Half a Life Without You
Chapter 3: Aftermath
Everly's POV:
A bloodcurdling scream pierces the stillness, jolting me awake. My heart races as I sit up, disoriented, my eyes scanning the shadowy room. For a moment, I see nothing unusual and wonder if it was just a nightmare. I take a shaky breath, trying to convince myself to relax.
But then it happens again—another scream, louder and more tortured than before. This time, there's no mistaking it. I throw the blanket aside, my body moving on instinct as cold dread coils around my spine. Something—or someone—is in pain, and it's getting closer.
Suddenly, the infirmary doors burst open with such force that the wall sconces rattle, the flames flickering wildly. "LUMOS!" A voice commands, and the room is flooded with light from the chandeliers above, banishing the shadows in an instant.
Three bloodied figures float through the entrance, suspended in mid-air by magic. I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth as I take in their battered forms. Their robes are torn and smeared with blood, their faces bruised but still recognizable. Cuts and scrapes cover their arms and legs, but their breathing, though labored, seems steady.
Before I can fully process the scene, another figure limps into the room. A sandy-haired young man, pale and drawn, with a long scar marring his face. He moves slowly, dragging one leg as he makes his way inside, his wide, guilt-ridden eyes fixed on the floating boys. He doesn't notice me as he collapses heavily onto a bed. That must be Remus Lupin, I think, recognizing him from the way I'd always imagined him—worn, weary, but determined.
More footsteps echo from the hall, and a witch who could only be Professor McGonagall strides in next, her black bun tightly coiled, her expression fierce. With a flick of her wand, she lowers one of the boys onto a nearby bed. His leg is twisted at an unnatural angle, bone jutting grotesquely through the skin. Despite her care, he lets out an agonized scream the moment his leg touches the bed.
Before I can blink, Madam Pomfrey rushes past me, her robes billowing as she moves swiftly to his side, her wand already glowing as she runs it over his trembling body, working to ease his pain.
I stand frozen, watching helplessly as more figures fill the room. Professor Slughorn stumbles in next, his face pale as he takes in the sight of one of the boys vomiting nearby. He gags, turning away quickly, visibly struggling to keep himself from adding to the mess.
"For Merlin's sake, Horace!" McGonagall snaps, her fierce tone cutting through the chaos. "Get ahold of yourself. We don't have time for your nonsense. Go check on Potter and Lupin; I'll handle Pettigrew."
Slughorn dabs at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief, hurrying to where James and Remus lie. His spells are clumsy, his eyes darting away from the blood as he works.
Amidst the noise and movement, I remain rooted in place. The names—Potter, Lupin, Pettigrew—they swirl in my mind, leaving me dazed. I'm not just in the Harry Potter world. I've somehow traveled into the past. That's why they look so young.
A sharp pain in my palms brings me back to myself. I glance down and realize I've been clenching my fists so tightly that half-moon imprints from my nails are carved into my skin. I flex my fingers, forcing myself to calm down. Focus, Everly.
Another figure floats in, this one with long black hair matted with dried blood. Dumbledore walks beside him, his pace brisk as he moves toward the bed next to mine. The boy—Severus Snape, I realize—is unconscious, his face swollen and bruised. Dumbledore lowers him gently onto the bed and, with a wave of his wand, mutters, "Episkey." I cringe as the sickening crack of Snape's broken nose snaps back into place. Thank Merlin he's not awake to feel that.
Madam Pomfrey's voice breaks through the tension, pulling me from my thoughts. "I need help over here!"
Without thinking, I move toward her. "I can help—just tell me what to do."
She hesitates for only a second, then nods. "Hold his arms steady and lean over his chest. His leg is badly broken, and I need to focus on the healing spell."
I take hold of the boy's arms—Sirus Black, I assume—and press my weight against his chest. His body trembles beneath me, sweat trickling down his face, mixing with the blood that's smeared across his brow and cheeks. He's much larger than me, and for a moment, I wonder if I'm strong enough to keep him steady.
"Ready?" Madam Pomfrey asks, her voice steady. I nod, though my heart pounds in my chest. With a flick of her wand, she mutters the incantation, and the moment she does, a loud snap fills the air as his leg jerks back into place.
He lets out a terrible scream, and my vision blurs with tears. I smooth the hair back from his forehead, whispering softly, "It's over now. You're going to be fine."
His eyes flutter open, and I'm met with piercing gray eyes staring up at me. Realizing I'm still pressed against his chest, I flush and start to pull away, but his hand catches mine.
"Stay with me," he mumbles hoarsely.
Before I can respond, Madam Pomfrey hands me several potion bottles. "Make sure he drinks every drop. I need to tend to the others."
I nod, turning back to him. "I'll stay, but you have to drink these first," I tease gently. His lips twitch into a faint smile as he drinks the potions, his eyes never leaving mine.
His gaze is unrelenting, and I fumble as I place the empty bottles on the bedside table. Just as I try to move away, his grip tightens.
"You said you'd stay," he murmurs.
I smile, squeezing his hand. "I'll stay. Thanks for holding still."
He smiles tiredly. "What's your name, love?"
"Everly."
"Sirius," he replies, tapping his chest before exhaustion overtakes him and he drifts to sleep. Gently, I tuck the blankets around him and whisper, "Rest well, Sirius."
