The Match and the Spark

14. The Light in the Dark

Truth be told, he'd found himself to be at a peculiar loss that week. It wasn't that he missed Granger, or missed traipsing about some God-forsaken Scottish island; he just felt the loss of occupation. For the first time in nearly eight months, he'd had a taste of it, and he was beginning to think it might have done him some good. Actually, he knew it had, and it did not come as a surprise. He wasn't stupid—it was basic common sense that occupying one's mind should help keep the misery at bay. He fully recognised this, but he had grown lazy—had not sought to continue this practice of being busy following the conclusion of Selwyn's mysterious disappearance.

He told himself the reasons for which were simply that he just didn't have anything to do. He would not brew potions just to see them sit inert on a dusty shelf. The thought of going outside did not make his gut clench with dread in quite the same way as it had before, but there were still places he wished to avoid. And once they were deducted from the equation, there was nowhere else. And yet, he had to wonder if it was not more that he did miss wallowing in his own guilt—like it was a disservice to not think on it at least once a day.

But he had not relapsed quite so much back into tiring lethargy—he was trying harder to stave off the darkness in his mind that brought with it all the memories and feelings that he, it was true, hated and… loved.

He had turned to reading. There was an element of pointlessness in it, as he had read every single book in his house at least once before. Certain pitfalls were also not quite to be avoided, either. There were always books that sparked certain memories or held certain connotations. Books Albus had given him; books Minerva had given him. Books his mother had passed down to him. Books he had smuggled out to share with Lily everything she'd wished to know about magic; books they'd both studied from at Hogwarts. And yes, somewhere, under lock and key in the attic, were books the Dark Lord had given him. In that respect, it was rather a case of his passion for books triumphing over his conscience that he still retained them.

He wasn't picky about his topic of reading. His selection process was really, simply, luck of the draw. And if he sometimes stared at the same page of a book for an unlimited amount of time, or read a whole chapter and by the end forget what it was about, well, he couldn't help it.

Yet, here was Granger, again, disrupting his tenuously established routine, clearly unable to let matters rest, and apparently, he was now a fixture in those matters. She was sitting in a chair, staring glumly at that photograph, of which he had no idea how she'd obtained. She was convinced it proved Abott was actually a relation of Selwyn's, but he'd had to point out to her that it was possible Selwyn had stolen Abbott's identity, and had hoodwinked the Muggles in Blackwaterfoot into believing it.

She looked up from the photo. 'But… Ah, I see. I got this photograph from the postmaster; I was going to say how would Selwyn have known to switch these, but we don't know when this was taken. This could be a photo of Selwyn pretending to be Abbott. I get it.' She put a hand over her face and sighed at length.

Severus nodded. 'It could have been taken after the intrigue was complete.' The village was small, and Abbott a recluse—it would not be impossible for Selwyn to fool people into believing he was the man Josiah Abbott.

Her brow furrowed again. 'I agree that it is possible that Selwyn has assumed Abbott's identity, but don't you agree that it could also be possible that this is not Horatio Selwyn?'

She had a point. He took the photo off her and resolved to study it more closely than he had previously, speaking out his observations aloud. 'This man, Abbott we'll continue to call him, has a beard—Selwyn did not have one when he disappeared, but he could have grown one in the meantime. The man on the railway line had a beard very like this.' He looked at the hair; grey, as he remembered it, but it was possible the style was different. And the eyes were a familiar colour, but was it his imagination or were they less hard looking?

He had an idea. He Summoned his coat and rummaged through the pockets for a moment, picking out a small object. He enlarged it to its original size.

'What's that?' Granger enquired, getting to her feet.

He showed her. 'A photo of Selwyn—'

'Did you take that from his house?'

There was a faint smile on her face that he endeavoured greatly to ignore. Severus eyed the photo of Selwyn shaking hands with the Minister and aimed his voice to the very depth of nonchalance. 'I thought it might be useful, at some point.'

