Reparo
The boy finally gone, I return to my armchair. Were it not for my usually firm grip on reality, I would have believed myself to be masterfully Confunded. That would certainly be easier than trying to wrap my mind around the notion of cooperating with Potter, especially considering his obedience, however reluctant.
I attempt to line up the hordes of questions in my head and categorize them into relevant and irrelevant. Why did he return? Irrelevant. Why did he believe my words? Equally so. Why… Damn it, Severus, are you too blind to perceive a trend in your own thoughts? It seems that every question starting with "why" is not simply irrelevant, but highly irrelevant and does nothing to aid your current predicament. Do the world a favor and finally ask yourself something intelligent instead of analyzing motivations – his, yours or those of anyone else.
How to time my actions in a way that would minimize the risk of being confronted with my colleagues while at the same time avoid being late for my post, or late enough to suffer the Dark Lord's displeasure? What exact moment to select for Apparating to the Malfoy Manor, late enough for everyone to have left on their mission, but not early enough for them to realize the depth of the trouble and call in the reinforcements, namely the Dark Lord and myself? The last thing I would wish right now would be finding myself in the fray, the reason behind my reluctance being beyond lowly self-preservation, but rather the unwillingness to waste the only opportunity in weeks.
What is it that I would do, had the boy not made his appearance in such an uncharacteristically timely fashion? Would I have seized the opportunity, taken the chance to strike in the heart of the enemy instead of dying a pointless death? Slipping into irrelevant questions again.
I rub my forehead with my fingers, only to wince in pain. The next few minutes are spent in fruitless attempts to rest either elbow on the armrest and lean my head on the respective hand, thwarted by the several already formed blisters and the general skin condition I am inclined to classify as second degree burns. Slumping down somewhat to lean the head on the back of the chair instead, I observe my hands resignedly, once again presented with the usual result of doing something needlessly melodramatic. It would have been easier and possibly faster to use my wand to retrieve the object I had willingly injured myself for. What was it - letting the Muggle instincts to get the best of me, or simply not bothering to use my head? Either would be appalling.
As is analyzing the events I no longer have the power to influence, instead of rectifying the consequences, I remind myself. The logical solution at this point in time would be procuring some essence of Murtlap tentacles and letting my hands soak in it for possibly an hour, before applying a spell similar to the one used to remove fire damage from objects, with appropriate modifications for living tissue. I have neglected minor injuries akin to this before, but not before an important battle in which I could not afford to risk the result through dropping the wand because of a sudden unexpected pain.
Unfortunately, proceeding with the logical solution would involve overcoming two difficulties, one of them being the necessity to retrieve a bowl and therefore, to bear the sight of Potter in my kitchen. The other difficulty lies in the need to actually get to my feet to fetch both the bowl and the essence. I feel reluctant to use the wand for a charm as mundane as Summoning, for the same reason I have instructed Potter against using his.
Suppressing the temptation to bark an order in the direction of the kitchen and have both items delivered to me, I rally what strength I have and will myself to stand up. Inexplicably, the effort reminds me of the fact that the night preceding last I had also spent awake for some obscure, but perfectly legitimate reason, the nature of which seems to escape me at this time, somehow … Just get up…
My head snaps up as I hear a quiet voice just to the side of me.
'Episk-'
Not fully comprehending the situation at the moment, but acting on an instinct that proves right, I move my hand up just in time to knock the wand out of the hand holding it.
The next second, it all comes back to me. I must have fallen asleep during my unsuccessful attempt to get up and fetch the Murtlap essence. Pathetic. Not to mention… embarrassing. I glare at Potter, who is staring at me with an expression of acute confusion, his wand lying on the floor.
'What did you think you were doing there, Potter?' I demand. He leans down to pick up the wand, then turns to face me.
'I, uh, just thought…'
'That is a definite improvement to the quality of your usual mental activity,' I sneer. His effort to restrain the usual reaction of snapping back is clearly visible and almost commendable.
'I thought,' he continues, 'that you could use some healing there.'
'Well, Potter, your chivalry continues to remain unsurpassed,' I reply with a smirk. 'A pity, however, that your judgment is preserved at its previous level. Not to mention your ability to follow direct instructions.'
