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DN
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Severus Snape found waking that morning a slow process, his mind as foggy as the lakeside in the fall. As sensation wandered in to join consciousness, aches and swellings made themselves known. It had now been many months, nearly a year, since his body had been damaged in battle or a duel, and the once-routine process of healing now seemed less familiar, and considerably less welcome. All concern over his condition was stripped away once another thought roughly shoved its way across his mind, obliterating all others.
Morgan.
His last glimpse of her had been as she'd been carried, inert, back to the castle. Had she survived? Recalling her collapse in Hogsmeade, giving no resistance, no spirit in her eyes, meeting the ground so forcefully, he felt nauseous. As he struggled to control his emotions, further thoughts, of a long life yet to live, but without her, with no hope of her, came unbidden and would not release him. Just as he'd committed to devote himself to pursuit of her, she'd been snatched away. In a painful echo, yet again, he'd been a fool and his love had suffered the consequence. Snape now snapped open his eyes to take in the dim light. His eyes confirmed what his nose had already informed him: he was once more in the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey hurried over, clipboard and parchments in hand. She began her exam, feeling his hand and head.
"Where is Dr. Hunter? What is her condition?" he barked with concern, trying to raise himself to a sitting position and failing. The swelling and bruising from the hexes and curses rested deep in his muscles and bones, making each movement, large or small, a painful chore. How long had he been here? He could remember nothing since he arrived and collapsed in a bed.
The Healer felt his pulse as she looked over at the bed across the infirmary, its curtains drawn, then back to her other patient. "She has not regained consciousness yet, but she is not dead."
Waves of relief, of hope, of longing, of thankfulness washed over him. He lay back, allowing the Healer's exam to continue. She was alive, thank Merlin. Alive. He closed his eyes, partly in relief and partly to hold in the evidence of his emotion. She was alive. Little else mattered.
"I have her on round-the-clock observation, but there have been no changes since you two arrived yesterday. How much venom did she drink?"
"No idea," Snape stared at the curtained bed, unconcerned for Poppy's ministrations to him. The shadows were beginning to gather as the sun set outside the windows, leaving only the few small lamps beside each occupied bed to supply light. It wasn't morning at all. After a moment, he turned back to the healer. "But even a small exposure is usually quite serious. A spill on the skin can be fatal. What treatments have you given her?"
She flipped to another of her parchments and listed the spells, charms, potions, and salves that had been used. Reparifors, bezoars, antidotes for common and uncommon poisons, several others. "We even applied the Salve of Salvation. We truly have done everything possible. By the way, I'll need more of the Salve made, once you are back on your feet. I've run out of it and I'd like to try some more for her."
Snape turned back to her and snorted. "I won't be hurrying off to mix that up, Poppy." He waited for a moment as she narrowed her eyes and snarled. "It will be useless for Dr. Hunter. It's main therapeutic function is to grant the user certainty that they have done everything possible for the patient, nothing more." She grimaced, then continued to feel his pulse. "See if you can heal me in less than a month this time, if you please," he said sardonically, eyeing her hand touching his. He felt distinctly less revulsion at the touch of another than he had during his previous inpatient stay.
Madam Pomfrey dropped his hand roughly, which fell with a thud against the side of the bed. "See if you can come to me before you are dead next time, Headmaster," she replied tartly. "You have barely enough blood in you to live. Why? And don't even consider saying 'No idea.' You might fool others with that line, but not me."
"I would never consider trying to fool the astute Madam Pomfrey, particularly when I am so obviously at your mercy," he said silkily. "Human blood was needed as an ingredient for an experimental scorpion anti-venom, and I had the most ready supply."
"You've nearly bled yourself to death!"
"I had no idea how much Dr. Hunter would need, so I made as much as possible." Snape looked directly into Madam Pomfrey's eyes. "It seems to be having some effect, as she isn't dead. She should be dead ten times over." Referring to her as dead nearly made him choke. The images swirling in his mind, of the witches he'd loved, dead, made him wish for a return to unconsciousness.
"Is there more of this experimental 'antidote?' It may help."
"Yes, there are six more vials in my storeroom."
"And how much blood goes into making one vial?"
"About a pint per vial."
"And for how long have you been making these?"
"Since December."
Madame Pomfrey regarded him with something like anger, but tempered with respect. "That's three times faster than your body can replace blood without magical intervention, Severus. It's a wonder you're even alive yourself. I could have helped, you know." Here, she paused, an unusual step once she began a tirade. Her shoulders relaxed and she now sat in the chair at his bedside. "You do noone any good if you are too weak to launch a good curse or even dodge a poorly cast one."
"When you are done castigating me, Poppy, can I inquire after some of your healing intervention?" he said sourly, his own internal castigating far worse than Poppy's.
She pursed her lips. "I've already started, of course. It isn't instantaneous, replacing blood. It takes time, but the fact that you can manage a bit of sour wit suggests that you are doing better than yesterday."
"I wasn't witty then?" he asked, in mock horror.
