Chapter Twenty-Six
Loneliness wasn't such a terrible cost, not really. Not for his life. Not for this freedom of sorts.
An empty house on an empty street. For the most part, it was peaceful. Occasionally, the silence might become too oppressive, the dusty air of the decaying house suddenly too thin to breathe but, mostly, he was content.
For months now there had been no contact with the wizarding world. When he had first arrived back at his childhood home, he had spent his little remaining strength hastily warding the house against visitors and hiding or destroying any possessions that might have further incriminated him. Then and only then did he allow himself to collapse. When he had finally awoken he had dragged himself from room to room, strengthening and overlaying each ward with more enchantments before doctoring himself with the meagre supply of potions he had been able to smuggle out of the school during his final months as headmaster.
Blood loss had been the biggest concern. The wound on his neck had closed by the time the burning in his forearm had wrenched him from unconsciousness, but the untended bleeding had left him weak and disorientated. Staggering out into the pink dawn light, he had Apparated clumsily, splinching himself from thigh to knee. By some miracle, the wound had missed the major blood vessels, but the additional bleeding had slowed his recovery painfully.
He had been weak for days. Every morning he awoke expecting the Aurors to arrive. Every night he placed fresh wards around the house until it almost glowed in the darkened street. Once he was strong enough, he had snuck down the street under a Disillusionment Charm to place further spells around his home, charms that would warn him the moment someone came close to his property.
By the end of the first week, he had been able to sleep for more than a handful of hours at a time. He still jolted awake at the slightest sound, but he allowed himself to relax by just a fraction. He readied himself to flee at a moment's notice, checking and double-checking his escape routes, making careful plan after plan for his flight.
By the end of the second week, hunger and the need to leave Spinner's End, if only for a few hours, drove him out into the world. He Apparated to a town on the outskirts of Liverpool, just in case he was spotted, and had braved the clamour of a Muggle supermarket, stocking up on as much food as would fit inside the trolley. The woman at the till had barely looked at him as she scanned his purchases and didn't even bat an eyelid when he handed over the hundred and seventy-odd pounds in used notes. For one mad moment he wondered if he had forgotten to fully cancel the Disillusionment Charm he had taken to wearing each time he left the house. The moment ended when the woman returned his change, her eyes flicking contemptuously over his long, ill-kempt hair as she thanked him, the words tripping from her with bored detachment as she dismissed him.
It had taken him a full ten minutes before he was calm enough to Disapparate. Rather than messing with Lightening or Shrinking Charms, he had simply taken the entire trolley with him, Apparating directly through his wards into the little backyard. He carefully extended the shelf life of every item he had bought before stowing each item away. By the time he had finished, he'd found he wasn't as hungry as he had believed, and had slunk upstairs to rest.
-x-
The first time his wards had been tripped, he had been dozing in the old armchair, his chin resting heavily against his chest. Adrenalin had coursed through his system as he readied himself for whatever was coming, peering out through the gap in the dusty curtains to the gloomy street beyond.
The gang of laughing Muggle boys had simply strolled past, taking a short cut perhaps, or looking for whatever sport young men find amongst derelict properties. He watched until they disappeared from view, the whole while expecting the sound of breaking glass or the smell of fire.
Finally, after an hour at the window, he allowed himself to sit back down.
No one was coming.
It had been three weeks since he had abandoned his post as Headmaster of Hogwarts to die in a tumbledown building on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Every day he had expected and dreaded the arrival of some representative of the wizarding world, either to bring him in for questioning and sentencing or, as he dreamed in his more maudlin moments, to thank him for the part he had played in the war. It was a fool's hope; the true nature of his actions during the war were known only by Dumbledore and Harry Potter, both deceased.
Perhaps Potter would have left his memories in the Pensieve before choosing to face his death and finally allowing the Dark - allowing Riddle - to be destroyed. His stomach clenched each time he thought about what he must have allowed the boy to see. It had all been so confused. The idea that others might have access to those memories, even if it could mean some leniency towards him, made him feel sick. The idea that she might have-
He pushed the thought away. Even if his memories had been viewed by the entire readership of the Prophet it hadn't changed the fact that not one person had thought to try and find him.
He had been forgotten.
