Chapter Ten: Comparative Silences

Chapter Ten: Comparative Silences

Draco scarcely speaks to me -- he scarcely speaks at all. If I try to draw him into conversation, to comfort myself in my loneliness, he simply looks at me.

"Don't concern yourself, Mother. I do love you."

His voice is flat. It tells me nothing.

I've watched my son, my only child, retreating deep into himself. I fear the fates are gathering yet again to rob me of him. Not the first time that I have seen him slipping away, but if I cannot prevent his going, I know it will be the last.

Summer is ending, and that does not bode well. The Aurors have given us a final three days to vacate the Manor. We are to take only what is needed to keep us meagerly clothed and housed. We are watched, constantly, but I have managed to conceal a few galleons among the paltry personal effects we are permitted to keep. Whatever else that remains -- the art and antiques, the tapestries and books, the furnishings and fixtures -- even the beasts in the stables and the casks in the cellars -- is in their hands. These things are no longer ours.

The vaulted galleries and ornate salons of this house are awash in the dregs of our proud traditions -- and the failures that grew out of them. Our families' ambitions to be highly favored by the Dark Lord have cost us everything. The Dark Lord -- Lord Voldemort -- Tom Riddle -- call him what you will -- the last of the Slytherin bloodline brought to nothing by a curse-scarred boy. Gods, He was a hideous thing to see. Bella would speak of Him with such a covetous desire, as if she lusted for Him. I found Him repulsive, for all His prowess and power. It's said He was stunning in His beauty, long ago, but near the end, I was sickened by Him.

Perhaps Shacklebolt and his Ministers, all of them lavished with public acclaim, have shown us an unintended kindness by forcing us to leave this place. Even if I had the means to refurnish and replant every inch of this estate, the ugliness of Malfoy dishonour would remain. In the hours before dawn, when I am pulled awake by nightmares, I remember very clearly how our proclaimed Lord hung a woman like some monstrous fruit, high over the polished table in my drawing room -- how He left her there to twist and turn until He could finally be bothered to kill her and feed her to His snake. That witch -- a grotesque irony that her name was Charity -- she might so easily have been me -- or Lucius -- or Draco -- if that had pleased Him. There was none of us safe from His caprices once He chose to barricade Himself in our home.

I was quite careful to keep my demeanor correctly fixed in His presence, even when shrieks and moans became the music of our nights. I had never considered that the human throat could utter such sounds -- and for so long. Bella took delight in hearing them. She had become quite skilled, and I wonder if she would have found pleasure in our screams. I do not believe she would have hesitated if her Lord desired them.

For five wizarding generations, this Manor has been the hallmark of refinement and culture. Only those people and possessions considered desirable by way of their perfection, judged worthy of invitation or acquisition, are welcomed here. There have been few exceptions, indulged only when they brought consummate wealth or power, a keen wit, or at the very least, a pleasurable skill into our circle of influence. Lucius and I were always amused when those who sought our patronage compared us to the sun and moon, but why shouldn't they, we thought? We were glorious, my husband and I. Our single sorrow was that we were able to set only one star -- Draco -- in our heavens

These Aurors have plundered every jewel and adornment that Lucius has gifted to me, except the emerald band he slipped onto my finger the night we took our bonding vows. At least, these "guardians of magical security" had the sense to recognize that rather than willingly relinquish my trothring to them, I would have sacrificed my hand. Our robes and cloaks, our boots and furs, even the brushes and perfumes from my dressing table, these have all been taken, too. Perhaps they'll uproot the orchards and the gardens, or pilfer the pantries and the linen chests -- who can say? They are insatiable in their righteous avarice. Do they believe they can erase our name by seizing our possessions? They will not succeed. In the passage of time, most may choose to despise us, but we will be remembered.

Still, our material legacy is destroyed. We are meant to become pariahs, invisible to even the lowest station of wizarding society. Draco's only inheritance is to be an emptied Gringotts vault. Reparations, they call it. I wonder how many of these reparations will line the pockets of these newly-favored Ministry officials or be seen on the backs of their current paramours. Almost all, I would think.

