“beyond wandpoint” 088 by gingerbred

[beyondwandpoint]

“11 12a Wednesday - Rise... 1 Severus”

Severus, Hermione, Poppy, Sunny

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Originally Published: 2018-09-22 on AO3
Chapter: 088

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Severus wakes. It's still dark, which means it's still terribly early, and yet he has the feeling he's gotten a good snootful of sleep for once. Odd. He rolls onto his back, wondering what he was doing on his side; the thought strikes him as familiar. He doesn't pursue it, that feels wise, but he does rather decadently pull the blanket around him and permit himself a bit of lie in while he tries to think about the day.

It's proving a little difficult.

He has a headache to end all headaches, and no intention of doing the first thing about it. In part because he's an idiot. In large part. He feels that's been firmly established. Repeatedly. But also because he feels he deserves this, and it has a way of focusing him on something substantial. Something real. Something quantifiable and ultimately solvable and he needs a real and manageable problem for once, instead of the never ending mounds of unsolvable things.

He's a little tired of those.

Still, the headache seems somewhat extreme, until he recalls the fact he took a phial of poison yesterday. Or rather, had one administered. Hmm. Yes. That. The witch was not best pleased. And then a few other things come slowly back into focus. Spectacular. Well he'd been in rare form yesterday. Incredibly rare, thank Merlin for that.

Small mercies.

An assortment of memories, not exactly prioritised, shift into mind. He's married. Somehow still sleeping alone, ta. That's probably preferable, considering the identity of his bondmate. Not that there's anything wrong with her, but... A godsdamned student and Albus is an arse. Ah, yes, and he's an idiot. He'd consented after all.

That nearly sums it up.

And then he recalls that for a portion of the last night he hadn't slept alone and it finally drives him from his bed. There's no peace left to be found there, no matter how nice that blanket was. Although it was very. He imagines that's why he still hadn't put on his pyjama top even after going to bed late last night. Well, that and his blood alcohol level. Hmm.

Resigned to facing the day, he lights the sconces, it's easier than adjusting the charms on the windows, and makes his way to the bathroom.

He rinses his face, and the shock of the brutally cold water combined with the pounding in his head as he bends forward mercifully saves him from thinking about the past night or unusual sleeping arrangements any more. Right now, the most important thing in the world is remaining upright. Breathing. Getting his stomach under control. The wave of nausea leaves him wondering if he could still be drunk after all these hours.

He lathers his face and allows the foam to work on his beard for as long as possible. He still prefers a mechanical shave. A Muggle shave. Lucius can naff off.

While brushing his teeth, he does some calculations. They take far too long and would tend to confirm the theory as to his drunkenness, except he knows it shouldn't be possible. He can't possibly still be drunk. Then he wonders if it's a synergistic effect from mixing the alcohol with the poison, and then he wonders if he isn't drunk at all, merely suffering from the residual effects of that particular draught. Or interactions of any of the more than half a dozen other potions he took, now that he thinks about it - and isn't his timing a thing of unparalleled brilliance?

Well, hardly unparalleled.

He briefly thinks dark things about Gryffindors and something sardonic about how he was obviously missorted, fuck, then he tries hard not to think about Gryffindors, past or present, and finally he goes over everything he knows about the potions as he showers. Which seems more productive. Either of those things taken separately, and certainly both of them taken together. As he lathers his hair, he realises he knows quite a bit about the assorted draughts and their ingredients, and next to nothing about interactions with the poison. Unsurprising, perhaps, as most aren't stupid enough to consume it, and if they did, not fortunate enough to survive. (But then he has it on reliable authority, and here he scoffs, that he isn't the average wizard.) Well few are blessed with his perspicacity vis-à-vis potions.

On the other hand, his sagacity, such as it is, had clearly gone walkabout over the course of the last evening. Firewhisky should not be underestimated. He's reasonably sure that even the witch had felt the effects thanks to their bond.

Well, that's... efficient. Certainly cost effective. Talk about cheap drunks...


He wasn't thinking last night, therefore he... probably had had a spot of luck. For once. It was fortunate that the bezoar worked as well as it did.

Of course that's what they're supposed to do.

Work.

Much like himself.

Hardly seems worth singling out for a mention.


And as for that witch and... whatever that was last night... He shouldn't have slept there, she shouldn't have joined him. But. If he doesn't do that again, there should be no danger of a repeat performance. He has no plans to get rat-arsed again, definitely no time soon. (He almost groans at the thought of more firewhisky, and his stomach prophylactically rebels.) He believes he should be able to avoid... sleeping in the lounge moving forward, because he is quite certain she wouldn't dare invade his bedroom. Really, there's no danger of a reoccurrence, and he fails to see why they would even need to speak of it.

Which sounds like an excellent plan moving forward.

Clearly preferable to the alternatives.

He gets out of the shower, towels off, silently and wandlessly charms the towel dry and wraps it around his waist, charms the mirror free of steam and wonders, as he does often enough, if he should look up how to refresh the semi-permanent charm that should sort that (in truth, it's just not a priority), and then commences shaving. He manages not to cut himself once, which he'd take as a good sign, but then he's practically a natural with any kind of blade. Had he cut himself, he'd truly have to worry.

