Title: Waking (6/?)
Author: Sonya
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.
Summary: Snape experiencing the joys of psychogenic shock; lots of angsty
introspection, and a decision regarding Willow.
***
I should have known.
I should have known, and I didn't. I wasn't told.
Which means it's over. Just like that. Over.
The common room of the Three Broomsticks had simmered down to something resembling order upon the arrival of Dumbledore and several more of the Hogwarts staff, half an hour ago. The Aurors had retreated somewhat huffily to stand guard at the windows and doorways, and several owls had been sent off with detailed reports of the situation. There was a steady murmur of whispered conversation now, interspersed with shuffling footsteps and the familiar hiss and burbled of several simmering cauldrons brewing much-needed medicinal potions. An occasional cry or whimper interrupted the brittle calm, as less life-threatening injuries sustained in the rioting were tended.
It was the older Hogwarts students doing most of the tending, the majority of the Ministry mediwitches and wizards having found the poison-extraction spell too draining to be able to mend so much as a papercut afterwards. The fidgety mediwizard who'd been ineptly trying to treat Seamus Finnegan fainted upon attempting it.
The white-haired mediwitch - absurdly enough, none other than one Eliza Weasley, great aunt to the current Weasley brood and an old school chum of Poppy Pomphrey's - was still up and about, barking out impatient instructions to her new recruits. Poppy was attending the worst injured, currently sealing a nasty gash a fourth-year Hufflepuff had obtained from a shattering store window.
Several of the bitten students were awake by now, among them Dennis Creevey, who was relating the experience of being poisoned to his brother in animated, cheerful tones that suggested the whole thing had been quite the adventure. Minerva McGonagall - just like a Gryffindor to get herself bitten trying to be heroic, snatching a parchment away from a student; she's not even muggle-born - had awoken in short order and promptly been charmed back to sleep when she refused to lay still.
There were others who weren't recovering so quickly or well.
The Weasley twins perched, still and somber as marble carvings, to either side of Angelina Johnson's cot. Miss Johnson, who had scarcely passed a single potions class without losing Gryffindor points for her insufferable chatter, lay silent, her chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly and far too slowly. The boys' Aunt Eliza kept finding reasons to shuffle past them, arms full of warmed blankets or cups of potion, muttering in reassuring tones that these sorts of comas rarely lasted more than a few days.
It sounded distinctly like bullshit to Snape, and from the looks on the boys' faces, they weren't buying it either. One of the twins - he never could tell them apart, not that he'd ever tried very hard - would nod mechanically at this. The other just stared. Their younger sister, who had been conscripted to blanket-warming duty under Flitwick's supervision, kept darting worried glances between the twins and the far corner of the room, nearest the kicked-out door.
Where huddled Draco Malfoy, who had suffered not a scratch but was in such a vitriolic mood that even Crabbe and Goyle were keeping their distance. He was returning the Weasley girl's furtive glances with something that looked almost like fear, and he'd lost Slytherin 10 points when he snapped at Poppy Pomphrey to leave him the fuck alone.
Out of character, that. Snapping obscenities at a teacher is something I'd expect from a Gryffindor, not Lucius' boy.
Undoubtedly disappointed no one's died yet. Father dearest won't be pleased.
And what interest Malfoy's loss of control can possibly be to Miss Weasley, I cannot begin to fathom.
Every now and then Malfoy's rather feral looking eyes would wander to Snape, and quickly away again.
And just like that, it's over.
The thought kept repeating itself inside Severus Snape's head; he knew he should have felt something about it. Complete and utter terror came to mind. There was only one possible interpretation. If Voldemort and his Death Eaters trusted him, he would have been included in the planning of this little stunt. At the very least, he should have been warned to keep his head down. Get the children of his own, favored house safely out of the way.
But I wasn't. Wasn't given the slightest hint. Not a whisper.
Which means, of course, that they don't trust me.
Which means I've failed.
And really, that ought to mean something.
My torturous death is now undoubtedly quite high on Voldemort's list of priorities.
I've let Dumbledore down; I've failed in the single most important task given to me by the man who is the only reason I'm not currently rotting in Azkaban, or worse.
And I must have done something to give myself away; some moronic, self-righteous, transparent thing. Flinched when I should have laughed. Paled when I should have flushed. All I had to do was act like the soulless filth I know I am, but oh no, somewhere in there I had to let some hint of moral indignation slip - as if I have any right to even feel it, let alone display it.
It's disgusting, really. Beyond shameful. The only thing in your godsforsaken life that you could do to earn the right to breath, and you couldn't even manage it.
It ought to sting a little, at the least. I should feel *something*.
