Darkness

4. Darkness

“I was making progress against those Malfoys. I was building a good case. Then, the supervisors went ape-shit over a few protective wards and I was reassigned to the Parkinsons and the Malfoys were given to Padma Singh who couldn’t handle the criminal proceedings and proposed some namby-pamby community service. Now, as regular as clockwork, those slimy gits sacrifice some retard who’s thrown into prison faster than you can say ‘Bob’s your uncle,’ and the government is happy and Padma is the girl of the hour and the Malfoys go scot free.”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” said Severus.

Theo was thinking that, of course, Cho could spout some female spite. Big deal. Well, he would show them that back story could have bite.

He supposed it was his fault for being in this predicament. He had fallen into the trap of many whose vocation was risky and unpredictable: a few select routines, of no apparent consequence, that gave his life structure. Everyone knew a dark stranger spent the early evening relaxing over café au lait at a modest outdoor café. Thus it was that a lady had arrived who acted as if she was from his past even though he could not recall her. He wasn’t certain he wanted to, especially since she seemed put out that he didn’t recognize her, and he was of the opinion that people were more eager that one remember an injury they wanted to redress than a favor they wanted to repay. Whatever wrong he had done her, she appeared more interested in general conversation about abstruse things. Had they been fellow academics in a previous life? Was she being patient in preparing a very cold dish?

He was thinking that he should avoid this Mrs. Weasley, as she called herself, but whenever he was downwind of her, his nostrils would flare and he had the urge to impregnate her. He wanted it to happen as she was looking into his eyes, aware of what he had done to her and having the realization give her an orgasm that drained her.

In his less dark moments, he thought he should just bite her.

Ah, the excesses of youth and their search for excitement, thought Biff. Speaking of which, let’s see what the editor wrote for her experiment in dialogue.

“Henderson from Department of Mysteries believes duality rules magic.”

“In what way?” asked Severus.

Mrs. Weasley perked up. She wouldn’t even try to mention this to her husband. She said, “He thinks every spell has a counter-spell.”

“Does the counter-spell undo the original or does it cancel it?” asked Severus. “It’s possible to untie a knot, but it’s not possible to tie another knot that undoes it.”

“Arithmancy,” said Mrs. Weasley. “If there’s an answer, it probably lies in the structure of things. But Henderson doesn’t do Arithmancy; he’s a scholar cataloging spells and their antithesis.”

“Even if he doesn’t get to the heart of the matter, he is likely to come up with some good information,” said Severus.

Mrs. Weasley gave a sad smile. “Maybe there’s a spell that undoes scholarship.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“My in-laws have been making remarks about my being an aloof wife,” she said.

Severus shook his head in polite disagreement and asked, “How can they think that?”

“They think I studied too much at school, and I haven’t reformed, that I can’t reform and become more human.”

Severus was looking into serious, concerned eyes. “But you were preparing yourself, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, “for the type of life I wanted.”

“And the type of person you wanted to be with,” added Severus.

“Do you think so?” she asked. “But look how it turned out.”

Mrs. Weasley changed the topic. “Do you think there’s a counter-spell for that monstrosity in the Parkinson pantry?”

She couldn’t resist teasing him and asked, “Do you think it can be canceled or will it have to be undone?”

The breeze had carried the aroma of a married woman who did not know she was flirting. ‘Something to sink his teeth into,’ as they say. Severus sat silent, not daring to smile at the risk of revealing his true nature. Nor did he dare stand at the risk of revealing his true state. He would burn this witch at both ends.

The editor could no longer persist in a style of writing that had no subtlety.

Come through for me, Biff, prayed the editor.

Some day in our lives

There will come a time

When we can relate Severus’s tale

That proud grand moment

When he faced the test

Of raving curses cast by the best

A strangely transformed

Cruel strong monument

Of clever spells cunningly wrought

How bravely he stood

Where no other dared

Waving his wand weaving magic

And we should not look

Into the reason

For the brave stand of this one man

We leave it to others

To shamelessly tell

The dark secret that served him well

For a heart bled out

The absence of hope

Is no reason to not go on

He was more than brave

No longer human

When full circle he faced himself

For his amusement

He performed the deed

That set him free from all others

In a grand display

He betrayed himself

Became the thing he now destroyed

He vanquished the bounds

That did guide his way

That gave him hope that kept him sane

From this time forward

No one would approach

The baleful wizard that all now feared

How shattered the life

How empty the soul

At triumph’s door when all alone

Cho was certain Biff and the editor had gone off their trolley. It was a warning about pursuing a life of publishing. Or a warning about being too professional. This place could use some hanky-panky. She knew she could.

Mrs. Weasley was proud of herself when Severus agreed to take on the Parkinson Pantry Problem. She nodded with satisfaction when he declared it a multi-layered ward. She had second thoughts when removing the first layer blew out all the windows. She had doubts when removing the second layer vaporized the ceiling and roof. She began to worry when removing the third layer destroyed the back of the house. She became frightened when removing the final layer punched a hole in the face of the Earth. She was nearly hysterical when the last ward sputtered out. And when Severus turned to her and calmly said, “I hope this place was insured,” she was terrified that the exercise had deranged his mental faculties.

She insisted on escorting him home, convinced that his amusement over her concern was proof that he had been psychically damaged.

At his flat, she spread several quilts in front of the fireplace and started a fire, and knowing it was essential to keep him warm and supply him with human company, she stretched out beside him and, to be on the safe side, snuggled against him. She graciously accepted his stroking her hair and telling her that her moral support had been essential. Humoring him was the first step in the healing process. His making her feel more relaxed and comfortable and warm than she had ever felt was a sign that he was regaining his humanity, making her so relaxed and comfortable and warm that Mrs. Weasley fell asleep in his arms.

She easily convinced her department that Severus needed constant attention to regain his balance. No one wanted a raving Dark Wizard. Her husband and his family merely shook their heads and muttered about her being too dedicated to her job.

It was their second time when he said, “Make love to me.”

Mrs. Weasley did. Tenderly. As she had never done before. As she wanted to do more and more as she realized she was losing him. And as he slipped deeper and deeper into darkness, she became more and more human. Mrs. Weasley never felt more human than on the day she came for him as he made her pregnant.

END