Poppy was not hopeful. In his school days, Severus may not have been the most hardy of his year, but as prone as he was to illness, he rarely if ever took long to recover. The issues of his mind were by far more persistent than those of his body, and those she had no training in treating.
The medical profession forced its devotees to give credit to an affliction when it was due. This ongoing trial by poison was mostly concluded, with Severus more or less defeated. Truthfully, the moment those foolhardy Gryffindors hauled in his remains, all drained and battle-torn, she knew her only job could be to clean him up, cover his face, and break the news.
Still, Poppy did the work of slowing his bleeding, replacing the blood, removing the necrotic flesh, and re-growing healthy muscle overtop. She spent most of that morning darning his skin and clearing his lungs and soothing his throat. The mediwitch labored because impossibly, the body that was most assuredly empty responded to its course. It spoke - it told her to stop, granted, but it spoke.
In all her years - through a pandemic of dragon pox, back when it spirited infants from their cradles; through two wars against a genocidal propaganda; through daily disasters of magic on youngsters with more daring than sense - she had never seen a person so obviously dead refuse their distant journey. So she wielded her craft. She healed to the point where he was awake and awkward and promising them hell throughout his long, but steady recovery. She had him speaking as if it were not the case that a force beyond all of them had ripped him, screaming, from the bosom of oblivion.
Eventually, she was sure that something was working through her, that she was only an instrument of a grander plan. Had Albus a twinkle left in his thrice damned eye, she would have known who to blame. Besides him, what person had the power, much less the right, to flounce the rules of even a wizard's quirky nature? In war, people died. This was a given. Only an ancient fool like Albus Dumbledore might have considered otherwise, what with his dealings with alchemists and dark lords. Even then, only hardly would he avoid the end altogether. He was more the type to see mortality as an adventure, a strategy game, a trick of plotting a most fantastic exit to an obvious conclusion.
Only two persons since Albus had vexed her so, and both of them were under his study. Harry Potter had, of course, earned a name for himself as a child of most improbable fortune. However, he had just managed not to trample on Poppy's nerves by never succumbing to much anything besides his temper. He was a skinny child, and one for bruises, but never had Harry had the gall to kill himself and recover. Severus earned himself such honor, and as such, had quickly become her least favorite patient in all her career.
Poppy sighed and ran a hand down her apron. She transferred a few smears of shiny pink and rusty brown from his chest to hers. Calling for a volunteer - Miss Abbott, as Mister Corner had disappeared - she mentioned that his curtains and bedclothes needed changing. The mediwitch left the young girl to her task and walked to her office.
She passed by a few lingering Order members, whom she instructed to either become useful or loiter elsewhere. Kingsley Shacklebolt, a smiling young man used to helping his aging mother, offered to distribute meals. She sent him off with an order for the elves and a, "Tell Mrs. Lupin to find a chore or she can join her family in exile." As he strode off, Poppy remembered him having a handful of Transfiguration accidents. He grinned through all of the latter, thinking them funny. It was no wonder how he and the young Metamorphmagus had become such fast friends.
Contrarily, she would rather forget the event of the Lupins' resurrection. She was grateful, of course, that the colorful Auror and her even-tempered husband were alive and well. There would be enough children orphaned by the war, and little Teddy was blessed to not be among them. Still, it appalled her to imagine the power to raise the dead beyond just a few minutes, as in Severus' case, but after hours. Dozens of people were walking around Hogwarts that should not have been.
Auror Shacklebolt shooed his friend from the infirmary midway through her entertaining a patient. Both officers laughed with open mouths. Poppy, unaware of having stopped, realized she was reviewing the stages of rigor mortis. Shaking herself, she moved on.
She had left her office in disarray. The brief visits between tending patients had her rifling through medical files, trying to review allergies, treatment histories, and past immunizations, in order to properly help instead of harm. Rolls of parchment piled on her desk or curled nearly closed on the floor. Luckily, she kept her rooms locked except for those expressly permitted to enter, or else the lack of security about her record room could cost her.
Which reminds me, she clucked, collecting her notes off the moth-eaten floor rug, I need to change my password.
Allowing Miss Granger into her office had been necessary at the time, as she could not afford to step away from Severus' side. Technically, she still could not afford to, as he was drastically closer to choking or seizing in her absence. Knowing this made leaving him more vital.
She only slept in short bursts, with a spelled alarm set for every hour. She had extended that time from a half hour at dawn and twenty minutes at two. She asked her volunteers to only disturb her for emergencies if she was not otherwise by Severus' bed. With the afternoon creeping towards evening, the night would decide his health.
He was usually never so brattish as to elude diagnosis. As a child, Severus visited her near monthly for a collection of small ailments and strange allergies. To speak more accurately, his companions delivered him to her respectable determination - Lily Evans did, at first, and then after some reprieve, a litany of Slytherins came with notes from professors preceding his prompt and runny-nosed arrival.
Poppy reviewed his medical history for the fifth time that morning. To the root of him, Severus was a simple body. He tested any pathology for different durations until he found one he prefered to keep. Being a half-blood, he passed through most wizarding epidemics unscathed. Muggle illnesses were more his lot, and an early history of frequent infections had him immune to most things outside of snake venom and poor self-esteem.
Then why the vomiting, she asked herself. She pored over the later pages of his file, searching for his current symptoms in any combination. No prolonged vomiting, some dehydration after long holidays, a little malnutrition but no effects to his immunity...
