a/n: So, a long wait merits a long-ish chapter. Hope it's not too much. Or too slow. Enjoy!
- MLC
Part V: Pearl
There was nothing that could faze her. Really, there wasn't.
She'd been working at Hogwarts too long for that—more years than she could be bothered to count. She was possibly the most stalwart fixture of the school faculty, having been steady and ever-present even as the line-up of professors changed with a rapidity that was slightly disturbing. And, having been working at Hogwarts as long as she had, Madame Pomfrey had seen more bizarre injuries and incidents than the entire Magical Mishaps and Maladies (MMM) ward at St. Mungo's. Additionally, the presence of one Mr. Harry James Potter ensured that her ward was almost never empty for the past six-odd years. And goodness knows, having the Chosen One at your place of employment certainly brought in a wide variety of bizarre fare. At fifty-seven, she felt as though she had seen everything.
However, she couldn't but admit to a small amount of bewilderment when none other than Severus Snape came blustering through, dripping wet, with an equally drenched unconscious blonde in his arms.
She had been on her way back from the Great Hall, where she had just finished an early dinner; it was rare these days that she was able to get away from the infirmary without having to worry about a patient, so she took to dining the in hall whenever she was able. And, since proclaiming a young Hufflpuff as good as new and shooing him off to class that afternoon, her ward had been uncharacteristically empty. And she had taken opportunity of it to enjoy a nice, relaxed meal.
But, as she had made her way towards the hospital wing once more, she found her relaxation was short-lived. For, approaching with lengthy, agitated strides from the opposite direction was the potions master himself, small blonde cargo in tow.
They reached the door to the wing simultaneously, and Pomfrey must have had some sort of puzzled expression on her face because Severus merely flicked his wet hair back with a jerk of his head and gave a gruff, "Later."
Wordlessly, she opened the door and let him in.
Her curiosity rose even further when it turned out that the girl he had been carrying was none other than Luna Lovegood.
Luna Lovegood who, prior to last month, had absolutely no medical record to speak of, and who now had a rather large file filled with nasty words like "torture", "abuse", "Cruciatus","laceration", "rape", and "trauma". Luna Lovegood who had never been sick a single day in her six years at Hogwarts and who was now on the verge of developing severe pneumonia.
From what she gleaned from Severus' rather hurried explanation, the girl had either fallen or been dragged into the lake, and other than being very cold and wet, she was unharmed. So, Madame Pomfrey had Severus lay her down on a bed, and drew the curtains. She removed the girl's outer clothing, performed a quick drying spell and a general diagnostic for good measure, and dressed her in a plain white hospital gown.
When she drew back the curtain, Severus was still standing there, surprisingly—surprising, because given his usual brusque nature, she'd more than half-expected him to leave once the student was in good hands. But he still stood there, his back turned for added privacy; though at the rustling of the curtain he whipped around, black eyes questioning and . . . dear Merlin, was that concern?
"Is she all right?"
Madame Pomfrey tried to keep her face expressionless. "Yes," she heard herself answer. "She will be, at any rate." Then, pointing to the cabinet on the far wall, she asked, "Would you get me one of the comforters from that cabinet? The yellow ones have warming charms on them."
He was half-way across the room before she even finished the sentence, rummaging around for said comforter. Amusedly, Pomfrey busied herself with opening a smaller cabinet on the wall and selecting a pair of potions: one to fight the cold and potential illness, and one to keep the patient lax and drowsy. Judging by the wan look of her face, and the dark purple circles under her eyes, the girl was probably in need of sleep, natural or no.
When Severus returned to where Lovegood was lain, the girl had begun to shift and shiver. Despite being dry, she was still suffering from the effects of the icy lake-water. Immediately, Severus draped the comforter over her, fitting it evenly on either side of the bed. Madame Pomfrey watched in silence.
Once Severus had stepped back, she turned to him and told him, "There is not much we can do for her at the moment, save let her sleep. I do, however, need to administer these," she gestured to the potions on the tray she'd laid out. "If you would help me sit her up to drink them—"
Again, she'd barely finished before Severus was moving around the bed, rolling up his wet shirt-sleeves and placing a slender hand gently on Luna Lovegood's back. He coaxed the half-conscious girl into a sitting position, and Madame Pomfrey wasted no time in gently placing each potion to the girl's lips.
