(no subject)
Well, here you have chapter two of our little cross-over. All Snape credit goes to Blue. She is the Snape master! I take credit for the plotbunnies and very little else. Hope you all enjoy.
Title: Wanderlust
Chapter: Two-The Measure of Guilt
Authors:
lithiumdelusion and
bluestocking79
Rating: PG 13
Characters/Pairings: Leon/D, Jill, Snape, McGonagall
Summary: Leon's finally found what he was looking for, but a chance encounter with a stranger has Jill starting on a quest of her own. Jill learns more about the man she met...
Disclaimers: We do not own either Pet Shop of Horrors or Harry Potter. All rights belong to Matsuri Akino and J.K. Rowling.
Set after book ten of PSOH and HP & DH, so, you know... spoilers for those.
For the first two chapters go...
Here... Let Them Eat Cake
Here... Looking for Trouble
These will also be tagged in my memories, so you can go there...
Enjoy...
Wanderlust
Chapter Two: The Measure of Guilt
Severus Snape’s wand was gone.
It was a mark of how far he’d fallen, that he’d made it all the way back to his cramped, dingy flat without even realizing that the wand was no longer up his sleeve, as it should be. He guessed that he’d lost it in his panic to get out of the bakery, to get away from that daft bint who’d insisted that she knew him, and to escape the gaze of green eyes that burned him with their innocence. He’d only been concerned with putting one foot in front of the other, consumed by a stomach-churning desire to flee.
Really, it was idiocy worthy of Gilderoy Lockhart at his most incompetent. What sort of self-respecting wizard lost his own wand?
Ah, but that was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it? Snape’s lip curled as a wave of self-disgust washed over him, bitter and familiar. He wasn’t a wizard anymore-certainly not in any way that really mattered. That magic still flowed through his body was merely incidental; it had to remain untapped and unexpressed, unless he wished to bring the scrutiny of a bloodthirsty wizarding world down upon his head.
He’d only carried the wand out of a wretched sense of sentimentality: a reluctance to relinquish the last link to the world he’d once longed to join. It hadn’t been of any practical use to him, true, but there had been a comfort in knowing that it was always with him. In a strange new life and a strange new land, he’d been soothed by the familiar weight of the wand up his sleeve, and had relished the faint tingle of its magic against his skin, as fundamental to him as the sound of his voice or the beating of his heart.
Now, of course, even that reassurance was lost to him. Like every other thing Snape had ever cherished, his wand was gone and could not be restored.
There would be no retrieving it, he decided. He had no intention of ever setting foot in that bakery again; his behavior had already been strange enough, and it would be foolish to invite further scrutiny. Besides, he could hardly walk in there and ask after his lost magic wand, could he?
Snape felt a curious, unexpectedly sharp pang at the thought of the baffled Muggles manhandling his wand, examining it without due reverence and dismissing it as nothing but a shiny black stick. They wouldn’t feel the warm hum of magic in it, and wouldn’t notice the way the handle had worn smooth over time, so as to mold perfectly to its master’s hand. The Muggles wouldn’t recognize the significance of each dent, scratch and groove in the finish, or the stories behind how each one of those scars had been acquired.
They certainly wouldn’t realize that they were holding the very first thing Severus Snape had ever owned without another person having owned it first. They wouldn’t, couldn’t know of all the times his childish self had simply stared and admired the thing, awed to be the master of something so new, so beautiful and powerful…
Snape shook his head and swore, repulsed at his own easy descent into self-pity. He’d become disgustingly maudlin in the last few years, and though he wanted to blame it on the Muggles, or America, or perhaps on some bizarre and unanticipated side effect of Nagini’s venom, he knew the source ran deeper. Something about him was broken, fundamentally, and now that the fight was over, Snape found himself less and less interested in even attempting to hold the pieces together. What was the bloody point in it, any of it?
The memory of the little girl’s eyes returned, beautiful and guileless. Such a clever green gaze she’d had, staring after him with undisguised curiosity, her cherubic face framed with dark, messy curls. She’d smiled at him, evidently charmed by his ugliness and strangeness. He’d even fancied that there was a trace of something magical about her, although that had probably been wishful thinking.
