Chapter One - Silenced
Screaming heralded Ron's return to consciousness.
Shut it!
The savage shout pierced the grey fog in his brain. In his dreams, he fell into a deep, dark cavern. What truly frightened him wasn't that he was caught in an unending pitch black purgatory, but that he couldn't remember tipping over the edge, and he'd no hope of meeting an end, happy or otherwise. He cursed the absolute blackness. He cursed the ache in his gut that told him he'd woken up. He cursed the woman in the next bed who never stopped reliving the war. Even if he could cry out, his suspicion was that he might never stop, either.
An eternity later came a cacophony of rising and falling voices moving toward and then past him. Focusing his mind in the dark he could pick out words from the chatter over the unending, full-throated cries of terror reverberating through the ward. The undulating shrieks gave way to raspy grunts then stopped mid-gasp, replaced by shuffling parchment and the strong scent of peppermint.
"We can't just dose her to sleep all the time," Whiner complained.
He could imagine the young man who belonged to that reedy voice glancing about to ensure no Healer was within earshot. Probably thin with an oily, pock-marked face judging by the astringent odour of Miss Penelope's Pimple Potion wafting in his wake. The rapid tap-tap-tap of hard-soled shoe against tiled floor signalled his nervousness.
"Why not?" Cold Bitch challenged, her voice rivalling winter winds sweeping off the Scottish moor. "Gives her throat a respite with the Dreamless Sleep." The contempt conveyed in her tone could etch diamonds.
"And us, too," Fool-of-a-Boy chimed in, undeterred by her sharp tone. "There's nothing we can do for her, might as well give her a break."
"Give you a break, you mean," Whiner snapped. "I think we should check with Master-Healer Dewberry. The amount of potion in her liver is close to toxic levels already."
"Are you certain?" Gutless Swot questioned, sounding as though she wanted very much to move on to the next ward — to patients without ethical entanglements.
"Absolutely," Fool said with that note of perpetual cheer that made him want to take a Quidditch bat to the boy's head. "Observe closely, Penitents," Fool pontificated, his impression of the Ward Matron spot on. "Note the decreased level of consciousness, pinpoint pupils and respiratory depression…."
"Seriously, I think we should inform Master-Healer Dewberry," Whiner maintained, lowering his voice.
"Don't bother — look at her," Cold Bitch commanded, followed by the rustle of parchment. "Professor-Healer Cuthbert clearly coded her as terminal. Whether her mind gives out from the curse or the potion poisons her, it's only a matter of time. Might as well have some quiet."
Heavy footsteps echoed up the stone stairwell.
"Cuthbert's on his way up!" hissed Swot, effectively ending the debate.
Sounds of swishing fabric and muffled swearing echoed in his ears, all falling to a tense hush as the distant footfalls approached.
The footsteps continued for another moment until: "Oh, it's just you, Snape," Cold Bitch sneered to the new comer. "Can't spend enough time here for extra credit?"
Snape? HE is here? How? Is he bringing me back? His thoughts raced while his traitorous body lay unmoving.
"Bullstrode," an achingly familiar voice acknowledged.
Look at me! Whatever sanity he had now beat against the prison of his mind, the cry echoing through his personal darkness.
A new set of heavy steps echoed in the stairwell approaching the open ward door. The air seemed to chill, as if in a Dementor's wake, tainted by acrid greenwood and camphor.
Cuthbert barked, "Right you lot — rounds were over half an hour ago. Back to the instruction hall, please." His voice was gruff, suggesting advanced age or possibly caustic potion fumes.
There was the hurried scuffing of shoes against the tile and rustling parchment as the flock of students disbanded immediately in favour of the ward egress.
Silence held, the waking world blending with his dark reality. Believing himself alone again, he began the ritual — ever hopeful of a change — working on moving a foot, twitching a finger, willing his eyes to open now that no one was there to tut softly and push his eyelids closed.
Cuthbert repeated in a softer voice quite near, "Snape? Rounds are over."
The unexpected voice made him uneasy. Normally none of them lingered in the 'lost cause' ward. That torture was reserved for his family and Harry….
The reply came from above him now, "Yes, I know Professor-Healer Cuthbert. It's just that he looks…"
They were right at his side. He willed his arm to reach out, fingers hungering to grasp cloth… His mind raced — could they see he was awake this time? Please, Please. I am here. Look closer, see me!, he begged silently.
"…just more there today. I don't know how to explain it better."
He could hear the gentle smile, the one he'd seen so many times before the Bad Things happened. What he would give to see it again, to have it directed at him.
