Lily Evans' Wake-Up Call
Fandom: Harry Potter (though it seems odd to call it that when he won't even exist in this AU…)
Summary: The Prank goes badly wrong. A friend in need is a friend indeed. (Severus/Lily eventually)
Rating: M to be safe. However, not for sex… sorry.
I do not believe this to be MA. However, a character IS attacked by a werewolf, and there IS quite a bit of blood. If somebody believes this to be MA-rated, could they please tip me off in a review so I can pull this story before my account gets pulled?
This is an honest request, as I don't know what this site considers 'graphic violence' these days.
Date written: January 3, 2012
Warnings: Mild gore, some disturbing imagery – if I did it at all competently. Could conceivably be triggering.
Also, infrequent updates.
Character Bashing:I am trying to portray characterizations accurately, but – Some Sirius-bashing – my apologies. For my lack of better grasp of his characterization, he's taken out a loan from Gellert Grindelwald. Albus Dumbledore is not exactly portrayed as a saint, either, though I do think that's IC…
Word Count: So far, 10,393 words.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all Harry Potter characters, settings, magic, et cetera. I am not J.K. Rowling. Therefore, I own nothing of Harry Potter but this fanfiction. Q.E.D.
Chapter 1
Less than a week ago, Severus Snape had left Hogwarts, giving neither a reason for his disappearance nor any hint as to where he might have gone. Lily had her suspicions, as she, unlike most, knew where he lived, but he hadn't been answering letters. Before she left school to check on him, she at least wanted to have some idea why he'd left.
That was why, at the moment, she was stalking James Potter and Sirius Black around the Hogwarts corridors near midnight. Perhaps it was unfair to automatically assume they were the reason, but it was a fair guess, considering that Sev's Slytherin friends were outright panicking without Sev to do their homework (so she'd heard and, to some extent, observed, though she didn't like getting near them) – the Slytherins weren't stupid enough to drive off their golden goose. Besides, Potter and Black had been acting suspiciously out of sorts, especially considering that they ought to have been rejoicing. Well, Black was, but James Potter had been acting like he had a Grim following him around, just waiting to pounce. Lily almost jumped as Potter gave a great, despairing sigh. "Why did you have to do that, Padfoot?" he asked in the tone of an oft-repeated question. "What made you think that was a good idea?"
"Prongs," said Black in the irritated tone of someone who'd been oft-answering that question, "I told you, I thought it'd be funny. I still do."
"But why?" Potter almost moaned, and Lily got the feeling that she was listening to, as a Ravenclaw might say, the nth repetition of this conversation, as n went to infinity. Judging by the way Black sighed and shook his head in the dim moonlight filtering through the castle window, he probably thought it had already gone to infinity.
"He deserved it, always poking that enormous nose of his where it didn't belong," Black said. "He was always looking for something to use against us, the spiteful little –"
"And you gave him something! You gave him something and then some!" Potter clutched at his hair, making it even messier than before. "Merlin! Even I thought we deserved more than what we got!"
"I don't see why, and I've told you I don't see why," Black said, his voice exasperated. "How many times do I have to tell you, he deserved what he got? Snivellus gets what was coming to him, hip hip hooray, all is well –"
"Damn it, Sirius!" Potter seized Black by the collar of his robes, taking both him and Lily by surprise. "If you can't see what you set Snivellus up for was far too far – and I'm not one to say that about just anything, you of all people should know that – what about Remus? Can't you give some thought to him?"
Lily's eyes widened, and she leaned further around the corner, even knowing Potter or Black might happen to glance in her direction and see her. What was this about Remus Lupin? What did he have to do with this? And, since she now knew Potter and Black were behind this, what had they – or Black alone, from the sounds of it – done to Sev?
"What about Moony?" Black asked, almost laughing in confusion. "Snivellus didn't get him that badly, he'll be fine –"
"No! No, you bloody idiot!" James Potter losing his temper with Sirius Black wasn't something Lily had ever expected to see; the two were as close as could be, practically brothers, minus any sibling rivalry. "Have you thought – have you thought at all about how this would affect Remus? He hates being a werewolf, you know how much he hates it, and his worst nightmare has always been that he'll attack and kill someone, or infect them –"
Raw horror overwhelmed Lily for a moment, leaving her frozen in place, speechless and stunned, barely able to comprehend what Black said next –
"Snivellus brought it on himself!" Black snapped. "He's the one who chose to go snooping, he's the one who wouldn't stop making a pest of himself, and I say he got nothing he hadn't been asking for for a good, long time – Remus shouldn't give himself premature grey hairs about it, it was Snivellus, and I tell you, I'm not sorry and I never will be sorry for setting him up –"
Lily stepped around the corner and raised her wand. As Potter and Black, probably seeing the movement out of the corners of their eyes, broke off from their argument and looked at her, she said, "You shouldn't have done that."
Aberforth stirred from a sound sleep, rubbing his eyes with his bony knuckles. As he pushed himself up to a sitting position, Ariana's portrait repeated, "Abby?" When he didn't immediately respond, she added in a quiet but terrified voice, "Abby, there's something at the window."
Aberforth grabbed his wand from under his pillow and got out of bed; as his feet touched the floor, something pinged off the window, accompanied by a shout from below. Sounded like a pebble; wasn't likely anyone dangerous would be bothering with that. Flashy stuff, that's what Voldemort's crowd liked. Sure, it'd be smarter to lure him to the window and shoot a fast curse at him, but that wasn't good enough for them – nah, they'd be trying to bash down the front door, bringing an entire raiding party with them, screaming "Death to all blood-traitors" and the sort of thing. Standing around outside and yelling wasn't exciting enough.
So, after casting a reflexive Shield Charm, he pulled open the window and looked down; a cloaked figure, winding up to hurl another stone, lowered its arm and waved up at him. "Pub's closed!" he snapped. "Come back in the morning!"
"I only need to use your fireplace!" it called back – or rather, she called back, if the voice was any indication. Suspicious, he made as if to shut the window, and the witch blurted out, "Wait!" She looked at the ground for a moment, then continued in a desperate voice, "I just found out – a friend of mine's doing very badly, and I need to see him as soon as possible – it might already be too late –"
Aberforth paused. "I'll be right down." After shutting the window and drawing the curtains, he cast a Lumos, put on his spectacles, and pulled a spare robe over his head, then headed for the stairs. He spared a glance towards Ariana's portrait, who was currently hiding out of the frame. "Just a girl, Ariana," he said. "I'll help her with her business, then get back to bed."
