10

9.

Severus and Calista worked through the rest of her list together, using the books he'd checked out from the Hogwarts library. Every few days, they would spend an hour or two going over some ingredients on the list; sometimes he quizzed her on ones they had studied before, and when she answered incorrectly, he'd try them again in a few days, and on and on until she could remember correctly. Even though he hadn't quite expected her to actually write up the list, he had meant what he'd said about no more practical lessons until he could be certain she wasn't going to invite disaster again.

They went for walks on the weekends, more often through the interior of the castle now that winter had really set in. She was always full of questions, and her favorite one was Why? But she was also a good listener, when she wanted to be, so Severus didn't mind explaining things to her, most of the time. He tried to see what Dumbledore had told him, that Calista thought so highly of him, but how could he really tell? Their conversations tended to be mainly factual, and he wasn't even certain which of them kept steering them that way.

The exception was always after one of her nightmares, but he could hardly relish their closeness then, when it was being practically forced on them by her vulnerability in those moments. They certainly had their good times, the days when they had easy conversations and comfortable banter, the days when she drew him incomprehensible pictures that were not in any way aided by the addition of colour, and he hung them up and pretended to know what they were.

But then, always, a night would come when it seemed as if it all was crashing down around them; she would revert to a feral thing, terrified and near-broken, and it would seem all the more tragic in light of what he could now see she could have been like.

The day after a nightmare, she would always pretend as if had never happened, would refuse to talk about it, turned cold and stony when he tried to coax her to. He understood, on some level, that it was her coping mechanism, but he felt like the parameters of their relationship were constantly in flux. Some days, she would take his hand when they went somewhere together, would sit close to him, smile at him. Other days, she kept her distance, and flinched if he tried to touch her, answered only when spoken to. On those days, it was hard to believe that Dumbledore's assessment was accurate.

Less than a month after Christmas, he was startled from a sound sleep by what he took to be her screaming again. As he fumbled in the dark for his wand, he made himself listen with only his ears. Like nearly every other time, the scream was only in his head. He still wasn't certain how that was happening, but it was, and groggily went for her room.

The nightlight he had given her for Christmas cast a faint bluish light around the room, by which he could see that this time, she was already awake when he entered her room. She was sitting up in her bed, hands frantically clawing at her back again. Her eyes were wide, black in the half-light.

"Are you all right?" he asked, knowing his own voice was still thick with sleep.

It was as if she hadn't heard him; she stared straight ahead, eyes wide but evidently unseeing, fingers working to pull out a blade that wasn't there.

He spoke her name, shook her shoulders, reassured her that she was safe enough times for him to lose count, and it was as if he wasn't even there. Finally, after what felt like hours but in reality was only moments, she seemed to slowly realise where she was, who she was with.

"Is she gone?" she whispered, again, as Severus gently took her hands from behind her back and held them. She was shivering again, all over.

"She's gone," he said, "You're safe."

"She'll come back," Calista said, and she sounded so certain, so final.

"No," he reminded her, for what felt like the umpteenth time, "She can't."

He pulled her close; she started, but then lifted her eyes to his. Perhaps this somehow reassured her of who he was - or, more importantly - who he wasn't - because after that, she gingerly settled into his embrace.

"Do you want to talk about your dream?" he asked, for the first time, because he'd seen it in a book, and none of his other ideas were working.

"I don't know," she said, her voice small. She was still shivering. Severus reached for an extra blanket at the foot of her bed, draped it over her shoulders even though he didn't think the temperature had anything to do with it.

"It doesn't feel like I'm dreaming," she said, after a few minutes of silence. "It's like I'm back there again. Everything looks just the same. She's just the same."

She shivered fiercely. Inexplicably, she extracted herself from his arms, pulled the blanket tight around herself, and retreated to lean her back against the headboard of her bed.

"She… when she starts cutting me, it hurts," she said, so quietly that he had to strain to hear her. "My other dreams, when she curses me with her wand, or chases me, those ones don't feel so real once I wake up, but the knife dream always does."

He could see her shoulders quaking underneath the fabric. Severus himself suddenly felt cold, and folded his arms.

"Have you… do you have that dream often?" Severus ventured.

"I didn't used to," she said, "But now I have it a lot."

"Since when?" he asked, "How long have you been having this particular dream?" Perhaps there was a reason, something about her routine or her diet that could explain the increased frequency of this particular nightmare. If he could pinpoint when she had started having it more, maybe he could help her find a way not to have it anymore.

"A few months, I guess," she said, hesitantly. She closed her mouth, clutched the blanket tighter around herself, and looked down at her knees. Still, Severus felt there was something else she wasn't saying. She sat, quietly, for several minutes. Gradually, her trembling stopped, though she didn't loosen her grip on the blanket.

