Poison Rationality by StaceyLC
Chapter Notes: Snape contends with one of his least favorite people before being able to find the cure for Charlie; we learn who attacked Severus while he was at St. Mungos.
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