Chapter Text
Being surrounded by nothing but darkness is unpleasant for most individuals. He always felt like he would embrace every inch of the inevitable darkness, once it tried to consume him, but something made him hold on and didn't let him lose the grip on this life.
Memories about the incident come crashing down on him when he senses the subtle breeze coming through the windows of... where? He doesn’t know. Grinding his teeth, he considers staying like this, frozen, until he knows what exactly is going on. The last thing he remembers is a loud noise, an explosion?
He did not die, that much has already dawned on him. But who found him? The Order? Death Eaters? Those would’ve made sure that he was out for good.
After finally opening his eyes the brightness hurts at first, even though the only sources of light are the moonlight shining in from the window and a dim, flickering lamp in the corner of the room. His head aches and his limbs seem to be wrapped in bandages.
He’s in the hospital. St. Mungo’s, surely. Countless more questions start flooding his head. How long has he been out of it? Who brought him here? Why would they treat a Death Eater?
His breath stops for a moment as he realises that he’s not alone.
It’s a hospital, of course he’s not alone. He scans the room, which appears to be small and uninviting, only providing space for one bed. Not much of a surprise as there certainly were no visitors, and if people noticed his affiliation, they’d make sure to isolate him.
He turns his head carefully and quickly locates the source of the breathing, the steady heartbeat. A young woman with flaming red hair is sleeping peacefully in a chair next to his bed, releasing a tiny snore every now and then. Judging by her clothes, she must be one of the healers, and she firmly holds onto a flask with a silverish liquid.
He needs to get out of here, he decides, while starting to connect his mind back to the nerves in his hands and feet. Thank Merlin everything still seems to be where it’s supposed to be.
If he just disapparates out of here quickly enough, will anyone be able to follow him? Even if he succeeds, there aren’t many options left for hiding. His house is probably in ashes, Hogwarts might already be taken over and the Order might not even exist anymore. Using very cautious movements he attempts to find some kind of hint on the duration of his involuntary stay.
The only source of information appears to be his patient’s file, but the movements needed to fetch them would certainly wake up the woman. Suddenly, light starts flooding the room. He almost jumps at this sudden development, as he was deeply lost in his thoughts. Her wand’s the source.
Groaning, she raises her upper body and stretches out, while gripping the flask more tightly. She opens her eyes and stares at the tip of the wand that he has pointed at her face.
“Well, rise and shine. Look who’s back from the dead” you say rather unimpressed, while lifting an eyebrow at him. It’s not the first time you see people react defensively when waking up.
He finally gathers the strength to sit up straight in his bed, but he knows that every attempt to make himself look composed will cost him more energy than he’s ready to admit. “I need some answers, Miss–”
“Blake.”
He grits his teeth. “Miss Blake.”
Of course, he doesn’t remember you or your name, you’ve changed quite a lot in the past six years, and you didn’t expect him to remember one of his former students anyway. “Sure. I’ll answer any questions, right after you’ve taken your medicine,” you respond coldly.
“I’m not consuming anything I haven’t at least supervised while brewing.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. He hasn’t changed the slightest. “I made you take this potion three times so far and it was the only bloody thing that woke you up. I’d appreciate you not dying under my watch, alright?”
He examines you from head to toe. “Have we met?”
A slight smirk appears on your face, just enough for him to notice in this gloomy lighting. Your eyes meet for an instant and it makes you feel like you’re back in school. “Yes, Professor Snape, we’ve met,” you respond dryly. “I‘m Keira Blake.”
He lifts an eyebrow, as to indicate that he certainly does not remember names if not necessary.
“I just got a little older and changed my hair colour. I was blonde back then. Not sure if you remember, but I was in Slytherin and even took Advanced Potions.”
After some quick consideration, he finally lowers his wand.
“So, you do remember?” you ask with a hint of hope.
“Barely,” he answers coldly.
“Well, I guess one can’t remember every student’s name. Let’s get back to you, though. You’ve been here for ten days,” you start to explain. There’s a shimmer of incredulity on his face. “It was a hassle to keep your body from falling apart, but I managed. Rather difficult with your white knight telling me to keep people away from you, making me promise–” You halt for a split second, uncertain whether it would be a good idea to tell him.
