Death is a finality of life. We cannot escape it. We deal with it. We move on. What else can we do? Cry to the gods above? Make promises that are not in our power to keep? No, we must grieve and hope that death is an escape for those who have left us, for how do we know what is beyond? For all we know, it is comfortable and warm like a thick blanket on a cold winter morning. Death is nothing for us to fear. After all, there are worse things than dying. For some of us, it's living.
Severus Snape made his way slowly through the twisted corridors of Hogwarts, long after its population had retired to their beds. It was his place to look after young Mr. Weasley, for who better to treat a torture victim than one who has been on both ends of a wand in that department?
Normally, Snape would swear that an unconscious patient is the best to deal with, negating the need for any bedside manner, but in Weasley's case, the boy was only more annoying. His siblings were constantly around his bed, especially, it seemed, when the Potions Master was trying to examine the young Gryffindor, overreacting to every small tremor that ran through the boy's body.
Ginny Weasley was the worst.
"Professor! Professor, there's something wrong!" Nothing more than his body reacting to the memory of the pain while he slept. A calming potion was administered. His eyes were checked for dilation. His mouth to be sure he did not bit through his tongue. And all the while, the youngest Weasley cried a few steps from where Snape worked.
Luckily, Weasley should be waking soon. Then, he would no longer be his problem. He could go to Albus or Minerva with the psychological scars he would no doubt incur. Nobody goes through something like this without psychological scars.
Snape rounded the corner of the Infirmary, glancing toward the Madame Pomfrey's office, but knowing she was in bed. This was the hour for ghosts and specters, not doctors who had been treating two deeply injured teenage boys with nightmares that would make a grown-wizard's blood curdle.
His steps took him automatically to the second bed on the left, surrounded by white screens to keep curious students from disturbing the recuperating boy, though he had yet to be conscious for longer than a few minutes at a time over the last two days.
He was startled to find the bed empty, the sheets thrown back and laying haphazardly off the side of the bed. Instinctively, Snape drew his wand, his eyes searching the shadowed areas around the bed for the boy. Perhaps he'd awakened and curled on the floor to escape his nightmares? It was certainly possible, but the boy could not be found, and he was too tall to be able to hide himself very well. Snape stepped from behind the screen, knowing exactly where he would find the young ward.
He crossed deeper into the Hospital Wing toward the last row of beds where more white screens had been erected to hide a sleeping patient. That was where he found Weasley, his pajama clad form towering over Potter's bed. He was looking down at his best friend, his face turned away from Snape, but the astute Potions Master needn't see his face to know what was going through the boy's head. He only needed to see the boy's arm extended toward Potter's peacefully sleeping body, his hand trembling as it gripped his wand, pointed directly at Potter's head.
Weasley wanted to kill Potter.
Under normal circumstances, had Snape come across either Weasley or Potter with their wands pointed at each other, he would have ignored them, hoping they would hex each other into the next millennium, but these were no normal circumstances. The events which had landed both of these boys in the hospital had been too horrific to ignore this current predicament. And just because Weasley hadn't yet killed Potter, didn't mean he wouldn't. He hadn't cursed him, evident by Potter's chest still rising and falling with his breaths, but he hadn't exactly lowered his wand either.
"What are you doing, Weasley?" he asked smoothly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the boy into murder.
The red-headed boy did not turn, did not answer, made no movement that he had even heard besides clenching the muscles in his jaw.
"Are you planning on killing him?" Snape asked, hoping to the gods that he was not putting ideas in the fool's head. He hadn't been through this much to have Potter murdered in front of him like this.
"He's a murderer." Weasley's voice shook with emotion- both anger and disbelief. He had not forgotten that Potter was his best friend.
"Put down your wand, Mr. Weasley."
"You didn't see the look on his face. He was enjoying it. He enjoyed torturing- us." He gripped his wand even tighter, trying to steady his hand.