Still, for a moment-only a moment, though it felt longer-he’d allowed himself to think once again of Lily, and to feel the sting of all his unfulfilled dreams. If she had loved him, if he’d been wiser, would they have had a daughter together? Would she have looked like this little girl? Would she have smiled at him?
Christ, he really was losing his mind, wasn’t he? Dumbledore had been talking out of his arse on any number of subjects, but he’d been right about dreams: it didn’t do to dwell on them, particularly when they were pathetic and destined to go unrealized. What did he think he was doing, mooning over lost wands and green eyes and might-have-been-daughters like some wet little twit?
With a reflexive snarl, Snape forced himself to turn his attention to preparing his tea, settling his mind as he carried out each task precisely. There was a comfort in the mundane routine: measuring, boiling, brewing, steeping, and stirring. It was the closest he ever got to brewing potions nowadays.
He took his tea black, and drained the chipped mug to the dregs. The brew was bitter, but he found he didn’t mind.
Somehow, it seemed appropriate.
*----------------------*
D was on his feet as McGonagall reached for her teacup with shaking fingers. “Lady Minerva?”
Her face was paler than the bone china in her hand and the cup chattered against the saucer as she lifted it and downed the tea in a single swallow.
“I confess to being somewhat shocked, Count D.” She murmured as she returned the cup and saucer to the table. She picked up the wand again, her slender fingers still shaking noticeably. “The man who carried this, can you describe him for me?” She turned her attention to Jill.
Jill swallowed, unnerved by the sudden intensity in the stately woman’s demeanor. “Taller than me by several inches; dressed all in black. His hair is cut like the Count’s, that’s why I thought for a second… but no. He had a rather hooked nose and eyes as black as his clothes. He had a tattoo, old and faded, of a snake and a skull.”
McGonagall swayed in her seat. Her expression was a strange mixture of relief and dismay, leavened with a heavy dose of guilt. Her eyes met Jill’s. “The man you describe is supposed to be dead,” she said bluntly. “I saw the evidence of his death myself, and yet by your description and the virtue of this wand, it would seem he is very much alive.” Her smile was tremulous. “I find myself glad that he survived, and troubled all at once.”
Her bird-like eyes darted to D. “Might I have another cup, Count D? Something to steady this old woman’s nerves?”
“Of course.” D bowed and whisked away to the kitchen.
McGonagall was looking at the wand in her hand with a wistful sort of dismay. “I was most… unkind… to him when last we met. I thought… I suppose it doesn’t matter what I thought now, but my anger at his perceived betrayal knew no bounds. The head blinded by the heart’s hurt, I think, is the best way to put it. I hoped, somewhere deep inside, that Snape was loyal to Albus, but when it came down to it, I let my anger rule.” Pale fingers smoothed over the wand’s fine grain. “I wronged him, and as many hurts as he has suffered, I cannot make it right again… even if he truly is alive.”
She looked up as D returned, her gaze brightening. “Thank you, young one. You make up for your grandfather’s lack of manners by having impeccable ones.” She accepted the cup of tea with a half-smile, carefully laying the wand down on the tea-tray. “Has Fawkes come back to you?”
D shook his head. “Regretfully, no. I do not think he will ever come to another’s hand. Not until the fires consume him again. He was far too loyal and now, his proud heart is broken past all mending. He truly loved the one he chose.”
McGonagall’s eyes misted. “I thought as much. If you had heard his song at the funeral, you would know you are not wrong. There was nothing in the world he loved more than Albus.” She sighed and sipped her tea.
“I wish I could see as clearly as Fawkes did. I let anger dictate my actions, and have regretted it ever since.” She shivered a little, the image of guilt. “I have had the whole story out of those involved most, so I know why he did what he did, even if I could not condone it, then or now. I do not like what I had become.” She stared into the middle distance, teacup forgotten in her hands. “When I became Headmistress, I learned much I did not know, and young mister Potter filled me in on what he knew… which has left me with a guilt that weighs very heavily on this old woman.”
Jill blinked. “Do I have a clue what’s going on?”
D hushed her, but Leon, looking just as confused as she felt, shrugged. “Yeah, I’m wondering if this comes in the movie trailer version.”
