Safely ensconced in his Potions lab once more, Severus Snape did something he'd only very rarely done before: acknowledge that he was dead beat.
He settled back into the hard-backed wooden chair, completely drained of the energy to move an inch. "God," he groaned, in a Muggle expression of fatigue he hadn't let slip for twenty years or more. Why he should be so tired, he had no idea, Severus thought. He'd watched entire families being butchered. He'd taken the Cruciatus until he had prayed for death, not once but many times. He's seen the woman he adored killed through his own fault, he'd killed his most loved and trusted friend with his own hand. Yet he had never felt as tired as he did today.
Maybe you've never seen a miracle before, Severus.
I'm a wizard, he snapped at the inner voice. Miracles are merely acts of magic viewed by fools.
But it didn't change the fact that he was tired, far, far too weary to even consider trudging out to the extra-hospital Apparation point to head back to Spinner's End. Oh well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd kipped at St. Mungo's, babysitting a potion or helping the overstrained medi's – in fact, he could count the nights he'd spent at Spinner's End this past month on the fingers of one hand. With a practiced motion, he reached behind him with his wand to Transfigure the hard chair into a bed. Institutional metal rails sprung up around him, plastic crackled beneath him, and he frowned as the hospital-issue mattress creaked. That's what comes of having hospital beds on the brain when you do Transfiguration, he grumbled to himself. Oh well, a bed is a bed is a bed. He couldn't understand why he was being so peevish at what had to be a minor discomfort when he'd faced so much worse; possibly it was the contrast of the sterile whiteness with the miraculous transformation he'd witnessed today.
Severus snorted. Right now, a hundred vapid reporters armed with a hundred inane Quick-Quotes Quills were probably going quietly berserk, penning headlines of ST. MUNGO'S PATIENTS MYSTERIOUSLY HEALED! Well, the healing would stay mysterious, he set his jaw, at least until he had sufficient time to set down the results in a manner scientific enough for Potions Quarterly. He doubted that the august old journal would accept an article from the notorious Severus Snape, traitor – probably think it was a poison in disguise or something – but his erstwhile alter-ego, German master-brewer Eberhard Prinz, would have no trouble getting it published. Though the results would probably vary depending on the strength of the bond, he mused absently as he removed his boots, it was a magic worth tapping, particularly with Dark curses where all other means had failed. His fingers worked on the buttons of his robes as he wondered whether Frank and Alice Longbottom, in particular…
His moving fingers paused. He had been about to strip off his robes, but now it occurred to him that anyone could see him through the hole the potion bottle had made when it smashed through his door earlier. "Reparo," he ordered with such alacrity that the splinters positively crackled as they rebuilt the hole in the smooth, thin wood, built more to give an illusion of privacy than for any real solidity. Great, now he could undress.
But something was nagging at him: disproportionately irritating, the door's hospital-white lacquered surface was now marred by a patch of shiny, unpainted wood. That was the trouble with Repairing Charms on wooden surfaces: the grain healed, but you couldn't get the paint to re-form. As he stripped off his work robes and donned softer ones for sleeping, Severus kept staring at it, wondering why it bothered him so much; perhaps because it reminded him of scars, or burns? Even seeing the wood bare would be infinitely preferable to this disfigured surface. Shrugging, Severus flicked his wand and somewhat sheepishly incanted the spell inadvertently invented by Alfie Prince, his Muggle-born third cousin twice removed, and which had first told Alfie, the world, and Mr. and Mrs. Lovett, whose house he'd been painting at the time for extra pocket-money, that he was a wizard: "Be a duck and sandblast yerself for me, won't yer?" Somewhat unorthodox, but effective, he thought, turning his face sideways to avoid the paint that practically flew off the door. Can always have it painted la...
The sanding spell subsided, revealing a marvellous, rich expanse of glowing, carved oak. Severus breathed in sharply, admiring the depth and beauty of the woodgrain. The surface shone with the connection to Mother Earth only preserved by wood from magical-sourced trees, a rarity in this day and age. The timbers of some healing places on the Continent, he knew, particularly in Eastern Europe, were built with just such wood, to tap the Gaeian healing forces inside. "And they painted over this!" he heard his own indignant voice ring out.
For a moment, Severus debated the issue with his own creaking bones, then rose from the bed to press his face closer to the door. Yes - just visible still etched into the wood were the runes for healing, health and strength, in a masterful, ancient script – very old craftsmanship, surely, flitted across his mind. He shook his head in disbelief. What Ministry dunderhead's idea had it been to paint this work of art white? He stood back, staring at the fabulous workmanship – the doorframe had obligingly stripped itself of paint as well, and a delicate tracery of ancient script caught the light here and there.