"Do you think anything is different lately, that could be causing you to have this dream?" he prompted her.

She nodded, and looked up again, but evidently Severus was going to have to pry the answer out of her, because, again, she didn't speak until prompted.

"Well? Anything you want to share with me?"

"I feel happy sometimes," she said, in a rush, the words tumbling over each other. She blushed, something he didn't think he'd ever seen her do. Then, she took a stabilising breath, set her jaw, and in an instant, he was sitting next to the Calista of daytime, the one who was stubborn and proud and didn't want to talk about her emotions. "I don't think she likes that," she continued, matter-of-factly.

By now, Severus knew that her bravado was often manufactured, but he also knew that he had to pretend to buy it, or she might shut down and refuse to speak about the dream anymore at all. He suspected that if he didn't play his cards right, she'd ask him a question about cauldrons or castor oil next, as if it weren't two in the morning and she hadn't just woken him, yet again, from a sound sleep with the ferocity of her alarm.

"I expect she might not, if she were aware of it," he said, deceptively light.

"She must be," Calista said, and if he had not begun to know her as well as he did, he almost certainly would have missed the trembling of her chin, the glimmer of fear in her eyes. "Why else would the dreams get worse now?"

Severus looked at her for a long moment. It was easy, most of the time, to forget that Calista was only seven years old, because she had the articulation of an avid reader already, an understanding of words and a precocity that often made her seem older. But that didn't mean that her understanding of the world was as similarly mature, and Severus was reminded, in that instant, that seven was after all still very young. Perhaps too young to see that there were no monsters under her bed; only the ones in her mind.

"Bellatrix did a lot of very bad things to you," Severus said carefully, "And I can only imagine that, for a sizeable portion of your life, it must have felt as if she was everywhere, all the time, that you couldn't escape her. But, Calista, you have escaped her. She isn't under your bed, or in your wardrobe, or even waiting on the other side of the door to our flat. She's in a prison, behind iron bars and hundreds of guards, and across leagues of sea."

Calista was fixed on him as he spoke, her dark eyes very serious in her small, pale face. Severus continued earnestly.

"There is no doubt that the things she did to you were, are, very painful. But it's important that you realise that all of those things have already happened. Sometimes, your memory of these things can feel very much like the present, but try and remember that it's not."

"I guess that makes sense," she said, doubtfully, and he could see her waver, caught between her desire to appear cool and unafraid, and the fact that she wasn't really either of those things, tonight.

"I'm certain it doesn't right now," he said, "But try and think of that, when you feel afraid, when you have bad dreams. Try to remember that it's all over, now."

It was good advice; Severus privately thought that he'd do well to remember to follow it for himself, now and again. Like any other healthy thing, it was far easier said than done.

"I can try that," she said, and nodded. There was something in the forced, fierce set of her little jaw that made Severus ache; he wasn't certain if it was with pride, amusement, or sadness. Perhaps a little of all three. He wanted, suddenly, to hug her again, to give them both a physical reminder of the fact that neither of them was quite all alone, anymore.

Instead, he rose, took three steps over to her wardrobe. He lifted up the little soft cat toy that he'd bought her for Christmas, tossed it gently onto the bed.

"Here. You have at least two or three more years before you're allowed to say you're too old to sleep with soft toys, so cuddle the blasted cat and get some sleep now, would you?"

He noted, as he left her room, that she managed a tired, weak smile at that. And she picked up the cat.

(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)

In the morning, Calista was tired and wan-looking, her eyes heavy and shadowed, and she could only manage to pick at her food.

"Maybe you should go back to sleep after breakfast," Severus suggested, wishing that he could do the same. These nights were a drain on him, as well, but what choice did he have?

Calista shook her head. "I'm not tired."

"You're not a good liar, either," he said, and she glared at him half-heartedly.

Throughout his morning classes, he again considered the conversation he'd had with Albus Dumbledore, months prior, on the subject of modifying Calista's memory. Since he'd first considered the idea, Calista had come so far. She spoke to him regularly, had even spoken to Dumbledore at Christmas, and she was demonstrating a hunger for learning that he personally found admirable. She had begun to smile and laugh, had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had a survivor's soul.

But was surviving enough? Calista had admitted that she was beginning to feel happy, but her nightmares were taking their toll on her, and it didn't seem as if they were getting better; in fact, if anything, they were increasing in severity and frequency, despite everything he'd tried to alleviate them.

He was beginning to equate memory modification to the Night Blossom Draught, in his mind. Neither of those things were meant to be used on children, and either could prove extremely detrimental if handled incorrectly, but with the latter, he had found that, in her particular set of circumstances, the benefits had outweighed the risks. He couldn't help but wonder if they were nearly at that cusp with memory modification, too.

