NOTE

Warning for implied fear of overdose, implied potion dependence, mentions of fertility loss, and brief flashbacks to sexual assault.

105. Sever

There was nothing out of place in the cottage.

When I'd gone to Spinner's End he'd ruined everything. Glass smashed. Furniture broken.

Here, everything was intact. The old wheelchair sitting in the corner. The curtains pale in the moonlight from outside.

From the stillness in the air I knew there had been no magic to restore some disaster of unleashed anger. Nothing had been touched.

The silence filled me with dread, and into it I called his name.

"Severus?"

No response.

I walked into the kitchen, where the heavy timber worktop gave off a vibration of the memory of that night when I'd laid there bleeding and Severus had held my writhing body still.

Had it been night?

It was, in the memory.

A shiver went through me and I turned away.

"Severus?" I called again, going up the dark stairs.

It was possible he wasn't here… but then, I knew he was. I could sense it.

I opened the door of the first bedroom. The bed was cleanly made.

The boards creaked as I went to the other room, the one where I had recovered, the room I'd chosen as my own when he had first brought me to the cottage.

My heart fluttered and my body tensed as I held the brass knob, and I laid my ear to the door.

There was a deep silence from the other side, the kind of silence that only exists when a person is at the centre of it. I turned the knob and was surprised to find the door unlocked, unlatched. It opened forward with a soft creak.

Shadowy light streamed into the room from the window, turning the bed grey. He was there, his body buried under the sheets and blankets, only his black hair visible against the wrinkled pillow.

I drifted closer, my body as light as a ghost except for the weight in my stomach. It felt like a dream. He should have stirred, woken at the slightest sound of the floo downstairs, or my calls, or the creaking of the door as it opened. It was unsettling to see him so defenceless. Anyone could have come in, snuck up on him, hurt him. Even in his less guarded moments he'd always had some wall, some strength that made him immune to those who might have been against him. Now he was as vulnerable as a child.

Had I ever really observed him in sleep?

My heart surged. His white nightshirt was pulled taut over his shoulder. The long fingers of his hand rested on the pillow where his head also lay. He looked very pale, and not well at all. Dark circles under his eyes, even in the depths of sleep. And his breath was so slow and shallow.

So slow, so shallow it was almost…

My eyes fell upon the empty vials on the bedside table. Seven or eight of them. Not a drop remained so I couldn't identify what the contents had been.

"Sev?" I whispered, my alarm the size of a small seed but rapidly growing.

I stepped closer and pressed his shoulder–real, warm–shaking him gently. He made no sound or movement, not even a flickering of movement behind his eyelids. Just that frail breath.

Violent tremors of terror overtook me. He was too pale, sleeping too deeply. I shook him harder, my other hand carding through his hair. "Severus, wake up."

My breaths were slipping towards panic when he finally gave the softest moan and his cold fingers curled around my wrist. His grip was weak at first but became stronger. He groaned again, and opened one dark eye. No sooner had it opened than it blinked closed again, and a tension entered his face. "What are you doing here," he said, his voice ragged, still half asleep.

"What did you take?"

"Sleeping potion." All vowels.

"How many? All these? At the same time?"

"No," he muttered. His face shifted deeper into the pillow, falling into shadow. But he wasn't sleeping anymore, and his hand was still holding onto me with a slight clamminess.

My heart wouldn't calm. I could see now that all he had done these past days was sleep, taking more potion each time he stirred.

Empathy bled through my body, aching, and I leaned down and held him. To touch his body was to be drawn down into his heaviness, warm but stiff. My throat pressed to his shoulder and I rested my cheek on his. His head turned slightly, the sheets rustling, and I held him tighter, angled awkwardly, my ribs pressing into the mattress. My fingers twisted into the hair at the back of his neck and I breathed him in with relief and pain combined.

His hand came up to cradle the back of my neck. "You're not a dream."

"No," I whispered with a small shiver.

His fingers stroked up, slowly weaving into my short hair. "Inescapable creature."

A cold tingle stirred at the base of my spine and was quickly suppressed.

