Mirnada did not see 701 again during her next visits to Mrs Trelawney. Step by step she had managed to create a relationship of trust and confidence; she felt sympathy for the woman bearing her illness so bravely. Mrs Trelawney in turn had developed an affection for the healer and did her best to cooperate. Both of them knew that with all her therapies Miranda could achieve nothing but a lessening of the pain and a prolonging of Mrs Trelawney's life for a couple of months or a year, perhaps two. It was hard to accept that in some cases even magic was bound to fail. Although Miranda had experienced this over and over again during her career as a healer, she still couldn't help feeling angry and frustrated with the unfairness of fate and with the limits of human medicine – magical and Muggle alike.
One day there were two new vials on Mrs Trelawney's potions tray. Miranda picked them up and examined them curiously. She uncorked them and sniffed. Strange, they certainly weren't her prescriptions.
"I had such a headache last night," explained Mrs Trelawney's voice from the bed, "none of my potions helped. I didn't want to call you, so finally my husband went out to consult the apothecary. He met our convict in the grounds and – you won't believe it – the man helped him out with potions he had brewed himself with herbs from our garden. They are marvellous, I've never had any as effective as these."
Miranda looked at the potion vials again and frowned. The convict, potions? Somewhere deep inside her consciousness something stirred, told her that this combination should mean something to her. But once again the solution eluded her. With a sigh of frustration she shoved the problem away. Her patient needed her undivided attention now. She encouraged Mrs Trelawney to take the convict's potions if they were helpful. Why not? Anything that could ease the pain was positive.
On her way home, however, she wondered about 701 again. Who, by Merlin's beard, was he? She had tentatively tried to question Mr Trelawney about his convict, only to find out that he also knew next to nothing about the man, except that he was a former Death Eater and had a reputation for disobedience, which Mr Trelawney could not say was true.
On a wet day at the end of December he stopped her when she left his wife's bedroom.
His face was anxious and Miranda, anticipating questions about her patient's health, hastily searched for some phrases to describe the hopeless situation in more positive a light. But to her surprise his request was a totally different one.
"Would you mind having a look at 701?" he asked, "he must be seriously ill. My daughter told me that he is in a very bad state."
He scratched his head.
"I'm not sure about health care for convicts, according to the rules the Ministry's responsible, but I think this is urgent and he should get all the help he needs as soon as possible."
Miranda nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. Where is he?"
Mr Trelawney led her to the stables. It was cold inside. They went to the corner where the convict lived. He was lying on his cot, half-dressed, half covered with a blanket, shivering with cold. He also seemed to be in severe pain. His body was rigid and his breathing shallow. Obviously he had tried to get up, but had collapsed in the attempt. Miranda crouched next to the cot and touched his cheek. "Hello, Mr 701," she said.
His eyes remained closed.
"He's got a fever," she stated, "how long has he been like this?"
Trelawney shook his head. "I'm not sure. He is supposed to leave the stables as soon as my daughters come in, but Fiona told me that this morning he wasn't able to do so."
Miranda looked at the shivering man.
"701?" she said softly. "701? I'm Healer Weaver and I'd like to examine you."
He groaned and opened his eyes. "Go away," he whispered.
"Oh, well - I don't think so," she answered and ignored his attempt of a withering look.
"701, I'm going to take the covers away and have a closer look at you. You need help."
She started pulling back the blankets.
"No!" he croaked and grabbed the material.
"Oh yes," she said and losened his fingers. Swiftly she pulled the covers away. He had managed to pull on the left leg of his trousers, his right leg was bare except for the sock on his foot, and on his thigh there was a bloody makeshift bandage. Miranda's eyes fell on the wristbands and she remembered their function.
"Can you undo the command to work and leave the stables?" she asked Mr Trelawny, who nodded, stepped forward and pointed his wand at the red band. Immediately the convict reacted, his body relaxed. The healer pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and turned her attention to the bandage. Removing it gingerly she revealed an ugly-looking gash. It was festering, there was a foul smell and red lines had formed above it. Mr Trelawney made a retching noise and hastily left the cubicle.
"What happened?" Miranda asked.
"I - slipped with the axe," the convict answered reluctantly.
"When?"
"Last week."
"Why didn't you tell anybody?"
"I - tried to heal it myself," he admitted miserably.
"With your limited magic and your pathetic wand? You are a fool. You could have died."
He snorted.
She took everything she would need from her bag, reached for her wand and held it over the wound. Pus started to run from it and he groaned with pain.
"Sorry, but I have to do this," she said, "it won't take long."
She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze with her free hand. When all the pus had emerged, a flick of her wand removed the mess. Then she applied some salve and bandaged the leg.
"I can't heal it completely until I'm sure the wound is clean. The salve will help. I'll also give you a potion against the fever. Here."
She took a small vial from her bag, uncorked it and held it up for him to see.
"Can you sit?" She put her arm under his shoulders and helped him. Then she pushed the vial into his hand.
"Drink this. It's not pleasant, but it helps."
He put it to his lips, swallowed and grimaced.
"Too bitter, you mustn't cut the willow bark before boiling it," he spat.
Click. Something fell in place in Miranda's brain. She gasped and stared at the man who was leaning against her arm. Severus, Severus Snape, of course, how could she not have recognized him earlier!
The hair was different, of course, and with his lined face he could have passed as ten years older than he really was. Severus, who had been at school with her, two years her senior, but well-known to all the pupils as Snivellus, the loner, the awkward, ugly, greasy-haired book-worm with the passionate interest in Potions and in the Dark Arts; she had felt sorry for him then, but, like so many others, she had not dared to speak up on his behalf or oppose the bullies. Later he became Snape, the Death Eater, the notorious murderer…
"What?" she woke from her memories, realizing that he had said something.