Her smile was perilously close to a smirk now. 'Ah, you see, I clearly recall you saying you did not want to be involved, and yet—'

'Miss Granger, may we get back to the point?'

She raised her hands in a sign of relenting. Severus glared at her before holding up the pictures side-by-side. How dare she question his motives!

'Even with the beard, they look very similar, indeed.'

'But the beard is also convenient, isn't it? On Abbott, here, it is thick and masks any possible differences around the jaw or mouth or whatever, which could have cast doubt on who the body on the line was. In my opinion, it also fits in with the image of a man on the run. You were not surprised to see it on the body on the railway?'

'No,' Severus admitted, a tad reluctantly. Could he have been wrong? Even with the beard, it had looked like Selwyn, just as this photograph did.

She sat down again and he found himself following suit, frantically trying to recall every piece of detail of that scene on the railway. 'There was a lot of blood… it's possible I was mistaken.' Though, they would have cleaned the body up before Mortimer had identified him.

'Let us think for a moment,' said Granger, in what Severus had learnt was her 'practical' voice. 'It is possible that Arthur Selwyn is not dead.'

She was looking at him as if she expected him to elaborate.

He nodded. 'If Abbott is Arthur Selwyn, then he is obviously a Squib. That the first-born son, the heir, was a Squib, would have been considered a disaster to Selwyn's father particularly. I don't think it's exaggerating to say Arthur would have been as good as useless to his father. So…'

He watched her face whiten. She, certainly, had never known any discord with her parents, he could tell.

'But what about his mother, Eliza, surely…?'

'From what we have learnt of her character, I would infer that she might have resisted such thinking, but she may have had no choice in the matter.'

'Would they have known he was a Squib at such an early age, though? I was under the impression that there was no way to tell.'

Severus paused to think. It was a pertinent question—there was no sure-fire way of determining magical ability in children. 'Purebloods often expect to see some sign of magic at an early age—it reinforces their sense of magical superiority, but Arthur Selwyn was reported to have caught Dragon Pox—'

'I was told Abbott had an illness as a baby! The effects of which stayed with him into adulthood,' she interrupted hurriedly.

Another possible connection, then, in favour of Abbott being Arthur Selwyn. 'Well… It is possible that illness at an early age, or a birth defect, can affect the development of a child's magic, much as it might affect the development of any function in the body.'

'Perhaps they did not want to take their chances, or perhaps they knew he would grow to be a Squib, and a child not in full health, in some way… But that's awful.' Her expression was full of distaste.

He was quite sure the Selwyn's were not the only family to have taken such action to hide a family 'shame'. Back when Purebloods were in the majority, it had probably been commonplace. 'My mother was disowned by her family for marring a Muggle.'

He shrugged his shoulders minutely. 'It happens.'

She seemed to freeze, and he looked uncomfortably into the fireplace, unsure what it was that had compelled him to say such a thing to her. He sought to draw attention from it.

'In effect, it would not have been impossible for them to fabricate a certificate of death. No one would have doubted the child's supposed suffering of Dragon Pox—no one would have dared go near for fear of contracting the disease. The burial would have been private—no one would know the coffin was empty.'

'And, instead, they sent the child to live with Eliza Mortimer's old friend… Oh! Do you recall Mortimer commented that did not immediately hear of Josiah's birth? Merlin, it all fits!'

Her eyes sparkled with triumph, and while he was beginning to think she had got it right, he found it hard to forget caution.

'How would Selwyn have found out the truth about his brother, when all efforts would have been to conceal it?' Her exultant expression faded slightly. 'But I suppose if he had found it out, it makes sense he would go to him. He probably spun a tale to poor Abbott, who probably knew nothing of magic or of his past.'

He was vaguely alarmed to suddenly see a sheen of tears form in her eyes, and she raised one her hands to press to her mouth. 'Oh God,' she let out in a rather strangled whisper. 'Selwyn actually led his own brother to his death…'

And that was the difference between the two of them, he realised. She was obviously disturbed by such behaviour, and he fully recognised that it was despicable behaviour, but he wasn't surprised by it, not at all. He wondered if he might be ashamed that he was not as shocked as she, for he found he could not quite look at her.

