Chapter 7: 7
Severus absently fingered the rim of a cup of tea he'd had pressed into his hands, rather against his will. He sat in a well-cushioned armchair, on the opposite side of a heavy wooden desk from a man several decades his senior, who was stirring two sugar cubes into his own tea with maddening calm.
Only after the older man had stirred his tea for precisely thirty-seven seconds, settled comfortably in his own chair, and steepled his hands on the surface of the desk, did he meet Severus' gaze expectantly.
"Now that we are both situated comfortably, what can I do for you, Severus?" Albus Dumbledore asked mildly.
"I need to discuss a matter of some delicacy with you," Severus said.
"Indeed? And what would that be?" Albus lifted his teacup, and took a delicate sip.
Severus waited until the Headmaster had put his teacup down again; this was a very serious matter, in his mind, and he didn't want to treat it like a damn tea party. He inched his own teacup away from himself slightly.
"I believe that it may be necessary to modify Calista's memory," he said, cautiously.
Albus regarded Severus with steady blue eyes. "I see," he said, after a moment, "And what has led you to this conclusion?"
Severus exhaled, pursed his lips. "What you'd heard, from that mass-murdering sociopath, is true. Bellatrix did cast Unforgivable Curses on her."
When Dumbledore only nodded, as if expecting the younger man to elaborate, Severus continued.
"That, unfortunately, is not the upper limit to the atrocities that Bellatrix was willing to commit against her. She's been hurt very badly, Albus, and I'm not convinced that she can recover from all of it."
Dumbledore's features remained more-or-less politely impassive, but his eyes revealed considerable sadness, which touched Severus perhaps more than it ought to have done.
"I am very sorry to hear that, Severus," the older man said quietly, "Truly, I had hoped that Sirius Black's report was incorrect. However, I must ask precisely how you have come to the conclusion that your daughter cannot heal from these painful memories, now that she has at last found a stable environment, and a caring guardian?"
His tone came across as mild, curious, even though the question carried a certain levity by its nature.
Severus considered his reply carefully; he didn't want to give away more of Calista's secrets than he had to. He trusted Dumbledore, but they weren't his secrets to divulge.
"I believe she can heal, from most of her negative memories, once she trusts me enough to let me help her process them. But there are a few that are so very difficult, that they prevent her from feeling safe enough to open up to me, or to anyone, for that matter."
"I take it, then, that she still won't communicate?"
"Not verbally, yet," Severus said, "But I am learning how to read her, and she'll respond to me by gesture, sometimes."
"Forgive me, Severus, but you seem to have a great deal of understanding in regard to the nature of her memories. Surely you haven't gleaned all of that merely from her body language?"
"Of course not," Severus said, irritated that the Headmaster was making him put what he had done into words, "I entered her mind using legilimency. I didn't feel as if I had much of a choice."
He thought the Headmaster would chastise him for penetrating the mind of a child so young, but Dumbledore only looked curious.
"What shape was her mind in?" he asked, "Did it appear irreparably damaged?"
Severus frowned. "Not damaged, no. I would describe it as… haunted."
"Ah," Dumbledore said, lifting his teacup again. He regarded Severus over its rim. "Aren't we all, Severus?"
"Not like this," Severus said, grimly. "Not at her age."
"I understand your concern, Severus, and your motive. What I remain unconvinced of is whether modifying her memory is the best course of action. I suspect you share my uncertainty, or you would not be here, asking for my opinion."
"Of course I'm uncertain," Severus said, a note of irritation creeping back into his voice. "As difficult as it may be to believe, I have never before been responsible for the welfare of a perennially abused seven-year-old. I'm uncertain as to what I'm supposed to give her for breakfast, let alone how I'm meant to undo years of horrific mistreatment."
"You can't," Dumbledore said baldly, "But even if such a thing were possible, would it truly be wise? Wouldn't you agree with me, Severus, that sometimes it is the things that one triumphs over that make that someone who they are?"
Severus' jaw tightened.
