Chapter 23: Manifestation, Part 2

A/N: Beta reading thanks go to DeeMichelle and AnnieTalbot; Brit-picking was done by MagicAlly. Love to Shug for alpha reading!

It's hard to see how a lust curse story could be any more dub-con than it is, but this chapter may need a further dub-con warning.

Chapter 23: Manifestation, Part 2

Poppy Pomfrey rose to her full height and turned the complete force of her glare upon Severus Snape, who stood across the bed from her, a look of tightly wound insolence on his face. Turning her eyes to Albus Dumbledore, who hovered solicitously at her side, she demanded in a low voice throbbing with indignation, 'Who is responsible for cursing this child?'

Severus shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. 'Does she bear evidence of a curse?' he snapped, disdaining to answer her question.

The mediwitch frowned, momentarily distracted from her question, and recast the last charm she had used. A silvery light limned Hermione's form as she lay supine atop the bed sheet, wearing the simple nightdress (and knickers) in which Severus had dressed her when the house-elf had left to fetch the headmaster and matron.

'Yes,' Madam Pomfrey muttered, almost as if to herself. 'There is a Dark curse upon her...but there is also a trace of something else ....' She lowered her wand and the aura faded away. 'This child has suffered an allergic reaction to an Unforgivable Curse, Headmaster, and I demand to know who is responsible!'

Severus' eyes flicked to Dumbledore, who gave him a warning look. 'Poppy,' Dumbledore began, placating, but Severus interrupted him.

'I am responsible,' he snarled. 'She was with me when she was cursed, so feel free to direct your ire at me, madam.'

The witch turned to face him, undeterred by his tone. 'I'm not suggesting that you cursed her, Severus,' she said evenly. 'But it is obvious that the child has been through the wringer, and she needs better care taken of her.'

'Tell me more about the allergic reaction, Poppy,' Dumbledore said before Severus could speak. 'I've heard of such a thing, but don't believe I have ever seen it.'

Madam Pomfrey sheathed her wand and began unpacking her small black bag, lining up potions bottles upon the bedside tabletop as she spoke. 'Oh, they're very rare,' she said, 'but can sometimes be seen in a person who has been badly cursed before.' The matron took a measuring cup and poured out a dose of a viscous liquid the colour of baby Hippogriff excrement. 'I had Miss Granger in my hospital wing for the best part of two weeks after she followed Potter off to the Ministry of Magic on a fools' errand to save the wizarding world...or whatever they were really doing.' She sent a glare at Dumbledore, intent upon letting him know that she was well aware that she had not been told the truthful version of the story. Then she directed her attention back to the dose she was preparing, adding two drops of a narcotic muscle relaxant. She took a tiny glass rod from her capacious pocket and began to stir the two potions together. As she stirred, she lectured. 'She was gravely injured then, Headmaster...she must not be permitted to duel anymore. Her magical defences are damaged and cannot recover from offensive spells meant to injure...particularly not Dark ones.'

Severus watched Madam Pomfrey's efficient hands at work, his mind in turmoil. Had Dolohov's curse, delivered two years before in the Department of Mysteries, permanently vitiated the girl's magical health? Or had months of labouring under the Eternus Perturbatio curse irretrievably harmed her?

And how the fuck was he supposed to prevent Potter's best friend from duelling in Potter's defence?

'Well?' Madam Pomfrey said impatiently. 'Who's going to raise her so I can administer this potion?'

Severus curled his lip. 'Scampy,' he said coldly, and the house-elf was there instantly, elevating the girl's shoulders and supporting her head whilst the matron coaxed the foul-smelling concoction down her throat. He wanted to take the potion from Madam Pomfrey and shout at them all to leave...then he could take the girl in his arms and attend to her...but he was loath to touch her in the presence of these witnesses, who would look upon such contact between teacher and student as unseemly.

It was worse than unseemly...it was obscene.

Dumbledore spoke softly. 'When can we expect Miss Granger to fully recover?' he asked.

Severus tensed, his lips pressed into a thin white line. This was the question he most wanted to have answered, but he refused to show any personal interest in the girl's welfare.

