Twilight Rain, for the_con_cept

Recipient: the_con_cept
Author: femmequixotic
Title: Twilight Rain
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Severus/Draco
Word Count: ~5250
Warnings: Sex, post-DH
Disclaimer: If I owned them I’d be richer. And they’d be canonically gayer.


Summary: It's raining when Father leaves to collect Severus's body.


Notes: Many thanks to my beta and to nishizono for this fest.


...those whom we
For years have loved, and will again
Tomorrow maybe love; but now it is the rain
Possesses us entirely, the twilight and the rain.
(Alun Lewis, All Day It Has Rained)


It's raining when Father leaves to collect Severus's body.

He asks if I wish to go; I turn my face into Mother's shoulder and shake my head. Her robe smells musty, smoky.

Father starts to say something—a recrimination regarding my cowardice, I'm certain—but she stops him with a raised hand and a quiet Lucius. He turns silently on his heel. Her fingers are gentle against my hair and it doesn't matter what she murmurs; her voice brings the same comfort it did when I was little and had banged my shins or skinned my knee.

How I wish this were that simple.

It's strange here, returning to our house, our home. It feels oddly empty. Surreal.

His Lordship's belongings are still in Mother's bedroom. She throws his robes from the wardrobe, incinerating the pile of silk and linen with one quick flick of her wand. Her mouth is tight, her hand shakes, and it's my turn to hold her, whisper banal lies in her ear.

It will be fine; we'll be fine.

We both know the truth of the matter.

After this, nothing will ever be the same. It can't be. Not for any of us.

She wants to bathe, she says quietly, and I leave her, find my way to my room. It's a child's room, a boy's retreat, with Quidditch brooms and team banners mounted on the walls and photographs of myself with the Falcons and the Magpies and the United. The players wave at me from the mahogany frames and my younger self smirks, arms crossed, assured of his place in this world. He is a Malfoy, after all.

I wish I had that certainty still.

The bed is soft beneath me. I curl into cushioning charms and goose feather pillows and down coverlet. It's familiar, this warmth, this smell. Cedar and lavender. Even in my absence the elves launder the sheets weekly.

I almost think I can smell him as well…the faintest hint of the clove cigarettes he smoked in private, the medicinal whiff of potions lingering on his robes. I bury my face into the pillow and breathe out.

I had planned it out, my offer. My body for his protection—for myself and my father and my mother.

He refused me. A Malfoy. Refused by a greasy, grimy half-blood…

Rejection stings bitterly. And I had become more determined to have him in my bed. It wasn't as if I was a virgin, after all. Hadn't been for ages.

But when he kissed me that first night, pressed up against my bedroom door—I touch my lips. I swear I can still taste him on my tongue.

I touch the coverlet, run my fingers across the embroidered silk. The threads are rough-soft against my fingertips. He took me here, slowly, carefully, and he had told me to open my eyes as my body tensed beneath him, thighs spread wide.

A shiver runs through me at the memory of dark eyes watching me, his hair brushing across my cheeks as he leant in to kiss me again.

No one had ever kissed me the way Severus did. Rough, wanting, desperate—as if he could lose himself against my lips, my tongue.

My cock aches at the thought.

It's wrong, so very wrong, but I fumble with my trousers, pulling at the buttons, pushing my fingers past wool and silk to curl around my prick. If I close my eyes I can pretend my hand is his, I can think of our last moments together—not knowing we'd never have another—my back against the wall of his office, the stones digging into my shoulders as I pushed against him, our cocks rubbing together, his fingers twisting over the head, and he kissed me, Merlin, he kissed me—angry and needing and bloody fuck, Severus--

My hand is sticky; I fall back against the bed, breathing hard, and something inside of me breaks. Shatters.

Hot and wet against my cheeks.

He's gone.

Dead.

It doesn't seem real. I don't know that it ever will.

I miss him.

A shaky breath and I roll over, curl in on myself, wrap my arms tight around my waist. It aches, hard and heavy inside.

I sleep.

***

Tilly wakes me with a careful touch of long elf fingers and a quiet Master Draco sir.

Shadows stretch across the floor, long and dark against the golden pools of late afternoon sunlight that warm the oak planks. I rub my eyes, pull together my still-gaping trousers.

"Go away," I say crossly, slapping at her hand and she sighs.