"Mr. Weasley, your wand," Snape repeated, trying to stay calm, but feeling panic creep into him the tiniest bit.
"He doesn't deserve to be here… there are… the innocent…" He was breathing hard now, and Snape knew wasn't hearing everything the boy said. The tall teenager was geared up, being played by his own emotions. A very dangerous situation.
"That isn't your decision to make. I hate to break this to you, but sometimes there are- circumstances."
This caused the boy to turn. His face was pale, though his cheeks flushed with anger. His hazel eyes bore into his professor so deeply, Snape could see the conflict fighting within him.
"Circumstances? It's because he has that fucking scar on his forehead!" the boy screamed. "That's always his circumstance, but not this time-."
"And if you kill him, does that make you better than him?"
Weasley did not answer, but lowered his wand a fraction, though not all the way. The situation was not yet over. Snape moved slowly toward the boy, reaching out his hand and wrapping his fingers loosely around the wand. Weasley tensed for a moment, jerking the wand, but Snape's grip tightened, preventing him from moving it.
"Settle down, Weasley. I'm not going to take it away from you. I'm going to show you something." Seeing the boy's tenseness, he added, "You don't have to let go if you don't want to."
Weasley's eyes met his again, as if daring him to try and take the wand. Ignoring him, Snape brandished his own wand and motioned with it toward Weasley's.
"Prior incantato!"
A green whisp of smoke rose from the wand, dissipating in the still air of the Hospital Room.
"It seems Potter was no the only one to cast the Killing Curse."
"He had me under the Imperious-."
"Always a circumstance," Snape cut across him, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
"That's different!" Weasley screamed, his hands curling into fists.
"Is it?"
"There was no one else in the room with us to put him under the Imperious! That was Harry!"
"Correct. However," he looked at Ron appraisingly, "What do you know of Potter's- side-affects- to the incident that gave him that scar?"
"He has dreams about You-Know-Who," Ron said roughly. "And he feels what He's feeling."
"Correct again, but it is deeper than that- more than awareness. It is a connection."
"I don't understand."
"Tell me, Weasley," Snape said, feeling irritated at this whole predicament the boy had created, "Would the Potter you know ever attack you or Granger? Or Lupin or Black?"
"No-," he answered, then stopped, cocking his head at his professor. "He attacked Professor Lupin and Sirius? Are they all right?"
"Lupin is. Black, however, is dead."
"Dead?" He staggered as if he had been struck. "Sirius and Hermione." The young Gryffindor's legs seemed to give out from under him and he slipped to his knees in a daze. "Harry killed-. He would never. Not Sirius." Those eyes caught Snape again, pleading, then answering. "It was You-Know-Who, wasn't it? You said there was a connection. He was in Harry's head."
"Amazing where simple logic can take you when you are not saddled with emotions like revenge," Snape answered silkily, though not as icily as he normally would have. He continued watching the red head on the floor as he struggled with this new information. That it weighed heavily on him was obvious, and Snape could practically see his mind realize what he had almost done. Tears broke from Weasley's eyes and were sliding simultaneously down each cheek.
Though he felt no affection for this boy, he saw in him what he had seen in many others, himself included, at these moments where there seemed no hope. It was a struggle. These, after all, were the times that the heart chooses between Light and Dark, not when we are at our strongest, but when we are at our weakest.
"Granger is not dead," Snape offered, his voice softer than even he had meant. "It takes two things to kill. The will and the power. The Dark Lord gave you the will, but he could not give you the power."
"She's alive?"
"She is at St. Mungo's, but yes, she is alive."
"But Sirius-?"
"I'm sure you have noticed that Potter is no ordinary boy. He was provided with the will. He did not lack in the power."
"Sirius is really dead."
"Yes."
Weasley looked up at the bed where his best friend still lay unconscious.
