The light had long since faded from the sky when Severus Snape finally kept the promise to the wife he had temporarily forsaken. Grimmauld Place was as he remembered it, right down to the penetrating stench of the sewer that ran beneath the old streets, and he hurried towards the place he knew the old headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix to be. The longer he spent in the open, the longer there was a risk to his safety, and Apparation itself was becoming more hazardous by the day. But here he was, unharried by either side, and the faded grandeur of the black Georgian door was beginning to make itself known.
He reached out to knock lightly at the paint but looked down in amazement as the door coughed out a small key that fell at his feet with a tinny clatter. His fraught nerves were jarred even further by this unexpected turn of events and, as he reached down to collect the house’s gift, he felt the beginnings of panic set in. Maeve should have been here to open the flaked door with a welcome etched in the soft lines of her smile. But perhaps she was in bed. He had, after all, told her not to wait up. Although a glance at his watch told him it was only eight o’clock and he was sure she would have waited up until at least ten. Fidgeting the key into the lock, he knew that for this house to spit out such an obvious means of entry was extraordinary. What event had prompted this, he wondered, as he pushed open the door and dashed through into the hallway.
Heedless of the shade that was old Mrs Black, who slumbered behind her moth-eaten curtain, he bellowed Maeve’s name into the murk. Instantly the curtains flew apart and the wizened creature’s face began screaming obscenities into the silence. Disregarding her completely, and therefore depriving her of the only audience she had, which caused her to lapse back into a begrudging silence, he caught the scent of something poisonous in the air and followed his well-equipped nose towards the source. With Mrs Black muttering in the background about how insufferably rude he was for not listening to her complaints, he approached the kitchen door, telling himself that the smell that assailed him was merely the results of Maeve’s attempts at cooking. Cooking, in itself, required the same set of skills as Potion making and should have been a simple task for her, and yet, for some reason, Maeve never quite managed to get it right. But he knew by the itching sensation of gooseflesh up his arms that much worse than a burnt pan would face him when he entered the room.
As soon as the door opened and he was allowed a view of the room, he knew exactly what had happened. He had no idea, none whatsoever, how his wife had managed to trip over a Horcrux in the safety of Grimmauld Place, but trip over one she obviously had. Her face was ripped in the same way it had been at the Shrieking Shack, flaps of skin loose, and her hands were at her neck, seemingly trying to rip that damned necklace from her throat. Bending to her limp form, he could see that her chest appeared completely still and he felt numbed by the possibilities of what might be happening. He did not know how long she had been like this, or what the fragment of soul had actually done to her before it had been banished into the ether. The power contained on Maeve’s person was sufficient to deal with the collision of another, weaker, piece of Voldemort’s soul but what price it may have demanded had this piece been stronger than the last, he could only speculate upon.
She was not breathing, of that he could be sure. His hand rested on her still chest as he bent to her mouth to feel for the expulsion of air. But breathing, while important, was not the end of a witch's life in itself. Somewhere on her torn body he could feel a fragment of her life force still squirming, pleading for help. Withdrawing his wand he began to work, steadily and with a single-mindedness that precluded all else.
“I think we could have waited,” Ron complained, as they moved through the dark evening towards the place that Hermione had insisted the cemetery would be. “It’s not like Regulus Black is just going to pop out of his grave and offer us the right answers now, is it?”
“I just want to see the place,” Harry said. “Better get it out of the way, and the less teachers that are around the better.”
Hermione led them, feet finding the now familiar path even in the ill-lit gloom. She resisted the urge to tell them to be quiet, trusting to the assumption that no one would be around at this time of night. She had yet to encounter anyone on this route anyway, let alone in the cemetery. It seemed the wizarding world had better things to do than worry about visiting their dead, when so many of the living were dying.
“I still think early morning would have been better than late night,” he grumbled, more to himself than anyone else. “There’s bound to be spiders and things lurking in these trees.” He eyed the low branches anxiously, expecting to see Aragog’s descendants emerge from the spindly arms of the wintry trees.
“The trees disperse soon,” Hermione informed him. “And once we get to the wall that circles the cemetery you’ll be safe enough from creatures. The cemetery is charmed to keep wildlife out, and that includes bugs. The grass is enchanted to remain green and trimmed all year round, to save people having to do it by hand and disturb any mourners, I suppose.”
“And how do you know all this?” Ron asked, and then he immediately groaned. “Don’t tell me; Hogwarts, a Bloody History.”
“Actually it wasn’t. It was a book about wizarding cemeteries and their construction.” She gave him a little satisfied smile that made Ron pull a face and turn his attention back to Harry.