“Anyway, this–”, you continue, lifting the shiny flask, “is nothing wild. It’s a mixture of some everyday ingredients and it appears to be working. However, you will have to stay at least two more days by the orders of, well, me.”
At this point the annoyance about the whole situation is showing clearly on his face, with a vein starting to pop out from his forehead.
“I suppose you are expecting gratitude, but I don’t think any of this was necessary. I will be fine on my own from now on. I would prefer to receive my clothes and the patient’s file so I can leave. Tonight.”
You grit your teeth as a consequence of his unsubtle arrogance but return to a professional smile quickly. You’re used to unpleasant patients.
“I will put the potion right here and I’ll see you in a couple of hours, Professor Snape. Disapparating is not possible in this room, and you’ll find it to be close to impossible to move out of here on your own, thus making your stay a necessity. Get some sleep. Good night,” you say, turn on your heels and stroll out of his room casually. After seven long years at Hogwarts, you must admit that it feels rather good to be the one in control, the one who’s telling him what he can and can’t do. You can’t help but giggle to yourself.
Thoughts are running wild behind his dark eyes, while he trails your figure with his gaze as it disappears into the dark hallways. There’s barely anything he dislikes more than being ordered around. He inspects the flask with a sceptical look, points his wand at it and mumbles some incantations. Nothing too special, but it does contain something rather unusual. 'Everyday ingredients', huh?
At last, he leans forward to fetch his patient’s file, causing pain to rush through every single one of his bones. While suppressing an agonized groan, he scims over the files. They hold many stats and numbers he can’t interpret, but there’s also a list of notes which seem to summarise the events after his arrival.
SATURDAY 13-09-1995
- Patient was delivered, apparated by a witch, not identified
- Burns(?) all over the body, extremities turning black and icy
- Unconscious, not responding to any physical or visual stimulus
- Heart rate alarming
- Cuts and bruises on face and torso
- Miss Blake will take care of the treatment
The handwriting on the following notes is more scrawly and hurried.
MONDAY 15-09-1995
- the usual antidotes don’t seem to improve his state
- the dark spots on his extremities become larger, but slightly slowed down by first version of the antidote
- he is moving intensely during the night-time; his arms are fixated while he is alone
THURSDAY 18-09-1995
- small breakthrough on the potion, dark spots don’t get bigger anymore
- his pupils seem to react to visual stimulation, no other reactions
- nightmares getting worse, staying the night just to be safe
FRIDAY 19-09-1995
- the potion finally seems to work as intended, spots are getting smaller slowly, but steadily
- heart rate slowed down to a natural pace
- didn’t show any signs of waking up
- still checking in on him hourly at night
SUNDAY 21-09-1995
- he still doesn’t wake up
He puts the notes down on his lap and removes a strand of black hair from his face. Now he’s certain that she knows. She saw.
Using Legilimency did not have the desired effect on her. There was no grain of information to be found about the night of the attack and this fact bothers him immensely. Who did she mean when she said white knight? The only person who comes to mind would be Dumbledore, but how would he know about the attack and his whereabouts?
According to the notes it was clear that she stayed with him multiple nights, which makes him wonder if she even left the hospital during his coma. She must be scared for her life, he’s certain, as he can’t think of any other good reason why anyone would do this to themselves.
Nevertheless, he realised she wasn’t bluffing when she told him that walking out of here would be close to impossible. As the origin and exact effects of his physical wounds are unknown, he can’t predict the consequences of any sudden movements.
Eventually, without giving it much more thought, he consumes her brew and sinks into his pillow, wondering if he has become too tired to fight at last.
The following night was rather unpleasant, full of haunting dreams and flashy images of the night he was attacked. His eyes fly open as he hears footsteps approaching the door of his room.
“How are we feeling today?” you chirp with an exaggerated smile on your lips. He’s doing it again, eyeing you with a look that makes you feel like a bratty child. You decide to bug him with positivity.
