A/N: First of all, I apologize for it taking me so long to update. School kind of made it impossible to work. But here you are. This was actually supposed to be the epilogue, but I found that there were too many loose ends to wrap up. So, it ended up being another chapter instead.
-MLC
Part XI: Black Knight Moves Forward
He was really beginning to hate hospitals.
Not that he hadn't disliked them before, but the sheer amount of time he was spending in recovery wards and infirmaries as of late was, frankly, ridiculous. And annoying. Deeply.
It didn't help that, for the first few days he was in recovery, he was also under arrest. Despite the fact that he was having trouble staying conscious (removing the parasite from Luna's mind took less time than he'd anticipated, but vastly more energy) aurors kept breezing in and out of his ward, trying to prod him with questions and get the full story. When he was conscious, Severus was more than willing to cooperate, even if his foul mood didn't communicate as much (to his credit, it was difficult not to snap at people when one's brain felt like it had been run over repeatedly by the Hogwarts Express). He told the aurors everything, from the point where he and Dr. Melrough had realized what was wrong with Luna up to the point where he locked himself inside Luna's room with her—thought he discreetly chose to make Melrough's involvement obscure at best. According to Severus' reports, Melrough had stopped communication beyond the point of updating him on Luna's status once she was moved to the hospital. It was Severus who had gathered all the security information needed to successfully enter St. Mungo's; once he'd learned that Melrough would be on duty that night, Severus had followed him and gotten in via Melrough's access, whilst the other remained oblivious that he was being of aid.
(Somehow, he managed to get by without even mentioning the Invisibility Cloak. Since he'd woken up without it, he initially thought it had been confiscated by the aurors; but, apparently, in the confusion, Melrough had quietly gathered it up and removed it from the scene without notice.)
The questions were seemingly endless and repetitive, and more than once did an auror try to make him concede that Melrough had been knowingly involved. But Severus stuck to his story, and eventually they believed him, or at least stopped trying to make him to admit something different.
In addition to the questioning, charges were being brought against him. Melrough had assured him that most of the charges were likely to be dropped, that it was just a formality, that since the end justified the means it was unlikely that he would actually be tried. Even still, the list was quite long. Breaking and entering, deception of a medical professional, impersonating that professional in order to breach top security wards, performing unlicensed magics upon a patient, performing unlicensed and untested magic in general, unlawful access to a top-security patient, assaulting medical personnel, holding a patient hostage . . . it went on. He tried not to think about it too much.
It was a comfort when, by the third day of arrest, the aurors saw fit to remove the magical cuffs they had placed on him. It was that day, also, that Melrough was finally allowed to visit him.
Severus didn't think it very prudent, and he communicated as much as soon as Melrough entered his heavily guarded ward.
"Get out."
Melrough simply gave a small grin in response to his sharp tone. "Well. Someone's feeling better."
Severus sat up a little, trying not to be annoyed. "I am serious, Melrough. You should not be here. I have managed to convince the aurors that you were not involved, but if you come in all friendly smiles and no-hard-feelings, you are bound to raise susp—"
"You know," Melrough interjected breezily, "for a man who is suffering from mild- to severe head trauma, you speak with remarkable acridity and clarity. Been practicing on the nurses?"
Severus glared at him. "Do not get cute with me, Doctor."
"I would not dream of it, sir." Melrough drew up a chair and sat down by Severus, where he lay in the hospital bed. Slightly teasing expression dimming, Melrough looked at the tiled floor. "Thank you, by the way. For . . . not incrim—"
"Stop," Severus ordered. Even though Melrough spoke so low and softly that he couldn't possibly be heard (not by the orderlies standing outside the ward, anyway), Severus did not want to take a single chance. He also didn't think he could bear hearing the doctor bestow his full gratitude. It might make him vomit, and he was having enough trouble keeping food down as it was.
Melrough continued to look at the floor, expression serious. "Standish spoke to me," he said in the same low tones. "He believes that I didn't have anything to do with it. But he also understands that, while I don't approve of . . . what you did, as a concerned colleague I am, of course, inclined to want to see how you're progressing."
Here, Melrough sat back and looked Severus directly in the eye. When he spoke next, his voice was a bit louder.