The boy leans on the windowsill, his expression suddenly composed.
'What did I do wrong this time? Sir.'
'There are two sides to that question, Potter. Fortunately for you, I have enough time to elaborate on both of them. I will address the technical side first, unless you object.'
'Er. No.'
'From what I have gathered, you attempted to cast Episkey on what, even to a completely untrained eye, appears to be tissue damaged by fire or heat. Episkey, Potter, is a spell used for minor tissue damages, such as cuts, bruises and bumps. One healing spell is not like the next, and had you given it some thought, despite the lack of specialized knowledge, you would have found it obvious. Damage spells can be less sophisticated in that respect: for example, one can put Diffindo to the same uses that some people seem to prefer solving with Sectumsempra. While the extent is, obviously, less profound, and the healing is simplified significantly, the damage is of a mostly similar nature – cutting. However, you could hardly use Reparo to truly "repair" the sliced tissue, even though I have seen the spell put to this use and, when applied with some skill, working as a temporary, if crude, measure to prevent excessive blood loss. Incidentally, Potter, should you ever find yourself on the receiving side of the inexplicably favored by you Sectumsempra, you will find that Reparo may indeed save your life in the manner just described, for the reason of it being not a healing spell in nature. As you may have realized, the tissue damaged by Sectumsempra resists the majority of common healing spells, apart from the unique countercurse that – and you may take my word for it – is known to very few people. You must have heard of the temporary remedy for wounds used by Muggles, administered in form of stitches. Reparo will serve similarly until you manage to locate either an extremely proficient Healer or a person with the knowledge of the countercurse.'
I of all people should know, having spent almost two days after one less than successful rebound Repairing my own arm and sipping self-brewed Blood-Replenishing potion until finally figuring out the proper countercurse.
'Anything unclear up to this point, Potter?' I ask, studying the boy's face. He appears thoughtful, as if memorizing my lecture.
'All clear, Professor.'
'Astounding. Now, do not be led into believing that Reparo will be a universal temporary solution, as using it, for example, to "repair" a broken bone may result in some highly unpleasant further treatment, unless you are dealing with an extremely neat breakage in plain sight, which is hardly ever the case. Proceeding to your favorite Episkey now. As I have mentioned before, it is sufficient for superficial damage, and that is exactly where it is usually applied. However, with extremely accurate application, it can indeed be used for deep wounds, provided the entire scope of the wound is visible. In this case, the knotting properties of Episkey can be employed to seal every layer of the damaged tissue consecutively, in the exact order of the layers. Fail to observe the sequence, and you may close the wound on the surface while possibly allowing profuse hemorrhage inside, believing to have saved your hapless patient while in fact dooming them with almost complete certainty. In fact, when armed with nothing but Episkey and facing a probable deep injury with little surface damage, as may be caused by certain spells aiming at internal mutilation, it would be advisable to actually cut the wound open to guarantee visibility and sequential healing. However unpleasant the procedure may be for both the healer and the patient, there are cases when damage must be done for the healing to have its effect.'
I stop talking, almost surprised at my own verbosity. Then again, it must have been one of the very few cases when Potter would be so kind as to refrain from interrupting me.
'That is all on the subject of using elementary healing spells in more serious cases. Any questions?'
The boy shakes his head.
'No, sir. That's… that sounds very useful, actually.'
'I'm flattered. Now, as you may recall, I mentioned there being two sides to the question of your application of Episkey. The technical side should present no complications now, so I shall proceed with the side that pertains to our particular case. What were my explicit instructions, Potter, for the duration of your stay in this house until we leave?'
'Is this about "do not use magic"?' he sighs, looking down with an all too familiar expression of someone who had just melted a cauldron by adding fifteen ounces of armadillo bile instead of five.
'Yes, Potter, your acuity is truly beyond comparison. May I inquire as to the reason for your violation of the few rules I have insisted you observe for the whole of unbearably long twelve hours of your stay?'
'I… I forgot,' the boy mutters with the same expression. I shake my head.