"Master is wanting Master Draco immediately, sir." Her eyes are wide and I wonder if she ever blinks. I don't recall noticing before. She's new to the upstairs, having only been moved from the kitchen when His Lordship threw one too many of our elves into the fire.

I roll over, drape my arm over my face. "Master can sod off for all I care," I mumble into the crook of my elbow. Tilly hisses.

"Master is saying the Professor Master Snape is breathing," she snaps and I still.

I sit up slowly, staring at her. "What?"

"Professor Master—" she begins, but I've already pushed her away and am running down the hallway. My clothes are disheveled, I reek of sweat and battle and I've not bothered with my shoes.

My stockinged feet slide on the floor; I slam into the doorjamb of the Manor's best guest suite, nearly knocking the breath from me. My shoulder aches; I can already feel the bruise forming under my skin.

It doesn't matter.

He's lying on the bed, pale and still and covered with his own blood. Mother sits next to him, his hand in hers, Father hovering over them both.

Neither of them look at me.

I'm silent for a moment, then I approach, pulling my Occlumency into place as Aunt Bella taught me what feels an eternity ago. "You sent for me," I say, and my voice is steady, calm.

My mind is screaming.

"Professor Snape," Mother begins, and Father cuts her off, turning to look at me.

"The headmaster appears to be alive. Barely. But alive." His fingers brush Severus's shoulder and I fight the sharp urge to push him away, to shout at him that he's no right to touch my—

I stop myself. "How?" I ask instead, and my fists curl against my trousers. I twist the wool between my fingertips.

"A potion, perhaps." Father pulls gently at the neck of Severus's robe. "He always was a damned paranoid bastard. Perhaps it finally stood him well." The snakebite is visible, angry red tears slashing his sallow skin. Dried blood scabs them over, streaking down his throat.

But I can see his pulse fluttering beneath his skin, see the steady, shallow rise and fall of his chest.

"His breathing has grown steadier since I brought him home." Father moves away from Severus and an odd curl of relief twists through me. "He should be watched—"

"I'll do it." I don't stop to think; Father gives me a studied look. I flush and look away. "Just…I've slept and you and Mother…" I trail off, chewing on my bottom lip. My cheeks still burn.

Mother breaks the silence. "I think that's an excellent idea," she says softly, and she touches my face, brushes my hair back behind my ear. She looks up at Father. "Wouldn't you agree, Lucius?" It's more a statement than a question.

He hesitates, and his eyes narrow at me for an uncomfortable moment. I shift from foot to foot, but I meet his direct gaze, chin up, unblinking. I have my secrets, just as he has his.

A curt nod and he steps away from the bed. "If he dies—"

"I'll send an elf," I say, but I shan't. I know this.

Mother kisses my cheek. Her hair is still damp, just at the ends, and she smells of rosewater and almond talc.

The door closes behind them; I finally relax. Turn to the bed. Father's set him over the coverlet, and his hair is black and lank against the cream dupioni pillows already stained with his blood.

Severus barely looks alive.

I lay my hand on his chest and feel the slow thrum of his heart. It's almost too much.

The mattress shifts beneath me as I crawl up next to him.

I rest my head against his shoulder and pretend none of this has happened, pretend that we're still in his bed, in his chambers, arms and legs tangled, sleeping at last.

Pretending isn't as easy as it once was.

***

The water is warm; I squeeze it from the flannel, letting it drip back into the bowl.

It seems better to clean him this way, rather than with a charm. Severus sleeps still, and I continue to check his breath, his heartbeat, just in case.

There's a part of me that can't quite believe he's still alive.

I drag the flannel over his skin, down his throat, across his chest. Blood stains the white cloth and I dip it into the bowl again, ring it out.

The water turns pink.

So much blood. Everywhere. On his skin, in his hair. His clothes are stiff with it.

I'm not quite certain how he survived.

He shifts, just slightly, just enough to make me hesitate, cloth still tight in my fingers, water dripping slowly onto his skin. A drop rolls down his chest, through the rough, wiry dark hair. It slides past the opening of his robe and disappears.

I can feel my own heart beating, a tense, nervous staccato, but he stills again. His mouth opens just slightly, then closes.

Water splashes onto the mahogany side table as I drop the flannel back into the bowl. The drops will stain the wood, but I don't care. Instead I sit on the edge of the bed and I can't stop myself from touching his lips with one fingertip, the way I have so many times in the past months.

