"You know you've got a lot to learn
You feel it, but your heart won't burn
The fear is running every nerve
You're turning to the ones you've hurt
Nothing ever satisfies
You're screaming, but your tongue's still tied
Starving, but your love won't feed
Nothing ever sets you free"
B.R.M.C. - Not What You Wanted
_—***—_
Chapter 12 – Trial
"What you're proposing... is a change to your academic trajectory?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy, nodding.
"And you don't feel that, perhaps, the third term of your sixth year is a poor time for such a change?"
Silence pressed upon the office as the student made a much less enthusiastic nod, coming rather closer to hanging his head in discomfort.
Severus held in his building sigh, letting his eyelids rest closed.
He was already physically weary after the days' lessons, and the prospect of letting Wells into his office for a meeting had been taxing just to think about the possibilities of what he wanted to discuss, but he had agreed to it for one exclusive reason.
In swift motion, startling Wells as he did so, he stood up to fetch a filing box from the storage cupboard behind him and dropped it on his desk. The up-to-date career pamphlets had yet to be delivered, the scheduled time for fifth years to be making appointments with their Heads of House still being a few weeks away, but this would do nicely as a trial run. It was a part of his duties that he had been looking forward to the least; fitting, then, that his most troublesome student with an unorthodox conundrum be his first test.
"What career path were you originally studying towards?" he asked as he leafed through the disorderly box.
"Artefact appraisal, sir—a curator."
"And what were you hoping to switch to?"
"Education..."
His rifling fingers froze.
"...Specifically, the Magical Educational Department at the Ministry—sir."
Without looking up, he took another deep inward sigh. "My mistake, I seem to have pulled the wrong file..." For good measure, he located the leaflet on the corresponding Ministry position before he sat back down, giving it a cursory glance—and Wells a withering look—before continuing. "Your personal records, showing that you've been in trouble nearly every year you've been in attendance, would surely be quicker to assess your aptitude."
"But—you don't have to have a perfect record! You don't even have to have perfect grades, actually," Wells said quickly, somehow possessing a positivity that wasn't reflected in his own grades. "I know someone who put the Transfiguration classroom underwater in his seventh year and he's working there."
"You know someone at the Ministry, do you?"
"Well, my mother does..." Severus narrowed his eyes with even deeper skepticism. "...Because she works there."
He fixed the boy with an impassive stare. "Mr. Wells... What was it, exactly, that had previously piqued your interest in curator work?"
"My father works—worked—at a museum... The heritage archives in..." The boy fell silent at the look from his professor.
He was suddenly somehow looking forward to the post-Easter holiday week of actual career advice meetings even less than before.
It wasn't as if he was unused to the idea of people making poor decisions with their lives; he had watched plenty of his classmates listlessly decide to let their families run all their choices, quoting social status and inheritance requisites rather than personal goals. It felt a different thing entirely, though, to have to be in the position to watch, when he could be guiding, as a young person toddled forward with completely unthought-out ideas for their future. Relying on familial contacts for a job position when that had evidently not gone very well the first time round seemed to him an unfathomable idea. Then again, his own ambitions had already been an upwards move in his family's eyes, and he had had the grades to back them up.
However, it wasn't very comforting to be informed that the boy's mother was working at the department that regulated the exams that enough of his students needed to pass for him to not look totally incompetent and embarrass the school. She had left out that tidbit in her one letter.
Most of all, he would just rather avoid having to deal with more meetings and paperwork should flimsy choices indeed wind up needing to be corrected yet again.
Tenting his hands, his eyes scrolled over the official-looking font of the leaflet and its familiar Ministry stamp. "What about this particular path interests you enough to want to devote, presumably, a large portion of your life to it?"
"I'm interested in the regulations surrounding which magics are allowed to be taught and the legality of owning educational literature for methods of more private teaching," Wells said at once, all in one breath and unwavering in his gaze this time, "sir."
His brows raised at the seemingly rehearsed reply, wondering if these were the boy's own words or not; either way, they earned a tight smirk. "Are you, now?" The boy relaxed his rigid posture with a hesitantly self-satisfied grin of his own, nodding. "So then, I take it you've given this plenty of thought?"
"I've been thinking about it for weeks, sir, and I'm sure of it."
Weeks... what an impressive commitment... The reality that his father's word wouldn't be traveling far through the bars of Azkaban had evidently set in.
After just several more minutes, he had set in order a plan of action for the classes Wells was missing, which, unfortunately, given that he was stalling for time, was no time at all. He was looking to the clock with a frown when he noticed that his student was doing the same.
"If you have assignments to be doing, I believe we can leave it here," he said, standing up. Wells followed suit, but with much more hurried movement.
"Er—sir? Actually, I was wanting to talk to you about one more thing..." He paused for attention to be returned to him. "Well, I was thinking it would be good to not just rely on who I already know..."
What a daring concept.
"So, I was thinking... making other connections as well... just to get a head start..."
There was a greedy shine in the boy's eyes that Severus had come to expect from particular students, but this time it wasn't immediately clear what was being sought after. He raised a single brow.
The boy wavered at having to say it outright. "I—er—heard that Professor Slughorn was returning to host an event this evening—a party for alumni, I think—and—"
The lengthy sigh from his current, ever wearier, professor, finally escaping after being held in so long, rendered him silent.
"Mr. Wells... you wouldn't have perhaps been part of a group of students regularly invited to such events, would you?"
But Wells was shaking his head, and there was a barely concealed shadow of bitter envy on his face. "No, sir..."
"Then I don't see any reason you would need to go to this one."
"But—" The boy looked about to argue, but hastily composed himself, any protests he might have had vanishing from his face. "Alright. Thanks for your time, Professor."
Severus mentally scored him an 'Acceptable' for his ability to at least give a positive comment while he was lying, despite not doing a good job of it in any other capacity.
"Whatever you are thinking," he said slowly, a stern bite to his voice that made Wells look up—but it then changed to one of smooth indifference, "I suggest you scrap it and think of a better plan. One that I won't see nor catch you doing."
The boy looked momentarily taken aback that his intentions had been read so easily. Then, a wide grin of sly excitement had him nodding, and he finally eagerly let himself out of the office with a last remark of gratitude over his shoulder.
At that point, as it could be held off no longer (unless he happened, by some stroke of luck, to run into a commotion in the hall that would require ample punishment to be lengthily doled out), it was time for Severus to sneak his own way into the evening's festivity, hopefully with much more success at going unnoticed than his student was likely to have.
If his familiarity with Slughorn's many other parties was anything to go by (plus the fact that the only time he had seen Slughorn since his earlier arrival was for about two chortles before the man had quickly dashed off with an exclamation that the second musical group would be getting there any minute), fading into the crowd as one of the lesser interesting entities would be a cinch.
The din echoing from down the hall as he approached certainly seemed to prove him right.
Seeing as how he couldn't use his old office, Slughorn had graciously been granted use of a large parlor room. At least, it had once been large for a parlor room. Now it was even wider than he remembered, though it still somehow allowed very little space to navigate through the pack of people and party decorations alike. Slughorn must have been wanting to have his cake and teach it a lesson, too, because Severus recognized a handful of much younger faces in the crowd, looking lost and awed as they stuck close by each other between the extravagant guests, who looked like they had, at best, questionable scholarly or business advice to offer. Slughorn himself was predictably nowhere to be seen amongst these distractions.
However, there was another face that he was still scanning for, and he angled his way straight to the other side till he was wading along the back wall. He had been adamant about not arriving together, a circumvention that had helped to assuage the reality that his firm stance on parties was being threatened, but with Slughorn seemingly out of sight, there was no one else with whom he wished to stop and chat. Also, his feelings about parties hardly mattered any longer.