'Typical. Simply no other word for it. Nevertheless, an explanation was promised, and so I will present one. There was a very simple reason for avoiding to use magic with your wand, Potter, and even you could have perceived it with relative ease. Imagine a somewhat unlikely, yet theoretically possible probability of the Dark Lord being in the mood for some entertainment tonight and choosing to duel with you. Do you recall the phenomenon observed the last time such was attempted?'
'It's called Priori Incantatem, isn't it?'
'Indeed. Last time, the effect of Priori Incantatem was suffered by the Dark Lord's wand. Imagine, however, what would become apparent, should your wand be subject to it. The last spell you would have cast would have been a healing spell. And for whose benefit? How long do you think my tale of having overpowered you in a duel would last after that? You would have to act very quickly indeed to defeat the Dark Lord in the few seconds he would devote to disposing of me, and quite deservedly so, given the stupidity of the endeavor to present a ploy so transparent!'
Potter is looking down silently, while I am doing my best to sort another question into the "irrelevant" category, another question starting with a "why" that has been knocking on the inside of my head throughout the entire speech of mine.
'Sorry, sir,' he finally manages. 'It was… rather stupid, I guess.'
'Give me that wand of yours,' I hold out a hand. He places the wand in it with a sigh.
'That's not necessary, you know. I wouldn't do anything more.'
'I did not think you would,' I reply, holding the wand in front of my eyes and recalling the spells cast by the both of us during the course of last night. Bombardo. Impedimenta – unsuccessful, possibly unrecorded, Expelliarmus on my part. Sectumsempra – Shielded. Stupefy – Shielded. That would appear to be all. Hardly sufficient to present a semblance of a valid duel, even though the rebounded spells will have been recorded as those successfully cast.
'Now, Potter, what I intend to do right now is create a believable illusion of there having been a proper duel between us, and one that did not involve the use of one's fists. Watch closely now, for this is something you have been attempting for so long, with minimum success.'
I point the boy's wand at the outside of my left forearm. Potter's eyes are fixed on the wand.
'Sectumsempra,' I speak in a level voice while making a fast slashing movement with the wand, nevertheless careful to avoid the elbow and wrist joints. I hear the boy gasp in what sounds genuine shock.
'What… what are you doing?' he stammers.
'You did not think I would give you the pleasure of doing that, did you?' I ooze through gritted teeth, leaving his wand on my lap and reaching for mine as blood soaks into my sleeve. Over the years, I have almost forgotten how painful this bloody invention of mine is.
'Surely there must've been-'
'Another way, no doubt?' I snap, distracted from my countercurse and having to start it over. Having stopped the bleeding, I turn my gaze to the boy's face. He is eyeing me with a mixture of awe and… sympathy? Pitiful. I fling his wand to him.
'Now have fun tossing some Stunners or whatever else strikes your fancy, out of the window. Do some Shields while at it, and whatever you find appropriate to have cast, were we indeed dueling.'
While Potter executes a surprisingly wide assortment of the spells, his hand, however, less than steady, I complete the restorative procedure on my arm, my thoughts returning to the days of my invention of both the curse and the countercurse. The latter had certainly been useful to me over the years, given my inexplicable lack of skill with Episkey, no matter how much I could lecture on its nature and creative application. Some part of me wonders whether my reluctance to have it cast on me by Potter of all people was somehow related to the unwillingness to accept the fact of him actually excelling at something beyond my grasp.
'That will do,' I speak, and the boy lowers the wand, turning to me. 'The next step would be the Body-Bind, but assuming the minor probability of my wand undergoing scrutiny, and even in that case, the low sensitivity of Priori Incantatem to temporal discrepancies of the spells reproduced, the primary focus being on the sequence, I can afford to cast it directly before Apparition. Incidentally, that also saves you the trouble of spending the next eleven hours petrified.'
'Seven, sir.'
'Your pardon, Potter?' I frown. He points at the clock behind me.
'It's two in the afternoon. From what you said, I gathered we'd be leaving around nine.'
Two? I am inclined to have a look at the clock with my own eyes, but the view of the sun out the window is enough for me to realize the boy is telling the truth. Not only have I dozed off like an old man, but managed to sleep for a whole of five hours. Brilliant, Severus. Bloody brilliant.
'You gathered correctly,' I remark grimly. 'What have you been doing all this time, may I ask?'
