It is almost as if he's expecting her. He has shucked off his robe and the cuffs of his dress shirt are unbuttoned and rolled up. She decided, after some thought, on borrowing his dressing gown-the black one with the snake around the sash. The material makes her feel like she's already completely nude, and she resists the urge to cover herself. Something of what she is feeling must be showing in her face, because he watches her for a long moment before he speaks.
"What's wrong?"
She opens her mouth, but what is there to say? She moves to him, eyes fixed on his, solemn. This is the plan. It must be followed. The only way to catch him with his guard down is to give him what he wants. She knows what he really wants, now.
She puts both her hands on his chest. He's warm, almost flushed, and her hands move up, over his skin to his narrow shoulders.
"Lily-what's wrong?"
It almost makes her stop. It almost makes her want to apologize. There is such concern there. But she taps each finger on each hand out onto his shoulders, tapping each name into his skin like a question she can't ask yet.
She folds herself into his chest, hanging her hands from his shoulder and tucking her face beneath his chin, and she can hear his heart pick up its pace, like a tiny drum inside of his chest, beating out her name. How stupid she is, to have not heard it before, to have stood so close to him and not hear this tremendous sound.
His hands settle, carefully, lightly, on her back. His wand is on the table next to his bed. She could just lunge for it-but no, one failed attempt and all would be lost. Better to be sure. But she wonders, for just a split second, if she is telling herself that. Days upon days of cleaning and moving and constant housework-and dodging cursed artifacts-have kept her strong and nimble. And he's so skinny. Her fingers slide down his back. He's always been slim, but not like this. She might even best him. It doesn't matter. She loves him-she is his best friend-and her heart aches with how long it has been since she has been held like this, by someone who loves her. She can't remember how long it's been.
No, she thinks, her brow drawing together again. She can't remember. That's the problem.
But when he asks for the third time, murmuring the words into her hair, she knows this is an impasse, that she-the plan-cannot move forward without answering this question, and that she is so stupid, she has nothing prepared for this. She had simply thought of him as another enemy and dragging him here would take no convincing at all, just the offering up of blatant opportunity, but no-he's not just an enemy. He's not Macnair or Rosier. It's Severus, and despite what she doesn't know-despite how her memories get fuzzy starting around her seventh year of Hogwarts and only get fuzzier until Christmas of 1981-she knows that Severus could never just accept gift that came to him for no reason, no matter how badly he wanted it. Severus always looked for what it would cost him. Always.
Lily can't think of anything to say, and he uses his hand to push her shoulders up and away from him, and her hands are wrapped around herself, and she knows he'll know if she lies. Whether through magic or simply knowing her face, he will know. She must come close enough to the truth. Her mouth opens. She is not sure what will come out until it does.
"I've been so blind for so long."
She shakes her head, and pushes away the hair that falls in her face. She feels the grip on her shoulders slacken, and she steps back toward him and lifts her mouth like a sacrifice. Her lips brush his cheek. It is not quite a kiss, but it is an invitation. He smells faintly of turpentine. Even though he knows that she doesn't mind scouring his cauldrons, and she doesn't have anything else to do all day, he still scours most of them himself-and what must he have been brewing, to require turpentine-she remembers suddenly, vividly, the day in her seventh year, before the N.E.W.T.s, when they both got stuck tutoring O.W.L. students thanks to an oblivious Slughorn, how they had scoured their cauldrons in horrible, spiralling silence-she thinks of Beauxbatons, and wonders what else he's hiding-
He turns his face toward her as if he is trying to listen, trying to catch more words on her breath. His mouth is so close, lips parted. She thinks of how they scoured their cauldrons together in steely silence, and then, how she had felt him watching her, and how it had felt then like accusation or hatred or even an outright attack on her breeding, now she sees it-the boy from years ago, staring back out at her, and she understands now how wrong she was. It was never hatred, but something deeper, darker, more terrible.
And she has told the truth. She has been blind to this. It is sickening, thrilling, as the moment hangs there, but she understands that he will not move forward. He will never move forward unless she drags him with her.
This is not the hard part, she reminds herself, and she leans into him, and their lips meet.
At first, he is not kissing her back, but she moves her hand to his neck, and his hands tighten around her suddenly, and he is kissing her back with a ferocity she has never known was in him. Her body feels lit up, like she has just been plugged into the wall. And suddenly, this is not the hard part, no longer something to get through, or a necessary evil, or something to be endured with shut eyes and thoughts of England.