Ariana's portrait raised her head just enough to visibly nod, then ducked out of frame again. Aberforth went downstairs and made his way to nearby the door, then cast a Hominum Revelio towards the outside: it swept over the street, detecting only one person on its way. Well, she hadn't brought friends, then. He flicked his wand, and the door swung open.
The witch came in, her trunk hovering behind her; as soon as it had cleared the doorframe, the door swung shut, making her jump. She shook her head, obviously distracted, and squinted in the near-darkness towards the fireplace.
"So," Aberforth said, "what happened to this friend of yours?"
She froze for a few seconds too long. "I – he was very badly hurt," she said. "I need to get to him –" She made a move towards the fireplace, but Aberforth stopped her.
"Funny, then, that you didn't use a Hogwarts fireplace."
She shook her head frantically, and tried to dash around him; this time, he grabbed her by the wrist of her wand hand, pointing it away from him and tightening his grip to the point that she couldn't make much movement for a spell. She yelped and tried to shake free, but it was no use. "Why?" he asked, pointing his own wand at her.
"Because – because – because yours isn't tracked, all right?" she blurted out. "That's what I heard Sev saying!"
Almost certainly the truth – revealed a bit too much for it to be an excuse.
"And why don't you want to be tracked? Anything I should know about in your trunk there?" Though she probably would have if she had the chance, the way he was holding her wrist, she didn't have a hope of hurling her trunk at him unless she had a good deal more finesse than most students her age. She looked about fifteen.
"No, I – oh, let me go, you –" She looked about ready to kick him, that's what she did; the only thing keeping her from doing it was his wand pointed at her face, and that might not stop her. Wasn't fear driving her, though, or at least fear for herself…
"Don't want anyone knowing where your friend is?"
The witch's face instantly brightened, though panic replaced her relief after a moment. "What business is that of yours?"
He sighed, and then released her. As she rubbed her wrist, he said, "Next time, missy, come up with a good excuse before you go running off to anyplace." With a flick of his wand, he lit the fireplace; both he and the girl blinked at the sudden brightness. He motioned towards the fire. "Get along, then, but the next person might not be so ready to believe you, unless you've already got a good tale cooked up."
She winced, but recovered quickly enough. Taking a bag of Floo powder out of her robe pocket, she walked to in front of the fire, her trunk coming with her, and threw the powder into the flames. Then, she leaned forward to speak the name of her destination, and – That was a damned annoying ringing in his hears. He hadn't ever experienced that hex before.
The ringing stopped a bit after the time it should have taken her to give her destination; she probably had been giving the passwords to a warded fireplace. A house, then – shops and the like tended to shut off their fireplaces from the Floo network when they closed. The witch took one step towards the fire, then turned back to him. "I – thank you, sir," she said. "You have no idea –" She broke off, shaking her head.
Aberforth grunted. "Any time," he said, waving her off. "Just not at this hour, unless you can't help it."
She smiled uncertainly at him, then stepped into the flames and was gone.
Severus Snape could not sleep.
He lay on his bed, his face buried in his pillow and his bandaged arms stretched in front of him, their wounds throbbing periodically. They had already almost healed, despite the deranged Luipin's bites and slashes shredding his flesh and fracturing his bones; that was one of the side-effects of the curse. He had read through the appropriate books, never guessing they would ever become personally relevant: due to the sheer brutality of werewolf attacks, selection favored the variants of the curse that enhanced the host's natural healing abilities, since victims who died of their injuries did not pass on the curse. The low percentage of survivors from werewolf attacks had kept the werewolf population low in medieval Europe, but it had increased due to mutations in the curse and improved medical care –
None of that mattered, now. Now he was the Dark creature, and his future was, appropriately, black as night.
He could list the legal restrictions on werewolves by heart – Lupin shouldn't even have been at Hogwarts, that had been the one screaming in his head after the initial numbness and disorientation had worn off. Dumbledore had obviously known; Severus would not have been surprised if he had been the one to have the brilliant idea to, almost literally, place a wolf amongst sheep. Everyone deserved a chance, tolerance was the watchword of the day! What care did Gryffindors, current or former, have for safety? Anyone who minded endangerment, whether of themselves or their loved ones, was a coward!
In fact, Dumbledore – after forcing him to swear to secrecy, a vow he'd been too dazed to refuse – had even offered to let him stay at Hogwarts. Yes, stay at a school ruled by a lunatic who showed no sign of concern whatsoever for others' welfare – many Slytherins scorned Dumbledore's glorification of Muggles, sneering at his speeches and pointing to the stake, the rack, and the scaffold as examples of the miraculous Muggle ingenuity, but even they would not have guessed that he would have secretly allowed a werewolf to enter Hogwarts. Yes, stay at a school where Sirius Black roamed free, let off without more than a slap on the wrist for deliberately conspiring to infect or kill a fellow student, much less the execution or lifetime in Azkaban that he deserved. Yes, stay at a school where, likely as not, he would have to withdraw from even his closest friends and acquaintances, lest they ask too many questions about his poor health and monthly absences, while James Potter trumpeted to the world that he had selflessly saved the life of a mortal enemy out of the chivalry of his Gryffindor heart.
Stunned he might have been, but he had still retained enough dignity to all but spit in Dumbledore's face at such a proposal. Home he had gone, and home for the last few days he had stayed, venturing out of his room only to wash, excrete, and eat. He had not the will to do more: the one time he picked up a textbook, he had not even been able to go beyond the inside of the cover before flinging it aside, shrieking in hysterical, sobbing laughter and curling up into a ball on his bed. What was the point? What good was knowledge to a werewolf? No one would listen to a werewolf's discoveries, or let a werewolf enchant their possessions, or let a werewolf brew their potions, or let a werewolf teach their children – for all the good his intellect and power would do him, he might as well be a half-witted Squib!
There was one exception, however. Fenrir Greyback, he knew by reputation, had no care for intellectuals in his would-be werewolf army, openly scorning anything that separated humans from beasts – but the Dark Lord did not. The Dark Lord welcomed competent followers, and appreciated a keen knowledge of magic – particularly the Dark Arts, of course, but he saw the uses of other kinds of magic as well. The Dark Lord mocked magical creatures (though, according to some reports, he was not far removed from one himself), but he was not, unlike many of his Pureblooded followers, above using them. Indeed, in his Slytherin pragmatism of bargaining with them despite his distaste, he was a thousand times better than those of the Light who preached acceptance and tolerance yet shrank from giving magical creatures more than they could tear from wizards' hands.