'Mostly enjoying the boredom,' he sighs. 'And well, I did have that tea, as you said.'
'It is indeed a welcome change to have at least some of my instructions followed. I can but hope that you will continue to do so until the plan is either complete or results in the death of either of us.'
'Er. Right. Would you… um, like some too?'
'What?' I raise my eyebrows, observing the boy's strange expression of discomfort.
'Tea?'
For some peculiar reason, I feel possibly more taken aback than at any point during the last night and this morning. The situation seems to be making very little sense, and I feel tempted to cast something at myself to verify my being awake. He did not just offer me tea, in my own house for that matter, did he?
'I… don't think so,' I manage, boring the boy's face with my eyes. 'However, should you be possessed by a sudden wish to make yourself useful, Potter, you may fetch a bowl from the kitchen, and a yellow bottle labeled "Murtlap" from the glass-fronted cabinet, second shelf on the right. You will also oblige me by not touching anything else.'
'Right,' the boy replies and walks away. I suppress a sigh, staring out the window blankly. I should not have let myself fall asleep. Now I am unable to shake off the feeling of having woken up to a different reality.
After a minute or two, Potter returns bearing the two requested items, and something in addition. I glare at him darkly, quietly cursing myself for forgetting myself enough to actually instruct him to open my cabinet. Whatever in this world or the next could have possessed me enough to do that?
'What is this, Potter?'
'Dittany, sir.'
For goodness' sake…
'I was under the impression that you were going to follow my instructions, Potter, but somehow the very first thing you do is disobey a direct precaution,' I reply, taking the bowl and both vials from him. He shrugs non-committally.
'Just a thought…'
The pause that starts feeling highly uncomfortable is interrupted by the boy suddenly yawning, barely managing to cover his mouth in time.
'What did I say about the dubious pleasure of reviving you before time, Potter?' I demand.
'You are going to have enough trouble enduring the torture you will undoubtedly be put through as soon as the Dark Lord sets his eyes on you. There is hardly any need for you to weaken yourself further. Get out of my sight and put your head down somewhere. This instant.'
Potter gone with welcome obedience, I turn my attention to the bowl and vials in my hands. Dittany. Who would have thought. Not only does he listen, not only does he remember, but he actually bothers to take initiative. Nobility embodied.
With a resigned sigh, I unstopper the flask and smear the extract over my recently healed arm. Foregoing the opportunity would be foolish if anything, even if such opportunity is presented by virtue of – who would have guessed – sympathy. A sentiment long forgotten for giving and even longer – for receiving. A sentiment one can learn to do without.
As I lean back in the chair, hands slowly soothed by the Murtlap essence in the bowl, some of Dumbledore's words on the deeper nature of people come back to haunt me. I do my best to banish the notion from my mind. The last thing I require now are sentiments one can and has long learned to do without.
After an hour passes, according to my estimates, I put the bowl aside and cast the spell, pleased to find the healing quite efficient. The pain in the arm seems gone as well, the credit for which, however grudging, goes to dittany.
I finally get to my feet and turn to the clock. Six hours to go. Potter is nowhere to be seen, until I walk across the room towards the kitchen and find him sitting on the couch, asleep. Good riddance, for his presence is the last thing I need in order to do what I intend.
Once in the kitchen, I close the door, considering sealing it with Colloportus, but settling with Muffliato on both the living-room and backyard doors to isolate all sound. Once the precautions are observed, I take a deep breath, as if it ever helps against the pain.
'Expecto Patronum!'
I observe the white doe as she trots around the kitchen, looking at me with eyes so full of… peace, and trust, and solace, and every single sentiment I have long learned… I thought I have long learned to do without. After all this time. A human is unable to feel anything after all this time. A human should not be able to feel anything after all this time.
'Vox Mutatio,' I intone quietly, thinking that the spell is mostly superfluous, given the fact that no one would recognize my voice right now even without it, my throat too constricted to speak in my normal fashion. Nevertheless, I clear my throat and speak to the doe,
'Moony. There was a message that there would be an attack on the Headquarters this night, at nine o'clock sharp. The message should not be neglected, lest you shall doom your friends, and your friends' children. Believe my words as have they. Friend…'
I am forced to take a breath before continuing,
'Friend of Lily Evans.'