A crisp snap and flipping of parchment pages was followed by, "Never discount your instincts, Snape. You are one the most gifted students I've had the pleasure to oversee; but knowledge is not enough. Instinct plays an integral role especially in mind-body damage patients. As you can see," he continued, his voice falling into a familiar lecturer's cadence. "This one's mind has been lost as surely as if he'd been the victim of a Dementor's kiss, only a shell of functionality remains. Soon his body will stop responding and his heartbeats will cease."
"I know, Professor-Healer." Unbearable sadness coloured that simple statement.
"I often see you here at this bedside after hours, I take it you knew the patient?"
He could picture the flush of embarrassment at being called out for breaking the rules.
"Yes, Professor-Healer. We went to school together, fought in the war together, he…" the voice broke.
"Well, then, I am truly sorry for your loss. An old man such as I would not be your choice for confidant…"
Amused scoff was met by quiet chuckle. The private camaraderie between the two was palpable.
"You need to let him go. Whomever this young man was, he's gone. His body hasn't realised that yet but these vitals show deterioration. This body's time is coming soon to release his spirit beyond the Great Veil."
What? Bollocks! Don't listen to the old fool. I'm here. I'M HERE, DAMN IT!Every muscle strained in his mind, but he could not move so much as a finger. Envisioning his lungs expanding and contracting forcefully brought the unwanted tickling sensation back to his chest. Maybe they would see he was trying to vocalise. Just a little more…
"I know, sir. We held a memorial for him a few weeks ago but it's so hard to believe. I see him lying here, alive."
The tickling gave way to painful spasm and gurgling as mucus restricted his ability to breathe. He could hear the voices but not words.
A sudden heat and weight on his throat indicated preparation for clearing out his lungs. Gloved fingers firmly positioned his chin and the warm towel soothed the aching throat muscles. A quick command spelled the accumulated fluids up and out. As the procedure concluded his arm jerked and managed to flop out of the sheets. Yes! They had to have seen that. No longer panicking as his airway opened up, he strained to hear any sign that they'd seen.
His wrist was firmly grasped and carefully manoeuvred back to his side, the sheet tucked tightly to pin him in place. "Snape, please update the chart to show spontaneous reflex movement continues. Add two more doses of asphodel daily to the notes, and initial per me. That should counteract the spasms. I doubt there's any pain awareness happening but one can never be too careful in this type of situation."
He felt a flush of hatred at the murmured acknowledgement. Look at me! Damn your eyes, old man. Don't listen to him!
"He opened his eyes again last night, is it so wrong to wish for a miracle?" The wistful longing intensified his own pain.
"Maybe this is asking too much of you," Cuthbert mused.
Any protest was cut off sharply.
"I've been very hard on you, Snape."
Stop calling her that name!
"More so than any of the others."
"You've always been fair, sir. I've learned so much! I didn't mean to disappoint you, Healer Cuth – sorry. I mean Professor-Hea-"
"Snape," he interrupted. "What you need to learn right now is to stop under-valuing yourself. I am strongly considering pulling you from the programme."
He could see in his mind's eye the stark panic on her face at his sharp tone.
"And sponsoring you in the Healer-Trainee rotation," Cuthbert continued.
"Hea-Healer programme? Sir! I-I don't know what to say, they said we were not eligible to apply," she sputtered.
"A one word response shall suffice this time, Mrs Snape," he said, amused. "Let me worry about your situation, and in anticipation of you making the intelligent decision you may address me as 'Healer' moving forward. Would you like to administer the asphodel whilst I write the order for your transfer?"
"Yes, thank you, sir." He heard the quiet clatter of spoon and teapot as she prepared the dose.
"And your place of residence is still the Refugee Centre?"
"For a few more days yes, Healer Cuthbert," she murmured.
"A somewhat indelicate question if you will forgive me?" he asked with a slight hesitation.
"Anything, sir." There was no hesitation this time, she trusted this old, obviously blind man.
After a long pause, the Healer spoke so softly that it took every bit of concentration he had to hear Cuthbert.
"Should the Ministry register use Snape or… Granger?" The last word barely above a whisper yet it hung in the air as unwelcome as a shout.
He strained to hear her answer, his hope for any future hung in the balance.
"Sn-Snape. It will be finalised by start of next week," she replied in a firmer tone, but matching his careful whisper.
Additional words were drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears. Unlike his ward-mate, his crying never made a sound.
A few moments later the astringent scent of medicated tea filled his nostrils as firm hands gently supported his neck and then dripped the spoonful of liquid in his mouth. The memory of tears ran from closed eyelids as the warm mixture carried the bitterness from lips to the back of his throat.
