I hope this please, ye small but mighty pool of supporters.

The poem is "I have found what you are like" by ee cummings. I do not own.


Part VII: I have found what you are like

Compared to what he had seen of Luna Lovegood in the past few days, the sight that greeted him nearly made him sigh in relief. There she was, sitting up in bed, smiling and chatting amiably to Madame Pomfrey, who was standing at her side, running diagnostics on her with her wand. As soon as she became aware of the door opening, Luna looked away from the older medi-witch, startling blue eyes landing on him.

She looked thin, thinner than usual, and her face was somewhat gaunt. But the smile that soared to him across the room lit up her every feature.

"Hi, Professor!"

His mouth twisted into what might have been a smile but felt more like a grimace. Whatever horrific expression he sent Luna's way was quickly wiped from his face when Poppy turned to him also.

The look he gave her was one of utter cool, his eyes still pools of black ink. It was the most passive expression he had, but still, he could feel a twitch of defiance in his eyes; challenge. After their nice little chat yesterday, it was apparent to him that Poppy didn't think his constant presence was a good idea. The wary way she regarded him now reinforced this twofold; her overall countenance was not defensive, but her eyes clearly said watch yourself.

Internally, Severus sneered. He would have liked to see her try and throw him out. He had never felt any serious ill-will towards Pomfrey in his entire life, but now, it was all he could do not to bare his teeth and hiss at her Try. Just try.

He turned his attention from Pomfrey without addressing her, instead putting his focus back on the little blonde girl. "Hello, Ms. Lovegood. How . . . are you feeling?"

The words came out strange, stuck like tar to his tongue, but Luna seemed pleased all the same. "Wonderful," she said, smiling dreamily, head lolling a bit. "Just wonderful."

Severus arched an eyebrow. Though he was accustomed to Luna's ethereal manner, she sounded a wee bit more spaced out than usual. His questioning gaze settled on Madame Pomfrey, who met it readily.

"One of the medi-wizards came in earlier." She paused, watching him carefully for any evidence of the anger that was flaring within him; but he only blinked.

"He mostly talked to her. But he did run a few protocol tests, administered a few potions. They've made her slightly loopy—more than usual, anyhow—but she hasn't eaten yet today, which is most likely making it worse."

"I see. Well, then, I hope you don't object, but I have made arrangements for a house-elf to bring us lunch."

A strange emotion flickered across Madame Pomfrey's face, and was gone.

"Not at all." It actually sounded as if she meant it.

"Well. Then." He had almost expected a fight. The fact of her complacence was almost . . . unsettling.

Somewhat more tentatively than he would have liked, he took a few steps closer to the bed. Remembering the parcel he was bearing, he held it up to display it. Even in her semi-lucid state, Luna's face brightened and she let out an excited, "oh."

"From Mr. Malfoy," he clarified, at the odd look Poppy was giving him. "He was standing outside looking like an abandoned child. Apparently, he was forbidden to step in."

Poppy shot him a look that was decidedly darker than he thought her capable of, but Luna didn't seem to give serious thought to his words, for she was rummaging in the paper bag, pulling out its contents.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Sugar quills! I adore these, you know . . . simply . . . I used to suck on these all the time during your lectures. . . ."

He felt one of his eyebrows raise.

". . . just . . . to keep from falling asleep . . . couldn't eat during lab of course, but lecture . . . you really do have a lovely voice, you know, I could just doze right off . . . it's almost like humming, or— or a soft song. . . ."

Madame Pomfrey watched his tightening expression with growing interest. She could have almost sworn there was a slight pinkish tint to his ever-so-pale features.

But, as amusing as it was to see the once-dreaded Potions Master all but blush, she was nevertheless inclined to take pity on him, and she gestured in his direction. "By all means, take a seat. I just need to check over a few more things and then I'll let myself out. Should only take a minute."

Taking up her suggestion, Severus conjured himself a chair and sat on the opposite side of the bed, a few feet away so as not to seem intrusive. Steepling his fingers, he watched Poppy hold Luna's head and carefully tilt it side to side, then instructing her to roll it slowly in each direction. He watched, fascinated, at the gentle fingertips prodding the sides of that slender neck, probing just behind the lobeless right ear, feeling for the pulse. Examining her wrists now where there were bruises from her restraints.

It was only when he looked back up at Luna's dreamy face that he realized she was watching him watch her, and he directed his gaze down, something odd crawling in the pit of his stomach.