"It was Harry's hand and Harry's wand that killed him," he muttered softly to himself. Then, realizing that tears were still sliding down his face, he wiped angrily at them with his pajama sleeve. "He'll never forgive himself for this," he said at last, looking up at Snape. "Even though it wasn't him-."
"It will be difficult," Snape answered, feeling uncomfortable with his role of comforting the young Gryffindor. This was not his forte. Up to this point, he had been able to rely on logic to make the boy understand, but now? Dumbledore should be here. The headmaster was better at this than he. "Come, Weasley. You are still weak from your own experience."
Almost in a daze, Weasley stood slowly, laying his hand momentarily on Potter's shoulder, then walked back to his own bed. He stumbled on nothing, prompting Snape to take his elbow to steady him.
"Are you still feeling pain in your extremities?" Snape asked as the boy settled himself once more in the bed, relieved to turn the conversation back to his original purpose for being there.
The boy shot him a perplexed look before answering.
"Odd. I didn't feel it before you asked."
"It was numbed by your adrenaline. Drink this," the Potions Master told him, taking a small vial from his robes. "It will help you sleep as well."
He drank the clear liquid he was given and sunk down in the bed, saying nothing more to his professor before drifting off to sleep. Snape remained where he was, watching Weasley carefully. He had finally shown signs of being mildly interesting. Perhaps- perhaps he would be of use in the next few years. Young. Pureblood. Good reason to hate Potter, at least to an outsider. If those bothersome emotions could be checked, the boy might find himself in a double service as Snape had.
The smirk on his face faded quickly. Weasley was, after all, just a boy of fifteen, and here he was planning a very dark future for him. A future he was trying to help his own House avoid. No. He was doing this to protect the students, not to expose more of them to His power. Snape turned, absently rubbing at his left forearm, and stepped around the screens once more to exit the Hospital only to find Dumbledore himself standing near the door. The headmaster was watching him sadly from his spot near the door.
"How long have you been there?" Snape asked when he was near to him.
"Long enough, Severus. Long enough." He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but only reached out a hand, clasping the younger man's shoulder. "You are a good man, my boy. I am proud of you."
Snape did not answer, but inclined his head in a slight bow of thanks. He, of course, would never tell the old man how much those words meant to him.
¤¤¤¤
Ron lay motionless on his hospital bed, not feigning sleep, but trying very hard to go unnoticed as he listened to the hushed whispers from deeper in the room. It was a mere two days since that night Snape had found him standing over Harry's bed, and though Snape had come to check on his progress and force vile potions down his throat several times, the two never said a word about their conversation that night. There had been no need, as Harry had still not awoken, but that changed late last night.
The Potions Master had been checking Ron's pulse as he asked questions about where he was feeling pain and what kind of pain. ("Come Weasley, surely you can differentiate between different types of pain. Is it searing? Throbbing? A dull ache?") Ron had begun to protest for the umpteenth time that he did not need any help from him, when Snape's hand suddenly rose in the air, silencing him. The professor's head cocked to the side, as if he were listening for something. Then, without warning, his whole head swung to the side so he was looking at, or through, the screen to Ron's left. Ron, too, strained to hear what the professor was listening for, and after several moments of deafening silence, he heard it.
A sob.
Harry was crying.
"Take this," Snape said, his voice suddenly very low, as if he didn't want Harry to hear, and produced another potion for Ron to swallow. Snape waited, decidedly impatient, until Ron had swallowed the contents, before moving from behind the screen.
He listened to the measured footsteps that carried the hated potions professor across the room, an eternity passing in that slow trek, before hearing the man speak.
"Potter?" The one word was soft and very unSnape-like. Ron strained to hear more, but unfortunately, the potion was swift and Ron was asleep before he heard anything more.
But now, wide awake, Ron couldn't make out the words being whispered, nor who exactly was whispering, though he knew Dumbledore, McGonagall, Lupin, and Madame Pomfrey were all at the far end of the room. He had seen each of them pass by his bed on their way to Harry.
"I can't remember."