'The Muggles didn't get lucky—I bet Selwyn made sure his brother was seen by them, and now the case is closed, he can disappear into obscurity forever more.'

It sounded plausible. In fact, it sounded more than plausible—it sounded cunning enough for Selwyn to have come up with. And the more he looked at the photo she'd brought, which at first glance he'd automatically dismissed as Selwyn himself, the more he found he doubted it. He was beginning to see that there might be some differences between the two photographs they had, and she was right, the beard would hide certain things—the shape of the mouth, and so on. With regard to personal pride, Severus inwardly grimaced at the fact that he had fallen for Selwyn's ruse. It left an element of distaste in his mouth.

'Poor Abbott… Arthur…' she muttered to herself.

So it appeared things were not quite at a close. Still, they were in a good position. As far as he could tell, the Ministry and the Muggles were convinced Selwyn was done and dusted.

'Miss Granger, this is still all conjecture on our part…'

She straightened her posture and placed her hands flat on her knees. 'I feel that we must work from the hypothesis that Abbott and Horatio Selwyn are not one and the same. After all, don't you think it is uncharacteristically careless of Selwyn to have let himself get spotted at his home when he knew it was being watched?'

Severus nodded, only a bit reluctantly.

'So, the Abbott's would have had to have registered Arthur Selwyn as Josiah Abbott. How did they account for the fact that they suddenly had a three year old child? I would be interested in seeing if there is a record of them officially adopting him—I suppose the Selwyn's would have helped fabricate the paperwork.'

'Remember, Mortimer mentioned that Eliza often wrote and visited the Abbotts. If we could find any correspondence from that time, it could help. Though, admittedly, I can't see Selwyn leaving much evidence about, unless he did not know it existed in the first place.'

She made a noise of agreement. He noticed that there was a faint gleam of excitement evident in her eyes, and he was not sure how he felt about it. It was apparent from her presence in his house that she expected his co-operation. He did not intend to withhold it, but he couldn't help but feel irked by her presumptuousness. He wasn't convinced the effort on his part was worth it. What was in it for him, really?

'I had the Head of the Auror Office here, the other day,' he announced crisply.

She was momentarily startled. 'Oh dear; yes, I had wondered, because I had a little chat with them, as well.'

'I think they believe it is I who has encouraged you in all this…' And it annoyed him.

'I'm sorry about that,' she said quickly. 'Did they… Well, they didn't threaten you in any way?'

'Let us say they made it clear that it would be in my own interests to let matters… lie…'

He knew the Ministry were concerned that he was rather more interested in helping Selwyn, than Weasley. The idea was laughable. Selwyn would like as much kill him on sight if they crossed paths.

But it was as if he wanted to impress upon her the trouble she had put him to, when, really, he could not give two hoots about the Ministry. And yet, thanks were not what he wanted; in fact, just the thought of it made him uncomfortable. She looked suddenly bothered, and he found himself wanting to make light. He got to his feet, a vague scowl on his face. 'Anyway, the only thing to fear from the Ministry is their incompetence. The only thing we've ever been able to rely on them for is to fiddle while Rome burns.' He rested an elbow on the mantelpiece and touched his chin, thinking of how completely easy it had been for the Ministry to crumble to Voldemort. 'Who knows what they are up to now…' he muttered.

It would be a huge blow to the Ministry for them to prove that they'd got it completely wrong—had been completely fooled by Selwyn. He very well may not give two hoots about the establishment itself, but he did care about the Wizarding world. Even he, in his self-imposed exile, could see that the last thing that was needed was a scandal to set back the tenuous calm that had settled on the Magical community.

'If our suppositions are proved correct,' he said, turning towards her, 'the consequences could be far-reaching.'

She bit her lip and nodded. 'I'm prepared to stay silent on the matter of the Muggles, if need be.'

She understood that it would be the interference of the Muggles coming out that would inflame matters the most. Severus was still unsure as to the depth of their involvement in matters of the Ministry.