Since teaching, he settled into conditions that were few, but incredibly effective. Anemia was a recurring issue, due to a problem with blood-clotting inherited from his mother's side. (To modern knowledge, the Weasley brood were the only pure-blood family to breed with perfect health.) However, it was typically mild, and only addressed specifically in his late teens.
Since then, past surgery has caused a vulnerability to deep wounds. He fainted once, in 1989, from long hours of brewing without the sense to break for fresh air. She knew there were effects from service to You-Know-Who that he refused to talk about and would rather treat himself. Despite this, he had grown into a surprisingly fit man, if one ignored superficial appearances.
I recommended more daily exercise, which he heeded, she saw. I recommended more fish in his diet, which he ignored. I recommended sunbathing, which he ignored. She scoffed. He took cod liver oil for his vitamin deficiency and St. John's wort for his depression, although I told him I would refer him to a proper healer. He ignored that, too. What else could it be?
There were gaps in his history. She knew that he brewed a regimen of potions for himself that he took three times a day, regardless of if he attended meals. He had evidence of a skin infection on his chest that he must have handled himself - probably to avoid hearing her mouth.
She was damn sure the infection came from him stabbing open his skin in those obscure Muggle shops. He would know the ones, with the heavily pierced greeters, half-bald with those spiky hairstyles. She had enough trouble with Miss Tonks in her school days to know they were more in vogue now than in her youth. Oh, if he could hear her now, she would air out exactly what she thought.
Who did he think he was? A sailor? A thug? He was a school teacher, for Merlin's sake! Yet he walked around like a piece of wall art and taking improper care of himselfenough to leave scars. It was none of her business if he wanted to emblazon a bloody unicorn on his chest and call it fashion, but to fail to treat it? It was especially galling, when one considered that tattooing was still a largely Muggle procedure in Britain, which mediwizardy had yet to catch up to.
The man was a tableau of risky decisions. He had all types of scars, from injuries he just slapped some salve on and covered with pictures of birds and dead trees and multi-headed half-skeleton creatures with lizard tongues and flowers for eyes. Worse yet, some of them were enchanted which, of course, could interact with any of the topical concoctions he self-medicated with, and even while semi-conscious and dying, he inspired a blossoming pain in her chest.
A fluttering chirp interrupted her thoughts. Her alarm went off from its spot atop her cabinets, where she could not easily reach it to throw it across the room. She had yet to be so inclined, but felt the stress of the last two days warranted the precaution. In addition, someone was knocking on her portrait door.
"Yes, come in," she answered, putting away her scrolls.
Minerva entered, looking drawn and matronly in her dress and shawl. Poppy had grown used to drawing comfort from her severe outfits and pernickety attitude. The old cat could be quite like Irma when she was of a certain mind; not so much today. She supposed that today none of Hogwarts' older residents had the energy to play pretend. Poppy stood and offered her friend a seat, which she refused. Then silence slipped between them, as it often did when they forgot themselves.
"How is Severus?" asked Minerva. The skin around her eyes was tight while the eyes themselves were unsure and hesitant. Going from bloodthirsty and betrayed to sincerely and utterly heartbroken was a difficult transition for her. Knowing that Poppy had the greatest rapport with their headmaster of all of the Hogwarts staff had dented their relationship.
Truthfully, this had been the first time Minerva had visited her in months. The last visit had ended with her saying, "Why," in the way that failed to pose a question. When Poppy could not offer a definite answer, she had thinned her lips and left. Seeing her there, in her doorway, hands folded in front of her so professionally, made Poppy huff.
"He is not well," she said. Minerva sagged an inch or two, and not expecting it, Poppy blinked. "Do you care?" Her tone was accusing.
"Of course I do," replied the wrinkly old tabby. She stepped forward, forgetting a bit of the shame that had her by the door. The mediwitch snapped her desk drawer closed, hiding her work notes.
"Well, I would think it's much easier to care now that he's been proven innocent."
"Poppy," Minerva sighed, closing her eyes. When she opened them, they were furious. "You cannot possibly blame me for holding Severus accountable for a crime I was meant to believe he committed. It has been hard enough, these last few months, without speaking to you, and now that I have, you'll turn me away? Really, after years - decades! - of being friends?"
"'Years,' she says! It only took you minutes to turn away from me, despite all those decades, when I've never shown you anything but my good sense and loyalty!" Minerva, however, did not shy away. She only came closer, unclasped her hands finally, and pressed them on her desk. Both women's faces were hot with outrage.
Poppy realized, quite suddenly, that she was deeply, terribly angry. She might even have been in a rage. Never in those months alone could she blame her friends among the staff for shunning her. Yes, Severus had undoubtedly killed Albus by his own admission. He had been positioned over them to further an evil agenda and students, children they had all sworn to protect, were tortured under his administration.
When she said nothing, they assumed it was her station as matron, and kindly left her out of dissenting gossip. Then, when they heard of her offering him sleeping aids, said gossip included her.
However, as the year progressed, Poppy suspected with growing evidence that Headmaster Snape had worked more preventatively against the Carrows than even they had. All the faculty could do was escort their students to class. All the Heads of Houses could do was enforce strict evening curfews. Poppy could only offer a safe space in her infirmary, fabricating the occasional illness to keep a child warded and under surveillance.