"Of all people, Severus," the Headmaster continued, "I would expect you to understand what I am getting at. Even if one can't remember why they feel sad, or angry, they will still feel that way. In fact, not remembering can be crueler; how can one ever expect to move on from a pain they can't understand?
"You're goading me," Severus said sharply, "You are comparing what you know of myself to Calista. It's not the same thing."
"No, perhaps not," the older man said, folding his hands on his desk, "But I wouldn't be surprised if it were a remarkably similar thing."
The two men looked at each other in silence for a long moment, until Dumbledore smiled and rose from his chair.
"Here are my feelings on the matter, Severus," he said, "Modifying Calista's memory so extensively would be an incredibly complicated and sensitive process, one which would likely take both of us to do it properly. However, I can't even consider it unless Calista demonstrates an understanding of what we would be undertaking, and requests it herself."
"Oh," Dumbledore added, after a brief pause, "I believe children like cereal. You could try giving her some of that, at breakfast."
With that, Albus Dumbledore excused himself from the office, and Severus was left staring furiously at an empty desk. He turned on his heel and exited the office, his expression dark. How could he possibly explain the concept of memory modification to a young child in a way that she could understand? And that was the least of his obstacles. How could he get Calista to request memory modification from Dumbledore when she wouldn't speak a word?
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
The following Saturday morning, Severus and Calista sat across the small kitchen table from each other, customary mug of coffee before each of them. Severus had brewed this batch, and he'd made it intentionally weak, in the hope of eventually weaning his daughter off it it entirely, at least until she was a bit older.
She took a sip, and made a face. Well,she could tell, then. Severus watched her in silence for a minute. He thought there had been something just slightly different in her expression since the day in his study when he'd encouraged her to try legilimency, and had shown her some of his own memories.
Yes, it was different. He was sure of it. She looked, while not exactly relaxed, somehow less closed-off. It gave him an idea.
"You know, Calista," he said, conversationally, "I believe we missed your birthday. You'd be seven now, yes?"
She looked at him uncertainly, shrugged her shoulders.
"Well," he continued, "I'd like to get you a present, even though it's late. I'm thinking perhaps a book, but I'm not sure what sort of book you'd like. Perhaps you can give me some idea?"
If he was being honest with himself, he didn't expect that this would be the thing that finally made her speak up, but he'd hoped so despite himself. If this didn't work, she would not be happy with his next course of action. Still, he wanted to try kindness first.
She set her mug down, and looked at him with raised eyebrows, and an unmistakably contemptuous disbelief. It was as plain as if she'd said, Do you really think I'm going to fall for that?
"I know that you could speak to me if you chose to," he said quietly, "And I really wish that you would."
She lifted her mug and took another sip of the watery coffee, giving no indication that she had heard him.
"Let's look at it logically, then," he tried, "You were afraid you were a Squib for years, and I showed you in half an hour that you're not. If you'd just told me that's what you were afraid of, I could have shown you months ago. You could have found out about your mother being in Azkaban the day we met, if you'd told me you were afraid of her coming back. The way I see it, it's in your own best interests to talk to me."
She glared at him, an expression he hated on her face. Resigned to the last tactic he'd wanted to use, he sighed.
"All right, then," Severus said, matter-of-factly, "Just try and remember, at the end of this conversation, that I did try to be nice, at first."
Calista set her face stonily and glanced towards the doorway, and Severus glared at her much the same way he would have glared at a student trying to leave his class early for anything short of third-degree burns.
"I wouldn't." he advised, and she remained where she was.
He looked her over, the hard set to her face, the glowering look in her eyes.
"If you won't speak to me willingly, then I'm prepared to make a bargain with you," he said, coolly.
She shook her head, no.
"You don't even know what it is yet," he said, unable to keep his irritation completely out of his voice, now.
She scowled. Severus went on, anyway.
"I can't force you to talk to me," he said, "But I can find out what I need to know, one way or another. I don't want to invade your mind, Calista, but I will if I have to."
He leaned forward. "That's my bargain. As long as you speak to me, I give you my word that I will not use legilimency to read your thoughts."