'Very well—what do you have in mind to do next?'

He was not surprised to hear that she already knew exactly what she wanted to do next. Not one bit.

And so, some hours later, they were on the move again.

He'd had enough of Scotland over the years, Severus decided. There was no particular reason for it, it was just his automatic reaction to finding himself increasingly being dragged there by Granger. It was where they were now—yet again making the journey over to the Isle of Arran. Perhaps it was the reminder that Hogwarts was practically only up the road that made him frown every time he clapped eyes on barren Scottish peaks and rough churning waters. And even as the thought struck him, he was reminded that it was true—Hogwarts was really not so very far away, up in the Highlands. Arran would have been the perfect place for Selwyn to flee to.

In any case, they were headed back to Abbott's cottage to search for any sign that he was in actual fact a Selwyn. Photographs of him as a young man—any photographs, in fact; a birth certificate; an adoption certificate… Anything that could be conclusive, but he did not think either of them were highly optimistic in that respect. An adoption certificate might not prove Abbott was Arthur Selwyn per se—just that he was adopted. Plus, he was pretty certain Selwyn would have covered his tracks well, even going as far as to seize any official documentation that could be accused of being a fabrication.

He'd been informed they would try their luck and go and visit this 'Macpherson', to see exactly what he knew of Abbott's past.

Granger was unusually quiet, and he wondered if that might mean she was nervous or uneasy. He supposed she was worried that this line of discovery they were now following would also turn out to be a dead end. He had no doubt he was eternally pessimistic, but he did wonder if they would ever get anywhere.

The wards that the Aurors had put on the cottage were still in place, so they Apparated as far as they could, and then walked the rest of the way.

'There was no one here when I came here yesterday, but I suppose we should knock first, just in case.'

They walked up the path to the front door, and he stood by while Granger lifted the knocker. The sound echoed loudly for a moment, and then there was nothing. He gave a nod when she looked at him, and she took out her wand, aiming it at the lock, while he glanced towards the gate in case anyone should walk past.

They both flinched when a clear noise could be suddenly heard from within the house. Severus wrapped his hand around his wand and edged towards the nearest ground floor window. A net curtain hung across the glass, however, and he could not make anything out.

'Let's try around the back,' whispered Granger.

They moved slowly around the side of the house, and were about to round the corner to the back, when a piercing bang rang out causing them both to jump violently. Severus cursed loudly, while Granger let out a surprised squeak.

'Be careful where you step, Snape, Miss Granger, or I might get you this time.'

It was Oakshott, and he had fired an actual shot at them. Severus frantically tried to establish where Oakshott was, and then there was a noise above them. Severus spun round and aimed his wand upwards, a spell shooting immediately from its tip, but to his amazement, a Shielding spell flashed around Oakshott, and the spell ricocheted away.

Oakshott sat perched on the windowsill of an upstairs window, the window wide open, and the gun he held aimed downwards at them. 'Don't do that again, eh?'

'What do you want?' Granger asked, a note of trepidation audible in her voice.

'I want you two to go away from here and never return. I want you to forget that anything has ever gone on here. I want you to forget about me; I want you to forget about Abbott, and I want you to forget about Selwyn.'

The detective's expression was blank, and to Severus' mind, rather familiar.

'Otherwise?'

'Otherwise,' said Oakshott slowly, 'there will be consequences delivered upon you that I am sure you would rather avoid, if you get my drift. Now, it's up to you, but you have about ten seconds to get out of here.' He smiled wolfishly.

Severus wanted to curse him again, and he was about to when Granger grasped his arm. 'Let's go,' she said urgently, her tone brooking no argument.

Severus grit his teeth, grabbing her arm, and they took off. Oakshott laughed behind them as they headed for the nearest point beyond the wards from which they could Apparate. A shot ran out and Severus flinched, as if expecting to be struck. They moved beyond Oakshott's range, around the back of the cottage, but just when they thought they'd lost him, he appeared at a different window.