It was Severus who patrolled the halls, herding wandering students into secret tunnels. It was Severus who looked the other way and downplayed the school's resistance force, declaring action against them as petty and unworthy of his support. Severus punished injurious activities as uncouth. Severus removed the more dangerous students to his side under a ploy of mentorship and favoritism. Severus personally called students from classes they were likely to cause trouble in, and he limited corporeal punishment to Argus Filch.
Yet the students "under his tutelage" were made to study and write essays instead of maim and torture. Argus Filch complained to her, when receiving medicines for his arthritis, that no student ever left his office with more than sore behind. His joints were often too swollen to maintain his grip on a whip, thumbscrew, or paddle, and the worst his cat could do was hiss. Though her beds were almost always full, most of her admissions were from skiving Defense Against the Dark Arts; and Poppy could manufacture a few symptoms faster than the Carrows could figure them out.
Furthermore, the few times Severus had to visit her wards in person, he never even mentioned the deceptively green. She knew for certain that he had all the basic, and some advanced, training of a registered Healer. He could spot a faked illness from fifty paces - in fact, he often did. In years past, students attempting to skive Potions class would be surprised when, upon crying out that their stomach was killing them, their professor would answer, "No, it isn't," with a sigh of bitter disappointment.
But when he walked the length of the infirmary, eyes skipping over every perfectly healthy student. He would pick out the ones who were truly ailing and ask, somewhat grudgingly, what needed to be done.
Poppy understood the dangers of improving his image with the faculty. It served the express purpose of keeping him in the Carrows' esteem, more immediately than his reputation as the most notorious assassin among them. The less support he could gather from the professors, the more he would need to rely on the Carrows' cruelty. His undermining that cruelty had to go publically unnoticed.
In this way, Minerva began the wall of turned backs that grew from Poppy's friendships. When one of her oldest friends left her, the rest were quick to follow. Except for Pomona, who till that even morning promised to change their minds, Poppy was left to her hospital.
So, yes, she too was furious. She was teeth-clenchingly, clock-throwingly outraged. Her volunteers had a better idea of her plans than her long-time friend. Minerva's own students had an easier time seeing that Poppy's first and foremost loyalty was to the children and never to her career alone. Hang her career if it meant hurting children for politics! And while Headmaster Snape had never forced a choice between her friendships and her responsibilities -
"The only thing to ever turn you away from me is your stubbornness," she shouted. "I trusted you to think like an adult and logic out the big picture, but just always, all you ever focus on are stupid, childish lines in the dirt." She took a deep breath, as her yelling was likely to attract attention.
She did not want to explain Minerva McGonagall, red-faced and trembling in her office. In all honesty, she wanted Minerva out of her office as much as she wanted to glue her to the ground and make her listen. Her friend opened her mouth to retort but Poppy shushed her. If she wanted to act like a little girl, then she would be treated like one.
"I Never asked you to change your behavior. I never asked you to agree with my plans," she continued. "Yes, I - no, you listen! - yes, I went to Snape asking for help, because Severus knew what was best. For once in his life, he had his head on straight in one thing, and it was in keeping these kids alive, and you went around like a fool, encouraging them to kick up fuss and endanger themselves!"
"I would never!" interjected Minerva. "I told you the most I had done, which was set up the pirate radio in Hogwarts - that was all. I would never tell children to paint on walls and skip classes and - "
"But you did, Minnie, by not stopping them. You always reward your little lions with this or that, some tiny praise when, when they could get taken and - and - and beaten! I had to cobble Michael Corner together from scraps because you let that band of rebels run around and upset the Carrows until they were foaming at the mouths, ready to tear some poor soul apart! I am - ooh, I am - Minerva, if you hadn't have left when you had, I would have booted you in the arse myself!"
Minerva leaned back, breathing heavily, hair having escaped her bun. She batted them from her field of vision and, while Poppy stood heaving, took off her fogged glasses her clean with the corner of her shawl.
"I dunna think I've ever heard ya swear," she grumbled, righting herself. Poppy inhaled, bracing herself, when she took another breath to continue. "Now, I'll admit that I did pardon the Army's actions on occasion. I only did it because it needed to be done."
Poppy shrieked, "My arse, it did!" If her alarm had been anywhere in reach, she would have chucked it at the old broad's thick head. "You would sooner have kids dead than dishonored, you selfish old - "
"I would rather have them hurt defending their right to exist than silenced and dead on the inside, you mean. No, no, Poppy, you listen to me now!" Minerva pushed aside the chairs across from her desk and looked ready to drag Poppy over it. Books and scraps of parchment fell over to the ground. "There is more than one way to fight back and I would have every breath beat from my body before I saw a student of this school just accept when they are told that they are inferior and had best roll over.
"If a child would rather not fight, fine. Fine! Everyone has the right to live, and that's been taken from too many wee ones with no one to stand up for them. But for older students, most if not all of whom are legal adults, if they want to fight than I will help them. I will help them - until all my bones are broken and then I'll help them from the grave. I'll help all of them, and I thought you weren't, because you said nothing."
"What would you have wanted me to say!?" Poppy slammed her own hands on her mess of papers and quills, shaking the table legs. More quills dropped to the floor, until she was stepping over them to throw open the knocking door. "WHAT. What do you want!? I said I didn't want to be disturbed!"
Bill Weasley stood, fist held back, fang earring swinging with the momentum of him jumping back from the flying portrait. Poppy pinched her eyes shut, trying to calm her hammering heart. She had a moment to catch Minerva's embarrassment before she remembered that she would rather not touch anything of hers and stepped away. She strode past Bill, who was describing the situation to a distracted Scottish matron dogging Poppy's every step.