“So what are you expecting to find?” Ron slowed down to wait for Harry to catch up with him.
“I dunno,” Harry admitted. “But then I don’t know very much about any of this and I don’t think I’m doing a great job so far. We’ve only found one Horcrux and Voldemort’s getting stronger all the time.”
“I hope this isn’t going to one of your moments of doom, mate,” Ron said in a light-hearted tone. “One Horcrux is better than none and it’s not like we haven’t done anything.”
“It’s Hermione that’s done all the work,” Harry said generously. “Without her research we wouldn’t be any the wiser.”
Hermione had stopped and was now waiting for them, readying herself to turn along a different path. She knew they were almost there and the rarefied atmosphere of the cemetery was already making her feel calmer. “Come on,” she urged, jollying them along. “Almost there and then you’ll see what I mean about the air in this place.”
“You know, Hermione, that’s a bit fanciful for you.” Ron grinned at Harry, who nodded his head.
“Ron’s right. Next thing you’ll be going on about how sweet the birdsong is and you’ll be getting mushy on us.”
Hermione treated them to a good bit of eye rolling before heading off towards the white wall that was emerging like a wide, flat moon from the darkness in front of them. As soon as Ron and Harry were abreast of her, they all walked towards the wrought iron gate that formed the link between the two ends of the wall. Hermione raised her hand and the gate moved magically inward without the need for latch or key. Soundlessly, they moved into the grassed area, the gravestones rising from the close-cropped carpet like small splinters of ivory. The place was gently lit from a source that was indiscernible, and in the bathing white light they realized they were not alone. Walking along the third row of graves, its head bowed and a cloak hiding its face, a figure moved slowly towards the furthermost gravestone. It was a short, stocky figure that none of them recognized, and Hermione was immediately anxious lest they should be seen.
“It’s okay,” Harry whispered, as she voiced her concern. “I have my cloak with me.” Reaching a hand up his sweater, he pulled out the mercurial fabric that formed his Invisibility Cloak and threw it over their heads. Relieved by the sudden anonymity, Hermione began to express some interest in the identity of their unexpected companion. She had never seen anyone here before, had almost begun to believe that she was the only person in the school who had any idea how to get into the place.
“What if it’s Filch?” Ron asked, not too unhappy with Hermione's unexpected close proximity.
“What would Filch be doing here?” Harry replied. “It’s not like he’d have any relatives buried in this place, is it?”
“You don’t know that,” Hermione said. “And keep your voices down. I get the feeling that whoever it is doesn’t want to be disturbed. Maybe it’s another teacher.”
“It’s too small for any of them, and it’s too big for Flitwick,” Ron observed. “Besides, why would a teacher be sneaking around?”
“Hang on,” Hermione hissed, pulling them both back. “Whoever it is, they’re heading back.”
And sure enough, the figure had paused by the end grave, ran a hand over the cool marbled edge of the stone, and was now returning the way it had come, its tweed, torn cloak dragging at its heels. Hermione clutched Ron’s arm as they huddled beneath the Invisibility Cloak, pulling him closer to her and causing the unfortunate Ron to wince with discomfort at his predicament. Being close to Hermione was one thing, but being close to her with Harry in the vicinity was not altogether welcome.
Harry was too busy concentrating on the approaching figure to take much notice of what his friends were doing. His breath became shallow as the shape drew closer and closer, and he tried desperately to get a glimpse of the face that was concealed by the hood, but it was impossible. The creature must have been looking through the smallest of openings to navigate its way from the cemetery. As it passed them it paused and cocked its head into the air, as if searching for something. When it failed to find it, it moved away and towards the gate, the cloak’s skirts catching on a low-hanging branch and pulling it back. Harry chose that moment to lose his footing and stumble over Ron, a desperate scramble to remain concealed ensued and in the melee not one of them noticed the silver hand that reached out to tug at the cloth and pull it back around the figure’s head.
“For goodness’ sake, Harry!” Hermione remonstrated. “You know how to pick your moments to fall over. I really think we ought to be getting back. It’s only a piece of stone anyway, not worth getting into any more trouble for,”
“We’re here now,” Ron said, glad to be relieved of the Invisibility Cloak, “may as well finish the job. And considering you’ve not stopped going on about this bloody grave for ages, least we could do is take a look.”
“Ron’s right,” Harry agreed. “Which is it?” He looked out at the corralled graves and waited for Hermione to lead them to the right one.
But when they got there they found that Hermione had been right; it was just a pale stone bearing a carefully carved inscription that told them nothing. Their late night excursion had been in vain and they had almost been caught in a place that would surely be deemed out of bounds. Harry once again felt the tight limits of the school around him and wondered if he had done the right thing coming back to a place he no longer felt at home in. A grave was just a grave; secrets were not to be found there.
