be for that matter. I can't promise that there's nothing that you could say that wouldn't shock me." After all, something had caused him to employ Occlumency to such a fearsome degree. Something had caused the change in him from sullen boy to dangerous young man – and he was dangerous. She hadn't understood at first what the change in him had been, not when she felt so secure with her hand tucked in his, but something had honed him into a very hard blade with a keen and deadly edge. She wasn't at all sure she wanted to know what it was.

She continued to toy with his hair, choosing her words just as deliberately as he had. "I'm sure you could scare me if you wanted to," she admitted. "But so long as you try to make amends for whatever it is that you've done, I don't think there's anything I couldn't forgive you for."

In the silence that followed, Emma could tell he was weighing her words carefully. Part of her dreaded that he was about to tell her something truly awful. She hadn't lied; she was certain that she would forgive him anything if she thought he needed her to, but the coward in her would really rather remain in ignorance. Still, if he needed to tell her something, she would listen to every word.

"My father died of lung cancer three years ago."

It hadn't been what she had expected to hear, but she nodded her head for him to continue. Although he couldn't see her clearly in the darkness, he must have correctly interpreted her movement against him as he took a deep breath and continued.

"I was away at the time," he explained. "Studying for my Mastery. I knew he was sick, but I didn't visit. I've always hated Muggle hospitals ever since I was little, and I hated my father for even longer. I think I was glad that he was ill, glad that he was suffering from such a despicable Muggle ailment – the Emperor of Maladies, they call it. It was one more way that I could never be like him. All the things that defined him were an anathema to me. He was a Muggle, he had a physical job and mistrusted anyone more skilled or educated that himself. I'm a wizard, an academic; my education defines me.

"Perhaps I could have helped him," he shrugged. "Magical potions always yield unpredictable results for Muggles, and I doubt he would have taken them willingly anyway, but I never even tried. He was probably sickening when you met him, but the fool never went to the doctor if he could help it. I suppose that's one way in which we are similar," he mused. "In the end he worsened rapidly. It's not a dignified death, I'm told."

Emma wondered if she had ever heard him speak at such length before. She was fascinated, despite herself. It was extraordinary to be allowed a glimpse into the life of such a private person, even if his measured tone betrayed no emotion other than self reproach.

"I attended the funeral," he continued. "I went more for my mother's sake than his. I had hoped that his death would free her from the life their marriage had forced her to live. She was free to be a witch again, to leave this dreary place. I was shocked when I saw her." He stopped, seeming to have to search for the words to continue. "You have to understand, there was never any tenderness between my parents. They never spoke gently to each other; I never had the embarrassment of catching them kissing or holding hands. Perhaps it was there when I was younger, I don't remember. We seemed little more than an inconvenience to him, and my mother certainly didn't spare him any kindness in return. You must have heard them yourself." Of course, he had probably hoped she had still been unconscious when he had uttered that first, scathing insult. He must know she had been aware of the shouted argument drifting up from downstairs. "I thought she would be glad like I was. I had planned to move her somewhere close to Hogsmede, to let her rejoin the magical community, supplement my father's pension with my salary so that she might live how she used to before she married.

"When I arrived, she was being supported by a couple of the neighbours. They practically had to carry her from the graveside. She seemed completely undone by her grief. I turned and left. It – it disgusted me," he whispered. "After then it was as if she just gave up. I felt like she'd betrayed me all over again, chosen his side over mine, even after he was gone. I only came home occasionally, and each time I did it was as if she had shrunk in on herself. Then she died. And all I could feel was relief. I was glad that she was gone, glad that both of them were dead."

His story ended as abruptly as it had begun, but he was breathing as if he had just run a race, his body rigid beside her. She searched frantically for something to say, something that could make it better. But really, what could she say? It was a horribly sad story, but as far as she could tell there was no blame in it. Families often drifted apart, and stress and illness rarely brought out the best in people.

She wondered how he would look in that moment if she was to summon a light. Would the terrible vulnerability she had heard in his voice show on his face? Or would it be the impassive mask she had only just begun to realise was part of his armour?

She was desperately out of her depth. He needed something from her, that was clear, but she was at a loss to explain what it might be.

"Oh, Severus," she breathed, wrapping her arms around him once again. "Come here." Once again he made no move towards her but she pulled him closer anyway, undeterred. "Come here," she repeated firmly, and finally he allowed himself to sink into her embrace, burying his face in her hair as she held him close. His arms tightened around her as she murmured his name.

He didn't cry, didn't speak; he just held her tightly as his breathing began to calm.

"You're still my Severus," she reminded him. A strange shiver ran through him at her words but his grip loosened slightly, his hand dropping to her waist, his breathing now soft against her ear.

How long they lay like that she could not tell, but as the silence grew between them it became impossible to ignore the fact that she was still lying in his arms. As if conscious of her thoughts, he drew back slightly to look at her. His face was still lost in the shadows, and she wondered if he could see her at all.

She knew then with sudden clarity that he was going to kiss her.

She ought to speak, she realised, she ought to think of a way to deflect him without making it seem like she was rejecting him. Kissing him would be a mistake. They had both been drinking, and he was obviously not thinking clearly; he had displayed more violent emotion in the last few minutes than he ever had before. His reserved aloofness had vanished, leaving an almost feverish earnestness in its place.