She tugs at the satin knotted around her middle and his hands travel up her back to tangle in her hair. His other hand slides around her waist, thumbing her ribs, tracing their outline through her robe and skin.
She succeeds in undoing the knot, and the robe falls open. Like wrapping paper, she thinks, and a tiny shiver goes through her.
But his mouth is gone, and she feels suddenly cold, and his hands are fumbling at her waist with the sash. He isn't looking at her. He's looking at his own hands on her waist, holding the dressing grown shut.
"No," he says, and he sounds unsteady. He swallows, and says it again, firmer this time. "No."
It stings. This is only a plan, she reminds herself. Get his wand. It has nothing to do with her and everything to do with poison and children, but it stings still.
"Sev-"
But he doesn't let her finish. "I don't know why you're here-doing this."
"Why do you think?" she says hotly, evading the lie.
"It doesn't matter." He shakes his head. "We can't." And he takes a tiny step back, holding her shoulders at arm's length.
She is holding the robe shut now, and unexpected tears prickle her eyes. The words tumble out, messy and awful and true enough. "I thought-I had hoped that you-felt this way. About me."
He doesn't answer. He smooths her hair back from her face, and for just a moment, he parts his lips, and it seems like he's going to say something, anything, he is going to confess it all, and she won't have to betray him-but he doesn't. He just looks into her like there's something there only he can see. And his eyes move to her left hand holding the robe tight across her throat, lingering, perhaps, where a wedding band might go.
Her heart turns to stone. It's almost as good as a confession.
-Almost. She would still like to hear the confession.
He lets her go and walks toward the master bath, saying something about draught of dreamless sleep, and the wand is so close, the tears are still prickling her eyes and she feels the hot flush of shame suffusing her ears and cheeks and chest, and the wand is so close, and he looked for the ring as she has, he knows, it must be all true, and the wand is so close-she lunges for it.
When he emerges from the master bath, holding a small phial, it's pointed squarely at his chest. The wand tip doesn't even waver.
"Harry. James."
It feels so good to say them out loud, to Severus, she wants to scream the names. But the wand tip begins to shake, and she knows she must focus. Severus is dangerous. Think of what he must have done. Think of what he could do.
"I know I'm under a memory charm. A strong one. Probably too strong to break and keep me sane. But I want to know what it's hiding. Harry. James."
He seems to sag, as if all the air is going out of him.
"Tell me what happened to them."
Severus casts about the room, but returns to her eyes. "You married James Potter. You had a child, Harry. A prophecy was made-that Harry would be the one who could defeat the Dark Lord. I prophecy that I overheard." His hand is huge, spidery on his chest. His voice has a low note of resignation, and deeper still, a rehearsed tone, as if he has said these words in a mirror many times to make sure they would come out correctly, as if he had known that someday this would be forced out of him. He sets down the phial.
Lily keeps breathing. This is not the hard part, she reminds herself. This was never going to be the hard part.
"When the Dark Lord decided to kill your son, I went to Dumbledore and asked him to protect you. The Fidelius charm was done, but Peter Pettigrew was your secret-keeper, and he betrayed you." He looks away from her, and something moves over him like a shadow, and his mouth becomes a narrow, hard line. "I got the secret out of him myself and took you away before he arrived. I barely managed to cover the whole thing up. Claimed Pettigrew was playing a part in a larger scheme of the Order's. Laying a trap. A trap I disabled." His smile is wan, bitter, and he gestures around. "That lie bought this house. The Dark Lord extracted-" He shakes his head. "People will confess to anything under torture."
Lily wonders what Severus must have done to Peter-what horrors must the trembling wand in her hand must have seen-to transform him like this. He could meet her eyes when he spoke of working for the Dark Lord, but not when speaking of this. She wants to cast the wand away, to stop him speaking. These are the answers, she reminds herself. This is what you wanted.
"I went with you?" she asks, incredulous.