I'm not entirely certain when things changed. How this went from just shagging my headmaster to something else.

Something deeper.

Perhaps its only when you've lost someone that you realise what you once had. What you still want.

I touch his cheek.

***

Two days pass.

I don't stay by his side constantly. I'm neither that selfless, nor that stupid. Tilly is entrusted with his care; Mother and Father come to sit with him at times. Wentworth stops by, the Healer who birthed not only me but also my father, and he frowns down at Severus and hums and strokes his neatly trimmed, grey-white beard.

Blood-replinishing potion, he says at last, and an anti-venom built up in his body. Severus must have suspected his means of death.

Of course he did. For the better part of a year Nagini had grown fat off Muggles and Death Eaters who displeased His Lordship.

I chose not to point this out, and he leaves, having injected Severus with a further concoction of potions meant to stimulate the healing process or some such shite.

Father thanks Wentworth and hands him a heavy purse filled with Galleons we can ill-afford to spend. The Ministry's already frozen three of the Malfoy accounts at Gringotts. Over a breakfast of eggs hollandaise and asparagus Father tells Mother and I that he's plenty of Galleons tucked well away from their grasp, that we're not to worry.

We do anyway.

I spend my days in my bedroom. The first is whiled away on the window seat, staring bleakly out at the rain still misting across the Manor lawns.

On the second, I stand in the middle of the room, feet bare, shirt untucked, and I turn, turn, turn in circles. I hate the walls surrounding me. Hate how foolish they look. How childish.

I pull the brooms from their brackets, tear the photographs from the walls, stomping on the glass until my heels bleed.

My face blinks up at me between my toes, horrified and stunned. A trickle of blood runs beneath my foot, obscuring one eye.

I'm not that boy any longer. I don't know who I am.

I'm not entirely certain I want to.

I dream of blood and fire and death that night. Of Vincent falling, my hand sliding away from him, leaving him, of the heavy thud of my heart when Potter announced Severus was dead, how the world tilted and swirled in a gleam of red eyes—

Tilly is dozing on the hearth in Severus's room when I push open the door. My feet ache with each step across the thick carpet. I've dug the shards out, healed the wounds clumsily.

I curl up next to Severus and lace my fingers through his. He shifts, and for a moment I think his lashes flutter, and then he's still.

No matter. It's enough to feel him next to me, to hear his soft, even breaths. To know he's close. Here there are no dreams that wake me in sweat and screams.

Only we exist in these quiet, dark hours alone.

I close my eyes.

***

The morning light is wet and grey; the rain still taps against the windowpanes, a slow, steady thrum.

With a stretch and a yawn, I curl into Severus's side, breathing in his smell, heavy and musky. His fingers stroke through my hair, featherlight, and I mumble something unintelligible even to myself against his chest.

And then my eyes fly open.

"Severus," I say, and he turns his head, fixes those dark, narrowed eyes on me.

Or so I think.

He blinks, slowly, carefully, and he's looking past me, over my shoulder. "Mr Malfoy," he murmurs, in that quiet, low voice, and it's only then I realise.

I wave my hand in front of his face. Nothing. Not even a blink.

"Severus," I say again, and my voice breaks.

He frowns, a twist of his mouth sideways. "Don't," he says sharply, and I swallow hard against the tight burn in my throat.

I won't.

***

A reaction between the venom and the anti-venom Wentworth says, and he drones on about optical nerves and other things that I don't give a damn about.

"Can you fix it?" I ask, cutting him off, and Father gives me a steady, even look before turning back to Wentworth.

The Healer scowls at me and glances back down at Severus. "Highly unlikely," he says after a moment.

Severus turns his head against the pillow.

"There must be a way—" Father begins, but Severus stops him with a weary Lucius. Father falls silent.

"I'm tired," Severus says, and he runs a thumb over the brocade of the coverlet. His ragged thumbnail catches on the threads.

Father nods, then catches himself. "Of course," he says thickly, and he glances at Wentworth. "Perhaps we could continue this discussion in my library?"

Wentworth grunts and reaches for his bag, snapping it shut. They both turn to me.

"I'm going to stay," I say.

"No." Severus scowls. "You won't."

"Draco," Father says quietly, and his eyes are fixed on me. Wentworth shifts from one foot to the other, his unease apparent.

