Snape partially awoke to the sound of humming and the feel of a warm touch kneading his forearm, the skin being stretched taut between thumb and fingers before being released again. If he’d had the energy, he would have objected, but as it was, he’d sunk back beneath the waves of darkness once more. 

The next time he awoke, the touch on his forearm was like a warm breeze; feather-light strokes sending tingles up his spine. The humming was softer now. As he surfaced fully, he realized exactly where those fingers were stroking and bolted upright, yanking his arm—and his dark mark—away. Anger sparkled across his aura as he looked daggers at Covey. “How dare you touch me there, woman?”

She blinked at him, not in the least cowed by his indignation and scorn. Standing, she deliberately wrapped her hand around his dark mark, and looked directly into his eyes. “Professor,” she scolded softly, “I am a touch-healer, ye ken? I am drawn ta where I am needed.”

Her gaze touched him softly, with acceptance and understanding, like Lily’s once had before he’d gone and screwed it all up.

“Tell me, Professor, does it hurt when I touch ye there?”

Snape opened his mouth to curse the bold witch when it hit him. If anything so much as brushed up against his mark, in even the slightest way, it hurt like the Cruciatus curse itself. Even silk could send him into spasms of agony. The Death Eaters tended to put a bubble charm over their dark marks to keep anything from inadvertently disturbing them.

And yet, here this woman stood, her hand curled around the cursed dark mark, and there was no pain.

Snape stared at her, absolutely astounded. “How?” he breathed, his eyes wide with wonder.

Covey took her hand from his arm and placed it on his head, softly stroking his hair. “Tis what I do.”

Without even realizing what he was doing, Snape grasped the hand stroking his hair, and held it tight over his heart. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.

Covey just shook her head and smiled. “Yer welcome, Sevvie.”

He squinted his eyes in dismay, but truth be told, he kind of liked her calling him that, not that he would ever admit it to her. Reluctantly, he released her hand.

“Get yerself some rest there, aye? I have ta check on Harry.”

“He’s alright?” Severus asked.

“He’s just fine,” Covey reassured with a smile.

Harry was dozing lightly, still in the hospital wing, when Healer Cook woke him with a light touch on his shoulder. “How ye feelin’ there, laddie?”

“Tired,” Harry said around a yawn, “but otherwise fine.”

“Good ta hear,” Healer Covey responded. “Ye just lay there an’ relax. I’m gonna help balance yer magic, aye?”

“Aye,” Harry responded automatically, only realizing after the word slipped from his mouth that it might seem that he was mocking her. But the reassuring smile she always wore was still firmly on her face, and her eyes twinkled quite as much as her nose ring in the light streaming in from the hospital windows.

Harry watched as Covey placed her other hand on his hip. Immediately, a comfortingly warm tingly current ran between her two hands. As the warmth spread out to encompass the rest of his body, he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next day, Harry, Madam Pomfrey, Healer Cook, Professor Snape, and Albus Dumbledore sat around an oddly shaped table in Dumbledore’s study as Healer Cook discussed the upcoming procedures.

“Ye all know yer roles, aye? I’ll be directin’ the healin’, Poppy will administer any potions Harry’ll be needin’ an’ assist me overall, an’ Professor Snape will be helpin’ Harry occlude if any o’ the memories become overwhelmin’, ken?” Healer Covey said, looking around to gain everyone’s assent.

“Now, we have ourselves a few different options here. Ye all ken the importance o’ the healin’. What we need ta decide is how we’re goin’ ta approach it, aye?”

“There are three main approaches,” Covey held up three fingers, and lowered each one in turn as she spoke. “They pertain ta time, severity, an’ direction. Time means we peel the onion, outer layer ta inner, meanin’ most recent injuries ta most distant ones. Or we could do the reverse—oldest injuries ta newest. Severity refers ta treatin’ the worst injuries first, get the bad ones out o’ the way soonest, ye ken? Or, heal the easy ones first, an’ save the harder ones fer last. Finally, direction means healin’ the core an’ workin’ yer way out. Or visa-versa.”

“Is one way faster than the others?” Harry asked.

The healer shook her head. “There isna way ta answer that, Harry,” Healer Covey said with understanding. “There are many factors that affect the healin’, such as how well ye respond, how many o’ yer memories come back, how traumatic they are, how much healin’ we can do in each session, how yer body responds, how yer magic reacts… ye ken?”

“What has worked in the past?” Snape inquired.

“Each case is different, aye? Harry’s is a bit more complex because he’s older than me typical patient, an’ has injuries stetchin’ over a longer period o’ time.” Covey paused a moment, considering. “Then, too, his memories are tied up with those injuries, which he partially healed with elemental magic, ken?”

Albus cleared his throat. “Do you have a preference, Coventry?”