"He isn't angry," Melrough told him. "I mean, he was initially. But once he could sit back and assess all of the facts, he simmered down quite a bit. Actually, if anything, he's rather impressed—with you, that is. Impressed a) at your willingness to help Ms. Lovegood at whatever risk yourself, b) that you single-handedly managed to break into one of the most highly protected magical facilities in Great Britain, much less Europe; and c) your Transference Theory. He's more than hinted that he would love a chance to talk to you about it, whenever you recover."
Severus raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I thought he was pressing charges against me."
"No, that's the hospital. And the only reason they're doing it is because they are required to. Despite the fact that you saved a patient, they can't really ignore all of your miscellaneous crimes. They have to at least file a report. Standish seems to think the charges will be dropped, though. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a hand in discharging you himself. He's rather keen on you—everyone is, actually—"
Severus barely contained a groan. He closed his eyes and brought a hand to his temple. "Please. Do not remind me."
Instead of heeding his request, Melrough just smiled and produced a folded-up copy of the Daily Prophet. He waved it at Severus. "Would you like to know this morning's headline?"
"No—"
"Then how about some choice sections," Melrough said, ignoring him as he unfolded the Prophet on his lap. He quickly scanned the main article, smiling when he found what he was looking for. "aha. Here's something—"
"Would you—"
"'More acts of heroism from the former Deatheater and spy, Master Severus Snape'. Well, at least they got your title right."
"Oh, thank heaven for th—"
"blah blah blah 'in a courageous and somewhat hare-brained feat of daring and ingenuity, Master Snape broke into the supposedly impenetrable St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies just three days ago… once again, Master Snape's seemingly dubious actions appear at first downright unclear in motive and Slytherin in nature, prove in the end to be selfless acts of bravery'—good Merlin, I think they almost called you a Gryffindor—"
"Would you put that bloody thing away before I stuff it down your throat?" Severus growled.
Melrough gave him a wry expression and folded the paper primly. "Now, see, that wouldn't be a grand idea on your part, because killing a doctor is something they could actually put you on trial for—"
"Are you done?"
"No. I think I'll stay and torment you a bit more, if that's alright."
That was his cue to protest and caustically dismiss the young, chipper doctor—but he didn't take it. Truth be told, the irritation he had been voicing was mostly false; secretly, he was rather glad to be talking to someone who wasn't just asking about his vital signs or whether or not he had anything further to say about his allegedly criminal actions.
As Melrough bent over slightly to lay the condemning newspaper under his chair, Severus found himself asking: "Did you manage to stay out of the papers?"
Straightening, Melrough nodded. "Yes—that is, they mentioned the involvement of 'a doctor from St. Mungo's' but I'm not named. If there is one thing Standish is adept at, it's steering his staff clear of scandal."
"And Luna?"
"Anonymous."
Severus let go of a breath he didn't know he was holding. Thank Circe for small favors. "Fancy that," he murmured, almost to himself. "I was almost expecting some sort of implication of a scandalous liaison. Perhaps even a juicy picture of me lying unconscious in my hospital confinements. After all, they managed to break into Hogwards; St. Mungo's ought to be a cakewalk."
"Ah. Well, it would seem that problem has been resolved."
Severus raised a silky black brow. "Oh?"
Melrough smiled somewhat grimly. "Yes. A few days ago, Headmistress McGongall and Professor Flitwick set up a network of detection charms around the school. Apparently, they caught a bug."
Severus narrowed his eyes. "Skeeter."
Melrough nodded. "Yes. Though she is no longer officially working for the Prophet, it seems they still have her on payroll. Naturally, the Prophet wants to maintain its good standing with the public; so, in exchange for keeping this dirty little operation hush-hush, they have agreed to essentially sell Skeeter up the river—along with her collaborator and 'replacement', Mr. Travis Walsh. They are both making overly generous donations to Hogwarts that might very well keep them in debt for decades."
At this, Severus merely gave a slow nod. It was less than he could have hoped for, honestly, and it was probably for the best that he was currently bedridden. Otherwise, Ms. Skeeter and her protégé Mr. Walsh would be losing much more than just galleons.
Melrough studied the older man for a moment, before observing, "You aren't satisfied."
"No."
"Luna predicted as much. She says you aren't one to take punishment lightly."
"An interesting observation coming from her, considering that she has only ever received one detention from me." Shifting in his bed, Severus sat up a bit straighter and asked, "How is she?"
