Chapter Ten

He wasn't allowed to see her the first night. The high level mediwitches had gone in to see her, and no one else was allowed in while they worked. When he'd entered the lobby—swaying on his feet with exhaustion—the mediwitch at the desk wouldn't believe that it was not him who was injured. Luckily, Emma and McGonagall had appeared and explained that the blood (which he didn't even realise he was covered in) was not his own. The other werewolves had returned to their village, but Emma remained, gently dabbing the blood off his face, neck, arms, and hands with a warm washcloth while he stared into space, too tired to think or move anymore. She helped him put on a fresh shirt, and then she'd let him rest his head on her shoulder and sleep through the night—McGonagall curled up on his lap.

The next day Emma returned home, though not before forcing him to promise to send word once Daphne was recovered and out. The mediwitches had told Michael then that Daphne would have to remain there for a week, but he could start off seeing her two times a day for ten minutes each. They'd then agreed to look at McGonagall, but it seemed that since only the lower level mediwitches were available, it was an exercise in futility. The higher-ups were so busy with the mass of people coming in near dead that they couldn't spare a single thought, and the lower level ones just didn't know what to do, so they handed him a stack of texts all related to the subject and left him to his own devices in the lobby. It seemed to him that one person could easily have lifted the spell from their former professor, but since they couldn't even find that person unless he decided to show himself or she was human, thus it was a rather cyclical effort.

Daphne slept through the first seventy-two hours without waking up once. Michael feared that she might stay comatose forever. On the third day, they said he could stay with her for an hour. Mackenzie had dropped by then to tell him that the others had met up with Lupin, but still no word of Dumbledore or Harry's group. It seemed that she had a few secrets of her own now, too, but he didn't ask. Instead the two of them sat in silence by Daphne's bed, listening to her even breathing while they read through the texts Michael had been given. Mackenzie left after the hour was up.

All this reading of medical journals was forcing Michael to pick up a few things. Of course, it was impossible to say what he'd really absorbed since he couldn't practice, but he'd memorised some little spells—spells to mend broken fingers, suture mild wounds, and even a resuscitation charm. It wasn't much, but somehow the more he read—searching for a way to turn a well-trained animagus back into her original form when she couldn't—the more he started to retain.

On the fourth day, the nurses didn't bother asking him to leave when the hour was up. McGonagall was sleeping at the end of the bed, her eyes half-lidded in the fashion in which cats—when they're deeply dreaming—sleep. He himself was flipping through a text that weighed nearly fifty pounds, skimming for something, anything… But even as he read, he knew that the only one who could so easily reverse the spell was Dumbledore. He was staring off into space—or rather, he was actually looking down into Daphne's face, one finger still posed over where he'd been reading in the passage, and the other clutching her hand—when she first began to wake up.

The mediwitches had removed most of the bad scrapes from her face and body, and it seemed she wouldn't scar. Her legs were still healing, though, and no one knew if she could actually see yet or not since she hadn't been conscious since the accident. Her fingers twitched and then her hand drew back, linking her fingers between his. She didn't open her eyes, and so he couldn't tell if she was really awake or not.

"Mikey?"

He smiled, not only because he was relieved that she was awake, but because when she opened her eyes, she was looking at him. And not in the way blind people did when they seemed to look at something by looking through it. She was focusing. "Hey," he said. "Have a good nap?"

She closed her eyes again. "Everything's blurry." She paused, and there was a bit of panic in her voice. "I can't move my legs."

He continued smiling, though, which seemed to reassure her even though she was only hearing it. "I think you got hit on the head pretty hard when the dorm collapsed. You'll be all right. And they have your legs locked so they heal."

She was quiet for a while, and Michael thought she might have gone back to sleep. After a brief rest, though, she looked at him again. "That cat was there. The one we saw at the Ministry."

"It's Professor McGonagall," Michael explained as the cat at the foot of the bed opened her eyes and looked at Daphne. He nodded toward the professor before continuing. "She was trapped by the Death Eaters. I've been looking for a way to fix things."