Her face wasn't visible from the direction he approached, but even from yards away he recognized the long red hair that fell down her back, standing next to a table of finger foods and, by the looks of it, already clutching several snacks wrapped in a glaringly green napkin as a defense. He had to suppress a grin at the thought of what expression she would have, undoubtedly looking out to the crowd with the same overwhelmed apprehension as the students.
And yet...
Any thought of how sweet her smile might be once he relieved her of her sideline solitude was washed away, replaced like a tidal wave with the look of pain that had crossed her face from before, remembered as if he had witnessed it in clear daylight instead of by the moon shining over the lake.
His legs gradually stopped carrying him forward as swiftly and, as someone walked in his path, came to a complete standstill, not proceeding any further when the person had passed.
The blip of happiness he had felt at just the sight of her had slipped away into nothing as he continued to stare. There were at least a hundred people in the room, but it somehow felt intrusive to walk forward any further.
They had been doing fine lately; no real snags in conversation or any big disagreements. It was probably due to neither of them straying far from any subjects more adventurous than work or research, but even so, things were fine.
The fact that this peace was only so in appearance—and appearances were an uninvited worry in his mind of late—is what gave him pause.
Even without anything major, he had still been suffering from a lack of rest oddly enough, and could be counted on to be a bit short of temper; mostly to his students, but not only. She was ever her usual self, always absorbing his rudeness as if politely ignoring someone's tick or else giving it back in kind. Meanwhile, every night he felt his grimace at his behavior only growing deeper, cursing himself for having exhausted every ounce of confident congeniality he had all in one day, only to trip up at the last second and land himself in a differently precarious condition.
The well-worn memory of his too-meaningful silence out by the lake leapt up to needle him for the hundredth time since, making his stomach shrivel up as if he had sipped an exceptionally nasty party refreshment.
No matter how much he wished to undo it, wished that this could instead be traded as what was lacking from her memory, it was a messy thing to want to take back that which he had not even uttered aloud.
As many times as he had settled on the right words while lying awake at night, it had always followed that by the time he got within sight of her, his mouth still felt no less certain of betrayal. The invisible barrier that always surrounded her was that of a quality to render useless both his mouth and his eyes; he still could not meet her gaze for more than a second.
Concerning appearances, it was probably right that McGonagall, in her infinite shrewdness, had as of late again taken up eyeing the pair of them whenever they were stood off to the side together. More than likely, it was the fault of his own guilt and paranoia for making him cast furtively around, alerting her that there was something he wished to keep private in the first place. But, hard-pressed, and on this side of the events of December, he couldn't help but think her perspective accurate.
It did seem improper that such a dreary person be placed beside someone like that, even without a showy party to make him seem that much more out of place. He was undoubtedly out of order by not excusing himself from their regular friendly schedule until a time when he could right himself. Her merrily putting up with him was perhaps proof that it was also on her mind; that she in fact thought him so pitiable that she only let him continue to hang around her as charity. It would have been nice to give in to how much this thought raised the hackles of his pride, digging open even deeper wounds, accessing his old childish anger...
Except the thought which followed, that she would be correct in thinking so, overwhelmed everything else.
She now must know him as a truly miserable cretin, still pining after a woman whose death had been his fault—and who hadn't even learned from this mistake, nearly making it twice. And what did he have to show in way of learning? He could no longer even form a proper lie—couldn't even write it, poised with quill in hand over their shared journal in the middle of the night as if that might be a better time—couldn't get himself to fall asleep—couldn't explain away all that he was so bothered by her knowing—and probably inferring—and probably drawing many on-the-mark conclusions from. No matter how hard he tried to jam himself back into the mold of what he had so proudly built himself up to be, someone who could go and stand beside her, he got no closer than squeezing his eyes shut at night got him towards unconsciousness.
But perhaps he just needed a tall glass of champagne. And some proper sleep. He would take even three solid hours, if he could be so demanding.
The cacophony of the party came back to him all at once as the head of red hair he was staring at suddenly peeked around and found him almost instantly through the sparse edge of the crowd.
He returned her smile with a faint twitch of his own and finally completed his walk forward.
"You're late," she commented, though looking, as he had imagined, plenty pleased to see him take the spot by her side.
"And what a pity to have missed even a second of this," he said, as a squabbling couple of witches made their way passed, exchanging colorful words on who was going to win next year's Quidditch World Cup.
"You missed a glimpse of the man himself just a bit earlier," she said with a nod out to the crowd. "He was introducing about two dozen people to each other down a line. I'd be impressed, but I think he's getting off on it."
"He is," he said with a smirk despite himself. His eyes scanned the crowd in the direction she had indicated where the last sighting had occurred, but Slughorn was now nowhere to be seen. He sighed. "I suppose that means I'll be waiting here, then."
"Well in that case, would you like to go have a dance?"
He didn't even turn his head at this, only casting her threateningly cheerful face a contemptuous look from the corner of his eye. "Would you like your hair to end up about five inches shorter?"
He saw her expression twitch, the playfulness twisting to an irked look in her eye, and he knew he had provoked precisely the right nerve even before she grabbed hold of his arm. "Would you" —she pulled him closer, dropping her voice— "care to try rephrasing that?"
"Not really, no," he said, keeping his grin tight and his gaze out to the room steady even as his view of it was being tilted askew.
"It sounds like you agree then that we should go and dance," she said with threatening optimism coming off her fluttered lashes as her grip tugged him.
"You're not going to start singing as well, are you?"
In retaliation, he wound up being spiritedly dragged out onto the floor into the very heart of the pack of other bodies until they were closed in on all sides and couldn't move enough to dance no matter how much she taunted him about it. Others didn't seem to take issue with the lack of room, and Freya had to back up till she was squeezed against his side as a line of people with linked arms snaked their way towards the corner of the room that music was coming from, just as the tempo changed from a pleasant background noise to a jovial jig. He realized he had now seen the whole roster of a theatre group at this point, and wondered if Slughorn had gone to see a production recently and invited everyone in the building. An enormous hat in the realistic shape of a hippogriff stood out among everyone else, and he recognized this specific spotted-bronze symbol to be of a wizard recently famous for flying round the globe on the back of said beast—and then, as the man turned, he realized this was that very same wizard, wearing his own merchandise and loudly advertising his new book to a cluster of people who looked more captivated by his hat than anything.
"Just think," Freya said, angling in close to be heard but not overheard, "if only you would publish some of your research—get yourself a shiny chunk of metal or some papers—you could be twice as arrogant as that."
"I think I'd rather fall off a hippogriff halfway across the sea," he said back with less worry about his voice carrying.
"But then how will you get your credit for that massive head—sorry, I mean brain—of yours?" she said in mock concern.
"They can pin the award on my empty grave and then kindly clear out."
She snickered at his side while he restrained himself from exerting the effort of even rolling his eyes at the idea of being classed in the same category as obnoxious book deal showoffs and Ministry-decorated braggarts. The only people ever getting access to his zealously labored notes of study would be those who had earned it in his eyes, and it certainly wouldn't be anyone involved with the Ministry.
But on that note, one such person who was looking for a career at said establishment caught his eye, and he followed with a raise of his head overtop the many others in the crowd as a slightly shorter one wove through, his Slytherin student robes having been exchanged for dress robes that blended him in with the rest. He watched for a moment to see where Wells was going, intending to cut him off if he dared cut him in line to speak with Slughorn, but the boy disappeared behind a group of what looked like dazzling stage singers who were somehow replicating exact bird song.
Severus turned back towards Freya, thinking to vent his fatigued disapproval by catching her up to speed on Wells' latest shenanigans, only to find that her back was to him. She was being chatted to in inaudible tones by a man holding two drinks in his hands, appearing to be offering her one.