Madam Pomfrey finished administering the potion and motioned for Scampy to lower the patient to the pillows. 'She may be unconscious for as long as forty-eight hours,' the mediwitch began, beginning to tidy her array of bottles and to repack her case, 'but I have given her an anti-spasmodic to prevent the seizures and a narcotic muscle relaxant. When she wakes up, she'll be sore and will need to continue with the potions twice a day for seven days, after which she can discontinue them. She's going to be fine, but she must be told what her limitations are, now.' Madam Pomfrey looked up at Severus. 'Why aren't you writing that down?' she demanded irritably.

Severus opened his mouth to inform her that he would not be attending to the girl's needs, but a voice from the doorway forestalled him.

'I have no need of writing it down; my memory is as good as it ever was,' Tatiana Prince stated, moving into the room and closing the door behind her. She stood with majestic calm, managing, despite her inferior height, to look down her nose at the room's occupants, her blue eyes flashing. 'Hermione is to receive the anti-spasmodic and muscle relaxant potions twice a day for the next seven days, and she is to be told her limitations, which I'm certain my grandson can do...it is one of his talents, you see.'

Severus kept his place upon the far wall, the corner of his mouth twitching in response to his grandmother's entrance. She really was a scary old broad. Madam Pomfrey looked as if she was fighting the impulse to curtsy, and Dumbledore was ...

The headmaster executed a profound bow, rising to take the old witch's hand. 'Tatiana, it has been much too long since we have met.'

Madam Prince allowed Dumbledore to kiss her hand, then she removed it pointedly from his grasp. 'You will choose to keep the most lamentable company, Albus,' she replied, her usual crisp tones surprisingly softened as she addressed the headmaster.

Severus straightened from his negligent posture, the inclination to smile passing. Was his grandmother flirting with Dumbledore?

'Is that all?' he asked abruptly, rudely intruding upon what was shaping up to be a geriatric chat-up.

'Severus!' his grandmother murmured reprovingly, but he could tell she was amused.

Dumbledore took the opportunity to place a hand on Madam Pomfrey's arm. 'Do you have any further instructions for Severus and his grandmother before we leave Miss Granger in their care, Poppy?'

The mediwitch raised the bedclothes over the patient, smoothing the counterpane with a gentleness she did not customarily show the young people under her care. 'You'll keep us informed of her condition, Severus?' she said, raising her eyes to his stern face.

Seeing her sincere concern, Severus relented. 'I will,' he said gruffly.

Poppy Pomfrey nodded once and picked up her bag. 'I'm ready to go, Headmaster,' she said.

When Severus' grandmother returned from seeing their guests to the front door, she entered the room and spoke with finality. 'You will go to your room and sleep,' she informed him, 'whilst I look after Hermione.' A wave of her wand Summoned an armchair close to the bedside, and she sat, never doubting that he would obey her.

Severus stood, looking down at the girl, who lay so still and quiet upon her pillow. Shadows etched purple lines beneath her eyes, too dark for her pale skin. Her mass of hair had dried from her bath the night before...it seemed like an aeon ago...in a horrible tangle of knots and snarls. 'Her hair needs to be combed,' he said inconsequentially, as if that were the most important thing to be considered.

'Severus,' his grandmother said, and he turned his face to her. The compassion in her eyes was nearly too much for him to bear, translating seamlessly in his mind to accusation. 'I'll sort out her hair,' she promised. 'You're overwrought...if you wish to be of any use in caring for her, you must rest.'

Severus grappled with his Occlumency shields as if to prevent her too-acute comprehension of his state of mind, but all was in place: his grandmother had ever been far too adept at reading those things in him which he most wished to keep from her.

'I need a drink,' he muttered, and turning on his heel, he left the girl in the care of his most trusted family member.

In his room, he flung his robes over the back of an armchair and strode across the room to the desk, where reposed the small decanter which held the amber glory of his grandfather's finest cognac. The Hors D'Age Charentais in Grandmother's cellar was the last vintage produced by the now defunct French wizarding vineyard owned by the Charentais family. After his grandfather's death, the remaining bottles had been kept in a special, climate-controlled section of the wine cellar. Grandmother was known to be exceptionally stingy with the Charentais, but from the time of his thirtieth birthday, when she had judged that he had developed an appropriate palate, a small amount of the precious drink had been placed in Severus' room each time he came to visit. Surely, this preposterous disorder of his mental processes called for extreme measures, including Grandfather Prince's Charentais.

But peace did not come.