"Where do you think you're going, Madam Pomfrey, when we as yet haven't finished?" snapped Minerva. Poppy could just hear her angry sarcasm,
She wanted very much to punch her, except she knew Minnie could best her in most any fair fight. Instead, she flexed her fingers around her wand, which she had whipped from her apron pocket, and thought about jinxing her. She relished the thought of sticking Minerva's tongue to the roof of her mouth and hoped the old cat scratched herself.
"'We' nothing," she said, nearing Severus's bed curtain. It looked clean and freshly hung - Miss Abbott was such a good worker. "I have work to do, Professor. Perhaps you would to, what with running the school while the Headmaster is indisposed. If you'll excuse me - "
"Uh, actually," said Bill, sensing the tense atmosphere and eager to escape. "It's not Snape, Madam Pomfrey."
"What do you mean," she asked, frowning at him. "It's always Snape," said Poppy and Minerva in unison, to their incredible disapproval.
Bill Weasley's eyes bounced from one to the other of his former schoolmarms before settling on his old Head of House. He grimaced and pointed to the bed across the aisle. It sat empty with its white curtains swaying in the spring breeze.
"It's Harry this time, ma'am," explained the cursebreaker. "He's run away."
Pansy had not intended to follow them. Her plans for the day were supposed to stop at her going into the infirmary to have first pick of the freshly brewed calming draughts. Then she would stumble to her room to sleep. Filch's cat tagging along had only happened because, according to some stupid animal instinct, the ugly dust mop cried when no one carried her. It might have been a form of feline grieving, which Pansy might have forgiven - today in particular. However, Pansy wished the cat would pine in silence.
Not even vicinity to a person could placate her. She tried inviting her to her room and walking beside her, but the damn cat eventually just flopped over and yowled as if death was upon her. The Slytherin had come to suspect that she did not know true pain in the same light. Her next instinct was to abandon her to the house elves or McGonagall - maybe she could shrink down and counsel the cat through her troubles.
Unfortunately, Pansy quite liked cats. She often played with Millie's, since her mother refused to buy her a cat of her own. "They're such nasty creatures, always licking themselves," Mrs. Parkinson would shiver in disgust. "And owls, always vomiting? Disgraceful! Unfit for a highbre - well - highly trained young lady like my Pansy. Why not a toad, sweetheart? They clean themselves!" So Pansy was unlikely to leave a cat in distress, even it meant carrying the thing to and fro like an infant.
She stayed of such a mind until Mrs. Norris shuddered, and she smelled the warm spray of cat pee decorating her robes. Past that point, she remembered sliding to the floor and sobbing inconsolably until Michael came to fetch her from the doorway. Like a beleaguered puppeteer, he tried multiple times to have her standing, but by then she was so far beside herself that she slumped back down, strings cut, strictly sobbing.
When carrying both her and the cat began to frustrate him, Pansy asked him to leave. She would make her way to the calming potions eventually. Then the Mudblood showed up, with Weasley in tow, and Pansy was so embarrassed she could explode. She might have, actually. Then Michael pointed her to the direction of sedatives, and told her to take Mrs. Norris to Hagrid.
Frankly, she was feeling much better now. She had the calm to borrow a pair of slippers from the Hospital Wing. She scooped up the cat from the arms of a green-haired Auror Michael had left her with and left for the giant's hut. It had been en route to the hut that she noticed her friend leading three Gryffindors. Harry Potter and his friends walked and quacked like stupid, brown and red ducklings. It intrigued her, so she headed their way.
Now she was shuffling across the castle green in house slippers, with a cat and a mug of tea, wondering how Michael could read and walk without tripping. She had seen Granger do it once or twice, and even Draco a couple of times, so it must have been a trick for avid readers. Pansy was not the type. She did notice, though, that they all shared the same destination. She sped down the hill to overtake them, careful not to fold over her slippers in the grass. Mrs. Norris mewled fitfully at the sudden bouncing, and Pansy had to make sure not to spill her drink.
"Pansy!"
"No!" she shouted back, sure that Michael wanted to stop her. She could sleep when the cat had an owner. Until then, he could fuck off. Mrs. Norris yowled, clawing at her sleeves. Pansy jogged up the wonky steps to Hagrid's plank of a door, placed her mug on his tiny porch, and started smacking the crooked shutters.
She yelped when someone grabbed her around the waist and lifted her bodily from the porch. She kicked wildly, ready to wallop them with her handfuls of cat. When she dropped to the grass, she saw Weasley wheezing, tossing her hair over her shoulder, while Potter knocked on the entire front wall of the hut. The ground had already lost some of its afternoon heat, so when Granger rubbed her arms, Pansy shivered. Michael crossed his arms and looked down at her, livid.
He gestured back the way she had came. "Go back to the infirmary," he growled.
"You go back," she snarled. Beside her, Mrs. Norris flattened and keened pitifully. Pansy ruffled her tummy - soft - and moved to stand. "What are you even doing here?"
"Doesn't matter. Go back."
"Don't feel like it." She picked up her slipper, which had fallen on the steps when Weasley hauled her off the porch. Merlin. Pansy knew being raised with all those boys made her dirty, but not brutish. Blaise was right to say once that Ginny Weasley was a waste of a pretty face.
