Chapter Two
Albus Dumbledore looked at the figure lying prone on the bed. Luckily, there were no other students in the infirmary at the moment, and Severus Snape's dramatic and bloody entrance had gone unobserved, apart from Poppy Pomfrey, of course.
Dumbledore sighed. He was glad, of course, that Severus had managed to whisk the girl away. His Potions Master hadn't had time to say much about what had happened, but Dumbledore could hazard a guess. He had known Snape was on his way to a Dark Revel- they always conferred briefly before he set off on such things- and it wasn't unusual for victims to be used as entertainment. It wasn't the first time that Snape had performed a rescue, either, though such an escape was, unfortunately, not possible as frequently as might be desired.
No, it wasn't surprising that Snape had brought this bundle home with him.
What was of concern, was the girl's continued unconsciousness. Snape had told him that he had performed a few simple charms, and Poppy had checked the girl's injuries. There was no reason she should still be dead to the world, almost 24 hours later.
Dumbledore looked up as Snape stalked in the room. Even under the circumstances, Dumbledore had to smile at his colleague's demeanour. To those who did not know him well, it was difficult to discern any difference in Snape's mood- his habitual stalk and frown were worn like a uniform. But once you looked beyond such contrivances- and Dumbledore did- he was generally quite readable. Right now, his attempt to hide his concern was most amusing.
Snape walked silently to the bed and observed the still figure with a frown. Dumbledore decided to give him some help.
'There has been no change, so Poppy tells me.'
Snape nodded, and reached out to touch the patient's forehead. 'She has a fever,' he stated.
'Yes, Poppy has healed her wounds, but hasn't been able to do anything further, unfortunately,' Dumbledore answered. Snape shot him a startled look.
'Nothing? Nothing works?' Dumbledore shook his head.
'I'm afraid, Severus, that there is nothing we can do but wait. Poppy assures me, apart from the fever, that she is quite safe. The child has been through much. It may be best to simply let her heal.' He patted his old friend on the back, and moved from the room, leaving the potions master to stand solemnly by the bed.
***
Severus Snape shook his head to clear it of its grogginess, and looked over at the figure on the bed next to him. It had been a week, and the girl had showed no signs of change.
Such inaction was infuriating to him. He knew the spells he had performed- there was no way that they should have worked for more than a couple of hours. Pomfrey said that the girl had no internal injuries, and her outer wounds were healed- so why was she still immersed in senseless sleep?
All week, conducting his classes, Snape's mind had been on the girl. He felt an odd desperation about her- the sluggish aura of the coma she was trapped in drew him to her somehow. Privately, he had searched every single journal he had, in the hope for a cure, but had found none. There was simply no reason for her to still be in this coma.
What troubled him most was his own feelings in the matter. In the course of his duties as a spy for Dumbledore, he had had a few opportunities to rescue potential victims at revels. He had done the best he could for them, presenting them as a sort of penance for the times when he could only stand by and watch others die. But when they had recovered, when they were functioning again, he had let them be without a second's thought.
There was no reason for his concern for this stranger. She was an innocent, yes, but Snape had never really felt the pangs for innocence some of his more sentimental colleagues were apt to display. Innocence was soon enough lost, and mourning for it would do no-one any good. His outlook had perhaps led some to believe he was heartless over the years- and it was relatively true. He had no real heart for sad tales or sympathy, and could never understand those who did. Knowing right from wrong, and having the ability to judge in the grey area in between, was his only concession to the cause of 'good'.
Yet with this girl he felt a... a link, perhaps, a connection. When his thoughts were drawn to her he felt a wave of utter despair that was singularly out of character for him- the girl was only in a coma, after all, and had escaped some of the more drastic consequences of being at a dark revel. And turn to her his thoughts did, hundreds of times a day, until he was forced to go and check on her.
Snape observed the girl, lying ashen-faced on crisp white sheets. In concession to the fever she was running, Poppy Pomfrey had dressed her only in a light summery cotton nightgown, and had left the heavier blankets at the foot of the bed. The girl lay on her stomach, a position she turned to every time someone tried to move her.