Daphne blinked, squinting at the cat who had never been her favorite professor. McGonagall was sitting up as straight as she could, which looked rather funny for a feline. The proceeding stare-off almost made Michael chuckle, but he was still too tired to manage it. Finally, Daphne said, "How many times did I tell you that transfiguration was dangerous?"

"Yes, well, I believe I told you the same thing, and it is, in the wrong hands," the cat responded, and Daphne looked quite surprised that it was talking to her. McGonagall appeared rather mollified at this. "In any case, I'm quite glad you're all right."

Pulling her hand free of Michael's for a moment, she pushed herself upright so she could sit. "I don't really feel like I fell at all," she said. But then she shook her head. "I don't really remember. The last thing I can think of was the floor breaking apart."

As soon as he could, he took her hand again. There was a need to let her know that he was close, because every time he looked at her in that bed, he remembered that dream. He was afraid that if he left for a moment, he'd come back and she'd be gone. She didn't protest as he squeezed it, instead busying herself with examining the minor scratches on her arms that didn't need immediate care. They really provided the only evidence at all that she'd fallen through the floor in the first place... She was safe. The dream was wrong. It was so odd, though... It wasn't the same, but there were little similarities. "Professor," he said, and the cat looked at him. "We were talking to Professor Lupin, and he said that dreams would have been stronger right before the attack. Daphne and I had pretty clear dreams then." He noticed that the Slytherin offered him a very sharp look right about then. It looked like she'd made the connection now as well.

"That's quite easy to explain," McGonagall said, taking a few steps forward on the bed.

The cat!professor settled down on Daphne's lap, wrapping her tale around her before she continued. "It would take quite a long time even for the most powerful wizards to deconstruct the apparition barrier around Hogwarts. Most likely, the magic they were using affected you on a subconscious level..."

"Then it doesn't mean the dreams we had were prophetic, right?" Daphne asked, and Michael was surprised by the agitation in her voice.

"No, it does not," McGonagall replied primly.

"I had two dreams like that, though... I had another two nights after," Michael said, dropping Daphne's hand as he cradled his own hands in his lap.

He could still smell the blood on them when he really thought about it. He'd scrubbed them raw, so that every line was visually free of any rusty build-up, but even so... He could smell it on his nails. He didn't realise he was scratching at his nails again until McGonagall cleared her throat and eyed him expectantly. Daphne was also staring at him oddly. Feeling suddenly very embarrassed, he put his hands into his pockets for want of something better to do.

"Even if you had two dreams about what I assume must have been an accident occuring to Miss Greengrass, it does not mean that either was remotely prophetic. Most dreams are what you fear most," McGonagall replied with the cat equivalent to a frown. "Obviously you fear harm coming to her person."

"Or death," he mouthed, but the sound didn't quite make it past his lips.

It felt like they were staring at him for a long time before Daphne reached over to put a hand on his shoulder. It was a bit awkward for her, so Michael leaned forward and crossed his arms on the bed. She was smiling, though he couldn't tell how sincere it was. Maybe she was still in pain. "Hey," she said. "I'm okay now anyway. Didn't I say it'd be a Gryffindor that would get to me eventually? I just didn't expect it to be the whole tower."

McGonagall tsk'd.

Michael, however, didn't smile. "You remember the fire in the Leaky Cauldron? I thought I was going to lose you then before... You know. When we were still friends."

She took his hand. "Don't even think about it." He offered her a questioning look. "I can take care of myself. If you think you're going to protect me or hide me, don't."

Though he wasn't staring at her, he was looking in her general direction. It was a bit amusing... Before Daphne, Michael's relationships had always centered around touch and closeness. He'd always gotten the sense that they wanted some level of protection, even though they all had their own levels of independence. Daphne was different, and he couldn't quite figure her out... It had been a couple months before she was comfortable with his touch, and even now, he sensed a reluctance sometimes. It was reassuring, and at the same time confounding. "Don't worry," he said, "I won't." ...Even if he wanted to.