Melrough gave a little smile, accompanied by a small shrug. "Well. Still loony as ever, but well. Much more chipper. Her eating is slightly peckish, but we're working on that. No nightmares, though, and she sleeps fairly regularly . . . although she's still doing her sleepwalking bit. Nurse Maggie caught her outside yesterday, plodding around barefoot in the snow."
Severus frowned. "That is odd," he murmured.
"I thought her sleepwalking was nor—"
"It is," Severus said impatiently; at the odd and slightly uncomfortable look he received from Melrough, he hastily amended, "At least, according to her it is. However, she ordinarily wears footwear to sleep for that reason."
Melrough looked thoughtful. "She mentioned that, whenever she was pulled into the lake by your Giant Squid, Edwin—"
"Irwin," Severus corrected without thinking.
Melrough gave him a strange look. "Erm, yes. Irwin. Well, she mentioned that he took her shoes."
The image of bright yellow, lace-up high-tops swam to the surface of Severus' mind and he nodded slowly. "He did."
"Maybe those were her last pair—what is it?"
Severus had turned away from Melrough to reach over to his bedside table, plucking up a quill and notepad bearing the St. Mungo's letterhead. He scribbled a few things down on the notepad; then, he tore off the sheet, folded it in half, and handed it to Melrough.
"Take this to Xavier's in Hawkin Square. It's just on the other side of Knockturn Alley," Severus instructed. The words he delivered with his usual authority, but there was a certain . . . discomfort about him, almost furtive.
Melrough raised his eyebrows at the mention of Xavier's but did not, to his credit, look at what had been written on the paper. Instead, he took it and tucked it neatly into the inner breast pocket of his robes, sitting back once more in his seat.
Feeling both slightly pleased with himself and slightly foolish (a mix of emotions that was both exhilarating and extremely unsettling), Severus gave the smallest of sighs and ran a hand through his hair—and found his irritation with hospitals renewed when he remembered that they had shorn a good deal of it off. No longer lanky, it was now only a scant 6 or 7 centimeters long. Magic-induced head trauma did not ordinarily leave physical marks, but hemorrhaging wasn't unheard of; his hair, he'd been told, had been chopped off to better assess and repair the damage. He ran a hand through it again, this time feeling out the change more fully; he couldn't be sure whether or not he liked this. But the principle of the thing—that someone had cut his bloody hair without asking—was still a sore spot.
Melrough watched him complacently. "It's a good look for you," he said conversationally, as if Severus had asked his opinion.
Which he hadn't. Obviously. Severus turned his attention back to the doctor and sneered at him. "Implying what exactly?"
In anyone else, that kind of acidity would have provoked some amount of abashment or defensiveness. But Melrough merely rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a prat. In all likelihood, you'll be out in a week; then you can make as much hair-regrowth potion you like."
Severus gave him a look that was one part mock-offended and two parts reserved amusement. "'Prat'? What a formidable bedside manner you have. I shall have to report you for verbal abuse if you continue to carry on this way."
"Merlin, the nurses must simply love you."
"I daresay they have, in their own special way, grown rather fond."
"They'll be heartbroken to see you go."
"Yes; I expect many flowers and tearful goodbyes," Severus deadpanned.
Melrough snorted. "You forgot to mention requests for photos and autographs. You're a celebrity, remember? And with that new haircut of yours, you might just have to fight them off with a stick."
Here, Severus closed his eyes and massaged his temples; there was a smirk that was trying its best to work its way onto his face, though it was sorely impeded by his almost ever-present headache. "Stop trying to make me laugh," he muttered from behind his hands.
"Why?" the young doctor asked impertinently.
"Because you are spectacularly bad at it and it causes me physical pain."
"That is my job as a doctor."
Severus took his hands away, looking at Melrough. "But you aren't my doctor," he pointed out.
"No."
"You're just sitting with me."
"True."
". . . why?"
A few beats of silence followed this tentative question. Eventually, Melrough sighed and his wonderful eyebrows danced about a bit on his forehead before he solemnly replied:—
"You might say I've grown rather fond."
Through heavy black eyes Severus studied him, fully and quietly. I've grown rather fond. The words curled idly through his skull; they gave him a strange feeling, one not necessarily pleasant. Perturbing, he thought as his gaze wandered down the row of buttons on Melrough's uniform.