“I think it might be wise ta start at the core ta stabilize Harry’s internal organs. That way, his body’ll be able ta process any toxins future healin’ may release. After that, I will have ta see, or feel, rather.” Healer Covey said.

“It might be good ta peel the onion, so ta speak, aye? On the other hand, healin’ the earlier injuries might have a domino effect, allowin’ the newer injuries ta heal on their own, ken?” Healer Covey nodded at Harry. “I willna know til I see how Harry responds.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn’t like to be the center of attention, and he didn’t want to waste these peoples’ time. “What might change after you heal me?” he asked tentatively.

“Well fer one, Harry, after we heal yer leg an’ reverse the malnutrition, I expect ye’ll grow taller, ken?” Healer Covey winked at Harry.

Harry, who’d always been short for his age and hated it, smiled. Now that was something to look forward to. Maybe the healing would be worth it if he could gain half a foot or so. He thought he’d be happy just to be taller than Hermione.

Snape had spent the afternoon tidying up his quarters. He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to Healer Cook’s suggestion, if you could call it that. She was sly, that one; surely she’d been in Slytherin. He’d have to ask. She’d somehow managed to invite herself to his quarters this evening in such a way that it had seemed like it was his idea. He still wasn’t sure how it had happened.

After the meeting in Dumbledore’s office, when all but Harry and the headmaster had departed, Healer Cook, Covey he corrected himself, had placed her small hand on his forearm, stopping him in his tracks. When he’d turned to her, he’d been caught by the guileless expression in her sea-glass blue eyes.

“Sevvie,” she had called him, her touch and the appellation catching him off guard.

After that, he’d been distracted.

She had said something about discussing the Potter boy’s care with him, and somehow or another, she’d manage to wrangle an invitation—to his personal quarters no less!—for that evening.

He’d never invited a woman to his quarters at Hogwarts, and yet, somehow, she’d managed to slip past his well-honed defenses. He’d have to put a stop to that, he decided.

The knock on his dungeon door had his stomach in knots—something he hadn’t felt in… well, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt that with anyone other than Lily. Surely it was just that he hadn’t had a woman in his private rooms before. She was too young for him anyway, he reminded himself.

Still, he’d managed to procure a very nice meal for his guest, as well as two bottles of wine—a red and a white, not sure of her preference.

The fresh flowers on the table were just a side effect of being a potion’s master; it surely was not because a comely young witch was visiting him, in his private quarters. Surely not.

Stiffly, Snape opened the door, his scowl firmly in place. He had to set the tone for this meeting from the start. This was a professional encounter, nothing more.

Covey stood comfortably outside his door, ocean blue robes that perfectly accented the color of her eyes and the tips of her spiked hair. Sparkling silver threads spun like waves along the hem and matched her nose ring. A nose ring of all things! Although, he had to admit, on her, it was fitting.

Her fingernails shimmered sliver as well. Without even meaning to, he offered her his arm, which she promptly took, curling a small hand around his arm as he led her inside.

“Thank ye fer invitin’ me, Sevvie,” she purred as she squeezed his arm.

Severus almost responded ‘Aye’ in return, but caught himself. What was it about this woman? She got under his skin without even trying.

“Yer flat is lovely,” she added, taking in his mahogany furnishings and sparse but meaningful décor.

“As are you,” he murmured, then flushed, then scowled. What the hell? He glared at her, wondering if she’d put some sort of curse on him, or if Dumbledore had slipped a love potion into his tea when they had met earlier that afternoon. More loudly, and to cover his faux pas, he announced, “Dinner is ready.”

“Aye, it smells divine,” she said, her eyes twinkling. 

Severus groaned inwardly, determined to focus on the meal, on the Potter boy, on anything other than the unwanted thoughts running through his mind about the intriguing witch lounging in his quarters as if she belonged there.

Just then, a streak of black darted across the room, circled the dining table, and flung itself into Covey’s lap.

“Off!” Snape demanded, pointing at the floor.

Covey laughed, her grin infectious. “Well, hello there. An’ who might ye be?” Covey cooed, petting the solid black short-haired cat that now lay sprawled in her lap, purring loudly.

“That,” Snape said, his arms crossed in front of his chest, “is Earl Grey.”

“Earl Grey?” Covey echoed. “I just bet there’s a story behind that, ye wee fella.” She looked up at Severus, her regard silently asking the question as she scratched behind the cat’s ears.

“It just so happens there is,” Snape replied. “I found him near dead, caught in a crevice in the dungeons. Skinny as a newborn Niffler and covered in scatter bites. The pitiful thing was yowling up a storm. I freed him and intended to give him to Hagrid, our gamekeeper.” Snape sniffed, and pushed a lank of hair out of his eyes. “It turns out that Hagrid is allergic to cats.”

“Aye, so ye kept the wee bugger,” Covey said.

