When she woke, the sun was shining brightly into the hospital wing. The stiff white curtain around her cot was no match for the harsh sunlight and its rays nearly blinded Clara as her eyes adjusted. For a brief moment, the hospital wing felt exactly as it did in her earliest days at school—warm and comforting. But a glance down at her bandaged form and her slight movements shooting pains down her spine stole the moment away.
She heard shuffling somewhere in the ward, likely Madame Pomphrey attending to her duties. Trying to be quiet, she shifted forward and attempted to sit upright. She couldn't manage far before she groaned and slowly eased back down.
She must have been loud enough to be heard, as the next thing she knew Madame Pomphrey was whipping the curtain open and chastising her for moving.
"Ms. Galen, moving too much now will only keep you on bed rest longer." Madame Pomphrey scolded, shifting her pillow so that Clara was tilted as forward as her bandages allowed. "Now, stay put like this and I'll fetch your potions."
Clara bit her tongue to keep back a rude retort but did as she was told. After a moment, the nurse had returned with a tray of potions—and breakfast. Eggs, toast, and ham. Her stomach rumbled loudly at just the sight of it and she suddenly felt ravenous.
She was instructed to take the potions first and then eat; Clara happily complied. It was strange, not remembering when she last ate because she last ate was 22 years in the future. It still made her head spin thinking about it too deeply—was that how it was always going to be from here on out? It was a painful thought but she couldn't help but wonder what would happen if she couldn't go back home?
She thought of her last moments in her time, blurry and veiled with pain. Surely, everyone she knew must think her dead—she was consumed by the fire; They would not be expecting to find a body or any evidence indicating her to be alive. Just a blast zone and scorched flagstone. What reason would they have to actually look for her? They simply…wouldn't. Especially not when her 'killers' were professors at the school.
She had finished her breakfast and leaned back against her pillow. A deep sorrow was brewing in her chest as she considered being stuck here in the past permanently. What if they made her leave Hogwarts? Or worse: What if they made her stay? How could she possibly go to school 22 years in the past like everything was normal. She felt acutely aware of her own shortcomings as a student, bitterly regretting not reading History of Hogwarts more thoroughly or listening to that girl Hermione Granger's endless study lectures.
Though, she supposed, it was maybe a good thing she didn't know too much of the specifics in how the future played out. She didn't know what would happen if she revealed too much to the wrong person but she knew it certainty couldn't be good. Wizards who meddle with time always met a horrible fate—witches, too.
Clara spent the day lost in her own thoughts dozing in and out of sleep. She was sorry to see the sun slip away and chase out all the warmth and familiarity of the hospital wing. Madame Pomphrey came with supper eventually and after watching the girl finish eating, she quickly went to reapply the burn paste, pulling her from her thoughts.
"A lot of these scars are clearing up nicely—and they've all stopped bleeding." She said cheerily, but Clara saw the intention in her words.
A lot are clearing up—but a lot would likely be scared permanently. She breathed deeply, steadying her resolve before she lost her nerve.
"Can I have a mirror, please?" She murmured.
The elder froze her ministrations and appraised the girl with a sober look. "Of course…but your injuries are still quite…raw. I don't want you to be too unsettled by your current reflection—it is temporary."
Clara knew she was trying to be kind—but her words brought tears to her eyes before the elder even conjured a small hand mirror and placed it face down in her patients bandaged hand. The mirror felt heavy in her palm and it shook in her grip as she slowly turned it to gaze at its reflection.
She couldn't help it; The sobs came unbidden and her face contorted in disgust. She was never particularly vain but her heart broke at the face she now called her own. The scars were raw. Red and mangled, they covered most of her face and creeped down her neck and beyond. Her scalp wasn't as bad as her face, but all her hair had been singed off, leaving her balder than the day she was born. She reached up to touch hair that wasn't there and remembered how many times she said she hated her hair—dish water blonde and unmanageable; She'd give anything to have it back.
As if she could read her thoughts, Madame Pomphrey tried to cheer her up: "Your hair will grow back; I've a potion for it but you need another day or two of salve treatment first."
Hair would help but it would take a hell of a potion to fix her marred skin. She met her own eyes in the reflection, still swelling but still the same brown color. There was evidence that some of the burns had been treated but she couldn't help but cry, regardless.
"I never cared how I looked…" She admitted, her voice thick. "But perhaps I would have if I had known I would look like this one day."
Madame Pomphrey patted her arm in comfort and gave her a sympathetic look. "You won't always look like this, dear, I assure you. In a few days, we'll have you up and moving and I think you'll feel more yourself then."
Clara nodded aimlessly, knowing she wouldn't ever feel like herself again.
"I think it's time you rest." Her nurse said next, brandishing yet another set of potions for her to take. "I'll bring you more in the morning, along with breakfast. And I'll not have you trying to get up by yourself again."
—
As weeks drifted by, Clara's presence in the hospital wing became an accepted reality. The initial agony of her injuries had slowly yielded to a relentless march of time and Madame Pomphrey's diligent care. Scars, once fiery and indignant, had begun to settle into a more resigned existence, while Clara, still bearing the weight of her experience, found herself growing accustomed to the ebb and flow of life within the infirmary's white-clad walls.