I've asked to keep one harp, this smallest one, and they've thrown me that bone. I cherish this instrument, so old, with its abalone pegs and narwhale columns, its silver strings. This was my first true harp, a gift from Abraxas on my eleventh birthday to celebrate my Hogwarts letter and the certainty that I would be sorted into Slytherin House. Dromeda was absolutely giddy that I'd soon join her at school, but Bella pretended to be indifferent to all the fuss. I knew better, though. Three sisters of the House of Black -- all at Hogwarts together? You can well imagine -- the entire school was soon enough in awe.

When Draco was very small, he'd toddle across the silken carpets in my morning room to reach this harp, puling himself onto the bench and plucking at the strings, even though the elves would scold him to be careful. How he would pout unless I nestled him on my lap and played some whimsy for him until he grew bored and wandered off to find some other diversion. They were a foolish ritual of our affection, those faerie waltzes.

I remember ripe summer nights on the terrace when I would have my finest Erard positioned in a pool of moonlight so that I might beguile and bemuse any privileged guests Lucius was cultivating. He has always been pleased and proud that I am well-accomplished in all of the arts, particularly in music, though he did not encourage any such abilities in our son. A suitable artistic education, a well-defined gift, is vital to every high-born witch's social standing, but wizards of noble houses are expected to be generous benefactors only, nothing more.

And yet, my music has always been an ensnaring potion for my husband. If we were alone on the balcony outside our private chambers, Lucius would straddle behind me as I played this old harp, his thighs strong against mine, his arms wrapped around my waist, his breath sweet with brandy. If he was in a gentle mood, he might hum the tune softly in my ear, and I would lean back into his embrace, laughing. If his mood was dark, he would be silent, and his hands would roam my body, stirring my blood, possessing my attention. Over the years, we have grown attuned to one another in all things, and that is its own form of love. Each of us understands what is expected of the other. Neither of us has ever questioned what was ordained as ours from the moment we were born into pureblood families.

I am advised that I will be granted an allowance, enough to maintain only the simplest of households. Every Knut will be doled out by the Ministry, and they will expect an accurate accounting. For twenty years, I have been mistress of this great and powerful house. I know quite well how to keep accounts. They shall have theirs -- in my own hand, perfectly tallied. I wish them pleasure in the tedium of reading it.

Even my personal elves have been sent to serve in other households. I was surprised when many of them wept at the news. I would have thought they might be glad to leave our service, though I was not in the habit of punishing them unjustly. Lucius contends that I am far too lenient but I've always known that ill-used elves do not serve their duties well. How odd that Turtlefoot refused to go. What a wailing and gnashing of teeth she made, enough of a din that the Aurors relented and permitted her to stay. Either she does love us a little or she's simply too old and set in her ways to wish to adapt to the habits and demands of a new mistress. Having her with us is the final vestige of our familiar life. She knows us, in all our temperaments, and there is a certain dreary comfort in her presence, at least for me. Draco has made no comment on the matter.

What, then, would I know of love? It would be pointless to offer explanations of whom and how I love. I will not humble myself to grovel for favors by confirming that I have loved – and that I will continue to do so. Let these fools believe I have no heart, that I feel nothing. I will not offer my pain as a public commodity.

I have little doubt that my speaking of love would seem quite impossible to most. I am the faithful wife of a sworn Death Eater, the sister of another, and mother to a third. Thrice condemned, though I never sought to take the Mark. My loyalties are my own, and they lie only with my husband and our son.

Even as I loved her, my loyalties to Bella ended when she boasted she would be more than willing to sacrifice my child -- any child -- her own, if she had one -- on the altar of her Dark Lord's obsession. I understand obsession, though. Mine served me well enough to drive me to throw myself at Severus' feet to beg him to protect my son. Who could have known that his own obsession would compel him to agree? Severus and an obsession born of love -- I would have taken a wand oath that I would never say such things in the same breath.