“Not exactly,” Snape replied. “More like he wouldn’t leave me in peace. Cleaned him up and gave him a bite to eat, and the damn thing wouldn’t leave. Scratched and yowled at my door all night long.” Snape reached over and gave the cat a pat. “He’s grown on me a bit since then,” Snape admitted.

“An’ his name?” Covey asked.

“I have a habit of having afternoon tea. Earl Grey to be exact. And the cat seems particularly fond of it. If I don’t have my hand covering the mug, he will dip a paw in and lick it off.” Snape raised his chin, affecting a pompous air. “I much prefer my tea without a lump of fur, thank you very much.”

Covey giggled. “Wee smart bugger too, I see. An’ good taste,” Covey said, waggling her eyebrows at Snape.

Snape scratched the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable, unsure if she was talking about the tea or himself. To cover his discomfort, he took a sip of his wine and tried to look anywhere but at the witch before him, who was grinning like an imp.

Clearing his throat, he said awkwardly, “Well, I supposed we should eat.”

With a flick of his wand—a signal to the house elves—plates full of decorative and sinfully delicious cuisine appeared.

A moment later, the sconces dimmed and a few candles popped into existence on the table, adding a romantic ambiance to the room. Snape groaned. “Damn house elves,” he muttered.

Covey looked over at him and smirked. “They are still as canny as ever, I see.”

Dinner passed fairly innocently. Although Snape had forced himself to remain reserved and aloof, or at least tried his best to, Covey had not only spoken enough for both of them, she’d managed to draw Severus out as well, even earning an occasional bark of laughter from the taciturn wizard.

Afterward, they moved to the sitting room. Seated facing the fire, each with a glass of wine, Snape steered the conversation to safer business. “You wanted to discuss Mr. Potter?” he prompted.

“Aye, I did,” Covey said.

Snape watched as a troubled expression settled upon her features. It was the first time he’d seen her look less than confident. He set down his wine glass and leaned forward. “What is it?” he asked.

“I’m afraid that the boy’s healin’ isna goin’ ta be easy on him,” shifting her gaze to Severus, she added, “Or ye.”

“Me?” Severus asked surprised.

“I sense that ye feel a certain obligation ta the boy, aye?”

Severus grimaced. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the boy these days. Certainly his assumptions about Potter’s childhood had been incorrect. Even so, did that entirely negate the last five years at Hogwarts? How much of the antagonism between them was perpetuated by Snape himself? He wasn’t ready to delve too deeply into that subject just yet.

“I knew his mother,” Snape replied, hoping to deflect further inquiries.

“Ah, Lily Potter,” Covey said. “I have heard o’ her. They say she was a prodigious witch that You-Know-Who himself killed.”

Snape nodded, waiting for the familiar sensation of his gut clenching at the mention of Lily’s name. But coming from Covey’s lips, it didn’t materialize. It was as if the blow was cushioned when she said Lily’s name, like when she had helped Snape heal Potter’s cursed hand, softening the pain he felt in the process.

Directing the conversation away from Lily, Snape said, “Why are you concerned about Potter?”

Covey worried her bottom lip, something he hadn’t seen her do before. “I dinna know if Albus mentioned it ta ye, but Harry’s blocked quite a bit o’ his memories. He dinna remember getting many o’ his injuries at ages when he should have had knowledge o’ them, ken?”

“Why do you think that is?” Snape asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.

“I think, since he had ta live with those Muggles, blocking out what they did ta him was the only way he could continue livin’ there an’ stay sane, ye ken?”

Silently, Snape agreed, waiting for her to continue.

“I worry fer his state o’ mind when all those memories surface, aye? He is goin’ ta need more than just physical healing. He’s goin’ ta need a strong support system.”

Snape wanted to shake his head. Did she think that he, Severus Snape, would volunteer to counsel the boy? “Did you have anything in mind?” he asked.

“Aye, I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout it an’ I ken a Muggle counselor would be best.”

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “Muggle? How so?”

“I imagine,” Covey said, “that he would feel more comfortable speakin’ with someone who’s never heard o’ him. It would be better fer him too. He would be treated like any other abused child an’ he could get the help he needs, aye?” Covey sipped her wine, then set the goblet on an end table. “Without worryin’ about word spreadin’ aroun’ about what happened ta ‘The Great Harry Potter,’ ye ken?”

A twinge of guilt twisted inside Snape. He himself had used that moniker on the boy. “I will look into it,” he found himself saying. He shook his head. How did she get him to volunteer for these things?

She put her hand on his arm and smiled, her gaze holding his. “Thank ye, Sevvie. The laddie is lucky ta have ye.”

Snape  was about to disabuse the witch of that presumption when he found himself mesmerized by her bright blue eyes, by the firelight dancing across her expressive face and high cheekbones, by the weight of her hand on his arm, a hand she had yet to remove, a hand that he found that he didn’t much want her to remove.

Clearing his throat, he looked away from the captivating witch. “More wine?” he asked inanely.