Obediently, Lovegood swallowed, eyes closed, pale throat working to force the concoctions down, hands in fists at her sides. And Severus sat, patiently, one hand still on the small of Lovegood's back, the other on her shoulder. Once she was finished, he laid her down with the same uncharacteristic gentleness as before, bringing the charmed blanket up to her chin and tucking her in, as though she were a young child.
Madame Pomfrey couldn't help but stare, fascinated. This person before her, bending concernedly over this young girl . . . this was not the Potions Master she had grown accustomed to. This was almost a different being entirely—it almost made her suspicious. . . .
Letting the thought go, Madame Pomfrey shook her head. A great deal had changed since the war's outcome, since Severus' story had come to light. He himself had undergone quite a few changes, subtle as some of them were.
This is what she kept repeating to herself as she ushered him off to get dry (there was no way he was walking out of her infirmary looking like a wet cat), as she checked Lovegood's vitals. And she told herself this again when Severus returned from the infirmary's bathroom, clad in a fresh white shirt and black trousers that a house-elf had brought from his rooms, and proceeded, not to leave, but to actually pull up a chair and sit by Lovegood's bed where she lay sleeping and breathing softly.
Interestingly, he did not leave after the first hour, nor the second. And by the third, he himself had fallen asleep in the chair, head and arms resting on the edge of the bed.
At nine-thirty, as Madame Pomfrey doused all but one light in the ward, she looked at the sleeping pair and shook her head to herself.
Well. She was almost unfazed.
He hadn't intended to fall asleep there.
He was, without question, surprised to awake in the twilight hours of the morning, not in his own bed, but slumping partially on a hospital wing substitute. Cracking his eyes open, his brow creased in confusion and he raised himself slowly. What? How had he—
A slight brush of air hitting his cheek made him turn his head.
Ah. Right.
Sitting up fully, Severus surveyed the girl whose temporary bed he had been borrowing. It was strange that Luna Lovegood asleep wore the same expression as Luna Lovegood awake: dreamy, serene, peaceful.
Then again, he thought idly, letting his eyes pass over her still, delicate features, perhaps it was not that strange.
He sat silently, watching her sleep, her chest rising and falling softly; her eyelids flickered every now and then, the only sign that there was anything going on in her imaginative brain. What did one dream about if one was Luna Lovegood? That might make for an interesting (or baffling) conversation; perhaps he should inquire when she awoke—
Severus stopped in his track mid-thought, shaking his head to himself. How had he gotten to this point? A year ago, the only student he actually paid any mind to was the Scion of Light (aka, the Chosen One, aka Harry Bloody Potter). Not that he didn't care about them (they were, after all, children, and therefore responsible for the shape of the future, even if he did find many of them hopeless and irksome); but it was much easier – and much wiser—not to. As a spy, he had successfully kept himself at an emotional distance from essentially everyone— even, at times, Dumbledore. He had performed his duties, had done what was necessary, and the less feeling he put behind his actions the better and more smoothly operations tended to run.
But he wasn't a spy anymore. Nor was he a teacher. He wasn't anything, really.
As such, who was to say what kind of conduct he should carry? Lovegood had already proved that he could not successfully maintain his usual degree of nastiness now that it wasn't a necessity.
But then again, could anyone be nasty to this girl, knowing what she had been through?
The memory of the night at the memorial flashed across his mind, and he grimaced internally. Goosebumps ran up his arms as he remembered how she had gripped him with her small hand, the way it had burned him. He massaged the spot unconsciously; she had gripped him hard enough to leave a slight bruise, pinprick purple marks where the pads of her fingers had dug into his arm.
And it looked as though he had unintentionally returned the gesture. As he looked again at her sleeping form (Merlin, what he'd give to merely look that peaceful), his gaze was drawn to her left arm, resting outside the comforter. The hospital gown she wore, though terribly over-sized, was short-sleeved, and the hem of the arm rode up nearly to her shoulder. On her exposed upper arm, he saw, even with only a single candle for light, the beginning of a bruise from where he'd hauled her out of the water.