I've briefly considered appealing to Dromeda, but how could she possibly welcome the sight of me? We've not spoken in years. This war has left her widowed with a half-were grandson to rear, a sufficient burden of sorrows for anyone, I'd think. Little enough wealth, no influence -- she cannot help me -- and I am of no use to her. I'll leave that road untraveled for the moment.

They have taken my husband from me. He is sentenced yet again to Azkaban, though we have not been told how long they intend to imprison him. Without funds at my disposal, I cannot hope to bargain for clemency. We knew they would come for him, that they would make him a symbol of their victory. Our barristers gained him a few months, but as our fortunes began to diminish under Ministry control, so did their loyalties to our case. There was no avoiding this outcome. I begged Lucius to leave the country with Draco, to go deep into seclusion, but he refused, dismissing my pleas as an affront to our lineage.

"We are Malfoys, my dear wife. We may have proven ourselves fools, but we are not yet such cowards."

My son will not be permitted the use of a wand until the Ministry judges him sufficiently trustworthy. How many of my hidden galleons will that require, would you suppose? Time will tell. They have given me a menial's wand, charmed to perform only the most mundane magic. I am spared imprisonment because I did not betray to the Dark Lord that the Potter boy was alive, Draco only because he took the Mark before he had reached his maturity. Consideration was made that perhaps he acted out of fear -- they would never judge it love -- for Lucius and me. An empty justice, extended more to salve the Ministry's conscience than to show us any measure of mercy.

Two days ago, a gang of Aurors came at daybreak, and before they left this house, they stripped my husband naked of his hair, his beautiful shining hair that veiled me in our bed like silk. They meant to break his pride -- not even using magic to humiliate him. Muggle shears -- the kind a common tailor would use -- they Stupefied him and hacked away his hair, let it fall onto the marble floor, walked over it in their coarse boots. One strand, they gave to me -- a keepsake, they said, and they laughed. Brutal, graceless men, enamored of their power. Perhaps they thought to see me weep. How dare they expect I would shame my husband by shedding tears in front of them on his behalf?

I am proud that our son did not disgrace his father. Draco stood motionless, trapping my wand hand in his own, flinching only once when Lucius spoke to us in that final moment before they took him.

"Protect yourselves. Seek an ally, Narcissa, for Draco's sake."

For Draco's sake... I have watched my son, in the brightness of the day and the heaviness of night. I do not know him.

With each passing day, he grows more gaunt, his face more bloodless. Turtlefoot has tried to tempt him with the dishes he fancied when she was his doting elfanny. He endures her fussing, out of some half-remembered boyhood fondness for her, but if she leaves the room, he simply lays down the fork and looks away, the food untouched.

He goes for days in the same black clothing, his hair heavy and dirty, grown long enough to reach his shoulders. It curtains his face, masking him from my sight. There is something of Severus about him, now, which troubles me. I am frightened by the fever in Draco's eyes, but far worse is the emptiness that replaces it when I try to coax him into eating a bit or sitting with me.

I know he does not sleep. My child is a ghost that haunts the gardens, prowling amongst the trees, a specter mirrored in the lily pools, sinking to his knees at dawn to moan some nameless plea against the new day. He paces the parapets, bound by the fetters of his crossed arms. I've seen him clutching a shred of parchment, reading it over and over again. He will not tell us what is written on it. Before the Aurors came for him, Lucius cajoled, threatened, begged Draco to confide in him. No answer. I thought, for love of me, perhaps he'd show me what words he guards so closely. He has not. I do not think he will.

In three days, we are to leave this place. For my son, I must find an ally. For myself, I must find a way to survive.

~~ /// ~~

Neirin (only in guarded thought do I see him as Severus) struggles when he speaks to us. He struggles to speak at all, but we always talk to him as if he can answer us easily. Not conversing, really, but when he's able to say his need, form a question, or even better, shape some small complaint -- even if by a single word -- we covet the sound as if it were a jewel.

