Summary: When tragedy strikes before the Christmas Holidays, Severus and Harry meet their first challenge as a couple to define what 'family' and Yuletide giving really mean. Can they truly become a family? And will they ever find out who's really behind the wandering mistletoe? Based on the Christmas Lullaby, "All Through the Night".

Beta Readers: My thanks to Lydia Lovestruck and Aseneth for their patience and comments.

Dedication: To all the orphans of the world; may you find 'family'.

Hiding Under the Ninth Earth
Backstory 01 : All Through the Night

Chapter One : Sleep, My Child, May Peace Attend Thee

5 December 2003

Exhausted, Harry stubbornly traversed the pathways in desperation, looking for somewhere, anywhere he could reverse the extensive damage the dying woman under his hands bore. He found none; the unseen injuries and residual corruption of the curse were too extensive. His heart heavy, he reluctantly surrendered and began the Sanos process of suppressing her pain centres and other autonomic systems.

Withdrawing completely, he moved to the foot of the bed and taking the sheet folded neatly near her feet, drew it up to her shoulders. Given the warming spells he'd used, it wasn't strictly necessary, but it just seemed the right thing to do. He gently ran his fingertips down her pale, unblemished face; at least he'd been able to heal the surface hurts. Cupping her cheek, he bent down and kissed her forehead, whispering, "I'm sorry."

Straightening as he regretfully turned away, the twenty-two year-old healer gratefully accepted the calm, understanding gazes of the professionals who'd brought him here. He shook his head sadly. "I've made her as comfortable as I know how; she won't suffer. There's nothing more to do but wait for the end, which should be fairly quick." Nodding with unexpected sympathy and support, one of their group summoned chairs and they began their vigil.

Everything had seemed so simple this morning.

Long before he'd finished training, Harry had discovered that 'on-call' days only came in one of two forms. Either nothing happened (and he sat idly at home, unable to start anything worthwhile 'just in case' he was needed), or all hell broke loose (and he was busier than a rent-boy on Knut Night). Today had been one of the latter.

Pulled out of his bed at dawn, he'd spent the entire morning at St. John's until well-past lunch working on an idiot who'd cursed himself while trying to remove the garden gnomes in his back yard. Rather than throwing the pests over the hedge (like everyone else) and tired of doing it repeatedly, he'd cast a questionable spell of his own devising to keep them from running back. It had backfired and the man had arrived with no hands--or feet. With only a small lapse of professionalism (that had him out in the hallway laughing himself silly) he'd eventually palliated the 'omission' enough that others could grow them back.

Then, as he was on his way to the staff dining room, the Medi-Witch in charge of the Magical Maladies Department (a tiny woman who redefined 'harridan') kept him from his well-deserved lunch when she asked him to consult on two long-term patients St. Mungo's wanted to transfer to her unit. With Christmas fast approaching she wanted to know if she should accept them or wait until after the holidays. Staffing issues, didn't he know?

Well, actually he didn't, nor did he really care; he'd no breakfast, now no lunch, and last night's repast had consisted of a sandwich (since he'd missed dinner after being held over at Bartie's) with a chaser of protein from Severus right before bed (although earning that little snack had been delicious). So to his deprived mind, her holiday 'staffing issues' fell somewhere between rock bottom and the pits of hell on his priority list.

However, being the cooperative fellow he was (not to mention his one past experience of her 'imaginative' retribution when he had not), he'd reviewed the patient summaries and told her the first patient would require a full Sanos healing (and why the hell hadn't they already done it?) followed by round-the-clock care. The other was a gaffer he'd once tried unsuccessfully to heal as a student; he couldn't see where St. John's could provide the man any better care than he was currently receiving. With a sly glance at her thin-lipped irritation, he asked her if perhaps St. Mungo's had their own staffing problems. Snatching the parchments from him, she'd muttered something about 'dumping' and gone off in a snit to give them a piece of her quill. That alone might've been worth sticking around to read.

Since he'd been there anyway, he'd gone to check on two of his own referrals, both recovering quite well. After making notes in their charts, he'd finally trudged to the staff room to hang up his robes, his duty done. Being so near dinner time, he wondered whether he would have enough time to collect the potion ingredients he'd unwisely told Severus he'd fetch for him from Diagon Alley on his way home. Unsure whether the shop would still be open, he fire-called ahead and found that, if he hurried, he would just make it.