"That seems rather dangerous of you, doctor," he heard himself murmur.
Melrough tilted his head to the side. "How so?"
There was a beat of silence while Severus gazed, slightly mesmerized by the silver buttons, bearing the hospital's crest. Then, as if waking from a stupor, Severus gave his head a little shake, and looked back to Melrough's confused face. The look he fixed him with was rather unfamiliar to Severus' features, a sort of wry expression normally given to children who ask questions like "where do babies come from?"
"Because," he intoned, "to say so might make others reconsider your sanity."
Like a burst of sunlight shining through grey clouds, Melrough's expression cleared instantly into one of equally wry mirth. "Well, given the nature of my work environment, I think that much is inevitable regardless. Speaking of which," Melrough gave a cursory glance to the clock over the door, "I probably ought to be returning to said work."
"Merlin forbid I keep you from attending to my fellow lunatics."
That earned an eye-roll from the young doctor as he stood from his chair. "Yes, quite. Shall I send for a healer to administer another pain-reliever?"
Severus, who had taken to massaging his temples again, quickly jerked his hand away. "No," he said quickly. "And you may tell them that I will take no more unless they learn to brew that potion properly. It is supposed to be mildly narcotic, not sleep-depriving. It should be a delicate pink—not bloody fiuscha—"
"Right, duly noted. Shall I check in on you tomorrow?"
"I'm not in any position to stop you, am I?"
As Melrough reached the door, he turned back to look at Severus, shaking his head. "You are a very difficult and contentious man, you know that?"
"It's one of the few facts in which I may still take comfort," he muttered to the closing door.
For several minutes after Melrough had gone, Severus continued to stare fixedly at the door, inky eyes glazed over, deep in thought. He scryed the surface of the dark polished wood, absently tracing patterns and imperfections whilst recycling and gleaning over pieces of their conversation in his mind.
A week, he'd said. No more than a week—dare he believe it? A week and he would be free of this godforsaken place; free of his cabin fever and these immaculate grey-white walls; free of nurses and orderlies and caseworkers; free of stupid hospital garments and improperly brewed potions. Free of charges and free of pain. He would be granted impunity and autonomy. It should have sounded like a miracle, his very own hallelujah chorus. He ought to feel excited; at the very least, relieved.
But he felt none of that. Instead, what betook him was not a sense of relief, but an inexplicable, disquieting sense of dread. Again, perturbing.
But why, he wondered, should I feel thus? It was distressingly illogical, this strange and unshakeable sense of consternation. Was this not part of what he worked for his whole life? To win an existence free from burden, sins acknowledged and atoned for? A life of his own?
Yet he did not feel unburdened; and it seemed that nothing had been atoned for, the deeds tattooed into his skin simply mottled and disfigured to resemble a faded stain on his flesh, a bruise rather than a brand.
It felt, he realized, that not only had he failed to completely atone not, but he had also been stripped of the right and opportunity to do so. This little crusade of his—his life's work, so to speak—it was as if someone had completely erased it from his history. As if it meant nothing and there was nothing he could do to get those years back.
And there was no future either, it seemed, for what was he to do when he was released? There was no war to fight, and almost all the former Deatheaters were dead or had already been hunted down. There was no cause to devote himself to. Merlin forbid he go back to teaching (he couldn't think of anything more pathetic than wasting his last years babysitting teenagers). Retirement wasn't an option either: the sheer and utter boredom would drive him batshit crazy.
Possibly the most disturbing aspect of these musing was how much they made him wish Lovegood was there. Sitting beside him, wide electric-blue irises winking, a small smile playing around her mouth. She would just nod and hum and smile, and he wouldn't have to think about anything of these things because, somehow, they wouldn't really matter in her presence. Nothing tragic or grave seemed to last around her, the simple light of her dispelling all dark matters; she made them dissipate into thin air, as if they never were.
Mentally, Severus shook himself. He had no right to be indulging in such thoughts, innocent enough as they were. Ms. Lovegood was, more or less, cured of her illness, and he had no business being in any further relation with her. Dreamy and wayward girl that she was, she might go on with her life and never spare these last few months a second thought; close this volume of life for good. He wouldn't blame her. He ought to do the same.