It wasn't a decision he could make alone, though. Albus was correct when he'd set that it would likely take both of them to do it correctly; removing memories that were so deeply ingrained would take considerable skill and finesse, and he'd feel more comfortable pooling their talents. Albus had also stipulated that Calista would have to demonstrate an understanding of and desire for the modification, herself, before he could consider it, so perhaps that was where he ought to start.

It was Friday, so all of his classes were in the morning. He held office hours in the afternoon, and occasionally supervised detentions, but most of the time, he was finished with work by mid-afternoon, and that particular day followed the pattern.

He summoned Calista to his study when he was finished with work, invited her to sit in one armchair while he took the other.

"There's something I need to discuss with you," he began, as she curled herself up in the chair, feet drawn up underneath her, and chin on her knees. Gods, she looked so young. How could he possibly hope to communicate this in a way that she would understand?

"It seems as if the majority of your nightmares contain real memories," he said, "Things that have happened to you in the past, that resurface when you're sleeping."

She looked at him warily, and he could see her tense, debating whether to stay in the room or not. Predictably, now that the sun was out, she wanted to pretend last night had never happened.

"There is a procedure, a magical process that might be able to… to remove some of those painful memories, so that your mind would no longer have access to them. It's not a guarantee, and it carries a lot of risks, but perhaps, in your case, it might be helpful in the long run to consider it…"

And now, he had her attention. She tensed in an entirely different way, leaning forward, her hands coming down on the arms of the chair. There was an instant intensity, an eagerness, in her face.

"You mean, you can do magic on me, and take away all the… all the bad things?"

"Not exactly," he said. Ironically, even though he wanted to alter her memory, he wouldn't outright lie to her. "It's not that simple, although I wish it were. There is no magic in the world that is powerful enough to change the past. But the memories of those things, the images and sounds, we might be able to erase from your mind, or at least stop them from coming to the surface all the time."

"If I didn't remember, it would be like it never happened," she countered, and he could hear the eagerness in her voice, now. He wished he could simply tell her that yes, that's what would happen, but it wouldn't be fair to set her up with unrealistic expectations of what he could and could not achieve through memory modification.

"Taking away the memories of the events doesn't take away the events, Calista," he warned, "No matter what you remember about it, you will always have those scars on your back, and you may even still have nightmares about your past, although, when you woke up, you probably wouldn't remember the dreams."

"I don't care," she said, "It has to be better than… than that dream, all the time."

"It's also very difficult, and dangerous," he said, "It's very advanced magic, and any time that you alter the mind, there is the potential for something to go wrong. Some of the memories might be only partially removed, and you could wind up losing some good memories, too. It's even possible that your personality would be altered in some way, or that you would lose some of your ability to hide your thoughts with Occlumency. You don't just change one thing, Calista. Everything, every memory and every thread of thought in your mind, would have to shift to fit the new pattern."

"But it has to be a good thing, right?" she asked, "To be able to forget?"

"It… can be," he said quietly, "I want you to think very hard about this before you decide. It is not an easy thing to consider."

"Can't I just decide now?" she set her feet on the floor, leaned towards him. "I want to forget. Can we do it today?"

Severus looked at her solemnly. "I don't know if you fully understand what I'm saying. It's a lot more than simply 'forgetting'. Your mind is complex; it is not like a series of photographs where we can simply throw away the ones you don't like. Fragments of those memories might linger, no matter how carefully we extract them. They might still cause you to have disturbing dreams. Your emotions would not be affected at all, regardless of whether their associated memories remain intact—,"

He stopped. He could see in her face that he'd lost her, that she'd stopped listening, probably couldn't understand precisely what he was saying. He'd forgotten, again, how young seven actually was.

"Right," he said, "I'm going to explain that a bit differently. Ahm…" he cast around for an explanation the child might understand.

"Your bad dreams, Calista. When you first wake up you remember them well, correct?"

She nodded.

"What about later on that day? Or the next day? Or at the end of the week? Do you still remember the details of the dream?"

"The kn- the really bad one, I can," she said, "I remember that one all the time."

"And the other ones?" he asked, "Can you usually remember, say, a month after your last bad dream, precisely what was in it, if you haven't had it again since?"

She shook her head. "I remember that it was scary," she said, "And that it was about her. But the rest of it, I forget. Unless she has - unless it's that dream, again."

"What if you had a dream," he posed, "About a bear that was chasing you? And then in the morning you only remembered that you had a bad dream, but not what it was about. If you saw a bear later that day, would you still be afraid of it?"

Calista stared at him. "Well," she said, uncertainly, "I think I would be afraid if I saw a bear even if I didn't dream about one chasing me. They're really big."