"I tried to brew a potion against the fever, but – my magic is not strong enough."
Miranda winced at the look of defeat and hopelessness in his eyes.
"Your headache potion is excellent," she said with an encouraging smile.
He snorted. "A child could make it."
"It's better than the common prescriptions, you could make a fortune with it."
"No, I can't. Madam Weaver, in case you have forgotten - I'm a convict!"
There was so much bitterness in his voice, it made her shiver.
He was right. There was nothing she could say to that. What a waste, he had been brilliant at potions, he could have made a successful career as a potions expert at St Mungo's or with one of the large pharmaceutical firms…
"Sorry, what?" Again she had not been listening.
"I need the bathroom," he said, avoiding her gaze, "it's over there."
She assisted him with the trousers and helped him up, putting his arm around her shoulders. Slowly they shuffled across the room. "Can you manage alone in there?" she asked when they reached the door.
He shot her a withering look and limped inside, closing the door with a bang. Miranda waited for him to come out, helped him to his cot and re-arranged the covers.
"You shouldn't be here, it's too cold," she said, closing her bag.
"I have no choice," he replied simply. His voice was drowsy, the potion was acting as a sleeping-draught as well. She sighed and got up. There was a jar on the shelf above the bed. She took it down, went into the bathroom and filled it with water. Then she went back and put it on the floor next to the cot.
"You must drink and I'll tell them to bring you some food."
He grunted sleepily. She smiled, lifted her wand and cast a warming charm on him.
"I'll be back the day after tomorrow," she said softly, bending down and lightly touching his shoulder. He was already asleep, making soft snoring noises.
"Good-bye – Severus", she whispered.
He winced slightly, but didn't wake up.
Mr Trelawney was waiting outside, still somewhat greenish in the face. She asked for a house-elf to be sent with food and to see if 701 needed anything.
"With this leg he will not be able to work for at least a week," she said firmly, "can you make that clear to his wristband?"
Trelawney nodded. "I think there was something in the rules about it."
"Good, thank you. I'll see him again in two days' time."
Again Mr Trelawney nodded. "Just put it on my wife's bill."
Miranda grimaced. "I don't worry about my fee. This man needs help."
She left, still not quite able to believe what she had just found out. Severus Snape…
It was a summer's day in her fifth year, when both of them had received owls telling them about the deaths of their mothers. Hers had died of cancer and his after long years of abuse by his father – at least that was what the whole school was talking about. She had run from the curiosity and pity of her fellow students to her favourite spot under the large willow by the lake only to find it occupied by a red-eyed, disconsolate young man - Severus.
It was the first time she had met him face to face with no one around to bully him. At first they had just glared at one another, not knowing what to do or say. How could he dare occupy her favourite place! Then, unable to hold back her tears, she had explained to him about her grief and reluctantly he had told her about his. Somehow she had put a consoling hand on his arm during his story and instead of shaking her off he had wrapped his arms around her and they had been crying and comforting each other in turns. Late in the evening they had returned to their houses and the next day they had been extremely embarrassed about this intimacy, they had never spoken about it and avoided each other. He had finished school that summer and Miranda had never seen him again. After Voldemort's downfall he had been arrested, together with many other Death Eaters, and there had been articles in the Daily Prophet, of course, describing their alleged crimes in detail, emphasizing Snape's treason. She had discussed these articles with the other staff at the hospital, trying to connect the allegations with the gangly boy she had known at school. As far as she remembered, there had always been some doubt about the reasons for his involvement with the Death Eaters. There even were rumours that he had acted as a double agent for Dumbledore. Although no evidence had ever been found, the doubt had been enough to spare him a death sentence. So this was what he had come to. He had been brilliant as a student, respected as a potions expert, he had been a powerful wizard, only to end his life in bondage, as a slave, deprived of his magic, nothing more to occupy his mind than the mowing of lawns and the clipping of hedges. What a waste!
Severus Snape woke at dawn. He felt better. There was still some pain from the wound in his thigh, but the continuous throbbing the wristband had wanted to punish him with for neglecting his work was gone. The fever was down, too. He realized that he was thirsty. Had there not been someone mentioning food and drink? Slowly and carefully he turned and raised his head. Indeed, there were a jug and a tray with a covered bowl and some bread on the floor. He reached for the jug and drank greedily until it was empty. Then he lay back and suddenly he remembered. Miranda, yes, that was her name. Miranda Weaver. He had recognized her instantly that day at the hedge, her standing there and watching him had been like a blow in his stomach. She had not changed much, just from girl into woman, her curls and her freckles still were the same. He had never thought about her after leaving Hogwarts, but now it all came back with a vengeance. That day under the willow tree, the two of them united by their grief. Shortly afterwards he had become a Death Eater…
His throat constricted painfully. How strange to meet her now, after so long a time. Had she recognized him? Hopefully not, she would most probably despise him for the crimes he had committed or, even worse, pity him for the state he was in, and he didn't want pity, it would only add to his humiliation…
Like so often before he forced himself to forget about the past, to humbly accept his present situation. Sentimental memories, speculations of what could have been only resulted in misery and self-loathing.
Carefully he hoisted himself into a sitting position, picked up the bowl from the tray and removed the lid. Soup. Cold. He searched for his wand and warmed it, the smell making him ravenous. Greedily he ate the soup and tore at the bread. Eating, working, sleeping, he still had a life. And it could be worse, much worse. He placed the empty bowl on the tray, lay down again, turned over and went back to sleep.
Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters