NOTE

Warning for flashbacks, mentions of rape, nightmares, and minor injury.

98. Little Scar

I woke in the middle of the night, the sheets sweat-drenched, the last of the sleeping draught like ice flecks in my blood.

Every gasp was swallowing fire, and waves of nausea carried me mindlessly to the loo, to the cold floor, bent over the toilet. I waited to vomit. Wanted to. But my body was holding tightly to the little food I'd eaten, winning the painful tug of war against the panic and anxiety that begged for a purge. Everything inside of me just wanted out, no matter how out was achieved.

My hair was wet and stuck to my throat. I could feel Macnair's firm hand there, feel Rowle petting my head. 'What a pretty girl.'

Seeing that I wasn't going to vomit, I pressed myself up–by the toilet–by the edge of the sink–to my feet. Whatever the thing in the mirror was, it wasn't myself. The red eye was the eye of a monster, and the darkness of the unlit room and the strange pale snowlight from the hallway turned my face into something undead.

My hair tingled with the memory of being touched, pulled, and I fervidly scratched at my scalp, yearning to erase the feeling. But it refused to go. Quickly the plea of out turned to off and the ladder rungs of reason seemed completely even and in place to my mind as I went downstairs to do away with my hair.

I found the heavy silver scissors in a kitchen drawer, and they made a loud sharp sound in the silence of the kitchen.

I snipped it all off. Long locks fell to the floor, dropping onto the tops of my feet like hot wet snakes, Medusa's hair. I carded my fingers through it, searching for what I'd missed, and kept cutting until it was as short as a boy's. Shaggy, and surely uneven. But I didn't care about that. When it was done it was very light, and it felt strange, but different. That was what I had wanted.

I looked down at it, a pool of white hair in the dim light coming through the kitchen window. I was reminded of the dead unicorn.

It was the closest to self-harm that I had ever come, and the stillness that followed the act left me disoriented and guilty. My skin was cold with sweat and my heart was pounding, but the nausea had ebbed and I no longer felt the wicked hand around my throat.

I picked up the hair in my hands, strangely soft despite the sweat that dampened it. I didn't know what to do with it, so I hid it in the bin. I replaced the scissors in the drawer with a heavy sound, and went back up the stairs.

I had a deep and desperate longing for Severus. He would pick me up and strip me of myself and hold me brutally enough to turn back time.

For the first time since being taken through the floo network, I had the presence of mind to wonder where he was. What he was doing. If he was alright.

Pouncer was still asleep next to my pillow. The snow was falling outside. The people across the street had turned out the lights on their Christmas tree.

I pulled the blanket off the bed and put it under my arm in an unwieldy bundle. I took the pillow too, but Pouncer didn't stir. I carried the bedding across the hallway and went through the door that Remus had left open. He was curled on his side, his face a grey mask.

I lay down on the rug by his bed, and pulled the blankets over me, not minding the hardness of the floor.

I didn't know why I did it. I needed not to be alone. It was the sort of thing a child might do. Not reasoning, just needing.

I could hear his breathing, shallow in his chest, and I soon fell asleep.

Remus was still asleep when I stirred. I could feel his presence, his soft breathing from the bed above me. For a moment I was disoriented. Then I felt the exposure of my neck, and how cold my skin was, and remembered last night. For some time I lay there, my arm tingling underneath me.

Pouncer wandered in, and it was for fear of Remus's sleep being disturbed by his purring that I stood up–slowly, to keep the blood from rushing to my head–and left the room, with one backward glance at Remus's grey form under the blankets.

I realised that I actually felt hungry. I made toast and tea, and boiled an egg. Pouncer sat expectantly at my feet and I gave him some chicken in a saucer as Remus had done.

I was standing by the range sipping the hot tea when I heard the stairs creaking and Remus stepped into the doorway. His face twisted into an expression of overt surprise when he saw me, and it took me a moment to realise it was because of my hair. He hastily tried to cover his reaction, and whatever feelings he had about it were tightly contained in his slightly raised eyebrow, his hesitant lips.

He cleared his throat softly. "You missed a spot… a few…"

I ran my hand through it and, in the clarity of the morning, felt just how bad it was. It was significantly longer in some places than others and there was one lock in the back that was long enough for me to see the ends when I brought it around the side of my head.