'Oh, just a little parting shot, Snape!'

And as they were reaching the edge of the garden, another shot rang out, but this time Severus felt a hot sear of pain across his upper arm. He yelped, feeling his legs weaken with shock and he stumbled to the ground.

Dimly he heard Granger cry out, 'Sir!'

He blinked away the haze at the edge of his mind and realised that he was not mortally wounded. 'It's my… I'm… We must continue.'

He brought his injured arm close to his body and found his other being seized by his companion. She hauled him to his feet, but Merlin, his legs felt like jelly. He was reminded, suddenly, of when he'd collapsed from Nagini's bite, and his stomach clenched painfully.

Granger dragged him along the remaining distance until they were safe to Apparate. 'Bastard!' she hissed, looking back towards the house, flinging a spell towards it. Then they were both gone.

She Apparated them into a room, of which the main furnishing was a bed. He sank onto it gratefully and leant his head forward onto his hand, focused only on breathing. He was aware of Granger next to him, also breathing loudly, and he thought she'd probably overstretched herself Apparating again.

'Sir, we need to—'

He shook his head. 'Give me a minute.'

All the strength from his body had fled. But the shock of the shot hitting him was nothing compared to visions of that snake biting its fangs into his neck. He swallowed against the sickness in his throat. More than his strength had bled out of his body that night. He lifted a hand and wiped at his brow, which had begun to perspire.

'Sir.' Her voice was at his side again, and he reluctantly looked at her.

'There's blood all over your arm, sir. You should go to hospital.'

The feel of the warmth trickling down his arm brought him back to himself. 'No… it is but a flesh wound—the bullet only grazed me.'

'It's more than that, but I will tend to it, if you like?'

What else was there? 'Fine, as long as you know what you are doing.'

'I will return in a moment.'

She disappeared from the room, and in a bid to ignore the steady throb of his wound, he looked around his surroundings. He was uncomfortably aware that it was a bedroom, not especially big, and rather dimly lit by one small lamp in the corner.

'Where are we?' he demanded, when she returned.

She placed a bag of cotton wool, and a bottle, onto the bed, and then turned to conjure a bowl of water. 'My house—or my parents' house, to be precise. I thought it best to come here as no one, including Oakshott, knows where it is. At least, I hope he doesn't.' She placed a Locking and Silencing charm on the room. 'I think it's best my parents do not know we are here.'

Understatement of the day, certainly.

'They are not fully aware… Well, yes, best to keep quiet,' she bit her lip ruefully.

He lifted his coat away from his shoulders with a wince and pulled his injured arm out of the sleeve. She approached him with her wand in hand.

'Um…' She hovered over his upper arm, as if deciding how best to get to it, and he looked to the other side of the room, clenching his jaw, wishing he was anywhere but there.

In the end, she tore the arm of his jumper where it had split open, pulling it gently away from where it was sticking to his skin with blood. It was a good call—he was whipping off his clothes for no one. Momentarily, he felt wet cotton wool wiping away the mess on his arm. The wound pulsed at each touch and he curled one of his hands into a fist.

'What was Oakshott playing at?' she said with great disbelief. 'Do you think it is Selwyn's doing?'

'Unless we are missing something vital, I think it must be that Selwyn had Oakshott under the Imperius curse.'

'Was Selwyn there, do you think?'

His head throbbed with each question she asked. 'Miss Granger, I really don't know, but you surely saw the Shield charm, and unless Oakshott is wizard masquerading as a Muggle...'

She took the hint and remained quiet while she continued the cleansing of the wound. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her examine the bottle she'd brought, and he looked at her fully.

'What is that?' he questioned sharply.

'Antiseptic—Muggle, but works just as well…'

He took the bottle roughly off her and examined it. 'Full of chemicals, I see.' He handed it back to her. She said nothing.

A painful sting a few seconds later told him she'd applied it. He swallowed down a curse.

'All right, I'll close the wound now. It's fairly deep, but should heal well.'

His arm burned hotly as the flesh knit back together.