Such a wealth of feeling, now all of it focussed on her. It was dizzying. It was exciting.

Her mouth was dry, and she knew then that even if she could think of a gentle way to push him away that she honestly did not want to.

She had been here before, she realised. That feeling of knowing that what was about to happen would complicate everything, but wanting it all the same. She wondered how she had acted that previous – now forgotten – time; if she had been sensible and mature or if she had chosen to accept the risk and with it this delicious, coiling feeling of nervous excitement.

By then was too late; she was already beyond the point of being able to decide rationally. Aware that this might be a terribly bad idea, she tilted her head back slightly in silent encouragement.

She lay very still, scarcely daring to breathe in case she somehow broke the strange bubble of silence that held them.

Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his lips to meet hers.

His kisses were soft and hesitant, his lips barely whispering against hers. His hands rested only lightly on her now, as if giving her every opportunity to flee. Even now, she realised, he expected her to push him away. With that thought, something seemed to melt inside of her, and she tilted her head further, pressing her lips firmly against his. She let her eyes drift shut and surrendered herself completely to the sensation of his mouth against hers.

A small sound escaped his throat, a tiny little growl of surprise or triumph or maybe both, and suddenly he was kissing her ardently, his long fingers stroking her face and sinking into her hair, pulling her closer still. Emma opened her mouth slightly, eager to deepen the kiss. He tasted like whisky and longing, and her stomach dipped almost uncomfortably as his tongue brushed against hers.

She let his weight push her down against the mattress gladly and shifted her legs slightly to accommodate him in the cradle of her hips. Both her hands flew up to hold his face, her fingers sliding against the sharp angles of his jaw and the delicate curve of his ears.

Nothing mattered – nothing in the world – except this feeling of dizzying closeness. For one fragile moment, Emma felt as if she was on the edge of understanding every strange and terrifying thing that had happened to her since arriving in this shifting, changing world. She strained against him, pushing herself against him until there was nothing between them but the thin layers of their clothing, yet even that seemed too much. She felt as though everything would become clear if she could just get that tiny bit closer.

Her ragged breathing matched his own, but she couldn't find it in herself to be the least bit embarrassed.

His hands began to roam across her skin, sliding over her clothes as he explored the shape of her beneath him. She could only welcome the sensation, twisting against him, her own hands dropping to trace the musculature of his arms beneath his shirt and the hard planes of his chest.

It was only when his clever fingers began to fumble with the buttons of the trousers that the reality of their actions suddenly crashed down upon her, and she froze under his touch. He snatched his hand away immediately, breaking the kiss.

And, just like that, the moment was gone.

"I'm sorry," Emma blurted instantly as he began to extricate himself from her grasp.

"My apologies," he countered politely. "I misread the situation."

"No," she breathed, struggling to catch her breath. "I just — I wasn't expecting—"

"You don't need to explain," he interrupted: his measured tone in stark contrast with his throaty breathes from just a few moments before. Freeing himself from the blanket, he stood and straightened the cuffs of his shirt. "I will let you rest in peace."

Completely thrown by the sudden change in him, Emma grabbed her wand from the little bedside table. "Lumos."

He made no effort to shield his eyes from the sudden light, and she was appalled to realise they were completely cold, his face blank. It wasn't that he was looking at her coldly; he didn't seem to be looking at her with emotion of any sort, so different from the vital young man she had spent the evening with. It was as if he were completely empty. It reminded her so forcibly of the unresponsive, unseeing stare she had seen in that Hogwarts office that she shuddered. "Please don't do this," she whispered.

"I'm sorry if shocked you," his tone was coldly polite and undeniably distant. "I should have realised my attentions weren't welcome. I'll go."

"Severus," she pleaded but his face remained impassive. "Talk to me, Severus – please, don't leave it like this!"

"You don't have to feel concerned about seeing me again if that is what you are worried about. I won't call you again."

"Call me again?" she echoed faintly.

"Haven't you noticed the pattern?"

"What pattern? Severus, wait!" She scrambled after him, but he was already gone from the room, the light of his wand already disappearing down the narrow staircase. She hurried after him, knowing that if he was to leave the house before she reached him, there was a strong chance he would Apparate away, and she would have lost all chance of reasoning with him.

If only he wouldn't hide away from her! Part of her was angry with him for overreacting so disproportionately to her unintentional slight. But even as she raged against him, she knew that the damage had been done by her. She had known full well the state he had been in, how vulnerable he had made himself by telling her about his parents. It had been an incredible show of trust on his part, and it had probably been just as daunting to him to risk kissing her. She had been the one to deepen the kiss; she had been the one to pull him closer. She had known he wasn't reacting sensibly anymore, but she had encouraged him anyway. He was probably horridly confused right now and certain that she had rejected him.

She could feel the old cloak dragging behind her like tin cans behind a wedding car as she darted through the door and started down the stairs. With any luck, she could catch him and not let him go until he had calmed down enough to listen to her. Though God only knew what she could say to make things right.

"Severus, wait!" she called, taking the steps two at a time. She was so close!

She understood what the resistance was the moment she felt it – the cloak and her shoes still caught in the doorway, the thin rope of enchanted hair wound securely round her ankle like the tether on a surfboard. At a less precarious moment, she might have felt pride in her impromptu spellwork when her forward momentum did not snap the thread. As it was, she was too busy trying to stop herself from falling.