His voice is raw, still difficult to understand. It tells us little except that he knows that we are here.

We've watched him edging towards a certain degree of awareness, but some wayward fate could still rob us of him. Gareth cautions that the dregs of venom and Theriac will surface in his body for a very long time, perhaps always. There's no need to affirm the effects of Riddle's curse. Those confront us constantly.

Autumn is here, and for some, at least, that may bode well. In three more days, a handful of students will return to Hogwarts. Seventh years only, the ones who have asked to sit their NEWTS. The castle isn't ready for any larger occupancy. The younger students must wait another season, and the newest group of first years, even longer. I've managed to divide my energies these last four months between Neirin and Hogwarts, but I often think I'm doing neither the justice that both deserve.

Everywhere in the Isles there is a sense of hesitant expectation, but there are so many holes in the fabric of our world. Shacklebolt sits as Acting Minister, issuing daily statements to assure the wizarding populace of a renewed stability. Auror troops are everywhere, patrolling the streets and alleys, wands ever at the ready. Flushing out the vermin, some have called it, a rhetoric I find brutally familiar. Most Aurors are brave and honest men and women, earnest in their vows to protect the innocent. But there are others, with eyes as cold and voracious as any Death Eater's, more than willing, I suspect, to substitute their brand of righteousness for Riddle's.

The press clamors for investigations and hearings, swift interments, a clean sweep of every magical department and institution. We'd best be wary, I think, of brooms wielded in the name of speedy reforms. Far too easy to condone the disposal of ugly realities into Azkaban's hellish bins -- even easier to look away when shameful embarrassments are swept under the Ministry's expensive carpets. I have not forgotten Umbridge.

I don't deceive myself. I am weary of my endless obligations to Hogwarts, and I've come to love this sanctuary that Gareth keeps so carefully for us. Magic vibrates so freely here -- in the earth and stones, the rivers and trees. The people are far removed from the ordinary Muggle sort. I could almost wish for some benevolent Horcrux to divide me into two selves -- one that could remain here to care for Neirin -- the other ready and able to carry on as Headmistress.

Hagrid needed no such wish to make his own decision. He's had me inform the Board of Governors that he is taking his pension, and sorry to say, they've accepted all too readily. In a moment of disgust with the maneuverings of the Board and Ministry, I'd briefly entertained the notion of naming him as my Deputy and letting them all be damned. My poor friend – we would have driven one another mad within the week if we'd actually attempted such a thing. Even so, Hogwarts without Hagrid seems inconceivable to me -- but it's best not to argue with a half-giant once he's made up his mind to something.

The Governors' acceptance of Hagrid's resignation wasn't delivered by Lucius Malfoy, and that should have given me a certain satisfaction, but it did not. Days ago, the papers trumpeted his arrest and imprisonment, running lurid photographs of him, shackled and shorn of his hair, staring straight ahead. He looked greatly aged in the Death Eater robes he was ordered to wear during the course of his trial. Blood in the water to feed the frenzy, I suppose. How the cause of justice is served by public humiliation of anyone, even this decimated aristocrat, is quite beyond me. There has been no further word of his wife -- or Draco.

Despite his tendency to cauldron up with tears, Hagrid has always been one of the most sensible men I've ever known. The very day after we returned to Gwuan, his direction was made clear. From my place at Neirin's bedside, I could see him in earnest conversation with Gareth, pacing off the perimeters of a stone outbuilding, tracing outlines in the dirt, pointing and gesturing, the pair of them fairly grinning at one another. Over the years, between my clan and my profession, I've seen enough of these masculine conspiracies to recognize the pattern immediately. Some project of construction and relocation was set to begin.

"It's the old smithy, yeh see, Minerva." Although it seemed a foregone conclusion by the time Gareth and he came to the infirmary, cobwebs veiling their hair and dust ghosting their clothes, Hagrid was eager to enlighten me. "Stout walls, a fine big hearth ter keep things warm fer the professor, and the stone floor's worn down smooth and even, so's not ter trip either of us up. Plenty of fresh air and sun, but not too bright, and the roof's good and high, as well, so I'll not bang my head against the rafters. We'll keep the center space open so he'll not blunder into things so much, until e's learned 'is way about. There's a strong sharp smell ter the place, too -- iron and smoke, charcoal, ash, even a bit of beast -- somethin' like 'is potions chamber."