Sprawling in his armchair, the exquisite bouquet of the cognac wafting soothingly up his nostrils, he was plagued as his mind replayed for him again and again the happenings of the last twenty-four hours: Hermione, amazing in her all-white ensemble, standing up to Morgen; Hermione, on her knees to the Dark Lord, baldly stating, 'I have nothing to say to you'; Hermione, her lips fastened about his cock; Hermione, languorous at his side; Hermione, jerking in convulsions. How could he have been so foolish as to flatter the girl's vanity at the risk of Morgen's retribution? How could he have endangered her by taking her into the Dark Lord's presence? How had he ever managed to bring her safely away?

And if she died, how would he be able to persevere, to do what had to be done?

He groaned audibly and took another mouthful of cognac. How fatuous! As if he could have done aught else than what he had done, in each step of this pathetic pas de deux composed and orchestrated by Albus Dumbledore. No, he had made each choice of action based on maintaining his precarious balance between the respective camps of Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, with no more than a passing nod to the safety and well-being of the girl.

As for what they got up to in private ... His actions there had long been given over to a different sensibility, based not upon what was most rational, but upon what she desired...and upon what he desired, as well.

He growled aloud and set the crystal balloon of drink upon the table at his side, his elbows resting upon his knees as his face came to rest in his hands. It was a ridiculous situation; there was no excuse for the way he permitted her to carry on with him. From a cold, remote distance, he could easily see the series of idiotic mistakes he had made in his handling of her. She ought never to have been permitted to make free of his quarters, or to sleep the night in his bed, or to speak to him with such familiarity, as if she were his equal in age and station. He should have been adamant about maintaining his emotional aloofness.

He had no one to blame for this foolish attachment but himself.

He rubbed his sandpaper-lined eyelids and raised his face to glare at the glass-fronted cabinet situated against the near wall. That wasn't really true, was it? She bore a great deal of the blame for this sorry turn of events! She was needful and seductive, amorous and enticing, then thankful and pathetically affectionate. She had the barefaced gall to desire him...never mind that the desire was purely curse induced! ...and then she had begun to take over his entire life, leaving her hair in his bathtub drain, her knickers upon his bedroom floor, her books scattered about his sitting room ... and her scent upon his towels, his sheets, and permeating the very air he breathed.

He snarled and flicked his wand at the fancy shelving showcasing an array of dainty figurines; the glass doors opened, baring the frippery statuary to his magical wrath. With narrowed eyes, he watched a small sculpture of Merlin and Nimüe float in the air and rise toward the ceiling.

The girl bore no guilt for his turmoil. She had been cursed by a madman, and Dumbledore had been the unlikely deus ex machina whose actions had, rather than resolving her dilemma, complicated it beyond imagining. God help the hapless fool who fell prey to Dumbledore's manipulations...was Severus himself not proof of that maxim? He and the girl had been thrust into an impossible situation, and Dumbledore's initial instructions had been to deal with the girl kindly, to see after her emotional needs as well as the physical ones, and to, when the time came, let her go on to live a normal, Snape-free life.

There had been no consideration for how he was to go on and live a normal life without her.

The delicate glass ornament began to spin in the air, and a harsh sound, meant to be a laugh, came from his throat. Ah, how could he have forgotten? He wasn't supposed to live once she was ready to leave him...for that wouldn't happen until the Dark Lord fell...and by then, Severus was meant to be dead. Dumbledore never admitted it, but Severus knew it was what the old wizard fully expected, and it was a price the greatest proponent of the Light was altogether willing to pay: Severus' life for the decisive defeat of the ultimate advocate of the Dark.

A sneer pulled at his harsh mouth. Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished, he thought sourly, and the glass figurine began to plummet toward the top of the unforgiving wooden cabinet.

What had possessed his grandmother to place her priceless collection of eighteenth-century Dresden figurines in his bedroom? She knew his temper...she knew his propensity to shatter delicate things. How could such fragility be permitted to exist in his room? How could it be permitted to exist at all?

The image of Hermione, still and wan upon the bed down the hall, intruded upon his consciousness, and he lurched to his feet, cursing. Another flick of his wrist halted the descent of King Arthur's sorcerer and his young witch seductress; the blameless figurine came to rest upon the cabinet top, none the worse for its aerial excursion.

Whirling to snatch up his robes, he donned them and left the room, anxious to return to the girl.