“I have to take a look at your wounds and - oh! You drank the potion. I’m positively surprised, Professor.” You put down the new flask and move the empty one in your jacket’s pocket. He doesn’t seem to be interested in matching your fake politeness or making small talk, so you start undoing his bandages without awaiting a reaction. You notice that he supervises every move of your hands and fingers closely, as if expecting you would do something horrible to him any second now.
It’s the arm with the mark, you can see why he’s being hostile about you touching it, but it can’t be helped.
×
Dumbledore showed up the night Snape was brought into the hospital. You were on night shift and had to take care of the first aid measures, after you were called by your seemingly overwhelmed colleague who had just started his apprenticeship the week prior. He informed you that a young witch apparated to the front door, barely able to carry the weight of the man. She was hooded and didn’t say anything apart from ‘Save him, please’, before disapparating.
You instantly knew why the young healer apprentice had called you. Cuts and bruises, rapidly spreading dark spots on the skin, a concussion and a heart rate beyond good and evil.
It was tough practice for you to stay composed while seeing your former Professor in this condition, but you didn’t let your fears overwhelm you. You’ve healed people in worse conditions before and you’ve seen your own mother suffer. This is nothing.
The two of you were very lucky that this was the only emergency that night, as you had a shortage of personnel that week and you didn’t see yourself treating another patient simultaneously. It would’ve been a disaster.
You were the one to perform damage control hands on while giving your colleague instructions on which potions he needed to fetch for you. While he was getting you the requested supplies, you found the Dark Mark on Snape's arm. This was the first time that night you lost your composure for a moment. You were trying to save a Death Eater and even worse: Your former Professor, whom you respected and fancied back in school, who turns out to be a bloody follower of Lord Voldemort. Your body was frozen, your gaze locked at his calm looking face.
You’ve never seen him this peaceful, this vulnerable. It didn’t matter whether he was a bad guy or not, in the end you’ve sworn to save your patients. You decided to go on with the treatment and report this to authorities, once he’s out of life-threatening danger, but the idea of turning in a person you would’ve sworn you could trust made your insides turn. At last, you felt a tear running from your eyes, born from the feeling of betrayal.
You managed to steady his condition and sent your colleague off again to check the room capacities. Without getting a moment to control the feelings that were flooding through you, the Hogwarts headmaster appeared. He strolled to the bed, examining Snape with a deep frown.
This was all too much. You barely managed to get out any words.
“Professor, he–”
“Miss Blake, I am glad to see you, alas in a situation this dire. As there is not much time, I will get straight to the point of my visit. I came with a plea,” he said calmly. “I am aware that this is a lot to ask of a young witch like you, but I was informed that you are notably gifted and passionate about your profession. Professor Snape used to be a follower of Lord Voldemort; it is true. However, he has reconsidered his loyalties before the first wizarding war had even come to an end and he has been on our side ever since. He is a crucial figure in preventing what might happen, now that Lord Voldemort has regained his powers and is in the process of regathering his followers.”
His words appeared far away to you as he spoke, and you were holding onto the seam of your skirt like your life depended on it.
“We cannot safely move him to Hogwarts in his current condition, as we don’t know the effects of the curse, nor the identity of the attackers. His only chance is for you to take care of him until there’s no more threat to his life,” he explained.
At some point he stopped examining Snape and instead started to search for answers in your face. “You must understand that this is a highly confidential matter, and your colleagues can not know about it. It could potentially put Professor Snape in even more danger. Nobody can know that a former Death Eater is being treated here.”
You finally managed to mutter some words. “My colleague who’s on duty with me tonight has seen him.”
“We will take care of that. He won’t remember this event and will go on about his life normally,” he assured.
“You’re going to obliviate him?” you asked while gritting your teeth.
“I fear that it is the only option, yes.”
Your head felt empty, and it was difficult to get a grip of a clear thought. There was only one question lingering on your mind. “Why did he change sides?”
“I am not in any position to talk about his past. However, given the special circumstances, I will tell you that his motivation was born from deep affection and the consequential desire to safe someone.”
