QLFC, round 5. CHASER 1: Lupine (as inspired by Remus Lupin): Write about a character demonstrating resilience after a personal trauma or tragedy (for example, ill health, a death, etc.)

Team: Appleby Arrows

Optional prompts: difference, serene, influence

Beta(s): Lexi

A/N: when Mrs. Evans dies, she and her husband have no children

Warnings: AU, muggle AU. Mention of character death, prostitution, and domestic abuse.

The morning sun had just reached the little house by the cemetery when a black-haired boy slammed the door open.

"Severus!" came a fond voice from inside. "Again!"

"Mum!" he laughed.

And just like that, another day began. As always, the boy would hurry and run to get to school on time, and the mother would call after him to give him something he had forgotten—a book, a notebook… She would send it down in a basket, then they would exchange several hello's until Severus turned the corner and disappeared from her view.

Any observer might dismiss this little ritual like nothing or like a mere expedient from the boy to avoid going to school for as long as possible, but Mr. Evans—seated on his favorite bench with his pipe in one hand and the newspaper in the other—looked forward to seeing Eileen's face framed by the window. He considered it a good omen to start a new day by being a witness of this little exchange and seeing the light in her eyes finally emerging after being trapped for too long. To him, it was a privilege as she rarely let her guards down—she always did around him though—and he had not been able to find such a beauty, such a light inside a person since his wife, Flora, had died. To see it overshadowed and struggling had been painful.

Preparing to wait, he lit his pipe and opened the newspaper, but the early sounds of shoe heels caught his attention.

.o.

The bench had been a silent witness to his blossoming love for Flora, and from there, he was whispering his last goodbye to her. In fact, from the high ground on which the bench laid, a neat cemetery could be spotted; green grass and white headstones radiating a serene quietude and rest. In a corner that only he could see, there was a fresh grave, only stones on it as she had asked—"They last longer than flowers; they are steadier," she had said. On each of them, he had carved a different word: love, memory, hope, faith, life. The same words he had written on the backrest of the bench to mark it as their own—his and hers—despite all the comings and goings of anyone.

During the day, the children gathered there to search for some refreshment under the big crown of the tree and share experiences that they deemed meaningful in their daily lives—what they had eaten, what movie they had just seen. At night, only tramps and more often a prostitute used it. She would sit there waiting for her husband-master to come and collect her with his car. Lately, she had been struggling to run as he would wish, and his repeated, loud honks disturbed the peace of the town.

Mr. Evans had been hearing her trudging to reach the bench for five nights now. He usually left before she got there, but tonight he noticed something: it was not her panting that announced her arrival, but the sound of her shoes on the ground; it had become somehow familiar. Tonight, the difference in it alarmed him. The tic tic of her heels was not steady, and after the first tic, another one didn't follow. There was a long pause until a faint tac could be heard.

He waited.

She merely sat on the bench, ignoring him.

"Good evening," he greeted.

"Good e-evening." She had a handkerchief pressed on her forearm.

"May—" He trailed off. He had no right, yet… "—may I help you?"

She cast her huge eyes—too huge and too frightened and oh, so deep—on him. "It's nothing."

"You're bleeding."

"It's nothing. There are a lot of people worse off than me. At least, I have a roof over my head and eat regularly." She regarded him. "My condolences," she whispered. "I was about to leave a flower, then I saw the stones… She was always very kind to me. I wish I was half as good as she was."

It was all there, in her eyes—the will to make it.

"Please," he said, unsure of why he was pleading. Then, he remembered something. "Why were you limping?"

"Oh, it was just my right heel; it's broken," she said, hiding her right leg under her gown.

"Can't you fix it?"

"He… he won't let me." Again, she brought her hand on her right leg protectively.

A silence full of questions followed as he felt the situation getting more and more surreal. But he was there now, and he wanted to help her. "Why don't you run away?"

"I can't. He'll find me and kill me."

He suddenly felt uncomfortable—his wife had always been the soothing one, the one with a kind word—and he was grateful that the woman in front of him—"What's your name?" "Eileen."—wasn't crying.

"Err..." He was sweating—the night was too humid. "W-What's your shoe size?" he asked.

"2.5."

"I-I think it's the same as my wife's. Wait a moment; I'll bring a pair of her shoes to you, and you give me yours. I'll have them fixed."

She nodded, confused.

"If you want to—you know—run away, come to me. He'll never know."

She winced, looking at him with astonishment.

.

When they met again, they stood there across from each other, not saying a word.

He felt vaguely ashamed, fearing he had said too much, intruded on her. And the heavy secret he read in her eyes made him even more uncomfortable. He was suddenly aware she had been and was a stranger to him—and he to her.

"I thought of it," she said. "I need to do it." Her hand briefly brushed her stomach before she dropped it.

"I—" His gaze was fixed on a loose thread of her shirt that floated in the breeze.

"I want to do it. Run away, I mean."

"Oh." The relief that washed over him was unexpected and maybe uncalled for.

"I tried—no matter what he's made me do—I tried to love him. And the crumbs were enough for me; I don't need much to live. My family… Let's just say his abuse was better than their indifference. It felt something I could deal with, but now… Now, I know what life is." This time, her hand rested on her stomach and would not move as a new light entered her eyes. "And it's not this. I don't want his presence to tarnish my child's happiness."

"When?" he said—and really, there was nothing else to say. It only mattered that this baby had helped her seeing her worth more than any kind word she could receive.

"Tomorrow!" She handed him an envelope. "Keep it safe. The evidence for the trial—"

The angry sound of honking startled them, and she quickly whispered, "It's all there." Then, she turned her back on him and ran towards her husband's car, the tapping of her heels steady and strong.

Mr. Evans found himself praying that she wouldn't lose her fire, her determination. Her strength was oddly contagious.

.

When he heard the usual tic tic, he opened the front door, leaving it ajar, and waited in the shadows.

Eileen's steps were muffled but confident and she quickly slipped inside.

.o.

Tic tic tic tic.

He felt the familiar sound coming from his back and he smiled fondly. She had never stopped wearing heeled shoes so she had no chance to surprise him. Not to mention—he inhaled deeply—her strong scent of freshly cut grass.

A pair of arms encircled his neck. "I fear Sev will be a bad influence on our little Petunia," Eileen said.

"May I remind you that we didn't even conceive her yet!" The suppressed laugh was clear in his voice. "What did he forget this time?"

"His snack." She shook her head.

He nodded absent-mindedly. "He got it from you, you know. I don't have a basket, but—"

"Silly man! I haven't forgotten and of course, the answer is yes—"

He picked her up and whirled her.

"—I'll marry you!"