12 January, 1998 09:45

“Poppy, a word?” Snape said as he strode through the hospital wing’s doors.  He passed several filled beds, not acknowledging the children in them in various states of healing.  He rarely visited the infirmary during the day.  His time to prowl the ward was late at night, well after all and sundry were asleep. It was in those late night forays that he could give into the impotent fury each stricken child’s feature evoked.  He was their headmaster and he could no more provide safety for them than he could fly to the moon astride a broomstick.

A child moaned to his right, another sobbed quietly a few beds down.  Severus steeled himself against the intrusion of those sounds, ones that had become all too commonplace after he ascended to his post.  He was the Headmaster of the injured and broken.  The other inmates of the castle were just awaiting their time under the lash, their run-in with an Unforgivable. 

Severus said louder, “Poppy!”

The Matron poked her head out from behind a screen, her eyes suspiciously red as she frowned down the aisle at him.  She snapped, “Yes, Headmaster?”

Severus strode to her office, saying as he did, “I have need of your skills.”

He opened the door and gestured impatiently for her to follow him into the dimly lit space.  Pomfrey returned behind the screen and then bustled out with a blood-reddened cloth.  Another student must have incurred Amycus’ ire, or his twisted lust.  Severus dare not ask what had happened or on whom the cloth had been used.  His conscience pricked him enough these days, and he could not face more failure of his own making, not today of all days.  The matron brushed past him with a sniff and regally assumed a seat behind her own heavy desk, causing Severus to have to take one of the smaller ladder-backed wooden seats reserved for students.  He stifled a smirk as he sat.  Poppy had always been a formidable strategist.

She summoned a house elf for tea, indicating with a lift of her brow that Severus was unwelcome to join her, but he could if he insisted.  Once the elf delivered her beverage, she lifted her chin imperiously, asking in a tone that conveyed her disdain for his request, “What do you require of me this time, Headmaster?  Did that man you follow injure you in some way?”

There was a time in their association in which Severus had been addressed as her ‘Dear Boy’.  Those days were long gone, and Severus tried not to dwell on the loss of the term and what it meant in a personal way.  He didn’t even know why it bothered him.  He was not a man on whom one bestowed endearments or false sentiments, and he had certainly never encouraged the Matron in her use of the term.  He shifted in the ridiculously uncomfortable chair, designed no doubt, to discourage malingering.  After he ensured more than usual privacy for a healing consultation with specialised wards he had designed himself, he asked, “How much do you know about mind-healing and medical Occlumency?” 

Poppy’s chin raised incrementally even as Severus noted that her fingers gripping the handle of the cup had turned white.  She said after a moment’s hesitation, “I am proficient, though I haven’t practiced since you mur-- the end of last school year.”

Severus ran his hand over his chin, realising he had more than a bit of stubble.  He blinked rapidly against the sandy pricking of his eyelids.  He couldn’t remember the last time he slept for more than an hour, much less the last time he shaved.  Moving the two Gryffindors into his old rooms had taken more time than he expected and he had gone without even the meagre hour of rest he normally managed.  It was his own fault as he had forgotten all the wards and security counter-measures he had emplaced in the suite.  If his situation weren’t what it was, he might worry that he was more than a bit paranoid.  He closed his eyes for a moment, suddenly weary beyond measure.   When he opened his eyes, Poppy regarded him with more than professional concern.

“Are you... quite all right, Headmaster?”  Her tone had softened, and he noticed new worry lines which caused her face to crease deeply beside her mouth. “Mi—Minerva and I were discussing how strained you appeared recently.”

Severus surmised from her expression that the discussion was prompted more by gloating than concern.  He rose, the effort to remain upright almost too much for him.  “I have need of your skills, Poppy, but if think you cannot refrain from gossip, I will have no other choice but to Obliviate you.”

Poppy had the good grace to look chagrined at his set down.  “I am a professional, Headmaster, no matter under whom I must serve.”

Severus swept his black-clad arm, releasing the warded space and with a sour nod, he indicated she should follow him. 