As a means of distracting himself, he then proceeded to conjure up a cup, saucer, and pot of tea. He sat back in his chair, legs crossed, sipping it and watching with what he hoped was only a mildly interested look.

Madame Pomfrey turned one of Luna's wrists over, smoothing a thumb over the bruise and letting that thumb travel up her arm. Severus watched her push up the short sleeve of Luna's white hospital gown, revealing another bruise. Unlike the ones on her wrist, this patch of discolored skin was not dark purple, but pink-yellow: a bruise acquired a few days ago. A bruise shaped by fingers.

He'd seen that bruise before.

Madame Pomfrey clucked her tongue. "This one's almost healed up," she said almost to no one in particular. "Your wrists will take a few days, but these on your upper arms should be nearly gone by tomorrow."

A small frown made its way onto Luna's face, and she wrinkled her nose, mouth curling down. "That's too bad," she sighed forlornly. "I really like them."

Severus was all but certain that he just inhaled his tea.

Whilst he muffled his hacking, Madame Pomfrey continued her examination, her face completely impassive, not even acknowledging Luna's statement nor Severus' reaction. And she didn't say another word, not until there was a knock at the door, signaling the anticipated arrival of the house-elf.

"I suppose that's my cue," Poppy muttered to herself. Rummaging in her pocket, she produced a single vial of potion that Severus recognized as a mild calming draught. She turned to Severus.

"See that she takes this after her meal, will you?"

He nodded wordlessly and she set the vial on the bed-table. Then, she let the house-elf in, stepped out, and shut the door behind her.

Whilst Luna continued to "ooh" and "ahh" over the assortment of goodies Draco had purchased for her, Severus rose from his seat. He took the large silver tray from the house-elf, thanking the creature and dismissing it, and placed it carefully on the edge of Luna's bed. Conjuring up a small table, he set about arranging the contents of the tray; it was a menial task, almost domestic, the kind of thing he would have sneered at before.

He wasn't sneering now.

Luna smiled almost shyly at him as he handed her a plate of vegetable and lentil soup, with a slice of warm ciabatta bread on the side. He had requested a simple lunch (sweet Merlin, he'd have liked to see Pomfrey's face if he made Luna tackle spaghetti in her state), and as much had been provided. However, if the smell was anything to go on, it was anything but bland.

As he set about preparing himself a dish, Luna spoke quietly beside him.

"Madame Pomfrey told me you had a tantrum."

He broke off a slice of bread. "I did."

"Why?"

"Eat your soup."

Blue eyes wide as saucers, she dutifully and mechanically put a spoonful in her mouth, masticated, and swallowed. Then:—

"Why?"

"Something to drink?"

"Milk, please."

He poured her a glass. She took a long gulp, and almost forgot to wipe off the white residue on her upper lip.

"Why?"

He paused, his spoon half-way to his mouth. He looked at her deliberately.

She ducked her head and spooned her soup, a small, mischievous smile playing on her lips.

They didn't speak again until they had both finished and Severus had cleared everything away with a wave of his wand. Once everything down to the last crumb was gone, he settled back in his chair and looked at her.

Before she could continue pursuit of her earlier query, he sucked in a quick breath and asked:—

"You had a visit from one of the St. Mungo's people this morning?"

She nodded, solemnly. "Yes. Not all of them, just one. Tall, blonde. Nice eyebrows. Dr. Bryan Melrough."

Severus scoured his memory, trying to recall the faces of the wizards he'd terrified like a group of first years yesterday . . . but the only blonde-headed person among them that came to mind hadn't looked remotely frightened. "I see. And what did Dr. Melrough do?"

There was nothing in his tone to betray his apprehension; nevertheless, she gave him a long, slow look. "Not much," she replied at last. "He ran a few tests. Mostly, we just talked."

"Before or after he gave you the serums?"

"Before. Although he said that, with me, it didn't make much of a difference."

He almost smirked at that. But his overhanging sense of dread prevented him, and kept his face serious as he asked: "Did you tell him anything? Did he talk to you about your dreams? About what happened during the war and at Malfoy Manor? What did he ask you?"

Never in his life had he seen Luna Lovegood look annoyed; like crying, it didn't seem like an expression she should ever wear. But he thought he detected a tiny, miniscule flicker of the symptom as she gave him another long look.

"He asked me the same question that you did."

He held his breath.

A small hand went to her chest, where she tugged on the pearl that hung around her neck.

"He doesn't get special treatment just because he's not you."

Exhale. Pause.

"They think you're a threat."

"To whom?"

"To . . . yourself. They . . . they are considering whether or not to have you committed."