"No. Silent. Just like old times," she said with a rueful smile. "Sometimes I miss those good old days." This earned her a sour look, followed by a turning away. Madam Pomfrey stood up then and waved her wand across his weakened body and muttered "Hemoscendo."
A paroxysm of hurt wracked his body. He couldn't help but show it in his face; a grunt escaped his lips as he felt a painful swelling feeling from the middle of his bones, as though his marrow was going to explode. After a time, the agony turned to pain, then to discomfort, followed by some residue of relief when it fully subsided.
"How many times will you abuse me thus?" he asked, when he was once again capable of speech.
"Most wizards with your level of blood depletion require four," she said, with more cheer in her voice than he thought necessary.
"Then I expect I'll only require two," he replied. Madam Pomfrey snorted, scribbling in her chart, her quill fluttering.
"Take the Hemocrease potion now, please," she said, handing him a vial of blue, metallic looking liquid. He recognized it as one of his own. He drank it down, the ferric and salty taste sliding over his tongue.
"One more question, Headmaster. How did you know that Dr. Hunter would be poisoned, and why were you so sure it would specifically be with scorpion venom? Why did you think it so likely, in fact, that you were willing to nearly bleed yourself to death to create an experimental antidote?" Madam Pomfrey regarded him without suspicion, but with curiosity.
"Her supply of venom was stolen, despite storage in a secure cabinet with multiple charms. She has had a recent visit from someone who is less than benign, making threats against her. I assumed these events were related and prepared accordingly." But would it be enough?
The Healer nodded in understanding. "Do you still keep a supply of Wolfsbane in your stores?"
"Yes. Is there someone in need?" he asked warily.
"No one that I know of." Madam Pomfrey grasped Snape's hand, but not for the purpose of monitoring. "You're a good man, Severus. Regardless of what you may tell yourself." She dropped his hand and stood briskly, the moment over. "Now. You may leave this sanctuary to return to your peaceful existence whenever you feel strong enough to do so. However, if you don't return in 24 hours ONTHEDOT to receive your next Blood Builder, I will have Minerva hunt you down and commit you to remain here in the hospital wing under my direct supervision until you are full-blooded once more. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"
Her words, while rather louder than necessary to be heard at this close distance, were intended to be those of care and concern, he knew. That notwithstanding, he could do without the lecturing. The way she waved her wand in his direction seemed distinctly un-therapeutic. "Will I have visiting privileges to see Dr. Hunter and still enjoy my freedom?"
"Only if you are compliant with care, Headmaster."
"Very well, then," he said, attempting again to rise with some difficulty. He was torn between staying in the infirmary to be near Morgan and the desire to retreat to his private spaces. No doubt, there was work piling up on his desk, as well as teaching to be done come Monday. Someone would need to be pressed into service to teach Dr. Hunter's classes while she was in recovery. He was feeling somewhat revived already, the Hemoscendo with its companion potion and resultant increase in blood production filling his veins, but a double class load might be a bit much.
As he sat on the edge of the hospital bed, pausing from the effort before attempting a full stand, he glanced over once more to the curtain beyond which Morgan Hunter lay, in a tenuous state. It occurred to him that there was no certainty that she would ever recover, no certainty that the antidote was fully effective. He had very carefully studied the theory and constructed the potion as precisely as possible, but this went way beyond theory into uncharted territory. She might simply languish unconscious, not dead, but not much more. She might regain consciousness with lingering paralysis. She might be conscious and mobile, but not at all the same witch. The range of enduring injuries to her were too great to contemplate at once.
He berated himself as he slowly retreated down the long halls and stairways to the dungeons. It may have been possible to devise a way to thwart the intentions of Pansy Parkinson toward Draco Malfoy rather than leave Morgan unprotected, though how could he have known she'd leave the protections of Hogwarts and follow him? She would have been unprotected when she traveled to lecture and he would have been powerless to accompany her then. She had chosen not to continue her lectures. Did she know what kind of threat Ames posed or was there some other reason? And, he reminded himself yet again, she was a perfectly capable witch. Usually.
Why had she been as careless as she had been, knowing that Ames was now nearby and had found her location and posed such a threat? Pitiful, he berated himself yet again. The three of them, unable to capture and defeat a second-rate wizard. Poppy was right, he must not allow himself to be so weakened again. But what had made Morgan so vulnerable?
He stopped first at his laboratory. In the storeroom, he stood before his Registered Substances cabinet and uttered the charms, charms of his own invention, unbreakable. Within lie his most deadly, powerful, or expensive ingredients, and his most precious products. He withdrew three vials of anti-venom. That left only three. Months' worth of work, spent alone brewing. The many obvious failures. If Poppy only knew how much of his blood had been wasted… He probably would need at least the full course of four Blood Builders. But at last, a formula that wasn't obviously worthless, one that emitted some kind of power, after his needing all the strength and skill he had to make, a most disagreeable temperament. Now distilled down to these six vials, and their seventh companion, already consumed. He rolled them in his hands, their potency radiating into his flesh, every component speaking with every other one. He re-set the stoppers, tapped the vials with his wand to clean them, then wrapped each carefully before putting them in a padded box with a secure latch. Once he was fully certain they were uncontaminated and secure, he summoned a house elf to deliver the package to Madam Pomfrey, accompanied by stern instructions on doing so carefully given the high value of the content of the package.