"I could trim it if you'd like," Remus offered.

I was less embarrassed by my impulsiveness than by the poor execution of my hasty decision. I felt my face colour a bit, and I nodded my head.

He approached, his body quiet and tightly contained, and pulled open the drawer to take out the scissors. He looked at me, just above my eyes, seeming to study the messy haircut I'd given myself. Then he made a little stirring motion with his forefinger, telling me to turn around. I did, and set my mug of tea on the worktop, my fingers twisting in front of me.

I felt him step closer, and a shiver went down my spine like melted snow. His hand touched my shoulder for a moment, and then his fingers ran through my hair, carefully, as though he were trying not to touch my scalp. There was a moment of stillness and I heard the snip of the scissors. He continued for a minute, and then stepped back. "That's a bit better."

I ran my hands through it again and could feel that it was more even. I turned around and considered him, his eyes staring back into mine with a look of understanding.

With the weight of my hair lifted I felt like a different person. Not in a different body–the pain and grief were still too heavy to let me convince myself of that. But a slightly different person. As though I'd been transposed upon this reality from another.

The difference was minor. But perhaps just enough to survive… to speak…

I tried to gather words in my mind, but it was as difficult as writing with one's non-dominant hand. I watched Remus put the scissors back in the drawer.

Pouncer jumped onto the table and Remus scratched behind his ears. Then I remembered his question from yesterday and the words came out.

"His name is Pouncer."

My voice sounded unusual to my own ears, as though there was a wall in front of my eardrums, or a bubble of pressure. But if it really did sound odd, Remus didn't seem to mind. His eyes widened, and I knew he wished for me to say more. But he didn't rush me with his expression, or with words.

After a long moment it was clear I wasn't ready yet, and he just continued petting Poucner's head gently. The smallest smile touched his face, and his eyes. "It's good to hear your voice."

I could only stand to return his gaze a little longer before I had to look away. I poured him a mug of tea and he took it from my hands, watching me carefully.

"Why did you cut your hair?"

The panic of the night came back to me, the cold sweat, the memory of Rowle's fingers. "Didn't like it," I mumbled.

I saw his eyes sadden as he sensed the subtext, and he opened his mouth to speak again.

There was a loud whoosh of flames in the other room, the sound of the floo connection being activated. Remus looked towards the sound, his face narrowing with alertness. Heavy footsteps crossed the rug, and a tall, broad wizard appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was bald and his large arms were laden with brown bags. With a short glance towards me, he set the bags down on the end of the table. Then his large hands went into his pockets, pulling out vials of potion as well as a letter with the Ministry seal. He set them down, then put his hands in his pockets again and looked at us. "Requests?" he said, in a gruff voice.

Remus cleared his throat. "No. Thank you."

The man gave a grunt and went out again. I stood there listening to his heavy footsteps, and then the wind-like sound of the fireplace as he departed.

I went to the doorway and looked into the sitting room. The fire was normal again, very low and glowing yellow-orange around the crumbling log.

"Friendly fellow," Remus muttered.

There was food in the paper bags, and the potions included the ones Poppy had promised to have sent.

But to both of us the Ministry letter was the most important thing on the table.

My throat constricted and my heart started pounding out a fast, warning rhythm as I stared at the red wax marked with the unmistakable M.

Remus was staring at it too, as if it were a howler.

He was the one to move for it, walking along the table with his limp a bit more noticeable than usual. I realised he must have been putting effort into hiding it for my sake. Maybe the poultice hadn't been as effective as he'd said it was.

He only touched the envelope at first, his fingers trembling over the seal. Then he picked up the letter and turned it over.

"It's addressed to us both," he said. There was an unsteadiness in his voice that I didn't read too far into.

He pulled open the seal and there was a quiet rustling of paper as he took out the letter. He looked down at it for a moment, then glanced at me hesitantly. I nodded to him, and he began to read.

'To the residents of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The dates of your appearance before the Wizengamot have been decided. Mr. Lupin's trial will take place on Wednesday the fifteenth of the month of December. Miss Weasley's will follow on Friday the seventeenth.'

