Poison Rationality by StaceyLC
Chapter Notes: Snape and Charlie spend the night in a Vampire's Pub; Snape learns there may be a way to save Charlie; someone tries to prevent Snape from completing his task
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 ;)