Firelight was the only light in the room, the staff having agreed it was best not to draw attention to their guest. The avoidance spell placed around the curtain kept the students away, but they would be suspicious if the infirmary was lit up in the middle of the night. The wavering light flickered over the girl's pale skin, highlighting its creaminess and shadows. Her hair lay ruffled on the pillow, a dull dark brown. Perspiration cloaked her face, a slight flush in her cheeks emphasising her exquisite bone structure.
All this, Severus Snape observed, and yet remained unmoved. It was not attraction that prompted his interest. This girl was- what? Fifteen? Sixteen? Eighteen? All the years he had taught at Hogwarts had nevertheless left him ignorant on judging teenage girls.
No, it was not attraction. Children had never tempted him, even when he was one himself- the prattlings of a teenage beauty held nothing to the intelligent conversation provided by a middle-aged woman. So what was it?
A movement caught his eye, and Snape's gaze was drawn to the girl's face. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. For a silent moment, she stared at him without expression, and Snape wondered if it was just a muscular reaction. Then her eyes flickered with anger, her mouth twisting.
'You!' The one word was brimming with hatred and disgust.
Before he knew what was happening, the girl sat up, her hand scrabbling on the table nearest her. Snape felt a sharp pain, and looked down at his leg, surprised to see a pair of scissors embedded in it. The girl started yelling in a language he didn't understand- was it Gaelic?- and the wound in his leg spurted blood.
In a moment, it was over. Poppy Pomfrey rushed in to see what the commotion was, and sedated the hysterical girl. She was attending to Snape's wound when Dumbledore walked in and surveyed the scene.
The old man's eyes travelled over the sedated girl, slumped on the bed, the spatters of blood soaking the front of the bedclothes and the floor, and Snape's leg. To Snape's utter surprise, the man smiled.
'Ah, I see our patient has finally awoken. Good.'
Albus Dumbledore looked at the figure lying prone on the bed. Luckily, there were no other students in the infirmary at the moment, and Severus Snape's dramatic and bloody entrance had gone unobserved, apart from Poppy Pomfrey, of course.
Dumbledore sighed. He was glad, of course, that Severus had managed to whisk the girl away. His Potions Master hadn't had time to say much about what had happened, but Dumbledore could hazard a guess. He had known Snape was on his way to a Dark Revel- they always conferred briefly before he set off on such things- and it wasn't unusual for victims to be used as entertainment. It wasn't the first time that Snape had performed a rescue, either, though such an escape was, unfortunately, not possible as frequently as might be desired.
No, it wasn't surprising that Snape had brought this bundle home with him.
What was of concern, was the girl's continued unconsciousness. Snape had told him that he had performed a few simple charms, and Poppy had checked the girl's injuries. There was no reason she should still be dead to the world, almost 24 hours later.
Dumbledore looked up as Snape stalked in the room. Even under the circumstances, Dumbledore had to smile at his colleague's demeanour. To those who did not know him well, it was difficult to discern any difference in Snape's mood- his habitual stalk and frown were worn like a uniform. But once you looked beyond such contrivances- and Dumbledore did- he was generally quite readable. Right now, his attempt to hide his concern was most amusing.
Snape walked silently to the bed and observed the still figure with a frown. Dumbledore decided to give him some help.
'There has been no change, so Poppy tells me.'
Snape nodded, and reached out to touch the patient's forehead. 'She has a fever,' he stated.
'Yes, Poppy has healed her wounds, but hasn't been able to do anything further, unfortunately,' Dumbledore answered. Snape shot him a startled look.
'Nothing? Nothing works?' Dumbledore shook his head.
'I'm afraid, Severus, that there is nothing we can do but wait. Poppy assures me, apart from the fever, that she is quite safe. The child has been through much. It may be best to simply let her heal.' He patted his old friend on the back, and moved from the room, leaving the potions master to stand solemnly by the bed.