In the Dark Lord's service, at least, he had some chance of a future as Severus Snape, one of the sharpest-minded members of Slytherin House, rather than another nameless werewolf who might as well have been without magic and without mind. It would be a hard future, with his fellow Death Eaters regarding him with fear and suspicion, some of them probably plotting to stick a silver knife between his shoulder-blades the instant they had a chance, and with the Dark Lord mocking him in the same breath that he complimented him for a job well-done. But it would be a future, and not a living death.
He would have already gone to the Dark Lord, had he been able to force himself to betray –
There was a series of hard knocks on the door, followed by some trying of the doorknob; Severus did not even lift his head. It was likely his mother, though what she was doing awake at this time of night, he could not fathom. She would go away after a while, he knew, muttering bitter things to herself; she always did. If it was instead his father – he wouldn't open the door for his father to spit in his face. Regardless of which parent it was, he had enough spells on the door that neither one of them had any hope of opening it unless he chose to do so, and a competent wizard or witch had no hope of getting it open until he had had more than enough time to pack his things and leave by the window, unless he or she knew the counterspells. And, though many members of Slytherin House were under the delusion that they knew all his locking spells and counterspells, they didn't know half of them; only –
So he gave a great start and jerked his head up from the pillow, eyes wide, when, at most a minute after the last knock, the door came open with a bang.
In the doorway, illuminated by wandlight, stood a figure with wand clutched in one hand and trunk hovering just behind it. "You know," it said in a very annoyed, very familiar voice, "I just did at least five illegal things to Sirius Black, came running all the way from Hogwarts, and got manhandled by the Hog's Head bartender for you. The least you could do is answer when I knock."
Before he could do so much as respond, his mind still utterly blank with shock, Lily Evans ran to him and seized him to her chest in a crushing embrace.
Lily only released Sev after a good, long time (whereupon he flopped back onto the bed with a gasp and a wheeze). Wiping her eyes with her forearm, she said, "You idiot – why didn't you tell me?"
He stared at her as if he couldn't believe his eyes; since he obviously wouldn't be responding right away, she continued, "I would have come in a moment if I'd known! The only reason I didn't was because I was trying to find out what had happened to you!" After a moment, she added in a somewhat calmer voice, "Right – not quite a moment. I would have had to take care of Black first."
Sev still appeared lost for words. As she paused, taking deep breaths, her gaze wandered from Sev's face – and stopped dead at the bloody bandages wrapped around his arms. "Sev?" She brought her wand close to them for a better look, and flinched at the sight of the many layers of blood-soaked gauze. "What did he do to you?"
"How much do you know, Lily?" Sev asked in an oddly solemn voice, sitting up; he tried to cover his bandages with the sleeves of his black robe, but Lily shook her head and pulled them back.
"How much do I know?" Lily frowned at him. "I know – well, I know what happened." She stopped there, not wanting to – remind Sev more than necessary. This wasn't the sort of thing that –
"Say it," Sev said, a bit desperately. "Please, Lily, say it."
A chill shot between Lily's shoulder-blades, though she couldn't say quite why. She took a deep breath and whispered, "That – that Remus Lupin is a werewolf, and that, while the moon was full, Sirius Black set you up to run into him – that he did it for a bloody joke, and that he – he bit you, and you got – infected –" Her voice had risen despite herself, and she choked off the last word; she clenched her fists and stared down at Sev's off-gray bedsheets, her muscles tight with anger.
Sev let out a deep sigh. "Thank you." When she looked back up at him, his mouth was stretched in a worn, rather bitter smile. "Dumbledore – he made me swear to secrecy. I couldn't tell you anything until I knew how much you knew."
Lily's trunk dropped to the floor with a thunk, making Sev start. "That bastard," Lily said simply. "I think Black won't be the only one in the hospital wing come morning."
She turned around, shaking her head, ignoring Sev's alarmed questions as to what she was planning. "I suppose it could get awkward if I have to use the Hog's Head fireplace again," she mused aloud. "He let me through because I was trying to get to you, but I don't think he'll like my excuse this time. 'What are you back here again for, missy?' 'I'm off to throttle the Headmaster, the rotten Headmaster of Hogwarts.' No, that probably won't go over very well, will it?"
"I don't think you know just how poorly it would go over," Sev said dryly. When she looked back at him, frowning, he said, "But that's not important – Lily, will you try not to do anything for me that will get you landed in Azkaban? I can recite the section on Dementors in our textbook by heart if you want."
Lily sighed, pressing her non-wand hand to her forehead. "You always did have an eidetic memory," she said. "Sev, I – I know I'm being stupid, and I suppose it wouldn't do me much good – I don't have any hope against Dumbledore, I know that – but I – I just want to strangle him. Honestly. He saw you fresh from the attack – it had to be fresh from the attack, you were there in the afternoon and gone the next morning – and the first thing he did was swear you to secrecy?"
"Not the first thing," Sev said. "But he did, yes."
"That bastard." She was silent for a few seconds, then said abruptly, "Start from the beginning, Sev, please. I want – I need to hear everything."
So he did.
He had ventured into the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow perfectly prepared – Shield Charm up, wand out, eyes carefully observing everything by wandlight – and expected to, at worst, have to deal with 'pranks' of dubious legality guarding James-Potter-and-friends' hideout.
His only warning had been a snuffling and a growl before the transformed Lupin was upon him. He had no idea whether Lupin was ordinarily only separated from the world by some jury-rigged mechanism, or whether Potter had intentionally disarmed –
"Black," Lily interrupted. "Potter was actually telling him that he'd gone too far when I came upon the two of them."
Really? Black, then. One had to wonder, all things considered, whether Potter had complained that no one would rid him of this meddlesome Slytherin… but none of that mattered now.