"But Hermione was right," she went on to say, and he winced a little. He knew that would come back to haunt her. "I can't just not do anything."

Michael was about to protest this and assure her that Hermione was only speaking in anger. She hadn't meant any of it... But McGonagall was the first to speak.

"Actually, I have something with which you two can help."

Michael was torn. Part of him wanted to take Daphne and run to the ends of the earth and when by some miracle someone sent word that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was vanquished for all time, then they might return. That is, if they didn't decide they liked white beaches and coconut drinks too much to leave behind first. Yes, that was his general motto: the best way to protect things is to shelter them far from danger. But recently... since the explosion in the Leaky Cauldron, he couldn't help it. He was angry.

And now? Now he was furious, and he wanted to rip the people who had destroyed his life, destroyed Hogwarts, killed so many, just ruined everything... He wanted to rip those people limb from limb with his bare hands. And yet, he knew he was useless as a fighter. After those flashes of painful rage, he would then wonder to himself what he would do when he had his wand pointed at a Death Eater, and... he knew deep down he couldn't do anything. He wouldn't be able to kill them no matter how impassioned he felt about it--no matter how much any of them deserved it.

He sat up and drew away from the bed--from the safety of Daphne's touch, because even though it was something that he longed for, something safe and comfortable, he wanted to stand on his own just then. "I don't think there's anywhere to hide, nor do I want to now," he interjected. "But... I can't fight them, because I won't be able to do what it takes, no matter if I wanted to. Even so, I want to find Anthony and Cho and the others."

McGonagall hopped off Daphne's lap and moved to sit on the side of the bed, looking him nearly in the eye.

"If you know you cannot fight and kill, it would be better if you didn't fight at all, but I won't tell either of you not to go." The cat paused, drawing breath before continuing.

"However. If you're about through, there's something you can do to change me back. I've been thinking of it for a time, but I was hoping there was another way."

Michael sat down again. He didn't really feel any better now. Sure, he was glad Daphne was awake, but there was more to worry about. It seemed that when one problem was solved, another just appeared to take its place. Still, when Daphne took his hand without him holding it out to her... That was encouraging. He nodded, indicating for the professor to continue.

"You know of some... people, who have in their power one of the most complicated and potent transfigurative spells anywhere. Of course, it's a curse, though that doesn't diminish its power at all." Michael and Daphne looked at each other. He didn't like where this was going. Apparently there was a good reason McGonagall had left this possible solution until last. The cat cleared her throat, drawing the attention back to her. "Werewolf saliva, as you know, is rather irreversible once you're bitten. There are, however, beneficial uses for it. The difficulty lies in getting it and using it before the end of the full moon. The potion is rather simple to create. But that one component..."

They were silent for a while, then it was Daphne that asked, "Well, who has a moon calendar?"

"Daphne." Michael wondered if she was serious. "We can't just go into their village and... I don't even know what we're going to do. We'd be torn apart. We wouldn't even make it out of there alive." He waited for her to continue, but she didn't. In fact, she looked rather ill. Perhaps it was the pain...

"We have to ask them if we can..." She bit her lip. "Use Matthew."

Michael stared at her for a long moment before speaking. "You mean... Emma's kid?" he didn't want to seem so incredulous, but that seemed a little... well, manipulative. McGonagall, however, didn't seem to think so.

"If he's just a child, it might be all right. It will still be terribly dangerous. Just because he's a child doesn't mean that if he bites you, you won't be infected. Nevertheless, time is short, and I'm afraid the ends justify the means," the elderly professor said, her tail swishing. Daphne nodded, not looking at Michael.

He guiltily looked down at their entwined hands, but didn't draw away. "So... what should we do? Just walk up to the village and say, 'Hi! We need saliva. Can we borrow your son?' Emma is a good person, but..."

"We're not trying to hurt him. You-Know-Who is just as likely to kill werewolves once he's done with the half-... Wizards. It's for their good, too. We'll just tell her that."

