Chapter One



All Albus' Fault







How did I get myself into this?







It’s bad enough, is it not, that I’m to subject myself to the stupidity of the so-called “next generation of witches and wizards” every day? For the past thirteen years? Pact with Dumbledore be damned. I should have taken Azkaban. No, I take that back... I should have just done the Avada Kedavra on myself and been done with it.







How is it that I find myself in this predicament? Two words: Albus Dumbledore. As if I don’t already do enough for that infernal man. He must do these things on purpose. Like those bloody passwords of his. I swear to Merlin he picks the most obtuse things just to drive me insane. Earlier during the term, for instance, when he changed it to Snicker doodles, for crying out loud! What the hell? And if he offers me another one of those damn lemon drops at the next start of term staff meeting...







If I ever make it to the next start of term staff meeting.







This is all Albus’ fault.







What a brilliant idea, sending me to Romania. Romania! Oh, no, not out of my way at all! I suppose, really, I should be blaming myself. I just can’t say no to the man! It’s infuriating! What I wouldn’t give to go back to not giving a damn about honor. Well done, Severus. Out of service from one master, right into the service of another.







This is all Albus’ fault.







I should have known what was in store when he showed up on my doorstep a week after term had ended. I never should have told him where I stay during the holidays. Of course, it probably wouldn’t have mattered if I didn’t, because he’s Albus, and would have somehow found out anyway.







“I have a job for you, Severus,” he had said, cheerfully.







I proceeded to quirk my eyebrow. “Oh? Odd. I had rather thought my ‘job’ ended in June, and I was free of my idiot infested prison until September.”







He popped a lemon drop and twinkled his eyes at me.







Damn him.







The “job” was brewing a potion. How extraordinary. It’s not like I don’t do that everyday. However, this potion consisted of specific instructions. Like traveling to Romania. And being in the company of one Charlie Weasley. Merlin! As if I don’t get enough dosage of Weasley at school! Five at one time. Five. All in the same day! How I would love to kill their parents for their uncontrollable reproductive urges.







“It’s just for a few weeks, Severus,” Albus had said, completely unsympathetic.







“One hour would be too much,” I sneered, as per usual.







Albus informed me that the beginning stages of bringing the TriWizard Tournament to Hogwarts were in effect. Bloody hell. One more thing to look forward to next year. Apparently, one of the tasks was going to include dragons. My heart sank upon hearing they were putting an age limit on the Tournament. Unfortunately, Potter would not be able to be mauled. What a shame. They would be bringing in dragons from the reserve in Romania, and that every dragon would have to be inoculated with an immunity potion for Dragon Pox. And, apparently, I was the only one in the entire wizarding world who would be able to do brew said immunity potion.







Lucky me.







Albus then further informed me that due to an outbreak of Doxy Flu, the handlers at the Dragomirna Preserve were very short staffed, and that I would probably also be called in for help in creating the increasing number of Doxy antidotes. Do these people not have healers? Or immune systems?







“The dragon handlers are spread very thin, only two instead of four,” Albus had explained.







“How horrid,” I said as sarcastically as possible. But then the looming dread became apparent. “And who, may I ask, is Charlie Weasley’s partner?”







Albus’ eyes twinkled merrily. “You.”







Ah, yes, of course. I, who know absolutely nothing about dragons or how to handle one, except that their blood and scales are very useful in potion making. I’m undoubtedly the perfect man for the job. Albus informed me that I would be responsible for creating the potion, and then I was to trek along with Weasley Offspring Number Two to help him administer it to the overgrown lizards, as his partner had fallen ill, and there was no one else with my expertise at potion making available. I was expected the following day.







Will my nightmare of a life never end?







So, I arrived at the Dragomirna Preserve, spent the next week doing nothing but brewing Doxy Flu remedies and Dragon Pox vaccines, and doing my damndest to avoid that insufferably cheerful Charlie Weasley. I have no idea what he and Albus have to smile about all the time. Thankfully, things were going very smoothly, and I received nothing but the utmost cooperation from the Dragomirna Handlers.







That was until tonight.







You know, for all his annoying smiling, I had rather thought Charlie Weasley to be one of the more intelligent of the bunch. Why he had decided to go on with the immunization without me is beyond my comprehension. I had given him the very simple instruction of “Wait for me” while I went back to the compound to retrieve more doses. Apparently, that was just too hard of a concept. No sooner had I landed back at my tent when my wand started to vibrate and turn a brilliant shade of red, which was the warning spell the handlers used to indicate someone was in danger. Or being ripped to pieces.







If this had been anyone else, I would have called for help and gone to the rescue with a slew of wizards at my command, only to arrive too late to have anything be done. However, this was Charlie Weasley; a son of a very old pure-blood family, a family that Albus was very fond of, and a family of which half of it’s members were in my Potions classes. And I knew that if Charlie Weasley died, supposedly in my care, not only would Albus never forgive me, but Fred, George, Ronald, and Ginevra Weasley would never let me forget it.







This is all Albus’ fault.







Against my better judgment, I grabbed the extra doses, straddled the old Cleansweep that had been administered to me, and set off to save that blasted dunderhead.











Chapter Two



A Different Sort of Pox







It took me only ten minutes to locate said dunderhead, who was dancing around like a lunatic trying to avoid the dragon’s fireballs. Charlie Weasley yelped upon seeing me overhead, waving his arms about, yelling, “Over here!”







Really? I would never have guessed.







Unfortunately, his screaming out the obvious brought me to the dragon’s attention. I made a note to thank him later, and then take a resounding fifty points from Gryffindor at the first available opportunity when I returned to Hogwarts, as recompense for their alumni’s big mouth.







Now, I have never been much of a flyer, something which Potter’s father use to delight in reminding me at least twenty times a day. However, upon seeing that I would soon be fried to a crisp, I decided that now would be a good a time as any to learn how to execute... “evasive maneuvers.” I dove out of the way, pulled out of a spin which I honestly did not mean to put myself into, and swung around behind the dragon. From this angle I could identify the dragon as a Norwegian Ridgeback.







At least it wasn’t a Horntail.







I immediately began running through appropriate curses and jinxes to throw at the dragon. Some of my own, not so nice curses, came to mind. Some of which would undoubtedly either never penetrate the dragon’s hide, or either go completely the other way and damage the dragon irrevocably. Neither would do. Conjunctivitis was my next thought, but that would involve having to get Weasley out of the way, lest he be trampled instead of fried and shredded. And it would also involve me coming around to the front of the Ridgeback and getting very close. Unfortunately, it was also my best option to keep both Weasley and the dragon only minimally injured.







Damn it to hell.







I pulled the handle of the Cleansweep around and zoomed back toward Weasley again. I used a nonverbal Lumos and waved my wand around to gain the dragon’s attention. Hopefully Weasley would figure out what I was up to, and would get himself out of the way as soon as the Ridgeback started coming after me. The Ridgeback seemed unable to make up it’s mind about who to go after, so I sped it along by sending a slicing hex at it. The dragon’s hide prevented the hex from doing any sort of damage, but it was enough for the Ridgeback to understand that I had just made to hurt it. Which made the Ridgeback very angry. It narrowed it’s eyes and blew a long stream of fire out at me, which gave Weasley an opportunity to run and find shelter.







I now had the Ridgeback’s full attention, and it followed me to a tee as I dodged about. It was at this moment that I realized how much I abhor flying and Quidditch. How those idiots could do this for hours on end is beyond me. The dragon roared angrily as I flew out of it’s range. Before it could come to it’s senses and realize that it had wings, I did a quick spin and rushed at it. This change of tactics startled the Ridgeback, and it was it’s momentary lapse that gave me the chance that I needed.







“Conjunctivitis!” I yelled, pointing my wand directly at the Ridgeback’s eyes. It howled in pain and fury, shaking it’s snouted head and clawing at the ground.







I’ll admit that for a moment I was stunned that it actually worked. But then I was soaring toward where I saw Weasley run to hide. I landed behind some boulders near a small overhang. Charlie Weasley was huddled on the ground, very white and very dirty. His hair was slightly singed and he had a burn on his arm.







“Be very thankful you are no longer my student, Weasley!” I snarled at him, picking him up off the ground. “What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?”







Weasley said nothing and only leaned against me, emitting a low groan. I realized that all was not entirely right. Perhaps Weasley had gotten inured after all?







The dragon’s roars were getting more frequent, and I quickly straddled the Cleansweep again, pulling Weasley on in front of me so I could hang on to both him and the handle. I took off, flying both as gently and as fast as I could back to camp. I landed at the medic tent, which was already half full with patients who had been affected by the Doxy Flu, as well as various dragon related injuries.







“Snape!” the head medic exclaimed in a thick Irish accent, as I dragged Weasley into the tent and laid him on one of the beds. “What the devil-”







“He went off by himself. I only just managed to escape from the dragon with both of our lives,” I explained. “He is injured. See to him.”







And with that I stalked out of the tent.







********







The next morning I went to check on the second oldest Weasley only to find his condition worsened. This made me very irritated. The boy only had a few burns which could have been taken care of in less than an hour, let alone overnight. I was about to call for the medic when Weasley began to cough up something thick and red.







Blood.







Something was very, very wrong.







Weasley began to shake uncontrollably as if having some sort of epileptic fit. I ran for the head medic, who had been introduced to me as Ian Andrews the day I arrived. He managed to dose Weasley with a calming potion, which sent him back to sleep. I demanded to know what the hell was wrong with the boy.







Andrews shook his head sadly. “As if we don’ have enough goin’ on. Dragon Pox on top o’ e’rything else.”







“Dragon Pox,” I repeated. “I may be mistaken, but wasn’t my purpose for coming to Dragomirna and sacrificing my summer vacation to create the vaccine for Dragon Pox?”







“Aye, for the dragons,” Andrews nodded. “All the handlers ‘ere have already been inoculated against it. There must be a new strain... somethin’ that our vaccines canna’ take care of.” He looked at Weasley with concern. “Charlie ‘ere is only the second case. It’s only jus’ been brought to our attention, Professor. We thought we’d all be safe since nothin’s popped up.”