Suddenly, a thick silence lingered in the air. Ever since Snape arrived it was never an option to let him die, you didn’t even know if you would’ve been able to turn him in. The world felt blurry.
“You can count on me, Professor,” you assured half-confidently.
“I am very glad to hear that, alas there are some measures that need to be taken. There are people who don’t trust easily, which is plausible at times like these. Therefore, Miss Blake, I’m afraid I need a promise stronger than just words.”
“An unbreakable vow.”
“Precisely.”
The warmth and compassion which sparkled in his eyes seemed conflicting with this whole situation. You considered for a moment, but eventually gave him a hesitant nod. Just seconds later, a tall, skinny, scar-faced man with the friendliest and yet saddest green eyes you have ever seen stepped next to Dumbledore.
“My friend here is going to help us with the procedure,” Dumbledore explained.
The old man reached out his right arm in your direction and you mirrored his action. You looked up at the man with the frizzy hair and received a compassionate smile. As you looked back at Dumbledore, he began.
“Will you promise to keep Severus Snape’s loyalties a secret?”
“I will.”
“Will you do everything you can to cure his curse?”
“I will.”
“Will you take care of all measures to keep his treatment here confidential?”
“I will.”
The golden strings which appeared around your arms got tighter and sparkled more with every promise. In the end they seemed to fuse with both of your arms. Dumbledore gave you some words of gratitude, while his companion placed a hand on your shoulder with an ambivalent look of gratitude and pity. With this, they turned around and left, without even giving you the chance to learn the name of Dumbledore’s companion.
×
“Your arm looks much better already, but the curse is still straining your body. We can slow it down using the potion, but I’m still trying to figure out the details to get it out of your system completely.”
The pensive look on her face makes him uncomfortable. He would prefer for her to tell him what you know and continue taking care of the rest himself. “How long do you expect the effects of the curse to interfere with my ability to leave?”
His facial expression unfazed, he pulls away his arm as he notices you’ve been staring for too long.
“I’m sorry I–” you stutter. You stare at your own arm. The one with the vow that could kill you if you let him go carelessly. After being lost in your thoughts for a moment, you straighten your back and look at him sternly.
“I know you want to leave; I get it. I would, too. I made a promise though. I don’t want to lose any patients and I will take care of them as best as possible. Professor Snape, it’d make my life easier if you would just comply and respect my work,” you say harshly.
The dark-haired man growls and inspects his arms for a long moment. Finally, he nods.
“Great, I–”
“Just do me one favour,” he interrupts.
“What is it?” you ask, slightly tilting your head. When his jet-black eyes meet yours, just for a split second, you feel like he’s trying to strip your mind.
He’s not actually trying to get in my head now, is he?
“Just get me something to read. The daily prophet and a novel. Alas, I don’t expect that it’s going to be a good one, but we all know what they say about desperate times.”
Three days pass until the dark spots on his skin are mere small freckles and he can move around freely. You sometimes catch him strolling up and down his room impatiently, like a cat stung by a bee and the looks he’s giving you turn gloomier by the second.
At least he didn’t hate the novel you handed him. It was an old, worn-down book with shiny letters on the cover. “Infinita Profundum”, a bit of a psychological approach on the consequences of occlumenting the mind, wrapped in a drama about a middle-aged werewolf. It might sound cheesy, but it actually has some interesting perspectives. He scoffed at it at first, but he read it nonetheless.
The following day you return with a set of flasks and a parchment full of instructions. He looks at you suspiciously, as if you were trying to mock him. It is kind of difficult to ignore his freezing stare as you put down the items onto the desk opposite to his bed. “I know I imprisoned you longer than anticipated, but here you go. You’re a free man now.”
“About time,” he replies, without an ounce of happiness to it.
You turn back at him. “But–”
“Of course, there's a catch.”
You ignore his remark. “I need to check in on you two times a week for the next month. I hope you will be good enough by the end of October, so I can finally leave you to your beloved solitude.” It was impossible to not let that sound snappy.
He pinches his nose, his forehead wrinkling. “Haven’t I already made myself clear? I. Can take care of myself. Alone.”