His gaze slid down her pale arm, to her hand, curled into a fist at her side. He frowned unconsciously, remembering the sound of her choking, and the small object she had coughed up. If he thought about it, he didn't remember her ever unclenching her fist; even in sleep, her hand was balled tightly. As if she were still holding it . . . whatever it was.
Without thinking, Severus reached out for her; while on of his hands curled around the top of hers, coaxing the fingers loose, the other snaked beneath her hand, palm open and waiting to catch the small, mud-crusted object that rolled out of her grasp.
A quiet whispering noise made Severus tense. He jerked his attention towards her face—but it was as peaceful as ever, her mouth slightly agape, air escaping it in a low whistle. The girl was still dead to the world.
Reassured, Severus brought his hand—the one holding the small object—closer to him, raising it to the light. The mud was only thinly crusting it, not enough to distort its size; it was small and spherical, no larger than a finger-nail. It reminded him of a marble, but lacked the weight. In the candle-light, he though he could see a gleam through the covering of mud—but what . . .?
He nearly yelped when slim fingers closed around the hand he'd forgotten.
Heart pounding, he looked down, seeing that Luna, in her sleep, had decided his hand made an ample substitute for this small trinket she'd been holding. Severus stared at their hands, intertwined on the hospital bed, hers curled firmly around his. He had been with the intention of returning to his own chambers (because, honestly, there were not many people who wanted to be awoken to the sight of his dour mug); but there was little way to pry their hands apart without making a disturbance, and he wasn't sure at this point what would and would not wake her.
He contemplated their strange embrace for a moment longer before giving in to a small sigh and settling himself carefully back down in his chair. He would stay. Just for a while longer.
Just until she let go.
When, around four o'clock, he finally made it back to his chambers, he found himself much too agitated to attempt to sleep. A part of him—a very miniscule part—wished he had stayed in the infirm, if only for the soothing feel of Luna's slumbering presence. Which was silly.
So, instead of lying awake in bed and pretending to slumber, he went to his private laboratory to further examine the small object he had taken from the girl.
After washing it in a small basin of water, he found that, after the dirt and grime had been cleaned off, the object was smooth in his fingers. Removing it from the murky water revealed an opaque white surface, not reflective or lacquered but subtly shiny.
There was, of course, only one thing it could be. Its shape, texture, color, weight hardly pointed to anything else.
But that was impossible. Or at least highly unlikely.
Then again, this was Luna Lovegood.
With skeptical, tired eyes, he once again held the small spherical item up to the light of the magical-lantern that hung permanently in his office, adjusting the brightness with a careless wave of his hand. Yes, he decided, it had to be. There was no other stone or substance known to him, magical or ordinary, that had all the qualities possessed by this trinket.
Thinking that he would ask her about it tomorrow—or, at least, later in the day, as it was almost four now—Severus wrapped the object carefully in a small square of velvet and secured it with a piece of twine. He paused before leaving his laboratory, debating on whether or not to rest it on his worktable. But he thought better of it, slipping the makeshift charm into his pocket.
Upon returning to his quarters (conveniently adjacent to his private lab and study), he removed his shoes, socks, and shirt, leaving him in just his trousers. He was exhausted his mind too numb and tired to continue any train of thought for long; his nightmares had all but dissipated since his recovery, but he downed a Dreamless Sleep potion for good measure. As the warm drowsiness of the potion set in, he sank into his bed, sliding under the covers.
By the time he managed to finally doze off, Luna Lovegood had begun to scream.
Black. Black black black black everything black and cold. Numbness, slick fingers poking and prodding. The sharp point of a wand in her back. The smooth scrape of a blade at her wrist. Under her chin. Behind her ear.
Cool voice, scratchy, soft and feminine and cruel. Good girl. Good girl.
Care to play again?
And more voices, not soft and not feminine and not cool, hot and rough and hard and fast and black black black black—
Severus jerked awake.
He sat straight up in bed, breathing heavily; the covers slipped from him, bearing his naked chest to the winter chill of the room.