He could see the gears turning in her head. This had been his last resort; he hadn't wanted to threaten her, but what he'd said was the truth.
Silence stretched on before them, and it occurred to Severus that he may have backed himself into a corner. What if she decided she'd rather have him enter her mind now and again, instead of electing to speak to him? There was really nowhere he could take this deal from here, if she refused to make it. But he had a hunch that, with her, this would work. He hoped he was correct.
"Why?" It had come out of her mouth so suddenly that Severus scarcely registered her mouth moving.
"Why what?" Severus prompted, when it didn't look as though she were going to say any more.
"Why do you want me to talk so much?" Her voice sounded a bit hoarse, but not nearly as disused as one might expect. It had a higher pitch than he had expected it to.
"Oh, a number of reasons," Severus said, doing his best to modulate his own voice, make himself sound casual and matter-of-fact.
In truth, he was surprised and more than a little pleased; it had actually worked. She was speaking, after five months of silence with him, and Merlin knew how long before him.
"Not least of which is the same thing I've been trying to tell you all along," he continued, "I want you to feel safe trusting me. Besides, I am sick and tired of feeling like I'm talking to myself all the time. Conversations generally work better if there are two or more parties involved."
"Every time I talk, it just gets me in trouble," she said, and her eyes were sad, now. "And no one much cares what I say, anyway."
Severus kept his gaze level with hers. "I think I have made it clear that I am very much interested in what you have to say."
Calista shrugged and pushed a hank of her messy dark hair back, hooking it behind her ear. She didn't say anything else, and neither did he. Finally, Calista looked up, a question in her eyes.
"Why do you keep trying to be nice to me, anyway?" Her tone was slightly suspicious, and he lifted his eyebrows in response.
"Because you are my daughter," he said, struggling with the right way to handle this situation. He knew there was probably some set of things he should say to a girl in her situation, but he had no idea what, and so he improvised. "And because… because despite all of your best efforts to ensure otherwise, I actually like you."
She looked at him with evident disbelief. "No one likes me," she said, matter-of-factly. He could hear a quaver of nerves in her voice, one that she tried to regulate, but couldn't quite.
"I do," he said simply. He tried to let his sincerity show in his face.
"Why?" she asked him, for the second time.
"Well," he said, allowing himself a small smile, "I suppose you remind me of myself, in some ways." He pushed his coffee mug away. It tasted like water, anyway. "Not many people like me, either," he confessed to her.
She furrowed her brow, wrinkled up the bridge of her nose, like she had when they'd practised legilimency. "Why?" she asked, a third time.
"I'm not entirely sure," he said, "But I suspect many of them are jealous."
He'd meant it as a joke, sort of. But instead of the smile he was hoping for, she nodded, seriously, as if what he'd said made a great deal of sense.
There was another silence, but this one didn't feel, to Severus, nearly as uncomfortable as their silences usually did.
"Cats," Calista said, suddenly, inexplicably.
"What?" Severus looked at her blankly.
"The book. For… for my birthday. I want one about cats."
"Of course," Severus said, feeling so relieved that she was actually speaking to him that he would have bought her a real cat if she'd asked for it, would probably have sincerely tried to buy her a unicorn if the words came out of her mouth. "I'll buy you one tomorrow."
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
As it turned out, getting Calista to speak had no impact whatsoever on the number of disagreements they had, nor the number of stony silences or icy glares her had to endure. She was the same as always, in that regard: hot and cold, sometimes able to spend companionable hours with him his workshop, or reading a book together, and other times unwilling to share the same air.
Those companionable hours, though; they were different, because now they could have a conversation. A stilted, stuttery, often mostly one-sided conversation, but it was one nevertheless.
When she brought him ingredients for his potions, she would often ask what they were used for. He was all too keen to tell her, because this was his area of expertise. He may not know how to approach her about her past, or how to get her to tell him what she was thinking, but he knew how to explain potions.