Which left him with a bit of a conundrum. If he left immediately, he could keep his promise, but he would be sufficiently late to worry his husband. If he sent an Owl to Severus, he wouldn't arrive in time. Bugger! He lost precious seconds deciding the best course of action, time that, in retrospect, might have saved him this vigil. However, with hindsight being only slightly better than his old spectacles, he'd finally reckoned that with Severus being a long-time customer, he could probably impose on the owner to fire-call his spouse from the shop (just to verify the lucrative order, of course).

Ignoring the muffled wail of a Muggle siren, he was halfway through the spell to Apparate when someone grabbed his sleeve. Clamping his mouth shut on the rest of it before he splinched them both, Harry seethed and mentally began to formulate the abject apology he would have to make to Severus when he got home. Which was where he'd much rather be than standing in an open hospital corridor listening to his Hogsmeade neighbor and fellow healer, Jed, whinging about their recent stalemate during their house-elf negotiations. Hogwarts had a house-elf trained in the medical arts who almost desperately desired to leave (and Dumbledore was strongly in favour of the trade, although, surprise!, he hadn't said why); Harry wanted Blinky--how difficult could this be?

Obviously quite a bit, if Jed's seemingly endless soliloquy (extolling Blinky's culinary abilities) were to be believed. His temper's salvation had come in the form of an excited Medi-witch, Maria von 'Something-Or-Other-German'. He winced inside; as much as he worked with her, one would think he could at least remember her surname. Maybe he should suggest name plates at the next staff meeting?

Interrupting them, her voice filled with urgency, she'd said, "Excuse me--Mr. Potter? They're wanting you in the A & E."

"Me? Why me?" he asked peevishly. He glared at Jed. "Aren't you on duty this evening?"

Before Jed could reply, she explained, "I'm sorry, sir. The message was specifically for you." He wasn't consoled by her obvious sympathy.

"Well, there goes my supper," he'd groused petulantly, heading off at a fast trot for the Wizarding connection to the Muggle side of the hospital. He glanced at the clock. Grimacing, he called out over his shoulder, "Maria, Owl Severus! Now!"

"Right away, sir," she yelled back at him as he opened a door warded against unauthorised entry. He closed his eyes against the disorientation he always experienced during the transfer and stepped out into a hidden staff room (conveniently marked 'Biohazardous Waste Room SU-12'). He put his hand on the door, impatiently waiting for it to unlock. After several moments it opened, the corridor beyond free of Muggles.

The Accident and Emergency Department was a madhouse, an ever-shifting diorama of human misery. The trauma victim in cubicle 2 moaned as the staff shifted him to a gurney. Busy professionals circled the silent goner in cubicle 4 as they counted the compressions while a doctor, eyeing the clock, gave precise directions. The delirious woman in cubicle 7 screamed about the spiders crawling on her arms. The hollow-eyed young man in cubicle 13 silently rocked in his chair as he waited for someone to care for him.

Not knowing where he was supposed to be, Harry hurriedly made his way to the nurses' station, trying to ignore the chaos around him. About halfway there, a strong arm shot out of an open doorway and yanked him into the anteroom of an isolation room. Dimly noting the infectious alert posted on the frame, he stumbled into it, almost falling atop Alastor Moody.

"Careful there," the former Auror rasped as he stopped Harry's forward movement.

Heart pounding, Harry exclaimed, "Damn it, Moody! Are you taking lessons from Albus?" When Moody snorted and then sneezed, he added, "You know, a simple 'You're wanted in the A & E isolation room, Mr. Potter,' would have sufficed."

"Don't much trust them, Ha--," he wheezed, suddenly seized by paroxysms of deep, barking coughing.

That was when Harry noticed Moody was drenched to the skin, his sodden clothes making puddles on the floor. "Oh, for the love of--" Harry muttered, casting a drying spell. Ignoring the glare from Moody's normal eye and his noise of protest, Harry placed his hands on the man's temples. After a series of short healing spells, he withdrew. "Didn't your mother ever tell you about the consequences of standing around in wet clothing?" Harry chided with gruff affection.

"Wouldn't have listened even if she had," Moody muttered, then more briskly continued, "but you're not here for me."

As Harry was about to comment on his overwhelming gratitude, someone behind him cleared his throat. Spinning around, his wand automatically drawn in defence, he confronted a nurse he didn't know and Edwards, an older Muggle physician who served as the liaison whenever the Wizarding world interacted with the Muggle side of the hospital. "Hullo, Bill," Harry said diffidently, "seems to be my day to step in it. Sorry to keep you from your work--looks exceptionally busy out there."