Harry's voice! That was most definitely Harry's voice. An involuntary shudder passed through his body. Ron looked toward the screen nearest his friend, as if he could see him through the white fabric, but heard no more from Harry. Instead, he heard the Headmaster's voice.
"Minerva, Poppy, give us a few minutes." The two women walked past the foot of Ron's bed, to which he promptly shut his eyes, hoping they would not stop to check on him. After a few moments of silence, he heard Dumbledore speak again.
"Harry, why don't you tell us what you can remember."
¤¤¤¤
Remus Lupin sat in an uncomfortable chair by Harry's bed, unsure of himself for the first time in a long time. At the same time, he wanted to hug the boy and draw away from him, and this inner-conflict scared him. He knew it wasn't Harry who had done all those things, who had tortured him and Ron, nearly killed Hermione, and had killed Sirius. And yet- and yet, even in those moments of quiet solitude when he allowed his mind to wander, he still saw Harry's mouth twisted in an evil grin, his wand pointed at him. And at times, he could still feel the pain of that curse. True, he had felt it before, but it was a hundred times worse when this boy's face was smirking at him in that eerie fashion.
"Harry, why don't you tell us what you can remember."
"How much?"
"Do you remember how you came to Hogwarts?"
Remus wasn't looking at the Headmaster or the student. There was a string hanging from the sheet on Harry's bed, and he concentrated on it, hearing all the words that passed around him, but trying hard not to react to any of it. Why hadn't he been dismissed with McGonagall and Pomfrey?
"Snape brought me here. I didn't know it was him at the time, but he took off his mask. I was in a hospital of some kind, but I don't remember why."
"You don't remember why you left your aunt and uncle's house?"
There was a long moment of silence. Remus could hear Harry fidgeting in the bed, saw the sheets move as the boy twisted them in his hands.
The string quivered, then stopped.
"No, I remember getting in a fight with Dudley, and Uncle Vernon dragging me up to my room. He screamed at me, knocked me around. When I tried to leave- I must have fallen."
"And then?"
"I woke up in a field. I have no idea how I got there, but I did." A pause. "Do we have to talk about this?" His voice was strained, tight.
"No, Harry. No, we don't, and I apologize for bringing it up," the Headmaster answered sympathetically. "I simply wanted to see what you remembered."
"Oh."
The string quivered again, jerked to the side by another pull on the sheet.
"I remember everything, sir," Harry said. "Everything from before, and being here and not recognizing anyone or anything. It was all a confusion, but I remember Ron and Hermione coming to my room, and meeting with Fred and George and Ginny on the Quidditch pitch. I was taking Occlumency lessons with Sn- Professor Snape."
More fidgeting. The string swung from side to side before finding its equilibrium. Was he remembering their last lesson together?
"What is the last thing you remember?" the headmaster prodded gently.
Remus' eyes caught a glimpse of Harry's hand moving on the edge of his sight, and his eyes involuntarily followed it as Harry balled his trembling fingers into a fist.
"Hermione came up to my room to talk to me. I was- well- feeling trapped, and she made me feel better. I kissed her." Remus looked up quickly at Harry's blushing face, but the boy was staring fixedly at his hands. "I don't even know why. I think of her as my sister, but there was this voice telling me that I wanted to, and- and then Ron was standing right there. He saw it, and he hit me. I don't remember much after that." Now Harry did glance up and saw the expression of horror on Remus' face he had tried so hard to disguise. Fortunately, Harry misread it as anger at Ron. "It wasn't Ron's fault," he added quickly. "They're dating, you know. Not that they ever told me, but I picked up on it when I was around them. I probably would have done-."
"It's all right, Harry," Dumbledore told him, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. Remus detected a small amount of confusion in the man's eyes, but did not voice it. "What was the next thing you remember?"
"Waking up here." Harry sat absolutely still.
Dumbledore nodded, accepting the answer.