And he found, for her part, that she was an apt student, or as apt as she could be at her age. Sometimes she would look at him blankly as he explained something, as if it were going entirely over her head, but other times, she'd listen, rapt, and even, occasionally, ask follow-up questions. He tried to be patient whenever she asked him anything, because he wanted to encourage her to keep talking.
It was during these times that he felt, just a bit, as if they were connecting. Slowly, almost agonizingly so, she thawed, during these hours. At first, she'd only asked him, very rarely, what something was used for; but as months went by, she would ask him about nearly all of them, and had even asked, several times, if she could add a particular ingredient herself, or stir the cauldron for him.
And so, even when it seemed, outwardly, that she was still the same distant, untrusting child when she was angry or distressed, he reminded himself of all these times, in the workshop, and he knew that they were making progress. It was slow, painstaking, but it was undeniably happening.
During the summer, he'd take her out, around the grounds. At first, she'd stayed several paces behind him, looking all around, but not saying anything unless he practically forced the words out of her. But then, her curiosity got the better of her, again. She'd ask him what certain plants were, what sorts of creatures lived in the lake, which rooms certain windows on the exterior of the castle corresponded to.
And then, in late August, only a week before term would start up again, they had an argument, and, perversely, it had given him more hope for the future of their relationship than nearly anything else that had happened between them.
"I want to go there," she said, pointing to the forest, as they walked several metres parallel from its edge.
"No," Severus said, "Students aren't allowed there; you aren't, either."
"Teachers can go?" she asked. He'd known exactly where this was going, but he'd told her once that he didn't intend to make a habit of lying to her. He sighed.
"Yes, teachers can go in there."
"Then you can take me," she said, as though the matter were already settled in her mind.
"You're correct," he said, "I can take you there if I want to, but it's far too dangerous, and I won't. Not until you're older."
"I am older," she said, stubbornly. "I'm older right now than I was when I asked you."
Severus smirked. She had him, there. "Much older," he said, "As in years."
"How many years?"
"I don't know yet. Perhaps twenty." He was kidding, but she didn't pick up on it.
"Twenty years?" she said, incredulously, "That's…" she cast about. There was a phrase she had heard before, one that stupid Jessica had used at the orphanage, one that would be perfect here, if only she could recall it.
"That's not fair," she said at last, pleased.
Severus nearly laughed. She sounded proud of herself, as if she expected that this phrase would miraculously change his mind.
"Perhaps it's not," he said, "But it wouldn't be very fair either, if I let you go in there, knowing you were too young, and something attacked you."
She was quiet for a minute. Then she stopped walking, looked up at him. "Let's make a bargain," she said slyly, "We can go in the forest, and if anything scary happens, then we can go back out, and I won't ask you again to go in. I… I give you my word," she finished.
Now he did laugh. There was no doubt that she was like him.
"It's not funny," she said, scowling. "I want to go in the forest!"
"Well, I don't want you to go into the forest."
"Why do you get to decide?" she asked, hotly.
"Because I'm the adult. And, incidentally, the one to whom it would fall to fight off any creature that attacked you."
"But that's not fair," she said again. She said it as though she truly believed it were a magic phrase, that would force him to change his mind.
"I hate to be the one to break this to you, but not everything in life is fair, Calista. Especially not when you are a child wishing to do something incredibly dangerous. You're not going into that forest today, or tomorrow, or any day in the foreseeable future. That's why it's called Forbidden."
She screwed up her face, and gave him another of her stormy glares, but he didn't care.
Perhaps she would only remember today as the day that he had refused to allow her to enter the forest at the edge of the grounds. But he would remember it another way. It was the day that she had disagreed with him out loud, and not looked as though she expected him to hurt her in retaliation. It was the day that she'd argued with him just like one of his students would have. In short, it was the day that she had first sounded precisely like a normal, healthy child.
A/N: Previous readers will notice that I've removed the older chapters of this story entirely. That's because I am slightly changing timelines around to make more sense, and the story would have become inconsistent if I'd left them up. I'm sorry for that, but I do think the improved story will be worth it!
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