The kitchen reeked of magic. The walls were soaked with unspoken spells that were all that kept Severus' wife's battered body from the next world. He worked feverishly, silently chanting incantations and wielding his wand with a purpose that surprised even him, with his general dismissive attitude to foolish wand waving. Suddenly it didn’t seem remotely foolish.
Although the facial wounds appeared to be the worst, he ignored them in favour of the more serious darkness that gnawed at her heart, paralyzing her. This was really Healer’s work, a task better suited to the starched wards and controlled atmosphere of St Mungo’s, but there was no time. Severus was almost immobilized by his crushing fear, made utterly vulnerable by the prospect of a loss that would be unbearable. And he could have summoned help. He knew that Lupin would be at his side in an instant if he thought there was danger to the woman that lay limp at his feet, but Lupin would be a hindrance rather than a help now. Only the feverish spell-weaving and concentration of a love under threat could help. His brows meshed together as he focused, focused a mind already weakened by years of duplicity at a task that was the most important he had ever undertaken.
Just ten minutes after he had arrived, the last words of a final, precautionary invocation slipped from his mind and he knew he had done all he could do. If Maeve wanted to live, it was within her to do so. If she truly wanted to battle the dire anger that had taken up temporary residence in her heart, she would. But would she do it for him? Was he enough to raise her strength?
He slumped back against the kitchen cupboards, not wanting to touch her, not wanting to feel her coldness or her life leaving her body if he had failed and she decided to leave him. Silence reigned in the hollow room, a silence that stealthily robbed him of all sense of time or place. He cowered away from the body of his wife and willed something, anything, to happen. When it finally did, it was the last thing he could have expected.
Light filled the room and the door rattled on its hinges as Lugh Lamfada strode in, his face angered and his shoulders set hard against the man before him. In his few meetings with his father-in-law, Severus had never seen him quite this angry. Flecks of fire erupted from the man’s eyes and Severus had the grace to look away, back towards his wife.
“You allowed her to come here on her own!” he said, the accusatory tone making Severus flinch. “You knew that danger was everywhere and yet you allowed her to come to this place alone.”
“She insisted,” Severus said, his voice empty. “I had things to…” But he broke off, knowing that to try and hoodwink a man like Lugh was futile. “I did not want to come here at all,” he admitted. “This place contains memories.”
“We are nothing but memory,” Lugh replied, ignoring his stricken daughter. “You shy away from remembrance and bring about even worse recollections. What was it she touched? What tarnished object collided with her own?”
“I don’t know,” Severus admitted. In the rush to save her he had not even given a thought to what it was that had been a Horcrux.
Lugh cast his eyes to the floor and their sharp pupils immediately picked up on the now perfect key that lay by the table’s solid leg. He cradled it in his large hands for a moment before handing it to Severus, who had now risen from the floor.
“Is it known to you?” he asked and Severus nodded slowly.
“It is the key to the front door of Darkacre.” He turned it over a few times, as if expecting it to reveal something other than the fact it was just a key. The blackness of the ravens made his skin crawl, remembering the brooding house and his responsibility for it. “How could this have been a Horcrux?” But he knew. There were only three keys to that ancient front door, a door that was not original to the house. His father had bought it in Borgin and Burkes many years previously and had been particularly proud of the raven carvings on the wood and the lock’s keys. This one had been lost many years ago on a fateful night - the fateful night - when Potter had received his mark. It had been lost in a small village and now Severus knew that in losing it he had made sure it received its own particular curse.
“And what is it doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Severus snapped. “It was lost at Godric’s Hollow on the night the Potters died. It may have been used after James Potter was killed. Perhaps the Dark Lord thought it fitting.”
“You have failed my daughter,” Lugh said, his voice chilly despite its natural heat. “I did not expect that of you.”
“I often disappoint expectations.” Severus turned his attention back to Maeve and lifted her from the floor, deciding he needed her protection against the frigidity of her father. “And while you are dealing out your disappointed frowns, I would like to make what’s left of my wife comfortable. It seems that she has once again become a tool in your eyes. You have not stooped to verify her health.”
Lugh narrowed his scorching eyes and still did not look at his daughter. “She will drag herself through this. Your weak wizard’s spells are emboldened when there is real love behind them. You do not need me to restore her vitality this time.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To ensure that this does not happen again; and it will NOT happen again.” He brooked no argument as he finally threw a glance at his daughter, a glance that was tempered with love. “She is no pawn to me. She is my child. You will keep her safe, Severus Snape, or you will have me to deal with. And you will NEVER allow her to travel alone again.” He turned away and paused. “Give her your strength tonight. The way back will not be easy for her and she will feel much pain. Riddle’s potency lies in his hatred and fear and that hatred and fear will thrive on her love and desire. Keep her close.”