In the late afternoon, Severus ate from a tray beside Hermione's bed, hoping that the freshly made spotted dick and custard, her favourite pudding, would cause her to wake up and demand to be fed. He kept a warming charm on it, prolonging the time period during which the mouth-watering aroma would persist, but she did not stir.

Scampy popped into the room and spoke softly. 'Master Severus?'

He turned to her. 'Yes?'

'Mr Lucius Malfoy is calling for you. He's waiting in the small drawing room.'

Severus frowned. 'Is Grandmother with him?'

Scampy shook her head. 'He asked to see Master Severus alone, sir,' she answered.

Severus stood. 'Sit with Miss Granger,' he instructed the house-elf as he moved to the door. 'And keep the pudding warm!' he added tersely as he exited the room.

He made it down the stairs and into the room where Malfoy awaited him without encountering any of the family members.

'Ah, Severus,' Malfoy said, by way of greeting.

Severus inclined his head in reply. 'What's toward?' he asked abruptly.

Malfoy made a small moue of distaste. 'Aren't you going to offer me a drink?' he asked plaintively, his natural charm on full force.

Severus snorted his amusement. 'No,' he replied shortly. 'I am quite busy today, Lucius. What do you want?'

Malfoy surveyed him through wide grey eyes. 'You know, old chap, there was a time when I thought we had taught you the social niceties,' he complained.

Severus turned to go. 'I'm sure you can find your way out,' he said rudely. 'Don't bother me if it isn't important.'

'Oh, all right,' Malfoy said, and Severus turned in the doorway to hear what the older wizard had to say. Malfoy reached into his inner cloak pocket and brought out a silver case, which he opened to disclose the slim black cheroots he had specially made in wizarding Cuba. 'Let's walk in your grandmother's garden and have a cigar. I have a few things to tell you.'

Severus sneered. 'I knew you'd get to the point eventually,' he said, turning and leading the way out of doors.

The two wizards moved into the garden, which had been ruthlessly cut back in the autumn and was only just beginning to awaken for spring. Severus placed the costly cheroot between his lips and accepted the light Malfoy provided with his wand tip. For a moment they stood in the last rays of the setting sun, facing one another, drawing the aromatic tobacco smoke in and blowing it out almost simultaneously, each of them showing off with elaborate smoke rings. Malfoy gave him a devilish grin, and Severus smirked in response.

'Narcissa still won't let you smoke them at the Manor,' he said knowingly, beginning to walk.

Malfoy shrugged philosophically. 'One makes compromises,' he said, treading companionably along. 'You will see, Severus, when you're married.'

Severus studied the tender shoots upon the lowest branch of a nearby tree as he passed. 'I have no plans to marry,' he said idly.

Malfoy darted a glance at him. 'The Dark Lord is rather unhappy with Morgen,' he said. After a sombre moment, he added, 'Bella's funeral was this afternoon.'

Severus blinked. 'That was fast,' he said.

Malfoy's lips tightened. 'The Dark Lord said it had to be today or ...'

Severus frowned. 'Or?' he prompted.

'Or we might have to wait an undetermined length of time.' Malfoy turned a serious look on Severus. 'You should have seen him, Severus...neither Bella's husband nor her sister had any say in planning the funeral. His Lordship arranged it all without consulting them, as if he were her ... husband.' He shook his head.

'No wonder you wanted to get away from the Manor,' Severus said frankly.

One side of Malfoy's mouth twitched. 'Yes, but the Dark Lord asked me to come to you,' he objected. 'I have a message from him.'

Severus turned from his contemplation of a bed of early blooming fairy wings, dread gripping him at these words. 'What is the message?' he asked quietly.

Malfoy continued walking to a stone bench set amidst a cluster of rose bushes and sat down as if he were too tired to remain on his feet. 'He wants you to be ready at any moment; the time is coming soon.'

Severus forced himself to swallow, his fleeting pleasure in the cigar gone. He glanced about the twilight garden, wondering how it could be that nature was coming alive again, even as the world was coming to an end. Unnerved, he dropped the half-smoked cigar on the mulching beneath the rose bushes and murmured a spell to extinguish the spark of fire at its tip. Such observations about the beauty of the natural world were uncharacteristic for him, particularly in the face of such dire news. Vaguely, he wondered if he were taking ill.

'Severus?' Malfoy said.