He thought perhaps it had been the last revel. There had been several moments when he'd felt the nearly irrepressible urge to whip out his wand and curse them all straight to hell - or to be more precise, a more literal hell than the one they'd already summoned to earth.
Must not have repressed as well as you thought. There's that muscle in your jaw that twitches. It could have been that.
Of course, it could have been nothing so dramatic.
One too many a passing grade to a mudblood student, maybe.
He used to be fickle like that, the last time he was in power. No sense of practicality. He'd hex you for not being *creative*.
It could have been anything, really.
It could even have been Quirrel, four years ago. Wrack his brain though he had, for many a sleepless night for months after Potter's little escapade, he could never be sure if he'd given himself away. His actions could have been those of a devoted Death Eater determined to keep the Stone for his master; after all, he'd had no reason to suspect Quirrel and Voldemort were related at all, let alone sharing the same being. It could have been interpreted that way.
But it also could have been interpreted .. well, as it had really occurred. And he never was a fool.
In fact, it's entirely possible I was never really accepted back . . that this was all a bit of amusement for the Dark Lord. Pull the strings on the muggle-loving traitor, see how we can make him dance, and he doesn't even know he's our plaything. Thinks he's doing something noble, thinks he's his own man now. Watch his face, see how he tries not to show that it's making him sick, look how he's going pale.
They could have been watching for months, the vultures, laughing behind their hands.
And it really should have stirred some feeling in him other than relief.
Something a bit more dire than, thank Merlin, it's OVER.
"You did well, Severus," said a firm, if somewhat cautious voice from over Snape's shoulder. He turned to see Albus Dumbledore giving him an a look that was both appraisal and question.
"I'm not going to go slit my wrists, if that's what you asking," Snape answered scathingly.
"Of course you wouldn't," Dumbledore answered good-naturedly. "If you were going to commit suicide, I rather think you'd choose poison." Snape gave an inelegant snort, which was as close as he was willing to come to conceding the point Both points, that is . . that I'd never do something so mugglishly crude as open my veins, and secondly that if he thought for a moment I were honestly suicidal, he wouldn't be mucking about the issue.
Though why I'm not, Merlin only knows.
A small noise at his elbow caught his attention; the wandless witch was muttering and frowning in her sleep. He didn't know quite what he was doing, keep watch beside her cot, but the head Auror was still giving her looks that said quite clearly he'd like nothing better than to turn her over to the nearest available dementor. It hadn't seemed right to leave her lying there alone, unguarded.
"Now this is interesting," Dumbledore commented; Snape startled, thinking for a moment that the Headmaster meant his uncharacteristic sentimentality. But there's no reason I can't be, now, is there? It's over. Over. The older wizard wasn't watching him, though; he was peering quite intently into the redhead's blood-drained and grimacing face. She twisted in her sleep, eyes scrunching tightly closed, muttering something about dawn.
Dumbledore reached a wizened hand out and brushed a strand of coppery hair off the girl's damp forehead; she stilled under his fingertips, and with a soft sigh from pale lips, slipped into deeper sleep.
"Eliza tells me this girl is the only reason any of these children are alive," Dumbledore commented, pulling the witch's blanket up to her chin, tucking her in like a fond parent. Snape felt a sudden stab of something that was almost jealousy. He does that so . . effortlessly.
"Ms. Weasley is entirely correct," he answered. "The Ministry's idea of 'proper procedures' . . " he let it trail off in disgust, shaking his head. Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully.
"I don't suppose any of them have surmised why our mysterious stranger is in her current condition?" the Headmaster asked, tone neutral and voice low.
"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Recognize magic abuse?" Snape snorted.
"Keep your voice down, Severus," Dumbledore admonished in that same carefully casual tone. "So you, I gather, have solved the puzzle."
"She's a crank," Snape said bluntly. "Though I think not for very long, or she'd be quite dead." He waited expectantly for some reproof at his use of the rather vulgar street terminology, but Dumbledore just nodded and frowned.
In proper clinical terms she was suffering from the after-effects of having her own magical energies summoned up and, rather than directed to a purpose, recirculated through her body. The energy apparently created a feeling of euphoria, and sometimes hallucinations - or so he'd heard. Escapism had never been his particular weakness, particularly not when it was obtained by means that could leave one burnt out or dead.
And with the sheer volume of power in her, I have no earthly idea why she's not either dead or a vegetable.
"Eliza also tells me that the spell she performed required enormous magical power," Dumbledore commented, echoing Snape's thoughts. Which translates roughly to: is she safe? Is she a threat to the children?
He considered her wan face, now relaxed in deep sleep. He thought his first assessment of her had probably be close to correct; she looked little older than a student herself. But with so much power. And wandless. And clearly not a stranger to the less savory uses of that power.