"When was the last time you ate?"

He gave a feeble grunt.

He seemed so frail, like he would disappear the moment I left him; evaporate into darkness and lurk forever in the corners of the house, never to be found or touched again.

"I'm going to get you water," I said, slipping slowly away. His fingers released my arm, his eyes not opening again, and the silence was deeply depressed, as though he were convinced I was a shadow, something he would forget when he woke fully.

I went downstairs, my hands clammy with sweat, found a glass and poured water into it from a pitcher. The wind was low and cold outside, moaning against the glass, and as I stared out at the dark winter woods I had a frightening sense that some terrible entity of flesh and bone would emerge and limp its way over the snow, trailing blood–

I sharply looked away. Such a thing could not come true if I just didn't look.

The glass was full and I set the pitcher down, its weight making my wrist tremble. I was crossing to the kitchen doorway when a loud creak sounded beyond and I stiffened, my heartbeat racing through every joint in my body.

Then it was quiet. Gripping the glass I walked forward and sat that it was Severus, standing on the stairs, his long black dressing gown tied around his body. His black eyes stared at me out of the pallor of his face.

I stood there stiffly as he descended the rest of the way, and walked backward silently as he entered the kitchen. He looked even weaker standing up, as though he might fall over. He came to a stop and we stared at each other silently. I was still holding the water. It felt wrong, the idea of handing it to him, as though to get any closer would defy some code we were meant to follow. I had embraced him upstairs but it was different now we were standing.

I turned and set the glass on the table. "Tea too?" My voice shook.

He didn't respond, and I didn't have it in me to look at him. I went to the range and put the kettle on, my shoulders hard with tension. I could feel his eyes on me.

As I searched for the tea I found a loaf of bread that Molly must have preserved, and sawed off a slice. A chair creaked as Severus sat down, and a moment later a match hissed, and flickering candlelight pressed away the cold blue shadows that dominated the room.

I looked over my shoulder and watched him wave the match out in a curl of smoke, the flame illuminating his sleep-haunted eyes; like two crater pools in a deep, dark wood.

We stood there with that table between us, like a cursed altar, where Poppy had tried and failed to save my fertility. A throb of pain echoed through my ruined womb and I turned away again, clutching the empty teapot while I waited for the water to boil. The room was full of silence and something profound. An awareness of inevitable death, of time and of the primal need for closeness–about which there was nothing tender.

Danger brewed in my pelvis as I poured the water into the pot with the leaves, and carried it and the bread to the table. His fingers curled slightly against his knee as I came close.

I went to the cabinet by the door, finding a healing potion in the shadows. Awareness rushed through my veins as I returned and set the vial on the table. I started to draw away again but he stopped me, his fingers closing around mine. My heart dropped into my belly and I went limply, willingly into his arms.

His face pressed against my chest, inhaling whatever warmth could be found there. One hand splayed over my lower back, the other covered my small belly. My breath swelled against his palm and my fingers went to his hair, pulling him in softly. He shifted, his temple digging into my sternum, and a soft moan turned into steady sobs. His shoulders trembled. The sound was so deep, and yet so frail.

I kept holding him, cradling him, letting him know that there was no reason to be ashamed of his tears.

I stood there, experiencing just how heavy it was to be strong in this simple, yet powerful way. There was no question of leaving him but I had to be careful. I had to give him what he needed without letting myself fade into a breathing ghost.

At last his tears abated, his hands gently stroking my sides as he let me go.

I pulled back slightly, that smallest space between us, and he looked up at me. The candlelight brought out the small ring of amber in his eyes. My hands were still in his hair, and my stomach turned inside out because his lips had parted as though he were about to speak.

I trembled and turned away, his hands slipping from my hips. I took down cups for the tea and brought them to the table, trying to settle my nerves through the familiar task of pouring. His eyes never left me. I could feel them, like fingers whispering over my face, my shoulder, my arm.

I realised I may have rushed into this visit without proper consideration. His power far outweighed mine in my present weakened state, and I could feel his need to consume my heart, pulling on the air like a black hole on gravity itself.