And he was gone. No fanfare announced his departure, no door rattle or sighing wind. He just vanished.
Severus felt her dead weight press against his arms and felt the pressure of years spent without her crowd around him. He was rudderless with her gone, aimless and vacant and stupefied. And he hated himself for it. Hated the part of him that was weak enough to love another. But he felt the fall of her hair across his arm, the curve of her hip against his own, and his doubts were routed from his achingly tired brain.
This woman was his future and without her he would be swept away by the needs and concerns of the wider world. All the minutiae of life mattered when she was here ” he mattered. They could exist independently of the world if they so chose, and this utter dependency both terrified him and excited him. He could not walk away from her again.
Stumbling through corridors that were ill-lit, he made his way to one of the bedrooms and placed her body on the bed. Holding her close he once again used his wand to repair the wounds that were at her face, not knowing this time if he could stave off the scarring. He succeeded in repairing the skin but could not quite staunch the softly seeping blood. He allowed her to fall back, watching her limbs drape themselves into a semblance of normality he removed his outer robes and sat on the bed, waiting, watching. The greyness of the room overtook his dulled senses and caused his eyelids to droop, but he wrenched them open time and time again to take in her unquiet beauty.
He eventually drifted into a weary sleep and was only vaguely aware of the moans that haunted his dreams. But the piercing scream that called to him caused him to leap into wakefulness and he looked to her newly-scarred face with horror. Terrified brown eyes looked at him, seeing beyond him and into a vista that was filled with the darkest imaginings of a tormented soul. His sweat-laden brow was furrowed as he realized that the second Horcrux had exacted a greater price than the first. She was absorbing it, and it seemed to be feeding on her as she battled the demons of Voldemort’s soul.
And this should have been Potter’s job, he thought bitterly. But they had deemed him too young to fight the preliminary skirmishes; too hasty, too rash.
He caught the sweep of her hand as it raised itself against some unknown assailant. She fought him, felt the burden of him on her as she tried to expel the hatred that was in her.
“MAEVE!” he pleaded, thinking that volume would attract her rather than the peace of a calm voice.
She screamed in response and drew away. Pulling herself further into the darkness that had impinged upon her, she couldn’t see her husband, couldn’t see the love that was hers. She could just feel the ice of a hatred borne for many years in the heart of someone who was far removed from her.
“Maeve,” he repeated, calmer, more controlled. “Maeve, whatever you see, it is not real. It is the Horcruxes, the soul fragments. It is the Dark Lord’s corruption. He has stained your mind and you must fight it.” She was pulling away, crawling up the bed and pressing herself against the headboard in agitation. “This is not real! It is him, but you can get rid of him if you try. The Dark Lord should not cling to you.” She stared at him blankly. “Voldemort is naught compared to the power within you.”
And then Maeve saw him, heard him, cried for him, as the word Voldemort struck her consciousness. Tears threw themselves, reckless, down her wounded face. She slid down into a crumpled heap on the bed and he reached for her, tentative at first and then gradually more urgent, pulling her to him.
In the must of the fading room they clung tightly to one another. Maeve allowed the wickedness in her vision to clear, the hangover of the destroyed soul trying to cling on and failing as she absorbed the heat from her husband’s body. Eventually, as the night died around them and dawn raised her victorious head, Maeve succumbed to the comfort of Severus' company and fell asleep against his reddened shirt. Her blood still seeped from the wounds and he let them seep, some part of him hoping that with the seepage some of the blackness of Voldemort’s soul would depart too.
As light taunted their weary heads, Maeve moved against him and felt the safety of his arms. Her sight was clear and she could see lightness and not shade. She could see his haggard face and long nose tightened in sleep and wanted to dispel the tiredness. This would all pass, it had to. But she knew now what had happened, knew instinctively that it had been a Horcrux. And Maeve wondered if she could handle another. Wondered what drew them to her with such surety.
Harry slept well, despite the inconclusive visit to the Hogwarts cemetery. He woke to a day that would be filled with lessons, something he had never expected to happen this year. His first of the morning was with Remus, and he approached the classroom with a sense of anticipation. Their work on non-verbal spells, that had been covered the previous year, was to now extend to wandless magic. The depleted body of pupils waited patiently outside the classroom for their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, who was uncharacteristically late. The corridors felt particularly cold, as if the year had woken up to the fact that the days were now considerably shorter and should be correspondingly chillier. Seamus was wearing a thick jumper beneath his robes and was smiling in a very smug way at Neville, who was flapping his arms in an attempt to warm himself up.
