Severus
Pure exhaustion gifted him eight full hours of natural sleep. Another dose of Dreamless Sleep, when he briefly resurfaced in the evening, saw him through the first half of the night. But it was no use in the waking hours that followed.
The pain in his hand, a constant companion now for twelve days running, was becoming an old friend. Predictable. Containable. The other pain, the new one, was a different matter. It coursed through his very veins. Sometimes it raged at him, tearing at him with sharp talons. Sometimes it turned him to ice, numbing everything. It howled sometimes, and it whispered at others. But it never went away even for a moment.
He spent some time pacing in the darkness, his thoughts turning and turning in the same circles that his feet traced on the floor of the hospital wing. When this led him nowhere, he spent the rest of the night crouched on the stone windowsill, looking out into the starless November sky until the sun finally rose, supremely indifferent as always to the misery of mortal men.
It would have been easy to feel caged and confined, but he didn't, not yet at any rate. He knew that the doors weren't locked. Nothing would keep him back if he decided to leave. The same applied to Madam Pomfrey's office and the well-stocked medicine cupboard in there. It was a veritable poison cabinet if you knew what to do with the contents, but she was making no detectable effort to keep him out of it. He wasn't sure whether he found that deeply comforting or deeply insulting.
For the time being, however, he was quite content with his current state of limbo. As long as he stayed in here, there was no need to confront the realities that waited outside. And that one wild outburst of unmediated brutality, in the hour or so that he and Poppy Pomfrey had spent doing desperate things to the bones of his hand, had satisfied any need for action three times over.
It had also made them both curiously wary of each other. They had spoken little since, but even so, they had already gone back to disagreeing about absolutely everything. She insisted that he put his arm in a sling to rest his hand. He found it hampering and uncomfortable. She urged him to eat some breakfast when the house-elves brought it up from the kitchen. He wasn't hungry. He suggested that they use a Deflating Draught on the still swollen fingers. She was concerned about overdoing things. By mid-morning, they were both in a towering temper and heartily sick of each other's company.
They grudgingly compromised on a three-fifths diluted version of the Deflating Draught. Poppy Pomfrey went into her office to make it. He felt that the fumes that soon wafted out of the door she had left open were a deliberate provocation. He could smell where she had gone wrong.
"That's at best a one-fifth dilution," he said when she came back out of her office with a poultice of the draught ready. It should have been obvious to her from the much too light green colour alone.
"Are you saying that I can't count to five?" she replied tartly.
"You obviously can't. Who taught you to put in the essence of arnica at the same time as the root of devil's claw? They cancel each other out that way. Might as well soak my hand in pumpkin juice for all the good this will do." A little voice inside his head protested that she had probably meant well and just wanted to save time, but having someone to berate was so satisfying that he paid no attention to it.
She set her tray down on the bedside table so hard that it rattled. "Oh, if you know so much better -"
"- 'go and make it yourself'?" he suggested, taking savage pleasure in the way she grimaced at his words. "That's not likely to happen any time soon, is it, if even a fully qualified Healer needs reminding of the simplest -"
That did it. Her lips became a thin, hard line, and she turned and pointed resolutely to the door. "Out," she said in that dangerous low voice that he remembered only too well from his student days. "Get out. Now."
"Really? You think you -"
"Yes, I can. Headmaster's orders. 'If he looks ready to throw things, send him up to me,' he said. The password is 'jelly slugs'. You know the way."
Severus marched out of the hospital wing without another word. Moments later, he found himself ascending the spiral staircase to the Headmaster's office. The door at the top opened of its own accord to admit him, and he stepped into the familiar room.
Albus Dumbledore stood by one of the delicate tables carrying his many magical instruments, his back to the door. There was a tinkling sound, and wisps of green smoke wafted up from whatever he was working on.
"Very good," Severus heard him mutter. "But in essence intact?"
The smoke intensified and seemed to take a specific form, but the tall figure of the Headmaster and the wide sleeves of his robes hid the details from sight. A moment later, he ended the experiment with a tap of his wand, and the smoke dissolved.
"Ah, Severus," he said as he turned towards his visitor, as if he had only then become aware of his presence. "There you are."
He invited his guest to sit down in front of his massive desk. They settled down facing each other across it.