"Not willingly," he mutters. "I had to Stun you." He speaks to the snake on the sash at her waist with its single, glinting pearl eye. "When you woke, it was over. They were gone. You were so angry-but you were alive." He shakes his head and takes a step toward her. "The Ministry fell within the month, and they started rounding all the muggle-borns up, catching them and imprisoning them if they ran. I said I had captured you. I asked to-keep you." His mouth twisted again, an ugly expression moving across his face. "They say it's a form of employment, rehabilitation, but naturally it's less than that. All they need to do is find anther muggle-born when the one they've got wears out-you have no idea how many women Macnair has gone through, these past years-he keeps their heads, like the Blacks preserve house-elves-"
"Stop it." Lily shakes her head and grits her teeth. "I know what I'm good for, all right?"
He stops pacing and looks at her for a moment that seems to stretch forever. "I couldn't let that happen to you."
"And everyone else, then? Everyone else can rot? Like my husband and my child?" She does not like how shrill her voice is becoming, but she can't contain it. It's like a scream is fighting its way out underneath and between the words. "Or do you think they don't matter because you made me forget them?"
"You agreed to it!" he shouts, and his face is flushed suddenly with fury. "It was killing you!"
The wand-tip falters. His hand passes across his eyes again, as if he's trying to draw the memory out.
"You wouldn't eat. I had to keep you out of the kitchen, away from all the knives. You broke the mirror in your room and tried to-" He shook his head. "I asked you if you wanted to live. If you wanted to forget. You said yes."
She mouths the syllable. Yes. It feels strange in her mouth, like a foreign word.
"I couldn't stand to watch you suffer. I did the memory charm so you wouldn't have to live with it."
"And you?"
His mouth is a hard, thin line, and he meets her eyes, finally. "I live with it."
It falls into place, then. Sirius was wrong.
"I started-remembering their names," she murmurs. She drops the wand to her side, puts it down on the table next to her. She holds up both hands, palms out, and says each name again. Sinking into the bed, she rests her hands on her knees. "Just the names. Didn't know who they were." She rubs her abdomen absently. "I had a son."
He moves next to her, but doesn't go for the wand. He sinks into the bed next to her.
"You were always better at charms than me. And the bigger the memory charm, the more likely it is to break down. It could come back. If the names are coming back, it might break down entirely, come back to you in parts without destroying-"
She laughs humorlessly. "Parts. I'm in bits and pieces."
The silence stretches on, and she can hear him breathing next to her, his eyes on her hands.
She swallows. "I want my wand back. And my ring." When she looks up at him, he is still watching her hands.
He nods, stands, and moves to the bookcase. He removes a large volume and opens it. Inside are a few things, but her willow wand-so small inside the huge book-and she can't hold in the tears any longer. He removes a ringbox, and offers it first, but she shakes her head.
"My wand," she breathes, and he extends it toward her, hilt-first.
She lifts it from his fingers and sparks, violet and brilliant, illuminate Severus' face from below and drift slowly to the floor. The light makes him look even colder, and it makes his face look hollow.
"I've wanted it back for so long and now I can't even think of something to do with it," she breathes. Her thumbs go under her eyes to wipe away whatever is welling there. She opens the ring box. The slim gold band that sits there next to a rather large diamond, glittering like a single, watchful eye. She takes them out, slips them on her finger, but they look wrong there. She rotates them, trying to make them feel comfortable, but then finally takes them off and puts them back in the box. "I couldn't wear them around anyway. Someone would notice." She offers the ringbox back to him, and he takes it, eyes searching her face.
He turns his back to her and puts the ring box back into the book, and replaces it carefully on the shelf. "And now?"
She stands, strokes the length of her wand with one finger. "It depends on what you mean to do to Beauxbatons."
He looks weary, again, and worse-defeated. He shakes his head. "I've had the poison worked out for months, hoping they'd scale up their defenses. He's getting impatient. I can't delay it much longer. I'll have to brew it and give it to him."
She rotates the wand in her hands, and then drops it in the pocket of the dressing gown. "Is that what you do, now?"
He looks at her, then rises, moving to a side-table. He removes a bottle from a cabinet, pours himself something-it smells like port, old and sweet and rich-and offers a glass to her. His eyes are hooded, dark, his face still and cold. "I do a number of things for the Dark Lord. Creating new poisons is among them."
"But wasn't it always like this?" she protests, taking the glass but not sipping it. "This was always part of his plan. You knew that when you joined up."
"I was a fool," he snaps. He pours a glass for himself, and takes a sip. It seems to steady him.