Severus couldn't deny it: the fabulous, ancient magic and living-vibrant wood just looked too out of place in the sterile surroundings. He'd long taken issue with the hospital tendency to paint things white - too much like a shroud, he thought, and stifling to boot. Nothing for it; his magic-drained body would just have to perform one more spell. Swearing inwardly, he raised his wand to the walls, concentrating, and murmured: "Now turn a nice shade of emerald green for us, won't yer, ducks?"
He silently thanked his cousin Alfie as the sterile white paint rippled and turned a marvellous, shadowy forest green, multilayered and shifting-patterned, velvety and mysterious as the whispering leaves of the Forbidden Forest itself. Now that was more like it, he thought: much more sober and profound than that garish, stark white. It was easy to lose yourself in the depths of green, exactly the shade of Lil…of…
Potter's eyes.
He swore. Trust James Potter's offspring to ruin the most pleasant moments! Taking a deep breath, he reined his feelings of distaste. Carpe diem, he told himself; it's a perfectly good Slytherin colour, and I won't let my fancies get in the way of my enjoying it! With that, he marched back to bed, flopped down onto his back and raised his wand to incant "Nox," eyes fixed on the ceiling. Maybe now he could get some sleep!
But immediately he glanced at the ceiling, he saw that now there was another problem; the gorgeous healing-tree door and forest-green walls looked about as good with the St. Mungo's flat institutional ceilings, complete with their bland Permaglow Charm, as the Dark Lord would look in a powder-blue playsuit with bunnies all over it. Sighing, he raised himself up on his elbow one last time. It's only a minor change, he told himself as he flicked his wand upwards to create the illusion of a high, vaulted ceiling with bright, blazing torches. Their light, strong but not garish, sent shadows leaping over the greenness, and for an instant he could have sworn he saw a unicorn in the distance.
Severus settled back into bed, a sense of profound satisfaction stealing over him. Now this is what a Potions laboratory should look like, he thought. "Nox," he said finally, settling down to sleep. As the plastic crackled under him again, he amended: Only I'll have to see about getting a decent bed. Idly, he ran measurements and dimensions through his head: his old Hogwarts four-poster would probably fit comfortably into the adjoining room Poppy had been promising him he could have for a sleeping area as soon as the glut of cursed and wounded had decreased. Have to get a decent desk, too, he thought, conducting a quick mental inventory of his Hogwarts things; that old one was just falling apart, not worth salvaging. I really need a couple of armchairs, have to see if Minerva'll let me have the ones in my study. Those were the most comfortable ever, though technically they're still Hogwarts property. The bookcases are oak, they'd probably fit in splendidly here, next to the…
Severus Snape brought himself up short, stunned.
He was making plans.
For furniture.
He lay flat on his back, eyes wide open and staring into the darkness. He'd been making plans to move in and redecorate. Him, Severus Snape. He exploded in a vicious snort. What was next, matching towels?
A treacherous part of his mind immediately jumped in and said that yes, some nice fluffy dark green towels would probably be much nicer than the standard-issue understaffed under-funded St. Mungo's threadbare grey-white towels he currently used, and why not some bottle-green Egyptian cotton sheets while you're at it, before he quashed the voice so violently that it yowled like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. I AM SEVERUS SNAPE! he roared at the voice. I HAVE LIVED MY LIFE IN DANGER AND DISTRESS, AND NEVER HAD TIME TO THINK ABOUT SUCH FRIPPERIES AS…
Perhaps a nice Persian rug? niggled the voice.
Right, and get caustic potions eating holes all over it, Severus retorted. Plain flagstone's perfectly fine, thank you very much, and… "What's happening to me?" he wondered aloud, dazed. For decades now, he had never been one for creature comforts. Why, seemingly at a stroke, was he suddenly going all Good Housekeeping? In one evening, he'd sanded his door, painted the walls, glamoured the ceiling, planned the layout of the spare bedroom and was now thinking about soft furnishings!
"This is ridiculous!" he snapped into the darkness. I can't afford the time or energy to get complacent and start setting up housekeeping…
Can't, the niggling voice insinuated, or won't?
What's that supposed to mean?
You have eschewed creature comforts because you have never seen yourself as a creature deserving of comfort. Asceticism, deprivation; as long as you were bound to the Dark Lord, it's been the only way you knew how to live. Well, the Dark Lord is dead. Isn't it about time you thought about living like a human being?
I am not one. I have killed…
And tortured untold masses, yes, yes. Sold my soul to the devil, killed Dumbledore. Eternal burden of guilt, and so forth. I get the idea. One day you may decide to get help for all that Gryffindor thinking, but in the meantime, why don't you get some sleep and we'll think about those curtains in the morning?
That was probably a good idea, thought Severus. He was fast asleep when the thought popped across his subconscious mind:
Curtains?