"Okay."

Unable to stop himself, he heaved a great sigh, and brought a hand up to cover his face. The momentary blackness provided some relief, enough to give him the strength to say, "They will keep questioning you. It won't take them more than a week to reach a conclusion. And if you refuse to answer them . . . they . . . I don't . . ."

She waited, watching him curiously.

He set his mount into a hard line. "I am not sure what they'll do."

Luna still said nothing, white fingers turning the pearl over and over.

He screwed his eyes shut behind his hands. He hadn't noticed himself hunch over, but he now turned his face downwards, hands covering his expression, elbows resting on knees. "You need to talk, Ms. Lovegood. If not to me then to someone. You have to talk to them about this."

. . . .

"But it's not theirs."

He whipped his head out of his hands, straightening a bit. His black eyes widened at her.

"It's not theirs," Luna repeated; her hands were now resting calmly in her lap, and she tilted her head to one side, showing off the misshapen ear he had grown inexplicably fond of. "It's mine. It doesn't belong to them. Or you."

He just stared, not knowing what to say.

Pursing her lips, she looked down at her hands, thinking. "You killed Dumbledore," she glanced at him as she said this, electric blue eyes meeting inky black unabashedly. "You haven't told anyone about it, not really. You gave a statement. You gave your reasons. But the memory and the event itself . . . you never did surrender that. And you shouldn't have to: it's all yours. It belongs to you."

"So . . . what, then? Do we all keep our miserable memories to ourselves? Do we all wallow in our own pain and suffering?"

Even to him that sounded a bit melodramatic. Obviously she thought so.

"Seems to work for you."

He rolled his eyes. "Me? I am an ugly—"

"No you're— "

"Quiet. An ugly, bitter, jaded, ex-Deatheater. There is a great deal that works for me. And I, for one, do not wallow."

"No. You take your frustration out on first-years. And Neville."

"You are missing the point, Lovegood."

"No, you are. Why are you here, sir?"

He looked at her, taken aback. He was so flabbergasted, he actually found himself struggling for words. "I—well, if you must know, I was concerned—"

She shook her head. "No, no, that's not what I mean. Why are you here? Still? At Hogwarts?"

He just gaped at her, uncomprehending.

"You could be anywhere in the world right now, sir—but you're still here. Why? You don't owe anyone anything. The war is over. You aren't a spy. You're just you."

"I don't even know who I am. I am nothing but my wounds, Ms. Lovegood. At this point, I am not sure there even is a man under all of this scar tissue."

"Well . . . you've got time now to figure it out."

He scowled; the girl was hopelessly, disastrously optimistic. "And it will be that simple, will it? I was a spy for seventeen years, Lovegood. Quite honestly, I didn't expect to make it through this war. Statistically, I should not have survived. I was supposed to die, if you recall."

It was then that she looked at him for the first time with a truly cross expression, and he decided that she had the prettiest pout in all the bloody world.

"You are alive, sir. Deal with it."

He considered her words. Because of course the girl was right. And she had also successfully side-tracked him and evaded his earlier point. Clever girl.

"And, you aren't ugly. You just scowl too much."

He couldn't help it then. He laughed. A low, deep chuckle that reverberated in his chest, made him feel warm, spread to his toes and fingertips.

From the bed, Luna Lovegood smiled.


He stayed for another half hour or so. They simply sat, talking—or, rather, Luna talked and he sat there, listening patiently. She told him more about the things she used to do during his lectures—apparently, during the week they studied the basic principles of metal mutations in Advanced Potions, she'd not only taken extensive notes but come up with an impressive series of doodles, most of them depicting creatures only found in the Quibbler. Then she talked at some length about the Quibbler itself, how when it first started up her father had run it from the Rook House.

"It was an absolute mess," she proclaimed brightly. "There was almost no floor space to speak of. Papa sometimes slept on stacks of copies when he was working late. Even my room became storage space for a while. It was a warzone—" she paused, words catching and expression shifting. She smiled wryly. "Well, I suppose it's more of a warzone now than ever, since Malfoy and the others . . . well, flattened it."

Despite her smile, the note of sadness was unmistakable in her voice. "I apologize for that," Severus offered. "Like much that went on in the raids, the demolition of your house was . . . unnecessary."

"Well, most of Voldemort's supporters were usually nothing if not zealous."

He restrained himself from snorting.

Luna wasn't looking at him any longer, but at the door standing on the opposite side of the room.

"My great-great-grandfather built that house," she murmured. "Edwynius Lyduvan Lovegood. He invented the Leg-Locking curse."

