Whenever memories of the longing for happiness grow urgent, pain rises from the depths of the human soul.
Tragedy lies not in man being alone, but in his inability to enjoy solitude.
—The Myth of Sisyphus
Compared with "lively" Britain, France was much quieter at the moment. Since Severus had said he wanted to rest, coming to France was undoubtedly the best choice.
Though a diligent leader could make followers feel reassured, a leader who kept a clear head and could make correct judgments was actually more important.
Voldemort was very powerful, but his mind was not particularly clear, even if he did not need sleep.
Mr. "Fawn" was not as ruthless as he appeared. Otherwise, he would not have softened for a moment and agreed to Albus Dumbledore's plan to "murder himself."
Early on the morning after returning from Hogwarts, Severus got up very early. But he did nothing, merely sitting at the bedside and staring blankly at the scenery beyond the manor.
Those artificial Phoenix tears had healed his wounds. At first glance, they seemed to have left no scars, but faint marks could still be seen upon close inspection in the sunlight. Added to the wounds he had sustained before, he was already covered in scars.
Pomona embraced him from behind.
"Do you want to go out today, or stay at the manor?" she asked, like a mother indulging her child.
"Whatever," he said perfunctorily, as if he did not even have the strength to consider the question.
"I want to go to Burgundy. It's a famous wine-producing region," Pomona said.
"There's wine in the manor too."
"I just want to go for a walk," Pomona said. "The weather is so nice today, after all."
"This is France, not Britain. Sunny days are normal." Severus turned to