There was a vague sense of wrongness in my brain, but I couldn't pin down the reason.

'Prepare to be collected at eight o'clock in the morning.'

My mind repeated the dates to itself. It didn't take long to count forward from Remus's day and realise that it fell within the week before the full moon. The month had worn away like salt in water, and I knew the days of waiting would only pass more quickly. Obviously the Ministry had set the date so Remus would be at his most vulnerable, and I was infuriated at Kingsley for allowing it. However much I'd believed him to be on our side during the war, clearly power had changed him.

My skin prickled with resentment and I watched Remus as he stared down at the letter.

I knew that wasn't the end of it, but whatever words were written next had made him pause. He opened his mouth questioningly, and then looked up at me, his eyebrows furrowed and his cheeks quite pale. The sudden darkness in his eyes froze me to the core, and I was unaware of my body as I stepped forward and took the letter into my own hands.

Beneath what Remus had read was a second note.

Miss Weasley,

In doubt of your ability to safely and successfully carry a child, the Ministry has concluded that your marriage to Severus Snape is no longer valid. You are henceforth exempt from the Marriage Law.

I could barely see the signatures and the ministry stamp below, my vision painted over with streaks of furious red.

My body, my heart, my fate. Reduced to a footnote.

Tears burned in my eyes. I saw Remus's hand reaching for me, but I stepped away. I tore the letter in two, crushed it in my fists, threw it to the floor and ran from the room.

My mindless fury and the fear beneath it carried me to the front door. I'd passed it with apathy before, ignoring its existence out of necessity. Now I threw myself up against it in my rage. I tried the locks. All the stupid things. Slapped it. Beat my fists and arms against it. But it was cold and unyielding, and every time I touched it a jolt of pain buzzed through my bones from the Ministry's wards.

Remus's voice pierced through the sound of my own wailing.

"Wilma. Wilma– Wilma!"

His arms around my waist, pulling me back.

"Stop! You're hurting yourself… Come here… Shh…"

I struggled against his grip, my skin on fire, my fingers digging into his arms. I felt him shaking as he struggled to bring me around, but once he had me he pulled me to him so tightly escape was impossible. I stood there trembling, earthquakes blooming in every bone as I felt his body pressed against mine. His sharp hip, his abdomen expanding with frantic breath, even the subtle curve of his genitals against my lower belly.

I let out an aggravated scream into his chest, one of a long chain that had remained unbroken since I'd thrown down the accursed letter.

"I've already tried," he said, his voice vibrating through my ribs. "I've tried everything."

I was still trembling with such hatred I feared I would explode.

Then I was stopped. Brought to stillness and silence by his soft dry lips against my forehead.

"It's okay," he whispered, his breath tickling my scalp beneath my short hair. "Shh. It's okay."

I felt his hand on my back, on my spine, right between my shoulder blades. Fingers splayed like strong tree roots.

He hushed me again, so gently, his thumb nestling protectively behind my ear as his fingers wrapped around the back of my neck.

The anger and the fury flooded from my body in the form of deep and sudden sobs, as hoarse and ceaseless as a child's.

I weakened against him, and all that was holding me up was his body. My devastation threatened to wake up all the dark things that slept and festered inside of me. I wrapped my arms around him, clutching at his shirt, one soul begging for purchase against another.

"Please…" I sobbed. "Please…"

He pulled me closer, which I hadn't thought possible. I felt the warmth of him. His heartbeat. My sobs eased, made impossible by the comforting pressure of his body against and around my own. Some deep part of me felt cleansed by the closeness.

Soon we were standing there quietly, in the narrow, shadowy hallway.

Tears dripped down my face, but without the pain and tightness in my chest.

I could feel him more acutely, the wholeness of his body. My heart fluttered desperately to get free, and I shifted a little in his arms. He was sensitive to my slightest movement and stepped away at once, only keeping his hands on my shoulders to make sure I could stand on my own. I gave him a little nod and he put more distance between us. But his hand still reached down to hold mine, gently.

Without a word, he led me into the sitting room and touched my waist as I sat down on the sofa. Pouncer was there and sat at my feet, brushing his soft head against my shin.