"Ie, and the place being a smithy's, it's blessed with the Lady's protections as well," Gareth added with a twinkle that reminded me almost too much of Albus. "There's some old fixtures should be moved and some patching to the roof needed, maybe a beam or two to be checked, but little enough real work. It's best we move the lad from this infirmary soon. He's battled here too long and hard for this to be any sort of peaceful place for him. Since he's coming round a bit more every day, it should be something other than this room that greets him, especially now that you've both come."

"So, you've noticed the floor won't trip either of you up, Hagrid?" I interrupted a touch more sharply than I intended. "Meaning you've decided to become his house-mate? Would that be for the short term or the long?"

When Gareth took that inquiry as an excuse to hastily leave the room, I held little doubt as to what would follow and even less when Hagrid lowered himself to sit on the floor at the foot of the bed, his eyes searching Neirin's face and avoiding mine.

"He's a fine and brave Muggle, Healer Gareth, don't yeh think? Smart as any Ravenclaw -- maybe a bit of the Slytherin to him, too -- and that Delyth, I think there's magic in 'er that she doesn't even know or maybe she's not sure of?" He looked to me for confirmation, and I nodded. I suspected the same, but there was nothing yet to prove. Her mother was from away, but if her father was of the Isles, how was it we'd never heard of her?

"Gareth says the folk here aren't ashamed ter keep their Old Ways right along with their regular Muggle ones. Seems most of 'em 'ave figured how ter live with enough a' both ter keep things nicely balanced fer 'em. Somethin' wizard folk may have ter learn if we're hopin' ter last another thousand years or so, would yeh say?"

"Hagrid," I pressed him, "say your piece or we'll never get on with this change of location." How determined I was to keep my tone brisk and not let him know the loss I was already feeling.

"Yeh do see the point of it, don't yeh, Minerva? One of us needs ter keep 'ere by 'im, Dumbledore said as much. Gareth and Delyth, they'll not know all a' what's going ter keep 'im safe or what 'e needs ter learn. If 'e starts bein' angry, like he does, a part of 'is magic might come creepin' out dark and 'e might hurt himself or someone else, not meanin' ter do it, but not quite knowin' how ter stop it." At that point, Hagrid reached into the sleeve of his work shirt and drew out his wand, the first time I'd ever seen him handle it openly.

"I'm strong enough ter take about anything the professor might 'ave slip. He can't harm me much, unless 'e really tries and I don't think e'll want to. Professor... that's what I'll call 'im, yeh see, some so I don't forget and say 'is name, but more because that's who 'e is. That name Gareth gave 'im sounds fine but it's a bit hard fer me ter get my teeth into." He chuckled at that, a little sheepish but proud and so resolved.

"Him bein' blind, might make 'im mean fer a while. Gareth told me, yeh see, the same as you did... about the potion 'e was usin'... said he'll fight us hard sometimes, not even knowin' what he's about or what it is 'e needs so bad, just that 'e wants it. There's plenty of what I learned a long time back that I have ter practice and get jus' right, and there's other magic I couldn't let on to even knowin' about. When the professor's able, I can start ter show 'im a little so he'll remember. Learnin' 'is magic over again, yeh might say, same as me."

A little scowl furrowed his brow, and he tucked his wand back into his sleeve.

"There's few enough will miss 'avin me' about, anymore than most would 'a missed 'im." I must have frowned because he stopped to smile and shake his head. "It's not so bad as that, Minerva. With me 'ere to watch over the professor and you 'searchin all the books and such at Hogwarts -- Albus doin' what 'e can -- on both sides of the Veil, I'd guess -- we'll maybe find our Third Keeper a bit quicker and be able ter bring the professor back ter 'is proper self." As he spoke, his calloused fingers slid gently along the length of silver around his neck. "I'm sorry ter not be goin' home ter Hogwarts with yeh. I'll miss it fierce, but I think if yeh ask Charlie Weasley, he might be glad ter come and see ter things fer yeh."