He observed her, the way the fingers of her right hand played on the ghostly skin of her left wrist, the flutter of her pale eyelashes. "Did he now."

"Mhmm. I was going to inherit it, when Papa died. Not much to inherit now, though."

He might have apologized again, but he instead just watched the subtle expressions wax and wane in her pale face. She was growing tired, he could tell, by the way her eyes fluttered and by the slackening of her mouth.

"I've started dreaming again. When I'm not remembering . . . I dream about home. It still stands like it once was. Only it's completely empty. I stand in the middle of it, and it groans to me like it's starving. . . ."

As he watched, her bottom lip trembled. But it was with a voice of perfect calm that she said:

"Honestly, I'm not sure whether or not I prefer the night-terrors."

Unsure what to say, Severus allowed a pregnant silence to fall over them, the only sound permeating the room being the dull mechanical ticking of the antique analog clock. Minutes passed like hours. His hands grew heavy in his lap.

And then, quite suddenly, Luna gave a petit yawn. She glanced over at him sleepily, robins-egg eyes gone soft and hazy.

"I don't mean to kick you out, sir, but I think I'm all kinds of knackered."

Immediately, he rose from where he was sitting, stepping up to the edge of her bed as she lay herself back down, getting remarkably cozy in the none-too-comfy hospital bed. Without thinking, he helped draw the covers up further until they just passed her shoulders, neatly smoothing them out with a single hand.

She smiled up at him.

"Thanks, sir," she yawned again.

He shook his head. "There isn't anything to thank me for."

"Slytherin modesty," she murmured, eyelids drooping. "That's a new one."

He rolled his eyes, settling back into his seat. "Touche."

Her closed lids flickered for a moment; then, she cracked one open at him curiously. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Your nightmare stopped, didn't they?"

It had a strange effect on him, the muted hopefulness in her voice. Something stirred in his chest.

"Yes. They did."

He expected her to ask for some confirmation, some assurance that perhaps hers would pass as well—but she merely closed her eyes again and smiled one of her surreal little smiles.

"Good."

And, as he watched her drift off to sleep, he supposed that, for now, it was.


That evening found him once again in his laboratory, pouring over books. To his personal disgust and disapproval, the zeal with which he scoured his materials had diminished greatly since last night. Not without viable reason, naturally; since his three major solutions had been more or less shot down as contenders the previous night, he did not, at present, have much to go on. He was simply going over the texts, looking for clues, for something he might have missed, some potion that could be altered to fit Luna's predicament. But three hours in, and his usual rigor had been reduced to listless scanning and flipping of pages. He had pulled books from his library, from the Hogwarts library, had borrowed from both Sprout and Minerva's studies—he had even run through a few forbidden texts, just to cover all the bases (though, he knew it was a lost cause; he wouldn't even consider using something remotely akin to Dark magic on Luna). It was around nine o'clock that evening that he found himself growing restless enough to shut his books, straighten his stack of notes, put on his cloak, and exit his chambers.

He walked with no particular purpose in mind, giving little thought if any to where he was going. His feet, embedded with the muscle-memory of years of stalking these halls, took him on a twisting winding path, long and scenic and refreshing. He moved in absolute silence by default, habit formed in previous years causing him to glide through the castle like one of the ghosts.

Perhaps it was, at this point, inevitable, but eventually his feet lead him to _ side of the castle, down that same hallway he had first chanced upon Luna Lovegood. Again, almost inevitably, he found himself following the same path she had taken him through, pushing through double doors and coming out into the colonnade that surrounded the many frost-covered courtyards.

It didn't take him long to find the small enclosure in which Luna had been constructing her graveyard. He bowed through the archway, ice crunching underfoot as he stepped into the barren yard.

Standing there in the crisp, chilly night air, Severus took in the sight of her unfinished work. Though the courtyard had no roof, leaving it exposed to the elements, there was oddly no snow on the ground where she had been working, only frost clinging to the four stone walls. And because there was no white blanket across the ground, he could see very plainly where her labors had been interrupted.

Curiously, Severus crouched down, stretching long fingers out to graze over a patch of raised earth. Crazy the girl may be, but disorganized she was not: all the tiny deposits of dirt under which the moonstones were buried were in neat rows of ten, each stone about half a foot apart from the other. She had completed sixteen whole rows; row seventeen was short only one.

Pursing his lips, Severus shook his head slightly. Two-hundred and thirty-something people . . . and she had only managed one-sixty-nine. She still had fifty or sixty more to go.