As if you didn’t hear, you simply continue, “I will show up at Hogwarts on Tuesdays and Fridays, around 8 in the evening. The headmaster has already received my owl and will make sure I can get in and out.”
“And why do the two of you consider this a necessity? As you might remember, we have Madame Pomfrey who would–”
“See you on Tuesday, then. Don’t forget to take your medicine, Professor.”
Bratty woman. Bossing him around and occluding parts of her mind like a fortress. Why does Dumbledore trust her? He himself can and will not.
After putting on his patched-up robes, he disapparates. During his stay he noticed at some point that the witch had put an anti-disapparating spell on his room and must’ve removed it right before she discharged him. She wasn’t a bad student back then, this much he remembered, so he’s not that surprised.
After he left, you find yourself thinking about him when resting in the nurses’ room regularly. One reason for that is, of course, that your life kind of depends on his well-being. Apart from that you would love to get a look at what’s going on behind his dark eyes, the cold look, the hard features of his face. During school you were really into this ice-cold goth boy kind of thing and you could've sworn you’ve grown out of it, but it's hard to deny that you’re still somewhat attracted to his dominant demeanour. Every time these thoughts overcome you, you start shaking your head dismissively, much to the amusement of your colleagues. You resolutely refuse to tell them what your new tic is about though. Tuesday is going to be interesting.
×
Being disliked and feared helps a lot with entering the castle and dodging any unwanted disruptions. Covered by his cloak and hood, he marches straight to the dungeons, trying not to run into any of the staff or worse - Dumbledore. The thing he craves is peace and quiet. Following his arrival he locks the door, drops the flasks on his desk and sinks into his chair, with a deep sigh escaping his mouth. His level of pain has improved significantly, but the feeling of exhaustion is still lingering in his bones.
A knock wakes him up after an indefinable amount of time, during which he must have dozed off. Being surrounded by the comfort of his own office must’ve helped to finally relax, at least as much as possible for someone like himself.
As the door swings open, a figure with a long beard and tired, but friendly eyes enters the cold dungeon room, smirking at Severus who emerges from his chair.
“You shouldn’t strain your body too much, Severus. There’s no reason for you to get up, just because of me.”
Severus ignores his remark, trying to act as if he was as good as new. The bearded man examines him with a slight frown.
“Miss Blake already told me about your condition. She appears to be a very capable healer and remarkably trustworthy.”
“She practised some damage control,” he answers unimpressed. “It still doesn’t make any sense to me, as to why you make her travel all this way to Scotland twice a week instead of just asking Poppy to monitor the state of my condition.”
Dumbledore returns to a cheeky smirk. “Did she give you any reason for your hostility?”
His question is answered with a cold glare.
“Miss Blake and I have an agreement. That’s all you need to know for the time being.”
Severus knows all too well that prying on the subject is not going to help with receiving answers from the old man. “Then would you be so kind and finally tell me what happened that night? Who was behind it, who found me?” The annoyance in his tone cuts the air.
“We have yet to uncover the details, but there are indications that Peter Pettigrew has been watching your house that day.”
“I bloody knew it. That rat should be thrown into a cage and drowned in the Black Lake,” Severus spits. If Peter Pettigrew had a death wish, he would be happy to fulfil it.
“I understand your frustration, but you know as well as I do that, at this moment, we can’t make a move on him. We are monitoring his actions to figure out the motives and to find out if there were any other Death Eaters involved.”
Severus clings onto the arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. “I suppose that this is going to fall into my area of responsibility. I have already been called to a meeting tomorrow night, as I have missed the last two. I'm certain Miss LeStrange is going to be greatly disappointed about my survival.”
Dumbledore rises from his chair, looking over his half-moon spectacles. “I’m curious about your report, alas I will not be able to hear it within the next two weeks. I hope you will discuss your findings with me, once I return.”
Severus closes his eyes, his forehead turning wrinkly again by his displeasure about that information. “May I ask where you are headed this time?” he asks, without expecting an answer.