As it turned out, the magic passively radiated by a werewolf, combined with a werewolf's natural resistance to magic, was sufficient to nullify a high-strength Shield Charm – doubtless a fascinating tidbit of information for Defense-textbook writers too sensible to check for themselves. Panicked, attempting desperately to retreat back through the tunnel, he had managed to hold it off for a short time with various spells, discovering a great deal about which spells did and did not manage to wound a werewolf –
"Those with direct physical effects are best," Sev said in a remote voice, his eyes black and glassy as the Hogwarts lake at nighttime – Occulumency, Lily guessed. "For instance, the shockwave of Sectumsempra did, in fact, open wounds on its muzzle, though not enough – or perhaps the physical resilience and healing prevented it from being overly slowed by my attacks. Levicorpus, on the other hand, was broken by it shaking its leg a bit, and caused it nothing more than irritation. Shall we go into more depth on spells? Incendio and Confringo, surprisingly enough, did little damage to it, though Confringo did stun it briefly – I suppose that, because true ignition occurs only upon contact with a solid object, its resistance to magic greatly lessened the effects of those spells. You must excuse me for not using more complex spells, but complicated wand-movements would have taken far too much time and the Killing Curse, infamously, does not permit nonverbal usage – again, too little time, too many syllables. Stunners were absolutely worthless –"
"Sev," Lily said softly, shaking his shoulder a bit when he appeared not to notice and continued droning on. "Sev, it's all right. No one can blame you. I bet you did the best job anyone could."
Doubtful – though he held it off for several minutes (he supposed it had been minutes, though, at the time, it seemed like several lifetimes), he had not quite fired a spell in time, and the beast lunged and was upon him.
His wand had gone flying as the beast tackled him and brought its jaws down upon his arm, his fingers jerking open involuntarily; where it had gone, he did not know, all his magic abruptly focused on keeping the thing from biting through. He had at least succeeded at that, and the beast let go for a moment before setting upon him with both teeth and claws as well. Pinned and helpless, he could not throw it off with his magic, though he had felt desperate enough to send a bull dragon flying –
"Of course you couldn't," Lily said, "werewolves are resistant to magic! Don't you remember? You're the one who's been reminding me every few sentences!"
…He supposed. Still, he could not help thinking that if he had been just a bit stronger, or summoned up just a bit more desperation –
"Sev – Sev, don't be an idiot, please," she said, resting a hand on his back. "If D-" She checked herself, not wanting to use that – that bastard's name; god, and she'd trusted him, everyone in Gryffindor House – or everyone that she knew, at any rate – thought he was the most wonderful wizard ever, somebody everyone could safely and happily trust with their children's lives – "If the Dark Lord Grindelwald at his peak had been pinned by a werewolf, I'm sure it would be all he could do to hold it off for a while, and hope some of his underlings could get it off – no one could have done it, Sev, no one –"
…If she insisted. Regardless, all he had been able to do was hold it off, channeling all of his magic into his forearms to reinforce them – not that it had done more than slow the beast: its teeth punctured his flesh and claws rent it, the inhuman force of the blows sending hairline fractures through the bones – his own blood dripped onto his face, first like a hot rain, then in rivers, coating his skin, pouring into his mouth between his clenched teeth, and he'd wondered if he was going to drown like some damned turkey, gazing upwards into a rainstorm –
"Sev!" Lily said urgently, shaking his shoulders; despite his best efforts, he had begun to shake, and an edge of giggling hysteria had crept into his voice. "Please, Sev, you don't have to tell me everything if you don't want to –"
His apologies; he had not realized the detail was too much for her; he had not meant to offend her –
"It's not that – I'm sorry, Sev, I only wanted to know what happened, I didn't mean to make you relive it – I'm so sorry, Sev, I –"
He would be fine… he would be fine… he would be fine…
Passing over that. At some point, wandlight had suddenly diffused into the tunnel, giving him an excellent view of the creature's blood-smeared snout and bare muscle and bone – and from the tunnel entrance, even over the creature's snuffles and snarls, he heard a shriek of pure horror, and the next moment, the light was out again, but some large, hooved creature charged forth and caught the werewolf – somehow, he did not know, but some dazed remnant of sixth sense (to use the Muggle term) had given him the impression that it had antlers – and sent it flying. He had heard the thump as it landed, and felt the hooves of the other creature strike his body as it bounded over him; what had happened next, he did not know, as it had been utterly dark in the cave and he was too disoriented even to scramble for his wand to illuminate the scene. (In retrospect, he could guess, he had likely already been suffering the effects of blood loss and the onset of clinical shock. He could not recall very well what he had been thinking at the time. Something about a prayer to die swiftly and before it began eating him alive.)
All he knew was that one minute, he had been lying all but paralyzed in the darkness, and the next, he had heard James Potter shouting and dragging him down the tunnel, having the presence of mind to use Mobilicorpus after a few feet, and firing spells down the tunnel – the briefly-illuminated werewolf crouching at the end, its fur matted with blood and teeth still bared, waiting to attack once more the instant that it had a chance, was a figure out of nightmare beside which any of H.P. Lovecraft's Elder Gods was as threatening as a plate of calamari.
Only once Potter had safely made it out of the tunnel and shut whatever mechanism he used behind him did he check the condition of his cargo; he had promptly clamped one hand over his mouth and turned a most un-Gryffindor shade of green. Once he had overcome his initial nausea, Potter had stared blankly, chanting something sounding like – he was sure she could guess what obscenity he had used. Sev, for his own part, had gone rather numb and just regretted that his last sight on earth would likely be James Potter's weedy face.
Soft footsteps had come towards them on the grass, and a piercing yelp had accompanied the sight of Pettigrew's round, white face (ironically bearing an impressive resemblance to the full moon shining overhead – even his pimple scars had looked just like craters –)
"Sev –" Lily interrupted, hearing the hysteria beginning to enter his voice again.
He had been rambling; his apologies.
"You don't need to ap–"
Where had he been? Ah, yes. Pettigrew had let out a shriek verging on the ultrasonic, and Black had looked down with a look more of curiosity than anything else, then let out a low whistle. "Wow," he'd said, raising his eyebrows and flashing his perfectly white and straight teeth in a smile that had inexplicably reminded Sev of the werewolf. "Moony really got him good –"
"Padfoot, shut the (fornication) up!" Potter had shouted – obviously that had not been the exact word he used – and turned to Pettigrew, who was swaying on his feet. "Wormtail, go get Madame Pomfrey – now!"