He swiftly forgot about Wells, his expression sharpening to a knife point. The whispering man raised his handsome head to look overtop Freya's at the sudden intrusive scowl, flashing a bright wolfish grin before stepping backward and, after a quick farewell to Freya, dashing off.
She turned around on the spot in confusion, newly acquired drink in hand, but Severus had cleared his face to an indifferent raise of brows as she looked between him and the place the other man had melted into the crowd.
"How odd..." she said.
He held his tongue, but cast her bubbling flute of pink champagne a disdainful look. Slipping out his wand, he pointed it without raising it from his side, vanishing the glass's contents just as she sniffed curiously at them.
"You shouldn't take drinks from strangers," he said in answer to her baffled annoyance.
"Oh, really," she said with her eyes to the ceiling, vanishing the now useless glass with an annoyed snap of fingers instead of even reaching for her own wand. "You don't trust Slughorn enough to hire good servers?"
He ceased avoiding her eyes for a second to check if she was making a joke—then cracked a smirk when he saw that she was not, saying smoothly, "Sorry, but it is part of my job to make sure that no one gets poisoned in my presence."
"You're paranoid," she scoffed.
"Maybe. But that," he said, cool gaze on the crowd again, "was not a server."
Blank realization hit her, and she said in weak defense, "But... But he kept pushing the drink on me, and—oh, no—"
Dismayed, she starting pointing to her clothes, drawing lines that seemed to indicate the man's own attire of stuffy-looking black and white dress robes that she had misinterpreted, all while Severus tried to politely bite back his smug grin.
Although his mood held steady after this (with the distraction of the party giving him an excuse to avoid her gaze carrying much of that weight), and though they settled into a nice game of looking for Wells after he finally explained the situation to her, he kept himself just a bit closer to her than he normally would have from then on. Even with his mind preoccupied, he couldn't help his already wandering eyes from darting around defensively for any others that might be drawn towards her—particularly the thought occurred to him to be wary of anyone who looked like they might handle dragons for a living, or potentially be from Norway. Once, he had caused her to jump in alarm as his hand had reached around her back to pull her out of the way of a procession of instrument-laden band members. But as he had remembered McGonagall was also on his list of people to be looking out for, he had determined to keep his hands to himself afterward.
Unfortunately, no amount of pleasant partying was bound to rewrite his memory of their last one. It was a poor addition to his already clouded-over mind, though he hardly registered as it spiraled into the background of storm with everything else.
It wasn't until he saw pop into view the shorter heads of the several students from earlier, none of which were Wells, that he finally spotted Slughorn, ushering them forward like a proud mother duck and waving for the attention of a short witch wearing a tall furry hat, presumably for more introductions. He stopped his procession midway, leaving the students to hang awkwardly in the balance as their leader diverted a step towards Severus and Freya and called out a quick, "I'll be with you shortly!" before bouncing away again, leaving them standing there rather purposelessly.
"Another thirty minutes, then," he muttered, already wanting to rub his eyes.
"Only that?" Freya said lightly, then nodded in the direction towards the back wall, indicating they might go back to their secluded sideline to wait rather than continue dodging out of the way of party-goers who had apparently been racing drinks.
He let himself be grabbed and led as she once more cut the way through, trying with little success not to stare at his own hand held in hers behind her back.
When they were out of the way of much of the noise, she spoke up again in a hesitant voice.
"Say, when you're done with your meeting... I'd like one with you as well. I have something to talk to you about."
He met her eyes with only a glance, unable to search too much into her meaning just now. "Very well," he said with a short nod. "Should I look for you here? Or will you be racing out the second I leave?"
She laughed softly. "I'll probably lurk around here, so long as nobody asks me to dance or anything."
He had to hold himself back from letting his face show his relief at that news. Instead, he quickly steeled himself, mentally speeding through his latest script to check that it was sufficiently convincing to warrant what he wanted to propose, before saying, "I'll find you, then. I have something I would like to discuss as well."
Her tone abruptly struck a note of alarm. "As well? As in—me too?" He quirked a brow at her, nodding once. "You have something to talk to me about?"
"Yes... And why would that not be acceptable? You've just said the same."
"I..." She had turned to face him more directly, but her eyes darted away as she seemed to draw a blank on a sound argument—which he wasn't surprised by, seeing as he couldn't begin to understand what she would be getting worked up about. "I... Well... Alright then. Of course it's acceptable," she concluded with unconvincing resolve.
"Is it...?" he questioned, still peering at her skeptically.
"Yes—of course, of course." She nodded—more to herself than him—and turned back to face the room, leaving him to keep a curious sideways eye on her profile in the interim.
When eventually Slughorn reappeared, materializing as if out of thin air to clap him on the shoulder despite the man's portly size having been top of the list on his radar, he turned to say goodbye to Freya only to find her already backing away with a wave. He tipped his head to her, not looking away even as Slughorn beckoned him physically aside and she was lost to the crowd.
As he was nearly steered by Slughorn into a witch taking a delicate sip of her drink, he righted his attention.
"So! I have it that you've been wanting a chat?"
Without even letting him say his first word, Slughorn went on with a knowing chuckle, wagging his finger. "I can only assume you'd be after one thing, Severus, and I can't say I'm surprised, heading into your first year's end. Well, I won't be talking business in this atmosphere, I promise you that. Let's go and see what you've done to that old Potion's study!"
He wasn't sure the previous Potion's master had his intentions quite right, but he conceded to entertain his interest in a tour anyway, not feeling he had very much say in the matter as he was practically being shoved along.
They checked in on the nearer classroom first before rounding off in the study itself. He would have thought the change in décor might draw comment, but Slughorn seemed preoccupied with making haste for a store cupboard that Severus had cleaned out on his first day. The reason—for this, and, he assumed, his original intent in stopping by the office—became apparent as Slughorn's thick yet nimble fingers fished out a bottle of mead from a hidden compartment with only a slightly guilty grin.
"Can't be having the strong stuff out around the students up there—or rather, the expensive stuff," Slughorn said, unstopping the cork and peering in with a pouting chin to find there was only a swig or two left. "Ah, well... Haven't got anything stashed away yourself, have you?"
Severus, who had been watching this display with a distinct lack of Slughorn's boyish amusement upon the discovery that what was now his store cupboard had been housing anything but strictly important contents, said without remorse, "No, I have not yet been driven to drink while on the job..." He only remembered after tearing his look of disapproval from the empty mead bottle (as it was set upon his desk without a coaster) that he did actually have something to offer up, and leapt at the chance to be rid of it. "Would wine be alright?"
"It certainly would be," Slughorn said with an appreciative stroke of his mustache.
But if the retired professor wanted his drink, he was going to have to first get on with discussing what Severus had written him about to begin with.
He broached the subject without wasting any more time, giving a sparse synopsis of everything that had gone on with Wells and a few other Slytherin students, with particular note on the events before the Christmas holiday, which opened up to more frustrating topics than he wished to cover ("Dreadful reporting in the Prophet, just dreadful—did you read my later interview?"). After a begrudging thanks for his coincidental defense, he skipped over any more personal topics and by the end of the retelling of his student's inappropriate entitlement to be given nothing but the best concierge treatment, complete with rolled out red carpet, into the Dark Arts by none other than himself, Slughorn was chewing at his upper lip, looking to be in even greater need of something alcoholic in his hands.