&*&*&

Harry watched Hermione sleep whilst he attempted to concentrate on the book that had been the ultimate cause of her accident.  He caught himself staring blankly at the page, chewing on a bit of dry skin on his thumb that had been bothering him for days.  He lowered his hand, aware of how much he needed to do before Snape returned with Madam Pomfrey.  He was just too exhausted from the prior three days to stir more than a few feet without his heart pounding painfully in his chest and his breath coming in short, burning gasps.  Hermione stirred and gave a low moan.  He knew she would be more comfortable out of the bloody, days old clothing she had collapsed in, and possibly much more comfortable with a sponge bath to wash the months of grime off her, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.  It seemed too much of an invasion of her privacy.  It also provided too much temptation for Harry to reminisce about what happened between them, if he were honest with himself. 

His mind drifted back to New Years Eve and what they had done.  He knew he should feel guilt about it, or some other emotion, but all he really felt was relief.  He couldn’t explain why, but when Hermione hadn’t Obliviated him, he knew that things were going as they needed to.   Before they had... done the deed, Harry hadn’t seen Hermione as a girl, not in any real sense, anyway.  Always up to the battle that was Harry’s life, to him she had always been one of the boys. 

But Harry knew that wasn’t the exact truth. 

He’d developed a little crush on her after the Yule Ball, but thought he hadn’t a chance with her if she were attracting people like Victor Krum.  Then she and Ron had acted as if they were going to get together and a bloke just didn’t move on the girl his best mate wanted, he thought even as that nasty voice that sounded vaguely like Dudley’s reminded him of his recent actions with her.  Harry readily dismissed the voice, with the thought that it was too much a risk to feel much for anyone. That’s why he had broken it off with Ginny.  Or, at least that’s what he told himself to ease his conscience when it panged him about leaving her behind whilst he tramped about the country at least marginally free.

Ginny.

His stomach lurched as the situation struck him once again.  He’d been wrestling with his conscience over making lo... having sex with Hermione.  It wasn’t like they were going to repeat it, right?  It was just a one off, and no feelings were involved.  No emotions past a sense of release, and a lessening of tension.

He had to keep telling himself that so that he could face a night with his fears, his nightmares, and his frustration without her soft body to sink into. 

He must have dozed for a moment, even with the swirling conundrum in his brain, for he was jerked to full alertness as the Floo flared in the next room.  In an instant, he had his wand in his hand, ready for battle, even though the wand wasn’t his own. 

During their mad scramble from the Bagshot house, Hermione had broken his.  At the time it had seemed like an omen, but Hermione, who had obviously been a Girl Guide in her life before Hogwarts had secreted an illegal wand, which she had bought from Mundungus Fletcher at some point in their association, in her bag, the one Ron dubbed “Hermione’s Little Box of Wonders.”  Ron always said that with a filthy little smirk that made Harry fight off guilty laughter.  It was a good thing she had never heard either of them, or Harry mightn’t have a replacement wand. 

He hoped Ron was well and not lying in some shallow grave, or worse, captured.

Harry moved to the door, careful not to reveal himself until he saw first Snape and then Madam Pomfrey step through.  Snape made a beeline to the bedchamber even as Madam Pomfrey balked at following him.  He gestured for her to follow him, his impatience made evident by his scowl and jerky movements.  Harry heard her murmur something that he couldn’t catch, though he knew from the tightening of Snape’s mouth that it wasn’t complimentary.  He suddenly felt a hitch in his throat at realising how hard Snape had it now.  Not that Harry thought he was any less of a git, but somehow knowing that Snape was still Dumbledore’s man made  Madam Pomfrey’s lack of trust seem worse. 

At least he hoped Snape was still Dumbledore’s man and not doing some kind of self-serving Slytherin gobshite.

Hermione stirred and he turned back to her.  He heard Snape say, “I needn’t remind you that what you see in these chambers is to remain between us, and your demeanour outside these rooms cannot change toward me at all...”

“Yes, Headmaster.”  Pomfrey sounded less than pleased and more than a little terrified, if two such opposing emotions could exist in one person.

Snape drew the door open and Harry blinked owlishly at the sudden shift in light.

