Belated
Mercifully, the scene seems to shift, and I find myself behind the doors of the ward, taking in the surroundings and thinking that the person seemingly asleep in the bed would have blended very easily with the bed sheets, were it not for his black hair. I know myself to be conscious at this point in time, yet for the life of me cannot recall the exact thoughts, possibly for the lack of them.
No thoughts. Only sensations. Silence. Comfort. Solitude. Dulled pain. The combination of these seem to indicate being alive. Torn between resentful disappointment and the impossibly reluctant, yet all-encompassing, sweeping sense of relief. An immediate stab of self-despise spurred by it. Followed by the contemplation of sanity or lack of.
I observe myself stir ever so lightly, pause to see if the movement provokes any reaction on the part of the rest of the world, then open the eyes carefully. At this time, the room does not swim in front of them as it used to. A further experiment in moving results in discovering a bandaged neck, the mobility of which I did not dare test at the time, and a likewise wrapped-up right hand. I can recall marvelling at Poppy Pomfrey's talent, the only reason finger movement appeared possible even then.
Whatever little could be done at this point in time, my bed-ridden self has already attempted, and the incorporeal part of me has no choice but to sit down in one of the chairs in the other end of the room – or concentrate enough to imagine sitting there, at least – and try to ponder the meaning of some words heard earlier.
What could possibly explain Potter's strange sentiments towards my extremely humble – especially at the time – person? The excursion to the Shrieking Shack was intended as a corpse-retrieval mission, something I could remotely expect from a Gryffindor such as Potter. The appearance of – however inappropriate the word sounds when applied to the person in question – guilt at my breathless-appearing body could barely be comprehended, possibly categorised under the feelings one could experience over forgetting to tend to the fallen of their own side. The strange conversation with Hermione Granger along the underground corridor could be attributed to the shock – quite easily, an unpleasant one – of finding me alive. I would be the first person to admit that it complicated matters quite a bit.
The rest, however, made very little sense – and the only reason for using this rather mild formula instead of a categorical 'made no sense whatsoever' would be my general reluctance to reject hypotheses, however improbable, without at least a token consideration.
The hypotheses, however, are too unthinkable to consider.
I am temporarily saved the unpleasantness by the ward doors opening to admit Madam Pomfrey, closely followed by none other than Potter himself, appearing paler and somehow older since our last one-sided meeting in the corridor.
"As you can see, Mr. Potter, Professor Snape is well on his way to recovery, but I regret to inform you that he has not woken yet," the matron informs in a low voice, the emphasis on her final words indicating a question asked too often even for her saintly patience.
"It's been two days."
Has it? I have, apparently, failed to notice how brief my short spells of consciousness truly were throughout that time, nor did I recall any ministrations, that have undoubtedly taken place, given Poppy's comment on my current state.
"Indeed, Mr. Potter, as you have astutely noted, is has been two days, and I cannot help but notice how the majority of your activity throughout them seemed to revolve around the Hospital Wing one way or another. However glad may all of your friends be for the frequent visits you pay them, I am regretfully forced to state that you are hereby banned from visiting the patients until you appear healthier yourself. An alternative, of course, is occupying one of the beds in the neighbouring ward to finally give me a proper chance to tend to you."
"I'm perfectly fine!" The boy backs out quickly from under the matron's scrutinising look until she has a chance to prove otherwise.
"But you'll tell me when he wakes up, won't you?" he asks from behind the door already.
"As I promised, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey assures him, following him. The doors close.
I feel deep gratitude to the water rune etched into the, apparently and miraculously, still intact wooden Pensieve, allowing to transit between interrupted memories smoothly and saving me the tedious hours of observing myself pretend to sleep. A welcome change makes itself apparent on what seems to be day four, when I can see myself attempt to sit up, having previously made sure of the absence of the matron. The attempt would count as successful, were it not for said matron sweeping in as soon as my bare feet touch the floor.
"Good evening, Professor," she says with a smile, her expression all of a sudden making me feel like a student caught in the middle of a mischief – a rather unfamiliar sensation, assuming how getting caught was usually the job I would leave up to the less elegant mischief-makers.
"I'd say 'welcome back', but I do realise that the welcome would be rather belated."
This earns a raised eyebrow.
"Do you honestly think that your prolonged rest would not appear unnatural to me, given the nature of your injuries and the complete lack of sleeping potions among the remedies I have been administering you? That, even disregarding the sensory charms the wards are equipped with to inform me of the true state of my patients?"
The expression on my face is truly amusing at this moment. I recall the main train of thought going through my mind at that moment being along the lines of 'blast'. That, and feeling extremely foolish.