But the trembling in my hands was worth withstanding when I thought of what would have happened had I not been brave–or rash–enough to come. Him sleeping alone, into oblivion.

I set the teapot down, steam rising from the cups, and I shivered as the cold wind whined outside. I kept my eyes down, my heart stuttering, unable to return his gaze.

For a house meant to be ours, we'd spent precious little time here. Such a long time since my nightmarish vision of Andromeda, the creatures' first victim. There had been a constant sense of danger after that night, and after Hallowe'en it had been one mission after another. I couldn't remember how to be quiet with him; how to exist without the pressure of going somewhere, searching for someone, keeping each other safe.

Much needed to be said. Loads. But there was no way to put any of it into words.

I was still staring at the table when his hand entered my frame of vision, palm upward, offering itself. I took it and a slight tremor ran up my arm.

"You're so cold," I said.

With my free hand I pushed his teacup towards him. He glanced down, unfolded his cold fingers from mine and finally drank. He shuddered but continued, holding the small cup in his hands. I stood back, pressing my own hands to my chest, seeking the warmth there.

A small age passed before he set the cup on the table again, and looked up at me. The space between us was tense, and my organs twisted into knots.

His voice was hoarse and deeper than ever from so much sleep. "Why did you come here?"

"I had a bad feeling," I whispered. Then, more honestly, "I needed you."

He hardened his eyes. "And do you regret coming, now?"

Despite his cold tone there was no defensiveness left inside me, and my voice was as quiet as before. "I couldn't stop thinking about you."

He pinned me ruthlessly with his black gaze and I looked down, ashamed, trying to breathe and remember how he'd held me, how he'd needed me just moments before.

The air was suspended for a moment as we both held our breath. Then he let out a low, ragged sigh. "If you think I haven't thought of you…" He reached for my hand again. "You're there, even in my deepest, dreamless sleep. You're there."

I heard the lingering frustration in his voice, the blame, as though I'd meant to plant myself there at the root of his mind.

A pause.

Then his thumb brushed over my skin, and I knew it was his silent way of apologising. Severus softly pulled my hand, my spine bent, and then my lips were pressed to his hair. I breathed him in and my cheek caressed his temple–he should have been stopping me–my belly was twisting with nerves–but he wasn't stopping me. His nose brushed mine and then, without meaning to, it became a weak and trembling kiss.

It was possibly the softest kiss we had ever shared.

I was numb at first, my dry lips pressed to his. I could feel him trembling. The staleness of his breath.

His fingers wrapped around my arms, above my elbows, and cold shivers coursed down my spine, pooling in my belly. For a moment he lingered on the line between pulling me closer and pushing me away, his lips pressing more firmly into mine. Then a hoarse whimper scampered up my throat and he chose the latter, his fingers squeezing my skin. "No," he whispered sharply, his breath hitting my cheek.

The cold felt deeper, and with a stuttering of heart against ribs I escaped him, stepping into the other room. My feet carried me to the window and I caught my breath, looking out at the moon over the orchard and rubbing my arms, remembering the feeling of his fingertips pressing in.

His footsteps followed soon, and I stiffened as he touched my arm. "Did I…" he said, looking as though he was checking for bruises. I shook my head and he gave a soft breath, bringing me closer, his palm cupping my elbow. I trembled, thinking he might kiss me again, but he only rested his cheek atop my head, his breath sending the short hairs fluttering.

I stood stiffly in that awkward pose of strained intimacy, and looked out at the snowy orchard through the corner of my eye.

I spoke out of necessity. "We have to remember the apple harvest next autumn."

Silence stretched out, full of terrible emptiness. I could feel the breath held in his chest.

"Sit down," he said.

I did, backing into the corner of the sofa and hugging my knees. Shame washed over me. I was supposed to be taking care of him. But my weakness had been exposed.

He lit the fire with a slow wave of his hand through the air, his wandless magic still functioning as ever. I felt another flare of jealousy as I watched him sit down at the other end of the sofa.