“Maybe Luna was wrong,” Ron said, looking both ways along the corridor to try and spot the tatty figure of Remus Lupin. “After all, she did say he had a woman with him and that they were snogging.”
“You know, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that Professor Lupin would have a girlfriend,” Hermione pointed out. “After all, Professor Snape now has a wife.”
Harry gave his usual scowl at the mention of Severus Snape and snapped at Neville to stop acting like a bewildered chicken and keep his arms still. Neville looked slightly hurt and turned his back on Harry to strike up a conversation with Seamus. “Well, I just wish he’d hurry up,” Harry said to no one in particular. “It’ll be warmer in there than out here.” He nodded towards the classroom.
“Maybe we should just go in,” Ron suggested. “It’s not a rule that we have to wait out in the cold for a teacher, is it?”
“Hang on,” Seamus said, “I reckon I can hear him now.”
And sure enough there was a sound of hurried footsteps and Remus’ slightly red face came into sight. He puffed a little as he approached them and gave a rueful smile before opening the door to the classroom.
“Sorry, sorry,” he apologised, ushering them in. “An unexpected owl arrived and required attention.” He gave Harry a loaded look that made him hang back until the others had filed into the room.
“Anything important?” he asked hopefully.
“I’ll speak with you about it later,” Remus promised, glancing around to make sure they would not be over heard “But it’s good news. Another one has gone.”
“Another?” The full question was left unasked; the look on Remus’ face enough to confirm Harry’s suspicions. “But how?”
“Maeve, but I can’t really explain much now. The owl was very brief and had only sketchy details. But she’s all right and the thing is destroyed.”
“But she’s at Grimmauld Place.” Harry could feel his face grow hot at the thought that Maeve had once again succeeded with a Horcrux when he had failed. Again, he felt a burning sense of injustice as his tasks were usurped. “I found nothing there that could have been a Horcrux.”
Remus shushed him gently and shook his head. “No more, Harry. Wait until later.”
Harry stalked into the room and sat down heavily beside Ron, who immediately wanted to know what he and Remus had been talking about.
“Maeve got rid of another one,” Harry said, keeping his face forward and his brows furrowed.
“But that’s great!” Ron said in a voice that was a touch too loud. He immediately grimaced and lowered his tone. “One less to have to worry about. Where’d she find it?”
“Grimmauld Place, apparently.”
“You don’t sound too pleased about it,” Ron said, watching Harry’s mouth purse. “You’re not sulking because Maeve did it and not you?”
Hermione turned her attention to them, having fished her book from her bag. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Harry’s sulking because Maeve’s got rid of another You-Know-What.”
“You’re kidding? That’s great. Is she okay? She was in a pretty bad way after the last one. Maybe it gets worse each time you do it.”
“I wouldn’t know, would I? No one has seen fit to let me at one yet.” Harry was too annoyed to even look at Hermione.
“Right, class,” Remus began, taking his position at the front of the room. “Today we will begin a very interesting journey into the most difficult of all magic, the wandless variety. It must be said right at the outset that most, if not all of you, will find yourselves unable to perform wandless magic and under no circumstances should you see that as a reflection on yourselves. In the main this will be a theoretical journey into the subject because I myself cannot perform it.” He gave a little shrug that indicated he was in no way bothered by this failing and in doing so put most of the class at their ease. “Turn to page forty-five of your textbooks and we shall look at the origins of this specialised branch of our craft.”
The morning dragged by as Remus found himself droning on about the history and peoples that had first practised wandless magic. Only when he got to the De Danaan did Harry perk up a little, but at the reminder of Maeve he soon sank back into a little bubble of gloom. It was finally over and the students burst from the room, feeling as if they had been in Professor Binns’ class rather than Professor Lupin’s. As they made their way along the corridor to the slightly more exciting prospect of Charms, a snivelling student dashed past, tears flowing down a creased face.
“Another one had a trip to McGonagall’s office,” Ron remarked, his face settling into a miserable glower. Trips to the headmistresses’ office had become synonymous with bad news. “Bloody You-Know-Who is really getting around now. If you ask me, Harry, the sooner Maeve gets the rest of the Horcruxes, the better.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Harry replied testily. “And if this carries on, I’ll be leaving again.”
“Oh, Harry, you can’t!” Hermione exclaimed. “You’ve only just got back. If you think about it rationally, Maeve is saving you an awful lot of trouble. You saw how badly she was affected by the last one; well imagine that being you, twice over. Just think about the state you would be in when you finally did get to meet Voldemort.”
