Amelia, after witnessing Edgar bristling against someone who had pulled him into a hug, had once said: âOh, Edgar doesnât mind being touched.â But this wasnât the truth. He didnât dislike touch, no, neither did he think it disreputable or uncomfortable. But he minded it. In the sense that he was painfully aware of it. In this world â the world he had created when first moving to England by keeping everyone at distance â touch was the closest you got to another person. Touch expressed love and anger,and all other emotions heâd been so careful to keep private but for a few chosen people, the kind of emotion that was too powerful to express solely verbally. So even as heâd grown more friendly with other people over the years, his aversion to mindless touches had remained. When Edgar reached out for another person â be it holding out an elbow, a kiss on a cheek, or a hug â it was always to express what couldnât be said â be it a show of his proper education, a melancholic goodbye, or the gratitude of being able to welcome someone back, respectively.Â
So when Snape grabbed Edgar by the collar and pulled him to his feet, Edgar was, to say the least, startled. Never did people reach out to him, never through a show of brute force and certainly never people who hardly knew him. And ironically ⌠it was thus perhaps the best way to snap him out of this state of self-pity. This young man, this boy, this version of an Edgar who no longer existed, this Severus Snape, was holding him and speaking with such force and Edgar ⌠couldnât help but stare. Blink. And finally, smile.Â
This version of an Edgar who no longer existed, reaching all the way from the past to assault him in the present. It was funny, because this Edgar from seven years ago really wouldâve told him all that. After all, there were no failed experiments in science. A ânoâ was still an answer, nothing but an open-question, a plan on how to proceed next. And this Edgar had indeed spent nights after nights studying and trying out the wildest things, regardless of whether it was doomed to fail. He wasnât afraid of his own abilities, of the results. So what had changed?Â
The Edgar of today let his head hang and huffed out a chuckle. He knew what had changed.
âCremation,â he replied. âItâs the proper way.â And it was probably safer too, to ensure no one would find him. It. This. What they were doing.Â
It was only when all was done and they were back on top of the hill of Battle, with Snape about to take the Bones Chimney back to London, or the Potter Estate, or wherever he needed to be, that Edgar stopped him. âI need you to know that I didnât lose my nerve at the sight of death.â Heâd seen so much death in his life. In some instances had even caused it, in a way. âIt was the sight of life.â A pensive pause. âThe idea of having to decide upon it. The idea of granting myself so much power.â Because that was what had changed. Edgar had learnt that life wasnât a science experiment. In life, you couldnât just try again. Failure was definite. And he had failed one time too often to still dare experimentation.Â
But that was also what had made him smile: I expect you to get back up and deliver, was what Snape had said. And this, unlike granting himself the power of choice, was something he could do. Following orders. Executing plans. And that was something he would do in the future. The next cursed person Snape would bring, Edgar knew to save. Not because he had more faith in himself now, but because he had been given the order to just do it. And so he did. His faith in the experiment was outsourced, and the same way it would thus not be his fault if it failed, he was capable of succeeding.Â
But before this day came, 1982 arrived.Â
Edgar had been yanked out of sleep by a newspaper hitting him in the face, and before he knew it he ordered Fabian to go to his place and stay until heâd returned, and was himself on his way to the Potter Estate to meet Snape. His mind was frantic. Heâs spent the last three days trying to keep Fabianâs mind busy while trying very hard not to fall in love, forgetting everything about the outside world only to be drawn back to the worst of scenarios: 120 Muggles dead, because of the cursed Orb der Order had failed to steal. Their mistake. His mistake. And his mind was frantic. Loud. Angry. All over the place and -
âMister Snape,â he held out a hand, shook his firmly. âCaradoc tells me you tried to warn us. Letâs debrief and then construct a plan to finally get that Orb. Please, have a seat.âÂ
His mind had failed him, on that 28th of December. He had over-thought, had ended up realising that the power to save the victim was solely in his own hands, while also realising that it was a power he shouldnât have. His mind, this frantic, loud, scattered mind of his, had led to the death of the victim. But Caradoc had ordered him to fix this. And so it was with that stern certitude with which Edgar sat across from Snape and drew up his notebook and a pen, started the meeting. No word misplaced, no stuttered gesture, no thought of doubt or hesitation. And in the span of seven hours, the exact plan for what would later become the Rosier Engagement Mission was drafted.
I need you to know that I didnât lose my nerve at the sight of death. It was the sight of life. The idea of having to decide upon it. The idea of granting myself so much power.
Severus said nothing as the words were spoken. Only let the silence hang heavy, before he gave a crisp nod of acknowledgement, then turned around to leave.
