Disclaimer: I do not own Severus Snape or Harry Potter, nor many of the characters mentioned. I do not own ninety-eight percent of past events mentioned in this story. I am not JK Rowling or her ilk. Please contact me before using any characters not seen or mentioned in JK Rowling's Harry Potterseries. Thanks you.
Chapter Fifty-Four
"Interlude: An Article"
Harry rolled off the sofa, and fell hard onto the carpet. He spent at least half of his nights falling asleep on the sofa, trying to stay up to the time that a normal adult did, but usually fell asleep only minutes after putting Severus to bed.
Perhaps that was a sign that he should give it up, and go sleep in his rarely used bedroom on the first floor.
He rubbed his eyes. What had that noise come from? What had caused him to wake so suddenly? It wasn't Severus, was it? Teddy?
He glanced over to the stairs, waiting to hear another sound. Waiting to know whether it was Severus or Teddy needing comforted from a nightmare. Teddy's nightmares were inconsequential, the stuff children's nightmares were made of – nightmares of stolen candy and monsters under the crib, from what Harry could only surmise from stereotypical children. Severus' nightmares were terrible, the kind of thing one only had if they had suffered something terrible – nightmares of, from what Harry could make out from Severus' sobs and screams, pain, non-consensual sex, and an unhappy owner.
The latter made Harry sicker than it maybe should have.
But Teddy was not crying. He was sleeping soundly... unless he had just cried out and gone right back to sleep, as often babies did. Severus would be stifling his sobs in his pillows by now, struggling to remain quiet not to disturb his master... and that was only if he was coherent enough to realise that he was safe, that it was only a bad dream.
Maybe it's a burglar. There had been a burglar on Privet Drive once. They had broken into the house, and gone straight to the cupboard under the stairs. That had been a frightening night for a little Harry.
But the house was silent. And dark, as it should be. Except the fireplace was...
He looked to see a letter floating in the fireplace. Upon examining it, he immediately discovered it was from George, who had simply written on the envelope;
If you ever need me, little man, you know where I live.
Harry was too tired, too curious, to be indignant about the fact that he was not a little man. He opened the envelope, and felt his heart drop at the hastily cut-out article he read.
GLORIFIED BROOMSTICK CEO
MAULED BY RATS
RICHARD H. WESTON, 39, OF LONDON was mauled last evening outside Knockturn Alley. Not by muggers, ex-followers of you-Know-Whom or by the famed candlestick choker (see p. 3), but by rats.
Yes, you read it here first. Rats. Apparently a pack of rats attacked Weston late last night, October 4th, 1999, around 11:50 PM. Shop owners in Knockturn Alley have complained of an excessive amount of creatures, even considering the nature of area, but no one ever dreamed that they were the danger leading off of the High Street, Diagon Alley.
Questions remain, of course, surrounding the incident. What was Weston doing so late at night in such a notorious place. Illegal Potions? A gambling problem? Merlin forbid, Dark Arts? And what enticed the rats to attack such an upstanding man, rather than the delusional wizards and warty witches that haunt the place? Details will soon emerge.
Mr. Weston received many scratches and bites, and several body parts were completely eaten away. He will remain in a potion-induced coma until the body parts are fully regrown.
-STELLA SYLVESTER
Coming up next in Unwell...
Chapter Fifty-Five: A Step Out Of (In?) Line