Ignoring the cold, he pushed the blankets further from him, shaking his head to clear it. What had that been? Surely not a dream. Confusion wrinkling his black brow, he cast a glance to the empty vial on his nightstand; he ran through a mental checklist, things that could allow images to filter through his brain despite the effects of the potion. He could conclude nothing. Theoretically, he should have experienced no dreams.
But sensations he had just awoken from . . . he raked a hand through his hair. They had been so vivid, almost real, less like a dream and more like a fragmented memory. . . .
His gaze shifted to the analog clock that hung above the doorway opposite him. It read a quarter after ten. He'd managed to sleep for about six hours—probably not nearly as much as his body needed, but an adequate amount of sleep to rejuvenate at least his mind.
And, as he swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood, said-re-energized brain kicked back into gear, and he found himself flooded with memories from the day before: the Ministry, the reporters, Lovegood, the lake. The object she had inexplicably coughed up.
Remembering the item, he reached into his trouser pocket; his fingertips brushed against the velvet wrapping.
Contemplatively, he spared another glance for the clock. Would she be awake? Unlike himself, she had slept most of the evening and night. Unless she had contracted some serious illness, she would probably be conscious at the very least.
Walking over to his dresser, he began rummaging around for some clean clothes. He would go to the infirmary. If Lovegood was not awake to answer his questioning, he could at least run a few by Madam Pomfrey.
It probably should have occurred to him, at he dressed and groomed himself, that there were more important matters to attend to. He had research to do—important research. He had decisions to make as to his future. He ought to be attending to these things, should have been working to secure his own future rather than getting caught up in the strange, but most likely insignificant mystery that some little Ravenclaw had presented him with. Such thoughts should have stopped him from exiting his rooms and stalking down the halls with all his usual billowing menace and making his way to the infirmary.
But it didn't.
As he approached the double doors of the hospital wing, Severus felt the cool sink of dread descend upon him.
It was not the kind of dread he felt when Albus had gazed at him with those forlorn eyes, begging silently to be euthanized. It was not the same dread that filled him when Lord Voldemort and his armies had first stormed the castle. Nor did it equalize the sense of doom that had overwhelmed him when he essentially threw himself at the Dark Lord in the heat of battle, openly declaring his true allegiance as he dueled with the madman, creating a brief distraction for Potter. This was a more subtle dread, triggered by something that may or may not have been an innocuous coincidence.
But he could think of no good reason why there was an Auror standing guard outside of the infirmary doors.
As Severus drew nearer, the man caught sight of him, and his eyes widened, expression going slightly slack in awe. Internally, Severus sneered to himself, knowing exactly what the expression signified; it would appear that he could no longer chide Potter for his celebrity status. Over the course of a few weeks, he had involuntarily forged quite a legend of his own.
And while he did not appreciate being gawked at, he was pleased that the man stood to attention as he came to stand in front of him. Severus gave him a cool, critical glance usually reserved for an unruly student.
"Is there something wrong, Auror?" he asked smoothly, hiding all indication that, if there were something wrong, it might concern him.
The man dipped his head, a cross between a nod and a bow. "Sir. I was initially called to help subdue a rogue patient. I'm just here now as a precaution."
Yes, there it went: his blood ran cold. "Which patient?" he queried tightly. As if he had to ask. She'd been the only person in the ward last night.
The look on the man's face was a cross between apologetic and uncertain. "I am . . . not allowed to say," he said slowly.
Severus eyes, previously expressionless instantly flared to life, flashing furiously.
"Step aside," he commanded.
Remarkably, the guard obeyed without the slightest protest. He even threw in that funny little nod-bow as he made way for Severus to access the doors.
Pushing them open, Severus surveyed the scene that sprang up before his eyes; subliminally, he felt his brow wrinkle, first in confusion, then in alarm.
The first section of the hospital wing looked as it always did: the first few rows of beds were immaculate, all carts and charts in their rightful places, everything pristine and orderly. But at the fourth row of beds was where this all stopped.
