One morning in late April, Marya woke to the sound of someone knocking rather persistently on the door of her quarters. "Coming!" she yelled as she pulled on her robe and went to answer the door. It was Minerva McGonagall.
"Did I wake you? So sorry," she said briskly. "Severus sent a note that he is indisposed today. I have Professor Sprout covering the morning classes, but the afternoon is a double N.E.W.T. class, and I am afraid that might be a bit much for her. Could you cover that period?"
Marya was still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "Shouldn't be a problem." Monday was her lightest day – she only had a couple classes before noon.
"All right then, I will mark you down for those."
As the Deputy Headmistress turned to leave, Marya called after her.
"Wait. Do you know what is wrong with Severus?"
McGonagall laughed mirthlessly. "No, and I know better than to stick my nose where I am not wanted. I just about got my head bit off last week when I so much as asked if he was feeling quite well. He knows how to find the hospital wing."
Marya stood in the door watching McGonagall's back disappearing down the hallway. This didn't sound good to her. She had seen Severus Snape drag himself to work when she was sure he would have been better off in bed with a cup of tea. He wouldn't skive off classes unless there was something seriously wrong, of that she was fairly certain. In a second she made up her mind. She would go and check on him. She could always say that she just needed to find out what he had planned for the N.E.W.T. class – which would at least partly be the truth.
After getting dressed and running a comb through her hair she made her way to his quarters. She knocked gently on the door. No answer. She knocked harder. Still no answer. What now?
For a minute Marya stood, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. What if he was too ill to answer the door? She weighed her option. If he caught her in his quarters without permission, there would be hell to pay.
Finally she shrugged. In the long run, what could he possibly do to her? Things couldn't deteriorate much further than they already had. So "Alohomora," she whispered, and pointed her wand at the lock. With a click, she heard the door open. She breathed a sigh of relief – she had seen him place wards on his office, and knew she would have had a hard time breaking anything more than a simple security spell without wasting a lot of time. Luckily he didn't seem to see as much of a need to protect his quarters.
Cautiously she stepped through the door, softly calling, "Hello?" No one answered.
She couldn't see anyone in the sitting room, so she crossed over to the bedroom door.
He was draped on top of his bed as if he had barely managed to crawl there before collapsing. A hood and a mask lay discarded on the floor. Dressed in mud-spattered boots and a cloak as if he had just been out, he lay sprawled on his back, his face white and spent. Marya hurried over to his side, summoning her bag as she ran.
"Severus! Are you alright?" His eyes fluttered open. He grimaced when he recognized her.
"I am fine." His voice was weak, barely a whisper, but still filled with venom. "Get out."
She stood up, determination on her face. "Fine. I am getting Madam Pomfrey then. I am not leaving you here alone like this."
His eyes narrowed. "No. I can manage fine by myself," he hissed. "Leave now."
"You could at this point not even get a glass of water for yourself, I think," Marya answered in exasperation. "It is either Poppy Pomfrey or me. Take your pick."
She sat down on the edge of the bed next to him. "Severus, please," she said softly, "could you just for a minute pretend we didn't have a certain conversation, and I am just some mediwitch you never met before, and let me do my job? Let me take care of you?"
"Your job." She was surprised at the bitterness in his voice.
He tried to pull himself together to argue, but suddenly his resistance crumbled. At least she was Order. She knew. And he had seen her in Healer Mode before – he was not going to win this one. She was dead serious about not leaving him alone. And he was just too weak and too weary and in too much pain right now to put up much of a fight. "Do your job, then," he said bitterly, resigned.
"Are you hurt anywhere?" she asked. His hand went to his side almost involuntarily, but Marya had seen the gesture. She opened his cloak, and untucked his shirt from his trousers. Pulling it up, she uncovered an angry bruise that covered most of one side of his chest. The skin was swollen, discolored. As her fingers expertly started to probe the tissue, she saw him flinch.
"I am hurting you. I'm sorry."
"What does it matter?" he sneered.
"It does matter," she said quietly. He just snorted and looked away.
"A few broken ribs. Nothing I can't fix," she told him when she was done with her examination. "I am afraid it is going to hurt though." She looked up at him. "Do you want some potion for the pain before I start?"
"Just get on with it," he said roughly.
She studied the damaged area for a moment, then with a "Reparosteo" her wand tip drew precise lines on his skin, realigning the bones beneath, causing them to meld together. "Just a minute more." She knew the pain must be intense, but other than a light misting of sweat on his face he gave no sign or sound of feeling it.
When she was finished, she gently massaged an ointment into the bruised skin. "This will be sore for a few days." The broken ribs did not explain his state of complete physical exhaustion though.
"What happened?" she asked gently, "did Lord Voldemort...?" Her voice trailed off.
"I am sure the idea of offering myself up to torture by the Dark Lord in the service of the Order sounds quite heroic," he said bitterly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The truth is that the meeting was interrupted by Ministry Aurors who seemed to have no idea that I am supposed to be one of the good guys." He was spitting out the words. "I took several stunners, and who knows what else after I went down. If some of my fellow Death Eaters had not gotten me out of there, I would be dead or in Azkaban right now. Not quite as romantic a story, is it?" His lip curling, he looked away.
Marya was quiet for a moment. She didn't know what to say. Until that moment, she had not fully realized the precariousness of his situation – caught between the two jaws of a vise, pressed from all directions. 'Sorry' didn't seem adequate.