He sat back down, and Phoebe didn’t know what to make of it. Merlin, she was a wreck, and she hated her vulnerability. She was a [i]Slytherin[/i]—no snake worth their salt would show their belly like this. But he was sitting, and even if he was mocking her, at least he hadn’t left. It was petty and bitter and spiteful but she couldn’t handle him leaving her again. No, that right belonged to her. Damn if she would let him take that victory, however small and meaningless.

There was something achingly familiar in his voice. She was seventeen again, clambering onto rooftops of Hogwarts and calling him after her, watching the stars and tracing fortunes, dreaming of their future together. She couldn’t have imagined that he’d disappear only weeks later. It had been as mad as the sun failing to rise. His words were different—and she felt a wave of dread crashing over her as they slowly began to make sense in her brain.

[i]Don’t look kindly upon half-bloods and muggles[/i]. She was well versed enough in doublespeak to know what that meant, and she found herself horrified. Phoebe had been too young to go to Hogwarts when the war struck, had been kept locked inside the family manor, a dozen protective charms woven into her clothes. Her father had collapsed in relief when it had all ended; it had been the first time she’d ever seen him cry. She had been so lucky; she worked with people whose entire families had been decimated, who had been tortured in Azkaban and still bore the scars, over fifteen years later.

“You foolish boy,” she whispered, blanching. He’d taken her hand and if she had been a better woman, she would have ripped away from him. Phoebe knew she should, for self-preservation alone, never mind the [i]principle[/i] of the matter. But his hands were as warm as fire, and he looked… scared wasn’t quite right. Haunted. Drawn. She knew that look well. She was being foolish, she knew. He wasn’t the boy she had loved so desperately, but she could see glimpses of him and she was too selfish to dismiss him entirely. Not yet. Tomorrow, maybe, when her mind was clear and she could have the will to do the right thing.

He mentioned her family again, and Merlin, it wasn’t fair. She studied him; perhaps he was twisting the knife in the wound. But he seemed sincere enough, as far as she could tell. Not that her judgment meant much, but Phoebe had nothing else to go on.

A bitter laugh slipped from her lips. It was almost truly funny. Phoebe would have appreciated the humor more if she hadn’t lived through it.

“What family? Your intel’s shit,” she ran her free hand through her hair, trying not to sound hysterical. “My [i]sainted husband[/i] left me,” she couldn’t keep the vicious bite out of her words, no matter how hard she tried. She averted her gaze, to the cup of tea he’d ordered her, hated how small and frail she felt. She tried very hard to sound calm, but her voice went flat and hollow, “I lost our child. He didn’t take it well.”