Michael scowled more at her, but she did not see it. She was focusing on the Gryffindors pounding on half the hut, trying to wake the sleeping oaf inside. They all knew that he was likely pissing drunk and out cold. It was odd that she could only just hear him snoring inside. Usually, if classes were not happening, his breathing rattled the windows and shook the walls. He must have been in deep slumber, where they had no hope of waking him.
Pansy tsked and ran a hand through her messy hair. She really needed a shower, and it looked as if Norris would be coming with her.
Unless there's a back way in, she thought, and, going for broke, she slid her slippers off in her hand and darted around the hut. She heard Potter curse and jump off the porch after her, and while he was likely faster, she had a head start. Skirting around the back of the leaning house, she narrowly missed stepping on a hand rake and a trowel. Apparently, the giant had a cabbage patch.
"Pansy, you should be sleeping!"
"You're not my mother," she returned, skipping through Hagrid's cabbages with her robes gathered in her other hand. Pansy dashed for the only visible window in the back of the house. Weasley, quicker than Potter for being lower to the ground, tried to intercept her. Dodging left, she hurdled over a heap of trash gathered by a bucket of leaves. Squealing, she alighted on what felt like a soft branch and tumbled, foot over head, into pile of chewed up leather gloves.
"There it is!" shouted Granger.
"Where is wha - AH!" screamed Pansy. The branch she had tripped over was, in fact, a coil of snake. It ran lazily out of a hill of cabbage leaves, carrot skins, and flies to rest about as wide as her thigh at its thinnest. She screamed again, scrambling into, then through, the pile of gloves to put as much between her and the memory of flesh and muscle giving against the arch of her bare foot.
She hollered a third time, long and loud, until a pair of hands clamped over her mouth. Ginger hair came down around her face and Pansy shouted, slapping at Weasley's forearms and shins, wondering why she too was not screaming. Everybody should be screaming. That snake was huge. It could definitely, without a doubt, swallow any one of them whole. She heard Michael wade through tools and say something to Weasley. The both of them then lifted her by her elbows and turned her toward the hut.
"Please stop screaming," murmured Weasley, awkwardly patting her back. Pansy tried to inhale with difficulty and panicked. Her throat was closing!
"Holy hell, Parkinson, breathe. Michael, what's wrong with her?"
A second hand started thumping her on the back like it was trying to burp a baby. She gasped, and was prompted to count backwards from ten, which she did slowly and without argument, trying to prioritize the numbers. Michael replied with something. Pansy thought Potter might have answered from afar. When she reached number one, she began again, then again, slower. A cup nudged between her hands for her to hold, then smell - chamomile and lemon - and then look into to see if it was still drinkable.
"Are there ants in it," she murmured. She did not take a sip until she heard someone nearby reply, "No, it's fine." Within minutes, a lesser dose of calming draught welled up from her core into her head. Gradually, she relaxed into the conversation happening in whispers.
"...shouldn't have seen it, that's all," said Michael sternly.
"I've never heard of a Slytherin afraid of snakes," murmured Potter.
"Eat me," Pansy shot back mechanically, taking another sip of chamomile. Weasley laughed. Pansy then found that the freckled Gryffindor was still pawing at her back. She inched away and smacked her hand, telling her not to touch.
Though she had to stay facing the hut, breathing very particularly, Pansy did not completely want to leave. She understood that she might have to, with Hagrid asleep and a sn - thing - the size of the bloody man lying in garbage behind her. However, she could not hope to sleep knowing it existed on the same earth that she did. When she discovered through their conversation that it was once Nagini, she was glad to see the Dark Lord defeated. It had looked so much smaller from afar.
Was it not true that he often used it to punish his followers? Did he not murder Muggle-lovers and have Nagini swallow their corpses? Had he not set that monstrosity on her professor, the only man she knew to show mercy, simply to gain possession of a wand? And Draco lived with it in his home, where he might have slept, where it might have watched him? Pansy took a large gulp of her tea and looked down for Mrs. Norris.
"I can't believe Neville took her on alone," said Granger. Potter whistled and rummaged through moistness, upsetting the foul smell of decay. He cast a cutting spell, gagged, and cast it again. Then, with a schlick, something rolled out of the rubbish heap and was quickly deposited in the bucket.
"Got it," Potter reported.
"Okay, cover it up. Cover the rest up, too," instructed Michael. Pansy gripped his sleeve when she felt him move away. She wanted someone constantly between her and it, and Weasley had moved around to take the bucket, topped with a swatch of beige leather transfigured from one of the gloves.
"Why was that just sitting in a pile of carrots," she whimpered. "Why was that behind his house? Where he sleeps? Where his dog lives? I knew he was out of his half-breed mind!"
"Watch it," warned Weasley, jostling the bucket. Pansy paled.
"Well, he was. You know it, too! Why else would he try to befriend wild animals?"
Michael then snarked, "You are so great with animals, I'm surprised you couldn't relate," which was not at all hilarious and really quite insulting. She did well with cats - only cats. She was also a fan of unicorns and the odd Pygmy Puff, but honestly, who wasn't?
"Where is Mrs. Norris?" she asked instead. Michael turned, and alongside Weasley and her bucket, and Potter and his Weasley, was Granger with her - Filch's - the cat! "Granger," she barked, "give her here!" She held out her arms to receive her fussy dishrag with regal authority.