D scowled, but McGonagall let out a bitter laugh. “There was a war, in which many died; far, far too many. You-kno - Voldemort, the darkest of wizards, sought to return to power. Each of those loyal to him was branded by his mark, the Dark Mark: a skull and serpent on their forearm. One of these undertook the most dangerous job, that of a spy in Voldemort’s camp. He reported directly to Albus Dumbledore, who was staunchest of those who opposed Voldemort. I did not know all the truth and believed, in the end, that he had betrayed and murdered Dumbledore.”
She sipped at her cup again. “I did not realize the extent he would go to, to protect the most vulnerable of us from Lord Voldemort, and clear the path to his defeat. None of us could have imagined the strength of his dedication to the cause--or that Albus would be so willing to exploit it. In the end, it cost Severus his life.” Her smile was tight. “Or rather, I thought it had. How he could have survived Nagini’s bite, I do not know, but I must confess that if anybody could find a way to survive such a thing, he would be the one. I and many others would have sworn to his death, and if you had seen what I have, you would understand why." McGonagall closed her eyes and shuddered. "When his body disappeared, we assumed--we feared--that the remaining Death Eaters had stolen it in order to desecrate it...and yet you described him perfectly, young lady, apparently hale and whole.”
McGonagall set her cup down and studied Jill. “His true involvement is not widely known outside of a certain circle. To many, he is still the man who murdered Dumbledore. Far better if he remains here in the Muggle world, unknown. There are those who would not welcome his return.” Her eyes were sad. “It has been deemed best that his involvement remain known to only a select few.”
“So…” Leon interrupted, anger at injustice making his voice dangerously low. “This guy’s been all but banished from the life he knew, simply because you people needed a scapegoat, am I right?”
McGonagall met his eyes unflinchingly. “Unfortunate, but true.”
Jill shook herself out of the numb trance McGonagall’s voice had woven around her. “Look, maybe I don’t know everything, but I know he wasn’t bad. He’d been hurt. I could see that in his eyes! Maybe he’s not welcome among you anymore, but he considered that --” She pointed at the slim black wand with a shaking finger, angry now. “--important enough to carry away with him from a world he knows he can’t return to. He deserves it back. I mean to give it back.”
“I cannot convince you otherwise, young lady?” McGonagall’s eyes were piercing.
Jill shook her head. “No.”
McGonagall’s eyes speared her and then a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I know now who you remind me of. You have her look.”
Jill blinked. “Epic change of topic here?”
“No.” McGonagall corrected. “Not really. You have inherited her wit and her stubbornness. She never gave up in pursuit of her goals.”
“Eh?” Jill cocked her head. “Okay, now I’m confused. What and who are we talking about here?”
“Your grandmother was from England, was she not?”
D rose to his feet. “Lady Minerva, Jill’s parentage aside, I do not think it a wise idea, either.”
McGonagall spared him a glance. “It is not. But she will not be dissuaded. There is no creature born more stubborn than one of her family's blood." Her smile was rueful. "I should introduce you to some cousins of yours; the Weasley family would be glad to know one of her kin survived. Molly was only a child when her aunt fled to America to escape Voldemort's notice.”
Jill blinked, stunned into silence by the unexpected information.
“This is far from wise, and do not expect it to be an easy task to find him, or even to get him to speak to you long enough to return what is his. But, ill-advised as this may be, I will help you.” McGonagall plucked a shed feather from a nearby birdcage and cupped it in her hands for a moment. She laid it on the tea-tray, touching the black wand. Her own wand she slipped from a pocket of her robe and held over the feather and wand. Jill couldn’t make sense of what she said, but she saw violet and blue-white motes of light gather around the feather. In a moment, it faded and became a strange white and violet bird with eyes that looked like they were made of the same dark wood as the wand.
McGonagall laughed wryly as she held out a finger for it to perch on. “I should not perform this in front of Muggles, but since none of you are technically Muggles, I think we shall let it slide.” She offered the bird to Jill. It hopped onto her finger and perched there, unnaturally still. “Do not worry about that, child. It is no more a bird than I am. It is a seeking spell given form. I have attuned it to find the one this wand belongs to. It should lead you to him.”
Jill smiled at her, even as D shook his head, obviously displeased at this turn of events. Leon met her eyes with a look she recognized from their years as friends and coworkers. It was his affirmation that he would back her up, even if it meant keeping D occupied and out of her way. And if it meant coming to her rescue, well, he’d do that too, guns blazing.
