Chapter Sixteen

Guilt constricted his throat to the point it ached to force the words through it. "I..."

Heart pounding against his ribs, he closed his eyes as bile raced toward his mouth, his stomach undulating like one of the cars on the twisting tracks of a roller coaster. Images from the night before assailed him behind his closed lids. The smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils while the words of the vow he'd taken echoed in his ears. The things he'd promised... "I can't," he whispered.

The elder Robert's hand closed around his arm, the gnarled knuckles and age-discolored skin belying its strength. "Severus, lad..."

"I can't!"

The cottage's electrics surged in response to the unconscious lashing out of his magic as his emotions surged. Afraid of causing irreparable damage, he stormed from the room to hopefully find solace in the back garden.

The echo of the door's resounding slam had barely dissipated when the soothing presence of Isobel McGonagall washed over him. Embarrassed by the inner turmoil, he refused to acknowledge her, focusing instead on the Nottingham catchfly blooming beneath the quarter moon.

"Severus?" Her warm hand against his back brought tears to a boil in his eyes. "Why can't you do this, lad?"

Swallowing the knot of guilt, he forced his answer through his roughened throat. "I don't deserve this." He closed his eyes, his Adam's apple convulsing in his neck. "I don't deserve to accept your generous offer of familial comfort. Not after..." Grief choked his words, urging him to shake his head in an attempt to clear it.

Another gentle pat to his shoulder did little to help. "Look at me, Severus."

His inborn stubbornness added to his sense of self-preservation, and he turn away farther still.

"Severus." The blasted witch not only tugged on his chin with such force that he had no choice but to swivel in his direction, she also insinuated herself between him and any distraction the flowering borders could provide. "Oh, my dear lad, you deserve so much more than this humble..."

"But I don't!" He jerked away from her, pacing nearly the full length of the garden before he spun on his heels and stalked back towards the family matriarch. When he was close enough for her to see the details but no touch, he shoved his left shirtsleeve to his elbow and clenched his fist to highlight the brand on the inside of his forearm. "This keeps me from deserving anything but to wallow with the swine and await the devil's pleasure! Can't you see that?!"

Isobel's aged, but fine-boned hand rested easily over the mark. "What I see is a young man who made a terrible mistake." The warmth from her fingers eased the sting of the newly marked skin. "A mistake that is not beyond rectifying."

"A mistake that has cost me my soul," he ground out through gritted teeth.

"No, lad." Isobel tightened her grip, the pressure of her fingertips gentle but insistent against his flesh. "Perhaps it cost you this patch of sinew and muscle, but never your soul. And definitely not your heart."

She sounded so sure, so confident, he was almost persuaded. "How do you know?"

The old witch patted his arm, then ambled to a nearby bench. Her body language beckoned him to follow. "Tell me Severus, were you christened?"

Severus sighed, his heart pinching in his chest. "Yes."

"Confirmed?"

Tears welled again as memories surged. "Yes."

"And did you mean the vows you gave the good rector?"

"Every word," Severus whispered, a niggle of hope fighting against the tide of despair.

Isobel took his hand and tugged him toward the vacant seat beside her. For the first time since entering the cottage, he complied willingly. "Then that is how I know, love." She smiled gently, her blue eyes flashing with confidence. "Your soul is already owned, Severus, and will not be easily relinquished."

Severus blinked, the desire to believe her assurance quickly overtaking his shame. "But..."

She tightened her grip on his fingers. "Your soul is owned, lad. Never doubt it. Now let us bargain for your heart. Hold it in trust so it will be whole when a witch worthy of it stakes her claim."

Visions of Lily filtered through the fog of despondency. Despite her choices, he loved her. Always. "There will never be another," he whispered.