His eyes stared darkly at the flames. "I am married to Frederi–"

"I know," I interrupted, unable to bear the pain of her name. "You've told me."

His voice held no sternness, only a blank void of deep sound. "Yet you seem to have forgotten."

"Why would I have forgotten?"

"Because you are here. Why won't you take one of the myriad opportunities I've given you to escape me."

Again there was a resounding silence beneath the crackling of the flames. We'd come so close to reading each other's thoughts, and I knew he could sense my feelings without my translating them into words. His black eyes burned and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to his hands.

Now a hoarseness crept into his voice. "I don't want to touch her. I need you to know that."

I looked away, my face draining, nausea bubbling in my throat. The faintest idea of him with another woman made me feel awful. More awful than I'd expected. He would have to be with her every month for many years, now. To have children with her. She would be able to give him children. Such a tall and beautiful woman…

All the tears were caught together in my throat, forming a lump. "Are you going to try to love her?"

An iceberg of questions dwelled under that one. Would he kneel between her legs? Would she live in this house? Would he pick apples with her?

The air tensed and I saw his hand clench into a weak fist. "Why would I do… a foolish thing like that."

I stared bitterly at his black hair, the months of pain pressing heavily on my heart. I held back tears and blinked back the intrusive memories of how it had felt when he'd been beside me, inside me… "It doesn't mean anything anyway."

He gave no answer, sat there like a statue. I stood up to escape again but as I was passing him his hand reached out and closed around my wrist, stopping me. A violent flinch shot through my body and his fingers opened; closing again, more softly, around my hand.

The tears started then, and he pulled me into him, guiding me down gently into his lap. I knew whatever came next would hurt whether he held me or not, so I let him hold me. His forearm pressed along my spine like a strong tree trunk, his fingers the roots, keeping me warm and safe. For just a little while longer.

I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in the warmth of his neck. I wanted so badly to remain there through the night, feeling his closeness. To fall asleep.

Eventually I stopped sniffling, and the words came to me. "When you're holding me," I whispered, "and we're both naked, you're one person. And any other time, you're completely different."

His hand stilled on its journey from my shoulder to my hip and his voice was dark with resolve. "We will not be naked any more."

Spite blazed its way up from my injured insides. "Is that the reason you want me to go? Because I can't…"

"I am twice your age," he insisted. "It is inappropriate."

"You didn't think that when I was in your bed."

His tone grew harsher. "What if I did."

"Then you should have acted like it."

His arms unwound from me and I pulled away too. It suddenly felt dangerous to be so close. "It was forced, then," he said, voice edged with a growl. "You would never have wanted me."

"But later, when it wasn't? When I did want you… And you…"

Doubt ran through me. What if he hadn't really wanted me?

But with my next breath came clarity. I knew he had.

Neither of us spoke for a long time, each breath seeming to last an eternity.

"We are avoiding…" His voice caught, and for a terrible moment I thought he would break again. Then he swallowed and continued in a low whisper. "The fact that you have been deeply injured."

My eyes welled with tears but my body was numb.

His hand softly brushed against my shoulder, breaking my heart. "You should be in bed, being cared for."

Immense grief weighed down his dark eyes and I spread my palm across his chest, trembling at my own insufficiency. Deep unease trickled down my spine as a dead part of myself yearned to be resurrected, and failed. "I'll do anything for you," I breathed, speaking even as my words made my stomach turn. "If you need me… I'll try…"

His hand closed around mine and pulled it away. That old anger flared up, contained behind gritted teeth, sharp eyes. "Are you mad?" he hissed. "No. I would not touch you. Even if there was the faintest possibility."

My heart burned with pain. "Right, because you've got your wife to touch you now."

His voice darkened, his hands wrapping around my arms again, making sure I listened. "Did you not hear me say I want nothing to do with her?"

My eyes stung in the way that meant I was going to cry. I slipped away from him and stood by the frosty window, shivering as the hot, silent tears rolled down.

All the grief and trauma caught up to me then. The hours I'd spent in bed hadn't given me rest, let alone peace, and now his energy was vibrating through me, leaving me hollow and confused and in pain.