Last night, he had left Luna Lovegood slumbering peacefully in her bed at the very end of the ward. Now, as he looked, every bed and table within twenty feet of hers had been ransacked. He quickened his stride, passing a cluster of house elves who were attempting to rectify the mess, sweeping up broken phials, magically repairing ripped bedding, collecting feathers from various disemboweled pillows. Madame Pomfrey was standing over a bed in the corner—Luna's bed—and Severus raced towards her.
"Pomfrey!"
She straightened and turned, looking upon him with a face full of surprise at his fast-approaching figure. He was almost running towards her—but his gait stopped completely when he realized that the bed she was standing over was empty.
"Severus?"
She might as well have been a flowerpot for all the heed Severus paid her then. He took several slow steps, moving past her, coming to stand right before the empty bed. He looked down at it, immediately noting the ripped fabric, the yellow comforter that had been singed, as if with fire. The specks of blood found here and there was also not lost on him.
Vaguely, he became aware of Madame Pomfrey trying to garner his attention.
"Severus? Severus?"
Finally, he turned to her.
"What happened?"
She gave him a cryptic and uncertain look. She said his name again, slowly, placating: "Severus. . . "
Damn it. He cut the chase and instead demanded: "Where is she?"
If he were in full possession of all of his faculties (skepticism and snarkiness included) he would have taken time to examine the oddity of the situation: Severus Snape, most unsociable, unlikeable, heartless man in the school, getting worked up over a sixteen year old girl. But the eeriness flew over him.
Never one to be intimidated, Madame Pomfrey put her hands on her hips authoritatively, but her expression did not challenge or rebuke him. She instead answered him levelly, "She is in the private ward, subdued and under surveillance."
For the first time that morning, he did not allow his expression to change or display his thoughts. "And why?"
At this, Madame Pomfrey sighed. Leaning down, she began stripping the bed, pulling at the blood-speckled sheets. "Last night, after you left, Miss Lovegood had a fit," she said in a low voice. "She was clawing at herself and managed to tear up a good portion of the wing before we were able to subdue her."
Severus looked around again, taking in the mess more critically. This was quite a sizeable amount of destruction for so small a girl. "Did no one hear anything? If she was having a fit, surely you heard—"
But Pomfrey shook her head, rolling the blanket up and handing it to a waiting house-elf. "No. Neither I nor my aid heard a think until she started shattering glass objects. She wasn't screaming or yelling. She . . . " her voice faltered.
Severus watched her, an odd feeling coiling in his stomach. "Go on."
She looked at him, eyes searching his face. "Miss Lovegood has seen a rough time," she stated blandly. "and you know as well as I that any Witch or Wizard with a decent amount of power will tend to . . . lose themselves a bit when put under duress that they cannot or will not cope with. Miss Lovegood is no Harry Potter, but she stands out among the more powerful of the students. She's certainly very bright, which doesn't help matters any.
"In any case, I suspect that, despite the claims of her friends, she isn't as fine and stable as she lets on."
He suppressed a snort of disbelief. "Fine" and "stable" were two of the last words he would ever use to describe Luna Lovegood.
"Last night, she worked herself into a frenzy; I think a nightmare might have triggered it. We found her . . . well, waltzing around the infirmary, stepping on broken glass and bleeding from several cuts on her arm. She was humming some little tune to herself; didn't even seem to notice she was injured."
By the time she had uttered the last bit, he had closed his eyes; unbidden, the image she described flashed before his mind. His stomach clenched.
"May I see her?" he heard himself ask.
If Madam Pomfrey thought his excessive interest and concern was strange, she made absolutely no indication. She simply nodded, and pointed to the all-too-familiar private ward. "She's in there with Nurse Maggie. Quite chipper now, although try not to say anything to set her off."
Severus nodded. That went without saying.
Wordlessly, Severus stepped around the bed and walked up to the private ward's door. Placing a hand on the knob, he was about to pull it open when Pomfrey called from behind him:—
"Why don't I fetch you some tea? I expect she'll want to keep your company for a while, and you're looking a bit peaky."
Remembering that he hadn't eaten anything since lunch yesterday, Severus nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Poppy."
She returned the nod, and bustled off in the other direction.
Steeling himself, Severus turned back to the door, and twisted it open.