He lowered his head and reached for my hand, and with all my strength I prayed he wouldn't weep. How could I stand to see him cry and know I'd not see him for weeks or months at a time?

Of course, I insisted on my right to turn the refurbished smithy into a proper home. There were layers of dust and soot to be dispelled with thorough "Scourgifies" and more than a little Transfiguration of old wagon beds, wheels, anvils, and hay bales to be sure that Hagrid would have comfortable quarters to accommodate his size.

Gareth carried all sorts of tables, chairs, and chests from the spare rooms of his tower and, with the addition of a comfortable bed, created a snug sleeping alcove for Neirin, two strides from Hagrid's own. The soul of tact, he left me undisturbed to unpack the battered trunk from Hogwarts. The gray woolen blanket was soon laid across the bed, and the most worn dragon hide boots were tucked within easy reach underneath. Stacks of clothes were neatly arranged in the drawers and cupboard, all scented with pieces of the amber. I even tucked those hideous green socks safely away.

Rows of Neirin's books I ranked on conjured shelves, their drowsy scent spreading through the alcove, and as I placed them -- with my hands, not with a wand -- I made my vow.

"We'll read every one of these to you -- and someday, by all that's precious, you'll read them back to us."

His decanters of firewhisky and dryad brandy, the snifter too, I placed on the window ledge. Not the best way to treat fine spirits and crystal, and he would surely scowl at my foolishness if he knew, but the sunlight, slanting through them, cast prisms of light and color across his bed. He wouldn't see these captured rainbows, but perhaps he'd sense their blessing.

Hagrid is accustomed to cooking, however dreadfully, at a hearth, so it was easy enough to create a small kitchen. Among the crockery and utensils that Delyth brought, I found a spot for the plain teacup, with a tin of dank dark tea right beside. She and I had not spoken since the day that Neirin woke long enough to find his voice and wound her. When I reached across the table to touch her bandaged hand, in sympathy for the fear and pain I knew she'd felt in that endless moment, she pulled away and turned to go.

"Delyth," I ventured cautiously, settling the samovar in its place, not wanting to frighten her off, "would you stay and help me? I can hardly leave two men, well-meaning as they are, to finish up." She stood there for a moment, poised as if listening for some distant sound, considering carefully before she answered.

"No, you'll forgive me, but I'd rather not touch his things. I'll make good food and do whatever else I can to help Gareth care for him, but that's all I'm able to give your Maldwyn. Please, don't ask me for anything more than that." Slowly opening and closing her injured hand, she surveyed the room and gave me a small smile. "I do like your Hagrid, you know. I'm glad to know he's staying. As long as he's here, Gareth is protected from what ails your friend, and that's what's best for now."

And so, a few days after, in solemn procession, we moved Neirin to this simple home we've made for him.

It was Hagrid who carried him, lifting him so carefully, rumbling constant reassurances, taking the greatest care not to startle him. Any unexpected touch near his wound causes him to thrash and jerk his head away, his hands flying to his throat. I know it's my doing that this terror haunts him, but it means the memory remains close to the surface, and I accept the shame of keeping it there. We had thought to cut his hair to keep if from brushing against the livid scars on his neck, but in the end, we've chosen to simply tie it back. His hair has always been his shield. We couldn't bear to leave him naked of it now.

Every day, we have hope that some minute sensation will trigger a memory other than the awful ones I've stirred within him. Whatever his body needs, we try to answer with the things that are familiar to him.