Absently, he traced around the raised earth with one finger. Would she be able to finish? What if she didn't? He did not understand the magic behind the memorial—and there was magic to it, assuredly. What would happen if it was left incomplete?

As his fingertips scraped across the icy earth, he was reminded of that first dark night he had ventured here. How, crouched as he was now, he had watched Luna bury the moonstones; how she had spoken to him in that smooth, airy voice; how that voice had darkened, how that small hand had snatched his arm and burned him.

Unconsciously, he brought his hand away from the ground, massaging lightly the place where her hand had been. His mind, slightly numbed by the cold, slowly filtered through his memory, reviewing events, piecing together facts, trying to make sense of the situation. That night in the graveyard—memorial—she had seemed almost possessed. As is some dark, sickly creature that had been nesting in her chest had, for a moment, split open her ribcage and crawled out. Now that he thought about it, the event was slightly similar to a mystic receiving an oracle. . . .

Except Luna Lovegood had spoken no words of prophecy.

"And your blood was singing to me and mine was singing back."

He did his best not to shudder at the memory. Her voice . . . the timbre unearthly, so broken and yet so feral. Unnatural. Warped.

Severus . . .

Another voice filtered into his head, cold, high and unbidden. There was little audial resemblance between the two, but intrinsically, Severus' mind drew an eerie connection between the two. Yes. Luna's voice in her distraught state had reminded him somewhat of Lord Voldemort's.

But Lord Voldemort had been insane. An arrogant genius, to be sure, but legitimately cuckoo as well. Which was reason enough for him to sound distorted and queer without even addressing the fact that the bastard hadn't even really been alive—at least, not alive in the normal sense. Little known was the fact that, during the years after his resurrection, Voldemort had required constant conditioning and maintenance of his new physical form. Severus himself had brewed most of the potions, particularly when the first Potions Masters' concoctions had proved unsatisfactory for Voldemort. For, although he had walked and lorded around like any mortal, the truth of the matter was that, due to the Holcrux's toll on his being, Voldemort had not actually been mortal in the traditional sense. He had, simply put, been a piece of a soul walking around in a corpse. Which no doubt added to his less than stable mental state.

But Luna was not a walking corpse, nor was she insane.

Was she?

Rising from his crouch, Severus brushed the dirt from his hands, his expression gone impossibly dark and furrowed. Was Luna Lovegood insane? A certain part of him—the disgusting, sentimental part—refused to believe as such; for while the blonde nymphet was undeniably touched, his scant memory of her told him that she had always been so. It was simply the way she was, as she had explained. But her eccentricity did not make her crazy.

But he couldn't exactly condone her episodes as sane behavior.

He sighed. This was so bloody frustrating. Truly. Severus was not typically one to stand by and just watch things happen; for the last seventeen years he had done everything in his power to contribute to the world at large. But this . . . this was almost unbearable. The two avenues he might have taken to make some impactful difference were blocked; one by sheer impracticality, and one by the girl's damnable stubbornness. It still baffled him how she refused to talk—to anyone! He did not even half expect her to confess to him, but in his experience, young adults usually needed someone to be their confidant. But she refused even to broach the subject, which was irritating enough on its own without her bloody reasoning. Which he understood, to some extent—her reasoning, that was. He certainly understood for why he himself never really talked to anyone about what had been done to him, much less the things he himself had done. But he had been conditioned to that kind of depravity and violence, since he was very young. He was more than capable of coping on his own, but her?

He could rant endlessly about the delirium of it all, but the point was that he was limited. And these limitations prevented him from helping or doing anything mildly useful.

Except, it seemed, play nanny.

He sneered at himself nastily. Oh yes. Severus Snape, mother-hen extraordinaire. How did one explain that? He supposed he could chalk it up to the fact that, technically speaking, he owed Lovegood a life-debt for saving him. But that was a cop-out if he ever uttered one.

But, if there was underlying truth in the matter, it was this:

Most days, he could not remember why he bothered waking up. He wondered why trouble himself with going through the motions of the day when he could just as easily swallow poison and save himself the trouble of trudging aimlessly through the next few bleak decades of his life. He wondered why he bothered living, now when he had no tangible purpose or use.

But, on the days he saw Luna, none of that seemed to matter.

And so, he went to go see her. Just a few hours, but every single day that week, promptly at lunchtime, after the Mungo's team and Pomfrey had performed their daily treatments.