At last reaching his rooms, he sat before the fire, freshly made, and wondered for how long he could manage to teach so many classes. Slughorn was still living, but some of Hogwarts' more advanced students might be a good option, as well. An opportunity for experiential learning. Perhaps he would need those additional applications after all, he thought, rubbing his head. He gave a wave of his wand, and there was shortly a knock on his door.
"Enter," he called, not looking up as Bina entered with her parchment and quills.
"Yes, Headmaster?" she said. "Are you not well? You seem tired. I'll call for some dinner for you."
Under normal circumstances, he would have waved off this concern, but thought the better of it.
"Yes, thank you, Bina." A silver tray with roast pork, spaetzle, and cabbage appeared, accompanied by a glass of dark red wine. Had he felt more able, he might have smiled, but instead he remained in his chair and motioned Bina over.
"Please inform the 8th-year Advanced Potions students that their homework is no longer due Monday and that they have the weekend off. Inform them that a change to the planned curriculum will be announced Monday, instead." He imagined their delight, being able to enjoy the weekend without writing 18 inches of parchment describing the use of simmering, not boiling, in the production of patients, then added: "Instruct them to use the extra time studying for N.E.W.T.s." He had virtually no belief that any of them would do so, with the exceptions being much of Ravenclaw House and Hermione Granger, but it seemed best to at least deliver the advice, knowing it, like so much other good advice before it, would go unheeded.
Bina wrote down the directive, then scurried away to copy the message and have it delivered.
Snape got into his nightshirt and rested then, not really sure of the hour. His thoughts turned again and again to Morgan, as they always did. He reminisced over their work together, his surprise at the depth of her talent, her keen interest in Temperament. Her interest in him. What was her motivation? What did she want? She claimed she had no interest in his rumored fortune, a claim she continued to make after she discovered that he had no fortune, no assets. And not much of a future, other than more of the same, year after year. His own needs were supplied in modest style by the school. Anything above that was small, indeed. Any wife of his would need to work to support herself, particularly one with a taste for fine clothes and jewelry. And children… Here, he stopped himself from thinking any further. Even a witch who was not particularly galleon-hungry would turn down such a Binding, for what would be the point. Unless she herself had exceedingly poor prospects.
He neither knew nor cared. What other wizards or witches thought of her, his opinion was firm. He was determined to learn the ways of wooing a witch. He'd even read Lockhart's book, if need be, though the thought of being caught doing so sent a wave of revulsion through him. If there were a Salve of Salvation for attracting a witch, something which would inform the suitor that he'd done all that was possible to win the impossible witch, he wanted to know. Should she ever awaken, be able to speak and understand, he would be ready.
For if he failed, what then? He pictured himself, coming home to some shabby, empty house after closing up his Potion shop, another long day spent making simple concoctions. And then what? Probably sampling some of his own product before slowly going mad.
And still, the mermaid girl with long dark hair. What did she matter? Thoughts of her also invaded his mind in the quiet, dark hours of the evenings. It wasn't possible that he had a child now, that was certain. Trelawney said she referred to him as "daddy." A frightening thought, indeed. What poor child would be so cursed to have him as a father? Harry was fool enough to have him as a godfather, mostly out of a misplaced sense of duty, no doubt, of indebtedness.
Feeling a bit revived as the Blood Builder continued to take effect and the warm dinner and wine filled him, he stood again and paced the room restlessly, feeling determination rise within him. Doubts as to her motives notwithstanding, he wanted to be with her, wanted her to be with him. Yes, she made the research far more fruitful and was an able collaborator, but there was more to this than forwarding research. Working with her, which was once a novelty, had become the standard to which he now measured the day. Working alone had been like being a unfastened door, blowing in the wind. His mind was sharper when she was there, his senses more alert, his consciousness more focused. Without her, he had been half-dead, though still living. Still functioning, teaching, researching, brewing, still doing what duty required, until the day finally gave in to the release of sleep.
His visions of her leaving him forever on the next train out of Hogsmeade, or taking up with some other wizard, stole that release many times in the form of nightmares, from which he awoke still unrested, despite the hours of sleep. He had long resisted the temptation of a Sleeping Potion, knowing where that might lead, but it was getting more difficult to resist the appeal of a full night of dreamless sleep. And if he were to combine it with a Delightful Dream Draught, he could be assured of a night's' worth of lovely dreams. But many a witch and wizard before him had gotten to the point of not wanting to sleep without these. They weren't difficult to procure, but most shops kept their prices high. Whether to encourage their use being rare or exploiting those with dependencies was a matter of speculation.
What he needed now to sleep well was clear. He buttoned his day clothes back on, pulled on his boots, and headed back upstairs.