"I see Poppy Pomfrey is jolly well fed up with you," Dumbledore observed. "And I can tell from your expression that the feeling is mutual. So I suggest that we consider the next step."
"You want me to go and pack my things?"
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "On the contrary."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, as you are aware," Dumbledore pointed out mildly, "I am, among many other things, also responsible for the running of this school, and I like it to run smoothly. In my view, that includes not depriving our students of their Potions classes for longer than absolutely necessary."
"What's that to do with me?"
The Headmaster's ancient face set in a rather stern expression. "You made a promise. In this very room, a mere thirty-six hours ago. Are you planning to go back on it already?"
"I agreed to keeping an eye on the Potter boy," Severus objected at once, "not to continuing this -" He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "- farce."
"You spent a year as Professor Slughorn's adjunct. I can assure you that he for one saw nothing farcical in the quality of your work."
"You only appointed me as his successor because it was convenient for our mission."
"And where do you think Harry Potter will spend the second half of his childhood, Severus?"
Severus shifted in his chair. The prospect made him, to put it mildly, extremely uncomfortable. "His mother was Muggle-born," he protested weakly. "He might not even be magical..." He was grasping at straws, and he knew he ought to feel ashamed.
Dumbledore treated the suggestion with the regard it deserved. He laughed it off. "Oh, I ask you. If anyone's sure to get the letter -"
"Dumbledore." Severus didn't know how to make this clearer than it should have been already. "I was not cut out to be a teacher. Never was, never will be."
"Ah. And do you think that I was?"
The Headmaster regarded him steadily, his clear blue eyes peering at him over his half-moon spectacles. It was a fair question. Under different circumstances, it might even have been an interesting question. But in order to attempt an answer, as Severus was uncomfortably aware, one would have to look far into the unplumbed depths of the human soul, and that was a dangerous endeavor at the best of times.
"I should have said there were plenty of benefits to outweigh any reservations you may have," the Headmaster continued in a more conversational tone. "Ours is an old and very well-respected profession. And I believe I need not mention the convenience of free board and lodging… or the unlimited opportunities for research in one's free time... We could even revive the old tradition of hosting the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers' annual conference here at Hogwarts, if you're interested."
"Are you trying to bribe me now?"
Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled. "Of course I am. Feel free to succumb to the temptation." He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. "But if you've got any other plans what to do with the next seventeen years of your life…"
It was remarkable how much hardness the man managed to conceal behind a grandfatherly visage and flamboyant velvet robes. He could twist a knife in a wound without his benign smile ever wavering. Severus found himself torn, not for the first time, between hatred and admiration.
The Headmaster was right, of course. Where did a man go when he had nothing to offer to the wizarding world apart from a spectacular Potions N.E.W.T., a penchant for the Dark Arts and a spot on his arm that he would have to hide from sight for the rest of his life? Into the bowels of St. Mungo's, toiling like a house-elf to keep the hospital's medicine cupboards replenished with the same old never-changing mixtures? Or to Diagon Alley as an apothecary's assistant, measuring out ingredients for clueless students and would-be herbalist housewives with a smile on his face? It had seemed like an absolute impossibility back when he had graduated from Hogwarts, and it still didn't bear thinking about now.
"And besides," Dumbledore went on, pressing home his advantage, "Hogwarts would not only like its Potions Master back. Slytherin also needs its Head of house."
"Not that as well!"
"You know the requirements the four founders set down. You're the only member of the faculty who qualifies."
"Dumbledore - exam panic… careers advice… home-sick first years..." As usual, his lack of coherence was testament to the extent of his discomfort.
Dumbledore brushed all that aside. "If you can't deal with it, delegate it."
"But -"
"Remember whose children we've got in there now. And think of the new generation that will follow after them. I was too careless in the past. I need you there."
Severus began to wonder what else Albus Dumbledore was planning to ask of him over the course of the next seventeen years, and it occurred to him that he might be selling himself short.
"Did you just say unlimited opportunities for research?" he asked quickly.
"Yes, I did," the Headmaster replied earnestly. "I see no reason to impose any restrictions. Do you?"
Again, as in the case of Poppy Pomfrey and her poison cupboard, Severus would have given a lot to know whether his counterpart was being criminally naive or unbelievably astute. He decided to put it to the test. "Then why don't you let me teach Defence against the Dark Arts? I could do that with one hand. I could start tomorrow."