"She's fine with me, Pansy, don't worry," chirped the frizzy cat thief. Pansy gasped, insulted, and might have started something if she had not tripped onto another thought.
"Why do you need a - a thing - and why was it in the compost?" she asked of Michael.
"Why do you need to know?" he retorted.
"Don't answer my questions with questions," she replied, then seeing him ready himself to be hard-headed, she turned regretfully to Weasley. "Why," she cleared her throat, "why do you need a snake, improperly disposed of in a compost heap, Weas - Ginny?"
"Ew," Ginny scrunched her nose. "Weasley's fine. And ask Michael. Honestly, he knows the logistics better than me. I'm just here to move the goods."
Pansy grunted, frustrated. "Why are you being so secretive about a dead animal!?"
"We're not being secretive," supplied Granger, which - who asked her? - and she continued, "We asked Corner why he didn't include you and he said you wouldn't want to help."
"How would he know? How would you know?" she demanded, turning back to the Ravenclaw. Frankly, she found early on that Michael was the type to assume familiarity as soon as he decided he liked a person. She had responded well to it simply because she was not herself at the time and since then, it had become habit. Really, he had no reason to claim to he knew her and think himself right.
"You hate snakes," said Michael blandly.
I hate it when he's right, she thought to herself.
She had never openly admitted to her fear of snakes. Potter had a point: a snake-spooked Slytherin was an embarrassment. If Michael had noticed her in second year, crying after the failed Dueling Club, or even that morning, shaking in the courtyard - or caught wind of any Potions class where they were handling whole snakeskin and she had to be excused - then he could have assumed.
Part of the reason she avoided Potter was because he could snake-snicker. Draco knew she would rather heckle Potter's friends. She remembered last night, her head full of that hissing awfulness, being convinced that she was having a heart attack. When she tried to offer Potter to the dogs, she could not help but think, "good riddance to all of them!"
Still, he had brought her her tea and seemed fairly good about heeding orders, when he was not running around vanquishing Dark Lords. Maybe he was tolerable, as long as he kept his serpent's tongue to himself. It would help if he was better about answering questions.
"Potter," she called. "What is the thing for?"
"It's to cure Snape," he said automatically. She liked him more already. "Michael has all the details in his - erm - in his book."
She looked to Michael, who looked at her, eyebrow raised. She batted her eyelashes, which seemed to tickle more than entice him. It offended her feminine wile, but he handed over a bright red journal while chuckling madly, so she settled. He told her what entry to turn to, pointing out the part of the page with sketches of human skeletons and alchemical scrawl. Then he described, in a brief overview, what he felt needed to be done, before motioning to a potion recipe.
The author, named Marion, had scribbled a handful of instructions on hotel stationary, all the words in another language. The heavy-stock, cream paper had been torn free and pinned to a violently purple pressed flower, which was itself pinned to a water-stained page in the book. Pansy was annoyed to find that she could not translate the instructions except through familiarity with French, though some of the meanings fell through.
"You read Spanish?" she asked Michael. He smirked and rolled his eyes, as if it should have been obvious.
"The potion says that Snape is suffering from the bane of his enemy," he explained, leading the way through the castle's lower garden to the southern court. Students cheered at Potter and company in passing. Pansy sped up before they noticed her.
"Snape is, literally," she grumbled. A few students had noticed her and begun to whisper. "And this is cured by eating them?"
"Yes. Marion suggests that a cold stew of an enemy's flesh can cure the affliction," he continued, directing them towards the dungeons. "I figured, if we skin it and flay the meat of the bone, we can cook it in an hour and see if it helps."
"Interesting plan - one problem: Snape can't eat." Pansy curved into the potions lab, heading for the tool cabinet. "Meat, especially garbage meat, will come right back up."
"Yes, except," Granger jumped in. Pansy sneered and snatched the cauldron from her grabby hands. While she set up their work bench, Granger traded Weasley the cat for the bucket. "Michael thought to have an advanced potions student make the stew. Since you don't work, erm, well with the ingredients, he asked me in your place. I already have some ideas for how to make it more palatable - mainly that we made a broth, instead of a stew - "
"With something added to suppress nausea until he can digest it," she added. "Okay, but why bring Potter - or Weasley for that matter?"
"Am I less useful than you?" Potter whispered to his Weasley.
"Obviously," Weasley giggled. Pansy gagged and left the table to gather materials.
"We wanted to help," declared the Golden Boy, looking all determined and self-possessed. She was pleased to see that his bandage had slipped and his ridiculous Potter hair was sticking up in the back. "Both Ginny and I can cook."
"Correction: Harry can cook. Ginny can supervise," said Weasley, taking up a stool out of the way.
Pansy eyed Potter skeptically. "You can cook?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Since when?"
"Since always. I can at least make the broth," he fluttered his hands at her and Granger. Pansy pulled a face. "Then you N.E.W.T. Potions geniuses can take it away."
"You were in N.E.W.T. Potions, too, dummy," she pointed out.
"Harry cheated," offered Ginny, weighing a wet stone in her hand and gesturing for the fillet knife.
"Alright, so who's skinning the snake!" shouted Potter, glaring at his grinning lover. Pansy felt thoroughly sickened at the entire situation and despaired at the lack of potion in her mug. Michael held her shoulders and swayed her back and forth, in an attempt to cheer her.