But if this were a chapter of life, he found himself unable to move onto the next. Instead he sat, stagnant, turning back pages and replaying instances and basking and wallowing in memories beautiful and terrible, humorless and hilarious.
He wanted to live in those memories forever. He wanted to close his eyes and never wake up.
But that was something too, wasn't it? If he dared to think about it, indulge in the fantasy for even a moment— these fresh memories of the last few months were proof enough. Proof that there was . . . well, something. Something more.
Severus permitted himself a deep sigh. He had been too young when he started—and now that he had finished, he felt too old. Had he learned nothing? Gained nothing? Melrough seemed to think that he would be granted full impunity; but prison, it seemed, might have been something of a relief. If he were to go to prison, he would not have to think of the future. All his days would be laid out for him. There would be no more figuring out, no more trying. He had nothing to go back to, not like the others: his entire life was a crusade. He was a hunter, a spy, a war-machine: what use had he for peace? What would life without war be like? The question left him drawing a blank.
He had spent the majority of his life simply subsisting, getting by. Just surviving. Did he know how to merely live? He had been a master strategist, able to maneuver around anything, learned to expect everything— well, everything but this. But what had he to live for now?
This time, when the sunlit image of Luna Lovegood floated to the surface of his mind, he let it stay there where it basked, soft and warm and lovely against the black backdrop of his mind. Just a girl, no more than sixteen, soon to be seventeen. No mother. No father. No home. No shoes. The world had orphaned her as he had orphaned himself. But she wasn't jaded—the furthest thing from it. For her, the world still held hope and mystery.
Perhaps that was why he saw those things in her.
The edges of his mouth tilted downwards slowly, settling into a dissatisfied frown. He had never thanked her properly, he realized. For all the things she'd done for him, for all she'd put up with, for all the mirth and patience she'd shared, he hadn't shown any appropriate amount of gratitude.
It wouldn't do.
There was no way to repay her, he knew. What she'd given him was not appraisable, was too precious to be assigned any palpable value. But this was not about settling a debt; this was about doing something, just for her.
All in good time, he assured himself. He needed to be out of this bloody hospital first.
Fortunately, as Melrough had predicted, his stay did not last through the week. On the fifth day of his confinement, it was announced to him that the legal charges had been officially dropped, and the final paperwork for his pardoning was being processed. By the sixth, Melrough (who'd been paying him a visit ever since he was allowed to have such) ecstatically told him that not only had he been fully exalted, but the hospital had issued a full and public apology. Though it was thankfully not splashed over the front page of the paper (some other scandal had taken precedence) there was a sensational and overly-done article about it on the second page of the Prophet—which Melrough took great pleasure in waving in front of his face.
"Really, this should have gotten the front page," Melrough gloated, shaking the paper and grinning. "A full, formal, and public apology! I don't think this has ever happened in the history of St. Mungo's. This is all Standish, mind you."
"Yes. It makes me wonder what he wants. And don't be so giddy; if you read the entire article, you'd know that the Aurors are still looking into the matter. They are not convinced."
Melrough shook his head. "Doesn't matter. This is brilliant! You've made history—"
"That, good doctor, is nothing new. I should be quite glad to lead a decidedly non-historically relevant existence – once I am discharged from here, that is."
"Doing what, precisely?"
"I haven't the faintest."
"Well, be sure to leave room in your schedule for Standish. As I said, he's very keen on you. You will most likely be hearing from him soon."
And, once again, Melrough's prediction did come true: for though the prestigious hospital director did not come to call on Severus personally, the potions master did receive a letter containing both apology and commendation. And though the epistle did not convey specifically that Standish would like to hire Severus as part of a special research team for the hospital, there was never the less enough implication to make him suspicious.
That same day, he also received a small parcel, neatly wrapped in brown paper. As the sender did not leave their name, he hesitated slightly when unwrapping it—though once he realized what it was, he finished doing so quickly.
Setting the wrapping paper down, he held the humble object in the palm of his hand, studying it contemplatively. Experimentally, he smoothed his thumb over the object's cool marble neck, moving then over its carved eyes and mane.
As he set the black chess piece on his bedside table, he noticed that, on the inside of the brown wrapping paper, there was something written in a tiny cursive script that had almost escaped his notice. The note was only two words, but they filled him instantly with warm.
Thank you.