"There is no vacancy," Dumbledore pointed out innocently.
"There will be by the end of the school year."
"And the year after that?"
The question hung in the air for an uncomfortably long time. Then the Headmaster shook his head.
"No, Severus," he said firmly. "By all means apply, and feel free to express your disappointment at my refusal with as much vehemence as you please. As a matter of fact, I would urge you to keep applying every year. It will add a very convincing touch of colour to the impression you'll want to convey to the world. But be assured that the day that I appoint you to that job will never come as long as you still want it."
Dumbledore rose from his chair as if their conversation was at an end, and walked over to the spindle-legged table he had been working at earlier. Severus turned in his chair to follow him with his eyes. The Headmaster absentmindedly straightened one of his instruments.
"I'm honestly surprised at your reluctance," he said, his eyes on the delicate silver implement. "You know as well as I do where your greatest talent lies." He abruptly turned back around. "What's keeping you from employing it to everyone's best advantage?"
Severus wordlessly held up his left hand. They had managed to restore it to its former shape, and the discolouration was starting to fade, but it was painfully obvious that it still wasn't working the way it should, every move stiff and awkward.
The Headmaster didn't seem impressed. "That can be amended -"
"- in the Muggle way." Severus put as much scorn into his voice as he could.
"Well, you heard Madam Pomfrey. There are things that can't be set right with the wave of a wand."
"You don't say."
And who was the old man to decide for him what conclusion he could or couldn't draw from that? Who except he himself had the right to determine whether a pain was still bearable, or no longer?
The image of a goblet appeared before his mind's eye, filled with a gently steaming liquid of just the right scent and consistency for an expertly made Draught of Peace. The unusual pearly sheen on its surface was the only indication of what was wrong with it.
He realised too late what was going on. Eye contact and poor defences, very low after days of pain and fatigue and exposal to the guards of Azkaban, had made him an easy victim. He wrenched his eyes away furiously from the Headmaster's piercing gaze.
"Don't do that!" he snapped.
"Give yourself until the New Year," Dumbledore replied calmly. "If you can make it again by then, I give you my word that I won't stop you."
He looked as if he meant it, too.
"And until then?" Severus asked after a moment.
"Occupy yourself as best as you can. Relearn to write. Relearn your wandwork. Just give your fingers regular exercise. Whatever works is fine. Take up a hobby, I don't care."
Dumbledore's tone was deceptively conversational again, but it gave Severus the unpleasant feeling that the Headmaster had something very specific on his mind that he was supposed to figure out on his own. It was irritating. It was something teachers did.
"What do you mean?" he demanded impatiently.
"Well, if your imagination doesn't suffice to supply the obvious answer, then maybe you should consult your sister."
It had come out so quickly and so casually that at first, Severus thought he had misheard. "My sister?" he repeated a little stupidly. "Kyra?" Saying her name aloud after such a long time should have felt like trying out a foreign word that he wasn't sure how to pronounce, but it came out naturally enough.
"Yes. I'm glad you remember her."
Another rush of images passed through Severus' mind, but he was sure that this time, they hadn't been called forth by anyone except himself.
He stood at the bottom of the narrow staircase of their house, still so small that his head was on a level with the bannister. The sound of the bow on the strings of her cello, wandering up and down the musical scale in a simple etude, was coming down towards him from the bedroom they shared. She had only this one book that she played from over and over, but he never tired of it. Only too happy to leave rage in the living room and misery in the kitchen to themselves, he climbed the stairs, snuck inside and sat on his bed to watch and listen. She never acknowledged his presence until she had played her fill, which could take hours. But then, invariably, she'd turn around and ask "Want a go?", and he'd always say yes, bursting with pride that he was allowed a tiny share in the escape.
But he could see the small bedroom as it had been only a couple of years later, too. No more music. Her bed stripped of its covers. The corner by the wardrobe, where the cello case had had its place, vacated. That was when he had started spending all of his time outside. The emptiness of that room had been too much to bear for his seven-year-old self.
"Kyra won't even want to talk to me," he said, back in the present.
Albus Dumbledore smiled. "She tells me otherwise."
TBC