“It seems that you were wrong,” I sneered. “Where is the other patient affected?”







Andrews shifted uncomfortably. “Well, see, we didn’t know what it was at the time...”







I glared at him and he shrank back under my gaze. “Where?”







The look on Andrews’ face told me all I needed to know.







“You don’t have the capabilities here to care for those infected?” I asked, glancing at Weasley. I noticed that his skin had started getting a greenish tinge, a telltale sign of Dragon Pox.







Andrews shook his head. “We’re a small reserve, Professor. We do what we can.”







“Was Charlie Weasley in contact with the other infected person?”







Andrews actually gulped. “He was Charlie’s partner.”







I resisted the urge to throttle the man.







“We thought it was jus’ another case o’ Doxy Flu!” Andrews explained. “Charlie’s had the vaccination. We thought he was fine. Kozlov went on last night, while you an’ Charlie were out takin’ care o’ that Ridgeback. It must take a while to take effect. I dunno, to be honest, Professor. This is all very new.”







“What other symptoms did Kozlov show?” I asked.







Andrews thought for a moment. “He had been tired a lot. Feverish, cold sweats... the same as any other illness.”







“Weasley exhibited none of these symptoms. Was Kozlov placed in a quarantine when you discovered what the sickness was?”







“O’ course! But... he was ‘ere, in the medic tent first. And Charlie bein’ injured and e’rything, plus, havin’ contact with ‘em so much, bein’ his partner... It made him more susceptible is all I’m sayin’.”







I looked around the medic tent. Weasley had not been placed in quarantine, and there was a half a dozen other patients in the tent with him. “Why has Weasley not been moved into the quarantine area?”







Andrews remained silent. “We’ve sent for help,” was all he said.







I took a menacing step forward. “You will either tell me what is going on, or you will be in a patients bed yourself, do I make myself clear, Mr. Andrews?”







Andrews nodded. “The whole place is quarantined now, Professor. E’ryone tha’s been in contact with anyone ‘ere will have to be examined. You say that Charlie didn’t have the same symptoms as Kozlov?”







“No. He did not. He did look increasingly tired, but I’ll admit that I dismissed it as simply stress,” I said. “He looks as though he’s had the Pox for weeks now, however. His encounter with the dragon and the increased stress that it created must have lowered his immune system somehow.” I began pacing. “You said you’ve sent for help?”







“Yes, sir,” Andrews answered, sadly. “But... they won’t arrive in enough time to help Charlie, I fear.”







That, of course, would not do.







I began wondering about my own safety. I had not begun feeling or showing any symptoms of any kind. However, Charlie Weasley’s condition demonstrated that this virus acted in a very peculiar manner, and that one could not rule themselves out of infection. Dragomirna obviously did not have the necessary people, capabilities, or knowledge to care for those infected with his new strain of Dragon Pox. Yes, someone with all three of the aforementioned things would be arriving to take care of the problem, but Andrews already said that Weasley probably would not last to partake of their abilities. Dragomirna was in a very isolated location, and it would take days, if not weeks, for the extra healers to get here.







Charlie Weasley needed serious medical attention, and he needed it now.







There was only one course to be taken, and the thought of it made me want to be ill myself. Albus was going to pay for this.







I took a deep breath and said, firmly, “Weasley will need to be moved to St. Mungo’s.”







Andrews’ eyes widened considerably. “Mungo’s? Are you insane? Tha’s all the way back in London!”







“Yes, I am well aware of that, Mr. Andrews.”







“It’ll take you jus’ as long to get him back to London then if you waited here for help! Charlie canna Apparate in his condition-”







“Yes, Andrews, I am well aware of that also,” I said, irritably. “And, no; it will not take as long, because I assume that more than one healer is coming to Dragomirna to see to the problem. Therefore, due to their number, they will have to travel carefully and slowly. Charlie Weasley and I are only two.”







“The reserve is under quarantine, Professor. I’m afraid I canna let you leave.”







I glared. “I see. So you are going try and stop me, then?”







Andrews said nothing.







“That’s what I thought,” I sneered.







After a moment, Andrews spoke again. “The healers can Apparate,” he pointed out. “You’ll have to travel on foot.”







“Unless you let me borrow your broom.” Before Andrews had a chance to state the obvious once again, I added, “I will ensure his safety, and we will only travel by broom when absolutely necessary. If his condition worsens, I will have to abandon the broom all together. Trust me, Andrews, I understand implicitly.” There was also the possibility of a Portkey, but that may also be out of the question if Weasley wouldn’t be able to stand the strain of Side-Long Apparition. I did not mention this possibility to Andrews, lest he have some kind of heart attack.







“This is the best and only course of action,” I continued. “You do understand that Charlie Weasley has unspokenly been placed in my care. Albus Dumbledore, as well as his family, is counting on me to ensure his safety.” Damn. His family would probably have to be notified. I resolved to worry about that later. “I will leave you the remaining Doxy Flu and Dragon Pox vaccinations that I have created, as well as the recipe should you need more. But I must get Weasley the medical attention that he requires. What you do with the rest of your people that become infected is your problem. Weasley is mine.”







Andrews looked for a moment like he was going to debate the rationality of this decision yet again, but instead looked down at the now slightly green Charlie Weasley, who moaned painfully in his sleep.







“Do what ye can, then,” he nodded.







“I always do,” I answered, and swept out of the tent to make the proper arrangements with two thoughts in mind:







One... Charlie Weasley must survive the journey. Every precaution must be taken.







Two... I was going to kill Albus Dumbledore.











Chapter Three



Polaris







Weasley and I left that night, after I had packed what I assumed would be enough to feed and water the both of us on our journey. I also packed my potions kit; no doubt Weasley would be in need of Dreamless Sleep Potions and Calming Draughts. I charmed our bags onto the Cleansweep that Andrews had lent me, and then bewitched it to fly beside us as I put one of Weasley’s arms over my shoulders and lugged him away from Dragomirna.







Unfortunately, it wasn’t until we reached the end of the mountain trail that I remembered that I had Apparated here myself, and I had no idea how to get from Romania to England on foot or broom. Merlin, I barely knew how to get from Scotland to London without Flooing!







I remembered reading that Muggle travelers of old had used the stars to navigate by. I’m not much of an astronomer, and I would gladly have slit my wrists rather than taken Divination, but I did have a very efficient memory. Granted, it had been near twenty years that I had taken Astronomy at Hogwarts. However, as long as I had my direction, I could find my way decently enough. Weasley was in no state to help me, so I nudged him anyway and pointed to the sky.







“We need to get to London. We’re in Romania. Your father likes Muggles and no doubt has told you countless tales of how they used to sail in ships using the stars.”







“Centaurs use them, too,” Weasley grunted.







That cheeky whelp! At least I knew he was well enough to manage sarcasm. I still glowered at him relentlessly.







“Polaris,” he answered, groggily. “The Plough.”







Oh, that was a lot of help.







I knew the “the Plough” was a generic name for the constellation, Ursa Major. It was only a coupling of stars within the constellation itself. I assumed he meant I need to use the Plough to find Polaris.







I suddenly felt like I was back in the classroom, nervously awaiting Professor Sinistra to duel out the exam. Sighing, I searched the sky for Ursa Major and located the Plough at the tail end of the constellation. The Plough had seven stars, and, if my memory was correct, the stars were named Dubhe, Merak, Phecda, Megrez, Alioth, Mizar, and Alkaid. To find Polaris, I would need to use the pointer stars, Dubhe and Merak.







Now came the hard part of trying to remember which blasted star was which. If Dubhe and Merak were pointer stars, then they would probably have to be two of the four stars that made up the square portion of the Plough. Using the pointer stars, I was to draw a line to Polaris. So I had a fifty-fifty chance of getting us totally and completely lost. Polaris was supposedly the brightest star in the sky. So, I chose the first star on the bottom of the Plough as Merak, mentally drew a line through what I assumed was Dubhe, and then mentally drew another line from there until I found a large, bright star that I hoped was Polaris. Feeling rather foolish, I checked the other nearby stars and came to the conclusion that “brightest star in the sky” fit the star that Dubhe and Merak had pointed me to.







Voila. Polaris.







Now that I had my heading, I heaved Charlie Weasley once more and headed toward it, the Cleansweep in tow.











Chapter Four



Bundimuns







We had been walking for a near day and a half when Weasley’s condition began to worsen. The greenish tinge of his skin was becoming more pronounced, and his fever was pitching higher. If this continued, Weasley would soon be dead, and I would more than likely become infected myself, if I wasn’t already. We desperately needed a place to rest; somewhere I could set up my potions kit and perhaps relieve some of Weasley’s pain, and maybe try and create some kind of potion that would relieve him of his symptoms until we arrived at St. Mungo’s. Unfortunately, as this was a new strain, the success of creating such a potion was highly unlikely. Potions Master I may be, but Healer I most certainly am not. My bedside manner alone would prevent me from entering the career, if I ever had an inclination to do so.







I dragged Weasley on for a bit more, looking for clearings with a flat enough surface to lay Weasley and do my work, when luck would have it I spotted an old, wooden house in one of the clearings I was inspecting. I had obviously pleased Fortune in some way, and did not dare pass up the opportunity. If it was occupied, I would kindly stun them before they noticed Weasley’s condition and refused us entry. If it was abandoned, then more the better for me.







Thankfully, it was the latter, which was something I soon noticed upon our approach. It was a run-down, old wooden shack that looked like it hadn’t seen habitation in quite sometime, and it reeked of decay. But it would do.







I hauled Weasley toward the door, the broom trailing behind us, when I felt a familiar prickly feeling on the back of my neck that only meant one thing.







We were being watched.