I lift my chin. "Someone needs to watch over him—"

"No," Severus says again, and the anger in his voice catches me.

I swallow past the bile rising in my throat, press my lips together. Fine. If he wants to be a bloody idiot—

Not even the sharp slam of the door echoing behind me is satisfying. I run, feet slapping painfully against the polished parquet of the hallway, not stopping until I reach my room.

I sink down against the wall, pressing my face to my knees.

Rain streams down the windowpanes.

***

Severus comes down for dinner the next night.

The storm hasn't yet abated; I count the seconds between the flash of lightning that brightens the windows of the dining room and the heavy rumble of thunder.

Three kilometres.

He holds Mother's arm tightly, leaning against her, but, oddly, it’s she who looks fragile. She's charmed one of Father's robes to fit his lean body, black with a touch of white, and it looks well on him.

I nearly drop my wineglass.

Mother sits him across from me. He takes the chair stiffly, and he feels for the plate and the cutlery in front of him.

"To your left," I say almost under my breath, and he grunts as his fingers find the fork. One of the elves from the kitchen serves him, eyeing him nervously.

Dinner is silent, save for the scrape of knives against china, until Mother says, in far too studied casualness, "I saw another owl arrived."

Father's been rambling on about something he read in the day's Prophet. I've stopped listening; instead I watch Severus carefully move his fork about his plate, shifting the lamb brochettes with plums to one side and the carrots julienne to the other.

Father frowns and cuts a bite of his lamb, lifting it to his mouth and chewing slowly. "Nothing for you to be concerned about."

"Lucius." Mother sighs and Father pours her a glass of wine. Severus fumbles with his knife; it clatters against his plate and he flushes, mouth tight. He spears a roasted plum with his fork. His hand trembles slightly as he bites into it. A bit of juice catches on the corner of his mouth. He licks it away.

A shiver runs through me.

It's strange to see his eyes, usually so dark and bright and penetrating, now blank and unfocused. I look away, my fingers tightening on my wineglass.

"I said it was nothing." Father's voice is sharp and Mother's eyebrows draw together in an expression that I know too well. I shift in my seat uncomfortably.

She takes a sip of her wine. "I saw the Ministry crest—"

Father slams his fist against the table. "Leave it."

We all fall silent; Mother meets his gaze evenly.

Thunder rumbles again; Severus tilts his head to one side, listening. His hair brushes his cheek. I want to reach over and tuck it behind his ear. To kiss him.

Instead I stare down at my plate of half-eaten brochettes. The scent of garlic and cumin wafts up, and my stomach twists.

Mother pushes her chair back. "I don't believe I'm hungry," she says and Father sighs in annoyance.

"Narcissa," he says and she frowns at him. He leans back in his chair. "Fine."

She's nearly out the door when Severus reaches for his wineglass and knocks it over. It smashes onto the floor.

"Damnation," he snaps, and then Mother's by his side, banishing away the shards and spilt wine. Severus stands, catching the table with one hand. "I should like to retire."

Mother nods and looks at me. "Draco."

I push back my chair immediately. "Of course." Severus's elbow is sharp against my palm. I slide my arm through the crook of his elbow. "I'll take you."

A curt nod and he allows me to lead him from the room.

"Well done," I say when we reach the hallway and he snorts.

"I've been forced to endure too many of your parents' sullen arguments over the years," Severus says and I put his hand on the stair banister. He takes a step up with me. "God knows I won't sit through one tonight."

I can't object.

He stumbles only once on the stairs; I catch his hip and he stiffens until I drop my hand. "Severus," I say and he shakes his head. It angers me. "It's not like I've not touched you before."

He scowls. One of my ancestors hanging on the wall watches us with interest, fluttering a fan in front of her face. "Things are different."

"I don't see how," I start to say and he cuts me off with a sharp laugh.

"Don't be an idiot."

I open his bedroom door. He stops me from going in with one hand on my chest. "You can't be serious."

"Good night, Mr Malfoy," he says and shuts the door in my face.

With a rude gesture at his door which draws a well, really, I never from my nosy great-great grandmother or aunt or bloody fucking cousin, I stomp off towards my room, sincerely hoping he'll fall and break a limb.

Or two.

***

The Aurors arrive the next morning.

The Minstry have found Father's hidden accounts and aren’t happy. They've decided he's a flight risk and should be kept in Auror custody until his hearing.

