Chapters 111-120

How Are You?

‘How are you, Severus?’ Minerva asked. ‘And I want none of your usual lies.’

Severus scowled. Instead of saying ‘I’m fine’ as he’d intended, he glanced at the conspicuously empty frame behind her desk. ‘Where is he? Did you send him away?’

The Headmistress followed his gaze. ‘Dumbledore, you mean? No idea. He’s been away a lot lately.’ Her lips thinned. ‘No doubt hanging out with his “mates”, playing golf or sampling the brews in one of those grotesque impressionist bar tableaus. As long as no student catches him dancing on a table in the nude, I’m quite happy if Albus is out and about, to tell the truth.
‘Now. Don’t believe for a second that you’re fooling me, young man. I’ve talked to Poppy, Muriel and to your wife. Please, Severus. Talk to me. How are you?’

His fingers strayed to the bridge of his nose. Why did every woman in the bloody castle desire to talk about how he was feeling all of a sudden?

‘Poppy tells me that I am fit to teach once more. Muriel agrees as long as there will be no foolish wand-waving to deplete my energy. Hermione does not.’

‘That is not what I was asking about, Severus.’

He felt the first stirring of anger within him. Anger was good. Much better than mind-numbing weakness and unlifting fatigue. He raised his head and fixed the Headmistress with a harsh stare. ‘What do you want me to say, Minerva? “Thank you, but I’m really fine”?—After Poppy and Muriel managed to keep me from haemorrhaging because the spell of Shacklebolt’s damn tattoo rendered their healing spells ineffective and re-opened fucking injuries I didn’t even know I had? No, Minerva, I am most certainly not fine.
‘Nor is my wife,’ he muttered.

‘What about Hermione?’

He stiffly rose to his feet and began to stalk across the room, his customary panther-like prowl reduced to a weary walk. ‘What about Hermione,’ he repeated and halted in front of Albus’ empty picture frame. ‘What about her indeed? No young witch should spend her twenty-first birthday sitting at the sickbed of a husband who’s not only nineteen years her senior but who’s been –’ He met Minerva’s gaze squarely. ‘Whose body was so raped and abused that a tattoo the size of a fucking Knut with the magical impact of a Niffler’s sneeze has him in the hospital wing. Dammit, Minerva.’

‘Hermione loves you very much, you know.’

Gingerly Severus sat back down.

‘I do know that,’ he murmured.

oooOooo

‘How do you know about that and about how serious was it?’ Harry asked.

The fact that Draco didn’t smirk or flaunt his superior sources of intelligence, but just looked at him with a troubled expression disturbed Harry.

‘Hannah’s parents were friends with Healer Mugwort. They’re still meeting regularly. Hannah knows I’m worried about Severus, but that I won’t contact him directly as long as Andromeda’s holding onto her grudge against him. Which just might be forever. Anyway, that’s how I know. No details, of course. Just that the tattoo caused problems with his recovery from his…sojourn in Azkaban.’

‘Damn,’ Harry said. ‘I knew those tattoos were a bad idea. I knew it. But you didn’t want to believe me.’

Draco raised his hands. ‘Brake your broomstick, chap. I told you I don’t have any details. Maybe you should go, visit him and Hermione, ask for particulars?’

Harry gulped. There was an idea for a conversation he wouldn’t want to have if he turned 200. ‘It—uh—I—particulars—you have no idea—I doubt he’d be willing to discuss—’

‘Oh shite,’ Draco said, correctly interpreting Harry’s immediate, blushing reluctance. Harry would never understand how the former Slytherin could arrive at correct conclusions with so little information to base them on.

Malfoy fingered his wand. ‘If there’s really something wrong with the tattoos…How about you—are you experiencing any symptoms?’

Harry shook his head. ‘Nope, I’m perfectly fine. A bit tired, but that’s normal, what with the Auror training and those fucking late-night meetings at the Wizengamot.’

‘Hmm. Then maybe it really hit Severus so hard just because he wasn’t healthy to start with.’

‘Maybe.’ Harry wasn’t convinced. Perhaps he ought to Owl Hermione? He yawned. He’d get around to it. Tomorrow or the day after, when he wasn’t quite as worn out.

oooOooo

Meanwhile preparations for Halloween were in full swing at Hogwarts.

Hagrid had outdone himself and not only provided pumpkins of every imaginable size, shape and colour, but also the more traditional, skull-shaped turnips. Tim Summerby, Flitwick’s new apprentice, was supervising a Charms study group of Third Years, who were enthusiastically carving up Hagrid’s prized vegetables, inserting candles and levitating them in the Great Hall. Filch’s kittens were busy trying to catch bats and causing inattentive students to break their legs (three so far; two Hufflepuffs, one Ravenclaw).

And Anne Flamel, currently the best Herbology student of Hogwarts, was attempting to carry a tray that was piled so high with plates and goblets that she looked as if she’d break down under her load any second.

‘Let me help you,’ Neville offered, flicking his wand. Long gone were the days when his Levitation spells were less than perfect. Anne dimpled sweetly. Her green eyes widened with gratitude. ‘Thank you, Mr. Longbottom.’

‘What’s all this for?’ Neville asked. ‘A Hufflepuff party?’

‘Oh.’ Anne blushed. ‘No party, sir. Just an old Samhain custom. Something my family have always done. When I was a child, I promised my uncle Nicolas that I’d keep up the tradition.

‘I’m putting food out for our dead. A plate and a goblet for every memorial stone.’ She hesitated, her eyes darkening. ‘There are so many, sir. And I—some of them I remember, of course. But others…’ The young woman shrugged helplessly.

‘That’s very kind of you, Miss Flamel, to honour their memory like that,’ Neville said slowly. ‘Would you…May I assist you with your task?’