"Pouncer?" Remus asked, in a quiet voice.

I nodded.

"It's a good name. You know, I could understand him, when I was…"

He trailed off, and a shadow came over his face.

I remembered the way they'd communicated during Remus's transformation, on the night Lucius died. My stomach soured at the thought, and I blinked hard to erase the momentary illusion that the redness of the rug was blood.

My mind circled back to the words in the letter.

No longer valid.

My face burned with profound anger. I felt the scorching fire in my eyes, in my nose, ringing and aching in my jaw, my temples. For the first time, I was filled with true hatred towards the Ministry.

Would they force Severus to marry someone else?

I focused my mind and remembered that the upper age limit on the marriage law was forty.

If he did have to remarry, would he be allowed to divorce after his birthday in January? Or did the age rule only apply for the date on which the contract was signed, forcing the marriage to stand until one partner proved infertile?

My stomach shrivelled in disgust and anxiety.

Had they sent Severus a letter? They must have. What was he thinking? Where was he?

Remus left me there hugging a pillow, and carried in my tea. It was now a soft brown colour. "He brought milk."

I drank some, the taste soft and soothing, and Remus sat down next to me, a cautious distance between us.

There was a long pause while I waited for him to say whatever was on his mind, weighing down the air.

His voice was quiet, and shook a little. "Wilma… What did they mean, about carrying a child?"

I watched Pouncer stretch on the rug, digging his nails into the fibres and arching his back.

I answered like a poor actor, to whom the playwright's lines mean nothing. "They ruined my reproductive organs. Poppy says I can't get pregnant anymore."

Remus took my hand and rubbed his thumb slowly over my knuckles. "They. Macnair and Rowle."

Hearing their names aloud was a shock. My spine stiffened and tears spilled from my eyes, but I didn't make a sound. Part of me was relieved that he had recognised their scents; that I wouldn't have to say their names myself.

Remus squeezed my hand carefully. "What happened?"

I explained it all in as few words as possible, and with many long silences in which my brain seemed to go completely blank. I told him about Baddock and the stone, the destruction of the creatures, Dolohov and George. About Rowle and Macnair and what they had done to me, and how I was brought here because of what I did to them in return. Tears streamed down my face but I didn't shake or sob. I just sat there, a crying statue.

I finished talking, and the look on Remus's face mirrored the nausea that spread like a noxious fog through my body. His hand had become clammy and his voice trembled under the threat of tears. "Oh, Wilma… I can't describe how sorry I am. You are so strong…"

But strength wasn't killing people, boiling them from the inside with fear and vengeance so that their skin melted and their blood rained down on you. Strength had nothing to do with that.

Strong.

Old anger came back, like a jailer rattling his keys. It pumped through my blood and concentrated in the hand Remus was touching. I snatched my hand away and stood up, tears of irrational resentment filling my eyes. "No, I'm not," I whispered coldly.

He looked up at me and in his face I saw every part of him. His innocence and goodness, along with his guilt and his wrongs. And it all made me feel so sick.

His eyes changed and he stood up, putting his hands into his pockets. "It's alright if you're angry with me," he said evenly. "You should be."

His voice was so reasonable, the same one he'd once used to deliver lectures. "I'm not angry with you," I argued, my voice rising, my throat hurting from the force of it.

It was true. I wasn't angry with him. Yet all of my anger was suddenly, inexplicably directed towards him. Ugliness surging up to cover my vulnerability.

I clenched my jaw to hold it in and gripped my wrist as though to restrain myself. But even my own touch triggered the memory of pain and humiliation. There was no mark on the skin around my wrist, but I still felt bruised inside from the cords my attackers had used.

I wrung my hands, my eyes widening and looking instinctively to the floor.

Remus carefully stepped closer. "Is there anything I can do?"

I glared at him, everything in me pushing him and his tenderness away. "Stop being so gentle. I'm not broken, I'm fine."

But it was such a pitiful lie that it poked a hole in my defences and I started crying again. I hated the sound. I was so tired of myself. My head drooped and my arms hung limply at my sides.

"You're not fine," Remus said, his voice breaking. He tried to touch me but I flinched.

"Don't."