"Hm... I see," he said, rocking on the heels of his polished formal shoes. "Can't say I'm surprised, really. There were plenty of the sort in my years of teaching, especially those last few, as I'm sure you know." Being one 'of the sort,' though he had never so boldly or stupidly relied on his Head of House to satiate his darker curiosities, Severus remained quiet. "But, surely you of all people—er—must have been aware there would be—holdouts, of sorts—who had been banking on a different sort of life after Hogwarts? Why come to me with this? Not that I'm not happy to help where I can! Forgive me, Severus, you know I had been anticipating getting to peek in on your first week of Careers Advice—most exciting part of the job! It's only... Well... You've never really been one to ask for advice." His cheeks rounded out as his usual grin shone overtop any discomfort and he chortled, "Not worried that you're a bit out of your depth here, are you?"
Severus very slightly straightened his posture before speaking. "No, I am not. It's merely that some students don't seem to listen when I try to steer them on the right path—" A heartily wheezed-out laugh interrupted him.
"Oho, so you are out of your depth, then! Trying to 'steer them'—ha!"
Slughorn swiftly tampered down this apparent hilarity with a clean swipe of his mustache after the cold stare he received, his face melting to an apologetic look.
"Severus," he began with more consideration, clearing his throat, "if you want to hear it from me, I'll tell you something that all great teachers are made to learn at some point, even I: there is no sure way of leading those young minds in your charge. You can praise them when they make good choices and nudge them towards good fortune—even plop it down right in front of their face, have them shake fortune's hand and introduce the two! But... you can't control them. You'd do well to grasp that, free yourself up a bit! You've got the stiff shoulders of a greenhorn professor."
He staggered slightly as a heavy hand collided with one of his said shoulders, only making him raise them both even more.
"You're suggesting that I simply stop trying?" he asked with exasperation. Even apart from this being almost the exact opposite of what he had been directed by Dumbledore to do, it still seemed exceptionally careless. "Let them just carry on prying into business they're not nearly ready for, let them stumble down a path of mistakes that..." It didn't really need to be said aloud, and all the examples that came to mind of the worst kinds of things that could happen were a bit too personal to give voice to. The question hung bitterly in the air as his eyes strayed to his desk, feet away, noticing that the papers and other sundries could have done with some neatening up and wishing he had thought to do so before inviting his former mentor in.
"Severus," Slughorn spoke at last after the pause, his voice heavy and chastened, "do you think that I—or—or anyone—could have stopped you on your path? That you would have listened?"
He hadn't been implying anything at all to do with himself, actually. That Slughorn would think him so feeble as to cast blame anywhere but inward momentarily kept his tongue coiled spitefully silent. However, as he was now turning the scenario over in his mind, he tried to fill in the blank of what could have possibly been said that would have even given him pause when clearly nothing else had. And there had been plenty of weightier reasons than his mentor.
"Perhaps if... they were to be vividly forewarned how far one mistake could go in ruining their life, they would—"
"Is that what you think—that your life is ruined? You think that you get to take up the mantel of my job and say that your life is ruined, do you?"
Slughorn's puffed up anger subsided almost as fast as it had come on after getting this out and accomplishing an admonished silence from his former pupil. He deflated, but his affable tone had been replaced so that he spoke more like before he had handed over his most prestigious position and Severus hadn't quite yet been his equal.
"Listen here, everyone makes mistakes at that age," Slughorn went on, his raised finger no longer showing signs of playfulness. "They will fall—even those that you least expect to. You can't predict it, or control it, you can only... hope to be there when they do." The old Potion's master suddenly seemed like he was the one who needed to be told to free the weight from his shoulders just then, as he stared forlornly at the far wall, his arm slowly falling. "Be the kind of person who they can trust enough to come to. But if they do, you mustn't think them doomed, that's no way to help them... Or yourself, for that matter," he underscored with a faint impression of his usual smile, his eyes focusing back on Severus, who was listening with as much doubt as attention. "You have your own directions in life to be getting on with."
He thought that he had rather misjudged Slughorn before—definitely not in the man's luxuriant tastes, or his inability to read a room well enough to offer proper advice that didn't sound like it was projecting about three decades' worth of teaching woes—but perhaps in his previous assumption that it had only been the frivolousness of the parties that he had been missing in his retirement. The party was floors above, and yet, it was here that he had raced for. And the mead was empty.
Slughorn seemed more to have cheered himself up with his own advice, nodding sagely and smoothing down his tight row of vest buttons, going on as if lecturing alone in front of a mirror.
"Truly no way to know how someone will turn out... Can't blame yourself, can you... And even with the best of intentions some can't be... Ah, well!" He looked to give himself a little shake, the faltering corners of his grin finally propping up with strength. "There's never quite been a cure to the human condition of being altogether boisterously new to life, just prancing little devils always finding fresh trouble! It's all a trial by fire, even for us," he declared, and then wagged a knowing finger. "But then, that's what we've got specialized hospital wings for. Speaking of which, Miriam Strout's daughter—marvelously skilled healer at St. Mungo's, you know—was meant to be starting Hogwarts this year. Such a shame I didn't get her, have you...?"
Severus chewed the inside of his lip as Slughorn went on. He had wanted to interject that he knew this—not about the healer, which he was currently trying his best to block out as he dealt with more important matters inside his own head—but that, most assuredly, preparing for the worst was well ingrained in him. It was part of the reason he had always justified studying the Dark Arts so thoroughly in the first place. Seeing into the future so as to completely avoid situations was a farce, as he had confirmed in his brief Divination studies, but even in Potions, one would do better to be constantly alert to their drink rather than the much riskier task of undoing a poison after it had already been imbibed. The next best thing would be to know an opponent's moves—to know how to counter every curse and cure every ill-natured potion should a slip-up occur. To know was to be able to prevent; and to understand on every level, stepping over the line to see it from the right perspective, surpassing those who could not, or would not, squash their squeamishness, was vital to that invaluable knowledge.
But what counter was there for going too far? A mere detention? Accidentally maiming one of their fellow students? Years, or perhaps life, in Azkaban? There was no grey area in such matters, unless you counted getting a shorter sentence in having your soul, or what was left of it, tormented out on a rock in the ocean.
Or... unless you were plucked from the fold by one man in particular who wasn't very fond of the current order and thus had created his own.
His mood soured at the thoughts of Dumbledore, souls, and the ever present one of phoenixes. He wished Slughorn's rambling proclamations had been less airy and more practical solutions. The job of watching students fumble and fail only to get a resounding 'good try, better luck next time, at least you didn't kill your best mate' from him felt hollow if not altogether laughable. It would be much more preferential to just be the one teaching them directly, fostering discipline and respect for the Art; but no, apparently that particular aspiration was sealed shut to him, as per Dumbledore's orders.
"...and even though it had been Halpart who had set the Nettlesting spilling on everyone, it was Strout who offered to help out in the hospital wing and—Severus, how about that wine? And what a help she turned out to be! They were married not five years later, quite the pair."
He let out a resigned sigh as he turned towards his bedchambers, appreciating, at least, the excuse to get a moment to himself, though he had long ago become adept at blocking out Slughorn's long-winded monologuing.
As he pulled the unopened bottle of wine from a dresser drawer where he had carefully wrapped it in an old shirt, he took a moment to hold between his fingers the little card still tied round its neck. His thumb passed over his own name spelled out in curly handwriting, and for a second, he didn't feel like sharing his birthday gift. However, he had no intentions of drinking it himself—alone, as the gift-giver was out of the question—and so this would be a more productive use for it. He tugged at the tag to remove it, only to realize the string was inlaid into the waxy cork wrappings themselves. It didn't seem likely to come off, and he debated whether or not it mattered much, rereading the short note that would surely be nonsensical to anyone else. Ultimately, he left it.
"Ahh, Blackthorn, is it?" Slughorn said, appraising the bottle as it was set with a dull clunk on the desk. As Severus unceremoniously uncorked it with a point of his wand, Slughorn gave an enthusiastic little clap that ended with his hands reaching into a pocket to flick out his own, conjuring them each a tall glass. He left them on the desk to be filled, instead reaching immediately for the discarded cork, making his acting server jerk to a halt just before pouring. "And what vintage is this—oh?"