We dress him in the Muggle clothes, just to be safe. Gareth does have neighbors, and they do stop in to visit. Even for the tolerant folk of Gwaun, wizard's robes would be an oddity that might cause comment. The fact that their Healer has a patient in his care that no one knows has only served to bring more help. Polite inquiries on Neirin's progress are made, but no one pries, and there is never the matter of repayment. I've introduced myself as a professor of anthropology spending the summer in support of my former student's recovery. Hagrid is spoken of as my field assistant. Of course, his size triggers some curiosity, but Gareth simply hints that there might be a distant cousin somewhere in Samoa, and that's the end of it.

Offers to sit with Neirin are always gently discouraged. We've said he's a soldier from a vaguely alluded-to conflict that's left him blinded and gravely ill. We explain that having been a prisoner of war, he's highly agitated by the sound or touch of strangers, sometimes to the point of violence, and his physicians have recommended seclusion. Enough generations of these good people have seen their fathers, sons, and brothers returning from distant wars in a similar condition that the story isn't questioned.

Several of the oldest women have lingered over their hampers of food, as if they wish to ask me something. They nod respectfully, studying me with knowing eyes, and I suspect eventually at least one will venture the question. Your lad, so pale and ill, and blinded, poor thing -- do you think he's maybe been cursed? Is there something we might do to help him? How I'll answer to that, I've no idea.

Albus' advice is always with us. Speak to him, surround him with the things he knew. Hagrid says the elves call these the things his hands could find without looking. I hope that's true. When he trembles, we wrap him in the heavy blanket from his bed. When he's thirsty, we always reach for the plain teacup from the shelf. When Gareth or Hagrid help him bathe, they use the plain white soap from Hogwarts. For a man with such abundant whiskers, Hagrid has shown an exceptionally light hand with a shaving charm. Neirin needn't be frightened by the touch of Gareth's razor at his throat -- and Gareth needn't take the risk of Neirin's desperately clutching hands at his. A wise precaution, either way.

Tea remains our ritual. I brew the horrid stuff he fancied, holding the cup to his lips every day at our accustomed time, and I always murmur "vile." It's difficult for him to swallow, even now, and I must repeat a charm to keep the tea from growing cold. I speak the words softly, close to his ear so that he can hear me. The lovely cup he gave me so long ago would be useful. I must remember to bring it next time I'm able to stay. In my absences, I know that Hagrid faithfully makes the tea and says the warming charm. With some faint hope, I've even brewed the Scottish blend, the one so loathed, and given Neirin that to sip, watching for a grimace of disgust. I would so welcome a scathing "insipid."

Gareth is usually the one with Neirin for meals, sitting close to keep him steady, supporting his hands, guiding him so that he can regain the dignity of feeding himself. He sings to him softly in the Welsh, chats about the doings of the bees and horses, coaxes one more bite. Delyth brings wonderful dishes, savory tidbits to tempt Neirin's meager appetite, carefully portioned to ease both his throat and his pride. So long as Gareth is there, she stays and waits to carry off the dishes. I've seen her touch Neirin's shoulder as she leaves, but never his hands. Whenever he attempts to speak, she departs quickly. She seems to shun the sound of his voice but for no reason that I can determine. And yet, she comes... every day.

Neirin is able to walk a little now, with one of us on either side to guide him from his bed to a leaf-shaded seat in the yard. He fights to stand tall and straight, something his muscles must remember. We each take turns reading aloud to him, even Hagrid, but whether he's truly listening is difficult to know. When I'm the one reading, Gareth sits with me, entranced with the music of the words, especially if the book is a magical one. Usually he works on the lawffon, asking my opinion from time to time or gently wrapping Neirin's hands around the wood for a moment. An introduction of souls, he calls it. If Neirin hasn't the strength to manage the few steps back, Hagrid will carry him, but only after quietly asking if he may and waiting for a nod of acceptance.

There are blessed days when simple tasks are easily accomplished, and Neirin seems stronger, more present. At the sound of our footsteps, he nods in greeting and carefully forms his "Please", remembering to say our names. We are voices, hands, scents that he has learned to recognize, nothing more. Knowing there is no memory of us behind our names is a great sorrow for Hagrid and me to bear.