"Okay." He put his hands up and stepped back. His expression was full of pity. "It's okay."

I gave a shout of frustration and fled to the stairs before I could hurt him.

I shut the door of my bedroom and turned the lock, exiling myself to the cold windowsill, my breath fogging against the glass as I wept.

Without my long hair as protection, the cold spread itself over the skin of my neck. I sniffled, pressing the back of my hand to my nose, and as I did I felt the tiniest hot-red spark inside me. The slightest prickling of magic.

My tears stopped short and for a moment I could hear my own heartbeat as if it were sounding from some other place in the room. From under the bed, perhaps, for my heart did seem the most terrible monster. Then my tears abruptly resumed and the illusion ended. But that little spark was still there.

I trembled in fear because I knew that the flint it had been struck into existence by was my anger. And I didn't want my magic to be tied to my anger. I didn't want to be dangerous and dark. I immediately suppressed it, throwing the ice cold waters of self doubt over the spark. I would rather wait a year for my magic to appear again than kindle it now and have it regrow wrong, with crippled limbs and bad intentions.

The spark hissed a little, and I clutched my chest as it pinched my heart in retaliation. But then it retreated, and I was left empty again.

At that moment I realised I was grieving.

All the time Severus and I had spent. All the struggles we had fought through. The safety we had tried so hard to build together.

No longer valid.

I was Wilma Weasley again.

The memory of standing at the lakeside with Severus came back to me. His promise that I would under no circumstances be the one to dive for the stone. The crunching of the ice under my foot as I tested the coldness of the water. And his advice, to envision my mind as a room.

I shut my eyes and built the room again, salvaging the scraps that remained after it had been demolished by the rape. I tried to construct the wood panelled walls again, but they were all wrong now, distorted, like a face in a damaged mirror.

I shook the image from my head and as I rested my temple against the freezing glass I allowed a new room to form.

It was smaller, with cream white walls and a dark wooden floor that didn't creak. There was a window with shutters and a warm brocade blanket to hide in, and a little fireplace. The door was black, and there was something secure about it despite its average size, it's normal appearance. The black was the same deep, plain black as Severus's robes, and I knew that the door was him, standing there, protecting me.

I held the room in my mind until my head started to ache, and then I let the image go. But I knew it would still be there the next time I needed it. It would always be there.

The headache grew worse and I unfolded my creaky limbs from the windowsill, swallowing another dose of pain relief potion to fend off the agony that threatened like distant thunder in my useless womb.

The promise of immunity combined with the lingering adrenalin of anger in my veins, and I lowered myself to the floor, going through Poppy's exercises with a silent vengeance. I worked past the panic and went through each exercise even when it made my muscles spasm with memory, even when it made me cry into the blanket that hung off the edge of the bed.

Afterward I lay on my side on the floor and stared at the dust underneath the bed.

No monsters under there.

Not even my heart.

I didn't know how long it had been. It might have been two hours.

My exhausted body made room for remorse. It struck me that there were only three days until Remus would be taken, and I figured whatever time it was I should go downstairs and apologise to him. There was no reason to put up walls now, when we were both in such pain, and so very alone.

Muscles shaking, I pushed myself up from the floor and left my hiding place.

Remus had made lunch and we ate together. He sat at the table, and I stood by the warm stove. He had filled more pages with writing, and though my eyes skated over the black ink I asked no questions and made no judgement upon his coping mechanism. His forgiveness for my mental collapse earlier was immediate and complete, and he asked no questions.

The events of the day had changed how I felt about my short hair. It seemed rash and juvenile now, like a mark of self-destructive tendencies I didn't want to have. But had I been able to wind back the clock I knew I would still cut it off. I didn't want to look the way I had when I'd been tied up in the darkness. Didn't want the hair they'd stroked and pulled. I wanted to change.

The threat of my magic didn't return, but stayed obediently outside the safe black door of my Occlumency room.

We sat by the fire and continued sanding and painting the train, in silence for hours. We realised at seven o'clock that we'd forgotten dinner due to our nonexistent appetites. We cooked together while the paint dried.

Remus wanted to put a little gold paint around the windows and the engine. My wrist was the steadiest it had been as I held the brush, wanting it to turn out just as he'd imagined it.