"Haven't a clue," Severus said dismissively, "it was just a gift." He busied himself back to filling both glasses, knowing Slughorn was reading what he just had.
"I see, I see..." There was a smacking sound of lips as Slughorn waited for the wine bottle to be set down, taking his glass and swirling it thoughtfully without drinking. "You know, Severus... being a life-long bachelor isn't so bad... if you aren't turning down something better. Love is a worthy thing to change for, you'd do well to consider what you want out of the rest of your life."
Severus had made it through one sentence before he had grabbed up his own glass of wine with a fervent conviction to drain it without so much as pausing for a toast. Old stories about former students that he had already heard were one thing, but if this was the conversational direction he was going to have to endure, he would end up emptying the whole bottle himself and then making up an excuse to go suffer the party instead.
Only...
He grimaced as his last hasty swallow went uncooperatively down his throat, his first thought being that Freya would later certainly be hearing his complaints on its unexpected flavor—and then his face went blank.
In calm warning to Slughorn, overtop the man's protests at the opportunity for a toast being lost, he coughed out a single word, "Poison," before firmly setting down his glass and moving straight for the nearest cupboard of already prepared antidotes, his now free hand rummaging through an interior pocket of his robes and popping what his fingers found there into his mouth. He vaguely heard Slughorn spluttering in confusion behind him, but his mind was already preoccupied checking off boxes—fast acting, bitter taste, no detectable color, thin solution or possibly only a small dosage was potent—
His hand slipped right off the metal handle rather than pulling the cupboard doors open, promptly cutting his train of thought short.
"Good lord—Severus!"
By the crushing pain in his lungs that had just caused him to fall to his knees, he added 'suffocation' and then 'manifestation' as he choked a viscous black spatter out into his hand, the bezoar coming with it, spent and useless.
Not any common poison, then. How very annoying.
With the seconds of hindsight he had, he stopped to think that perhaps saying all this out loud for Slughorn might have been more useful, as he could hear—distantly, while his ears rang with adrenaline—the man now dancing wildly around, unfamiliar with where everything had been moved to and trying not to step on the swiftly crumpling heap on the floor. His hand was fumbling at his pocket, but he couldn't seem to get his useless shaking fingers in, and his tunneling vision was not helping matters. What was left in his pockets for more advanced situations was now only making the floor more uncomfortable, digging into his already acutely pained torso. He hadn't noticed if Slughorn had even investigated the wine to reveal its secrets. Perhaps he himself should have done that, rather than relying on his perfect memory of which ingredient would have what effects... But he was still trying to remain calm, even as a vial came shattering down from the cupboard above, narrowly missing his head as Slughorn swore in his clumsy haste. On the other hand, the old Potion's master seemed plenty smooth at asking all the right questions to identify a more complex poison—if only it wasn't a bit too late now to be able to vocalize any answers with his throat feeling fully blocked.
As his other shoulder slumped onto the ground, he willed his thoughts to reach out where his voice couldn't, wanting to say where he had placed everything just so, with the ingredients and antidotes to nastier things at the forefront, but it was, of course, useless.
Except—as he heard a familiar harsh whip through the air behind him, there did so happen to be someone around who could hear him. If only he could marshal his mind to stay conscious a bit longer...
"What's happened—"
Her panicked voice hitched, presumably taking in the scene. He raised his twitching hand and it was taken almost immediately in a tight clasp of heartening warmth.
It was only there for a heartbeat, but he hoped that was all that had been needed.
Slughorn was trying to explain something about having several options, but she was standing sharply back up, cutting him off.
Severus watched half blind as his hand that lay abandoned on the stone floor seemed to get further and further away... until, feeling like he had missed a beat of time, the last of his consciousness was dredged back up once more as his head was shoved roughly back. The liquid that met his lips wasn't what he had been expecting, though, not tasting at all like the antidote instructions he had tried to impress upon on her.
"Sorry," a quiet yet stern voice spoke from somewhere just out of reach of his black-spotted vision, "this isn't going to be very pleasant."
Something else was pressed to his mouth—and then everything was singularly engulfed in a burning flame through his very core.
—
"...did it come from, though?"
"That's—well—the thing is, I don't remember... I could check through my journal again, maybe-"
"It's alright," spoke a third voice, much calmer and steadier than the others. "For now it is enough that we have secured the castle and that he is recovering. Though, in the morning, I should think it wise to go over that guest list, yes?"
"Ah, right you are, right you are... I can't imagine anyone there would have done such a thing, though. Why would— Well... Ah..."
The whisperings of the otherwise silent room paused for a tense moment.
"Well, why would they?" The question sounded much more indignant coming from the woman's voice. "He hasn't done anything."
"Quite right, quite right—and what a clever move you made back there, what in the name of Merlin was that?"
"Er..."
"I think," said the calm voice once more with a soft clap of hands, "that we should all be getting to our beds for the night. It is quite late, and there is much to do tomorrow. Minerva, will you follow me for a quick word?"
"Yes, Headmaster."
"Ah, I'd better hope there's an inn that will take me at this hour..."
The murmurs strayed away to one side until Severus finally felt it was safe to crack open his eyes, only to find that he had already been in privacy, hidden behind a curtain. It was pulled back near his head, and he blinked sideways out into this slice of darkness that showed the familiar Hogwarts hospital wing.
The one person still in the room stood out in the moonlight from the window behind her. She was staring after the other three as they walked through the door, not looking behind them to see that they were down one member. When she turned back, starting at the realization that she was caught in his line of sight, she anxiously took a step forward—then back toward the door as it closed—then back to him.
He watched in blank silence as she tap-danced in the middle of the room, looking torn.
"Ehm... Would it be too awkward if I follow them now?"
He blinked heavily at her. "No... I assure you... you've already made it plenty awkward."
"Alright, then, I'm staying."
She had looked about to offer a hesitant grin but his sudden coughing fit had her instead swooping to his bedside. He had been surprised himself to hear his voice so raspy, and then remembered his last thought before blacking out.
"Are you alright?"
"Fine," he said roughly, finding it difficult to keep from wheezing and already wanting to shoo her away before she tried to help. He still felt shaken as he pushed himself to sit up and properly clear his throat, though, more than anything, this felt like it only caused further scratchy damage. "Excellent choice in wine, it really brought out the notes of poison."
Her face tautened in shamed apology, and she gingerly took a seat on the edge of the bed beside him. "Severus... I'm—I'm so sorry—"
"Forget it," he muttered dismissively, dodging his face away to other side of the bed, where he saw that his robes had been folded atop the small dresser, feeling a sense of déjà vu at the sight. "Just tell me what—" He stopped dead as he glanced back to find her gazing at him, face crumpled and eyes shining with tears about to spill over, making him recoil at once to stare down at his lap. "I'm— You're not—"
"It's all my fault," she wailed, "you almost died!"
"Your bedside manner is a bit lacking as well," he said to his knees.
"I don't know how it happened, I swear it wasn't opened before—"
"Why don't you start by telling me what happened in my office," he said hastily, and with a light cough, hoping that giving her a different task would get her to stop openly weeping at his hospital bedside like some bereft widow. This really wasn't that big of a situation to call for all that in his opinion, but, then again, it was Freya. He would just find it more comfortable if she stuck to getting glossy-eyed over works of fiction with ridiculously illustrated covers and particularly stirring inspirational quotes in the morning paper.
Thankfully this did seem to capture her full attention, and she took a deep breath before more smoothly trying to explain. "Well... I told Slughorn what you had suggested, but I think he was a bit panicked—"
"A bit?"