“Merciful heavens, Severus Snape, what have you got yourself into?” Pomfrey exclaimed on an outward breath as Harry stepped into her line of sight.   She paled and drew her shawl around her neck as if to ward off whatever evil spirit Snape had conjured.

Harry said into the strained silence that settled over them, “Hullo, Madam Pomfrey.  Hermione’s just over here.”

15 January, 1998 14:36

Lucius made his painful way up the stairs to his suite.  His wounds had reopened after his little homecoming tête a tête with the Dark Lord and the newly widowed Bellatrix.  Narcissa walked regally by his side, her hand on top of his arm as decorum dictated until they were out of view of their house-guests.  Lucius knew that if he showed weakness and allowed Narcissa or his son to levitate him to his rooms, Bellatrix would take advantage of the situation.  Lucius’ position was precarious enough without that bitch smelling defeat on Lucius.  Once out of their line of site, but well aware that observation could still be effected by the Dark Lord, Cissy gave up all pretence and hooked her arm under his as he swayed.  Her motion caused his side to jerk upwards, and he bit his tongue to keep from screaming as a fiery tearing pain seared his side.  He fought the buckling of his knees as his vision swam between bright shards of light and swirling blackness.  Draco followed behind his parents, his expression stonily cool until Lucius’ plight was made manifest by the steady dripping of blood onto the Italian marble of the stairs. 

The boy rushed forward, much as he might have done earlier in his life if such unsightly haste had been allowed.  Narcissa gave a terse nod and Draco hooked his shoulder under Lucius’.  Somehow they all made it to family wing without more incident. 

Draco helped Narcissa with Lucius, whose strength had given out just as they opened the door to the richly masculine suite.  Once Lucius was settled, Narcissa sent Draco to fetch broth for Lucius and luncheon for them both. Draco left the room his face tight, his eyes haunted.

Narcissa eased onto the bed and began stripping Lucius out of his robes, helping him roll to his side, careful of his newly opened wound.  She hissed as she saw the damage of the bullet for the first time.   Lucius knew that the Muggle bullet weapon had entered with quite a small hole and exploded out his back, laying bare his bones and muscles, leaving little of the dermal layer for Pomfrey to knit back together.  When he had seen the scar, laid over the silvered scars from canings at the hands of frightened tutors and an indifferent father, he had wanted to vomit even though the tissue was just beginning to knit.  It was an ugly purple blotch on his pale skin, drawn up in a tight fist of ruined flesh. 

Narcissa, after her initial exclamation, worked methodically with the healing spells that Pomfrey had taught her before Lucius left the relative safety of Hogwarts, against Healer advice. His situation and that of his family had become even more perilous with his continued absence.  He had been surprised that the mediwitch, though still grumbling about the danger his presence posed to the students, had fought him so vehemently.  Lucius could honestly say that no one, not even his mother, had ever championed his welfare.  The entire situation even with its surreal quality, had touched Lucius, or at least warmed the surface of his cold, patrician facade.

Once done, Narcissa cleaned the blood from him with a thoroughly applied Tergeo.  She retreated to the ornate and authentic Louis Quatorze chaise she normally chose on her visits to his suite that required discussion rather than more intimate physical exertion.  Once Narcissa was arranged artfully on the ornately embroidered silk, she cast a spell Lucius could not quite discern, one that caused his ears to buzz until she spoke.  “You’re keeping something from me, Lucius.”

“You know I have not had a mistress in years, Darling,” Lucius said as he struggled to maintain his equanimity in the face of his wife’s determination.  She frowned, a slight crease forming around her lips, as sure a measure of her determination as there could be.  He relented, saying, “Now is not the time for such discussions, Cissy.”

Narcissa shot a look of pure venom at the door and then returned her gaze to Lucius, her expression once again serene.  “Severus taught me some interesting spells whilst you were at Hogwarts.  Ones that he invented himself for the express purpose of spying.”

Lucius felt his cheek twitch as he asked, “You trust Severus that much?”

“No, but I tested the spells myself.  They are undetectable and quite private,” Narcissa answered with a serene smile.  “I do wonder which side he invented them for, however.”