"You should know then that that very evening, Lord Voldemort himself attacked, well, you and your friends. Mr. Weasley," he motioned toward the screen nearest Ron's bed, "is resting just a few beds from here. Miss Granger suffered more serious injuries and is now at St. Mungo's, recuperating."
"They're alive," Harry breathed, as if convincing himself of the truth.
"They are, as is Remus, here, who was attacked while trying to help them." Those twinkling blue eyes closed for a long moment, and when they opened again, they were dull and clouded. "Sirius, however, did not survive. I'm sorry, Harry."
However Remus had expected Harry to react, it wasn't like this. He himself had spent two days in the room Dumbledore had provided for him at the school, crying and ranting against the gods before settling into the melancholy air which had been his for what felt like a lifetime now. He had, after all, lost his best friend, his brother, leaving him as the last Marauder of those carefree days long past. But Harry had lost his godfather, the man who was his surrogate father.
Perhaps the boy was in shock?
No. His breathing was shallow as he stared down at his hands. His face was placid, emotionless. When his eyes closed, hiding those startling green orbs from view, Remus expected to see tears escape from underneath his eyelashes, but none fell.
When his eyes opened again, Remus was startled to see that Harry was staring at him, he eyes wide and terrified.
"I'm sorry, Lupin," he said, his voice wavering.
"For what, Harry?"
"That you were hurt. And- and that Sirius-." Now the tears did begin to stream down his face. "And Ron, and Hermione, and-."
"Harry, it wasn't your fault," Remus answered, laying a comforting hand on his and reminding himself of the validity of his own words. It wasn't Harry's fault. It wasn't Harry. He knew that. Deep down, he knew that.
"People keep getting hurt because of me," Harry continued. "First Cedric, then you and Ron and Hermione. And now-." He didn't seem able to finish the sentence.
"Harry, it wasn't you," Remus offered to calm him down. "Voldemort was after the Headmaster. Everyone else was just in his way."
Except for you, dear boy. You were his weapon.
Remus looked up to Dumbledore for help, but the headmaster was watching Harry, as if quietly observing his reaction to this news, something Remus found very curious. Those blue eyes suddenly slid down to meet his.
"Remus, would you allow me a few minutes with Harry?"
Nodding, Remus stood, squeezed Harry's hand reassuringly, and slid around the screen. He paused, then walked slowly toward the door, only glancing at Ron Weasley's bed, and was surprised to see the boy was awake. The former Defense professor started when Ron quietly motioned him over.
"Is something wrong, Ron? Should I summon Madame Pomfrey?"
"Pro- uh, Mr. Lupin," Ron whispered, "He's not going to tell Harry, is he? I mean, about how You-Know-Who came to Hogwarts?"
"Unlikely," Remus answered. "If Harry can't remember it himself, there's nothing to gain by telling him." He noted the look of relief on the boy's face. "Let me guess. You're wondering how you can face him?"
"Yeah, actually." His eyes strayed toward the screen separating them. "When I first woke up, I was, well, angry doesn't seem strong enough. I wanted to hurt Harry. Maybe even kill him. It disgusted me that they even had him here." He looked back up at Remus. "I honestly don't know what I would have done had Snape not shown up and stopped me. He explained everything that happened."
Remus tried hard to control the emotions he had felt on hearing this, and couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore had been informed. It didn't really surprise him that Severus had helped Ron, despite his strong dislike for anything Gryffindor and especially Harry and his friends, but he wasn't completely heartless, as much as that probably irked him.
"I felt better after that," Ron continued. "I really thought I would be fine, until he woke up last night. Now, I can't help wonder how I can face him. I don't know how I can-." He seemed to be struggling to put into words the very feelings Remus had been dealing with as he himself sat next to Harry.