McGonagall offered her the saddest smile she’d seen yet. “And, when you do find him, child…? Tell him…tell Severus that Minerva is sorry.”
Title: Wanderlust
Chapter: Two-The Measure of Guilt
Authors:
lithiumdelusion and
bluestocking79
Rating: PG 13
Characters/Pairings: Leon/D, Jill, Snape, McGonagall
Summary: Leon's finally found what he was looking for, but a chance encounter with a stranger has Jill starting on a quest of her own. Jill learns more about the man she met...
Disclaimers: We do not own either Pet Shop of Horrors or Harry Potter. All rights belong to Matsuri Akino and J.K. Rowling.
Set after book ten of PSOH and HP & DH, so, you know... spoilers for those.
For the first two chapters go...
Here... Let Them Eat Cake
Here... Looking for Trouble
These will also be tagged in my memories, so you can go there...
Enjoy...
Wanderlust
Chapter Two: The Measure of Guilt
Severus Snape’s wand was gone.
It was a mark of how far he’d fallen, that he’d made it all the way back to his cramped, dingy flat without even realizing that the wand was no longer up his sleeve, as it should be. He guessed that he’d lost it in his panic to get out of the bakery, to get away from that daft bint who’d insisted that she knew him, and to escape the gaze of green eyes that burned him with their innocence. He’d only been concerned with putting one foot in front of the other, consumed by a stomach-churning desire to flee.
Really, it was idiocy worthy of Gilderoy Lockhart at his most incompetent. What sort of self-respecting wizard lost his own wand?
Ah, but that was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it? Snape’s lip curled as a wave of self-disgust washed over him, bitter and familiar. He wasn’t a wizard anymore-certainly not in any way that really mattered. That magic still flowed through his body was merely incidental; it had to remain untapped and unexpressed, unless he wished to bring the scrutiny of a bloodthirsty wizarding world down upon his head.
He’d only carried the wand out of a wretched sense of sentimentality: a reluctance to relinquish the last link to the world he’d once longed to join. It hadn’t been of any practical use to him, true, but there had been a comfort in knowing that it was always with him. In a strange new life and a strange new land, he’d been soothed by the familiar weight of the wand up his sleeve, and had relished the faint tingle of its magic against his skin, as fundamental to him as the sound of his voice or the beating of his heart.
Now, of course, even that reassurance was lost to him. Like every other thing Snape had ever cherished, his wand was gone and could not be restored.
There would be no retrieving it, he decided. He had no intention of ever setting foot in that bakery again; his behavior had already been strange enough, and it would be foolish to invite further scrutiny. Besides, he could hardly walk in there and ask after his lost magic wand, could he?
Snape felt a curious, unexpectedly sharp pang at the thought of the baffled Muggles manhandling his wand, examining it without due reverence and dismissing it as nothing but a shiny black stick. They wouldn’t feel the warm hum of magic in it, and wouldn’t notice the way the handle had worn smooth over time, so as to mold perfectly to its master’s hand. The Muggles wouldn’t recognize the significance of each dent, scratch and groove in the finish, or the stories behind how each one of those scars had been acquired.
They certainly wouldn’t realize that they were holding the very first thing Severus Snape had ever owned without another person having owned it first. They wouldn’t, couldn’t know of all the times his childish self had simply stared and admired the thing, awed to be the master of something so new, so beautiful and powerful…
Snape shook his head and swore, repulsed at his own easy descent into self-pity. He’d become disgustingly maudlin in the last few years, and though he wanted to blame it on the Muggles, or America, or perhaps on some bizarre and unanticipated side effect of Nagini’s venom, he knew the source ran deeper. Something about him was broken, fundamentally, and now that the fight was over, Snape found himself less and less interested in even attempting to hold the pieces together. What was the bloody point in it, any of it?
The memory of the little girl’s eyes returned, beautiful and guileless. Such a clever green gaze she’d had, staring after him with undisguised curiosity, her cherubic face framed with dark, messy curls. She’d smiled at him, evidently charmed by his ugliness and strangeness. He’d even fancied that there was a trace of something magical about her, although that had probably been wishful thinking.
Still, for a moment-only a moment, though it felt longer-he’d allowed himself to think once again of Lily, and to feel the sting of all his unfulfilled dreams. If she had loved him, if he’d been wiser, would they have had a daughter together? Would she have looked like this little girl? Would she have smiled at him?