***
Severus Snape shook his head to clear it of its grogginess, and looked over at the figure on the bed next to him. It had been a week, and the girl had showed no signs of change.
Such inaction was infuriating to him. He knew the spells he had performed- there was no way that they should have worked for more than a couple of hours. Pomfrey said that the girl had no internal injuries, and her outer wounds were healed- so why was she still immersed in senseless sleep?
All week, conducting his classes, Snape's mind had been on the girl. He felt an odd desperation about her- the sluggish aura of the coma she was trapped in drew him to her somehow. Privately, he had searched every single journal he had, in the hope for a cure, but had found none. There was simply no reason for her to still be in this coma.
What troubled him most was his own feelings in the matter. In the course of his duties as a spy for Dumbledore, he had had a few opportunities to rescue potential victims at revels. He had done the best he could for them, presenting them as a sort of penance for the times when he could only stand by and watch others die. But when they had recovered, when they were functioning again, he had let them be without a second's thought.
There was no reason for his concern for this stranger. She was an innocent, yes, but Snape had never really felt the pangs for innocence some of his more sentimental colleagues were apt to display. Innocence was soon enough lost, and mourning for it would do no-one any good. His outlook had perhaps led some to believe he was heartless over the years- and it was relatively true. He had no real heart for sad tales or sympathy, and could never understand those who did. Knowing right from wrong, and having the ability to judge in the grey area in between, was his only concession to the cause of 'good'.
Yet with this girl he felt a... a link, perhaps, a connection. When his thoughts were drawn to her he felt a wave of utter despair that was singularly out of character for him- the girl was only in a coma, after all, and had escaped some of the more drastic consequences of being at a dark revel. And turn to her his thoughts did, hundreds of times a day, until he was forced to go and check on her.
Snape observed the girl, lying ashen-faced on crisp white sheets. In concession to the fever she was running, Poppy Pomfrey had dressed her only in a light summery cotton nightgown, and had left the heavier blankets at the foot of the bed. The girl lay on her stomach, a position she turned to every time someone tried to move her.
Firelight was the only light in the room, the staff having agreed it was best not to draw attention to their guest. The avoidance spell placed around the curtain kept the students away, but they would be suspicious if the infirmary was lit up in the middle of the night. The wavering light flickered over the girl's pale skin, highlighting its creaminess and shadows. Her hair lay ruffled on the pillow, a dull dark brown. Perspiration cloaked her face, a slight flush in her cheeks emphasising her exquisite bone structure.
All this, Severus Snape observed, and yet remained unmoved. It was not attraction that prompted his interest. This girl was- what? Fifteen? Sixteen? Eighteen? All the years he had taught at Hogwarts had nevertheless left him ignorant on judging teenage girls.
No, it was not attraction. Children had never tempted him, even when he was one himself- the prattlings of a teenage beauty held nothing to the intelligent conversation provided by a middle-aged woman. So what was it?
A movement caught his eye, and Snape's gaze was drawn to the girl's face. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. For a silent moment, she stared at him without expression, and Snape wondered if it was just a muscular reaction. Then her eyes flickered with anger, her mouth twisting.
'You!' The one word was brimming with hatred and disgust.
Before he knew what was happening, the girl sat up, her hand scrabbling on the table nearest her. Snape felt a sharp pain, and looked down at his leg, surprised to see a pair of scissors embedded in it. The girl started yelling in a language he didn't understand- was it Gaelic?- and the wound in his leg spurted blood.
In a moment, it was over. Poppy Pomfrey rushed in to see what the commotion was, and sedated the hysterical girl. She was attending to Snape's wound when Dumbledore walked in and surveyed the scene.
The old man's eyes travelled over the sedated girl, slumped on the bed, the spatters of blood soaking the front of the bedclothes and the floor, and Snape's leg. To Snape's utter surprise, the man smiled.
'Ah, I see our patient has finally awoken. Good.'