'I think it best that I bandage your arm for the time being, as the wound will still be healing and the skin will be tender…'

I've healed worse wounds than these! He wanted to snap at her, irritated by her tone that was pitched as if she were talking to someone who'd only just learnt to tie his own shoelaces. The only thing to be said for her was that she was efficient, and before long, she was collecting up her materials and retreating. The pressure of the bandage was not too tight, and satisfied, he set about mending the tear in his coat with his wand, before slipping back into it.

Evidently she saw the action, for she decided to speak out against it. 'I really think that we should remain here for the time being, you know. I will be back in a minute.'

Before he could reply, she'd opened the door and stepped quietly through it. He stood up and lifted his wand, intending to Disapparate away, but even as he did so, he could sense anti-Apparition wards on the house. What right had she to keep him here? He sat back down and endeavoured to ignore the throbbing in his arm.

The door opened and she came back inside. 'Here's the Prophet, if you want something to read, and I brought some of my father's whisky. I thought it might help for the… shock.'

He glared at her. The shock?

'Well, you were practically shot,' she said uncomfortably, turning to the dresser and pouring out a glass. She brought the glass round his side of the bed, and then she removed to a chair in the corner of the room.

Still, he glared at her, hardly able to grasp what she was about. She opened her own newspaper, but it wasn't long before she raised her eyes from it, able to sense his stare.

'I'm sorry. I realise this is probably the last place you'd like to be. But sir, Oakshott could have killed us. Yes, I want to find Selwyn and get Ron back to health, but I would like to do it without either of us getting hurt in the process. We cannot risk Selwyn sending Oakshott to finish the job. We need to step back for a moment and rethink our strategy.'

Severus sighed, unable to fault her logic. Still, his voice was full of irritation when he spoke. 'I was unaware we had a strategy.' He picked up the Prophet, indicating he would say no more on the matter. If they'd had a bloody strategy he wouldn't be stuck in a bedroom with her with his arm hurting like the Devil. Still, a drop of whisky might help in that respect, at least.

He had hardly seen a copy of the Daily Prophet in all the time that had elapsed since the end of the war. His avoidance of it had been borne partly from a desire to ignore everything, but also because of his long-standing derision for the newspaper in general. It seemed, however, that reading it now was the only distraction open to him. He opened it with a belligerent sounding snap.

It was full of the usual rubbish, and he passed many of the pages with nary a glance. One item caught his attention, however, and he'd spoken aloud about it before he could check himself.

'Malfor Manor is up for sale?'

Granger looked up from her reading. 'Didn't you know? Draco has had to sell off the family silver to cover costs incurred by his father's conviction, and so on. Personally, I'm not sure who on earth would want to buy that place after all that went on there.'

He did not imagine that she shivered. 'Lucius did not manage to worm his way out of Azkaban, then?'

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'No… How could you not have heard about that? There was a huge fuss about it at the time.'

'You forget,' he said succinctly, turning the page. 'I did not know of Weasley's predicament, either.'

So Lucius was in Azkaban; he could not find it within himself to care. He flung the paper down onto the bed and drained the remains of the whisky. He spied the bottle sitting on the dressing table, but he would not ask for it. He glanced at the walls around him and wondered what the hell he was doing allowing himself to remain here.

'Miss Granger, you have told me very little of the details of Weasley's incapacitation.' To be fair to her, he hadn't actually asked for them before. Clearly the discomfort of being trapped in this room had disposed him to be loquacious. Or maybe his near-brush with a bullet had unsettled him more than he knew.

She folded up her paper, and he suddenly regretted opening his mouth. It looked like he was in for a dissertation on the ills of Ronald Weasley.

'Well, in essence, he is in a prolonged state of somnolence—nothing more. He sleeps, he doesn't move—not one bit. There is nothing to suggest there is anything else wrong with him. The effect is a bit like he has taken the Draught of the Living Dead.'

'I see.'