I quickly took out my wand, adjusting Weasley on my shoulders as I did so, scanning the area for the spy. It was then that I noticed that there was a pair of small eyes staring at me from one of the cracks in the foundation on the side of the house. Coming a bit closer, I discovered that it was a green sort of fungus. It blinked its eyes at me and promptly scuttled back inside the crack. I suddenly knew where the smell of decay and the house’s dilapidated state were coming from.







Bundimuns. Probably an infestation, but something that could easily be remedied. At least it wasn’t something like Doxies. I had dealt with Bundimuns enough over the years at my own home when I was younger, seeing as my father was useless, and my mother was never any good at cleaning spells. I laid Weasley down on the ground to peek inside one of the grimy windows. Sure enough, I saw several more Bundimuns on the walls, and others inhabited more cracks in the foundation inside, but nowhere near as many as I had thought. I used a well placed Scourgify on the crack on the outside foundation, where the Bundimun that had run off before had come back to reclaim. I found three more cracks and did the same. I then heaved Weasley and instructed the broom to follow us into the house. Once inside, I did a Scourging charm on a ratty old sofa, ridding it of dust and moths, before laying Weasley down upon it. I then did a thorough search of the house, using Scourging charms on the remaining Bundimuns. Once I was sure the house was clear, I magically repaired a chair and old wooden table and set to work on the potions that would hopefully reduce Weasley’s pain and slow the infection long enough to get us to London and the aide that he desperately required.







A/N: For those who were unaware, The Plough is the British name for the Big Dipper

Chapter Five
If I Only Had a Slayer

I, with all my Potions genius, managed to concoct something that eased Weasley’s pain, if only a little. Unfortunately, my experiments yielded nothing in the way of slowing down the infection. What’s more, the usual antidote for Dragon Pox not only didn’t slow down the infection, but I believe it may have sped the process up.

Bollocks.

Weasley was now mainly surviving on Pain Potions, Dreamless Sleep Potions, and Calming Draughts. He had lost a severe amount of weight in the short amount of time that we had spent on the road. It was time to risk using the broom, and I did so with an extreme amount of caution. I had heard tell of an inn and pub in Transylvania, which we would be flying directly over in about a half an hour’s time. I had my reservations about stopping at this particular pub, known as the Stoker’s Den, but Weasley was tired and increasingly ill, and I was getting desperate, and make no mistake; admitting desperation is not something that Severus Snape does lightly. However, more than my pride was at stake here, and I knew that the Floo service was connected to Stoker’s Den. Traveling by foot and broom was beginning to no longer be an option, and Flooing to St. Mungo’s was a risk that I was willing to take.

Half an hour later, we landed outside Stoker’s Den. I used a spell to shrink the broom and my potions kit and place them in a pocket of my robes. I then checked Weasley to make sure he was still alright, and then we made our way inside.

As I mentioned beforehand, Stoker’s Den was in Transylvania, and, as such, had an unpleasant reputation for housing vampires. Which explains my trepidation. We stepped through the door and into a very dark and dank lobby. As I made my way to the front desk, most of the Stoker’s Den’s clientele were watching Weasley and I, eyes narrowed. To my horror, I realized that most of them had their eyes on Charlie Weasley, and I saw one of the more emaciated looking residents, with pale skin and dark brown hair, actually lick his lips.

Revolting creatures. I had half a mind to stop this rubbish right now and declare Weasley an all you can eat buffet, if you enjoy the taste of someone with Dragon Pox. However, that would most likely get us thrown out of the pub if there were any non-blood sucking clientele, for they would not want to risk getting infected.

Once Weasley and I got to the check-in counter, a pale woman with long, straight dark hair approached us. I was immediately reminded of Bellatrix Lestrange, which did nothing to relieve my growing unease.

“Vat vill it be?” she asked, in a thick, Romanian accent.

“Just a room, if you please,” I answered, helping Weasley to keep himself upright.

The woman looked Weasley up and down. “Vould you like a drink first? It’s on the house. Your friend... he looks like he could use one.”

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. Did this woman take me for daft? “No, thank you,” I said, as politely as I could. Which, for me, was a great feat. “As I said, just a room would be fine. We need to rest. We will continue on our way tomorrow morning.”

The woman regarded myself and Weasley again, before coming closer. I restrained myself from taking a few steps backward.

“Your friend,” she said, throatily. “He reeks of death. Ve can help him.”

I immediately felt all eyes turn toward myself and Weasley. I decided that there probably were no non-blood suckers at this inn, that we were the only ones, and that I had now placed myself and Weasley in even more danger. If I understood correctly, they meant to make Weasley one of them.

Over my dead-

Never mind.

I shook my head, and again said, still managing to be polite, “No, thank you.”

I paid the woman and received my key. Weasley and I made it to the room without further incident. I laid Weasley in the bed and locked the door at once, and also added a Colloportus. The door made a satisfying squelching sound as it was sealed tight.

Vampires. What the bloody hell was I thinking? And to think that some of those moronic students actually thought I was one of them! As if I didn’t hear the rumors. Please. It amazes me how students think that teachers are ignorant to these sorts of things.

I returned the Cleansweep and my potions kit to their original sizes and proceeded to dump my entire stock of garlic powder about every inch of the room. I also resigned to break the lone wooden chair that came with the room and make as many stakes as possible. Lumos solem would come in handy as well. If stakes and garlic were not enough to keep our would be predators out of the room, perhaps a good dose of sunlight would give them a hint that their... advances... were not welcome.

“They wanted to help me.”

The noise startled me and I reflexively raised my wand before I realized that it was Weasley. He was still in the same position on the bed from before, but he was now awake and staring at me intently. His voice was hoarse from lack of use, and he sounded exhausted.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked.

He managed to raise his hand and point back toward the door. “Those people. They offered to help.”

I scowled. “Believe me, Mr. Weasley, you do not want their help. Besides, I am helping you.”

I thought for a moment, and then put a silencing charm on the door as well, before I smashed the chair to bits. Weasley stared at me.

“What are you doing?” he croaked.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I took the pieces of wood, took a knife out of my kit, and sat down on the floor by the door, and proceeded to whittle stakes.

“You’re going to tell me what your problem is, Snape,” he said, trying to sit up.

Alarmed, I got up again and pushed him back down upon the mattress. Being so weak, the slightest touch sent him laying down again.

“My problem is that you seem to be doing everything in your power to make yourself worse. Now, tomorrow morning, we are Flooing to St. Mungo’s. You will get the assistance you need. We have to stay here for the night, something that may prove to be difficult. I need your cooperation, considering that I have done nothing but ensure your survival over the last few days. I am risking my own arse here, and you would do well to not forget it.”

Weasley scowled at me for a moment. “What’s wrong with this inn?” He glanced over to the wood pile, and to the knife that was still in my hand. Comprehension dawned on him. “You’re making stakes.” He thought for a moment. “Let me guess... Transylvania?”

“You are very astute,” I sneered and returned to my post by the door. “Now sleep.”

Weasley remained quiet for a moment, before adding, tiredly, “Just as long as you don’t go saving my life or anything.”

I rolled my eyes. “Trust me, Mr. Weasley. I have no intention of initiating some sort of life-debt between us. I’ve already been subjected to one, and that was quite enough for one lifetime.”

Weasley coughed. “You owed a life-debt to someone?” he choked out.

“Go to sleep.”

“Who was it?”

Apparently, Weasley was having trouble understanding that he needed rest. Furthermore, he was asking a lot of irritating questions and reminding me of that infuriating Granger girl. I got up again, stalked over to my kit, and pulled out a potion.

“Perhaps you need another dose of Dreamless Sleep, Mr. Weasley?” I asked, menacingly.

Weasley did his own bit of scowling. I was almost impressed.

“Sleep. Now. Or I will assist you.”

I once again returned to my position on the floor. Weasley shifted restlessly for only a few moments before becoming silent again. I observed him to make sure all was well. His chest was rising and failing, which meant he was breathing. I then returned to the task of carving so many stakes that they could arm every Auror in the Ministry. Once my artillery was complete, I placed a few inside my robes, and then the others in random places about the room, so that no matter where the beasts cornered us, there would be one in reach. I then sat back down on the floor, with my back against the door, and stood guard over my red-headed charge.


**********


Surprisingly, we made it through the night without being attacked by rampaging blood-suckers.

Almost.

At about three in the morning, by my internal clock, I heard footsteps in the hall, followed by the creaking of floor boards. I stiffened, grabbing my wand in one hand and one of the stakes in another. I listened intently, but heard nothing. I began to wonder if I had dozed off and imagined the whole thing, but then came a scraping sound on our door. I quickly jumped to my feet, pointing my wand at the door and raising the stake high into the air. I removed the silencing charm on the door and shouted:

“Unless you’d like to see sunrise come a bit early, I suggest you move on!”

The scratching stopped momentarily, followed by a very long silence. I was about to let out the breath I’d been holding when-

CRASH!

Someone was trying to break through my Colloportus and into the room!

A string of curses flew from my lips, many of them not any that I had used since I was a student, and all of them having nothing to do with magic. And, believe it or not, this, not the incessant banging on the door, is what woke Weasley up.

“What are you swearing at?” he demanded, raising himself up.

“Lay back down!” I ordered. “I cannot have you working yourself up. You are in no condition to-”

CRASH!

“Someone’s trying to break in!” Weasley exclaimed, his voice breaking.

“Thank you for that deduction, now shut up!”

There came another resounding crash, and this one shook the door. I was about to start armoring it with a number of very strong barrier spells when I heard more footsteps coming down the hall.

You have got to be joking.

“I believe there are more coming. I may need your assistance. No, no, stay in bed!” I snapped, setting the stake down and reaching into another pocket. I located Weasley’s wand and threw it to him. “You can throw spells just as easily from over there.”

There was one more crash, followed by a voice yelling, “Sanguini!”

No, not yelling. Reprimanding.

Perhaps not all the vampires wanted to do us harm. It seemed that one of them was coming to our rescue.

I was marveling at our good fortune when instead of a crashing sound there came a knock.

Ah. So, the other was telling their fellow off for trying to force entry. Now they were trying to be polite. How considerate of them.