"P-Prongs," Pettigrew had stuttered, "are you sure –"
"He's going to bleed to death while we watch!" Potter had screamed, and Pettigrew had been off like a frightened rabbit – probably as much to avoid the sight of his wounded enemy as for any altruistic reasons. Pettigrew gone, Potter had turned back to Sev, face pale and desperate. "Drat it," he said (again actually using somewhat stronger language), "Padfoot, I don't know any medical magic – a little to treat Quidditch injuries, but this is –" Potter had let out a hysterical laugh bordering on a sob, and Sev, observing the whole scene as if from one end of a long tunnel, all sounds echoing strangely in his ears, had wondered what he was making such a fuss about: he wasn't the one who had just been mauled most of the way to death by a werewolf. "I don't know anything to treat something like this," Potter had resumed, his voice cracking. "Please, Padfoot, if you know anything –"
"I don't know, Prongs," Black had said, shrugging carelessly. Sev had thought he seemed somewhat bewildered – and irritated – by the request.
Lily, meanwhile, thought she ought to have done something permanently damaging to Black. A whole lot of things, actually. Maybe Dark Magic did have some good uses, after all.
She shook off those thoughts, though – for the moment – because Sev was saying that Black had said, "My mother knows a bit, I guess, but mostly it was the House-Elves who took care of any scrapes we had as kids – who knows how Elf Magic works, anyway?"
Potter had lost interest midway through, and was then attempting to heal Sev's wounds as best he could – using spells to heal scrapes, nosebleeds, Bludger-bruises… It would have been laughable, had he the energy to laugh. About the only useful charm Potter had used was one to splint broken bones, which he had nearly fumbled anyway; Sev had watched with a fuzzy, black-spotted kind of disinterest, feeling almost as if he was looking upon Potter doing this pathetic job to some other poor fool. What did it matter, anyway? He had been certain it would not be too much longer, though he clinically noted that his magic had slowed the flow of blood almost to a stop; it was only delaying the inevitable…
Unexpectedly, while Potter flailed helplessly with his wand and Black gave Potter a peculiar look (about the only time Sev ever had, and ever would, agree with Black on anything), he had heard Pettigrew crying, "He's over here, Madame Pomfrey – look, that's him there, there he is now –", a sharp intake of breath, and a feminine cry of "Oh my goodness!"
Pomfrey, to her immense credit, had proved once and for all that she was beyond qualified to be the Hogwarts Mediwitch: she had either hauled supplies along with her or was immensely adept at conjuring them out of the air, for she, without any further ado, set about treating him quite as well as if he had been admitted to St. Mungo's and was being treated by a full team of the best Mediwizards-and-witches in the country. She poured all manner of potions and slathered all sorts of tinctures on his mangled flesh (one of which he recognized of course as the ubiquitous Essence of Dittany) and forced various medicines down his throat, one of which, he saw from the label just before she tipped it into his mouth, was a Blood-Replenishing Potion. But that was just to say she was minimally competent, and of course she was far more than competent. Proof enough was that he could use his arms – had, in fact, been able to use his arms within hours of the attack – and, while much could be attributed to the healing powers of the curse, he did not think it went that far.
He remembered at least one casting of Ennervate and its stronger cousin Reennervate (and, in the background, Potter blubbering that Pomfrey was a saint – true enough, but how like Potter to state the obvious when someone did not need to be distracted), and Aguamenti spraying cold water on his face – which had the convenient side effect of washing the blood off (possibly intentional). Once Pomfrey was satisfied that he was stabilized, she had taken over from – Potter, he supposed – with her own Mobilicorpus and hauled him back to the Hospital Ward, Potter, Black, and Pettigrew trotting along in her wake. He dimly remembered Black muttering something about it being very impressive, but wasted on someone like Snivellus – whereupon there had been a disgusted noise from either Potter or Pettigrew (probably Potter, since the only noises from Pettigrew during that long walk had been intermittent, faint giggles that sounded half-mad), and Black had shut up.
His memories of his visit to Pomfrey's office proper were, again, rather dim and blurred – she had examined him more closely, administered more potions and cast more spells,, asked him a variety of questions to gauge his state… he really could not remember anything worth noting until, having done all she could for him, Pomfrey had taken a deep breath, stepped back, and performed a complicated diagnostic charm that, as it turned out, had only confirmed the obvious… and in a tone appropriate to informing someone of his own demise, she told him that he had contracted lycanthropy.
What had happened after that, he did not really know; his mind had collapsed into obsessing over the shock and horror of the attack, playing back snippets of the events over and over again, screaming incoherently things that he was too dazed to comprehend: he remembered… some. He would never be a great wizard, he would never have a family… he would never be allowed to teach students, he would never be able to hold down any reasonable job… he would be a danger to all those around him… He had lost everything…
Hysterical, perhaps, but that had been his state of mind at the time…
He had half-hallucinated Black laughing wildly at him, telling him, "Now I've got you, Snivellus! You thought you'd always be able to hold your own against us? Well, I showed you! You'll never be able to strike back against us after this! I think I should give you a consolation present – how about some silver jewelry, eh?" The imagined Black had thrown back his head, roaring with laughter, Potter smirking beside him and running his hand through his own hair in his usual self-loving way, Pettigrew's rat-like face distorted grotesquely as he snickered, and set apart from all of them, Remus Lupin, drenched in blood, loping along towards them with a bestial grace –
He had passed out without realizing it, in other words, and though any physician, Muggle or magical, likely would have said he desperately needed the rest, he needed such rest about as much as he needed a broken leg. Mercifully enough, at some point (Hours later? Or minutes? He did not know or did not remember), Madame Pomfrey had awoken him, saying that the Headmaster needed to see him. He recollected that she had seemed upset, though he had been too dazed to understand the strangeness in her tone at the time.
As if in a dream, he next remembered being at the door to the Headmaster's office; the gargoyle had let him through without a word, and when he entered, he saw James Potter and Sirius Black standing before the Headmaster.
Whatever Potter might have said for himself earlier, by then, all the fight had gone out of him: he had stared at the floor, only repeating in the weakest of voices, "I'm so sorry, Headmaster, I'm so sorry."
Black had stood with his spine straight and his head held high; his face had been set in a mulish expression, and, though he had said not a word, he had seemed to radiate an affronted incomprehension, as if he could not imagine why he was standing in that office, since he had done nothing wrong. Perhaps it had been more than appearance – Sev had glanced into his eyes, wondering dimly what he was thinking, and perhaps, in his disoriented state, that had been enough for a flash of Legilimency.