"Fine, perhaps that was a bad example," he reflected. "What if… hm… what if you had a dream that our kitchen table was chasing you around, trying to attack you? Would you still want to sit at it for breakfast the next morning?"

"I guess not," Calista said, doubtfully.

"Erasing your memories is just like forgetting a dream. Even if we were somehow able to make you forget everything about your- about Bellatrix, the fear wouldn't change. You'd still feel afraid, threatened, whenever someone said her name, or showed you her picture, but you just wouldn't understand why you were afraid. And the truth is, we probably can't take all of your memories of her completely away, anyway. They're… they're part of you, now."

Calista frowned. "Then how do I make the bad things go away?"

Severus exhaled, then rose from his own seat, and crossed the distance between their chairs, settled into a crouch next to Calista's so he was level with her. A little awkwardly, he put his arm around her shoulders; she stiffened, and he could see a debate in her eyes, whether to allow this, or to push him away. Physical closeness was something she usually only tolerated in the immediate aftermath of a nightmare, but it didn't seem right, to Severus, to continue this conversation with so much space between them.

"I wish there was a spell that could do that, Calista," he said, candidly. "I… I have a lot of bad memories myself, and I understand your desire to be rid of them. If there were such a spell, I would already have cast it, but I'm afraid that the truth is that it is very easy to do horrible things with a wand, but there is no similarly easy way to undo any of those things."

Severus could not help but mask his own eyes as he spoke. This, what they were talking about, sat too close to his own ghosts, his own shadowed memories.

"Do you have bad things, too?" she asked, seeking answers in his face that he wasn't quite ready to give her, yet.

"I do," he said, quietly.

"Did you… did you do the magic on yourself? To forget?"

He shook his head, let his arm fall from around her shoulders so that he was holding both of her hands, instead, and looked her in the eyes. His memories, his hurt… he was hiding those, but he wanted her to see, at least, that he was sincere.

"I did not."

"Why?"

And of course, he should have expected that question, from her. Why hadn't he prepared himself for it?

"I suppose I thought that the things I learned from my experiences were too important to forget," he said. He looked down at their hands, her tiny ones held securely in his, and it occurred to him that this, now, was another in a series of reasons why choosing to retain all of his own painful memories had been the right thing. There was love, and there was love after loss, and until he'd experienced the second, he hadn't know quite what the first was.

"Would you do it you were me?" she asked, her voice small. "Do you want me to forget?"

"Calista, those are two different questions," he said quietly.

It struck him suddenly how important his answer was. Calista was a child, a child that had been badly hurt, and she was depending on him, the adult who had come to rescue her, to make it right. Regardless of Severus' own past, and his feelings of inadequacy when it came to parenting, he was really all that Calista had, and she needed him. He wondered if he could stand the weight of that responsibility, for the rest of her life, but knew, somehow, that now that he'd shouldered it, it would be even harder to live without it.

"If I were in your place," he said, and he lifted her chin with one hand, transferring both of her hands to his other, "I would choose to remember, because knowledge, no matter how awful it is, is power...and there is a kind of strength you can gain only by overcoming terrible things. Some people are lucky, and they never need that strength, nor do they have cause to find it, but I have never been a lucky man, so I would want it, just in case."

He smiled sadly at her then, and pushed a tangle of dark hair back over her shoulder, before taking both of her hands again.

"But my answer to your other question contradicts that, I'm afraid. I do want you to forget. I want you to smile, and laugh, and sleep through the night, without needing to worry about how strong you are. When I tell you that you are safe, I want you to believe me, the first time."

Calista's eyes were shiny now; he wasn't certain how much of what he'd said she had understood, but it had seemed important, somehow, to tell her the utter truth. She pulled her hands out of his, and he thought that he had said the wrong thing, had managed to scare her off yet again. He sighed, prepared for her to bolt from the room.

But she didn't; she slipped off her chair, and right into his arms. "I'm really, really glad that I am a witch, after all," she said, tightly.

"And why is that?"

"Because," she said, "I like living here, with you. I would be really sad if I had to leave."

"Calista," he said, and he pulled back enough to look her square in the eyes, "I've told you, I will never make you leave. You're my daughter, before anything else. It wouldn't matter to me if you were a witch, or a Squib, or even a hippogriff."

She cracked a tiny smile, at that. "If I was a hippogriff, I wouldn't fit inside," she said.

"Then I guess we'd live outside." His tone was light, but the meaning behind it was anything but; he meant it. He hoped she could see that, by now.

"We couldn't do that," she said, earnestly, "If it rained, all of the books would get wet."

"Well, then," he said, "I guess we are very fortunate that you are not, in fact, a hippogriff."

"What if," she said, and her smile was suddenly decidedly mischievous, "What if I was a cat?"

"Then I'd turn you into a hippogriff," he said, drily. He meant that, too.