"Yes," she said with a wince, "just a bit. He tried to summon the antidote to him, but the cupboard it was in was shut... We heard it smash straight into the doors..." Her grimace deepened.
"Then..."
"Then," she continued slowly, "your other idea is what I fell back on."
He glanced at her unwavering gaze, showing no more signs of tears, thinking back through his foggy memory.
It had only been for a split second, but when her eyes had come into view, wide with concern and shining in the firelight, he had reached out in desperation to deliver what he could of influence; that an intermediary remedy would be of little use, what was needed was a rapidly concocted multi-step process to counter a blended poison of such ruthless workings.
However, something else had flashed through his mind: a little vial of golden liquid, locked up in the corner cupboard, that shone with the same look of her eyes. Normally he wouldn't have thought of it; there were plenty of other sound solutions to such poisons. But his mind had been such a fray that the idea must have gotten mixed in, as if even the little bit of a chance that the lore surrounding phoenix blood was true had been too tantalizing not to explore.
He wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that she had known so easily what he'd been asking for with only his eyes and had acted upon peering through his outcrying thoughts so quickly. For now, he was determined to view it only as utilitarian.
"So... You made a healing elixir...?"
Her face immediately cinched into a tight frown. "No, I did not mix up some rubbish mythical elixir in ten seconds, for the love of—" His scowl seemed to remind her where they were, and she blew out the rest of her impatience, rolling her eyes. "Right, well, no..."
As he watched, her eyes diverted downward and her expression softened. He wished, not at all for the first time, especially as of late, that he could risk taking his own peek into her thoughts.
Then the movement of her hand caught his eye, and he gave her upturned palm a quizzical look. For a second he thought she meant to reenact their earlier moment, perhaps having something to share that couldn't be said aloud, and his shoulders stiffened—but that couldn't be it. Her gaze as it lifted once more was only asking him to oblige in something harmless. Either way, it wasn't exactly so in his view.
He cautiously placed his hand in hers, keeping his eyes fixed down.
This apparently unlocked the rest of what she had to say and, with her usually warm voice still sounding a trace constricted, she continued, "I'm no good at potions, anyway. It was Slughorn who re-made the actual antidote after everything. But..." Her fingers wrapped around his hand and he tensed, though this did nothing to prepare him. He drew in a breath as her hand gently brushed over his and then—with a spark—both were wrapped in flame. Even as he blinked in surprise at the brightness, he felt only a mere heightened warmth and her soft palm, holding him firm and safe as the fire danced and then flickered out.
"I can at least fix up a quick potion of fire protection." She flashed a grin that darkened as quick as the fire had and set his hand free once more. "It was enough to buy Slughorn time to mix a new antidote... But I'm sorry it was a bit—er—drastic."
"Then... You burned it out of me?"
She nodded, her expression unusually serious. "Enough to clear your airway, so at least you wouldn't asphyxiate and we could get something in you. It wasn't very pretty what you were coughing up, Anapneo wouldn't even budge it, but," she shrugged, "phoenix fire, you know. I've got the advantage against Dark magic there."
He narrowed his eyes in thought, trying to objectively picture the whole scene. A blocked pathway for an antidote to be administered orally meant either direct injection or a potion that worked well by just contact with the skin alone, such as a salve that could seep into the bloodstream... such as a strong resistance potion...
Absently, he questioned, "You used your own blood... instead of the fire-dwelling salamander blood that is usual for the potion?" He had barely registered her nod at the corner of his vision before he immediately went on, turning his body for the first time to face her head on. "Did you fully substitute it? Or did you use a blend of the two? And how did you account for the increased magical potency? Your blood can't be comparable to a salamander, you would have to counterbalance with a completely different stirring methodology and inactive reagent. How much of your blood did you even use? The whole vial?"
He was searching her face for her to reply when he realized her mouth was hanging slightly ajar and one corner of it was perking upwards.
"Glad you're feeling well enough to have your priorities in order," she said, thoroughly bemused even as he redirected his now glaring face to the end of the bed. "I'll make sure and get my full report in by Monday, Professor."
"It would be appreciated," he said curtly.
He heard her laugh just the softest breaths. "I'll write what I can remember in the journal later," she said more seriously, and then her tone shifted downward even further with a weary sigh. "If I can remember. Slughorn wasn't exactly the only one that was a bit panicked..."
With one glance he could tell where her mood was quickly plummeting back towards, but he was out of pertinent distracting questions even for his own mind, which was trending the same as hers at the thought of things she couldn't remember. At the sound of a quiet, sad sniff, he tossed out the first thing he could think of, saying stiffly, "Good thing that you chose to leave that vial with me, isn't it?"
"Yeah," she said in a higher-than-normal voice, before swallowing thickly. "Yes, it's a good thing you're trustworthy. I don't fancy the idea of opening up a vein every time you go and get yourself poisoned."
"Do you think I would be trustworthy enough to get a refill?" He was largely asking just to taunt her into telling him off, as it would be an improvement over her current tearfulness, but as he checked with a glance, his words had not achieved the desired effect. She looked even more upset than before, back to the verge of pouring over and just barely holding it in, and he ever so discreetly cringed away.
"You... You..." Her voice was so tight it seemed she was losing the ability to speak.
"Greedy git?" he offered fearfully.
This had apparently been the wrong direction to take, as he was suddenly collided into almost before he could crane his chin out of the way, his arms raising defensively though hers were so tightly wrapped around him it hardly seemed worth the effort to try and pry her off.
"No," she cried firmly into his shoulder, "you're not—at all—and you almost died."
"A—Alright... And I'm fine now, so—" His cheek was promptly planted with a peck.
"I'm just so glad you're alive..."
Plenty pleased about it myself, he thought, slightly dazed.
"You were in so much pain... It was awful."
His muteness lasted another moment longer at this, wherein he could only blink down the bed at his feet under the blankets.
"I... feel fine now," he said quietly. Her grip on him slackened an inch and he realized he had room to once again take a deep breath. Though the attempt made his chest ache, he stifled any sign of it.
She sniffed again, but seemed to be holding her outburst of blubbering at a line no worse nor less. Absently, she continued her lamenting in mumbles this time.
"You threw up an entire bucket's worth of black snake things..."
"I... What? Sorry?"
Without answering, he felt her arms tighten and the gentle weight return to press against his shoulder, her voice sounding subsequently muffled against his shirt.
"You almost died... And you smell like mountain grass.. and ginger root..."
His expression was still held frozen, cocked to one side and gawking at her ear as it was all that he could see of her with her face hidden at his neck. He wanted her to back up to explain the bit before, as he was currently picturing his office looking like someone had battled the Giant Squid in the tiny space, wondering if it truly had been as awful to witness as she had described. But he was also currently feeling especially lucky that he hadn't been brewing anything foul-smelling that day.
"...And you're really sweaty, too."
She backed off from him again, a good few more inches than before.
He stare went blank over her shoulder. He held immobilized for long enough for the soundless sigh to seethe slowly out of his stinging lungs, before snapping bluntly, "Get off me."
"Right, sorry," she mumbled, immediately following as instructed and placing herself back at his bedside, still glum and wiping her eyes. Her hand moved to her mouth as she stifled a yawn, making him wonder what time it could be.
"I... You... Being both poisoned and shot full of fire isn't exactly normal for me, and I should think your little alteration to that potion had different side effects, so—"
"Severus, I know. I'm sorry." She did look it, not even lifting her eyes enough to notice how uncomfortable he may be at her very close observations of him. "I hope I didn't botch the potion too badly... Your throat sounds painful... especially up close." His acute awareness of himself spiked up another degree.