Mother insists to be allowed to accompany him.

I watch them leave from the upstairs landing. Mother looks up at me before she steps into the Floo and she smiles faintly.

I wonder how long it will be before I see them again.

I wonder how long it will be before I'm next.

Severus snorts when I pose the latter question to him. He's cobbled together a charm that will read books aloud in a halting, stumbling voice, and he has settled himself in Father's library.

"You're too young for them to give a damn about," he says and the page flips in the book on the table before him. He rests a hand on it, pausing the charm for a moment. It mumbles beneath his palm, then falls silent with an annoyed hmph.

I glare at him—an utterly futile show of frustration. "I have the Mark."

"As do I," he says calmly. "They won't touch me because of Potter and you were barely a Death Eater."

He's right, but I don't have to like it.

I'm somewhat offended that I'm not worth the Ministry's trouble.

Nor Severus's evidently.

I slam the library door behind me.

***

The wallpaper peels away in long, curling strips.

There's a sense of relief I have as I throw them to the floor. I've broken three fingernails down to the quick so far, but I barely notice. I've almost an entire wall clear.

I've discarded my shirt already; despite the chill in the damp air, I'm sweating.

For some reason this matters. I can't explain it, not even to myself.

It feels like shedding my skin. Pulling free, red and raw.

When I reach the window, I jerk at the curtains roughly, once, twice. The rod breaks free, and they tumble down over me, heavy and thick. I shove the velvet away and look up into wet grey light.

The window glass is cold under my palms, and I don't even think before I push the panes open, swinging them out into the rain.

Drops hit my skin, and I turn my palms up, leaning forward over the sill, lifting my face to the sky.

My breath catches as the rain washes over me, soaking my hair, streaming down my cheeks, over my shoulders, and for the first time in weeks I laugh.

For the first time in weeks I feel real.

***

I find Severus still in the library, another book spread before him. I'm half certain he's asleep, lulled into unconsciousness by the halting drone of the reading charm, but his eyes open when my hand covers the book, silencing it.

"What do you want?" he asks sharply.

I'm still wet, still shirtless, and a drop of rain rolls down my neck from my damp hair. I don't answer; instead I take his hand, twining my fingers with his, and I pull him to his feet.

"Draco," he says and there's a faint, nervous flutter in his voice that I've never heard before.

"I want to show you something," I say.

He lets me lead him through the house and out the conservatory, but he hesitates at the door leading out to the gardens. "It's raining," he says, and I laugh.

"I know."

The rain's cold against my skin, cold and stinging and I almost think he's going to turn on his heel, slam the door shut on me.

I hold my breath.

And then he steps forward, slowly, and I draw him out into the rain.

"Feel it," I say and I touch his wet cheek.

"You're mad."

I laugh. "Perhaps." I lift his hands to my face and he smoothes his fingertips over my cheekbones.

His breath catches. "Draco," he says again, softly, this time, and his fingers trace the curve of my eyebrows, skim the bridge of my nose.

My heart stops. I swear it does. I can't feel anything but his fingertips, not the rain, not the cold. Just the gentle sweep of his skin across mine, the press of his fingers over my mouth, my jaw.

Then I realise, he's seeing me.

I stand still, barely breathing, letting him touch my face, my hair, my throat, my shoulders.

And when his wet mouth brushes mine, I whisper, "We're still alive."

He pulls me closer.

***

Severus's hands have always been strong. From the first moment they held me all those months ago.

I feel safe in his touch.

He smoothes his palms over my shoulders, down my arms. He catches my waist and his thumbs stroke over my skin.

We've discarded our damp clothes beside the hearth. He lies beneath me, long and lean, and I straddle his hips, trail my fingers across the curse scars that curve across his sides, over his stomach.

They're familiar to me, these raised white ridges, and I lean forward, press my mouth to his throat. His skin's still wet here, damp from his hair, and I can taste the sweetness of the rain against his salty skin.

Severus groans and presses his hips up. His cock is hard; the head drags across my arse, and I can't stop the shiver of want. He feels it beneath his hands, and he laughs softly.

I pull his fingers to one nipple. "Please," I say, and he bites his lip as he pinches me, a gentle twist of fingers to skin. "Oh, God."

His other hand cups my face. His fingertips skim my cheek, drag across my open mouth. I catch them with my teeth, lick my tongue across them. He gasps.