“Desist your attempts to enter or you will regret it, I assure you,” I shouted at the door. “You are not invited.”

“Now look what you’ve done,” the voice from earlier said. The next statement seemed to be directed at us: “My many apologies, friend.”

“We are most definitely not friends,” I snarled at the door. “Who are you?”

“Not a vampire, I assure you.”

“Then why was your companion trying to break down my door?”

“Yes. Terribly sorry about that. That was, er, Sanguini. Don’t worry, he’s gone now. He really is a nice fellow, he just gets a little carried away sometimes. Forgets he’s supposed to be living off animals.”

“Who are you?” I asked again.

“Eldred Worple,” the voiced answered.

“And why, Mr. Worple, are you traveling with a vampire? Furthermore, how are we supposed to believe that you are not one, when it is in a vampire’s very nature to hunt, attack, and drink a human’s blood, and the attempt to sire another of their kind?”

“Ah, yes. Well, perfectly good explanation for that, old chap. I say, are you sure you can’t let me in so we can discuss this more comfortably?”

I narrowed my eyes. “No.”

Worple sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“I am still awaiting an explanation,” I said.

“Right! I’m an author, you see. Mainly do autobiographies, but I wanted to do something a bit adventuresome this time around, especially after the fiasco with that Gilderoy Lockhart fellow. You know, he stole that story for Voyages with Vampires from someone else?”

“I am... slightly aware of that, yes,” I answered. Thinking of Lockhart still made my blood boil. I was sorely tempted to award a hundred points to Gryffindor after Ronald Weasley’s wand backfired and wiped Lockhart’s memory clean away. Of course, that would have meant awarding points to Gryffindor. Needless to say, it didn’t happen.

“Well, I decided to have my own go at it! I am currently working on Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires. I am using Sanguini as my main inspiration.”

“Congratulations,” I said, sarcastically.

“Anyway, I am terribly sorry for the mishap. Sanguini will be hearing it from me when I return to the room, not to worry.”

“And how am I to be sure that there will be no more incidents?” I demanded.

“Not to worry, not to worry,” Worple said again. “I’m well liked here, you know. I’ve told them not to bother you. As I said, Sanguini just gets-”

“A little carried away. Yes, you mentioned that. My friend is ill and needs to rest. Thank you for... clarifying things and providing assistance. Good night.”

I replaced the silencing charm, added a few wards just for good measure, and made sure the Colloportus was still in place. There were only two more hours until sunrise. Hopefully, the incident with Worple and Sanguini would be the last.


Chapter Six
The Ghost Portrait


Thankfully, we made it to see the sun the next morning, and I was not surprised to see that no one was in the lobby, or awake for that matter, as Weasley and I prepared to Floo our way to St. Mungo’s. Last night’s misadventure had not helped Weasley’s condition, and I was silently praying that Flooing would not make it even worse, or kill him completely. I had shrunk the broom and my potions kit again and slipped them in my robe pocket so that I could concentrate fully on Weasley. I placed him in the fireplace and helped him stand upright.

“I will need you to try and remain lucid, Mr. Weasley,” I told him, grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the table beside the fireplace. “Do you know what is happening?”

Weasley blinked and looked around. “We’re flooing?”

“Correct. I need you to hold on to me very tightly, as though we were doing Side-Long Apparition,” I explained as I stepped into the grate with him.

Weasley began to look very alarmed. “We’re flooing together? Is that even possible?”

“We’re about to find out,” I said grimly. I felt Weasley’s grip on me tighten; it was abnormally strong for someone in his condition. No doubt he was scared out of his wits. “I will count to three.”

Weasley nodded.

“One... two...three. St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries!”

I threw the powder into the fireplace, hung onto Weasley with all my might, and felt the familiar spinning sensation as we were whisked away from Stoker’s Den, hopefully to St. Mungo’s, and Weasley’s salvation.



The Welcome Witch barely glanced at us as we shot out of the fireplace - me tumbling head over feet as I tried to maintain my grip on Weasley - and landed in a sooty heap almost directly in front of her desk.

“May I help you?” the plump, blond woman asked.

I got to my feet, dusted myself off with as much dignity as I could manage, and then pulled Weasley to his feet. He was coughing up soot and blood.

“What does it look like?” I asked her, scowling.

She looked up irritably, gave Weasley a once over, and said, “Magical Bugs, Second Floor.”

I glared at the sign on her desk that displayed the same information.

“I could have told myself that. This is not something with which the Healer’s are familiar with.”

Now it was the witch’s turn to glare. “And who might you be?”

“I am Severus Snape, Potion’s Master of Hogwarts,” I answered. “I have traveled here, from Romania, with the cargo of one Charlie Weasley, who has been infected with a new strain of Dragon Pox. I need to see a Healer immediately, and he should not be placed in any rooms with other patients, as the disease is most likely contagious. I have order’s from Albus Dumbledore that I am to see to this boy’s safety.”

Weasley began to cough up more blood, and I was about to ring the woman’s neck, when she said, “Head to the Second Floor and go to the Gorsemoor ward. I’ll have someone meet you at the door.”

“How obliging of you,” I spat.

The Welcome Witch conjured Weasley a stretcher. I was surprised she spared the time to wave her wand. I laid Weasley down upon it and headed for the Second Floor. I arrived to find a young, blond healer in green robes waiting for me, looking anxious.

“Hello,” she said, as I approached. “I’m Healer McKenzie. There’s a room available in the Gorsemoor wing at the end of the hall. I’ll make sure that it’s quarantined, and that the necessary precautions are taken to prevent a widespread infection. You should probably be examined, too, Professor Snape.”

Bloody hell. An American. And one that looked like she hadn’t been out of Healer’s training for more than a month.

“Are you the Healer that has been assigned to this case?” I asked, looking at her dubiously.

Her pale, blue eyes narrowed. “Yes. If you’ll follow me, please.” She pushed open the door that read “Dragon Pox, Gunhilda of Gorsemoor Wing”. I glanced at the plaque on our way by that said the Senior Healer was Brooke McKenzie, and the Healer in Training was someone named Leigh Channel.

Weasley was taken to the last room at the end of the hall. It was a plain, white room with a bed, table, and one chair. Weasley was levitated out of the stretcher and onto the bed. Healer McKenzie took out her wand and took his temperature.

“The Welcome Witch told me that the patient’s name is Charlie Weasley, right?” she asked, as a clipboard floating next to her took down the reading from McKenzie’s wand.

“Correct,” I answered, trying to glance at the clipboard.

“And that you brought him all the way here from Romania?”

I could hear a hint of disapproval in her voice, and I did not like it one bit. “Yes,” I hissed.

The clipboard jotted down more notes.

“Has his family been informed?” McKenzie asked.

“No. Although, I am fairly certain that they already know. I am sure Dumbledore’s keeping them at bay.”

McKenzie blinked. “Excuse me? How could they know, if no one told them?”

I looked down my nose at her. “You are a witch, are you not? I’m sure that you’re familiar with the way the magical world works, and that sometimes things just magically happen. Like magic.”

She was now waving her wand over Weasley’s body while the clipboard took even more notes. She paused long enough to tell me, “Maybe you should go tell Headmaster Dumbledore that you have arrived and let the Weasley family know that their son is in good hands.”

“Perhaps I should,” I answered. “However, I have dragged Weasley around for the better part of the week, and I would like to know how he is, what it is, exactly, that he is infected with, and whether my efforts have been in vain.”

“I’ll let you know. But for right now, you need to let Healer Channel examine you to make sure you have not been infected, too. I’m sure you wouldn’t like to be placed in quarantine, Professor Snape.”

Indeed. I nodded to McKenzie, and was lead out of the room by another young Healer - this one a brunette - who was waiting for me by the door.


I was not infected, as it turned out. Something that bothered both McKenzie and Channel immensely because of the amount of time I spent with him.

“Have you had Dragon Pox before?” McKenzie asked me later that afternoon, after she and I were both back in Weasley’s room.

“Thankfully, no,” I told her.

“Strange. I hate to tell you this, Professor, but I have seen these symptoms before. A couple of farmers were attacked by a Welsh Green a few weeks ago and came down with this exact same thing. Their starting symptoms were a little different, but there was no mistake about what it was. Charlie Weasley definitely has it, too. We started treatment for Dragon Pox immediately, but we found that it only made it worse. Which is also strange, because it has all the exact symptoms of the original Dragon Pox, accept that they’re accelerated.” She glanced down at Weasley. “Charlie Weasley’s infection also seems to be attacking his respiratory system.”

“Hence his coughing up blood.”

“Exactly. From what I can determine, the infection does deteriorate the body’s defenses slowly, although much faster than normal Dragon Pox at the same time. Am I making sense?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“Anyway, in the other patients, it attacked motor functions first, making them unable to walk or use their limbs properly. Healer Channel told me that you said Charlie Weasley and the other... Kozlov... had symptoms similar to the common cold or the flu?”

“He seemed tired, and then the respiratory infection started, along with seizures,” I explained.

“So, it did affect motor functions at first?” she asked.

“He only experienced them once.”

“What other symptoms has he had on your travels?”

“Mainly just the exhaustion, respiratory infection, and high fever. And, of course, the green tinge to his skin. He has not developed the pox on the skin, yet, however.”

“And the seizures once.”

“Yes.”

McKenzie remained silent for a moment, watching Weasley as he rested. His breathing was shallow, and he was very thin and green. With his red hair, he looked like some kind of demented Christmas decal. There was also still the large burn on his arm.

“I found two pox, Professor Snape,” she said, suddenly. “Both on his chest.”

So he was in the next stages, then. Good thing I had brought him here in time.

“What kind of medication will he require?” I asked. “If I will be of no more use, I would kindly like to return home and do some resting of my own.”

“Have you talked to Headmaster Dumbledore yet?” McKenzie asked.

I blinked. “No.”

“What about the Weasley family?”

I narrowed my eyes. “No.”