Never before would he have thought to spend so much time in the company of a young girl. Hell, he couldn't have even fathomed it; but, as it happened, he fell into the rhythm of it quite easily. He ate lunch with her (sometimes; other times, he simply sat with her while she ate measly amounts); they talked. Sometimes, he would bring books and read to her; she always seemed inexplicably content to simply listen to the sound of his voice, no matter the material. At Poppy's instruction, he did not bring her schoolwork to her (too much strain, she said), but he gave her a few casual lectures in keeping with her studies, and smuggled her a few textbooks. He even played games with her (he flat out refused to play exploding snap, but he was game for wizard's chess, and the Ravenclaw was a more than adequate adversary). Sometimes, when she was too worn out for anything else, he conjured up a harp or other instrument, and charmed it to play quietly so they could simply sit and listen.

Every time he saw her, she gave him her brightest smile; but despite this, she continued to look more haggard and weary than the day before. The circles under her eyes were the size of teaspoons now, and far darker in color; it made her bright blue eyes seem huge. Though she tried to eat, she seemed smaller and thinner every time he saw her.

He'd asked Poppy about her condition; and though the mediwitch couldn't be swayed to share any confidential information, she did tell him that Luna had been having consistent night-terrors. None so severe as the first episode, but enough to where she had to be restrained and given a mild sedative.

Occasionally, when he arrived, the Mungo's team was still conducting their treatments and testing. Interestingly, instead of being made to wait outside, he was welcomed in by a younger man with a badge that read Dr. Bryan Melrough (tall, blonde, nice eyebrows) and asked to stand a few paces back whilst he and his one other team member finished up.

Dutifully, Severus leaned against the private ward's wall, looking very much like his bat-like old self, surveying the scene critically. Apparently after the first incident, the Mungo's team had decided that keeping the number of personnel in Luna's presence to a minimum was the wisest course of action; most often, it was the tall blonde mediwizard with one other assistant. Pomfrey remained in the room at all times to act as a familiar, reassuring presence. Although Luna seemed to be liking Melrough well enough.

Severus couldn't help but narrow his eyes angrily as Luna said something that made Dr. Melrough laugh, Luna herself smiling warmly.

He had to clench his fists at his sides to keep from strangling the younger man as he patted Luna's small shoulder affectionately.

As Dr. Melrough exited, he always looked directly at Severus; he never said anything, merely addressed him with his eyes, gave him a nod of recognition. It was all Severus could do not to snarl at the man.

But the tension stirring within him never lasted. Ten minutes into talking with Luna, and all was forgotten.


"i have found what you are like
the rain,

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. Wields

easily the pale club of the wind"

She had brought him Byron. Now that he looked back on it, it seemed so fitting that she would know exactly what he might like. His knowledge of poetry was inadequate at best, but he surmised that e.e. cummings was probably both bizarre and delicate enough to be just her cup of tea.

"and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned

newfragile yellows"

And, judging by the rapt, almost ravenous way she watched the movement of his lips, he might have been right.

"lurch

in the woods
which
stutter
and

sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss"

"That was lovely."

Severus, keeping his expression cool, closed the slim book, setting it on his lap. "It was."

"A bit romantic, I suppose."

"Well, I didn't write it." He tried not to sound too defensive.

"No. But you sang it very romantically."

He lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. She had recently taken to calling his intonations "singing", and he hadn't really bothered to correct her or point out that he most certainly did not sing.


She did try and trick him into it once, though.

"Tell me a story, Professor. I feel like a story right now. and I love the sound of your voice."

"'Sir'; I am not your professor. And, as incredible a shock as this may be, I do not know any stories."

"Make one up. Use your imagination."

He sighed. "I sincerely doubt that I have any imagination left in me, Ms. Lovegood."

"Luna. And that's fine. You can just sing me a song instead if you li—"

"—Once upon a bloody time. . ."


It was difficult, but he managed not to mention or even bring up the subject of Luna's night terrors or trauma. It was not his job, he told himself firmly. He was not a trained medi-wizard; and he certainly did not want to make her feel any kind of uncomfortable around him. His duty in this entire affair, it seemed, was to provide her with a sense of relief. And he would stick to that role, as much as it pained him to see her growing more waxen every day.

Though, to be fair, he probably looked no better.

This, though, was mostly due to his research, the research in regards to her. In the privacy of his lab, his endless scouring for a solution had turned up dead end after dead end. At this point, he was no longer even looking merely at potions, but actual spells and rites (again, avoiding anything to do with Dark Magics). Even still, the work was doing little more than frustrating him and depriving him of sleep.