"I stand by what I said after your trial," he continued, his voice even and emotionless. "It is not right that I should… suffocate you. You are a capable witch. An exceptional witch. You have to come into your power."

"I don't want to be powerful."

"Are you even aware of what you did?" he snapped. "What you are capable of?"

In the silence I remembered those moments when my magic had extended beyond myself. When I had been deadly. I was terrified of that person, looking back.

"I was just trying to survive," I whispered.

Self-loathing wound around my throat like choking vines, and I held my breath, staring out at the snow.

The floor gave a soft creak and Severus came up behind me, his presence still and firm. "Don't think I'm disgusted by what you did. I'd have skinned them myself."

I turned and looked at him, my very core protesting against the image. My wide eyes met his and there was such blackness there, such darkness, all the things he'd seen and done crawling up from the depths. I shrank away, my spine touching the freezing glass of the window.

Then the danger I'd perceived melted away, his eyes going soft and sad. "That… is the proper reaction."

He turned away and went back to the kitchen.

I stood there for a moment, paralysed. Then I followed him, a quiet anger simmering in my stomach. My hips were aching now and I leaned weakly in the doorway, a thin sweat breaking out on my chest.

He stood there as cold as ever, black fabric falling from his shoulders as he poured more tea from the pot.

"If you had any comprehension of your worth, you'd turn from me without a backward glance."

A shiver rolled through me, and I felt sick at the word. Worth. It summoned up those images, heavy bodies pressed over me, splitting me from inside. Taking everything.

"Don't talk to me about worth," I said, my voice dark with fury, eyes boring into his back.

He turned, setting the teapot down. Remorse poured over his face. He seemed to see my thoughts instantly. "I didn't mean it that way."

"I don't care," I growled, anger splitting my throat.

"I didn't mean to objectify you."

I crossed my arms, my eyes burning.

He came nearer, like a solid shadow in the candlelit room. I hardened, my shoulders rounding into a shell, my jaw solid as a rock. My breath froze inside me as he rested his hand on my shoulder, and I hunched away.

At my movement he hesitated, and only his fingertips lingered.

He gave a dark, heavy sigh. "I shouldn't be touching you, should I. Please forgive me."

He kept alternating between pushing me away and cradling me, quick as a Snitch, and I couldn't take it anymore. I turned on him, hissing. "Choose one for fuck's sake! Choose one side of you and just… Stop tearing me apart!"

His eyes went cold. The accusation hung in the air, and I was terrified now that he would obey me and push me away for good.

Then there was a softening in his expression, and a heartbroken tenderness radiated from his body, which somehow hurt more.

He didn't touch me again, but his gaze roamed down over my body, as though taking in each part and assessing whether it was in pain.

"How is your hand?" he asked.

"My hand?"

He looked at me meaningfully and I remembered how my hand had been burned by my wand in the process of destroying the stone.

It seemed like so long ago now. I certainly hadn't thought about my hand, or felt it hurting. But when I looked at it now, the shadows falling through my fingers and turning them skeletal, I realised my palm remained slightly numb, only tingling a bit when I flexed my hand. I'd been distracted enough by my other pain not to notice it. But Severus had remembered.

He turned and went to the cabinet in the corner, the soft sounds of vials and bottles clinking, and brought out the small tin of salve he had used on me when we'd been in Shetland. I stood there, my body split between the kitchen and that cold moorland, remembering George.

"May I?"

I nodded and he took my hand, carefully rubbing the ointment into my palm, his thumb covering the lines in my skin. It tingled and a shiver went down my spine at the simple circling motion. Severus looked down at me, his eyes quiet but intent.

I glanced away, staring at the candle. I could hear his quiet breathing, and I secretly savoured this moment when touch felt good, felt right and safe.

But underneath the silence lurked something I couldn't ignore. A sureness that this would not last. We were fighting the inevitable, and I felt trapped by certain premonition that this would end with me leaving here.

Severus pressed his thumb into my palm again, and slipped the small tin into my pocket. "Once a day."