It was shortly after lunchtime one day and Clara was dozing when she heard someone walking into the ward alongside the jostling of glass jars. She listened for Madame Pomphrey to greet them but when she didn't instantly she grew anxious and started awake. As the footsteps drew closer, her heartbeat began to beat faster and she pulled the wool blanket up higher, as though it could hide her.
She saw the figure's shadow cross slowly in front of her cot's curtain before it paused and slowly, carefully reached for the stiff white material that separated them. She braced to scream, but when the curtain was suddenly jerked open all her breath rushed out of her as she faced an all-too-familiar face.
His thin, wiry frame and sallow skin paired with his trademark hook nose and greasy hair were all there—even in youth, Professor Severus Snape was instantly recognizable. His pitch black eyes were looking directly at her and, for the first time since she woke up, she longed for her wand. But he didn't move—he stood there holding a crate of potions tucked under one arm looking right through her. Dumbledore's words from the other day came back to her suddenly—he had charmed the ward so that student's wouldn't notice her. Snape simply saw an empty cot with fresh sheets.
She watched Snape as he adjusted the crate under his arm and unknowingly stared at her. He had a puzzled look his face, his dark brows furrowed in confusion. It felt wrong to see him in students robes, lacking the layers of black fabric she was used to seeing him in.
"Mr. Snape!" Madame Pomphrey suddenly interrupted, making the pair jump. "Can I help you?"
Clara didn't see her but Snape released the curtain and she saw his shadow turn to face the nurse.
"Professor Slughorn instructed me to bring these to you…" He replied, stiffly. His voice was deep but it wasn't the same rich, baritone voice she remembered. He sounded so young.
"Ah, yes, I've been expecting these." She said briskly. "Please, set them over here, would you?"
Madame Pomphrey ushered him away from Clara's cot, subtly ensuring the curtain was completely shut. Clara heard the muted thud of the crate being set down and Madame Pomphrey expressing her thanks.
"Thank you, Mr. Snape, I'll get right to sorting these…"
She held her breath and waited to hear Snape leave but all she heard was the jostling of glass jars and Madame Pomphrey humming quietly.
"Was there something else, Mr. Snape?"
"What happened to the girl that was here?" He asked, direct and to the point. Clara's blood ran cold. How did he know about her?
Madame Pomphrey made a small coughing sound. "Oh….ah, she's been sent to St. Mungos, I'm afraid."
"St. Mungo's?" He questioned, suspicion clear in his voice.
"Yes, she was very seriously injured; I stabilized her enough for transport, you see." Madame Pomphrey replied, "She's in quite good care over there, I assure you."
She sounded overly cheerful. It was obvious even to Clara that she wasn't being entirely truthful and she knew Snape didn't believe her for a moment. Madame Pomphrey lowered her voice to a murmur, obviously intending her next words to be for his ears only.
"I appreciated your help the other evening, Mr. Snape; I understand what you saw was terribly….well, terrible. But she is on the mend and you'll do well not to worry over it." She began in a comforting tone before she became more stern, "Come now, I've much to attend to here and I'm sure Professor Slughorn meant for you to return without delay."
Snape said nothing in reply; Clara heard him stalking off and she could finally breathe again. It hadn't really crossed her mind that she'd encounter teachers from her time as students—Headmaster Dumbledore and Madame Pomphrey had worked in their positions for so long, it didn't really faze her seeing them. But Professor Snape? She wondered who else was here at school and felt queasy when she realized that Hogwarts's current students were probably all the parents of her future peers.
When Madame Pomphrey returned, Clara gave her an accusatory look.
"How did he know about me?"
"He was getting treatment for a nasty little hex the night you were brought it." She said, sheepishly. "You had quite an episode when you woke for the first time—Mr. Snape assisted me in sedating you, I'm afraid…."
Clara's face soured as she vaguely recalled Madame Pomphrey telling Dumbledore that she almost hurt a student. She was positively mortified. The mortification must have been clear on her face as Madame Pomphrey's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Do you know him, Miss Galen?"
Clara nodded very slowly, "Vaguely…"
Madame Pomphrey looked like she had a million questions on the tip of her tongue but knew better than to ask them. She signed softly and gave Clara a sad smile.
"Oh, dearie. I'm sure you're aware of our world's current…political climate." She said carefully. "These are dark times, Miss Galen; It hurts to think that even 22 years into the future, it'll still be dark times. To think of what you might know…" She trailed off.
Clara shivered unconsciously. She wasn't the right person if anyone asked for specific details, but she knew some things. Things she wished she didn't know, truthfully.
—
The days dragged on for Clara. She needed fewer potions now but Madam Pomphrey soon insisted on more and more movement from her each day and it left her sore and achy each night. At first, freedom to move was invigorating, however, she soon learned that that freedom did not extend past the hospital wing and it quickly lost its appeal. Despite her protests, Madame Pomphrey had her almost walking normally by a weeks end.
Most of her burns were healing nicely; Not as much as she would have liked but her face and scalp weren't mangled shades of red and black anymore and she no longer required layers of bandages. The scars left behind were somehow both subtle and significant—tangled white lines and shallow grooves spanning out. Around her eyes looked almost normal, but the scars around her hairline and jaw very noticeably spanned down her neck and back in a tangled mess of lines. Her stomach and legs were not sparred from scarring but those would be easier to hide.
She still thought she looked dreadful, but at least she no longer look ghastly.