"How did he-get you?"
He swirls the glass, and looks into it. "Power. Respect. I was a transparent child. But once you take the Mark there's no way out, and Bellatrix-" he spits the name with contempt- "takes you in the night to practice the various Unforgivable curses on the vagrants living near the river near Spinner's End-" He breaks off, takes another sip rather more vigorously than is necessary, and sets the glass down so hard it shatters.
Before she thinks, she is at his side, and whispers, "Reparo." And it goes back together, the cracks sealing in tiny fissues of the dark red liquid. The glass looks veined now, as if it has come to some sort of horrible life. It sits in a puddle of wine.
She is grinning, giddy with the rush of magic for the first time in years. She looks at him. He's staring at the glass. "Sorry. I suppose I've ruined the glass."
He shakes his head, pinches his brow.
She looks into the puddle and sets her own glass next to it. "There is-there's another option," she says slowly. "For Beauxbatons."
"If we run, he'll find us."
"No." She shakes her head. "We wouldn't have to. If you change the proportions-let me tamper with the nightshade-"
"No. If it's obvious, he'll know it was us."
"Us," she says. It's not quite a question.
He inclines his head ever so slightly, but watches her hands still. Her left hand, she realizes. Her ring finger.
"I haven't been out of the house in years," she says. "What's it really like out there? For people like me?"
"If you want to leave, I won't keep you here." He leans away from her, defiant and angry.
She should be used to this. It's Severus. He could never answer straight if he had to opportunity to be surly. "I'll leave when you chuck me out, and not before," she says evenly.
He makes a disgruntled noise and appears very interested in his own crossed arms. "I would never-"
"You haven't heard what I want to do yet. You might change your mind."
He looks mutinous. "Tell me, then."
"I want to destroy him."
There is never a question anymore who an unspecified him might refer to. It can be no one else.
Severus flinches, but recovers admirably with a retort. "How do you suggest we go about doing that? Ask him politely to resign? Point our wands at a map of the Continent and shout reparo?"
We again, she notes. And our. Her smile widens. "No. But there is a resistance."
"If you mean the Order of the Phoenix, I can assure you all of its members are dead, under the Imperius curse-or, in the case of Alastor Moody, tortured into madness and on public display in the Ministry." He glances at her and holds her gaze. His eyes are hooded, unreadable, his voice cold, his body perfectly still. "I believe he has most recently taken to flinging his feces at anyone who lingers too long at his cage."
Her smile falters. "Good lord."
"If I took you out there, you wouldn't recognize it."
Anger blazes suddenly inside of her. "And what are we supposed to do, then? Walk about like mice and pretend everything is all right? Poison children?"
"I have kept the both of us alive and well for three years," he snarls. "I will continue."
Before she can stop the word, she spits, "Coward."
The word makes him convulse, like he is being shaken out of paralysis. For a moment, he almost looks as if he might strike her. When he speaks, though, his voice is low, dangerous, trembling with anger. "You have no idea the things I have done to keep you safe."
"Is that the choice, then? My life and your life over the lives of thousands of others?"
"It's not your choice to make."
"Then how are you any different than any of them?" she shouts, gesturing to the door. "What-your reasons for doing what you do are nobler? You're willing to kill in the name of keeping us safe instead of in cold blood? Do you think he cares about the difference so long as you obey his command?"
He seizes her shoulder. He is flushed, bright pink patches flooding his cheeks with color, his eyes wide and full of fire. His teeth are bared-but it's not inhuman. He's so human in this moment, it terrifies her. "You come to me-like this-trying to fool me, steal my wand, confront me with accusation after accusation-" he shakes her- "I have done nothing but show you kindness and safety, and this-" he throws her from him, and she stumbles back, still clutching her wand. "Get out of my chambers."
She points her wand at his face as soon as she recovers her feet and steps slowly backward, to the door, feeling her way with her heels. Groping blindly, she searches for the knob, her face contorting with anger, searching for something, anything, a weapon that will dig deeper than a knife or the wand in her hand. But she knows what he looks like now-and the resemblance is so striking she cannot stop herself snarling the most hurtful thing she can think of:
"Your father would be proud."
Before he can close the distance between them, she has fled through the door and is running, sash fluttering behind her, locking and sealing doors as she passes through them to ensure he can't follow.