He considered, off and on, that it was foolish of him to be digging for answers when he did not even know the properties of the question. That is, in as far as he knew, no one could yet figure out what exactly was wrong with the girl—which made searching for a solution a bit of a foolhardy task. Obviously, it was to do with post-traumatic stress; but the extent to which it affected her was inconsistent with her peers and other subjects. That is, most of the kids who were waking up screaming in the middle of the night were doing just that: waking up. They weren't tearing hospital bedding to shreds, letting loose haywire sparks of magic, or acting as though possessed. Leave it to Loony Lovegood to be atypical.

When not in his private lab or with Luna, he tended to spend most of his time prying open ancient tomes at the library, scaring all of the students and generally being a silent, well-behaved menace.

Which was how he was found by Dr. Melrough, Friday afternoon.

All week, he had been dreading the coming of the weekend with a horrendous passion he had never known. And all simply because the weekend marked the time for the Mungo's team to make their decision: whether or not to commit Luna Lovegood as a mentally debilitated witch.

Since no one was keeping him informed (unless he ceaselessly badgered them into submission), he did not yet know whether or not said decision had been made. As a result, his visit with Luna that Friday had been somewhat tense. Fortunately for him (and when he thought about it as "fortunate" he wanted to kick himself) Luna had a particularly bad episode the night before, and was much too tired to do anything but listen to a bit of music and listen to him read. She didn't even manage to eat anything, but he made sure she drank her potions, and a mug of tea before leaving her to doze off.

As soon as he'd left the infirm, he headed to the library. The tension that had been building up in him all week was peaking, and he knew that if ever there was a time to devote his energy to work, it was now.

So, as was his custom, he gathered a mountain of books to start with, and secured himself a secluded table in the far corner of the library.

He was pouring over a stress and meditation manual when he suddenly realized that someone had entered the sanctum of his study space.

Suppressing a growl, he jerked his head up to find none other than the tall, blonde Dr. Melrough standing before him.

There were a few beats of incredibly awkward silence during which Melrough stared at him uncertainly and Severus threw him a glare two shades short of demonic. After staring for a few moments into Severus' inky black eyes, Melrough looked around the book-covered table, and cleared his throat.

"Quite a selection you've got, sir. What are you doing, may I ask?"

Severus favored him another long, deliciously loathsome pause.

". . .research."

"Ah," Melrough nodded, as if this explained everything. Whilst the doctor fidgeted uncomfortably, Severus took a moment to assess the man before him. He was dressed in the traditional dark blue robes of St. Mungo's, with the hospital's crest pinned on one breast. He was, Severus judged, a good few inches taller than himself, though far less imposing; his face was much too pleasant, and this effect was only increased by his youth. Severus would have guessed late twenties.

For some reason, Severus gaze lingered on the man's eyebrows.

"So . . . I am assuming that this is research for the Lovegood case."

"I am conducting research on behalf of Miss Lovegood, yes," he bit out, dragging his gaze downwards to look the young man in the eye.

"Ah. How's it coming?"

"How do you think?"

Dr. Melrough held up a hand. "I apologize; I didn't mean to offend. I was just wondering if you'd gotten any farther than we had."

He could not help but scoff. "If I did, do you think she would still be in the infirmary?"

Melrough shook his head. "No. No, I suppose not."

Dog-earing his page and closing his book, Severus drew himself up as much as he could whilst still sitting down, folding his arms and fixing the younger man with a stare that had most first years pissing in their pants. "Is there something you came to speak with me about? As you can see, I have quite a bit of work to do," he gestured at the rest of the books.

Seeing that he wasn't likely to get much hospitality from Severus, Melrough ignored his harsh attitude, and instead responded mildly, "Yes, actually, if you have a moment."

Giving the man another hard, long look, Severus pointed to the bench opposite him. "Fine. Sit."

Complying, Dr. Melrough planted one long leg over the bench, and swung around the other as he sat down. "It is about Miss Lovegood."

He just barely stopped from rolling his eyes. "Obviously."

Melrough ignored him. "We haven't come any closer to helping her—or figuring out what exactly the problem is. Most patients with post-traumatic stress do not behave as she does, and she won't share anything more about what happened to her. We're at something of a loss."

Severus considered him, listening to his own qualms being recited to him.

"I and Dr. Y'por have tried asking her on multiple occasions to divulge information about what happened at Malfoy Manor. But she refuses to talk about it, so all we have to go on is the scant report she gave that's on file. It really isn't much; she just listed events, without detail. You are the only visitor she's had, aside from Mr. Malfoy, who has not been actually admitted to see her. Has she . . . told you anything?"