McKenzie sighed. “I think now would be a good time to do that, Professor. You see, there is no cure for this new strain as of yet. The Healers of this ward are working tirelessly, and we have England’s greatest Potioneers doing their best to aide them. We could really use your help, actually. After you notify Dumbledore and the Weasley family, that is.”

“Did you say there was no cure?” I asked, slowly.

McKenzie shook her head. “No, as I said, not yet-”

“Then what was the purpose in risking both our lives by bringing him here?” I continued, barely containing my anger.

McKenzie seemed to realize that she was about to bare the brunt of my temper. “Because we have the best facility in the Wizarding world.”

“How long does he have?” I demanded.

“I’m afraid that in two weeks time nothing will be able to be done.”

I glared. “That’s what they told me in Romania.”

McKenzie had nothing to say to this. After a long silence, in which Healer Channel came in to administer some potions to Weasley, McKenzie told me, “We’re going to do everything we can for him. We’ve been using tissue samples from some of the other patients, testing everything the Healers and Potion makers have come up with. They’ll find something.”



Later that evening, after informing Dumbledore that I had arrived at St. Mungo’s with Charlie Weasley and explained the situation, I was pacing the hall outside of Weasley’s room like a caged manticore. I felt like all of this, all my efforts to bring Weasley here from Romania and keep him alive in the process, had been for nothing. They were no closer to helping him than the Healers at Dragomirna. I risked not only Weasley’s life, but my own as well. We could have been sucked dry by vampires, for Merlin’s sake! Why is it that I surround myself with a bunch of useless-

“Stop that pacing!” someone yelled, suddenly. “You’re making me nervous!”

I looked around, expecting to see one of those infernal, green clad, good for nothing healers. Instead I found a pair of eyes staring down at me from a large portrait of whom the ward was named after.

Gunhilda of Gorsemoor, famous for - what else? - finding the cure for Dragon Pox.

“Besides, visiting hours are over! Begone!”

I quirked my lips at the portrait in a mock smile. “I reserve special treatment.”

Gunhilda’s portrait humphed. “That lad you came in with,” she said, “does not have Dragon Pox.”

This got my attention very quickly.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked.

“It looks like it, alright. Green skin, spots all over the place... but it’s not. That’s why the antidote’s not working.”

“Is it in the same family?”

“I just said the antidote’s not working, boy, didn’t you hear?” Gunhilda snapped at me. “If it was in the same family, it would be doing something, wouldn’t it?”

I repressed a sigh. “Do you know what can be done about him, then?”

“I don’t,” she answered. “But Hippocrates might.”

I stared at her. “Hippocrates?”

“That’s right.”

Great. That’s all I bloody needed. An insane portrait who expected me to go talk to Hippocrates. “Well, I’m fresh out of Time-Turners. Perhaps you could explain to me how, exactly, Hippocrates and I are supposed to discuss this new malady.”

“He has a portrait, you dumb lump!” Gunhilda yelled. “Honestly, young people nowadays...”

I gritted my teeth. “And how do I find said portrait.”

Gunhilda paused, and I half expected her to tell me she had no bloody clue, when she cleared her throat, and - I kid you not - burst into song.

I sing of a tale worthy of myth and legend,
Few who doubted were later enlightened.
I tell the story of how St. Mungo came to be,
An apparition that Bonham had come to see.

Grecian wizard of the past was this great man,
Through him Mungo Bonham's vision hath began.
When the hospital was built, Hippocrates' ghost was at peace.
Bondage upon his soul, this world hath finally release.

A portrait of this ghost is all we have now,
One summer night is all that nature would allow.
A night he'll come to share his boundless knowledge,
The only time when this ghostly portrait gain earthly passage.

Alas, we know the time but ne'er the place ...
Place whence the Healer's presence be grace.
Many-a-claim from those who saw and were helped,
Many-a-patients his healing presence hath been felt.

I had to restrain myself from staring slack-jawed. “You cannot be serious.”

Gunhilda stared right back. “What do you mean?”

“I could ask you the same thing. So, what you’re telling me is, it’s not an actual portrait of him. It’s some fabled portrait of his ghost, that only appears at night?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“So, you don’t know where this ghost portrait will appear, but you do know when?”

Gunhilda’s portrait nodded.

“Would you mind telling me,” I said, through clenched teeth.

“Perhaps if you ask politely,” the portrait said.

I rolled my eyes.

“Could you tell me what time Hippocrates’ portrait will appear, please?”

“Certainly,” Gunhilda nodded. “Tonight.”

Well, that figured.

But, it was something. Hippocrates was the greatest healer in magical history. Surely his knowledge of ancient potions and magical healing techniques would be useful somehow. I resigned to search the entire hospital for this ghost portrait. After all, there were only six floors. It was not going to be that difficult.

It turns out that I was abysmally wrong.


Chapter Seven
Imperius and Paste

I literally had no sooner turned to walk down the hall and out of the ward in search of the ghost of Hippocrates’ portrait, when the brown head of Healer Channel poked out of Weasley’s door.

“Excuse me, Professor?” she asked, timidly.

I whirled. “Yes, what is it? I have business to take care of.”

Channel visibly wilted. “It’s just that, sir... we’ve run out of the burn-healing paste. A couple of wizards just out of Hogwarts tried an experiment, and well, it backfired, sir, quite literally and we, er, don’t have anymore,” she finished lamely. “You’re a Potions Master, and all the potions experts here are either done for the day or working to find a cure for this new disease, and we were wondering, sir, if you could brew us up a batch? Charlie Weasley needs it something awful for that burn on his arm.”

Of course. Why not? It’s not as if me finding that portrait is a matter of life and death! Then again, if I told her I couldn’t take the half and hour it would probably take to brew a burn-healing paste because I had to go scour the hospital for the long, lost portrait of Hippocrates’ ghost, she’s probably cart me off to the Closed Ward instead.

I clenched my fists and replied as calmly as I could, “Of course. I would be delighted.”

Healer Channel smiled brightly. “Oh, good! Thank you! Healer McKenzie was sure you wouldn’t. I don’t think she likes you very much, you know. We have the potions storeroom and lab on the third floor. Here’s a pass to get in.” She handed me a key and went back into Weasley’s room.

Damn. It. To. Hell.

I heard someone snicker. That damn portrait of Gunhilda was laughing at me!

“Have fun making your paste,” she chided me as I stalked down the hall. “Be sure to tell Hippocrates all about it. I’m sure he’ll be very interested!”

Cheeky wench.

I made way up to the third floor, labeled Potion and Plant Poisoning, located the storeroom, and went inside using the key that Channel provided. Luckily, a burn healing paste was very simple, and not very unlike the cure for boils, accept that hellebore was added instead of porcupine quills. I chose a cauldron, started a fire with my wand, and began tallying up the ingredients that I would need: dried nettles, crushed snake fangs, horned slugs, and the hellebore.

The dried nettles were added first, and at the same time the horned toads needed to be stewed. I grabbed a bowl off the shelf, used Aguamenti to add the water, and then I dropped in the slugs, setting the temperature low to get them to the desired moistness and size. Their potions storeroom was exceedingly unorganized, and it took me some time to locate the crushed snake fangs, which needed to be added precisely ten minutes after the dried nettles began to smoke. Then the nettles and the snake fangs were stirred three times clockwise, and twice counterclockwise, every thirty seconds until it was time to add the horned slugs. The slugs needed to dissipate and cook in with the rest of the ingredients for the remainder of the half hour, and then the whole potion needed to be taken off the fire before adding the hellebore, just as with the porcupine quills and the boil cure. As Neville Longbottom found out his first year - that idiot boy - adding the porcupine quills beforehand, or hellebore in this case, is extremely disastrous.

The half hour was almost up, and the solution that I had been stirring meticulously had began to resemble a thick orange soup. I took the cauldron off the fire and added the hellebore, which would hasten the thickening process and be the key ingredient in fighting off any sort of infection the burns might have caused.

After about an extra ten minutes of cooling, the burn-healing paste was completed. I grabbed a glass container off the shelf, used my wand switch the paste from the cauldron into the container, and made my way back down to the second floor.

Healer Channel was waiting for me by the doors of the Gorsemoor wing. I handed her the paste, and she thanked me enthusiastically.

“We’ll have those burns of his taken care of now, don’t worry,” she called as she disappeared behind the ward doors.

“At least I can be sure something of Weasley’s is being cured,” I muttered, before sweeping back my robe and heading back down the hall toward the ground floor, intent on searching every floor and every ward, bottom to top, for this fabled ghost portrait.


*****


Night had fallen, and most of the day healers had gone home, replaced by the night crew. They, and Healers McKenzie and Channel, were the only people besides the patients left in the hospital.

Or so I’d thought.

I had had no success on the ground floor, not that I was expecting any. The second floor, where Mr. Weasley was being held, was my next target. I moved along the corridors, my wand lit, checking every portrait, looking in every wing and room - to many patients displeasure - and behind every tapestry. I was just about the enter the last wing, called the Agrippa Ward, when I heard something move behind me. Before I had time to react, a voice muttered something indistinguishable, and quite suddenly all my aches and pains from the days’ travels with Weasley disappeared. My mind felt blissfully blank, and I had the sudden urge to go to sleep.

The voice behind me ordered: “Don’t turn around.”

Of course I wouldn’t turn around. Why would I? Who cares who this person is, and why I’m wandering the corridors of St. Mungo’s at night? It’s not as if I had anything important to do.

You blithering imbecile! a voice in the back of my mind yelled. It sounded strangely like Lucius Malfoy. You are Severus Snape, Potions Master and former Death Eater! You are a supreme Occlumens. How dare you let someone put you under the Imperius curse!

Imperius curse? What the devil?

I order you to snap yourself out of it this instant! Or are you as incompetent as Longbottom?

That did it.

My mind immediately cleared, and without hesitation I spun around and directed a nonverbal Expelliarmus at my would be controller. I heard a wand clatter to the floor, and in the next instant the attacker was under a full body bind. He hit the floor with a loud thud. I kicked him for good measure to make sure the curse was in proper effect.