Christ, he really was losing his mind, wasn’t he? Dumbledore had been talking out of his arse on any number of subjects, but he’d been right about dreams: it didn’t do to dwell on them, particularly when they were pathetic and destined to go unrealized. What did he think he was doing, mooning over lost wands and green eyes and might-have-been-daughters like some wet little twit?
With a reflexive snarl, Snape forced himself to turn his attention to preparing his tea, settling his mind as he carried out each task precisely. There was a comfort in the mundane routine: measuring, boiling, brewing, steeping, and stirring. It was the closest he ever got to brewing potions nowadays.
He took his tea black, and drained the chipped mug to the dregs. The brew was bitter, but he found he didn’t mind.
Somehow, it seemed appropriate.
*----------------------*
D was on his feet as McGonagall reached for her teacup with shaking fingers. “Lady Minerva?”
Her face was paler than the bone china in her hand and the cup chattered against the saucer as she lifted it and downed the tea in a single swallow.
“I confess to being somewhat shocked, Count D.” She murmured as she returned the cup and saucer to the table. She picked up the wand again, her slender fingers still shaking noticeably. “The man who carried this, can you describe him for me?” She turned her attention to Jill.
Jill swallowed, unnerved by the sudden intensity in the stately woman’s demeanor. “Taller than me by several inches; dressed all in black. His hair is cut like the Count’s, that’s why I thought for a second… but no. He had a rather hooked nose and eyes as black as his clothes. He had a tattoo, old and faded, of a snake and a skull.”
McGonagall swayed in her seat. Her expression was a strange mixture of relief and dismay, leavened with a heavy dose of guilt. Her eyes met Jill’s. “The man you describe is supposed to be dead,” she said bluntly. “I saw the evidence of his death myself, and yet by your description and the virtue of this wand, it would seem he is very much alive.” Her smile was tremulous. “I find myself glad that he survived, and troubled all at once.”
Her bird-like eyes darted to D. “Might I have another cup, Count D? Something to steady this old woman’s nerves?”
“Of course.” D bowed and whisked away to the kitchen.
McGonagall was looking at the wand in her hand with a wistful sort of dismay. “I was most… unkind… to him when last we met. I thought… I suppose it doesn’t matter what I thought now, but my anger at his perceived betrayal knew no bounds. The head blinded by the heart’s hurt, I think, is the best way to put it. I hoped, somewhere deep inside, that Snape was loyal to Albus, but when it came down to it, I let my anger rule.” Pale fingers smoothed over the wand’s fine grain. “I wronged him, and as many hurts as he has suffered, I cannot make it right again… even if he truly is alive.”
She looked up as D returned, her gaze brightening. “Thank you, young one. You make up for your grandfather’s lack of manners by having impeccable ones.” She accepted the cup of tea with a half-smile, carefully laying the wand down on the tea-tray. “Has Fawkes come back to you?”
D shook his head. “Regretfully, no. I do not think he will ever come to another’s hand. Not until the fires consume him again. He was far too loyal and now, his proud heart is broken past all mending. He truly loved the one he chose.”
McGonagall’s eyes misted. “I thought as much. If you had heard his song at the funeral, you would know you are not wrong. There was nothing in the world he loved more than Albus.” She sighed and sipped her tea.
“I wish I could see as clearly as Fawkes did. I let anger dictate my actions, and have regretted it ever since.” She shivered a little, the image of guilt. “I have had the whole story out of those involved most, so I know why he did what he did, even if I could not condone it, then or now. I do not like what I had become.” She stared into the middle distance, teacup forgotten in her hands. “When I became Headmistress, I learned much I did not know, and young mister Potter filled me in on what he knew… which has left me with a guilt that weighs very heavily on this old woman.”
Jill blinked. “Do I have a clue what’s going on?”
D hushed her, but Leon, looking just as confused as she felt, shrugged. “Yeah, I’m wondering if this comes in the movie trailer version.”
D scowled, but McGonagall let out a bitter laugh. “There was a war, in which many died; far, far too many. You-kno - Voldemort, the darkest of wizards, sought to return to power. Each of those loyal to him was branded by his mark, the Dark Mark: a skull and serpent on their forearm. One of these undertook the most dangerous job, that of a spy in Voldemort’s camp. He reported directly to Albus Dumbledore, who was staunchest of those who opposed Voldemort. I did not know all the truth and believed, in the end, that he had betrayed and murdered Dumbledore.”