There are other days which are damned, when Neirin is possessed with craving, choking on the blood of hoarse ravings that tear the wound at his throat, lashing out at any touch, biting at the Mark like a chained animal. "Let me... GO," he screams in strangled whispers, and no one knows if he means Riddle, the serpent, or his own potions. Perhaps he means Albus. Perhaps he means us.

Gareth has offered another Joining. I cannot permit it -- he could so easily go mad in the attempt, and we would lose them both. I think of the warded chest I brought and the bronze box that Gareth gave me, asking what should be done with it. They are guarded, now, by the standing stones of Myrrdin's Seat. Neirin's freedom may lie within those potions, and I've not the skill to know.

In these awful hours, we bind him with spells, or Hagrid's arms, as gently as possible, and stay beside him, waiting. He may plead for release with a sob, or howl with rage, demanding it. We grip his hands, and I allow myself the wish that dark gods would let me face Tom bloody Riddle one last time. I tell myself that I would not hesitate to curse him until he was the one left sobbing, screaming for an end to his torment. I accept these thoughts for what they are. My soul's capacity for darkness does not require surrender, only recognition.

Neirin's agonies always yield, eventually, to Gareth's fierce compassion. In the aftermath, I am Maftet again, curling tight against his heart, matching my purring to his breathing, hoping to comfort him, praying he does not remember me as his torturer.

There are moments, on the better days, when his head will tilt a certain way or his fingers will curl as if to hold a pestle. A corner of his mouth will lift, like the specter of a sly smile. In the light of mid-day, there are flickers of flame, deep in his eyes, and I bite my cheek to keep from shouting "Severus, LOOK at us, see us, we're bloody hell right here."

Between us, Hagrid and I have sworn that we will answer whatever he asks with honesty, but we are guarded in our truths. We could shatter him so easily.

Too often, there is a return of the awful "Tell me... where I am..." like some endless spasm of his mind. Safe, we always say, you are safe, you are protected.

"Why... protected...?" We are cautious, and tell him it is because he is ill and cannot see.

His hands crawl towards his eyes and he rasps, "How... did this... happen?" Venom, we explain. You were attacked by an enemy, and you were bitten by his snake. Your enemy is dead and you have survived.

"Name... my name..." We speak the truth that shelters him. Neirin Maldwyn, we answer, you're called Neirin Maldwyn. He shakes his head, struggling to shape this sound, to say the name aloud, seeking its reality.

"Hagrid... says... professor..." Because it suits you, we assure him. The wraith of a sneer drifts across his face, and we don't even breathe.

"Too dim... witted... for that... to suit..."

Tomorrow morning, I'll return to Hogwarts. There are students wanting to complete their ritual of a formal education. These few who've asked, or been coerced, to return, some of them will fail miserably, some will merely pass, some will exceed all expectations. Merlin willing, at least one of them might excel at Potions. If I see his teachings used intelligently in even one essay, I swear I'll bring those pages to Neirin and lay them in his lap like a gift of roses.

Tonight is mine, the last I'll spend in Gwaun for several weeks. My "Lumos" fills the room like fog so that I'll have light to read aloud to Neirin, letting the pages rustle between my fingers so that he can hear them. Because he knows my step, he says my name.

"Minerva..."

"Hust, Neirin, 'ch angen at bwyso. You must rest," I soothe, hiding the sorrow of my leaving behind the old speech that Gareth's taught me. I watch the wings of night brush past his face.

"I... dream..." he whispers. Today was an ugly day, thick with pain. What moves within his mind?

"Is your dream kind to you, Neirin?" I need to hear, but I fear to know.

His voice is slurred by Gareth's lulling herbs. "Man... waiting..."

Circe's grace, who does he see?

"No... reason... worth... waiting..."

Ah, but you're wrong, dear friend. I'll happily argue the finer points of worthiness with you. Merlin's Heart, I'll happily argue the finer points of anything with you until my voice is as raw as yours -- but not this time. No debate permitted here. There is a reason. There is every reason.