I couldn't bring myself to nod, because to nod would have been to give in to going.

I stared at the crisp line between his black dressing gown and his white shirt, my ribs tightening around the struggle inside.

Why was I really here? What did I want?

Did I really want to stay, when it was so clear he thought I should go?

Was that in both our best interests?

Was Remus waiting for me?

Did I want him?

I couldn't answer any of my own questions, overwhelmed with shame.

"Wilma…"

I looked up then, because it was the first time in all this that he'd used my name, and there was something different in his voice; tired and unguarded.

I watched him swallow.

"I need to be alone."

His eyes were clearer than before. In them I could see the exhaustion of his long sleep. I could feel it radiating from his body, and my very bones resounded with guilt.

A cloud of dark thoughts invaded my mind, forming from the oceans of my pain. I was unaccustomed to such thoughts but I submitted without a fight.

I was being a burden. He resented me. I should go away and give him what he'd so clearly asked for… but I was too selfish to let him go. There was part of my soul so tightly wound around him that it would never come free, not ever. If he wanted me gone it would have to be chopped off–severed.

I was scared.

I wanted to wrap my arms around him, but he seemed to detect the impulse before I could act on it, and held his hand against my shoulder, keeping me back.

"I don't understand you." His voice was almost a whisper, but undercut with a dark frustration. "You grieved and pined for him even after he'd been gone for longer than you were with him. And now you're not content with him?"

His voice was painted with grief and I realised how much I'd hurt him. I couldn't breathe, his hand on my shoulder turning me to stone.

He took a steadying breath, his eyes closing with effort, as though he were holding back a storm of anger.

"Has he removed my scent from you now?" he said darkly.

I trembled and stepped away, his hand slipping easily from my shoulder. I hugged my elbows, standing in the flickering shadows. "Don't talk about him like that. He's a human being."

He looked up at me, his eyes sharper now. "Did you spend the full moon with him?"

I couldn't lie, even with my expression, and he saw the answer before I could speak it.

"He is dangerous. He could–"

"He had the potion."

He turned abruptly, his hand gripping the back of the chair firmly, knuckles white. "Even so."

There were a host of emotions trapped beneath the ice of his face. I could feel them writhing to get out.

When he next spoke his voice had grown hoarse. "How can you care for me when I've failed to protect you."

My throat was numb. "It wasn't your fault," I rasped. "It wasn't your responsibility."

"It was my responsibility." He scowled, his head bowed, both hands gripping the chair now. "Why couldn't you just stay put."

The effort he must've put into leaving me behind washed through the room. Of course it had hurt him, too, to push me away. Now here I was, putting him through it all over again. It felt like being torn apart. A grimy, hopeless feeling inside.

Tears welled up in my eyes and slipped down my face the next moment. I couldn't stop them, and when my voice emerged, pouring out the contents of my heart, it wavered with the candle flame.

"I don't want to let that little distance get in the way. Not anymore."

He turned to look at me, his eyes as black as midnight. "What little distance."

"The little distance between people. All people… But it hurt me more with you. And I think it hurt you too. I'm tired of being hurt, Sev. I just want to love."

I lifted my wrist and wiped at the snot running from my nose. I looked up at him with a silent plea, and for once his eyes became gentle, understanding. I sobbed, already going to him, and this time he didn't stop me. He let me into his arms and as my face buried into his chest the floodgates opened entirely, my frail body shaking against his.

A moment of suspension. Then his fingers slid through my short hair and his hands pulled me closer, and I could tell he was crying too. My shoulders shook, my nose hot and my mouth wet. "I can't leave you alone."

His voice was choked. "I have always been alone."

"Even when it was good between us?"

No answer.

I pulled back, but he'd closed his eyes, and all I could see were the tears running down his face, like wax down a candle. I shuddered at the memory of my legs, bathed in red, and clamped my eyes shut, squeezing him tightly again.

We just stood there as the tears slowly faded.

We kept holding each other but it wasn't easy anymore. The tension between our bodies made it feel like we were fighting, grappling while standing still, our hearts in brutal constraint.