He felt a sudden urgency to be away from the garden, to be in the house again, sitting with the girl. 'Is that all, Lucius?' he asked.

Malfoy stood again, looking pained. 'You might give a fellow the chance to finish smoking his cigar before you put him out,' he said.

Severus began to walk away from him. 'Please, make yourself at home,' he said over his shoulder. 'Stay as long as you like.'

Malfoy laughed. 'I don't suppose your grandmother wants me lurking in her garden in the dark,' he said, but Severus had disappeared into the house, and did not hear him.

'I am not going to waste a perfectly good cigar,' he said aloud, and seating himself again upon the bench, he continued to smoke in the peace of the Prince House garden.

Severus entered the girl's room precipitously, his eyes going directly to her unmoving form.

'Any change?' he asked Scampy.

'No, Master Severus,' the little house-elf answered. 'Miss hasn't moved.'

'I'll take it from here, Scampy,' he said, beginning to measure out the potions Madam Pomfrey had left.

Scampy departed, and Severus removed his robes and boots and climbed on the bed, propping himself on the headboard and pulling the girl against him into a half-sitting position. Summoning the measured dose, he patiently coaxed it down her throat, murmuring to her all the time.

'...and when you wake up, you can take your medicine without my assistance, which will be a relief,' he scolded, the long fingers of one hand gently massaging her throat, helping her to swallow. 'If you imagine that I am entertained by nursing your inanimate form, let me disabuse you of that notion.'

When he was sure the last of the potion had gone down her throat, he sent the cup floating back to the table and inched down until the girl lay again upon her pillow. Rolling to his side, he propped his head on his hand and studied her by the light of the oil lamp, details he had never noticed before flooding his consciousness like manna in the midst of famine.

Her hair was not simply brown; the intricate colour was made by the blending of strands of honey, auburn, mahogany, chestnut, gold, and copper. He stroked the hair back from her face, marvelling at the softness of her skin under his fingertips. He touched the bruise-like colours beneath her eyes, as if he could erase the signs of her illness from her face. Like fairy wings, his fingers ghosted over her mouth, noting the fullness of the bottom lip, complemented by the dip in the middle of the upper lip, and he knew the urge to kiss her.

Resisting that urge, he buried his nose in her hair, and the scent that was simply and undeniably hers filled him. It was undoubtedly a combination of her shampoo, and the soap with which she washed herself, and her own natural smell; regardless of its provenance, it had come to mean Hermione to him, and drawing in great lungs-full of it acted upon him like a Calming Draught. It occurred to him that her scent was not unlike that of Grandmother's garden as it woke to the new season; she was spring, on the cusp of her life, her chances unsquandered. It was imperative that she have the opportunity to seize that life and to apply her own particular brand of determination to creating an existence worthy of her.

As he lay beside her, the hours of no sleep crept up on him, and his eyelids fluttered closed; he allowed his head to settle upon her pillow, and he fitted himself against her side, holding her securely to him. At last, he slept.

He felt her restless movement and was instantly awake. With dread, he watched her, waiting for the convulsions to begin. She shifted slightly, a murmur of sound escaping her lips, and he became aware of the faintest aroma of her arousal. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he had last brought her off; apparently, the compulsion was pushing through even the illness-induced coma state to torment her with need.

'I've got you,' he said quietly, magicking himself beneath the bedclothes with her and reaching to slide her nightdress up. He slipped his fingers beneath the elastic of her knickers and found her quim wet. 'You're all right,' he told her, 'I'll take care of you.'

He Vanished the underpants, wishing that she were awake to object to the loss of another pair of knickers, and he began to touch her. Her murmuring continued, as did her restless movement, but as he finger fucked her, the movement ceased to be random, and soon she was moving with him.

'Good girl,' he rumbled, ignoring his own rising need. She would undoubtedly benefit more and for a longer period with a proper fuck, but he could not bring himself to do that to her when she was unconscious. It was one thing to take care of her needs, but it would be wrong, somehow, for him to derive pleasure from the act when she was unable to tell him to bugger off if she wanted.

She emitted an actual moan of pleasure, and he was insensibly cheered. 'Oh, good job,' he said, bringing his lips closer to her ear. 'Come for me and maybe you'll wake up,' he said. 'Come for me.'

As if in response to his words, her body shuddered in climax, and she sighed. His lips curved against the shell of her ear. 'That's better,' he murmured, relaxing again upon her pillow. 'Now it won't bother you for a while.'