Alright, fine, I just wanted to kick him. I was furious at myself for letting my guard down. Under normal circumstances, I would never have allowed myself to be placed under the Imperius. My exhaustion from trying to secure Weasley’s safe arrival had turned me into some dim-witted second year.

I levitated him into an abandon room and decided to add an Incarcerous for good measure, rapping him in ropes and binding him to the bed. I then locked the door with a very strong barrier charm, and continued on my way.

Obviously, someone did not want me finding this portrait. Which meant that I had to find it as soon as possible.

The question was, who would want to stop me from saving Weasley?

A/N: If you don't know the characters that I threw in Chapter Five, for shame! Go read HBP again ;)

Chapter Eight



I'm a Princess, I Swear!







The night proceeded without a similar incident, so I assumed that the attacker was working alone. After scouring the second and third floors without a hint of Hippocrates, I arrived on the fourth floor, which was marked Spell Damage. I expected all the patients to be in bed asleep, so imagine my surprise when I heard a great racket coming from Ward 45, across from the Janus Thickey ward. I knew the Thickey ward was for long-term residents - such as Longbottoms’ parents, unfortunately, and none other than Gilderoy Lockhart. So I assumed the ward across from it was short-term. Knowing I would have to explore both wards eventually, I allowed curiosity to get the better of me and went to see what all the noise was about. What I found was nothing short of, well...







Odd.







About a dozen or so residents were wandering the corridors, some twirling the robes about like a dress, others proclaiming to really be dwarves and demanding to know where Snow White was, while another hopped about like a frog and demanded me to kiss him so he could turn back into a handsome prince.







At that very moment I knew my life had taken a very sour turn indeed.







I located the very harassed looking healer and asked what the hell was going on.







“Freak accident inside the Committee of Experimental Charms,” the healer explained. “That’s Gilbert Wimple over there.” He pointed to the frog-hopping fellow. “He’s head of the department. His whole team’s down here. Their charm backfired and they think they’re all people from fairy tales.”







I decided not to bother asking why in the world someone would want to charm themselves to be a dwarf or a frog.







“Can’t for the life of me figure out the counter-charm. And they’re no help. They keep talking in riddles and acting like their characters,” the healer groaned.







“I’m terribly sorry for your predicament,” I said, not actually caring.







The healer went back to feeling sorry for himself, and I watched Gilbert Wimple and his caravan with amusement. I found one elderly patient asking a door if he was the fairest of them all to be particularly entertaining.







After I awhile the novelty began to ware off, and I began my search of the ward. A half an hour later I found nothing that would point me in the right direction, so I made to leave and check the surrounding areas. I was just about to push open the doors into the corridor, when I heard one of the afflicted patients say to the hopping Wimple:







“I cannot kiss you, dear frog, for I am already to be married to a handsome prince. But, there is tell of a kind, ghostly man trapped in an odd sort of mirror around these parts that may be able to help you find your true love.”







What?







Kind, ghostly man? Odd sort of mirror? Could they possibly be talking about Hippocrates?







“Excuse me,” I began, walking toward the patient - a middle aged woman - who had addressed Wimple the Frog. “But I couldn’t help over hearing-”







“How dare you address me so informally!” she screeched. “I am a Princess, sir, and you will kindly remember it.”







Bloody hell. It looked like I was going to have to play along if I was to gather any sort of information.







“A thousand pardons, Your Highness,” I said, bowing low. “I am but a humble servant, and was not aware of your royal status.”







The would-be princess sniffed and held her head high. “Yes, I suppose someone of your lowly stature would not know better.”







I could see this was going to be very difficult to stomach.







“As I was saying before you rightfully corrected me on my manners, I heard you tell this... frog... that there is a, er, man trapped in a mirror around these parts?”







“Yes. I hear that he is not far from here, and many pilgrimage to this place to partake of his wisdom. The fairy godmother told me so. Of course, she’s not my fairy godmother,” the woman said, suddenly angry. “She’s Cinderella’s, and she’s not very inclined to share. To think that it was her at the royal ball...”







“Yes, she is obviously not worthy to wipe the dirt from your shoes,” I said, impatiently. “Where, pray tell, may I find this fairy godmother?”







The woman pointed dismissively toward a plump man wearing a bathrobe, waving a tooth brush around trying to enchant things. I bowed once again, uttering my gratitude, and waded my way through the patients who were convinced that they were dwarves and that I had kidnaped Snow White, toward the ‘fairy godmother’.







Praying that this patient would not be as... diva-ish as the last one, I simply walked up and introduced myself, saying that I was on a pilgrimage to find the man trapped in the mirror.







“Ah, yes,” the plump man said, waving his tooth brush enthusiastically. “You are not far, my son, not far. But are you sure that your troubles are something that I cannot help you with? I am the fairy godmother you know. With just a wave of my wand, I could take care of that nose for you. I may even be able to spruce up that hair a bit. We’ll have you looking like a prince in no time!”







It never ends. I asked Albus once, years ago, whether it would.







“When will what end?” he had asked me.







“The miserable existence that I call life,” I had answered. After that I think he was too offended to respond, but I knew what he was thinking - my life isn’t miserable. It was fulfilling. I worked as a spy, I was part of the Order that tried to bring down the Dark Lord, I was one of the most accomplished potion makers in Britain. I had a great life. A life that most would die for.







Of course, Albus was never around for moments like these, when a grown man was twirling about his bathrobe trying to shrink my nose with a toothbrush.







“That will not be necessary, thank you,” I said, pushing the toothbrush away. “I seek him because my companion has fallen very ill, and I need his guidance in how to cure him.”







“Poor dear,” the man said, patting my head like I was some sort of dog. “The man you seek lies across the white river of stone.”







And with that, he twirled away.







Oh, what a big help. So, apparently, Hippocrates’ portrait would appear somewhere quite close, probably on this floor. And he was located across the white river of stone, whatever that was. I was pondering exactly what the man meant when I was poked hard in the chest.







“You’ve got her. I know you’ve got her!”







Merlin’s beard, the dwarf ones were not going to give up.







I glared at the skinny, youthful patient who had been brave enough to shove at me. “I haven’t got your bloody Snow White, so go back to your mining or whatever it is that the bloody tale says that you do.”







The young man blinked in surprise at my harshness, but he quickly regained his aggressive attitude. “Well, if you don’t got her, then who does? That stepmother witch of hers is after her, you know, and we told her not to leave the cottage. You must have taken her.”







“For the last time, you annoying brat, I haven’t taken anyone, now let me be! I’m trying to think!” I snapped.







“It’s either you or that smiling, no good blond guy!” the youth stated.







“Smiling blond?” I repeated.







“Yeah! Proclaiming to be some sort of great famous magician, but he couldn’t remember his own name half the bloomin’ time, and he couldn’t remember what he was famous for. But he was braggin’ about the man in the mirror when he heard the fairy godmother talking about it. Says he talks to him all the time. Then Snow White came and told him off for being out of his room and took him away back across the great river of stone. She hasn’t been back since. So, maybe he does got her. Or, maybe you’re in league with him.” He looked at me suspiciously.







If the smiling blond man was who I thought he was - and I prayed to whoever would listen that he wasn’t - then Snow White wasn’t one of the patients at all, but a healer. A healer who had the unfortunate job of looking after one of the most revolting people on the face of the planet. And if these two things were true, then the great river of stone was nothing more then the tile floor that separated Ward 45 from Janus Thickey’s.







Which meant that Hippocrates’ portrait was just across the hall.







Which also meant that he was as well. And, it would seem, he was also the only person who may be able to lead me to Hippocrates.







However, he was known for boasting things that were not true when his memory was intact, and though the dwarf patient said he claimed to speak to Hippocrates all the time, this could just be as untrue as when he said he knew the location of the Chamber of Secrets. But it was the only lead I had.







And so, with the air of one marching to their impending doom, I walked out of Ward 45 and into the corridor. I stared at the doors to the Janus Thickey ward with a feeling of dread. This was, beyond a doubt, the worst thing that I have ever been, and ever will be, subjected to. And that included facing the Dark Lord and teaching James Potter’s son.







I was going to have to come face to face with, and rely on, the most incompetent, moronic, bumbling buffoon that nature had ever dared to spit into existence.







The one, the only... Gilderoy Lockhart.











Chapter Nine



Riddle Me This







I crept through the corridors of the Janus Thickey ward as quietly as possible. Maybe I wouldn’t need Lockhart after all; perhaps I could find the portrait without him, and relieve myself of having to deal with his infuriating presence.







No such luck.







I was suddenly ambushed by something with a shock of wavy blond hair and bright white teeth.







“Well, hello there!” Gilderoy Lockhart said, cheerfully. “Come to give me an interview, I take it.”







It seems having his memory shattered to bits did nothing to alter the man’s self-absorbed attitude.







“Most certainly not,” I answered, straightening my robes.







Lockhart’s annoying smile faltered slightly. “I say, you look rather familiar. Do I know you?”







I blinked in surprise, and then recovered myself. “No,” I replied, with an air that said the discussion was over. “I am actually in need of your assistance.”







“Of course you are!” Lockhart exclaimed, his usual demeanor reappearing. “What can I do for you, my friend? I am quite famous, you know.”







Smiling myself, I asked: “Yes, but for what?”







Lockhart’s face went as blank as his mind. “You know, I’m not quite sure.”







I sighed, and decided to get down to business. “Some of the patients across the hall said that you knew where the portrait of Hippocrates is.”







Lockhart stared at me. “Portrait of Hippocrates?”







“Yes. The one who believed himself to be one of the seven dwarves said that you knew where the man trapped in the mirror was, and that you spoke with him all the time.”







Lockhart thought for a moment, and I was about to give him up as the nut-job that he was, when he brightened and said: “Ah, the portrait! Yes, of course! He lives on my hall, you know. Very clever chap. Follow me!”