-x-
Time and silence undermined his best efforts not to dwell upon his situation. He found himself thinking constantly about the world he had left behind. The pain that had roused him in the Shack had been enough to convince him that Tom Riddle's unnatural life had finally come to a close. He had no idea of the true cost of the war.
It would have been a simple thing, perhaps, to venture out into the world in search of information. Simple, had he not feared the answers he might find.
When the architects had arrived he realised that even this time of quiet solitude would not be allowed to continue long. Impenetrable wards were no longer practical and he had dropped them one by one. Soon, all that was left was the early warning should someone stray onto his street.
He revised his plans, making new strategies for when the time came to leave. He put off packing away his meagre possessions and watched serenely as the landscape around him began to change.
-x-
The first time she had torn through his house in search of him, it had been almost impossible to stand and hide in silence, scarcely daring to breathe lest the glimmer of the spell give him away.
He had thrown up the usual enchantments the moment he had sensed her presence, certain that she would be just another architect or town planner. Part of him had hoped that the tug on his wards might have been caused by the final arrival of the large crane that had been edging ever closer to his old street as the demolition crew moved forward. The brief flicker of magic before his door had burst open had set his heart hammering in his chest, and he had watched, dry-mouthed, as Emma had stumbled across the threshold.
He had frozen, unable to do anything but stand and stare as her frightened eyes had taken in the derelict nature of his home. He felt an odd embarrassment that she should see it in such a state, and strange irritation that she had not sensed the careful layer of magic that gave it that appearance. Mostly, however, he was aware of just how much he had longed to see her.
It had been impossible, in the long months in which he had hidden away in his childhood home, having crawled away from his own death unnoticed and apparently unmourned, not to wonder where she was. She had promised him - promised - that she would come back to this little house to find him the moment she was free from the spell, just as he had promised her that he would stay and wait for her. As the weeks had turned into months, his mind had conjured reason after reason for her continued absence. The worst was that the untested, dangerous spell had caused her to dissipate, as it had so many others before her. That was the worst fear, but oddly it was not the idea that kept him awake at night, that had prevented him from seeking her out, himself.
There were many good reasons for not trying to find her once his strength had returned. He had no idea where she lived, for a start. Searching for her would have meant exposing himself to the wizarding world, and he still had no idea what his reception was likely to be. The shock of meeting a man she believed she had seen die would have been awful for her. Seeing her before the spell had been attempted might mean that she would never enter its coils at all. It might mean his death.
Worse, it might mean all those memories of her would never have been formed.
Those were simply excuses, though. Mostly, he was afraid of how she would feel towards him once her memories had been restored. Her feelings towards him when she was caught in the spell would not survive long once she remembered who he truly was. He wasn't sure he could bear her hatred.
He had thought that perhaps those brief hours they had spent together when he had been Headmaster had been the spell allowing him just a few moments more with her once her reason for casting the spell had been fulfilled. Learning that it had been about him all along had been what had sustained him ever since. He could only hope that whatever had prompted her to seek justice on his behalf would still be strong enough to let her forgive him, given time.
He was under no illusion that Hermione Granger had loved him. She might have felt pity for him, had she viewed his memories. Maybe Potter had revealed his true allegiance to her before heading out to meet his destiny. Perhaps Potter had somehow survived - for why else would she spend her efforts seeking justice for Professor Snape, instead? No, he was a project for her, a cause to be championed. She had wanted justice for him, nothing more.
No, this brief glimpse of Emma was the spell's final gift to him. He knew that if he were to remove his glamour, she would fly straight to his side. She would smile that smile she had always saved for him, a curious mixture of joy, relief and love.
He yearned for that look. He longed for the suddenness with which she would cross the room to dash into his arms. She would hold him; he knew that, maybe even dare to kiss him. The last living touch he had received had been from the snake. It made his throat ache as he realised how much he had missed the way she had always reached for him, the way her fingers seemed made to twine with his.
Yet something held him still.
He watched in silence as she darted through to the kitchen before returning to scramble at the books until she found the catch to the door for the stairs. He listened to her footsteps, the old boards creaking as she stumbled from room to room.