He drifted again into sleep and did not wake when she moved onto her side and twined herself about him like a climbing vine.

When next he woke, the pale light in the room informed him that it was just past dawn. He had to get up; his grandmother would be coming soon to relieve him, and he was damned if she would find him in bed with the girl.

It was then that he realised that he was on his side, as was the girl, and that her legs were tangled up with his own. This was a much more natural sleep position for her. 'Hermione?' he said, but she did not respond.

He looked down at her face and was aware of the pain which arced through his body like a lightning strike, leaving him aching, weak, and breathless in its wake. This was not caring, nor was it concern. This was not the obsession he had felt for Evans, nor the possession he had felt for Morgen. This was not passion, and this was not lust. This was something he had never before felt; it was something far more frightening, something horrific, something lethal.

This was love.

Dear Merlin, it had to be love. What but love could burn through him with such exquisite agony? What but love could have him looking at the world as if it were a brand new place? What but love could reduce his entire universe to the woman he held in his arms?

He attempted to draw breath into his body, but he felt as if he had been hit with a world class Stupefy! And despite his breathlessness, energy surged through his body, tingling along his nerve endings as if he could lift the earth and set it upon his shoulders, as a Titan of old. Yet he held in his arms a creature so eminently breakable that he marvelled he could touch her without seeing her shatter.

'Hermione,' he breathed, for the first time saying it just to hear her name spoken aloud.

She did not stir, but he did not despair. He knew to his core that she would wake when her body had healed, and that she would be safe. All he had to do now was to keep her safe. And that, surely, was within his power? He might not be able to live through what must come, but he could make his end meaningful. Fuck Dumbledore and the greater good...here was his hope and his reason. If he could provide for Hermione a world free of the Dark Lord...if his end could truly buy her beginning...then he was more than willing to make it so. Even if he would not be there to see her find herself in a post-war world, he could make sure that this blossom had a spring in which she could spread her petals and bloom.

Tenderly, he disentangled himself from the warm, sleeping young woman and rose from the bed. He had many things to do; the end was coming, for the Dark Lord had decreed it...and Severus had much to make ready.

Madam Prince looked up as Scampy poured tea into her cup. 'Where is Master Severus?' she asked. 'Isn't he going to eat his breakfast?'

Scampy moved around the table to pour tea for Eileen Snape, as well. 'Master Severus is in his room, pacing and talking to his quill,' she said in her squeaky voice.

Eileen frowned. 'He's what?'

'And the quill is dancing,' Scampy added, replacing the teapot on the sideboard.

'Dancing?' Eileen said blankly.

'Don't be a fool, Eileen,' Madam Prince said impatiently. 'He's obviously dictating something.'

Scampy nodded, her eyes wide. 'He's talking to Miss Hermione, but she's in her room, so only the quill and parchment is listening,' she explained.

Eileen applied herself to eating her eggs and toast, but Madam Prince stared into the distance, her blue eyes calculating.

Severus had only just finished filling the parchment with his spiky handwriting when the Mark burned black on his left arm. He rose from the writing desk and sent the numerous crumpled pieces of parchment and the discarded Dicta-Quill to the fire, destroying the evidence of failure even as he pulled his Death Eater cloak and his mask from the cupboard. He donned the cloak, his purpose burning in him with a brightness which centred his focus with laser-like precision. He crossed again to the desk and picked up his quill, scrawling Hermione on the folded parchment on the blotter, between the decanter of Grandfather's cognac and the figurine of Merlin and Nimüe, which he had moved from the top of the cabinet to the desk.

He picked up the figurine and the note and strode from his room to Hermione's. He placed the sorcerer and his enchantress on Hermione's bedside table, slipping the note between the two figures where it held securely. 'She put you in the crystal cave and took your power,' he told the figurine, 'and you're still known as the greatest wizard who ever lived. I'm not doing that poorly.'

He knelt by the bedside. 'Hermione?' he said, but she didn't move. He lifted her hand from the counterpane and leaned over to place a kiss upon her lips.

'Good bye, my love,' he said, then he released her and stood, and without a sound, he Disapparated.

He left too soon to see the girl's eyes open, eagerly searching the room for him. At last, she reached with a slightly trembling hand and plucked the note from its place between Merlin and Nimüe.