Distractedly, her sentiment made him raise a hand to test the feel of pressing on his neck, and found that it was indeed tender. With certainty, though, he said, "I don't think that this was your doing..." His fingers traced absently under his chin, his thoughts catching back on the conundrum of the missing completed picture. Without looking up from where the thick curtain was just barely moving from some unfelt breeze, he asked, "What happened exactly when you did that?"
"Er... It was sort of... Well, I know I already said it, but—awful. Really, it seemed like no matter what, your lungs kept refilling, as if it was trying to drown you from the inside or something."
But it hadn't been a liquid that he had coughed into his hand, not quite at least. If his brief memory of the black substance served, it was more of a thick sludge; almost mud...
He chewed the inside of his lip, thinking hard. That last swallow he had gotten of the wine, the immediate acrid taste, nowhere near a berry—but he had recognized it, and it was, however, close to something that might produce such berries, albeit in different genus: Ash. Burnt Ash wood, if he was correct in his theory...
"What is it?" Freya asked with urgency, alerting him too late that his thoughts had raised a small sneer across his features. He instantly smoothed them clear, but this was ruined only a half-second later by his brow furrowing in annoyance at her inquisitiveness.
"Nothing," he said to no effect whatsoever on her attentive wide-eyed staring. Abandoning complete ignorance, and masking his avoidance of her gaze with a sigh in the other direction, he tried again with more delicacy, saying with brooding indifference, "I was just thinking which potion it might have been, as it could provide answers to other questions."
"Oh," she said, now dropping her own head in thought. "Right... Slughorn said he only did the work of making the antidote... Well... I don't know how it all works, but I'm sure if anyone could figure it out, it's you."
He looked over, and she cast him a thin smile, adding softly, "After you've gotten some rest, that is."
His wariness to disclose with her his gradually unfurling understanding of the events sank through his stomach. He could never quite tell if she just didn't know that many people, or she actually thought him enough on par with wizards such as Albus Dumbledore to casually let slip such compliments. Either way, he was always eager to silently accept them.
However, while he might not begrudge her desire to help with surface-level matters for tonight, he had no intentions of letting her in on where his mind was leaning regarding the larger affair of this poisoning.
Unprompted, her brow slowly furrowed, and he watched her expression darken.
"But it is really worrying..." she whispered as if to herself, lost in thought. "Finding out who did it will be difficult without knowing..."
His own expression fell, meeting her gaze with as much importance as what shone in her eyes.
"Was it meant for you...? Or for me?"
Though he had to keep his view skewed so as not to look too directly, still hesitant as he had been of late, there was no denying what was plainly visible. There was a pearly glimmer beneath her bottom lashes that made his thumb smooth over his fingers, wanting to reach out and brush away this reminder of such a waste spent on him. The only answer he could possibly come up with was that no one would be fool enough to think she would deserve a death such as that. Its intended target must have already been struck true.
"I have about an hours' worth more questions before I answer that," he said with a tight lift of one corner of his mouth, which she returned weakly.
"I'm sure you do, but," she turned to the window, apparently judging the hour by the moon, "it's already late, and I'm sure Albus will be wanting questions answered tomorrow too."
At that, he made an unhappy noise. "Classes, as well..."
She whipped her head back round. "No," she scoffed, "not for you there aren't. Slughorn is already taking over for the rest of the week."
He reacted very similarly to this news as she just had, though the alerted snap of his head ended in rolling down to hang limp with a groan when he realized she wasn't joking. As he rubbed at the crease between his brows, he felt her pat his shoulder.
"Don't worry," she said, "if he refuses to leave, I'll find him a nice bottle of wine."
This cheery appeal to his more sinister nature was appreciated, but he still didn't like the idea of even his consolation prize job position being threatened while he was stuck in recovery.
After a low sigh, he asked, "Was anything said about how long I would be trapped in here?"
"Till the weekend, at least," she said, showing no remorse that this added up to possibly three full days, and then set the bed creaking as she leaned over to the side table nearest her. "But if you're awake now, maybe you could take another dose of this that Madam Pomfrey left? I think it's what's supposed to be healing everything internally."
He glanced at the bottle in her hand and took it, giving it a quick inspection and a sniff before handing it back over, unsatisfied.
"Or... not?"
"I can do better," he said, making her reel her head back and blink, though he was more busily concerned with throwing off his blankets. "And, seeing as I am not a student nor am I in St. Mungos, I think I will be better suited in my own chambers." And with that, he threw his legs out the other side of the bed and stood up—
Only to just as quickly find himself magnetically pulled back down onto the mattress, landing with a heavy bounce as everything suddenly felt like the sturdy castle had turned into the wobbly consistency of custard. To top it off, he seemed to have pulled something by straightening his torso, and the pain compounded his vertigo, making him double over with a weak, wheezy cough.
His body sunk back onto the bed, head hitting the pillow.
"Don't... say... anything," he said, jaw clenched and a hand over his eyes, both to hide his shamed face and to not have to look at the ceiling as it spun.
But there was no sound coming from the side of the bed where she sat, and as he curiously peeked from under his hand, he soon realized why. After briefly flattening his palm once more and letting out an over-taxed sigh, he gingerly pulled himself back into a sitting position, this time setting his pillow up as a support behind him.
"Stop," he implored her in a low voice, "I'm fine."
From behind her fist as she rubbed at her eyes, head hung low, her voice sounded as wobbly as he felt. "I can't help it..."
He imagined this was why she did all she could to avoid loitering at hospitals. Though if it was really that bad, he wished she would just go. Being the beacon of pain to her overactive empathy wasn't making him feel any better, and if he was going to accept that he was to be bedridden, he at least wanted to brood about it in solitude.
The look of steadily building misery shining in her eyes gave him a moments' warning that she was about to do the opposite of leave, however—and then, as expected, he was pulling a face of complaint behind her back as she threw her arms around him once more.
"I really am glad you're alright," she said into his shoulder, her throat sounding almost as tight as his felt.
"I'm perfectly fine..." he mumbled uncomfortably, taking belated notice that his hand had automatically risen to pat her on the back and jerkily dropping it.
If he had to pick which he was least accustomed to, comforting someone or being comforted and cried over himself, he wasn't sure which would win out.
The emotion in her voice was enough to thoroughly distract him from feeling much beyond a jitteriness in his chest, anyway. As he felt his temperature rising what might be a noticeable amount, close as she was, and feared another instance of overactive self-consciousness, he started to become more than just mentally antsy. Before he could blurt out an excuse to get her off him though, he was taken by surprise as she yanked herself away.
It had felt off, he was sure, but she had only landed no more than several inches away. She was still poised to lean back in at any moment, suspended on a precipice that had suddenly risen up between them from which he could only watch the tops of her lashes.
His torso gave a funny spasm and he recoiled into a coughing fit. When he looked back up through his own watering eyes, he found hers right back at the floodgates.
"Freya," he said in a heavy breath, his head hanging. He feebly reached out for her shoulders to grip and hopefully help her get a grip herself. This had the undesirable side effect that he now had a direct view of her eyes, and he had to look away to steel himself, giving her a head start.
"You're not fine," she said, before he could even try to convince her. The defiance in her gaze shimmered as he reluctantly watched, till a wall of tears was all that remained and she blinked, sending them finally spilling over her lashes.
Any person he could think of would have paid good money to catch those droplets. But it wasn't the price that made his hand at last dart out to complete the motion it had longed to earlier, startling her as his thumb just barely touched her cheek. He himself could scarcely believe he had done it, feeling like he was watching his own imagination play out. She winked her other eye shut as he brushed that one clear as well, going boldly closer this time, so that he felt her lashes tickle his thumb. When she blinked her eyes back open, she was certainly no longer crying, but now there was a new problem in that her cheeks had acquired enough color in them that he could see it even in the near darkness—and she had successfully captured his eyes with hers.