Edwards smiled winningly. "I wouldn't worry too much about it, Harry. You know the policy; we're both here as long as you are, and thankful for the break, I might add; it's been an impossible day."

"Tell me about it," Harry said dryly, "and it's not even the full moon yet."

Chuckling, Edwards held his hand out to the side. "This is Nancy Gardener. Her niece is a First Year at Hogwarts."

Harry eyed the chubby brunette, her hair cut short and spiky, heartened by her mild gaze revealing an obvious intelligence. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," Harry said, holding out his hand. "What house is your niece in?" he asked politely.

She took it firmly, saying, "Pleasure to meet you, sir." With a gleam in her dark eyes, she answered, "Hufflepuff, and--"

"Right then. Now that we're all happily met, shall we get started?" Moody asked with some asperity. "The lady isn't getting any healthier with us standing here yammering."

Chagrined, Harry nodded, immediately heading for the chamber beyond; the others followed.

Once inside, he stopped near the side of the bed, dimly aware of the door closing behind him as he quickly dropped into the place he healed.

Senses heightened, his eyes travelled down the length of the too-thin body clad in a torn jumper and filthy jeans; she had no shoes nor socks. Mid-thirties, he guessed, despite the signs of aging on her face (and he could swear he'd seen her somewhere before). Long tangled hair framed a pale face and neck ravaged by suppurating sores; in fact, all of her exposed skin was covered in similar ulcers, even the bottoms of her feet. Other than random smudges of dirt (and a rancid smell to match), she had no markings--no bruises, no evidence of trauma; however, he could feel the Dark Magic pouring off of her, making his scar twitch.

"What happened, Moody?" he asked, sighing.

"Dunno. Found her walking the streets late this afternoon. Thought she was homeless at first and a bit barmy to boot--was talking to herself and throwing her arms about, like she was angry or something. But when I passed her, I could feel it--made the hairs stand up on my arms, it did. So I contacted Dumbledore; he told me you were here. Since I couldn't just Apparate her off the street, I asked a Bobby to call one of those ambulance things. Told them to bring us here. They didn't want to--said it wasn't the closest, but--well, you know, a wand's a handy thing to have some days. Smiled when they did it, too."

Harry could hear Edwards chuckling behind him. A bit amused himself, he asked, "Why didn't you just take her to the other side?"

"I did. Damned barrier wouldn't let us through; she's Muggle, you know. She sparked out while I was arguing with them, so I gave it up and told the ambulance fellows to call for Edwards here and we brought her to this side."

"Such a nuisance," Harry said, moving to the head of the bed, "they were supposed to have fixed that." He fiddled with the headboard.

"Here, let me..." Nancy offered, moving to stand beside him. With little fuss, she lowered it.

Murmuring his thanks, he extended his arms, saying, "Well, let's see what we can see." As he placed his bare fingers on her temples, Nancy gasped, commenting on his lack of gloves. "There's no helping it, I'm afraid," he said quietly, shrugging. "The material blocks my ability to heal."

He didn't wait for a response and sank into the pathways. His diagnostic spells revealed injuries, both mental and physical, usually associated with the Unforgiveables--in this case, the Imperius. How often or for how long she'd been controlled he couldn't say, but given how deeply the damage pervaded almost every system, it had been quite a while, maybe years. Even knowing his chances of saving her were slim to none, he had to try.

Which brought him where he was now. Exhausted, depressed, hungry, and lonely despite the people in the room, his thoughts centred on Severus and his own selfish desire to see this finished quickly so he could go home to the comforts of a warm fire, warm food, and a warm body to love the sorrow from the day. And not necessarily in that order.

The minutes stretched into an hour, then two. Soon after, the woman's breathing slowed. As they all stood to pay final, respectful homage to a life passing, her breath hitched and, with a small gasping sigh, she breathed no more. It was over. Pulling the sheet over her head, Harry quietly asked, "Do we know who she was?"

Edwards handed over to him what he recognized as a photocard driving licence. "We found this on her, but nothing else. Her name's not in the NHS database, though, so we rang the telephone number associated with the address; it's no longer in service."

Harry studied the tiny picture: smiling, her face had been lively, her wheat-coloured hair shiny--a far cry from her condition this evening. He wondered who, if anyone, would be missing her tonight. Curious, he read the name and, crying out in shock, sat down heavily in a chair. Hands shaking, he whispered, "Oh, gods--Priscilla Mendino."

Perrin's mother.

TBC