'One minute he was fine, and the next…'

'Of course, you have no actual proof that Selwyn is responsible for it…'

She hesitated. What perverse irony it would be, he realised, were it to transpire that they'd attributed the responsibility wrongly. He knew his reason in pointing this out was to goad her. If she would imprison herself with him, then she would deal with the consequences.

'It has to be him,' she said firmly. 'People witnessed the curse being thrown at Ron.'

He shrugged.

'Besides, there are other things Selwyn should be brought to account for, not just for Ron,' she said defensively. 'I can't get what he did to Abbott out of my head. Whether Abbott was his brother or not, he can't get away with it.'

Severus huffed under his breath and shifted his injured arm, which was already beginning to feel stiff.

'What?' she asked, bristling.

'I'm just preparing myself for another moral homily on justice—you have an almost utopian view on it, you know.'

She looked like she was steeling herself with an element of long-suffering. 'Would you care to elaborate?'

'Certainly—I think I touched upon it before; you seem to feel that justice is an inevitability, a product of some karmic force, or tosh like that.'

She folded her arms across her stomach. 'Oh yes, I am aware that you think I have a naïve, idealistic view of the world, but you are mistaken. I don't assume that justice is a given, but to believe in it, and to want to fight for it—that is not naiveté. And if it is, well then, I would rather be that than… than cynical.'

'Is it cynicism? Or is it realism?'

She fixed him with a look. 'Maybe it's neither; maybe it's just you being biased by your own experiences.'

Severus sat up straighter. 'My own experiences…?' he repeated slowly, a hint of steely challenge in his voice.

'Yes—I think you feel guilty because you did not go to Azkaban yourself. You think you have escaped justice.'

Her words were like an icy hand around his throat and he could not speak for a moment. He simply stared at her.

'You wanted to go to Azkaban, did you? The Ministry did not think it was warranted. For someone who does not subscribe to karma, you seem to spend an inordinate amount of time thinking on what you feel should come to you.'

She sucked in a deep breath and got to her feet, tugging at her hair with discomfort. Her self-consciousness did not register with him. He was too transfixed by her words. Why was he never prepared for moments like this when she spoke in such a… Well, it felt almost brutal to him, at times. But instead of shouting at her for talking of things that did not concern her, as he had done before, he found he wanted to defend himself.

He was right to think as he did—he knew it, and he wanted her to see it too.

'That is my point,' he said quietly, and she spun round, mildly surprised that he had not exploded. 'It doesn't matter what the Ministry thinks. I know, you know, everyone knows, that I have done things no one should be allowed to get away with.' He looked at her with a hard expression. 'But I escaped death—where is the justice in that? Indeed, I cannot be thankful for it. But it goes to prove that no matter how hard you try, Selwyn may never ever be caught and punished.'

'You wish you had died in the Shrieking Shack?'

'Yes,' he said tightly, unafraid to admit it out loud, even to her.

She stared at him for the longest time, and then her expression turned into one of hurt almost, and it unsettled him. 'So why don't you end it yourself, then? Enact justice yourself?'

He was beginning to feel highly uncomfortable at the direction of the conversation now—he felt boxed in, physically and mentally. But he forced himself to speak in as aloof a tone as he usually employed. 'Suicide,' he said languidly, and her complexion paled. 'I cannot count that as justice, for it means that I would have a choice as to the where, the when, and the how, of my demise. The people who died in the war, they had no choice.'

'As much as you would like to think otherwise, you were not responsible for every death that occurred.'

He sent her a flippant look. 'You only have to be responsible for one.' Clearly, she just did not understand. He might not have been personally responsible for every single death, but what about collective responsibility? In the months he had spent agonising over every little detail, it was the conclusion that he had come to believe. The Death Eaters had a collective responsibility for the ills they had enabled Voldemort to wreak. And he'd been absolved of his part, on account of his motivation.

Suddenly, she was kneeling on the edge of the bed, and he had the strongest urge to get up and move away, but her next words arrested him.

'Dumbledore had a choice,' she said gently. 'Dumbledore chose the where, the when, and the how. The question is, did you have a choice?'