“She’s got a point, mate.” Ron turned off towards the Charms classroom, leading them neatly away from Harry’s truculence. “Gives you more time to learn more stuff and stay healthy. No idea what you are complaining about. Here we are.” He grinned, refusing to be downcast by Harry and his out of joint nose. The classroom door was open and Professor Flitwick was perched in his usual position.
Harry smouldered his way through an hour of learning to cast the Venomente Rescidiun Charm on one of a number of flaky-looking Castilian Cobras that Hagrid had provided. He grasped the general idea fairly quickly, along with Hermione, whose cobra was so tired of having his venom neutralised that he stopped spitting at her in protest, and settled back sulkily on her desk.
The day rumbled on, like so many before it, with warning clouds dragging themselves across the crisp sky and bringing a sense of oppression to the castle. Any thought of an after-lesson walk was quickly dispelled as the clouds shed their heavy load of water across the grounds and Harry abandoned his friends in order to catch up with Remus for the promised further explanation. He was only to get a quick sketch though, for as he arrived at Remus’ office, he found his professor muffled up and ready to go out.
“Harry, come in,” he said effusively, looking pleased with himself for some reason. “Just popping out for a little while so this will have to be a flying visit I’m afraid.”
“Going anywhere interesting?” Harry asked, ignoring the offer of a seat.
“Into Hogsmeade for a little while, and then I’m going to check on Maeve.” There was a guarded look in his eye, but Harry was pleased the conversation had turned almost immediately to the reason for his visit.
“You’re going to Grimmauld Place?” he asked. “Perhaps I should come too.”
“No need for that,” Remus said hurriedly. “It’s tricky Apparating at the moment, and the Floo Network is out for casual visits. I’ll go alone and report back to you. No sense taking foolish risks, Harry, surely you’ve learnt that by now.”
“Oh, yeah, I think I’ve grasped that by now. No sense having Harry take a foolish risk and try to dismantle a Horcrux, is there? Let’s save Harry for the final sacrifice.”
“Enough, Harry. This is not the time for being petty-minded. I’m sure Maeve is just as cheesed off as you are about being the one to tackle the Horcruxes.” There was a critical look in Remus’ eyes that Harry didn’t like and he immediately tried to appear more even-tempered.
“So what exactly happened, and is she alone now?”
“As far as I am aware,” Remus began, his words still measured, “she is alone. She found the Horcrux on the kitchen floor and it released itself, apparently.”
Harry looked thoughtful, aware that Dumbledore had never told him exactly how to release a Horcrux. But it couldn’t be as easy as just picking one up, could it? If that were the case then the Horcrux in the temple would have attacked him. So what did Maeve have that he didn’t? Why was she able to release them with such ease?
“What was it trapped in?” Harry asked.
“A key,” Remus replied. “A black key, but that’s as much as I know.”
Harry’s face blanched as he recalled the key that Albert had given him at Godric’s Hollow. It must have fallen out of his pocket while he was at Grimmauld Place; another Horcrux that had slipped through his grasp.
“Well,” he stuttered finally, as Remus asked if he were feeling all right. “The most important thing is, it’s gone. I suppose that leaves just two and Voldemort himself.”
Remus, despite his earlier disapproval of Harry’s jealousy over the Horcruxes, was pleased at the matter-of-fact way that Harry spoke about it all. This outlook would stand him in good stead when a cool head was required for the inevitable confrontation.
“Well, I must be off,” he said, reassured by Harry’s weary acceptance of the situation. He knew that the boy would not follow him to London.
“Why are you going to Hogsmeade?” Harry said, as he wandered towards the door. “Surely you can just Apparate from the gates.”
Remus suddenly looked a little bashful, as he smiled a strange smile, filled with light and happiness that was not normally found on his face. It puzzled Harry for a moment, until he realised it was the same smile that Ron sometimes wore whenever his thoughts drifted towards Hermione. Luna had been right; he had been with a woman
“There’s someone I need to see before I set off for London,” he replied, his eyes shifting evasively. Remus hadn’t quite got used to the notion of having a fiancé himself yet, so was finding it difficult to tell others.
“Someone female?” Harry asked, a little mischievously.
“Yes,” Remus said, following him to the door and standing, framed by the opening. “I should tell you, I suppose. You remember the girl at Maeve’s wedding, the hairdresser?”
Harry nodded, thinking, surely not. Felicia had been young and fun, and the perfect antidote to Remus’ miserable existence, but Harry thought that Remus had completely convinced himself that a relationship with her was a bad idea. He had never said as much, but it was the impression they had all got.
“Felicia, of course I remember her,” he said. “Is she visiting?”