“Do not question...”  Lucius began, but bit the words off as he heard footfalls in the hallway. Once the person had passed, he said, “It is not wise to question anyone’s loyalty right now, Darling.  Not with all the recent events.”

Narcissa waved her hand airily.  “I would never question Severus’ loyalty outside these rooms.  He did, after all kill Dumbledore...”

“Yes, he did.”  Lucius answered, settling deeper into his down pillow as he attempted to feign somnolent relaxation. 

“... to save our son.”  Narcissa rose quickly from the chaise, her dark, flowing robes falling like ink around her ankles.  “I spent time in the Headmaster’s office with Severus during your illness and it was quite odd, but the old Headmaster was quite at ease in his murderer’s company.  It was almost as if he were quite pleased with the way things went at the end of the school term last year. It does make one think, doesn’t it?”

Lucius turned his face away from his wife and closed his eyes, as if he had drifted to sleep.  Narcissa said softly, “We are going to lose, Lucius, no matter which side wins.  It’s a matter of degrees at this point, the way I see it.”

“Cissy...” Lucius warned.  “Do be quiet.”

“I am merely saying that you might consider committing our entire family to the side that will at least ensure the Malfoy name will continue, and that our son will live.”

Narcissa sat on the bed gingerly, her slight weight causing Lucius to sink towards her only marginally, not enough to cause pain in his wound.  She ran her fingers through his hair, a gesture she had not done voluntarily in years, not since before their betrothal.  She leant down, bestowing a kiss on his temple.  “I think we both know which side that is, don’t we, Darling?”

Lucius swallowed audibly in the yawning chasm of buzzing silence.  Narcissa whispered into the shell of his ear, “Don’t fail our son, Lucius.  Make the right choice, even if it won’t be the easy one.   I will stand by your decision.”

Lucius took his wife’s hand in his and felt like sobbing for the first time since he was a child.  He knew what he needed to do, but he had to ensure that his son was convinced of the rightness of his change of heart.  Draco was no longer a child and had been fully indoctrinated in the mystique in which the Dark Lord surrounded himself.  It would be no easy feat to convince Draco of his father’s infallibility, especially not for Lucius, the father in question.

21, January, 1998, 15:34

Ron was hungry, exhausted, and worst of all, he could smell himself.  He stood in formation in a basement of an abandoned Muggle factory in Liverpool, one of the training facilities that the magical branch of the U.N. had set up to help in the fight against Voldemort.  He was with nineteen other men all of varying age.  A younger man coughed asthmatically into his sleeve, trying to stifle the noise so that their Sergeant wouldn’t hear him.  Ron knew the man was desperate to fight against the Death Eaters, and would not let anything, including illness, stop him.  The man’s desire to fight had something to do with his wife, but Ron had never heard exactly what it was.  He did know the man had volunteered for the most dangerous duty possible.  He was to take a position as a spy.  Ron, himself, was to be sent to the medical corps, but had to complete combat training to be deployed in the field.  Once he completed the combat portion, he would be sent to one of the World Health Organization’s field hospitals to get hands on training in wizarding and Muggle healing methods. 

Primitive slashing flesh with knives Muggle healing methods.  He couldn’t stand the thought of butchering an animal for food when he was near starving, how could he be expected to embroider human skin together?   Or whatever Muggles did to heal wounds.  He felt ill just thinking of it.

It had been three weeks since he had joined the resistance, a fortnight since he had seen Hannah.  She was still acting as bait to catch Snatchers and to gather information.  Ron knew her role was necessary, but it scared him a bit when he thought of what might go wrong for her out there.  They hadn’t parted well because of that fear.  He was like Mum when he was worried.  He’d storm and scold trying to gain some control over the situation and not feel so helpless.  Hannah hadn’t taken his high-handed proclamation that she couldn’t go on her mission very well at all.  Flint had to take her wand to keep Hannah from following through on the threat to hex his bollocks and other protruding bits off.  Ron had only cooled down after Hannah left on her mission, but by then it was too late and damned near impossible to communicate with her. 