His heart thudded so loudly, he ridiculously wondered if she might hear it even from where she was. 'I did have a choice,' he managed to get out in a voice that was only partially strangled.

'A choice that would have resulted in death. That might as well have been suicide. Instead, you did something that was awful, in that Dumbledore even asked it of you in the first place, but it was still brave and—'

He found the strength from somewhere to fly to his feet and march as far away from her as the size of the room would allow. His courage had always been a point of inward personal pride—his one redeeming feature, he had considered. But still, it was one of the contradictions of his person that he longed to keep that part of his character hidden. And he hated for it to be pointed out to him, because it made him feel ashamed. Bravery was not noble when you were summoning within yourself enough hatred to kill someone.

'Do not go any further,' he said flatly. He looked out of the window, where the sky was now darkening to pitch black and the only light was the dim lamp she had switched on in the corner of the room.

'Sir, there's something I think you should know about that night in the Shrieking Shack.'

'What about it?' He turned to her, unable to deny any curiosity on his part.

She was sitting cross-legged on the bed now, and she looked indecisive. 'You see, when we left after… after, um, collecting your memories, I sent my Patronus to the nearest Auror to inform them that you were in the Shack. I never thought they would find you alive… When I found out that they had, I was relieved, I admit it.'

So that was what had happened. 'You…' Merlin, he should have known it would be a busybody like her involved! He laughed bitterly. 'Well, you have my eternal thanks, Miss Granger.'

A voice in his head reminded him that if he hadn't forced that antidote down his throat with his last ounce of strength, the Auror would have still found him dead. Yet, if she hadn't interfered in the first place… 'Perhaps it is justice that you did not allow me to go gentle into my goodnight,' he mused.

He did not believe that it was, not really, but there was a certain irony in it that he liked.

What did it matter now, anyway? He was here, and that was that. He exhaled a sigh. She was glaring at her hands.

'I've said to you before that punishment is not always warranted. You scoffed at my idea of reparation, but don't you think that making good use of the chance at life you have been given, rather than wasting it on guilt, especially misplaced guilt, would be a worthwhile endeavour? I mean, what about your own justice—justice for yourself? And don't say you don't deserve any, because we both know it isn't true. You just need to get that idea into your head and deal with it.'

She had a nerve, no doubt about it. Why did she always turn his mind into more of a jumble than it already was? He wasn't quite sure what to make of her words. He wasn't sure he wanted to be influenced by her. He sat down in the chair she had vacated and picked up the newspaper she had abandoned. He would not, could not, say another word on the matter. He would ignore her if he had to.

Minutes passed before she spoke again, and when she did it was in a quiet, strained voice. 'Well, sir, I think we should recharge our batteries for a few hours and then rethink our apparently non-existent strategy.'

He remained defiantly engrossed in the stories before him. For a long time, he hardly dared look up from his reading, but when he finally did, she appeared to have fallen asleep. He could undo the Locking charm on the door, he knew it without even trying. He could then sneak easily out of the house and Apparate away. So what if Oakshott, or Selwyn, for that matter, were lurking about? He was in a mind as to want to throw a few tough hexes about, and they would be more than satisfying targets.

But instead, he found the quiet that had descended on the room to be soothing, and that allowed him to think on something else he was feeling. Underneath the resentment he had for her continuing fixation with drawing attention to, and effectively undermining, all of his beliefs, motivations, and perceptions about himself, there was calm—even a certain sense of relief. He'd not spoken to anyone about such things, or in such a way, for a long time, if possibly ever. Yes, it was Hermione Granger, and every particle in his body cringed because of it, but hers was a second opinion, and he hadn't known he'd needed one, until now.

He still hadn't decided what exactly any of her words might mean to him, but she'd given him much to think about.

And so he sat there, his mind caught up in trying to determining whether he could find it within himself to re-evaluate his past actions in a different light, and while visions of the past played behind his eyes, outwardly, his gaze found solace in watching the sleeping figure from across the room.

AN: : )