Maggie Wisham prided herself on the fact that very little seemed to disturb her now-a-days. Before coming to Hogwarts to be Madame Pomfrey's aid, she had done a full rotation at St. Mungo's, including an extensive round in the psychiatric ward. In there, she had seen things that would make most people whimper, had heard people spout things that were utterly insane, had seen fits of rage and violence that had the entire floor in an uproar for days. She had worked treating witches and wizard deranged enough to try and scrape their own eyes out, and she had been witness to several Bindings of Power, and one Dementor's Kiss, neither of which were pretty in the least. Young though she may be, Maggie definitely did not lack in experience and she was quite capable of handling most any medical situation.
All of this, however, did not stop her from being presently baffled by the teenager sitting in the bed near her.
". . . it's actually considered really good luck to have such frizzy hair," the girl was babbling on, airily, not as if she were really talking to Maggie or anyone at all (but making a distinct reference to Maggie's rather unruly curls, which she unconsciously kept smoothing over). "If you cut it all off and roll it into a ball, it's supposed to ward off Yunkerbunks."
"Yunka-whats—?"
"Yunkerbunks."
"But what are they?"
As the bubbly girl began to rattle off the nature, diet, habitat, and mating habits of these creatures called "Yunkerbunks", Maggie found herself once again eyeing the bandages on the girl's arms. Not four hours ago, she'd helped subdue this very girl. She'd held her down (unnecessarily, almost, since Lovegood put up very little struggle when made to stop dancing), helped heal her bloody feet, hands, and arms, and stroked her hair to soothe her when the girl started hyperventilating and whispering insane nonsense. And here that same girl was, cuts cleaned up, wrists and ankles bound with magical restraints that went taught whenever her stress levels rose, chatting Maggie up about a magical being she very much doubted existed. She exuded a positively unnerving amount of calm and cheeriness for someone who had been twirling manically around on broken glass a few hours ago.
". . . but apart from that, Father used to say that hair like yours is representative of great intelligence— you were in Ravenclaw, weren't you?"
The question caught Maggie off-guard. "Yes, actually, I—"
The words caught in her throat as the door opened and the figure of none other than Professor Severus Snape loomed in the doorway.
Unable to stop herself, Maggie gulped—and the blushed bright red. She'd attended Hogwarts when Snape had first started teaching. In order to be on-track for medi-witch training, she'd had to take Advanced Potions I and Elixirs and Remedies, both taught by the imposing man before her. It was by sheer luck that she managed to pass both; she (like many) had been absolutely terrified of the tall, dark, glaring man, and this fear had subsequently affected her brewing success. Apparently, this ingrained fear hadn't gotten any better over the years—not even knowing that, yes, the man was on the side of Light, not even after tending to him while he lay unconscious in this very room. He still terrified her.
But, for her pride's sake, she steeled herself, schooling her expression. She stood from where she was sitting, and addressed him formally.
"Professor Snape."
He nodded stiffly at her.
From the bed where she was retrained, Luna waved a hand at him, and exclaimed brightly, "Hello, sir!"
As Maggie watched, her former professor's face went through a series of miniscule, but baffling changes as he took in the sight of the young woman on the bed. Finally, his features settled on a decidedly stoic look, and when he turned back to Maggie, his voice was monotonous.
"You may go, Miss Wisham."
If it had been anyone else, Maggie would have stepped forward, perhaps exclaimed in protest. This was her job, her patient—he wasn't a qualified medi-wizard! But something in the back of her mind squelched any urge she had to rebuff him; she simply nodded once, collected her notepad, and walked towards him.
He made way for her to step past him, towards the door. She expected him to watch her all the way out and make her squirm under his chilly gaze, but he didn't. he kept his eyes on Luna the entire time, who smiled back at him blithely.
Shaking her head to herself, Maggie stepped into the outer infirm, closing the door behind her.
As soon as the door was closed, Severus folded his arms and fixed Luna with the sternest gaze he could muster. He had concluded, in observing the situation, that assuming the role of strict professor was his best option; it was a role he knew well, and through it he could mask any uncertainties, any apprehensions that might possess him.
When he spoke, he was relieved to hear that there was nothing to betray anything other than utter cool in his voice. "Well. Miss Lovegood."