But the words did not leave him. The sight of life, said Bones. The idea of having to decide upon it. Severus killed before, many times, both up close and from a distance. He never once thought the people he killed deserved it. He never cast moral judgement. It was never personal. He was committed to the Dark Lord, and the Dark Lord asked him to kill, and thus it was his duty to do so, to follow through upon his promise of service and loyalty. To the man who took him in and laid the opportunities for a better life at his feet.
Even then, with the Dark Lordâs promises and gifts and punishments dangling over his head, the act of murder was terrifying. To cast the spell that took a life forever. To conjure the intent to do so, to decide that your life mattered more to you than someone elseâs. And then to follow through. Could the opposite be true, then? If Severus was the one standing over a dying man with the counter at the tip of his tongue would terror freeze his hand as well? The ability to grant life, as terrifying and weighty as the ability to take it. Perhaps he hadnât fully understood the situation he thrust Bones into.
He had but a few days to dwell on these thoughts. 1981 left and took a 102 Muggles with it.
He took the news to the Order about an hour before the papers printed it. Which was, of course, fucking useless, but at least he beat the speed of drying ink.
He waited in the meeting room, arms crossed, staring at the crackling fire with mind a million miles away as he tried to put the storm of guilt and anger and hatred in some sort of order that could be addressed, that he could put the events into a structure to trace the fault lines and find the places he could fix and change in the future. He couldâve done more. He shouldâve done more, earlier, faster, better. Severus always understood the price of incompetence and yet this time it was not him who paid it. And it will not be him to pay it next time he fell short of his duties, either, now that he was an active participant in the fight against the Dark Lord. Now that he had the responsibility of an informant, now that he was fighting for more than just himself.
Even struggling through his volatile thoughts and feelings it was easy to sense Bonesâ presence. Everyoneâs mind radiated distress and sorrow and guilt today to varying degrees, but as Bones entered the room, Severusâ eyes jumped up to his. Crisp in his steps, not a hair out of place, the image of sensible efficiency. Down to business, except that his feelings and thoughts bubbled and sloshed about like an overflowing cup, the anger and worry and nerves spilling from his ears and down his front and over the table between them. Severus shook his hand and sat across from him, following his movements with his eyes. This was unlike the Edgar Bones heâd grown used to in the past few weeks. It was unlike the man as he presented himself now and before as well. As they spoke and discussed the dayâs events, Severus reached out with his own mind. It was less curiosity and more caution that prompted him to do so, but still he meandered through Bonesâ thoughts, beyond a simple cursory look that gave him an abundance of emotion and thought. Attached to that was name, face, memory.
The last three days of Bonesâ life were rather busy. Severus picked the feelings apart, categorized them one by one as he recognized and named each one. Devotion. Fear. Worry. Loyalty. And happiness, sprinkled in throughout it all. And something else, something that pulled it all together, that pushed from the center of Edgar Bones and outward into the rest of him. Words, actions, thoughts. He puzzled through it. Absently and without true focus as he continued to debrief the other man. And then it clicked together.
Severus drew back. A physical reaction as much as it was a mental one. Carefully placed his shields back together, put his invisible limbs away and locked the doors with deadbolts and metal chains and a distant ringing. He blinked. Twice. Bonesâ face registered confusion. Concern? Severus realized heâd stopped speaking. Swallowed. Resumed. Forcibly steady.
Love. Now that Severus knew what he was looking at it was impossible to unsee. The love that poured out from the man like a broken dam, the water rising through the room, waist high and rising further still. The wish to protect, the readiness to risk. All for love. Severus looked at the man as if heâd never seen him before and felt dwarfed by his presence.
He wove his shields tighter together. Pushed away the weight of emotion. And steered the conversation where it should go, work focused and efficient as the other man seemed to be against all odds. If Severus wasnât a master Legilimence he doubted heâd know what happened.
In a matter of hours they put together a plan of action. Severus left the Estate both lighter and heavier than when he came that morning.
On January 7th, he secured their second victim. This time, he sent Edgar a note that once read shriveled up and burned to nothing. Live test. Forest. Be quick.
The wixâs arm, shoulder, and neck were a deep, rotting black and purple. Severusâ teeth clenched shut as he placed his folded robes beneath their head, cast a numbing spell to ease the pain, and pressed his lips together thinly between words of useless assurance. Help is coming, he said. Be strong. When Edgar arrived, Severus looked up without a word. He met his gaze but instead of desperation there was a challenge now. Spiteful, daring certainty. That Edgar will cast the counter and the counter will work as told. That Severus was right to continue to rely on the man and he will now be proven right.