She sipped at her cup again. “I did not realize the extent he would go to, to protect the most vulnerable of us from Lord Voldemort, and clear the path to his defeat. None of us could have imagined the strength of his dedication to the cause--or that Albus would be so willing to exploit it. In the end, it cost Severus his life.” Her smile was tight. “Or rather, I thought it had. How he could have survived Nagini’s bite, I do not know, but I must confess that if anybody could find a way to survive such a thing, he would be the one. I and many others would have sworn to his death, and if you had seen what I have, you would understand why." McGonagall closed her eyes and shuddered. "When his body disappeared, we assumed--we feared--that the remaining Death Eaters had stolen it in order to desecrate it...and yet you described him perfectly, young lady, apparently hale and whole.”
McGonagall set her cup down and studied Jill. “His true involvement is not widely known outside of a certain circle. To many, he is still the man who murdered Dumbledore. Far better if he remains here in the Muggle world, unknown. There are those who would not welcome his return.” Her eyes were sad. “It has been deemed best that his involvement remain known to only a select few.”
“So…” Leon interrupted, anger at injustice making his voice dangerously low. “This guy’s been all but banished from the life he knew, simply because you people needed a scapegoat, am I right?”
McGonagall met his eyes unflinchingly. “Unfortunate, but true.”
Jill shook herself out of the numb trance McGonagall’s voice had woven around her. “Look, maybe I don’t know everything, but I know he wasn’t bad. He’d been hurt. I could see that in his eyes! Maybe he’s not welcome among you anymore, but he considered that --” She pointed at the slim black wand with a shaking finger, angry now. “--important enough to carry away with him from a world he knows he can’t return to. He deserves it back. I mean to give it back.”
“I cannot convince you otherwise, young lady?” McGonagall’s eyes were piercing.
Jill shook her head. “No.”
McGonagall’s eyes speared her and then a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I know now who you remind me of. You have her look.”
Jill blinked. “Epic change of topic here?”
“No.” McGonagall corrected. “Not really. You have inherited her wit and her stubbornness. She never gave up in pursuit of her goals.”
“Eh?” Jill cocked her head. “Okay, now I’m confused. What and who are we talking about here?”
“Your grandmother was from England, was she not?”
D rose to his feet. “Lady Minerva, Jill’s parentage aside, I do not think it a wise idea, either.”
McGonagall spared him a glance. “It is not. But she will not be dissuaded. There is no creature born more stubborn than one of her family's blood." Her smile was rueful. "I should introduce you to some cousins of yours; the Weasley family would be glad to know one of her kin survived. Molly was only a child when her aunt fled to America to escape Voldemort's notice.”
Jill blinked, stunned into silence by the unexpected information.
“This is far from wise, and do not expect it to be an easy task to find him, or even to get him to speak to you long enough to return what is his. But, ill-advised as this may be, I will help you.” McGonagall plucked a shed feather from a nearby birdcage and cupped it in her hands for a moment. She laid it on the tea-tray, touching the black wand. Her own wand she slipped from a pocket of her robe and held over the feather and wand. Jill couldn’t make sense of what she said, but she saw violet and blue-white motes of light gather around the feather. In a moment, it faded and became a strange white and violet bird with eyes that looked like they were made of the same dark wood as the wand.
McGonagall laughed wryly as she held out a finger for it to perch on. “I should not perform this in front of Muggles, but since none of you are technically Muggles, I think we shall let it slide.” She offered the bird to Jill. It hopped onto her finger and perched there, unnaturally still. “Do not worry about that, child. It is no more a bird than I am. It is a seeking spell given form. I have attuned it to find the one this wand belongs to. It should lead you to him.”
Jill smiled at her, even as D shook his head, obviously displeased at this turn of events. Leon met her eyes with a look she recognized from their years as friends and coworkers. It was his affirmation that he would back her up, even if it meant keeping D occupied and out of her way. And if it meant coming to her rescue, well, he’d do that too, guns blazing.
McGonagall offered her the saddest smile she’d seen yet. “And, when you do find him, child…? Tell him…tell Severus that Minerva is sorry.”