Bloody hell, it actually worked. I followed Lockhart as he lead the way toward his section. We reached an area marked “Closed Ward”, and I followed him through the doors and into his hall. He stopped not far from the entrance at an ancient looking portrait, where a fat man in a powdered wig resided. He was snoring loudly.







“Here you are!” Lockhart exclaimed, triumphantly.







I stared at him, and then I stared at the name on the portrait.







Mungo Bonham.







The founder of St. Mungo’s. Not Hippocrates. I whirled on Lockhart.







“This is not Hippocrates, you idiot,” I snapped. The portrait jerked awake with a loud snort. “This is Mungo Bonham, founder of the hospital that you plague with your existence.”







“I say, who is this Hippocrates fellow you keep going on about?” Lockhart asked. “You asked me to show you the man trapped in the mirror. Of course, those people across the hall didn’t know any better. He’s not really trapped in a mirror.” Lockhart laughed giddily, as if he had discovered some great secret.







“Yes, but, they said that Hippocrates would be here...” I realized with a jolt that they never, in fact, mentioned Hippocrates at all. They just kept referring to him as the kind ghostly man trapped in a mirror. Mungo Bonham was a portrait, and from his powdered wig is perhaps where they contrived the ghostly appearance.







Bloody hell! That was the last time I took the advice of a fairy godmother and a dwarf.







“What is all this fuss about?” Mungo’s portrait demanded. “I’m trying to sleep!”







I glared at it, but then my memory caught up to me. “An apparition which Bonham had come to see,” I muttered to myself, reciting the Gunhilda’s poem. “Grecian wizard of the past was this great man...” Louder, and directed toward Mungo’s portrait, I asked: “Do you know where I can find the fabled portrait of Hippocrates?”







Mungo’s portrait regarded me. “What is your reason for asking, sir?”







“Because I want to strip it down and sell it for parts,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because I am in need of it, you ancient, moth ridden painting!” I had had enough. I was tired, hungry, and thoroughly exasperated. I was sick of dragons, Charlie Weasley, vampires, and this bloody hospital. I wanted to go home and I wanted to be rid of this ridiculous wild goose chase!







The portrait blinked at me in surprise. “Now, see here-” it began, but I cut it off angrily.







“I have traveled all the way from Romania. Romania, do you hear me!?” I shouted. “I had to fight off a fire-breathing dragon, rid a house of a Bundimun infestation, and try and survive a night in a vampire’s pub! I was put under the Imperius Curse! One of my former students is deathly ill, and I must find this portrait to garner a clue about creating a cure for him, or my entire expedition will have been in vain! Hippocrates is the only person who can help me, and you are the only person who can tell me where he is.” I glared, panting, at Mungo Bonham’s portrait.







It regarded me again for a few moments, before booming: “I have an oath to keep with him, that I would never directly reveal his position.” He paused, and then added, “Yet, I see your great need and understand. A Healer’s task is to help find cures, and you are in need of him. If you can answer my question, I will point you in the right direction. Would you prefer a mind-game, or a game of chance?”







What kind of question was that?







“So, you are willing to tell me if I pass your test?” I asked.







The portrait nodded.







Damn it all to hell! What must I do to be rid of this blasted adventure?







“Fine,” I sighed, annoyed. “Anything. I just want to have this over with.”







“I’d take the game of chance,” Lockhart advised.







Hmph.







“In that case, I’ll take the mind-game,” I said.







The portrait of Mungo nodded, and then recited:







Red eyes hath shone.



Valuable is my egg,



I have plenty of backbone,



But lack a good leg.







“Is that all of it?” I asked. “And, no, that’s not my answer.”







Mungo nodded again. “That is your riddle.”







“Oh, I love riddles!” Lockhart exclaimed. I resisted the urge to throw him bodily down the corridor.







Instead I pondered the riddle that Mungo had given me. I at first thought of a Basilisk, but it’s eyes are yellow. I then began running through my head the list of species’ whose eggs are valuable in potion making that also had red eyes, and no legs. It was most definitely some kind of serpent, and the only other serpent that I could think of that matched the requirements was an Ashwinder. Although Ashwinders do not live very long, and had a dull grey appearance, they were most well known for their fiery red eyes and equally red eggs. Ashwinder eggs are very valuable, if frozen, and were used in a variety of Love Potions.







So, I took a deep breath, and said, confidently, “The answer to the riddle is an Ashwinder.”







For a moment Mungo did nothing but stare at me. I almost lost my head all together and had to fight myself from grabbing the portrait off the wall and demanding that it tell me where Hippocrates was or I’d smash it to bits.







But then the founder of St. Mungo’s smiled. “You are correct.”







I breathed a mental sigh of relief. Out loud, however, I said, “Of course I am.”







“Hippocrates can be found wherever you have need of him,” Mungo explained. “Now, go.”







I didn’t move.







“I beg your pardon?” I asked. “That doesn’t tell me anything!”







“Of course it does!” Lockhart said jovially. “He says that it’ll be wherever you want him to.”







It took me a moment to realize just what exactly Lockhart and the portrait were saying.







“You mean, he’ll just... appear wherever I choose?”







Mungo shrugged. “In a way. What ailment does your friend suffer from?”







“A rare form of Dragon Pox, or so I had thought,” I told him. “But the portrait of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor said that it was not. Anyway, he has a contagious and deadly malady.”







“Then where your friend is ill, he will appear,” Mungo said with an air of finality, and promptly went back to sleep.







To say that I was furious would be an understatement. And I wish I could say it was because I spent the whole night searching the hospital, bottom to top, when I could have had the portrait appear right over Charlie Weasley’s bed.







No. I was infuriated that Gilderoy Lockhart, the stupidest no-talent wizard that ever walked the planet, figured out what Mungo was talking about before I did.







I could either kill him, hide the body, and then pretend the whole night never happened, or I could go back up to the second floor and save Charlie Weasley, get some much needed rest, and then pretend the night never happened. The first option sounded very appealing. However, such things are frowned upon, so I went with the latter.







I removed myself from Lockhart’s presence - finally! - and returned back to the second floor.











Chapter Ten



Poison Rationality







As Mungo Bonham predicted, Hippocrates’ portrait appeared exactly where I had need of him. When I went back upstairs to Charlie Weasley’s room and asked - feeling very foolish - out loud for Hippocrates to appear and give me guidance, a large, ornate-framed portrait of the ghost appeared directly over Weasley’s bed. I spent the next half-hour explaining Weasley’s symptoms and everything that I and the Healers had done. Hippocrates instructed me to run some different tests on Weasley and report my findings to him.







After that, he disappeared from his frame for a while, returning every now and then to ask a question or demand more tests, or to pace about. When he returned, he told me that Weasley had a very, very rare, but curable, form of Wizarding Malaria. I asked how that was possible, given that Malaria is usually bred in warmer climates. Hippocrates explained that it had probably been transmitted by this Kozlov fellow, and that perhaps he had traveled to a tropical climate and returned with the disease. This explanation did make sense, as Kozlov was probably required to travel to many countries to find different species of dragons and bring them to the reserves in their areas. Hippocrates gave me a list of potions ingredients and brewing directions, and said that Weasley would recover in a day if the potion was administered to him promptly. I copied the list and instructions from the portrait and thanked Hippocrates profusely. He told me no thanks were necessary. In fact, he said that he hadn’t had anything to do for a good century, and had been getting rather bored. Instead, he thanked me for providing him some entertainment.







Entertainment?







Before I could voice my... displeasure... at the though of my and Weasley’s predicament being called entertainment, the portrait vanished.







I used my anger to fuel me for the rest of the night as I got to work immediately on the cure for Weasley. I also made a copy of the cure’s ingredients and directions and sent it promptly to Dragomirna, so that the healers there could get to work as well. The concoction took approximately two hours to brew, and, without waiting for McKenzie’s approval, I gave Weasley the instructed two tablespoons. All I could do now was wait.











*******











I woke up around noon the next morning, something that shocked even myself. I haven’t slept like that since my days as a spy during the war against the Dark Lord. I showered, got dressed, and rushed to Weasley’s room to check on his improvement. In just the eight hours that it had been since I gave him the cure, Charlie Weasley was recovering remarkably. Healers McKenzie and Channel were already there, as well, and couldn’t make anything of it.







“This is unbelievable!” McKenzie was saying, looking at the readings from her wand. “He’s almost full recovered! I don’t understand-”







“Don’t bother yourself about it, Miss McKenzie,” I said, lazily, taking Weasley in for myself. “I discovered what the disease was, and how to go about curing it. I brewed the potion last night. I have the recipe and instructions so that you will be able to put it in your archives, in case this disease ever present itself again. I’ve already sent a copy to the Dragomirna reserve.”







If McKenzie and Channel had been Muggle cartoon characters, their jaws would have hit the floor with a very loud thunking noise.







“No thanks are necessary,” I added.







McKenzie exploded first.







“You did what?! Who do you think you are? Only the staff of this hospital are allowed to... You can’t just go around thinking you can cure people! What if it had made him worse?”







“It’s highly unlikely that would happen,” I informed her. “Besides, it’s of no significance now. He’s been cured, obviously, as you’ve just pointed it out a few minutes ago.”







This only seemed to infuriate her more. “You know,” she began, face red, “you really think you’re something, don’t you? Well, for your information-”







“Could you all please stop yelling?”







The three of us looked down to where Weasley was laying. He was wide awake, looking at us tiredly. “You’re making my head hurt. And is it possible for me to maybe get something to eat? Shepard’s Pie would be lovely. My mum makes the greatest Shepard’s Pie...”







McKenzie’s mouth opened and closed a few times, as if she was trying to think of something to say. She eventually turned to Channel and asked her to see if St. Mungo’s kitchen could possibly procure some Shepard’s Pie.







As Channel was on her way out of Weasley’s room, another Healer stuck their head in, and said, “Healer McKenzie, Charlie Weasley’s family and Professor Dumbledore are here.”







McKenzie, seeming quite flustered, nodded and said, “Let them in.”







“Um... all of them?” the Healer asked.