A gasp from across the room snaps me out of the moment. Madam Pomfrey catches my eye and offers a tired but grateful smile. "The potions will do the rest, but could you help with cleaning and bandaging?"
"Of course," I reply.
The room finally quiets, the chaos giving way to an eerie calm as the boys drift into a deep healing sleep. I begin to tidy up the leftover bandages, my mind still reeling from everything that's happened. What a strange night. Despite the injuries, most of them will recover quickly. I overheard Madam Pomfrey explaining that James, Peter, and Remus will be fine by morning, but Sirius and Severus will need a few days to heal completely.
With the immediate danger passed, Madam Pomfrey turns to Dumbledore, her voice weary but firm. "Now will someone explain what happened?"
Dumbledore glances my way, his eyes settling on me for a moment as though remembering my presence. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation in private," he suggests.
Keep your secrets, I think bitterly, watching them leave the room.
With them gone, I find myself standing over Severus' sleeping form, my stomach fluttering with nerves, and my head buzzing with a strange mix of exhilaration and anxiety. This is it, I think, my mind racing. From the moment Madam Pomfrey said his name, I haven't been able to stop thinking about him. What do I say to him? What will he say to me? How should I act?
I've been both hoping and dreading this moment since my arrival.
As I stare down at him, I notice his face is still streaked with dried blood. It feels wrong to leave him like that, vulnerable. I grab a small bowl of warm water and a washcloth, feeling the weight of what I'm about to do. Is this okay? Will he be furious when he wakes?
Sitting gently beside him, I dip the cloth into the water and begin to wipe his face, my hands trembling ever so slightly. Slowly, the cloth reveals more of his features—a sharpness to his face, not traditionally handsome, but striking in its own way. His expression is tense, even in sleep.
Suddenly, a low growl breaks the silence. "Who are you?"
His voice is rough, disoriented, but his grip is anything but weak. His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist with surprising force. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat as I meet his eyes—black, endless, and drilling into mine. I want to speak, to explain myself, but my voice is gone, lost in the overwhelming intensity of the moment.
The only thing I can do is stare back at him. We're locked in this strange moment, neither of us willing to break eye contact. His face is rigid with tension, demanding answers. "Who are you?" he repeats, his grip still tight around my wrist.
Finally, I manage to find my voice, though it comes out shakier than I'd like. "Everly," I stammer. "I'm Everly."
He releases my hands, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "That hardly tells me who you are," he sneers, turning his gaze toward the other end of the room where the boys lie sleeping. He glances back at me, his voice sharp. "Will they recover?"
I swallow, trying to keep my voice steady. "Yes, Madam Pomfrey said most of them will be better by morning."
He sighs, almost wistfully. "Pity."
His words catch me off guard, anger bubbling to the surface. "You would wish them dead or dying, then?" I snap, unable to hold back the accusation.
His response is immediate, his voice laced with bitterness. "You don't get to judge me. You have no idea what they've put me through." He glares at me, his anger palpable, but beneath it, I see something else—pain, sorrow, buried deep in those black eyes.
Compassion swells within me, and without thinking, I reach out and lightly grasp his hand. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "You're right. I have no place to judge."
He looks at me, his expression softening in surprise. For a moment, we're both silent, staring at each other. The air between us feels charged, like something is shifting. His confusion is plain, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he watches me, as if trying to understand something that eludes him.
I lean closer, gently continuing to wipe his face, my touch careful and deliberate. His eyes never leave mine, and the intensity of his gaze makes my heart race. "Who are you?" he asks again, this time quieter, almost in wonderment.
For a brief moment, it feels like we're the only two people in the room. Time seems to stretch between us, thick and heavy, and I can't seem to pull away. There's something there—something I can't quite name, but it crackles between us, electric and undeniable.
The sound of creaking floorboards suddenly breaks the spell, and I quickly pull back. My heart jumps as I see Madam Pomfrey approaching, her steps slow with exhaustion. I scramble to stand, feeling awkward under her watchful gaze.
She hands me a small bottle. "Drink up. Time to get your rest, too." Her voice is firm, but kind. There's no room for argument. I take the bottle from her, draining it in one gulp, the liquid cool and oddly comforting as it slides down my throat.
Without a word, Madam Pomfrey steps between Severus and me, blocking him from my view as she begins tending to him. "Off to bed with you, now. I'll take care of young Severus," she says, her tone leaving no room for protest.
I hesitate, feeling a pang of disappointment at the abrupt end to our interaction, but I know better than to argue. "Thank you, Everly… for your help tonight," she adds softly, handing me a clean nightshirt and pants. Before I can respond, she pushes a privacy screen between the beds, cutting off any further chance of conversation.
With a heavy sigh, I take the nightclothes and change, feeling the weight of the night's events pressing down on me. As I slip into bed, I glance toward the screen, wondering if Severus is still awake, wondering what he's thinking.
Fatigue finally catches up with me, and I feel myself drifting toward sleep. My last thoughts are of Severus—his fierce eyes, his anger, his pain. And then, before I know it, I'm asleep, my dreams filled with midnight eyes and endless questions about what tomorrow might bring.