"Disguise the horror you feel at your memories of what you saw and experienced him do," the former professor finished. Ron looked at him, surprised, then nodded. "Believe me, Ron, I felt the same way. And as much as it shames me to admit this, I felt the smallest amount of fear when I first heard his voice this morning, and I was terribly uncomfortable. The odd thing is, do you know what I saw when I finally brought myself to look him in the eye?"
"What?"
"Harry," he answered, squeezing the boy's shoulder. "Just Harry. He's the same boy I met two years ago, though perhaps a little more haunted, but he is not that person I found myself facing in the third floor corridor. The Harry I saw in his eyes would never willingly hurt another person and would do everything he could to protect those he cares about. And that made it easier for me. It may not take away the nightmares; those will only fade with time, but it gives me something more to fight for."
"Harry."
"No, not just Harry. You and Hermione, too. I saw in Harry, and what I see in you now, is the same thing I saw in both James and Sirius when I was young. It's that bond deeper than friendship, deeper than blood. I don't want that to be sacrificed to a war you never started, as ours was." Remus felt the familiar knot in his throat tighten. "Remember that, Ron." He smiled weakly and turned to go.
"Professor?" He turned. "Thank you."
Remus nodded.
"Thank you, Ron." His steps carried him out of the Hospital Wing, but his mind paid no attention. Somehow, calming Ron had done something for him, allowed him to order his thoughts and evaluate what he had been feeling for the last few days. More than a few times he had questioned what the point of this whole war was, and trying to calm the poor boy in the Hospital Wing had reminded him of why he was fighting. He was fighting, not because it was the right thing to do, but because he had to, for James and Lily and Sirius, and for Harry and his friends, and for himself and what he'd lost.
¤¤¤¤
The morning after he spoke with Mr. Lupin, Ron was released from the Hospital Wing to return to his House. He didn't speak to Harry before he left. Despite Lupin's own reassurances, he felt he wasn't ready yet. Instead, after a long conversation with Dumbledore and McGonagall about what had happened, he went straight to the Gryffindor Common Room where he found his brothers and sister waiting impatiently. Ginny threw her arms around him instantly, telling him in more colorful adjectives than he thought she even knew to never scare her like that again.
Fred and George embraced him in turn, then, in the most serious tones Ron had ever heard them use, explained everything that had happened, so far as they knew: returning from Quidditch practice to hear screams echoing through the castle, the announcement for all students to report to their Houses while the staff ran off in the opposite direction, and the long wait for news. As soon as they realized he was not in the Common Room, they had known that Ron, Hermione, and Harry were somehow involved in whatever was happening in the third floor corridor. The rest of the House knew only of Ron and Hermione, and nearly everyone had sat in the Common Room together, in near silence, waiting to hear what had happened to their fifth year prefects. Finally, just after midnight, Professor McGonagall had entered, knowing instinctively that her students would still be up, to make the announcement.
An intruder had attacked three students, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter, who had been in a private room in the castle to recover from injuries sustained over the summer. Ron and Harry were in the Hospital Wing. Hermione had been taken to St. Mungo's with more serious injuries. The intruder had fled. It was requested that students allow Ron and Harry to recover without interruption; so only family would be allowed to visit.
That is, until the Weasleys' constant presence began to encroach on Madame Pomfrey and Professor Snape's nerves. Then, they, too, were banned.
Knowing only this, the siblings were hungry for information, but Ron wouldn't share any, only telling them that what they had been told was the truth.
Mostly.
"Ron," George asked quietly. "How's Hermione?"
"I don't know. All anyone will tell me is that she's alive."
"What happened to her?"
Unable to answer, Ron buried his face in his arms.
Classes didn't go much differently. All the Houses had received the same information from their Heads. Everyone wanted to know what had happened up in the third floor corridor, what had happened to Harry, what had happened to Hermione. Ron didn't answer any questions. Whenever another was asked, he felt like his throat was closing up on him.
Who was screaming?
I heard Granger was dying!
They were after Potter, weren't they?
Were you cursed?
Who was the intruder?