“We’re engaged to be married,” he said rather formally. “I asked her the day that we had the disagreement in the Leaky Cauldron. We hope to tie the knot this week so that she can move into the castle.”
“That’s great!” Harry said, extending a congratulatory hand. “I’m pleased for you, Professor Lupin, really pleased.”
“Thank you, Harry. There are obstacles, but I think we can overcome them, if we get through this war. Anyway, must go.” And this time there were no more revelations as Remus and Harry walked down the corridor in an easy silence. They parted company at the main staircase and Remus stepped through the great oak doors with a spring in his step, despite the inclement weather outside.
Harry watched him go with an unsettled feeling in his stomach. Since being back at school he had not allowed himself to give Ginny too much thought, not allowed himself the luxury of turning over his feelings for her. He thought pushing her away would be the right thing to do, for her own sake. He knew she disagreed, but he though he had been right. And yet it seemed that others were doing exactly the opposite. Remus and Felicia, Ron and Hermione, even the murderous Snape had found himself a wife in the end. What was it that made them think differently? Did he believe the love he had for Ginny was strong enough to endure a forced separation while they did not? No, that wasn’t the answer. Perhaps the answer lay in the war on their doorstep. It was forcing decisions, making time short and opportunity slim. Harry knew what he had to do and the only way to do it was to find Ginny. Haring off up the stars he missed Percy Weasley, who was hovering in a doorway, looking very lost.
Sleep had claimed the inhabitants of Grimmauld Place for most of the morning; time suspended as they recovered from the night. When Maeve’s consciousness eventually reasserted itself, she found Severus already awake and watching her carefully. They listened to the silence together for a little while, unwilling to speak of what they had experienced. Severus knew that when she did speak, she would want answers, and Maeve knew that when Severus spoke it would be to give them to her. She noticed his blood-stained shirt and her hand automatically went to her face. He winced as she raked over her latest set of Horcrux-inflicted cuts and saw the worry in her face.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “They may leave scars this time. The harm was more extensive, and I was…”
“No.” She shook her head, knowing what he was thinking. “You could not have known.”
“I should have been with you.”
“Should have is such a silly little phrase.” Her voice was light, but her face was heavy with concern, for him and for her. “It won’t change anything. You were not here. I was impetuous and insisted in coming before you were ready.” The little shrug she gave hurt Severus more than her words. It implied the same lacklustre attitude that had kept him away from her when she most needed it.
“Nevertheless, I was wrong. I am sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, Severus. You have no need to. I am alive, so there is little harm done.”
“But your face,” he began, reaching a hand to her cheek and feeling sick as she pulled away.
“Don’t touch it,” she murmured. “There is no need to prove anything by touching my damaged skin.”
“Prove anything?” he queried. “You think I feel the need to prove anything? Why should I not touch your face? It is your face.”
“Don’t,” she said, sensing the beginnings of a squall. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t know what you mean. I reached for your face; it was a natural reaction. I think it is you who is placing the unnecessary emphasis on what may or may not be left there. Do you not think that I know my own physical limitations? Do you think that each time you touch my sallow cheek or my too-large nose I am thinking that you are pitying me?”
“Of course not, because you are you. If this scars then I am not what I was. I am not what you agreed to. Things will be changed.”
“You foolish woman!” His words whipped at her. “I married you, not your skin. Would you abandon me if I suffered a physical defect beyond what I am already burdened with?”
His self-deprecation made her smile in spite of herself. “Of course not, that’s just ridiculous.”
“Then listen to how ridiculous you are being.” There was a shared smile then, and the room relaxed as hostilities ceased. “Besides,” he added, “I’m sure paper bags big enough to fit over your head are cheap enough.”
“Why you!” She lifted herself up and hit him hard with the pillow, forcing him to roll away from her. And so some semblance of normality returned. Maeve was weak from the Horcrux, but the power of Severus’ spells had returned her to life sooner than she could have expected given what she had been through. She tied her hair away from her face, avoiding the mirror. It was easier to be blasé about something when you knew the effects were not permanent; with this uncertainty she found herself not wanting to know what she looked like.
Restored, she drifted towards the drawing room and its gentle warmth. Severus had lit the fire in here and made a commendable effort at creating a small platter of food for her to pick at. For an hour she was content to nibble and feed off the fire’s heat, but as she put the plate down she knew the time had come to ask the questions that he would undoubtedly know the answers to.
“Tell me,” she said, not being specific, allowing him the space to hand over the information as he wished.
He gathered himself, mentally running over what he would tell her and what he would omit. She could not be told, not yet, exactly the nature of the power she wielded. Sighing deeply he told her about the key to Darkacre.