Once it was done the train sat on the rug and Pouncer stared at it with curious green eyes.

Remus remained on the floor with his legs outstretched, leaning against the sofa. I put away the paints and rinsed the brushes in the kitchen. When I came back I saw the slow tears glistening on his cheekbones and in the soft stubble of his short beard.

I went to him and sat on the floor beside him, putting my hand on his elbow. He really was thin beneath his long sleeved shirt.

"I feel guilty," he whispered. "I've barely known him, since he was born. Not really. I was an absent father."

Though I felt thoroughly numb and removed from myself, I still managed to experience his sadness as my own. I kept my hand on his arm. "Not while you had a choice."

"I didn't see him for two months after Dora died. That was entirely my choice." Remus shook his head with deep bitterness. I decided not to speak, and after a bit his voice changed again. "Do you think he'll like this? Does he play with toys?"

I couldn't think of a particular time when I remembered him playing with toys.

Teddy felt like a distant fairy tale character. I had to bring myself back and remind myself that this was reality. That everything I'd been through had really happened. It was challenging, anchoring myself here, keeping myself from drifting into an obscure place where nothing mattered. Because the truth–that everything mattered–was nearly too painful for my weakened soul to bear.

"I'm sure he'll love it," I said.

Remus didn't nod or indicate that he had heard. His whole demeanour disturbed me. "Remus… He'll care more about seeing you again than–"

"I don't think he will. See me again."

He had ceased to cry and his tears were replaced by a resigned tone, his face set in misery.

My heart squeezed with fear. "You will."

"You are much more likely to be let off than I am."

I wasn't sure about that. My own offences were piling up. But he spoke again before I could mention them.

"I deserve to go, anyway. After everything I did."

I shook my head, wishing he'd look at me. I felt sick to my stomach as I remembered the events I'd lived through second-hand in the pensieve. But I knew I would never, could never blame Remus for what he'd been forced to do. "They manipulated you. It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was," he said darkly. "It's what I deserved for not learning from my mistakes. And I'll be in Azkaban soon and you won't have to worry about me anymore."

I felt my jaw slacken with disbelief. The world outside was crumbling away and we were in a tiny boat with nothing to hold onto and trust but one another. Hearing his doubt in himself was like watching him break a hole in the hull.

Azkaban, in my mind, had always been a place for bad people. We weren't bad people. Were we?

Did it matter?

Sirius Black had spent twelve years there and he hadn't even committed the crime he'd been imprisoned for. As good-at-heart as Remus and I may have been, we had still done what we had done, without question.

It occurred to me that the Ministry could have chosen to hold us in cells in Azkaban to await our trials. The fact that they allowed us to remain in relative comfort here might have given me hope. But I had little faith, and our being lodged in Grimmauld Place seemed like a charitable act to soften the blow of the grey years of incarceration that faced us, indomitable as the reaper.

We were truly both at risk of going to prison. But I couldn't allow myself to think of that. The idea of even one year in Azkaban was terrifying beyond expression.

My throat closed up.

"You are not going to Azkaban, Remus," I said, my voice wavering. "Teddy will have his train set, and he'll have his father too."

But the darkness of Remus's thoughts was a thick smog that I couldn't clear, and when he stood and went upstairs without a word, I didn't stop him.

I sat there feeling cold and very frightened by what he'd said. I didn't expect to see him again that night. I stared at the fire, imagining that there were horrific faces staring in at the windows.

After some minutes he returned, carrying a roll of Christmas wrapping paper from the attic. My whole body eased to see him again, to know that, at least for the next few minutes, I wasn't alone.

"Next time someone comes I'll ask them to take it to Andromeda," he said, with no echo of the conversation we'd had before, except in the inherent implication that he would not be the one to deliver the gift to his child.

Earlier that day he'd given me the courtesy of not asking more questions after I'd left the room in tears. So I didn't say anything to him now. Still, dread lingered underneath as we wrapped the train in the paper and tied it with twine and green ribbon.