But control, too. The spell she performed required more than brute strength.
An image formed in his mind; her contorting face, those so-fascinating lips twisting around muttered threats, the tension in every quivering line of her lithe body, as she performed the poison extraction. The realization that at least half of the strain had been caused by damaged nerves did nothing to lessen his awe. Merlin, but the pain she must have been in . . and to still have such control . . bugger that, to still give a damn, even.
Narcissa went in for cranking, particularly after she and Lucius were married, before she got pregnant with Draco. I can remember her writhing on the floor when it wore off. She couldn't *stand*, never mind perform advanced healing spells.
And she had nothing like the power of this girl.
Dumbledore was waiting, one eyebrow arched expectantly.
"They -" Snape gave a clearly derisive wave in the direction of the head Auror "- want to arrest her. Unauthorized practice of advanced healing spells without use of a wand."
"I see," Dumbledore said neutrally at Snape's non-answer. The older wizard paused and considered a moment. "And I suppose that's just what they'll do the minute she regains consciousness, if she's transferred to St. Mungo's."
"Someone at St. Mungo's is bound to be a trifle more astute about . . certain tell-tale symptoms," Snape commented, his tone as carefully indifferent.
"I would expect so, yes," Dumbledore agreed.
And why am I *not* indifferent?
She saved a large number of lives today. Strangers to her. All these innocent children. Minerva. And must have been feeling like someone was pouring acid down her nerves the entire time.
And since when has such self-flagellating heroism impressed you?
She can't be all angelic altruism. She was willing to abuse her magic at least once before.
And there was something in her life that made it desirable . . made it necessary that she find a way out of her own mind. Regardless of the price.
And she's in muggle clothing. And wandless.
And I think, more the fool I, that I would pay quite dearly to understand her. To understand a woman - barely a woman - who could sink so low as cranking, but be willing to damn near kill herself to save the lives of strangers.
And she told that Auror to . . what was it, some muggle expression . . I believe the words were 'bite me'.
He was startled to realize she'd reminded him of himself . . and it hadn't caused him to feel ill. For all the direness of the situation, she made him .. curious. She amused him.
And he could either allow her into the school, allow an enormously powerful wandless junky within easy striking distance of his students - or he could leave her to the mercies of a Ministry gone nearly rabid with panic at the re-emergence of You-Know-Sodding-Well-Who.
"I'm going to trust your judgement in this, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly.
***
Willow woke slowly, feeling deliciously safe and warm, surrounded by the scent of clean linens. For a moment she just snuggled more deeply into her pillow and enjoyed the soft golden glow of winter sunlight through closed eyelids.
Someone was talking quietly somewhere to her left.
" - against Slytherin, remember, so we're really going to need you," the voice was saying. "'specially since Alicia's mum and dad whisked her off. She didn't want to go until you'd woken up but they were in quite a snit, and you know she's not 18 yet, so she had to. Me and George said we'd come kidnap her if she liked, since her folks couldn't very well get mad at her if it wasn't her fault she ended up back here, but McGonagall heard and didn't think it was funny. Told us both off."
There was a pause.
"Nothing much is funny lately, actually. It's right depressing around here. You'd think people'd be happy nobody died, wouldn't you? Just about like thumbing our noses at them, it is, having the nerve to all survive."
Pause again.
"So anyhow, it'd just be the icing on the cake if we could knock the snot out of Slytherin next Saturday. And you know we need you to do that. Not that Finnegan isn't a good chaser, but he ain't you."
Pause.
"So you gotta wake up, alright? And get on about it, 'cause I don't think Madam Pomphrey's gonna let you hop on a broomstick the minute you open your eyes. Best allow a few days for her to fuss over you. So really, I think, it'd be best if you could wake up by Tuesday or so."
Willow rolled over and blinked her eyes open, and saw that the speaker was a teenaged boy with hair as red as her own, sitting on the end of a bed occupied by a sleeping dark-haired, dark skinned girl.
Oh God, that's the last girl I tried to de-poison, Willow remembered, all the peaceful warmth she'd felt upon waking draining away. She's not awake yet? Oh God, did I do something wrong? I was really losing it by the time I got to her, maybe I missed some poison, or fried a bunch of her brain cells or -
"Anyways, I'd best get back up to the tower," the boy said, standing and stretching. "We're not supposed to leave our common rooms yet; George set off a dung bomb in the fireplace so I could sneak out, but McGonagall's likely caught on by now."
"Wait!" Willow called, when the boy turned to leave. He spun around, features snapping into an expression of such obviously practiced innocence it almost made her laugh. That is *so* Xander. "Didn't mean to scare you -" he looked offended at that "- but couldja possibly tell me where I am?"
"You're at Hogwarts," he answered.