“Yes. Let them in.”







He shrugged and left. A few minutes later, Arthur, Molly, Percy, Bill, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny Weasley piled into the room, followed by Albus. I think McKenzie was shoved out of the room accidentally in the process. All the Weasley children began talking at once.







“Bloody hell, look at that burn on his arm! That’ll be a wicked scar!”







“Are you going to be well in time for the Quidditch World Cup, Charlie?”







“Yeah, because if you’re not, I was thinking about selling it.”







“George!”







“I can’t believe you had to travel with Snape-”







“That’s enough, Ron!”







“Oh, Charlie!” Molly Weasley sobbed, pulling up a chair next to her son’s bed. “How are you, dear? Are they feeding you enough? You looked starved!”







Charlie Weasley grinned. “I’m fine, Mum, thanks to Professor Snape.”







Oh, Merlin. I attempted to escape but Albus cornered me.







“I was told by that lovely Healer in Training that you were responsible for finding the cure for Mr. Weasley’s ailment, Severus,” Albus said loftily.







“Yes,” McKenzie piped up. Ah, it seems she managed to survive the stampeding hoard. “He did so without my consent, or Charlie Weasley’s, Headmaster Dumbledore. And, even though Charlie has been cured, I think that-”







“Oh, no, no, no,” Albus interrupted. “Don’t be modest. I’m sure you had a hand in it as well, Healer McKenzie, and I will make sure to tell your supervisor of your outstanding work.”







McKenzie blinked. “I, well, I mean-”







Molly and Arthur Weasley beamed at McKenzie. “Thank you so much for saving our son,” Molly said, tearfully. “And you, too, Professor Snape. What would he have done without you? That was very brave, risking your life to bring him all the way from Romania! We’ll never be able to thank you enough.”







I was very tempted to say “Stop having children and that will be all the thanks I need”, but I figured that probably wouldn’t be prudent, especially with Albus in the room. Instead, I simply bowed, and said “It was no trouble, Mrs. Weasley. I did what needed to be done.”







“They should name the cure after you,” Arthur suggested.







“That really isn’t necessary-”







We were interrupted by Healer Channel, who managed to make her way to Weasley’s bed to give him his Shepard’s Pie. The Weasley children began bombarding their brother with questions as Albus took me by the arm and lead me out of the room and into the hallway. The portrait of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor winked at me as we walked by.







“How did you discover this cure, Severus?” he asked me, blue eyes twinkling.







I sighed inwardly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Headmaster.”







“Try me.”







Damn him.







“I asked the ghost of Hippocrates’ portrait.”







“Really? Interesting. How is he doing?”







Anyone else would have been quite put off by this sort of question. I, however, have dealt with Albus Dumbledore long enough to have stopped trying to understand him years ago. I simply shrugged, and answered, “Very well, I suppose, considering he’s a painting. Apparently he’s been quite bored.”







“I should say so. Poor devil hasn’t had much to do for almost a century.”







I was caught a little off guard by that last statement, but recovered quickly. “I suppose you’ve already thought up a way for me to not be... disciplined... for handling Weasley’s case myself.”







“Of course. It’s already been taking care of, Severus.”







“I expected nothing less of you.”







“Indeed,” Albus said with a small smile. “By the way, I was meaning to ask how you came to your decision to risk your life and Charlie Weasley’s as well to bring him here and find a cure? It almost seems quite unlike you.”







Because I knew I’d have you and the rest of the Weasley’s on my back for the rest of my life if I didn’t, I thought, aggravated. Out loud, however, I said, “Albus, you know more than anyone that sometimes things are better faced with a kind of... poison rationality.”







“Hmm... I daresay you lost your cool a few times?”







I allowed myself a small smile as well. “Just a few.” My expression darkened, however, as I remembered my incident with the Imperius curse. “I was attacked here in the hospital. Someone attempted the Imperius on me.”







Albus stopped. “Someone?”







I shook my head. “It was dark. I could not see him. I tied him up and left him in one of the rooms.”







“There aren’t any lights in the hospital rooms?”







I blinked and cursed myself for my idiocy. I was in such a hurry to find that bloody cure for Weasley that I never bothered to find out who my attacker was. “My apologies, Headmaster. I was tired and pressed for time, but that is no excuse-”







Albus held up his hand. “No matter, Severus. Where did you put him?”







I lead him to the room where I had stashed my would be attacker, only to find that the bed was empty. The ropes I had conjured, however, were still in place.







“Remarkable,” Albus muttered to himself.







“Perhaps one of the Healers released him?” I asked, going to check the ropes.







“Quite impossible, as your Impediment jinx seems to be firmly in place,” Albus pointed out. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Very interesting...”







He then turned and walked out of the room.







I really, really, hate that man.







I found him over by the Welcome Witch’s desk. The woman shook her head and then went back to her magazine.







“She did not see anyone come out of that room, and nothing amiss as been reported.” Albus regarded me carefully. “Are you quite certain that in your exhaustion you didn’t, perhaps, imagine-”







I glared at him.







“Ah, yes,” Albus continued. “Well, in that case, I have an idea of who it could have been, and how, exactly, they escaped from your spell.”







I raised my eyebrows. “Indeed? Care to elaborate?”







Albus regarded me again for a moment, before saying, “Where is the tea room, Severus? I’m feeling quite peckish.”







I sighed. “Fifth floor.”







“Ah, that’s right. I think I will try their Shepard’s Pie. It looked quite delicious.”







As Albus was walking away - with me glaring furiously after him - the Weasley Family, minus Charlie, arrived in the atrium to Floo themselves back home.







“Thank you again, Professor Snape, for everything you’ve done,” Molly said, smiling.







“Not at all, Mrs. Weasley,” I said again.







“Now, it would be an awful shame if Charlie can’t make it,” Mr. Weasley began, “but we have tickets to the World Cup, and if he can’t go, well.... as thanks, would you like to have his ticket?”







“What?” George Weasley cried, indigently. “I wanted to sell it!”







“You’re not selling Charlie’s ticket, George!” Molly shouted.







I was shocked by this question and for a moment could find nothing to say. “Do not worry, Mr. Weasley. The potion that was given to your son should have him fully recovered by this evening. I am sure he will be quite able to attend. But... thank you for your offer.”







“Ah, well, if there’s anything that we can do for you, Professor, please let us know. We owe you quite a lot,” Arthur said, gratefully.







I nodded, and was about to follow Albus to the Tea Room, when Ronald Weasley stepped forward and asked, “Um, Professor Snape?”







I turned and raised an eyebrow at him.







The boy visibly gulped. “Um... Charlie wanted me to tell you thanks for not hurting Norbert.”







Norbert?







“Excuse me?” I asked.







“The dragon that he was trying to give the antidote to. The one you had to save him from. That’s his name,” Ron explained. “Hagrid, er... found him when he was a baby and gave him to Charlie to take to Dragomirna-”







“Thank you, Mr. Weasley, for the explanation. Feel sure to tell your brother that... Norbert... is quite well. Good day,” I said, excusing myself from their presence.







As I made my way toward the Tea Room to find Albus, I couldn’t help but ponder the events over the last few days. Out of everything that had happened, only two things were unexplainable.







How did my attacker escape his captivity, and...







Who in their right mind gives a Norwegian Ridgeback a name like Norbert?











The End.











Disclaimer: Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback was not harmed during the writing of this fanfiction. Severus Snape and Charlie Weasley, however, were indeed forced to spend countless hours within each other’s company, and neither will speak about their misadventure to this day.








Epilogue





The rat moved in a zig zag fashion across the stone walkway that lead to an old, dilapidated mansion. It squeezed through a hole in the door, and scuttled its up the wooden stair case and into a room at the end of the hall. A fire was the only source of warmth and light, and a lone occupant sat in a large armchair in front of it. No one would have known there was anyone in the room just from looking at it, because the person... thing... sitting in the chair didn’t even reach halfway. But the rat knew it was there. Just like it knew the snake was somewhere in the room as well. The rat began to feel frightened. The snake knew it was not supposed to eat the rat. The thing in the chair controlled it and forbade it to eat the rat, at least for now. The rat began to feel more afraid, and twitched it’s noise nervously. It came in front of the armchair and looked at the thing in it with it’s beady black eyes.





“Speak, Wormtail.” it said, in a cold, high pitched whisper.





Then the rat suddenly wasn’t a rat anymore. He was changing, growing, into a squat little man, with beady, watery eyes and a balding head. He bowed, cowering in front of the thing in the armchair. “I have returned from my journey, My Lord.”





“Yes, I can see that, Wormtail,” the thing hissed. “What have you discovered?”





The man called Wormtail shuddered. “Yes, of course, forgive me. It seems that...” Wormtail faltered. “I do not wish to displease you, My Lord, but... it seems you were incorrect about Severus’ allegiance.”





“Explain.”





“He went out of his way to save a member of the Weasleys, a Blood Traitor family,” Wormtail sputtered. “He was sent to Romania on Dumbledore’s orders to prepare for the TriWizard Tournament.”





The thing hissed. “So... Bertha Jorkins’ information was correct.”





“I think... I think Severus has, indeed, returned to the other side. Dumbledore trusts him... the Weasley boy trusted him with his life,” Wormtail continued.





The thing said nothing.





“I have done well, My Lord?” Wormtail asked, a small note of pleading in his voice.





The thing did not answer for a moment, but then, said: “Yes, Wormtail. The information has been very helpful. We will see, in the coming year, whether you are correct in your findings.”





Wormtail bowed. “Thank you, My Lord.”





“Now,” the thing continued, and the snake slithered out from behind the door. Wormtail recoiled from the giant serpent. “It is almost time. You must milk Nagini. There is work to be done. And if Severus has indeed betrayed me... he will pay.”





A/N: What? You thought I was going to keep you all hanging? Kind of a sorry explanation, I know, but I've been driving myself crazy ever since the Imperius task was assigned trying to figure out who would want to attack Snape, and that was the best I could think of, considering I set the fic right before the fourth book