She smiled. "Luna," she corrected.
He pursed his lips, and raised an eyebrow in gesture. "Care to explain yourself?"
She shrugged, and he noted that her shoulders seemed much smaller in the oversized hospital gown. "Yunkerbunks are real. They're just poorly documented because it's so hard to catch one. They're extremely fa—"
"Not that nonsense," he all but spat, and he could see something in her stiffen, her bright blue eyes taken an almost imperceptible wary edge.
Taking an imposing step towards her, intoning deliberately. "I was speaking about your handy-work back there." He let one hand fall, splaying it out and gesticulating in a grand sweep.
Her face, usually open and unadulterated, took on a closed-off look. She tilted her head downward, eyes dropping from him—almost shamefully.
"I didn't mean to," he could barely hear her muffled murmur. "it was an accident."
"Of course. But can you tell me what . . . inspired this 'accident'?"
One of her hands started playing with the bandage on the opposite one. Merlin, had she been doing handstands on the glass too?
". . . nightmare."
He noted her tone, her reluctance. The image of her surfaced in his mind, dark rings jumping out from beneath her brilliant blue eyes.
"This is why you don't sleep."
"Yes."
"Because you dream."
"No. Because I don't dream. I remember."
"What?"
Pause. She didn't look at him.
"Lovegood."
Still no reply.
He sighed. And relented.
"Luna."
And there, finally. She raised her downcast chin, eyes meeting his. Wide. Lost. Slowly-churning whirlpools, shadows in the depths.
But when she replied, it wasn't with an answer, but with a question of her own:—
"Do you have to know?"
He felt his stoic mask give way, eyebrows raising in surprise. He didn't know what to say to that. Was it his place to be asking her such a thing? And why was he asking when he already knew the answer? When he had seen—through what he suspected to be a fleeting dream-transference—what had happened for himself? Why was he even here? What kind of authority was he in her life to be asking such things of her?
He knew his inability to reply was not lost on the girl. But instead of asking all the above of him, she instead unleashed her best weapon—a small, charming, girlish smile.
"I believe you have something of mine, sir."
Up until that moment, he had more or less completely forgotten about the stone-like object in his pocket. Stepping forward, he produced it now, taking it out of the velvet wrapping and holding it out in his open palm.
Luna waited patiently as he drew nearer to her, coming to stand beside her bed. She looked at the odd object, and then back up at him, eyes twinkling in a familiar manner.
"I suppose you've figured out what it is," she said softly. She did not yet take it from him.
Severus nodded. "I have. But I cannot fathom where it came from."
"The lake."
The simplicity of her answer made him snort. "Obviously."
It was only then that she reached up and plucked the pearl from his hand. As she did, the cords of her restraints brushed against his arm. She cradled it in her hands, as he looked down at her.
"You are not going to talk about it, are you?"
She made a sound, something just shy of a chuckle. "I think it would be kicking a dead horse. No point."
"It would help you."
The words flew from his mouth so fast, he barely registered that he had said them. and, once he did, he was instantly astonished at himself. He himself had never really bought into the idea of "talk therapy", never found any comfort or relief in the idea of sharing and dissecting his innermost secrets to an attentive listener. No matter how long Albus had made him sit in his circular office, the offer to speak freely standing still and stagnant in the air, he never relented; he gave only silence. And it had worked for him.
But this was different. He was a bitter, middle-aged man. This was a bright, nubile young girl. He had spent years training himself to control his emotions and banish his personal demons. For all intents and purposes, it was unlikely she had the necessary level of discipline or wisdom to silently endure everything that had been done to her—at least not without violent repercussions. . . .
As if she hadn't heard him, Luna continued to coo over the pearl, turning it over and over in her palms.
A frown wrought itself upon his mouth, his black gaze darkening.
"Luna."
She didn't look up. She was deliberately ignoring him now.
"Luna," he tried again, his voice taking on a slight authoritative tone, and he couldn't believe he was saying this, "talk to me. At least recount your nightmare. What was it about?"
Her over-turning hands slowed their playing, coming to a halt, both palms cupping around the pearl. When she raised her head to him again, her expression was soft.