One dose and he could forget, if only for a few hours. Tonight he welcomed oblivion.
oo000oo oo000oo oo000oo
On the afternoon of her sixth birthday, Ginevra Weasley got married. It took some persuasion for the groom to tolerate his wedding attire but at last the owl-sized cummerbund matching her best dress stayed in place as Errol patiently endured the ceremony. The tea party reception was attended by rag-doll Charlotte, a rat named Scabbers who was missing a toe, and her imaginary best friend, Liza.
We're married now, Ginny explained to Errol. You have to love me forever and do everything I say.
If only it were still that simple, she thought. Adulthood proved to be quite different.
Ginny brushed the cinders from her robes, mindful to use magic and not her hands. Being Mrs Harry Potter had its advantages: a comfortable home, political capital to spend, and a closet filled with the finest quality clothing. That did not mean the lessons of her youth were forgotten; every care was taken with her new wardrobe. The Floo connection terminated with a final roar of green flame and a hiss. Even before climbing the stairs she felt the house was empty. Hoping she was wrong she took a deep, fortifying breath before grasping the knobs and throwing open the closet doors. Empty space, bare hangers, and a trace of the cologne she'd bought him last Christmas was all that remained. Harry was gone.
He did it. He really did it.
Ginny didn't think the latest fight would be the final impetus to drive Harry to action. Yes, things were said that, although truthful, should never be spoken between husband and wife. Strip away civility and the damaged teens they had both been emerged. No one in her life had ever been able to see the real her, just Harry. And no one could wound as deeply.
It had only been hours ago that a copy of the Daily Prophet and an enraged spouse were waiting for her in the kitchen.
"'Morning," she swept by him intent on pouring a cup of the strong, bitter tea he favoured. She could pick up the herbal tea she liked outside the Ministry offices on her way to work.
He stood at the table, staring down at the paper as if he was unable to comprehend the Travel Ban and Wizarding Protection Act headlines which blazed across the front page.
You knew this was coming and you said nothing," his hands were clenched into fists. "Bill was nearly arrested!"
Feeling uncharacteristically ashamed, she protested. "I didn't do anything wrong!"
"George could have saved Hermione."
The fleeting sense of shame evaporated instantly. Hermione. Of course. Her eyes narrowed and she turned to look him directly in the eyes with a mocking look of concern.
"Saved Hermione? From her marriage to my other brother, Harry?"
He flinched as if slapped. "Ron's in no position to help her now. Face reality, for once in your life, Ginny," he spat. "Your lot did this, not us."
"And when did we become 'your lot', Harry? Do you know who you sound like? Maybe you would have been better off staying with dear Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon!" Her face wrinkled in disgust, deliberately misunderstanding him.
Silence met her words and for a moment he glanced down at the Prophet article. "You need to make peace with Ron's condition." Turning to face her he continued, "He is gone", he spoke calmly, though the colour had left his face.
"You're wrong!" she stamped her foot, not caring if it made her look foolish. How dare he!
"And now the woman he loved is in custody, Bill and Fleur are fugitives, and George won't speak to you. Even your father said, had his department been made aware of the proposed law, he would have told us - Ministry be damned."
"This is to help us, all. Can't you see how there's no other way? He-Who… Voldemort is gone but his followers are still carrying forward his agenda, bringing in allies from outside the country and recruiting people who want to harm us while we're weakened," she tried to reason.
"Find a better way. This is destructive and cruel. We have to be better than this," he said, direct and to the point, slamming his hand against the Prophet causing the people in the pictures to dive for cover.
"This is the path forward to avert another civil war, Harry. There is no better way. If you had ideas, the time to present them to the Ministry was long before now."
Nauseated, he said, "I can't bear to look at you. I don't know you anymore. Maybe I never really did if you can be a part of this insanity." He strode past her toward the sitting room.
"Wait, where are you going? We need to talk about this!" she cried, following him into the parlour.
"I'm done talking, Ginny." Harry grasped a handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantle. "I'll be back later for my things."
"But, where will you go? This is silly. I can find out where you are so walking away won't do any good," she raged, her fingernails digging into his hand.
"Even in the Muggle world?" he mocked. "As you so rightly pointed out, I grew up there and if I wanted to disappear, you could never find me." He shook off her hand and threw the powder into the fireplace.
"No, you can't go like this…"she pleaded.
"Diagon Alley!" he called out and vanished.
Thirty minutes and a smashed set of dinner plates later, it was time to admit she needed help - again. Cursing the Floo block on the Burrow, Ginny quickly summoned parchment, quill, and their new owl.
Mum, I need you. Please hurry.