“You may ask, but I cannot tell you as of yet. You will be informed, eventually.” His face now glistens with a warm smile, before he turns around and moves towards the dungeon door. “Oh, and Severus–” He looks back at the black-haired figure behind him, smirking. “Don’t force your rage on the students, they’re not responsible for any of this”.
This remark is met with grumbling from the Potion’s Master, right before the door falls shut.
×
The excitement of getting back into the old castle where you spent the best years of your childhood is getting to you and your sleep quality declines rapidly. You never had many friends and you concentrated on the lessons and exams, faced some classic Slytherin bullying and lost some house points here and there, but you still loved most of the time spent in Hogwarts.
Dumbledore informed you that he set up a Portkey for you with a very limited timeframe, so you have to make sure that you are perfectly on time, which you actually manage for once. Punctuality is not something you'd consider a strength of yours.
The landing is far from soft, and far from graceful as you stumble down onto your knees. You will never get used to travelling with these things, they are just hellish. Before you can start swearing, the awe-inspiring view of Hogwarts castle manifests in front of you. This alone was worth it and quickly makes you forget about your dizziness and the potential bruises.
You landed right between the castle and the Quidditch field and now see a figure hastily heading towards you. The days are already getting shorter, and the darkness makes it hard to make out who it is at first. It doesn't take long though until a wide grin creeps onto your face, as you realise it is no one less than Professor McGonagall. The sides of the Professor’s mouth curl into a smile upon seeing you.
“Miss Blake! Dumbledore told me I would have to greet a former student out here in the cold. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I’m glad you made it here safely.”
“Professor McGonagall, I’m glad to see you again!” you exclaim.
”Me too, dear. Let’s get you inside and warm you up. Dumbledore informed me that you have got some business here? Would you mind enlightening me about the subject?”
You smile sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’m currently not allowed to talk about the circumstances of my visit, I’m very sorry.”
“Well, I guess it can’t be helped, then. Since Dumbledore is the one to smuggle you in and out of the castle, I’m certain it’s something important. Anyways, fancy some tea before you go about your business?” she asks with a warm smile.
“I’d love that.”
The both of you make your way into the staff room and sit down on a comfortable velvety couch in the corner. McGonagall pours the two of you some tea.
“I never knew there was a staff room, actually.”
“Well, that is quite literally the point of the staff room, Miss Blake. It’s not just students hiding from teachers, quite often it’s the other way around.” Both of you chuckle.
You catch up on the latest events, what happened to you after your graduation, and you don’t miss the chance to elicit some Hogwarts gossip from her. Compared to your time at school, the events of the past years seem to top anything that has happened back then. You got caught smoking and served detention for it, nowadays people hang around with serial killers and illegally enter deathly tournaments. Crazy times, huh.
Even though you’d like to learn a lot more, you check your watch after a while and jump up. “It’s getting late! I fear I will have to take care of my duties now. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep this up for the next couple of visits though. It’s very pleasant talking to you, especially with everything that’s going on.”
McGonagall looks at you with compassion. “I will be glad to invite you to some more drinks and talks the next time around, Miss Blake.”
You have to pull yourself together so as to not shed a tear or two, out of pure happiness and nostalgia. Grinning widely, you say your goodbyes and you make your way down to the dungeons.
Hogwarts still feels like you just returned home. Wandering these corridors, you are glad to notice that little has changed. It occurs to you that some part of you might’ve stayed here all those years.
While returning from dinner, Severus already watched his nurse's ungraceful landing on the Hogwarts grounds. He is quite unhappy with the whole situation, feeling like a pawn to the old man once again. It is one of those times where it seems as if his opinions, his decisions don’t matter the slightest. Just get this over with as quickly as possible.
Your heart is racing as you are nearing Professor Snape’s office. You feel thirteen again, fearing the man in black, the dungeon bat - usually avoiding any unnecessary interaction with him like your life depends on it. As you got older, your opinion on him changed and you found some fascination in his gnarly attitude and the mysterious charisma, but right now you just feel insecure. You are aware he doesn’t want you here.
And there it finally is, the door to his office. You inhale deeply, but before you even get to knock, the door flies open. How dramatic.