For want of alternatives, the embarrassed part of me lies back down, while the amused one observes.
"I understand that you may be feeling less talkative than usual at the moment," Madam Pomfrey continues, "however, rather than subjecting you to more diagnostic spells, I would rather employ the natural way of checking whether your voice chords remain undamaged."
That is something I vaguely remember wondering myself, despite a large part of me that would prefer having lost the voice completely and therefore being saved the trouble of speaking ever again.
"I…" I hear myself begin, the single sound being the entire vocal extent I can manage before a cough fit gets the best of me, and wondering whether coughing is a good idea. No warning, however, comes from the matron, so after clearing the throat enough, my recovering self tries again,
"I think I'm fine."
"Wonderful." The matron smiles, and even the observing part of me cannot help but revel in the momentary feeling of comfort and the guilty wish to remain in the rather unfamiliar state of being, if not cared for, then at least taken care of.
The feeling, however, is indeed momentary as the memory of a promise said to have been made resurfaces, and with it, the burning desire to make a plea and the sheer impossibility of admitting the need to do so.
"However fine you feel now, Professor," Poppy Pomfrey continues, "it is still advisable to spend as much time as possible resting and leaving most of the healing to your own body, and only the remaining little share – to my little remedies."
My eyes follow her gesture to the small row of potions bottles on the nightstand.
"It will, nevertheless, make my job easier if you are kind enough to sit up whenever the remedies are to be administered. That will be my only request for you."
I watch myself nod quietly, my expression almost calm enough to conceal the inner agony between the wish to make my own only request and the insufferable pride that I would not be able to let go of even if I wanted.
Madam Pomfrey turns and heads for the doors. I see my lips part as if to speak, then close again. No. No pleas. No more.
"Incidentally, Professor," the woman speaks as she turns, her hand on the door handle, "my professional opinion is that peace and quiet will be as beneficial as any potion to your health right now. Therefore, visitors are out of question for the time being. Should you wish to dispute my recommendation, however…"
She does not finish the sentence, watching me attentively and expecting a reply. I remember experiencing the already familiar overwhelming feeling of relief, and the compulsory accompanying guilt. Nevertheless, I compose myself enough to speak.
"Thank you."
She smiles again and departs. I observe myself lie back on the pillow and take a deep breath. Another observation I cannot help but make is that, quite possibly, sometimes, the gift of understanding may be granted even to the ones not belonging to the elite circle. However underserved the gift may be.
Peace and quiet indeed seem to do my health a world of good, and even hearing Potter's voice outside the ward doors rather frequently – more frequently than desirable, definitely – do not provide a sufficient enough disturbance. During the next few days, the most exciting activity my bed-ridden self gets up to is testing one's strength to first stand up and then – walk across the room. Both ventures are eventually successful, and whatever Madam Pomfrey's sensory charms may inform her of, she makes no comment during her visits.
The more time is spent awake, however, the clearer it becomes that this spell of peace, already much, much longer than deserved, is coming to an end, and the best way to face that end would be sufficiently dressed and on one's own feet – rather than being escorted to a courtroom, or Azkaban, which is more likely, garbed in a hospital gown.
Another session of planning an escape – a familiar activity, to say the least – is interrupted by a discussion on the other side of the doors.
"Harry, do you honestly think he'll appreciate you being the first thing he sees upon waking up, especially considering the circumstances he saw you last?" Hermione Granger's voice is carried through the slightly open door.
"I don't think he'll appreciate anything, Hermione, and frankly – I couldn't care less," Potter's voice replies. Both of myself present in the room share a smirk. Nothing else was expected, certainly. Which, unfortunately, still fails to explain Potter's insistent wish to see me, my older self notes.
"I'm not doing this for him, you know. I'm doing this because I feel I have to. So my reasons are utterly selfish. He'd be pleased to hear that, at least."
"Even though you couldn't care less."
"Exactly! Now please watch out for Madam Pomfrey, I overheard her saying she was leaving for Mungo's, which should take her at least an hour. I only need a few minutes, okay? And do watch out, because I won't be able to go to Australia with you if she skins me alive for disturbing her favourite patient."
The girl's reply is a mixture of a huff and a chuckle, half-lost as the door closes after admitting Potter, appearing healthier and cleaner since his last appearance, and dressed in Muggle clothes.
The boy approaches my prone figure that is busy perfectly imitating deep sleep.
"So," he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. I observe with some interest, because while this visit of Potter's is definitely part of my own memories, I was saved the pleasure of seeing him during it.
"Um. Glad to see you're doing better, Professor. Merlin, do I sound stupid or what? You can't hear me. And good thing, too, 'cause I wouldn't be here if you could."