The Headmaster –
Dumbledore had been hunched over his desk, his gnarled hands clasped together, his ancient shoulders bowed as if under a great weight that was crushing him to the ground; for the first time that Sev had seen him, he could have believed the man was ninety-four years old – a hundred-and-forty-four would have been equally plausible. As Sev had entered the office, he had lifted his head with an enormous effort and looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, seeming, for a moment, as if the dazed survivor of a werewolf attack were the adult – or an avenging angel – and he, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, defeater of Grindelwald, and a hundred other grandiose titles, were a child cringing in guilt over an unspeakably wrong act –
("I hope he felt some guilt, the –" Lily said savagely, breaking off only because, in that moment, she could not find a strong enough word.)
But the impression had only lasted a moment. At the sight of him, Dumbledore had let out a long sigh, shaken his head, and said quietly, "You are excused, Mr. Potter and Mr. Black."
Potter's litany of "I'm so sorry" had trailed off, and he had departed without another word, pressing something long and wooden into Sev's hand as he passed; Sev had raised it to his face – he supposed he had regained the use of his arms by then – and seen his wand. He still had no idea when Potter had retrieved that – on his way out of the tunnel or afterwards, using whatever that hooved beast had been to venture safely into the lair of the werewolf – but he supposed, in retrospect, that he should have been grateful.
He thought he might be excused if he had not had it in him at the time.
Black had continued to stand in the office, giving Sev an ugly look; at the time, Sev had thought that he resented Sev for bringing some great punishment down upon his head – yes, for being so spiteful as to be infected and nearly die, surely he had planned it out just to wound Black! Not that he would put such a thought process past any of James Potter's circle –
Lily opened her mouth to say something, and Sev said flatly, "I admit that, taking an objective look at the evidence then and that which has occurred since then, I may have been slightly mistaken."
- but, knowing that no such punishment had been assigned, he supposed Black had just been angered that he had been compelled to stand around in the Headmaster's office and listen to a lecture on his many faults, then receive a slap on the wrist – if he had even received that. Perhaps he had simply been displeased that Sev still existed.
"You are excused, Mr. Black," Dumbledore had said when it became obvious that Black was not leaving on his own.
Black had turned away from Sev then, shaking his head a bit and frowning. "Headmaster –" he had whined, flashing a confused smile and laughing slightly; he had obviously been putting on full-force the Sirius Black Charm, famous for making witches walk into doorframes and professors forgive him all his misdeeds, because who could not forgive such a charming, daredevil young man anything? This must be a misunderstanding, everyone making such a big deal over a little Prank; he couldn't see anything wrong with it, and he couldn't fathom how anyone else could see anything wrong with it, either; they'd just have a little talk, without any of this great seriousness, and it would all blow over –
The most incomprehensible thing in retrospect, to Sev, was – he knew what fakery looked like. In Slytherin, he had learned (in part through mild abuse of Legilimency, nothing major, and nothing that could be proved) to discern the faintest "tells", to see when the most seemingly sincere charm was about as authentic as the illusion hiding Hogwarts from Muggle view. He could nearly scent a liar – well, he added bitterly, perhaps he could smell a liar now – werewolves had an enhanced sense of smell even in human form, after all. Ignoring that, he ought to have been able to mark out Black for the actor he was, scream at him that his disgusting fakery fooled no one –
But, as far as he could tell, Black had not been acting.
He honestly had not understood what he had done wrong – no, that he had done wrong. Sev's infection, his possible death – Black had seemed incapable of grasping the seriousness of those events, and, inasmuch as he felt anything about it, thought it tremendously funny.
Thought of it, indeed, as a wonderful prank.
It would be a trenchant cliché to say the victim of that glorious prank found that terrifying. He simply could not comprehend it.
Sev paused to catch his breath and gather his thoughts, then continued.
"Go," Dumbledore had said, cutting Black off. Black had stopped with his mouth open, his smile only growing more confused, and begun to say something else, no doubt asking Dumbledore to be reasonable about this; Dumbledore, looking more ancient and worn than ever, had said in an indescribably weary and bitter voice, "Go, and despise me, Mr. Black, only go."
Black had gone. Dumbledore had turned away as if the sight of Black cut him like a knife, and begun to lower his head into his hands; seeming to suddenly remember that he was not alone in the room, he had raised his head and looked at Sev. His face had seemed to ask, much louder than if he had actually spoken, Why, for the love of God, are you still here?
Forgive him the melodrama. Looking back upon events, he was attempting to convey all that he could, including expressions, in perfect detail. As it had seemed at the time:
Black left. Dumbledore looked away, then, with a start, looked at him; after a pause, he nodded curtly, his face smoothing out, and gestured to the seat. Sev did not take it. "I fear there have been certain recent events which we must discuss, Mr. Snape," he said.
Sev had not even nodded before Dumbledore had launched into his part of the conversation.
To wit:
Was he well? Perhaps that was the wrong question to ask, given the circumstances – was there anything "Poppy" needed to know that he had not already told her? No? Good.
Had he told anyone about where he had been going that night?
Had Sev had the slightest bit of sense left in his skull, that would have been his cue to bolt from the office, screaming bloody murder and doing his best to cause a scene that not even Dumbledore could cover up. Had he the slightest bit of sense, he would have cast a Sonorus and demanded in a voice that literally shook Hogwarts to have legal counsel before the conversation went a word further. Had he the slightest bit of sense…
He certainly would not have said "No."
Dumbledore had sighed deeply – perhaps literally letting out a breath he had been holding – and nodded. "I must ask that you keep this a secret from everyone who does not already know what has occurred."
Sev had, in confusion, told Dumbledore that he could not possibly do that. But, as Dumbledore made abundantly clear, though he never actually said the words, this was not really a request. He would keep it a secret. And, he had said, his horribly blue eyes drilling into Sev's, he would give his oath on this, in magically binding terms.
Sev had protested and asked why in the world the Headmaster was doing this, but in the end, he had given in. And, as Sev, his voice shaking and stumbling over the words, had spoken the oath, he had understood in a piercing moment of clarity, cutting through the numb fog that had settled upon him from soon after Potter had brought him out of the tunnel –
Headmaster Dumbledore had no intention of bringing justice.
Headmaster Dumbledore, the supposed champion of courage, integrity, and chivalry, was covering it all up.
But he could not back out then; it was too late, and he had no choice but to stand before the Headmaster, awaiting his next words. And, his silence safely secured, Dumbledore had told him –
Black would not be expelled. Black would not even be touched. He would be kept at Hogwarts for "observation".
