It is a Slytherin's prerogative to make use of the cunning he possesses, and Severus Snape had taken this wisdom to heart. Of course, originally, when his head of house had first told him this, he was convincing Severus to keep quiet about the unsettling amount of the headmaster's beard hair- as it was labelled- that Severus had stumbled upon while cleaning the private store cupboards. But the fact remained that a Slytherin must never let "impossibility" or "another man's dignity" get in the way of success. No matter the goal.
Today found Severus in a hospital waiting room. There was nothing visibly wrong with him, but for magicals, who find almost infinite ways to acerbate and exasperate the hospitals over-worked medical staff, no visible symptoms were often a bad sign.
Severus surveyed the swarming mass of disgruntled witches and wizards before him: eyes narrowed; sneer, perpetual; wand-hand, eager.
St. Mungo's had always put him on edge. It reeked of Gryffindor.
But this was not a day for violence or chaos or anything fun.
The only thing dying today, he thought, is the length of this queue. It is entirely unacceptable.
So, he got to work.
The fool with a fork in his forehead was the first he sent home.
"You have an absurdly thick skull, Mr. Slater, the only casualty is this fork."
The flesh-knitting charm has its uses outside of sewing mouths shut, Severus supposed, grudgingly.
A very uncomfortable looking man with a tentacle for an arm was next. Severus withheld his Legilimency probe.
"Well, you see," said the man, "the missus sent me. She wants me to get another-" Severus had never performed the silencing spell wandlessly and wordlessly before, so he was rather pleased.
To his dying breath, Severus would never tell anyone if he granted that man his request.
Most of the remaining collection of unfortunates and dunderheads were easily dismissed. There was a lot of failed transfiguration, a fair number of non-lethal curses, a fascinating case of violent hiccups that burst out in time and tune to the national anthem and a rather peculiar bruise that was a startlingly accurate portrait of the Queen of England. And that was all on just one woman!
With a final flourishing flick of his wand, Severus reattached a man's nose to his face and almost smiled.
Maybe if things were different and there wasn't a war and he wasn't a death eater, he could imagine himself being a doctor. Probably not though, he enjoyed detaching far more than attaching and blood transfers were always more fun when the recipient was the ground.
Maybe if things were different and he wasn't a death eater, he could be out there protecting her instead of reducing himself to the level of clearing the emergency room just in case she got injured again.
The Potters had already escaped with their lives two times against the Dark Lord. Nobody, except Dumbledore and Moody had survived more than that.
He looked at the clock on the wall, whose ticking had been tying his stomach in knots with every. Single. Staccato. Beat.
He knew that the raid on Hogsmeade was scheduled for a half-hour ago.
He knew that the standard procedure was retreat after thirty minutes.
He knew that the Potters were stationed there.
And this is what he was reduced to: transfiguring tentacles and bandaging boo-boos.
But he found that the price was worth it, when, from the shadows, he watched her walk in, blood caking the side of her head, the determined glint in her eye that told him that yes, she had faced the Dark Lord and come out alive. For the third time.
He just hoped it wasn't the last.