When it was done the silence between us was too much to endure, and I went upstairs to bed with a mug of tea. Pouncer wandered through my door and crawled up on the bed, cleaning himself before falling asleep in a purring ball of heat. Remus climbed the stairs soon after and looked in, saying "Good night" before going to his own room. He left his door slightly ajar, a ribbon of warm light reaching across the hallway between shadows.

I struggled to sleep, my body drowsy when I sat up or paced, but restless the moment I laid down. Remus had turned his light out. I quietly went to the loo and looked at myself in the mirror for the first time since chopping off my hair. I really did look different. Strangely androgynous. My eye was still red.

I washed my face, cleaned my teeth, and urinated again, which hurt. I was afraid of the impending bowel movement, which I knew would be painful when it came. Then I thought numbly how sad it was to be afraid of the natural functions of one's own body.

As I washed my hands I considered where Rowle and Macnair might have been now. Surely they had not been greeted by beautiful sandy beaches and lost loved ones–if they even had any of those. It was an uneasy comfort, but I was comforted all the same by the thought of their suffering. I lacked the capacity to care if that made me a bad person.

I returned to my room, closed the door, and went to sit in the window.

Street lamps illuminated the light snow, and made the tree branches ghostly. Through them I saw a warm yellow window in the house across the square, the same one with the Christmas tree. It was a bedroom window, a vanity and the foot of a bed visible through a thin sash.

A woman sat at the vanity in her dressing gown. A man walked from one side of the window to the other.

This must have been the couple I'd seen through the branches of the Christmas tree the night before. Now they were preparing for bed.

I watched, feeling a deep loneliness mixed with an unusual kinship. They seemed to be in their middle years. Perhaps they had grown-up children. I watched as the woman removed her earrings and spoke to the man, seeming to laugh at what he said in return.

Then she let down her hair, stood up, and looked at the man, now unseen but for his bare feet, crossed at the ankles on the bed. I knew what was going to happen just before it did, but still I continued to look. The woman untied her gown and let it slip to the floor. I found myself staring at her beautiful, ample body, unable to look away.

She went to the foot of the bed, her face calm and smooth, her eyes warm and knowing. The man's ankles uncrossed and the woman crawled up onto the bed, her torso disappearing outside the window frame.

I watched like a child who didn't quite understand what she was seeing. I'd made my exit from the world they occupied.

I stared at their feet and their calves for a minute, and then remembered myself, and was ashamed.

I looked away and went back into my own bed, staring at the pale smoke rising from the chimney pots, envying Pouncer's calm, deep animal sleep.

In the darkness of the room, under the soft covers, I touched my cold hand to my small breast. The nipple stiffened against my palm.

Then I wondered what I was doing, and guiltily hid my face in the pillows, warming my fingers between my thighs.

The shadows of the snow cast themselves on the blankets.

It was from a very shallow sleep that Remus's cries woke me some hours later. Low moans of pain and fear came from his room, ripping a hole in my belly and making my heart race. I was up in an instant, my entire body wired towards saving him from whatever Hell his mind was reexperiencing in his nightmares.

I crossed the hallway and went into his room. He was tossing and turning, drowning in the shadows of his bed. In the darkness the shadows seemed like evil spirits, long hands grabbing at him, trying to destroy him as he thrashed and cried.

I called out his name but he couldn't hear me. In the terror of the moment I went closer, heedless of the danger of his flailing limbs, and grabbed his shoulder to shake him awake. "Remus!"

The chaos of his body then narrowed into the power of a single hand, flying suddenly at my face. I was too shocked to move, and an instant later I felt a sting, near my ear. My own high gasp sliced the air, and Remus went still. He sat up, panting and shivering, his eyes faintly shining in the light from the window. My own eyes were suddenly washed with tears.

"Wilma?"

All I knew was that in his unrestrained movements he'd accidentally scratched my face, and by the combined stinging and throbbing, I knew it was deep. Pressing my hand to the burning spot on my cheek, I ran from the bedroom to the loo and locked the door.

I twisted the key of the oil lamp that sat by the sink, and the flame bloomed.

The cut was on my cheekbone near my ear, and it was bleeding. I winced at the sight, and the pain. It was a unique kind of pain, but I had no trouble placing how it was familiar. It was the very same pain I'd felt when Remus had accidentally scratched my lower back, on the full moon before he'd left me. I touched my fingertip to the severed skin and hissed from the sting.