The silence was excruciating.

Severus was the one to break it. He spoke in a very even, low voice. Almost a murmur, but too pained to be called a word so soft.

"You need to go home."

My face stretched with more tears and I hugged him harder. "When will I see you?"

He couldn't answer.

We both knew we would see each other again. It would be impossible not to. After all, we had the rest of our lives. However long they would be. We just didn't know how much time would pass before our paths crossed. Under what circumstances.

A swooping panic dropped through my stomach.

"Please," I whispered frantically.

"No." His voice was growing in firmness.

"I need you."

"No."

My hands were trembling too much to cling on, and it was too easy for him to push me away, leading me by the arm to the fireplace. He took down the small jar of floo powder from the mantel and I started shivering.

"Are you going to drink the tea?"

He nodded his head, avoiding my eyes.

"Are you going to sleep again?"

He shook his head.

"Do… something… Just… Be okay…"

He lifted the lid from the jar and held it out to me. I just stared at it, more tears welling in my eyes.

"Goodbye," he said, with finality.

Every joint in my body was weak. "Why?"

He shook his head and held the jar closer. "Go. Now."

This time it wasn't clinging, it was a weak hanging-on, my arms aching from it, my sobs weak, nearly soundless. The jar fell to the floor as I stumbled into him, the ashes spilling across the rug. "I can't go," I moaned.

He gave a heavy sigh, his voice full of frustration but his hands gentle on my shoulders. "You're going to be alright."

"No, I'm not… I'm not okay…"

Though his hands moved to cradle my head, his wall was up again. I could feel it, as real as stone scraping my skin as I tried to scale it.

"You're hurting me!" A strangled cry into his chest.

I could hear the held tears in his voice. "I'm sorry."

"If you're sorry, let me stay!"

"You don't want me."

"I do!"

"You don't need me."

"I do, you stubborn bastard!"

"Shh…"

I held him for as long as I could, loosing deep, burning cries into his black fabric, wishing I could crawl inside him and stay there.

"Let go," he said.

I couldn't.

He gave a deep sigh and let me stay there until I quieted and my arms became too weak. Only then did he push me away.

"This is what's best."

I had no more strength to fight with words. No more strength to fight with my body.

He waved his hand and restored the spilt powder to the jar. The tiny grains made the sound of snow being shaken from a tree branch.

He took out a palmful, still holding me, and tossed it into the fire. The flames glowed green and, gently, he manoeuvred me onto the hearth. A shadow of the way he'd forced me from his office after my hair turned white. But this time there were no hateful words, no violence. Only the ocean of his breath, his lips pressed to my hair, his hand wrapped around my arm.

"I still love you," he whispered, as the flames licked my ankles. The sound was tight with pain, and I could feel everything ending.

I stood there in the flames and stared at him as his hands abandoned me, my body responding with numbness to the storm of emotions inside it. Disbelief.

Tears streamed down his face.

"You have to say it."

His voice was deep and ragged, like it was in the mornings.

I wanted to be a child, wanted to refuse, wanted to let the time run out and force him to throw more and more powder in until there was none left.

Instead my traitorous lungs worked for me, letting in a tremulous breath.

"B-Burrow," I heard myself whisper.

Time slowed as the flames swelled to carry me away.

I stood there looking at him until I could see him no longer, and his own deep cry of pain echoed after me through the whirling dark.

I stepped into the empty sitting room dazed with shock, my eyes swollen from tears.

My chest was hurting, splitting apart. My life might have been ending for how much it hurt.

Remus stepped through the doorway, his blue eyes dark with anxiety, yet gentle. "Did he hurt you?"

I just stood there, cold and still.

Andromeda appeared beside him and came to me, but I shied from her touch.

I didn't know how I got to the stairs but no-one stopped me as I climbed them, my hips burning, my heart broken and hollow.

Pouncer was waiting for me on my bed, like he had known.

I burrowed under my quilt and he crawled under with me, purring in the warm darkness, his whiskers on my neck. I hugged him tight and he let me, and I silently cried myself to sleep.