Somehow this all seemed a bit more dangerous to Michael than just foolishly chasing off after Potter. After all, at least in that case there weren't emotional repercussions for insulting the bad guys. Still... He couldn't say he'd thought of a better way.

McGonagall nodded to the book beside him--the one he hadn't made it to yet. "Last night I asked one of the nurses to read that book for me. It has the exact directions for making that potion..."

"Let me see?" Daphne said, and Michael let go of her hand in order to remove the giant text from his lap and reach over to get the untouched one. She flipped through the pages until she found the spell. "So it has to be made the night it's collected." She chewed on her bottom lip as she scanned over the ingredients.

"If there's no other way," Michael finally said with a sigh, "Then the Professor and I will go to talk to Emma."

"What?" Daphne asked, looking up with her eyes ablaze. "You aren't seriously considering going without me!"

"Just to talk to her, Daph... You still can't even walk," he reasoned.

"And just when is the next full moon, Michael?" she replied, looking rather furious.

"I don't know?"

"Saturday," McGonagall replied.

"And today is?"

"Thursday," Michael replied, then stopped. "But you can't, Daphne! The mediwitches said you have to be in here through Sunday. If you start walking around now, you'll cripple yourself!"

He hated it when she stared at him like that because he'd rather walk into a village full of moon-crazed werewolves than face that. Still, he met her eyes. Even if she wasn't backing down, he wasn't, either. Not on this.

"Didn't I just say that I didn't need you to try to shelter me? I'm awake, aren't I? If I could move my legs, I could walk! Where's my wand?"

Michael had retrieved it from her robe before the staff had thrown it away. It was sitting on her nightstand, scourgified, though it still showed slight traces of a rusty reddish-brown color. Daphne didn't seem to notice, and if she did, she didn't care.

"Miss Greengrass," McGonagall said calmly. "It would be best for all of us if you remained here and continued recovering. You can't even see as well as you should be able to yet," she noted, nodding toward Daphne's eyes, which were still only partially open. "...We'll bring Matthew here. There's plenty of facilities which can take care of a transformed werewolf at St. Mungo's. In addition, we'll have the full use of their spell components, I'm sure. You just have to be ready when it happens, because we'll have to act quickly."

She glared. Merlin, did she glare. However, she wasn't snapping, and so Michael realized that her temper could go either way. On one hand, she was no longer obligated to do as McGonagall asked. On the other, it made more sense for her to stay here. "Tell her." Daphne said through clenched teeth as she looked at Michael. "Tell Emma. If there was anything else we could do, I wouldn't have suggested it."

Michael tried not to show his relief. He took her hand again, and while she tried to pull away from him, he held it. "We will. I'm sure she'd know that anyway."

McGonagall jumped off the bed, "I'll go arrange it with the hospital. You should get ready, Mr. Corner." With that, the tabby was out of the room. Michael stood up and carefully sat down on the bed beside Daphne.

"I'm sure they'd be throwing me out soon anyways," he said quietly, doing his best to not shift her too much as he took her hand in both of his. "I really thought you were going to die," he replied after a moment. "I guess it opened my eyes in some ways, and I know you don't want me to protect you, but..."

Daphne sighed. "I don't need it."

"But I want to anyways," he replied. "So... maybe if I let you protect me, then you'll let me do the same?" he offered, now offering her a faintly wry smile. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the expression, but she began to softly smile as well.

"I'll think about it."

He could hear the nurse coming down the corridor. He'd been listening for that sound the last few days, so it was rather familiar to him. Any minute, she was going to come in and scold him for exhausting Daphne so when she'd just woken up. He leaned down and gently brushed his mouth against her own before sliding off the bed and giving her hand one last squeeze.

"Don't worry. This will be simple." He released her hand as the nurse entered, and for a moment it looked like Daphne wanted to say something, but her eyes fell on the nurse, and so she remained silent.

"Good luck," she finally offered as the nurse ushered him out of the room.