“Weasley!”   The hard-faced Yank that was in charge of his unit shouted as he entered the room.  Ron stepped forward on shaking legs, wishing that the man would find someone else to pick on, anyone but him.   

“Yessir, Sergeant Hopkins, sir?”   Ron hated having to address the tyrannical Sergeant with such extreme respect.  Snape had been a sweet little cherub compared to this man, especially since the traitor had mostly used a soft, menacing voice to get to you, not a full on shout straight into your ear as the Hopkins did.

“Front and centre!” Hopkins commanded, his black eyes glittering out of his equally dark face, the man was the archetypical Yank military man with a square jaw, deeply lined face that might break if he smiled.  He and Ron hadn’t gotten on from the beginning, not that the Sergeant got on with anybody, really.  Ron expected the man made his wife salute and call him ’sir’ before he mounted her.   He suppressed a groan and he began walking forward as Hopkins shouted, “The rest of you ladies, fall out and make yourselves pretty.  Chow’s on in the main hall and you know how testy the Colonel is about offensive B.O. where he eats.”

As the others made their groaning, clattering way out of the room, Ron drew in front of the Yank, wondering what rule he had broken this time.   Hopkins indicated that Ron follow him with a jerk of his head.  As they made their way from the training basement to the ground floor, Hopkins said over his shoulder, “You’ve got a visitor.  You’ll have liberty for the night, but don’t expect any favours tomorrow.”

Ron rolled his eyes at the man’s back, giving the ‘V’ sign where he was sure the Sergeant couldn’t see, but answered, “No sir, I won’t.”

As they drew close to the guest quarters, Hopkins waved Ron ahead.   “PT is at o-six-hundred. I’ll expect your full attention and happy participation.”

“Yessir.”

“Have fun, Weasley,” Hopkins said as he retreated into the dim interior of the building once again.  Ron thought he heard the man chuckle, but wasn’t sure until he heard, “But not too much.”

Ron smoothed his hands over his shorn hair, more stubble than hair, really.  It was some kind of stupid Muggle military custom, but he’d had to do it if he wanted to stay with the Resistance.  Ron really didn’t see any other option since there’d been no word about Harry and Hermione in forever, and his presence at any of his family’s houses would be too dangerous for everyone.  As his arm passed his nose, he wished he’d had time to catch a quick shower before he was summoned. He could live with his own smell, at least for the time being, but doubted who ever was visiting would be as forgiving. 

He knocked softly on the half-open door, and entered. Hannah stood in the centre of the room, nervously pressing her palms against a wrinkled, khaki skirt that was a few sizes too large for her, her pale hair was plastered against her head as if she’d just showered, and she had dark circles under her eyes.  She smiled hesitantly, “Hullo, Ron.”

Ron answered, “Hullo, Hannah.  How’re you?”  He cursed furiously at himself thinking, Great, Weasley.  Brilliant apology!   It’s a sure way to get her to hex you.  He cleared his throat which seemed thick with spittle and choked out, “I mean, I’ve... How have you been?”  He swallowed thickly, spreading his damp palms on the heavy, cotton fatigues he’ been issued by one of the Yanks assigned to combat training.

Hannah’s gaze flitted to his hair and then back down to his face.  “They cut your hair.”

“Erm... Yeah, some mad idea about us recruits being uniform,” Ron answered as he rubbed his head self-consciously.  “I look like a tall, bald orang-utan, I expect.”

Hannah tittered nervously and then crossed to him.  She stopped in front of him and said with a shy lift of the corners of her lips, “I’ve missed you.”

Ron folded her in his arms, closing his eyes against the sudden relief he felt at her words.  “I’m sorry, Hannah.  I shouldn’t have tried to bully you into doing what I wanted you to do.  Let’s just call the whole reason for the row a family trait.”

“I know it is.”  Hannah answered.  “My mum knew your mum in school.  She told me about your mum the first time I said I liked you—o—r ... erm... your family.”

Ron felt his own face heat at her slip, but said nothing.  Instead, he leant down and kissed her, easily pushing any remaining guilt over Hermione out of his mind.