Did you see who it was?
Was it Sirius Black?
What happened?
What happened?
The room was spinning. Ron squeezed his eyes shut, willing the dungeon to tilt back to normal as he squeezed the edge of his desk, trying to hold on. To his right, he could hear Malfoy talking, Slytherin laughter filled the room. Ron's chest was feeling tight. Why couldn't he breath? Why were the walls pressing in on him?
A hand touched his shoulder, and he instinctively jerked from it.
"Ron, mate, are you okay?"
A trembling white hand reached up and tore furiously at the knot in his tie. Why was it so tight? It was choking him! He had to get out. The room was too small!
The room tilted again as he tried to stand.
"Ron!"
Screams.
"Silence!"
The room was quiet, but for the snickers across the room, quickly silenced by a glare from the professor. Strong hands pulled him to his feet against his will. The muscles in his legs were gelatin.
"Finnegan, summon your Head of House. And if I hear even a sneeze from this room, you will regret the day you took your first breath!"
Silence reigned loudly in Ron's ears as he was half led, half carried across the floor, still fighting to catch his breath. His body was dropped in a chair. He heard a door shut from a distance as he tore at the threatening clothes. He ripped away his robes and sweater, clawed at his tie and collar as cabinets were opened and closed nearby. Suddenly, his face was tilted up and a glass pressed to his lips.
"Drink this, Weasley." Ron obeyed the voice that had bid him drink numerous potions over the last few days. The liquid was cold and tasteless. The glass was taken away. "Cross your arms across your knees and lay your head on them." Ron did as he was told, squeezing his eyes shut. He was beginning to feel nauseous, and hoped he wouldn't be sick.
The door opened and closed as the professor slipped out.
The knot Ron's throat tightened. He tried to take a breath, but instead, sobbed. In moments, tears were streaming down his face, though he wasn't exactly sure why. Unable to stop crying, his body shuddered. He miserably pulled his arms closer, wrapping them around his waist, leaving his forehead to lay on his own bony knees. The knees of his pants were soon damp with his tears.
He didn't even hear the door open. A hand held the back of his neck, pulling him to sit up. Another glass was pressed to his lips.
"Drink some more. It will help."
Ron did as he was told. It did help. He began to feel a little calmer, though worn out and still a little nauseous. He chanced a glance up at his Potions professor and found him to be watching him as well, leaning against his desk with his arms folded across his chest. He looked- concerned. No, not concerned. Clinical, as if he had just viewed his own theories proven.
"What did you give me?" Ron croaked.
"Water." His hands moved down to lean on the desk as well. "Do you know what happened?"
Ron shook his head.
"You were panicking. You should not have returned to classes yet."
Ron answered by way of closing his eyes, and returned his head to his knees. The nausea had not yet passed, and the last thing he wanted was to get sick all over Snape's office. All he wanted was to lie down. His head was swimming. His body felt very heavy. The sensation of falling from a great height filled his mind, and his head jerked suddenly up.
A growl emanated from the professor's throat. Then, the tall man moved closer to where Ron sat drifting to sleep. The wooden chair suddenly felt softer, and the professor's hands were pushing his shoulders down so he was lying down on the transfigured cot. Ron was asleep again before his head touched the pillow.
¤¤¤¤
Minerva McGonagall rushed into the dungeon, her eyes instantly seeking and finding the Potions Master seated behind his desk, a quill clutched in one hand, and an essay in the other.
"Severus, what happened? I couldn't make out anything Finnegan-." She suddenly realized the classroom was empty. "What happened to your class?"
"I sent them back to their Common Rooms."
"Why?"
"Because if they'd stayed in here another minute, I probably would have cursed one or all of them," he growled, setting down the quill and leaning back in his chair.
"What happened?"
"Weasley had a panic attack in class." He folded his hands in his lap. "It was too soon for him to return to classes, much less to be attacked with questions from every student in this school within hours of being released."