The official story would be that he had recklessly gone exploring and been selflessly saved by James Potter at great danger to his own life. He was to go along with the official version of the story no matter what happened; attempts to go to any reporters with his story would be blocked and neutralized. "But I do hope you would never do such a thing, Mr. Snape," Dumbledore had said sadly; even then, in his shell-shocked state, Sev had heard a warning, but could not prove any such thing – probably not even from Pensieves.
"He sounded perfectly innocuous," Sev said, shaking his head, "but it was something about the way he said it…"
As for his own fate – he would be allowed to stay at Hogwarts and continue his studies. Dumbledore had brushed neatly past the question of legality, saying that excuses would be made for his poor health, his monthly absences would be covered; the same accommodations would be made for him as had been made for Remus Lupin. He had nothing to worry about; while what had happened to him was most unfortunate and regrettable, all that was in a Headmaster's power would be done to help him lead a normal life –
And at that point, he had all but spat in Dumbledore's face.
He had told him that he was not staying in "this wretched place" one more day; indeed, he would not even wait to see the sunrise. He had wheeled about and left the office, and Dumbledore had not fought him – over his shoulder, he had heard a "If that is what you wish, Mr. Snape," but that was all he heard before he slammed the door. He had stopped briefly by Madame Pomfrey's room to ask her about care for his wounds; she had been astonished, insisting that he needed to stay around Hogwarts in case his condition worsened if nothing else, but caved to his half-deranged insistence that he was leaving before the sun rose and told him what he needed to do, handing him the poultices and bandages as well. "What did Albus say to you?" she had cried for her final question, but he had not answered, only thanked her formally and – unfortunately – curtly for all she had done for him, and her promptness in assisting him then. Looking back, he wished that he had been kinder – the Headmaster's idiocy, or rather, borderline-madness, was none of her fault. He would write a letter to her in apology. Back to the account of what had occurred –
He had gone to the Slytherin rooms and gathered his things, barely restraining himself from throwing them into the trunk as loudly as possible; it would not have done to have his Housemates waking up and asking him what was the matter. That was not the reason he was supposed to give, he knew. He was supposed to say that he had been quiet out of consideration for the wizards with whom he had spent nearly five years together, and, had he not been fool enough to fall for Black's trap, would have soon sat together with for the O.W.L.s. Perhaps there had been some element of that. Perhaps.
That done, he had gone to the Common Room and Firecalled his mother; as usual, her insomnia had kept her up, and so she had been there to respond, if sorely irritated to have her son calling her so late. He had soon impressed upon her the severity of the situation, and indicated that he could not – not 'would not', could not – tell her the details. She had agreed, if sourly, to retrieve him just outside the gates of Hogwarts, and he had ended the call.
Once he dragged himself out of Hogwarts, his mother, as promised, was waiting for him, and had taken him by Side-Along Apparition back home, and – there, for the last near-week, he had stayed, mostly lying in bed and feeling very, very sorry for himself.
And that was the end of the half-blood Prince's tale.
Had Lily been in a better mood, she would have winced; that was the name she had written in the N.E.W.T.-level Potions textbook she had given him for a Christmas present – he had opened the present carefully, not expecting much, gawked at the book cover, flipped it open to the inside cover – and then grabbed her and hugged her until she almost couldn't breathe. "It's in advance for your Outstanding on the Potions O.W.L. – we all know you're going to get one, so I didn't see much point in waiting until we actually took the examination – so don't fall off the Astronomy Tower or get bitten by one of those snakes you Slytherins like mucking around with, all right?" she'd said once she could get a breath. "It would be awfully boring if I was the only one in the N.E.W.T. class next year…"
Well, it seemed that class might be empty, then.
"Well, Severus, you told me not to do anything for you that would get me sent to Azkaban. I suppose I have to honor your request."
"That would be excellent, Miss Evans," Sev said dryly. "Ten points to Gryffindor."
She scowled and smacked him lightly on the back. "You weren't even a prefect, you prat," she mumbled.
"I doubt any male Slytherin prefect or Head Boy during Slughorn's term as Head of Slytherin House has possessed a face not 'fit for a Greek god' – I don't qualify. Perhaps, at my best, Hephaestus on a bad day."
Lily wondered at that remark, but Sev changed the subject. "Well – now you've heard everything." He sighed and, after turning over, sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I don't even want to know what time it is – I'm really sorry, Lily, I didn't know it would take so long."
"You don't need to apologize."
A little smile twisted Sev's mouth. "You said you did at least five illegal things to Sirius Black?"
"I might have exaggerated," Lily said. "Maybe it was only four."
His smile broadened a bit at that. "He's not going to get out of the Hospital Wing anytime soon, though," she added. "And if he does, I did something very wrong. I just wish I'd – been a bit more creative, knowing what I do now, if you're going to ask me if I feel any remorse." She sighed. "All right – I admit, James Potter got thrown into a wall, arm-first, when he tried to help out Black. I regret that. Toerag or no, it seems I owe him your life – and it sounds like he did his best even aside from that – so that was wrong of me, even if I didn't really mean to do it. I don't think it did more than wind him, either – he could have gone after me if he wasn't checking if Black was all right – but I think a letter with no return address might be going out to Potter along with your letter to Madame Pomfrey…"
"And what did you do to get manhandled by Aberforth?" Sev asked, sounding rather less happy about this than he had about Black's fate.
"When I wouldn't tell him where I wanted to go in such a hurry – I used his fireplace to Floo in, you told me it wasn't tracked–"
"Right–"
"-he thought I was up to no good, so we had a bit of a misunderstanding over that. It got all cleared up in the end, though, Sev, don't worry."
"Tell me that doesn't mean you Stunned him and made a break for it," Sev said, whereupon she smacked him on the back again.
"Oh, don't be a prat. He was quite nice about it, when everything got cleared up – he guessed that I didn't want anyone knowing where you were, and let me on through. Bit gruff, I suppose, but not a bad s- Wait, Aberforth? You mean Aberforth Dumbledore?"
"Of inappropriate-charm-on-a-goat fame," Sev with a certain relish. "Probably not what it sounds like, though, he doesn't seem the type."