“Get in,” the deep voice growls from within the room. You put on a professional face, not showing him that this startled you a little bit, that he still holds so much power over you even though he technically has no way of controlling you.
“Good evening, Professor,” you say in a professional tone.
Your eyes start wandering around the room. It is lit dimly with candles; shelves with books, flasks and jars towering each side of the room. Some cauldrons are bubbling behind him, each a different colour. His desk stands in the centre, the papers on it neatly stacked and organised. Just like in your memories.
It feels like the two of you are in the hospital again as his eyes are examining you from head to toe. You are wearing your long, black travelling cloak, a dark red hugging knit sweater and a black skinny jeans, rounded up by some plain black boots. Your hair is kind of wild from the rough trip out here to Scotland, opposed to your tightly put-up hairstyle in which you normally present yourself at work.
You can’t help but gaze at him. The pale face, sharp cheekbones, framed by his long, black hair. The thing about him that invoked the most fear in you equally intrigued you the most - his abysmal, obsidian eyes. This time you let yourself get lost in them for a moment, before you are rudely awakened from your reverie. “I would like to get this over with by Christmas, Miss Blake.”
This man is a piece of work, but I could easily drown in his eyes.
He lifts one eyebrow questioningly and your heart starts pounding harder.
I didn’t say that out loud, did I?
You nervously start searching your bag for the flasks while approaching him and finally line them up on his desk. “We will try and reduce the dose to one flask every other day. It’s not as easy to brew–”
“Because Basilisk’s blood is rather rare and expensive,” he interrupts. Your face turns pale, but you try to keep your composure.
“I’m certain St. Mungo’s has a whole storage room of valuable ingredients,” he spits sarcastically, ”easy to take for any apprentice who likes to experiment. Am I correct, Miss Blake?”
You squinch your eyes ever so slightly. “I doubt that’s any of your business, Professor.”
“Yes, it’s presumably for the best if I don’t know how you got your hands on something this valuable.”
Without taking the subject any further, you check his vital signs and start changing his bandages. The prominent veins on the arm with the Dark Mark are still worrying. They tend to show some kind of clotting in a sickly-looking lilac-blackish colour, and you can’t help but carefully run a finger down one of them. It doesn’t take longer than the blink of an eye for him to flinch back his arm, staring at you angrily.
He barks, “This is a waste of time. Your time, but even worse - mine. I don’t see any reason to continue these sessions and I’m not going to allow Professor Dumbledore to take on this decision for me. I don’t want to see you here again. Now. Get. Out.”
Startled by his hostility, you give him a blank stare, eventually opening your mouth but deciding against answering right away. There is no point in reasoning with him in this mood. He behaves like a wounded animal. Without granting him another look, you get up, take your travelling cloak, fetch your bag and move straight to the black iron door.
“Friday, 8PM,” you state matter-of-factly. “Don’t forget your medicine.”
×
Shortly after his conversation with Dumbledore, he picked apart one of the witch's potions to verify what he already suspected during his stay at the hospital. Basilisk's blood. This ingredient is rare, expensive and potentially deadly. One does not simply walk into an apothecary and buy it, nor does St. Mungo’s leave this kind of substance sitting in a storage room for everyone to take. This fact alone fed into his mistrust even more.
She appeared highly concentrated when checking up on his arms and he studied her every move thoroughly, as he noticed a burn scar winding around her right arm. Just while he was distracted by this fact for a split second, he involuntarily granted her the chance of trailing the veins that run below his Dark Mark. A shiver ran down his spine in that moment, sending a sharp sting to his core.
Now that she has left, he feels quite irritated by the feeling she left on his skin. His eyes linger on the veins that have been touched, while his other arm is fiddling out a glass and a bottle from his desk drawer to pour himself some firewhiskey.
That damnable girl. Doesn’t she have any shame?
The irritation in him rises even further, as he cannot quite put down a finger on the reason for this feeling. His educated guess would be that this is an odd kind of intimacy he has never shared with anyone, ever since he joined the ranks of the Dark Lord. A touch born from kindness placed on his deepest shames and regrets. A Cruciatus curse would probably leave him less troubled.