"No."

"You are certain? Not even a little detail?"

For some reason, these inane questions didn't irk him as much as they should have. Perhaps it was the concern—genuine concern—that he detected in Melrough's voice. Perhaps he was simply weary. But his next response, far from being bilious, was only tired.

"No. She will not speak to me. As I understand it, she will not speak to anyone."

Dr. Melrough brought a hand up to massage his temple. "Yes. So it would seem."

"What is your decision, then? If you cannot determine what exactly is the matter with her, you cannot reasonably commit her—"

"Actually, we can, and most of my team seems to think that committing her is the best idea," Dr. Melrough said matter-of-factly, crossing his own arms. "As far as we can tell, there is no pattern to her outbursts, and there is no way of treating them, which makes her a possible danger to herself and others—"

"But she is not crazy—"

(Merlin, did he really just say that about Luna Lovegood?)

"Can you verify that? Where is your proof? If you have any, any at all, please bring it forward." Dr. Melrough searched his face with serious eyes. "I personally do not think she should be committed; actually, I think it would be the worst thing for her. She reacted very badly the first time the team tried to examine her; I doubt the Mental Matters ward will be any better."

No. No, it would be a bloody picnic. A well of unease swooped in upon him, thinking of Luna locked up in the Mental Matters ward; while, at the same time, a certain calm washed over him. As much as he disliked Melrough . . . or thought he disliked him . . . the man was sensible. Was seeing sense. Was on his side. And hers.

After a pause, Dr. Melrough spoke up again. "We were given a week to make a diagnosis. We still haven't come to a unanimous decision. Post-traumatic stress patients are my specialty; I myself conducting extensive research on it. So, while technically I could be overruled, the rest of the team has taken my stance into consideration. She is being given another week. More, if I ask. But the rest of the team is needed back at St. Mungo's, so I will be the only one remaining."

Relief. Sweet, luxurious, amazing relief. He could have slumped forward and just relished in the feeling if it weren't for all the books in his way. Damn things.

Instead, he nodded and said, "I see. But if you do not mind my asking . . . why are you telling me this?"

At his words, Dr. Melrough gave a soft smile. "Because it's obvious that you care about her. She has no family. If you're as much a friend to her as you seem to be, I thought you had the right to know. And . . . I was wondering if you might be able to help me."

Severus' brows raised. "Really? You do remember that I nearly tore you and your lot apart, don't you?"

Melrough uttered something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. "Yes, well . . . you were fearsome, I'll give you that. But I could use your intellect and expertise. You have a very impressive record . . . minus the whole Deatheater bit." He waved a hand.

Severus smirked. He knew for a fact that said "bit" took up more than a substantial amount of whatever record the Ministry had of him.

"I would be glad to aid you in any way I can," he said at last. "Although, I will say that most avenues my studies have taken resulted in nothing useful."

Melrough shrugged. "That's fine; you probably got a lot further along than our team analyst did. He's . . . well, he's basically incompetent."

Severus snorted. "There is a veritable wealth of such people in the world, you'll come to find."

Melrough smiled lightly, scratching the back of his head. "Yeah." He paused, looking around at Severus' heavily laden work-table; then, with an air of finality, he stood. "Well," he said, stepping back over the bench, "I suppose I shall leave you to it. Is there a time you would like to meet to discuss this? Tomorrow, possibly?"

Severus nodded. "Yes. I assume you will be with Miss Lovegood most of the morning?"

"Yes. And you the afternoon?"

"Yes. So let us convene at four tomorrow . . . in my chambers, if you like. Most of my notes are in my private laboratory anyways."

"Great." The smile that lit the doctor's face was genuine, and something about it pleased Severus. Perhaps it was the simple fact of knowing that the physician overseeing Luna's recovering genuinely did care for her, instead of seeing her as another nameless, faceless patient.

Melrough was about to turn and leave when he paused. Looking over his shoulder, he said:

"Since I am in charge of the Lovegood case now, I am also in charge of her recuperative restrictions. My colleagues did not think it wise to admit students to see her . . . but if Mr. Malfoy still has a wish to, he is welcome by me."

"Thank you. I will tell him."

He didn't smile. Not quite.


a/n: Ta da.

I apologize once again for taking so long to update. I recently had to move, and I have not had much chance to sit down and write, much less just think about the plot of this story.

The next chapter is already mapped out. I just have to fill it in. kind of like painting by numbers. After that, who knows?