"It was his choice to return."
"It was a poor choice." The professor rose from his seat in one graceful movement. "Please take him back to his dormitory. Tell him not to return until he is ready."
"Back to the dormitory? He's not there now?"
"No, he's sleeping in my office." He turned and looked at her, saw the mirth in her face. "He's as tall as I am. Did you expect me to carry him through the corridors to his room?"
McGonagall tried not to smile as she followed Snape through the narrow door toward the front of his classroom, and as she entered the room, had to cover her mouth with her hand to hide the smile that pressed itself onto her lips. Ron Weasley lay placidly on a small cot, sound asleep, completely unaware that he lay beneath a shelf of jars filled with pickled newt eyes, spider legs, toad livers, and many other substances that would make skin crawl, in the office of his most loathed professor. On a nearby chair, McGonagall found his robe, sweater, and tie, neatly folded and stacked.
"A house elf," Snape answered the unspoken question in her eyes.
She smiled.
"Don't look at me like that, Minerva," he told her, leaning over the young man on the cot and gently shaking his shoulder. "Wake up, Weasley."
"Hmh?"
"Professor McGonagall is here to take you to your dormitory. Get up."
The boy's eyes opened slowly, and he unsteadily tried to stand, only to have his elbow grasped by Snape before he could fall back onto the cot again.
"Careful."
Had he been fully awake, the young Gryffindor probably would have fainted to hear Snape's voice so calm. Instead, he allowed the professor to lead him a few steps until his Head of House could take his arm.
"Thank you, Severus," she told him gratefully, "for taking such excellent care of my student."
He nodded in answer, and when the door shut behind the Gryffindor teacher and student, Snape returned the cot to its previous state and sat at his desk to finish his work.
¤¤¤¤
For all the questions the Gryffindor House, and the student body at large, had for Ron Weasley when he returned, they had even more for Harry Potter, but much to their disappointment, they received even fewer answers. The boy rarely spoke, and when he did, it was emotionless, leaving all around him wondering what exactly he had been through. Interaction with his housemates was minimal, and nearly everyone noticed that none of that interaction was with his best friend, Ron Weasley. In fact, neither seemed eager to speak with the other.
All this was noticed and filed away in the minds of the fellow students, though what it could mean, nobody knew. They weren't unfriendly, denoting a fight or argument, but just… distant. The behavior of these two normally outgoing boys was unnerving to say the least.
They're just worried about Granger. They'll be okay when she gets back.
When Hermione Granger returned to the school late in the evening in early November, she found the Common Room quiet. Most students were studying or already in bed. One student, however, rose to his feet as soon as the portrait opened to admit her, and as their eyes met from across the room, she felt a lump in her throat as a tall red head silently crossed the room and folded her in his arms.
Even as she closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest, the memories came storming back to her: Ron staring down at her with cold eyes, those evil words on the tip of his tongue. And the pain. She shuddered at the memory, causing Ron to tighten his embrace, as if to protect her from the images in her head.
"I'm sorry, Hermione. I'm so sorry."
* * *
One more chapter to go. Don't worry. Next one we will see more into Harry's head. And, a funeral for a fallen friend (Yes, he's really dead).
I know Lupin's conversation with Ron in this chapter seems out of place (light in a sea of darkness), but I didn't think he would be quite as pessimistic and depressing as everyone else. After all, he is a thinker. Besides, that section just kind of rolled off my fingertips.
And as for the Snape/Ron quasi-bond thing, well, it's not something we see often here, and I figure after everything the boy has been through, Snape may begin to see something there, like potential. Yes, that is a hint that Ron would make an excellent spy. I've read some good one's here where he is a Death Eater spy. This is my nod.
And kudos to those of you who picked up the subtle hints that Hermione was not dead. Why would they take her to the Hospital Wing if she was dead?
I'm off to write the last chapter. Thanks for sticking around.
Toodles!