Remus had followed and was knocking on the door, his voice panicked. "Are you okay?" He rattled the doorknob. "Let me in, please. Did I hurt you?"

"It's fine!"

I desperately ran the water and rinsed the blood away, but more came up. Normally my magic would have been able to heal a cut like this on its own. But there was no magic in my veins, and I knew that even if there had been it would have done no good. Any scratch from Remus's fingernails would take time to heal. The pink scar on my back had taken many weeks to disappear.

The sting was only getting worse, and I gave a panicked groan as I felt Remus's anxiety radiating through the door.

"Please," he said again, and when I didn't answer he stopped trying to get in and began to cry.

I knew there was nothing for it. Unable to stand the sound of his guilt any longer, I turned off the water, put out the lamp, and opened the door.

His face was wrought with guilt, sickly-pale and streaked with tears, sweat beading on his forehead. "I'm okay," I said, still holding my hand over my cheek.

He reached out and, with surprising strength given the shaking of his fingers, pulled my hand away. His eyes darkened and his mouth trembled when he saw the scratch, more tears welling in his eyes.

"Does it hurt?" he said.

"Not really."

His gaze darkened, and he trembled more. "How badly?"

"It's just a little cut."

"How much does it hurt."

"Just a small sting." It was a lie, but he didn't force me further.

I let him take me downstairs, and sat at the kitchen table while he cleaned the scratch and put drops of dittany onto it. The dittany only served to heal it into a thin pink scar. It was light–barely visible–but it would be there for a long time. And it still hurt when I touched it. Remus stared at it as though he'd somehow poisoned me, spilling dittany on the table as he struggled to cork the vial with his shaking fingers.

I touched his hand and took over for him. "Remus. It's okay–"

"It is not," he whispered weakly. "It is absolutely not okay."

The self-loathing was rolling off of him in waves. He was weak enough that he didn't resist when I led him to the sofa by the fire. He kept crying, inconsolable. I held his hand tightly, trying to warm him.

"Let's forget about my cheek for a second. Do you want to tell me about the dream?"

He shook his head, and I heard distinctly through his tears a small whisper of mingled terror and shame.

I hushed him and rubbed slow calming circles on his back as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as shivers wracked his body and he moaned like one about to be sick.

Gradually he calmed enough to sit up straight again. His hand touched my cheek and more tears came, but he said nothing, only sniffling against the back of his hand, his face contorted into knots of pain and remorse.

I brought him warm tea and wrapped a blanket around him. I felt helpless, out of my depth, until my eyes fell upon the bookshelf and the solution became clear.

"What would you like me to read?"

He shook his head heavily, but I paid him no heed. I went to the shelf and took down a small blue book, which turned out to be Edith Nesbit's fairy tales. I sat down beside him and rubbed his shoulder while I read aloud. Slowly his shivers stopped, and I paused reading every paragraph to coax him into drinking more of the tea.

I pressed down my warring emotions when he finally shifted closer to me, still crying quietly as he leaned his head against my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around him and continued reading.

He fell asleep that way, tears on his face, his body heavy from exhaustion and grief. I set down the book with a sense of sad relief, brushing my own sudden tears from my eyes and touching my fingertips to the fading soreness of the small scratch on my cheekbone.

My fingers found their way into Remus's hair and as I gently stroked it I wondered what terrible memories his dreams had fed him, to make him lose himself so completely.

After a while my back began to ache from holding him up. I slowly shifted myself out from under him and lowered him into what I hoped was a comfortable position, lying on his side with the blanket pulled up to his chin.

I couldn't leave him alone that way. I sat on a pillow on the floor, and kept stroking his hair. My own body was soothed by the repetitive gesture, but I also feared that if I stopped the nightmares would be free to claim him again. I had to be his guardian; a warning to the dark entities plaguing him that he was not unprotected, and if they wanted him they would have to get through me first.

In the silence of the snowy night I watched over him, the complete vulnerability of his sleeping face, and remembered the depth with which I had loved him. I sat there staring at the fire, my heart trying to feel so much it hurt.

NOTE

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