Right then, Lily couldn't have cared less if he'd cast really inappropriate charms on every goat in England. "Sev, don't you understand what this means? He's Dumbledore's brother! He's probably already told –"
"I doubt it," Sev said, shifting on the bed and stretching a bit. "There's bad blood between the brothers of some sort, I don't know what. I don't think it's any of my business to pry into other people's families, to be honest – though that would get me laughed at if I'd said it in earshot of another Slytherin. Whatever it is, it goes back a long way, and it goes deep – or so I've heard. He'd probably get annoyed if you knocked off his brother, but he's not exactly going to be the Pettigrew to Dumbledore's Black and Potter."
"Well, I'd guess you know – I'm not sure, myself, but I never even met the man until a few hours ago," Lily said. "And he didn't hear where I was going to, anyway, I used Muffliato."
They sat in silence for a while, and Lily wondered where Sev's parents were. Surely they'd heard the sound of the two of them talking? She hadn't been quiet as she should have been, at points.
She remembered smelling something that absolutely reeked of alcohol (and that wasn't the only thing the place reeked of – though she ought not to think such things about Sev's home) when she first stepped out of the fireplace, and wondered if that answered her question entirely. Heavens – well – she hoped not. She'd never really asked about Sev's home life, since he didn't want to talk about it, but he'd made remarks and jokes –
Well – that was – she hoped he'd been joking. She wasn't so sure.
At last, Sev shifted on his bed and sighed. "You planning on going back to your home?" he asked. "It sounds like you aren't going back to Hogwarts, either. Or at least, it wouldn't be the best idea."
"Five hundred points from Gryffindor and the next two years taking everything as correspondence courses while I'm locked in the dungeons with Filch," Lily said mildly. "I don't know, doesn't sound too bad to me – what do you think, Sev?"
He snorted. "I could show you the way back from here," he said. "I don't recommend going outside at this time of night, though. We just had somebody die last summer from being stupid enough to do that. Maybe we've had more since then – happens more often than you'd think."
She hoped that was Sev's idea of really deadpan humor. Hoped. "Well, er – I don't know what to do, then," she said, glancing about at his room. It looked like a wreck – yes, she knew teenage boys' rooms were supposed to look like that, but her only consolation in looking at Sev's was that there were no alcohol bottles in this room, at least. She did see the N.E.W.T. Potions textbook flung into a corner – she supposed he had been in a bad state, though. He better have been, a small part of her mind commented ominously.
"I think we can manage it if you really want to, though," Sev said. "If anyone gives us trouble – well, Sectumsempra would look enough like a regular knife wound that I don't think the Ministry could really harass me about violating the Statute of Secrecy. And it's nonverbal, besides. An Oblivator could make a stop to close it up if anyone complains about a wound that won't heal."
He sounded perfectly earnest – and unfortunately, by now, even Lily's best abilities at self-delusion couldn't make her believe he was joking now. "Um – that's all right, Sev, really," she said. "I –" She yawned. "I think I can sleep on the couch –"
"My dad's probably on it," Sev said, and Lily abruptly remembered that there had been some enormous lump on the couch, giving off enough alcohol fumes to suffocate a horse. Oh.
"I'll – um – I'll sleep on the floor, then," she said, giving it a glance. Well, she had her robes, and clothes on under them – she could just sleep on her robes, she guessed. Maybe see if she could use some of her books from a pillow – once she got back home, she could ask her mother to wash her robes with extra bleach, no, she didn't care if that would ruin the color –
Sev sat bolt upright and scrambled out of bed. "No, really, Lily, it's fine – you take the bed, I'll sleep on the floor –" he said.
"What? Sev, I –"
"No, Lily, I insist." He paused for a moment, then added, "Trust me, it's my home, I know what crawls around on this floor sometimes – you want the bed."
Well, that was… disconcerting… "No, Sev, you're ill, and you need the bed."
"It's fine, I can handle it – you're the guest, I insist. Besides, I'm mostly recovered, anyway –"
"Severus Snape, I am telling you, I'm going on the floor, you stay in the bed, and that's –"
They went back and forth like that for a while, at one point nearly both ending up on the floor out of sheer stubbornness, but Sev was better-rested (well, if he'd been lying in bed all day, that explained it) and managed to wear Lily down. (She swore that was the only reason he'd won.) So woozy she could hardly see straight, she gave in, and Sev promptly gathered himself a pile of debris and plopped himself down on it.
"You know, Sev, you've really gone through an awful lot –" Mistress of Understatement, Lily Evans – "-and you deserve to –"
Sev cracked an eye open and flicked his wrist, swinging the door shut. "It's nothing, Lily, really. Look, sleeping here isn't so bad. The times my dad threw me and my mum out of the house and locked us out – now that was horrible. This? Pretty comfortable, actually. Think you might have the worst of it on that old bed."
Oh, bl- for the love of all that was good and halfway sane, she hoped that was a particularly off-color joke. Otherwise, she was going to go from not liking his dad to putting him on the list of people she wanted to strangle – and not figuratively – which, before the events of the current night, had been mostly made up of James Potter and his friends, and now had Sirius Black and Dumbledore in the two premium positions, with James Potter notably kicked off the list. And now it was a much more serious list. "If you say so, Sev," she said. "Goodnight."
"Good night, Lily." Just before she went to sleep, she thought she heard him add in a voice so quiet she couldn't even be sure she'd heard it, "I'm glad you're here."
I'd just wish I'd been here earlier, was her last thought before she fell swiftly and solidly asleep.
References: Two phrases borrowed from J.K.R.: "Harry seemed to be watching the two men from one end of a long tunnel, they were so far away from him, their voices echoing in his ears", corresponds to "[…] Sev, observing the whole scene as if from one end of a long tunnel, all sounds echoing strangely in his ears, […]"and "[Sirius] loped with an easy grace, his hands in his pockets and a grin on his face" corresponds to "[…] Remus Lupin, drenched in blood, loping along towards them with a bestial grace –".
Also, "Go, and despise me, Mr. Black, only go." is taken from Callimarchus's epitaph for Timon of Athens:
"Timon, the misanthrope, am I below,
Go, and revile me, traveller, only go."
Since it came from Albus, it may well have been a conscious allusion.
Author's Note: The last 6,775 words were written in a six-and-a-half-hour fit of insomnia after midnight the morning of January 3, 2012, and so I put any glaring errors or stupidities down to that. It's a successful writing technique, but not one I'd like to duplicate too often.
Inconsistencies in writing style should be put down to that, and to the majority of what came before that being written out by hand. It turns out even overdramatic writing styles to the hand-cramps must yield…
Anyway, this is not an oneshot (if that's at all ambiguous), but updates will be infrequent.