"'If you have to ask, you will never know'," she echoed. "'If you know, you need only ask'."
"And I am asking."
"And the answer is: no." she gave a shrug that was supposed to be nonchalant and dismissive. But as Severus watched, the tell-tale bonds on her wrists and ankles began to lose their slack. Centimeter by centimeter, they grew shorter by the second, and he eyed them warily.
"Miss Lovegood," he dropped her first name and yes, there was definite authority in his voice now, "you cannot simply ignore what has happened—you cannot keep these things to yourself and presume that you will be fine—"
"You seem to be doing all right."
He narrowed his eyes. She might be able to mock others with that airy, guileless tone, but not he. He wasn't fooled for an instant.
"Don't get cheeky with me, Lovegood."
She was unaffected by his growl. "Oh, I wouldn't 'presume'—"
"Tea!"
Startled, he turned towards the door to find Madame Pomfrey barging in, laden down with a plate of tea and sandwiches, effectively ending the conversation in one strategic swoop.
Deciding that there was no use continuing the point, he sat himself complacently down in the chair next to her bed. They ate and drank in silence (well, he ate, Luna nibbled on the corner of a tuna sandwich and then set it down, disenchanted). When they were done, a house-elf appeared with a "pop" and took their empty cups and plates away.
Luna, who had set the pearl on her nightstand whilst drinking her tea, picked up her bauble again and held it in fascination. Her bonds had lengthened out again during their meal as the tension eased from her; he suspected that she was being mindful of them, not liking the idea of being bound down.
He knew exactly what that felt like.
Giving an internal sigh, he closed his eyes briefly. Whatever he said to her, he didn't want to disturb her again. As warranted as an emotional catharsis might be, the last thing he wanted to do was upset her.
Resigning himself to drop the subject for today, he spent a few moments watching her in silence. As the pearl was passed from one hand to another, an idea struck him. he leant forward, holding out his own hand.
"May I see?"
Wordlessly, she stopped and dropped the pearl into his open palm. Drawing his wand from his sleeve, Severus tapped the pearl once. A silver chain appeared, and the pearl was fastened to it.
Re-sheathing his wand, he held it back out to her.
Luna gazed upon him with a look of pure delight, her smile slipping forward bravely. She lowered her head, and he looped the chain around her neck. Without thinking, he gently combed her hair out from under the chain so that it rested on her neck, smoothing the blonde strands out once before remembering himself and withdrawing his hand hastily.
Luna, for one, did not seem at all affected by his strange behavior. She simply beamed, admiring her new treasure.
"Wicked. This would have gone smashingly with my high-tops," and there her tone was a wee bit wistful, as she remembered her yellow shoes.
Severus too suddenly recalled the missing footwear. She hadn't been wearing them when he'd pulled her from the lake. Though, if memory served, they had definitely been properly tied beforehand. Which lead him to wonder exactly how she lost them . . . .
"It's too bad Irwin can't express himself. I would have gladly bought him a pair. He needn't have dragged me into the lake."
He blinke. "Irwin?"
"Yes. He took my shoes off while I was underwater. I think he liked the color. He had some trouble undoing the laces though, I could tell."
Closing his eyes, he brought a hand to his forehead, massaging one of his temples. How in Merlin's name did he get landed with such a barmy lunatic? "And who, pray tell, is Irwin?"
"It's what Hagrid named the Giant Squid."
"Oh, yes; naturally."
They talked for a few more minutes about nothing in particular, and Severus tried not to imagine what an oversized excuse for calamari would want with yellow hightops. After a particularly long break in conversation, Severus gathered himself and stood.
"I shall leave you to rest, I think."
Luna nodded.
"I expect you shall be here for a few more days. No doubt Madame Pomfrey will want to run some tests, and make certain that you make a full recovery." Biting back a nagging sense of unfamiliarity and apprehension, he paused; then asked quietly. "May I visit you tomorrow?"
"Of course."
He pursed his lips. "I may ask you again."
Her mild expression did not change. "I know."
He studied her for a moment longer. Then inclined his head.
"Til tomorrow, then."
"Tomorrow."