“I have no idea how it came to be here,” he concluded, “but it managed it. It was unfortunate you came across it alone.”
“But I don’t understand why the soul fragments just throw themselves at me. It can’t be that easy. And what was the key doing getting lost in Godric’s Hollow anyway. What would you be doing there?”
“I knew what was going to happen. I “ I was the one who told the Dark Lord of the original prophecy. I still worked for him, was still loyal, and it was my duty to tell him.” He could have expected a horrified reaction from him, given her relationship with Lily, but instead she nodded.
“The nature of what you did was wrong,” she began, “but you don’t need me to tell you that. Your loyalty was misplaced, that is all.”
“I understood what was going to happen, from Wormtail of all people.” He gave a vicious laugh. “And I made my way to Godric’s Hollow that night to warn them, warn Lily… for your sake, I think. I never hoped to see you again, but in the back of my mind was the thought that, if I did meet with you again, I would have been instrumental in killing your friend.”
“That’s rather at odds with your Death Eater ethos of the time,” she remarked, curiously warmed by the influence she had had on him, even though she had not been there. “Did you know Pettigrew had betrayed them?”
“He couldn’t resist the chance to gloat about his cleverness in tricking Black into making him the Secret Keeper. Unfortunately, odious though he may be, he is also clever and dogged. He had no idea that I would try and thwart his plans, but in the event, I was too late. The Dark Lord had already killed them when I arrived. It was a very awkward moment for me, as I am sure you can appreciate.”
“Very troublesome,” she said, her irony lost in the tragedy of the tale. “But it doesn’t explain how the key became host to a part of his soul.”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I must have dropped it at Godric’s Hollow, but the Dark Lord sent me away before he left. He had already killed Potter and Lily, but who knows how long a man has to create a Horcrux?” A hideous image of Voldemort picking over the dead bodies of Lily and James rose in Maeve’s mind, Dark Magic flying around in the remains of their home. And then Harry. He’d tried to kill Harry and was himself destroyed. The truth of what happened that night might never be known. The manner in which Lily had saved Harry was known, but what had caused the stutter in time from the story that Severus was telling and the story that Harry had imparted via his memory of the night was unclear.
“And then it ends up here?” Maeve said, bringing herself back to the Horcrux. “There is much to that part of the story we don’t know. But that aside, why am I able to wrench the souls from their resting places?”
He hesitated, and Maeve knew he was formulating something. “The truth please, Severus.”
There was a tension in the air as he wrestled with not telling her what he knew, but ultimately, after the night they had shared, he couldn’t keep it from her. Quietly damning her father, he parted his lips and told her what he knew.
Just as she was preparing a response, there was a gentle knock at the door and alarm replaced Maeve’s disbelief. “Hide,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”
“There is no need for such melodramatics,” he said smoothly. “It’s your pal, Lupin. Come to play the long-suffering friend, no doubt.”
“He knows?” Maeve said. She loved Remus dearly, but right at that moment she wanted to absorb what her husband had just told her and come to terms with it.
“I had to tell him. If anything happens to us, there needs to be someone else informed of the current situation. You had better go and admit him, before he wakes that irrational portrait.”
“Severus.” She paused before she stood up to answer the door. “Will this affect me? Will this prolonged contact tarnish me? I saw things when I was recovering, things that were horrible. I felt evil.” She shuddered harshly, despite the heat. “I’m frightened by this news.”
“You need not fear something whilst it is contained.” He stood up and took her hands. “It was necessary for the gods to do what they did, surely you can see from the ease with which the souls are released? But it is done with now. Potter must take over from here on in. You have done as much as you can.”
“And I must still carry this around with me?”
“Until the end, the Dark Lord’s end.” Severus tightened his jaw as he said the words.
“What if I can’t?”
“You have done an admirable job so far, before you knew what it was you carried. I see no reason why you cannot continue.”
There was another knock at the door, more insistent, worried.
“Go and answer it,” Severus said, turning back to the fire.
Maeve walked from the room and reached her hand to touch the thing she had bourne for so long. How could they do this to her? Making her carry around a piece of Voldemort’s soul in order to destroy the others seemed to be the ultimate act of cruelty. Her instinct was to tear it from her throat and throw it to the ground, but she knew that was not possible, knew she would let down so many people by giving in. She reached the door and threw back the locks to allow Remus entry.
He smiled down at her, managing not to flinch at the new wounds, and stepped into the house. Maeve closed the door feeling that she was suddenly two people; Maeve Snape and Lord Voldemort. As she moved past the mirror in the corridor she almost convinced herself that looking back was not one badly scarred person, but two, only one bore mental scars while she bore the physical.
.