Potter cheated, despite Pansy working herself bald trying to impress Slughorn. Her family was not as prestigious as the Malfoys, and with Potter dazzling the name-dropping fart with every inventive dip of his ladle - and Potter cheated. How? How? The Mudblood elaborated, so apparently she had said all that aloud.
"It doesn't matter how, right now, only that he did and he is sorry for it," she said pointedly. "And Ginny can skin the snake, since she knows how and already started sharpening the knives. Good job, Ginny."
"Thank you, madam." Weasley said, tipping an imaginary hat. She then lifted the cover from the wooden bucket and sunk her hand into the leaves. Pansy shuddered and headed for the supply cupboard. Despite her decision to help, she could not watch. She turned up her nose and asked to be called for when the deed was done.
"Stop me if I'm horribly off," she heard Potter say through the door. "But wasn't this potion originally made using people?"
Granger, occupied, grumbled, "But what is the flower for?"
"The pansy?" clarified Michael. Pansy listened more closely. "I think Marion just says it was pretty."
Poppy and Minerva waited at the foot of Severus' bed. The mediwitch had been calling his name for several minutes, with no response. She ran a finger along the soles of his feet, then cast a weak stinging hex, with no response. She even sterilized a sewing needle and stuck him between the toes, and again he failed to respond. Eventually, she summoned Minerva, saying she expected the worst.
"Mr. Potter will come back," she said, giving her friend her hand. "Wait with me."
Minerva, being herself, refused to accept her news. Poppy could only convince her by repeating her tests, and then showing her the worst of it. Prying open the younger man's lids, she shown wandlight in his eyes, and showed Minnie how the pupils refused to contract.
His black eyes were now so wide and so dark as to resemble holes in his head. The sleep that had followed his frenzied healing was nothing compared to this. He had fallen into a bottomless rest, rasping and vapid, with no signs of waking.
They discussed in low tones what to do with the Order. Minerva had become the impromptu leader of the organization, recognized as such by its members since Albus' funeral. A group like the Order could never function without a head, as it traded well and often in delicate information, and needed one person to hold it. The Deputy Headmistress, now officially in charge of Hogwarts, had inherited Albus' office - tested recently with unfortunate success -and all the files there within. If she could figure out his hoard of safety measures and puzzle locks, she would have access to the Order intel as well.
Severus had already begun portioning out Albus' belongings during his stay. He delivered, through Mr. Corner, books of letters from a former student of hers. Knowing the weight of the donation, she blacked out all pertinent information and used the letters to train her volunteers.
Marion Mirth, while a woman of controversial interests, was brilliant at healing magic. Her findings were meant for publishing and peer-review. Mr. Corner then proved to himself too clever by half and unearthed a few uncomfortable truths. For the sake of several reputations, she had to swear him to silence.
I have already done so much for him, Poppy lamented.
Healers, being guardians of life, were not meant to tangle with magic-breaking, life-losing rituals like the Unbreakable Vow. She had placed her own student, one of her brightest, in a horrible position out of necessity. Now she could only fiddle with the end of death. She covered Severus' feet and thought of ways to keep him comfortable. As dinner time approached, Poppy let Minerva convince her to attend a meal at the Great Hall.
"He's sleeping now," said her friend, curling Poppy's hand about her forearm and gripping it tightly.
Poppy had removed her apron, and was listening to Minerva announce Argus' passing to a stunned crowd. Residents from Hogsmeade had been trickling up to the castle all day, seeking medical help and sharing food - even they were shocked. Poppy, having been there for so many years, had forgotten that some people had never seen a Hogwarts without Mr. Filch. Most had never seen it without Albus Dumbledore, either. They simply needed to adjust.
Comparatively, there were many facets of the school that it had functioned just as easily without. Severus certainly - if not improved, then enlivened - the Hogwarts scene. Perhaps life had not seemed so bitter before him, but then again life had always been complicated and trying, and Severus was simply the type to embrace that. She did not know why his passing weighed on her quite so heavily. Even in the last year, they were not particularly close. Still, she had a thought about his home life. Who else had known that he was bruised like a grape? He was such a shy child, one would hardly know if it was not their job to look.
Minerva finished her announcements and took her seat. Hagrid had asked for dinner in his hut - probably avoiding noise. Poppy had taken his seat, and Minerva had shifted to stay beside her. The rest of the faculty kept the Headmaster's seat purposefully empty.
With most of the Slytherins missing, she did not expect its position to be noted. However, the meal had been subdued for the closest thing to a feast since Voldemort's defeat. The Gryffindors were the rowdiest, housing most of the Weasleys and the Lupins as well. No one made a show of acknowledging the missing Headmaster. Awareness of the space came in spurts and were quickly hushed. The Order members in residence remained grey-faced and quiet. Poppy suspected that, until a death announcement was made, the castle would remain in uneasy ambivalence. Were they honoring a hero or celebrating contrary to evil? Only some children, and none of the adults, could decide with a clear conscious.
"We will need to notify his family," said Poppy, pouring herself a goblet of wine.
"Argus still has family?" questioned Filius from Minerva's other side.
"Severus," answered Minerva, cutting into her beef liver steak.
"I was not aware that Severus still had family," hummed Pomona, tapping butter into her baked potato and eyeing possible commotion among the Hufflepuffs. It seemed one of the sixth years was crying into her soup.
"He has a great aunt in London," Poppy supplied, wiping her mouth. She not hungry for meat, given her recent work, so she reached instead for the platter of fish. "From what I understand, they don't keep in touch. But since his mother left his Muggle father in his school years..."