The doe looks at me with the same expression of trusting innocence.
'Go now,' I whisper. 'You know where to find him.'
She turns and trots off, but not before nuzzling my hand with her nose lightly. I sink to my knees and remain motionless for a while.
Friend of Lily Evans.
Friend of Lily Evans who is about to take the son of Lily Evans to the very man she had thrown herself in front of, the man she had died trying to protect her son against.
Friend of Lily Evans who has inexplicably made the son of Lily Evans believe his words and trust him against all odds, possibly more so than Lily Evans herself.
Friend of Lily Evans who will watch the son of Lily Evans die.
Had Lily Evans known about the depth and full meaning of your friendship, she would rather be your enemy for ever and ever.
She returns. She always returns after delivering a message. I never saw any other Patronus do that. But she always returns. Returns to walk around me slowly. To bathe me in the silvery glow, which should be cold as all white light, but is nevertheless warm, warm enough to permeate the very soul. I reach out my hand. However corporeal a Patronus, it is never tangible. You cannot touch it. You cannot hold it. Yet I always reach out.
How pathetic must a man get, to be pitied by his own Patronus?
It hurts even more than the summoning, but I close my eyes and let her go. The illusion of the warmth fades, as my lips form a name.
She cannot hear you, even if she would care to listen.
Get. Off. Your. Knees.
And do it now, unless you want Potter to walk in on you and offer to do something helpful…
In one motion, I bring myself back to my feet and walk over to the cupboard. Some tea should help. Or provide an illusion, at the very least. Then again, illusions help too.
Over the tea, I steeple my fingers and concentrate. It would not do to fail at the simplest mind exercise twice in the course of one day. One can hardly call oneself a good Occlumens if one fails to conceal one's thoughts from oneself. Even if one happens to be a surprisingly adept Legiliment as well.
When the sun sinks towards the horizon, I get up, leaving the untouched cup of the now stone-cold tea, and walk back to the living-room, only to find the boy exactly where I saw him last. I look around the room, going over the plan details in my mind again, although it is not a plan that involves bringing anything with me. Once everything is clear in my mind, I call.
'Potter.'
His head snaps up immediately, almost as if he has been simply lost in thought rather than sleeping.
'Yes, Professor?'
'It's time.'
'Right.'
He stands up. I approach him, my hand held out palm up.
'Your wand.'
He knows that once he does that, there is no turning back. The struggle in him would be visible even to a barely skilled face reader. To me, it is a picture painted in bright colors – hesitation, fear and… guilt? With a suppressed sigh, he places his wand on my palm. I nod and point mine at him.
'Do you remember everything?'
'Not much for me to do, is there?' he shrugs. 'It's up to you, really. I'm just a bait.'
The bitterness of the last word would not be concealed even if he tried.
'Any last words, then?'
'I hope it's worth it.'
'I am sure, Potter, than anyone you have fought alongside with would not hesitate to lay down their life if it meant demise of the Dark Lord.'
His face flushes. His voice, however, is level.
'That's not what I meant. I don't mind… dying, I remember the prophecy. I just hope that… at least someone survives after the Death Eaters' attack.'
Ah… I eye the boy, concealing my interest, genuine at this moment. It may be just possible that he is braver than I gave him credit for. Just.
'Well, Potter, I personally am rather confident in the survival chances of the Order, at the very least tonight.'
'How high can their odds be, against all Death Eaters at once?'
'Exactly as high as the odds of their heeding a message relayed yesterday and confirmed earlier today. Let us hope that the… addressee does not disappoint.'
The boy stares at me with wide open eyes.
'You… you warned them?'
'After everything I have told you, Potter, you may have concluded my lack of belief in pointless deaths.'
'They're not going to die, then…'
'They stand a fair chance, yes.'
'And you made me believe that…' he glowers in a highly amusing fashion. 'You made me think they were going to die! You…'
'I – what, Potter?' I smirk. He shakes his head, looking away.
'You're lucky I don't have my wand right now, that's all… Professor.'
Righteous anger is rather entertaining. As are empty threats.
'So, after everything I have told you, Potter, you were actually expecting fair play? I am insulted. Petrificus Totalus.'