He wondered how she might react to seeing his old bedroom. He had taken savage satisfaction in systematically dismantling and destroying the magically enlarged bed they had only shared twice, his anger and embarrassment at her rejection causing him to gut the little room. His rage had lasted barely as long as the summer storm that had preceded it, but by then the damage had been done. He had closed the door to the little room and moved into his parents' old room, refusing to regret his actions. He'd had cause to be grateful when, some twenty years later, Wormtail had been sent to shadow him. Having the disgusting little man inhabit the room was made bearable by the fact that no trace of Emma remained for him to defile with his touch.
By the time she returned downstairs, she was sobbing, her shoulders heaving as she held onto the wall for support. It was the display of grief he had been waiting for, yet knowing he was the cause filled him with regret.
By the time he finally found his voice she had already begun to flicker.
-x-
He had felt the approach in enough time to throw the hasty glamour over the house, hiding any signs of recent habitation. There had been more and more visits to the street recently, areas being cordoned off, and lorries backing noisily down the too-narrow street.
The knock at the door surprised him. He had thought he had been circumspect enough to remain unseen but there was always the chance the occasional glimpse of light through the curtains would have been enough to give him away. The flash of magic that followed caused him to react just as before, freezing like a rabbit startled by a fox, pulling his glamour around him like a cloak.
Last time, the grubby jeans and the creased top had been enough to convince him she was still caught in her time loop. But now, now she was dressed in silk and velvet, her hair elegantly twisted back. She had returned.
Her memory had returned too, no doubt.
Memories of a cruel, demanding teacher; memories of a Death Eater; memories of a murderer and a traitor. Memories of a man who had stood in a position of authority and yet still used her memory-loss to bed her. Who had willingly slept with a student when she hadn't known who he was. Who she was. Who had listened to her naive declarations of love.
He willed himself to utter stillness.
There was no frenzied search this time. She simply sank down onto the battered sofa, tears already spilling down her cheeks.
"How could you?" she asked the silent room. "Why would you?" She drew her knees up to her chest, lowered her head and began to cry.
There it was. The response he had dreaded, but had known all along was his due.
He forced himself to stand there and listen to each quiet sob as her heart seemed to break. He accepted the stab of pain each muffled cry brought to his own chest, accepted it as his due.
This was his last act of penance.
His dues to the wizarding world had been paid in sweat and blood. The debt he owed this sobbing slip of a girl still burdened his soul. Perhaps watching silently as she realised the depths of his betrayal, letting each and every accusation fall undefended, would go some small way to mitigate the damage he had done.
It was cruel, he knew, to allow her to believe she had failed. Hermione Granger had not been a girl who easily accepted defeat, but he could not bring himself to move. Better she put the whole sorry affair behind her and move on with the rest of her life. She was so very young; she would recover. It was so very bitter-sweet to know that she was alive and well, but that Emma was irrevocably lost to him. There had been so little hope that she might have been able to forgive him, to still think of him as warmly as before, but it had kept him waiting in the shell of his old home, just in case.
He was free now. He would leave, perhaps leave the country, try and escape the past that still held him firmly in its grasp. Emma was gone; he could accept that now.
She looked like Emma though, so different from the school girl who had tended to Potter like an acolyte. The hardship of the war and the months spent in hiding had robbed her face of its childish roundness and left a graceful young woman behind. Despite her reliance on him when she was caught in the spell, and despite her obvious fragility now, there was a steeliness to her, a hidden strength belying each tear. Yes, she would survive their strange encounters, even if he would not. She would survive and she would flourish.
He let himself carefully catalogue what little he could observe of her from his position by the fireplace. The tumble of curls swept back from her face, her cheekbones slightly more pronounced than he remembered, her knuckles whitening as she tightened her grip on her wand.
He felt a fleeting panic for her safety as she raised her wand before she lifted her eyes to the room and spoke once more, this time her voice clear and carrying.
"How could you let me believe you were dead?"
The wand dipped as she incanted the spell through his dreary house.
"Finite Omnia Incantatum!"
The worst traces of disuse fell from his home. It was still a neglected, shabby mess, but now his footprints in the dust were clearly visible, as were the dirty cups that littered the table.
In the same breath his Disillusionment Charm flickered, then failed.
Her reddened eyes found his immediately, her wand rising to point unerringly at his chest.