"I do sound stupid," he concludes astutely, "but that's no different from what you'd say anyway, so it should be okay."
I raise my eyebrow at the uncharacteristic delivery of half a dozen of generally correct statements in a row. In the meantime, the boy retrieves a painfully familiar vial from his pocket. It has been a long time since I had to remind myself of my being incorporeal, yet I have to do it again to avoid the strange desire to have the power to interfere.
"Figured I should return these," Potter says, fiddling with the vial before placing it on the nightstand alongside Poppy's 'little remedies', then taking it again.
"Can't risk it…" he mutters, then assumes a strange expression before placing the vial in my hand, careful to allow as little contact as possible, but forced to close my fingers over the glass. I take pride in maintaining the perfect illusion of sleep throughout the entire interaction.
"There. That's all, then."
If that is all, why is the boy standing there with an all too familiar look of unease – or rather, awkwardness?
"By the way, I don't believe that thing about unconscious people able to hear when they're spoken to," he blurts all of a sudden. I smirk slightly, remembering the painfully suppressed urge to do the very same when I first heard the words. Turns out we share a belief. How ingratiatingly sweet.
"Then again, you're supposed to be simply sleeping now, so it doesn't even apply. Anyway."
He shuffles his feet.
"It's funny what thoughts can come to one's mind, you know. The most bizarre ideas possible, it seems. One hounding me lately, for example, seems to be the wish to get hold of a Time-Turner and travel some seven years back, to slip a bookmark in my first potions textbook, in the page on bezoars. Silly, huh. It's not like it would change anything, of course. Oh, and another textbook, of course… Turns out you did manage to teach me something. Had to learn the hard way, the dunderhead that I am, of course. Still."
After a few seconds of seemingly self-absorbed silence, Potter mutters,
"Idiot. Who cares to know that?"
He continues in a more normal voice, however,
"What I'm actually spectacularly failing to say here, Professor – good thing you can't hear me, huh, because you'd have thrown me out after the first twenty seconds, I reckon… Damn. There I go again. What I mean to say, however, is… Thank you. It'd be rather hypocritical to say 'for everything', of course… But still. Thanks. For everything that gratitude is due for. Which is more than I could've expected. Of course, even if you heard me say this, it wouldn't really change anything, would it? Some things can't be fixed with a 'sorry' or 'thank you', because… because some things can't be fixed. It's too late to change anything. Not only stupid now, but also dramatic, am I? I'm being honest, though. And – and I'm off before I talk enough gibberish to have to find someone to Obliviate me to save myself the embarrassment."
Potter turns on his heel, but does not start walking before taking a deep breath. Or is it a sigh?
My corporeal and incorporeal self share the feeling of complete obliviousness to the surroundings for the indefinite amount of time after the door closes. The observer, however, obviously needs more time to recover, for seeing the display in addition to hearing the words heard earlier and originally filed away under 'strange, save for future consideration' had a more profound impact than expected.
In fact, by the time I emerge from the strange thoughtless state, I can see myself finishing getting dressed in robes found in a nearby cabinet – definitely mine, but clean and whole, no doubt fetched from my own quarters by the all-understanding Madam Pomfrey. I can but admire her after finding my own wand stashed away neatly in one of the pockets. Obviously, the wise woman knew me enough to understand that should I wish to leave, lack of a wand would possibly slow me down, but not stop me altogether.
It appears to be well past midnight, and the castle is quiet as I follow myself to the main gates and across the grounds, no Disillusionment charm employed. Hiding, after all, is not my priority at this moment – unlike the wish to spend whatever little time I have left, at home and free of distractions. Were my house connected to the Floo network, I might have had the nerve to stroll into my quarters and use the fireplace. As it is not, I make my way across the grounds to the nearest Apparition-possible point.
My unsuspecting self holds the wand ready while the observing part of me cannot help but wince. Even after all these months, remembering this moment makes me cringe badly.
"Glad to see you're doing better, Professor."
Then again, it could have gone worse. At least I mustered enough self-restraint to prevent myself from turning. Now I can see that Potter did not even bother with his Invisibility Cloak, simply hovering in the shadow of a pillar. It is also easy to remember the exact wording of thoughts travelling through my mind at that moment.
Liar. Cheat. Sneak. You should have been in Slytherin.
"Actually, I really am going to Australia with Hermione," Potter notes to my back. "Nevertheless. Thank you. I wanted to say it while being sure that you can hear me."
I watch myself Disapparate, ending the momentary yet painful struggle to prevent myself from turning around, and not yet knowing what the following months would contain.
The observing part of me is finally forced back to reality, knowing full well that whatever this night will contain, sleep will not be an integral part.