Severus grasps my hip. "I want—" He breaks off, arches beneath me.

“I know.” I’m already slick, already stretched, and his fingers dig into my skin as I slide onto his cock.

He hisses.

It’s only been days since we last did this, but it feels entirely different.

More intimate.

“I wish I could see you,” Severus whispers, pulling me down into a kiss. I press back against his hips, taking him in deeper.

My teeth nip his bottom lip. “Just feel,” I say, and his hands slide up my back, his thumbs tracing the knobbly bumps of my spine. My skin prickles, burns beneath his touch.

He rolls me over, presses me into the Aubusson. The hand-knotted fringe digs into my hip.

I don’t care.

“Severus,” I groan against his jaw, and he pushes into me, raises up just enough to let the head of my cock drag against his stomach.

I wrap my legs around his hips, roll my arse off the floor and up into his next thrust.

With a gasp, Severus lurches forward. He smoothes my hair back from my forehead with one hand, his fingers sliding over my sweaty skin, brushing across my lashes. “Beautiful,” he whispers, and he closes his empty eyes.

Lets himself feel.

Shadows flicker across his sallow skin; his damp, lank hair swings forward, catching on the sharp angle of his jaw.

I’m breathing hard; my cock aches. I can feel the familiar burn deep against my spine, coiling tightly, and I groan and writhe up against him, begging him. Harder. Faster. Please.

He moves against me, with me, and my fingers claw down his back, scrabbling for purchase, my foot catches the corner of the hearth and I push up, hard, eager---

Severus swears, and the sheen of sweat on his thin, sloped shoulders gleams in the firelight.

I close my eyes. Take a ragged breath.

“Please,” I say once more, and I arch my shoulders against the rug beneath me, feel the rough scrape of the silk and wool against my skin as Severus thrusts again.

His tongue drags across my throat; his teeth bite at my jaw. I can hear the steady drum of the rain in the chimney, the faint hiss of the few droplets that drip into the fire.

He’s inside of me, stretching me, filling me, and it’s almost too much to feel.

And then Severus’s hand slips between us; his fingers clumsily curl around my prick.

One quick pull, a twist of his palm over the head and I’m lost, writhing against him, begging again, calling for God and Merlin and Severus himself.

I fall back against the floor, breathing hard, my stomach slick with come, and Severus is fucking me with quick, rough strokes. His groans are harsh, ragged, and I drag my fingers through the sticky mess on skin, then press them to his lips.

“Draco,” he murmurs against my fingertips and he gasps again, sucks them into his mouth, licking my come from my skin.

I kiss him roughly; I can taste myself on his tongue. “I want you to come in me, Severus,” I whisper, and his breath catches. “I want to feel--”

“Yes.” He pushes up just enough and spreads my legs wider. He’s deep inside of me. I can feel every shift of his cock. Every thrust. His fingers skid on my damp skin, and his breath gusts against my throat in warm puffs.

He slams into me, lifts my arse off the floor and I tighten around his cock, grabbing his arms.

With a sharp cry he comes, arching up over me, and then he lurches forward.

I catch him.

We lie gasping on the floor, arms and legs entwined, his cock slowly softening inside of me. I run my fingers over his cheek, skim them across his jaw. The words tumble out before I can stop them.

“I love—“

He cuts me off with a kiss. “I know,” he whispers against my mouth.

It’s enough.

***

Mother returns the next afternoon alone. Father is to be kept for the next six months, though at the moment we do not know this. Instead they promise a day or two, a week at most.

They lie.

Eventually he will be released at Potter’s request and it will be yet another damned way I am in the bastard’s debt.

Today, however, Mother finds Severus and I in the conservatory. I’m curled into Severus’s side on the chesterfield, a cashmere throw pulled over both of us.

I look up from the copy of Umfraville’s The Noble Sport of Warlocks that Severus and I have compromised on my reading to him.

“Well,” Mother says, taking off her gloves and sitting in the chair across from us. She gives me a pointed look. “I suppose I should be surprised.”

“And yet, you’re not,” Severus says dryly. His hand is warm against my thigh.

Mother takes the cup of Darjeeling Tilly brings her. “No. I suppose I’m not.” She smiles faintly.

The rain eases into a faint drizzle; sunlight filters wetly through the grey clouds.

And for this moment, we have hope.