"Ah, yes," chimed in Filius, shooting a look to one of Ravenclaws. A scuffle by the turkey tray stopped. "Didn't his father die shortly after, or was that someone else?"
"His father left the country. He was not yet a British citizen, so with the divorce - "
"Oh, that is a shame," muttered Pomona, mixing gravy into her handmade mash. "So an aunt took him in, did he? Will she be collecting his things?"
"Yes." Poppy turned her goblet to a cool part of the rim and took a sip. Minerva salted her veg, and Filius turned to his other side to discuss matters of renewing classes with someone new. Pomona sniffed and excused herself, hurrying off the dais to tend to the now heavily sobbing Hufflepuff boy whose classmate kept him upright in his seat.
Poppy watched her mother the boy. She must have thought to send him to the Hospital Wing, because she looked at Poppy apologetically and seemed to change her plans. She did not want her to, so the mediwitch excused herself next, draped her serviette over her untouched flounder, and nodded at the Hufflepuff to follow her.
Once she had the boy squared away, Poppy inevitably found herself, again, at Severus' bed. She had closed the curtains behind her, and sat in his visitor's chair, watching his face. The occasional cough and the clinking of plates drifted through the ward. Eventually, dinner ended, and the volunteers returned in shuffling pairs. She sent them back to their common rooms to relax. Then, she eased out of her chair, and returned again to her office. She turned off her alarm and augmented her notes.
Condition not improved, she wrote. Patient no longer responding to outside stimuli.
Her eyes trailed up through her earlier notes:
Lost consciousness after bout of vomiting. Patient not waking, despite reasonable waking methods.
Patient awake but delirious. Hallucinating due to dehydration from vomiting. Will try Muggle methods (i.e. intravenous hydration).
Vomiting not lessening with treatment. Potions not being digested. Patient unconscious.
Patient began vomiting with introduction to food (unflavored rice porridge). No adverse reaction to potions or liquids. Will administer nutrition in liquid form from here on out.
Patient now fully conscious and alert after beginning pain treatments. Dehydrated, but lucid. Muscle weakness and myalgia. Minimal blood in mucus (reported by Vol. Michael Corner)
Healing sleep to be lifted promptly upon clearing of airways. Substance causing blockage seems to be greenish-black and thick (resembles mud). Foul smell, unlike fecal matter. Intestinal waste?
Muggle blood transfusion from donation of one Ronald Weasley (pure-blood, male, 18 years; heterosexual, not sexually active, no allergies magical or other). Patient color improved. No change in appearance.
Patient treated for poisoning and blood loss. No signs of internal bleeding. Skin scraped and regrown with Taverson's method. Unable to administer B.R. due to preexisting allergy. Vitals are...re-check vitals on the half hour.
Severus admitted. Patient reportedly attacked by venomous snake. Throat and shoulder muscle torn - profuse bleeding.
Administered coagulant to aid clotting from hemophilia. Administered M.V. to reverse muscle damage. Administered - to stem poison.
Administered - to suppress allergic reactions. Administered - to...
Administered - for...
Administered -
Negative responses from monitoring spell placed on vitals at patient's request. Grievously injured and likely to die. Will declare T.O.D. and notify family at earliest convenience.
Poppy did not visit Severus' side again until well past midnight. First thing she noticed was that he had been turned on his side - likely by a volunteer fearing he would vomit in his sleep. Noting the forethought, she checked to see that he had not done so. Seeing him clean except for sweat, she wiped his brow with the rag in her pocket, and gasped. He flinched!
She pulled back his lids and cast Lumos. His pupils shrunk to the size of pinholes. So much light now shone into his eyes that they illuminated one of his stranger attributes. Poppy had discovered it when he fainted due to carelessness and she wanted to rule out a concussion. She had checked his vision multiple times, finding that, while shocking, the quirk had no effect on his eyes. It caused him no discomfort at all - it was simply remarkable to look at.
Whenever one found him in the right light, the deep black of his irises broke up into shades of true black, diluted brown, a bright, fiery blue. At first, she worried that he had developed a type of cataract or tumor, only to realize that they were simply extraordinary. Of course, disliking her heavy examination, he had snapped and fidgeted, saying that if they were not cancerous, he appreciate her releasing him at once.
Severus took his odd opal eyes back to his dungeon. Meanwhile, Poppy flashed away at Albus' eyes to see if perhaps his twinkle would reveal gemstones. She had scratched the thought in one of her journals: "Legilimency/magical prowess causing eye abnormalities in wizards." But no such luck: Severus was simply the odd duck, as always.
So relieved by the discovery, Poppy vowed to sleep through the night. She did not notice the shallow bowl of leftover broth sitting on the nightstand. She forgot completely about the owl she had sent to London. When she checked to see that Harry had returned to his bed, she decided to give him a firm lecture in the morning.
Again ensconced in behind her portrait, she did not witness Michael Corner and Pansy Parkinson squabbling in hisses over who would keep the laundry bag of soiled clothes and loose feathers. Of all things, what she did hear was Mrs. Norris complaining in the corridor. This, she elected to ignore.
A/N: Revealing secrets is so refreshing! Now I need to work on connecting this and the crossroads and whooo boy, this is gonna be fun. Review with any questions, suggestions, thoughts, or ideas! Of course, I'll read all of them, since I love to hear from you all! See you next week!