Clinging onto the first daring idea that came to mind, he slowly retracted his hand from her face... and towards his own. It worked in distracting her eyes, even more so when she realized he was placing the backs of his wet fingers to his lips—and he watched her own lips part—then widen—and then her jaw drop with unabashed indignity, until she was puffing up as if she were readying to give him an innumerable number of detentions.
"You—you're—" she spluttered.
"You've stopped crying," he said with a pleased grin, though it may have been bordering on devilishly so.
"Gross," she hissed with much exaggeration, only making his smile widen.
"It's no wonder you aren't adept at Potions if you think that's gross. Need I remind you that I currently have more than just your tears in me?"
She appeared ready to vehemently denounce the entire deplorable study if not for the flush that remained across her face, which couldn't seem to let whatever tirade she might be preparing in her mind work out into words. Something else seemed to be distracting her, besides, and as he realized she was eyeing him from grin to bouncing shoulders, he clipped off his quiet laughter.
It wasn't just the action causing a slight burn in his chest that made his face smooth back to neutral. The silent awe that fell over both of them seemed to stem from experiencing the sound itself, which, he realized then, neither of them had heard as of late. It was odd to have his laugh be the one to affect her, her eyes now staying on him in watchful amazement. He wished he could have ever been so bold as her wide-open eyes scanning his every feature.
He hadn't dared to let himself look her in the eye so straightforwardly in weeks. Now he drank in the view as if lost at sea, staring back into her golden gaze, between each tiny facet that remained visible through the dark of the room, reflecting a glow of moonlight.
She was the one to finally break their gaze, surprising him as she firmly looked down at her lap, giving a dry sniff and more thoroughly patting her eyes with her sleeve.
"Guess I don't need to be good at Potions with you around," she said in a hushed voice.
Something passed through her tone, like how he imagined a ghost passing through someone living might feel.
She went on, "You're brilliant... at more than just that, too..."
There were no longer any tears, but he realized far too late his error in looking for them.
"...I just wish you would share more from that head of yours."
He stared at her wall of long, shining hair, hiding her face as she turned her head away, until he, too, turned in the opposite direction, staring at his robes folded neatly on the little bedside table.
The realization of why he had been right to avoid her face since their walk that night rang hollow in his pained chest. Afterall, it hadn't been her eyes he should have avoided, but her lips. He should have seen it forming on them and known what it would mean.
She had apologized to him and cried over him tonight more times than he had the wherewithal to count in his current state. And yet, there had been one such apology kept silent, hidden away just inside her mouth, building up for weeks behind a tearless gaze that he had been running from because it was too unnerving to accept that he had caused it without fully understanding why.
The dread that had only been imaginary up till now seeped down from his shoulders straight through his already spent insides—landing entirely flat.
Recently, several days before Slughorn's party, the halting reality had come to light that his non-party-mate had no memory of why it was that she had been forbidden to be so. Apparently, the rule had been written without any story. And so his misgivings about parties had fallen through his stomach with a null effect, like a stone slipping into water with no skip nor ripple.
This was just another stone to add. Sea mist rolling in over the tide only to dissolve to nothing when it collided with the impassible cliff-face.
She felt sorry for him. She pitied him. Or worse—she thought him so pathetic that it caused her the pain that had shadowed her face then.
And to think that she wished him to share more after he had already done so to such a deeply regrettable degree.
It was brutally ironic that he had in fact wanted to talk to her tonight. After weeks of delicately deciding on a much more metered, much more dignified approach, he had sorted out a convoluted backpedal to explain himself away from the edge of the grave he had dug himself that night of their Valentine's non-date. The worst part, that his own practiced tongue had mutely betrayed him, was exactly why he needed this verbal redemption. Living with the all-encompassing thoughts that Freya could be interpreting whatever she could imagine out of the incident, which was probably more accurate than he would have liked, had been too much to bear at length. If he could have just explained it to her in a way that didn't make him sound or feel like such a lunatic, if he could have communicated a cool and confident repeal, word by word recast each stone of the emptied lake, refilled it with a smooth and unaffected surface which he felt so exposed without, rehidden the tumultuous depths below, he thought that maybe he could have stood to look her in the eyes again without the cover of darkness to aid him like the that thief he was.
Maybe he could have even regained enough composure to risk it all again and discuss what else he so desperately wanted to move on to.
He wondered what she had wanted to talk to him about earlier. He wondered if she now felt, as he did, like the time for all of it had been missed with absolution.
The hospital wing wasn't exactly his favorite place for important discussions anyway, or simply in general, and staring at the brass knob on the bedside table drawer, where he knew spare pajamas were kept, didn't give him the right kind of memories of being a student. Part of his assumed meaning of her words, that she wanted him to just accept the help being offered to him, mingled sourly with his memories; learning the counter-jinxes to stupid childish prank spells, time spent on his own trying to flip through books with fingers glued together or with his robes melted onto his arm by 'accidentally' spilled potions, all to avoid what would have only been the added shame of having to drag himself up to this very hospital wing for help and coddling.
He didn't need anyone seeing him licking his wounds. He could make do just fine on his own.
For the most part.
A shift of the mattress brought his attention back and he thought at first that Freya was standing to leave. But her eyes went guiltily to his and her movement ceased halfway between turning herself around to sit facing the same way as him, her back to the headboard.
"Would you... Would you let me stay? Just till you fall asleep?"
His mutinous glare found only the same half-hidden side of her face as had been there before, and his shoulders relaxed where they had spiked at the proposition.
It was just the very side of her eyes that he could see; a silhouette of eyelashes and a tiny downturn at the corner of her mouth. But he wouldn't have believed her if she told him she really did want to stay.
For just a moment, he did something he very much avoided doing in his life, and doubted his convictions the smallest a bit.
It was with a quiet inward sigh that he shoved himself away from her. She didn't seem to understand at first, looking even more oddly hurt, till he pointedly directed his eyes from hers, to the cleared space beside him, and back. Signs of life gradually came back to her face as his meaning was grasped. She kept her head bent low as she obediently scooted into place beside him, just enough to claim room on the pillow as he righted it lengthwise while leaving a modest gap between them.
It wasn't exactly his inner thoughts, or even his voice, but he rather thought that equal space on one of the tiny hospital wing beds was more than enough sharing for now. Even with being beyond compare to their previous bed-sharing, he could still feel the heat of her back prickle his own.
Barely any time after his head comfortably found the pillow, only briefly feeling aware of his sore body relaxing at last, he was asleep. The weeks of sleeplessness, battling his thoughts with punches of bundled up sheet as he tossed and turned with them in his fist, had officially reached a perilous peak after the ordeal of near-death.
It was a shame, as he would have liked to have known when she had left, and if she had been careful not to get herself noticed by any potential gossipers. What was more, he would have liked to confirm if the sweet sound of song in his dreams had been real or if he had, as he assumed, imagined it. Either way, when he sluggishly awoke, alone in his bed and regretting having been too stubborn to ask for a moment of privacy to change into the insulting school-provided pajamas, as his dress clothes had imprinted every button upon his skin, he felt an aching in his chest that went beyond just the need to take his next dose of restorative potion.
And, much more acutely, he again felt the regret wash over him after having missed his chance for another day, possibly the last one for the long foreseeable future, to ask her if her offer could still be on the table. Or, to avoid the embarrassment of having to be forthright in something so humiliating, he had hoped at the very least to hint at it enough to make her go back to the routine of her own overly helpful volition. Surely she had to have seen through him when he didn't kick her out to sleep. Surely, if she pitied him, but didn't hate him, she would realize.
He desperately missed her song.
_—***—_
"You are the hand I can't reach
You are the words I can't speak
Won't you sing
Why won't you sing"
B.R.M.C. - Lullaby