In an effort to moderate his idiocy, Merlin knows there'd been enough of that, Severus applies his improved version of the Scar Salve to his chest. He should have done that yesterday. (He doesn't consider that it was also another instance of the self flagellation he's been given to of late. It's so pervasive as to escape his notice for the most part.) The Salve penetrates his skin instantly, absorbing almost completely and leaving virtually no residue behind, very unlike the standard stuff. And while all of that is nice, no question, what's especially nice is what it does for the pain. He can feel the soreness fade immediately and takes it for further proof of the idiocy he really needs to moderate. He's got enough things working against him. And along those lines, he decides to actually take his medicinal potions like a good boy. Poppy would be so proud.

Still, no biccy for Severus. When is there ever?

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He wonders why he bothers.

Anticonvulsant is still advisable after the number of Crucios Monday. At least in theory. He's having difficulty accounting for the fact he doesn't seem to actually need it. Perhaps that's down to the alcohol affecting his nervous system... Or his perception is off. Erring on the side of caution, he takes it anyway, following it with the rest of his potions, hesitating only over the Calming Draught before taking that as well. He should be able to accomplish everything it can and more with Occlumency alone, but then he doesn't need to, and with what the bond's been throwing at him lately, perhaps it really is time he gave himself a break.

He gets dressed, rubs his towel energetically over his head before Banishing it to the bathroom, runs a comb through his hair, applies the charms to do his buttons, grabs his wand and then the strange blanket from his bed and folding it - manually once again - emerges from his room into the still dark lounge. Another twitch of his fingers has the sconces in the lounge lit and then those in his bed- and bathrooms Noxed. He closes the door behind him. Sunny will sort the bed. It had taken some getting used to, learning to leave things for the elf to do. Over the years, he believes they've reached a good compromise.

The fire flares in the hearth, proof, if he needed it, that Sunny is keeping an ever watchful eye on him and determined to make him comfortable. Presumably even if it kills one or both of them; he's the quintessential elf in that regard. There's no other visible sign of the elf, but then Severus is used to that.

He returns the blanket to the couch with a final sniff he'd not like to account for, but the simplest explanation is he still hasn't quite identified that scent, beyond the obvious lavender and bee balm notes, and really, that is rather his thing. He has to wonder what it's made of, it's ridiculously soft, and of course it smells nice. That he doesn't just mean the wild flower meadow scent is a whole different matter.

Fortunately it eludes him a while longer.

As he drapes it over the back of the couch - he imagines that's a good spot for it, but perhaps Miss Granger's chair would be more apt; no doubt it will find a home soon enough - he recalls the truly remarkably stupid decision to take a Sectumsempra to the seating. What kind of idiot would do such a thing to perfectly decent furniture? He pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance, frankly some days he manages to tax his nerves every bit as much as the students do - then he thinks of Longbottom and Kurz, and Potter and Weasley, and recategorises that statement as hyperbole.

Well, he has a couple of things to address and then he'll have a look at the bloody couch. Four scrolls are waiting for him on his desk, a quick look shows he apparently has Theo's work for Charms today and what must have been Draco's Transfiguration assignment from yesterday. Minerva won't have appreciated that. Severus smirks. He's also holding Crabbe's History of Magic work - pity, Binns will hardly notice or care, it won't do more than cost the boy a decent mark - and Goyle's essay for Hagrid from Tuesday. Ah. That's more promising.

He'd also had Crabbe's work from Care of Magical Creatures on Monday. Two in one week from the same class. Yes, it has possibilities. A word in Hagrid's ear should do the trick. Assuming it could be reached. Much like the half-Giant. But then that was unfair, Hagrid has always been quite respectful - well, by and large (especially large) - Severus has to allow him that, and after the... incident with his ribs Monday, he imagines the man will be rather... accommodating.

That makes for a pleasant change.

He grabs Draco's Transfiguration scroll and begins reading to see how the lad's doing in the course as he crosses back to the Floo. It seems the least he can do before he Incendios the thing. He snorts his amusement. It appears Draco would have gotten full marks for the effort. Undoubtedly that will make it sting more. He finds that... satisfactory.

Severus throws a small handful of Floo powder into the fire and calls for Poppy as he casts the spell to burn Draco's homework.

She doesn't take long to answer. She almost never does.

"Oh, good morning, Severus. How are you feeling?"

Given he has no idea how many people are listening to their conversation in the ward behind her, she's even less likely than usual to get an honest answer to that question. He has to wonder that she even bothers asking it, but then she can probably no more help herself than he can.

"Fine, thank you for asking, Poppy, and no doubt I have your care to credit with that." She smiles at that, taking far more pride in his words of praise than in the job well done. That's only what she expects from herself. "I was wondering if you had any of mine in the Infirmary last night?"

Considering just the Serpents alone yesterday afternoon, at the very least Draco should have been there, especially given the absence of Pain Relief in the dorms. The thought draws another smirk from Severus, his mood buoying a bit. There's also a strong possibility there had been fallout after the Serpents had been opened. He lives in hope. Not really. But with the fur he personally knows was waiting in Crabbe's bed, he should be very disappointed if the boy wasn't there as well.

"We had just the one, Mr. Crabbe, but he left just before curfew." The timing strikes Severus as strange; the visit was probably due to the Serpent, then. That also strikes him as odd, that one Serpent should have been sufficient to land the rotter in Poppy's hands, but that Draco's three hadn't. But he imagines he'll learn the details of the Poste Serpentes soon enough, either from the students or the portraits.

For the most part, things don't remain hidden for long.

"Glad to hear it, Poppy," he replies, neither particularly meaning nor sounding as though he meant it. No one listening was expecting anything else from him, so it's not exactly revealing. "I assume I'll see you at lunch." Merlin knows, he wasn't planning on subjecting himself to the noise of the Great Hall for breakfast. Frankly, he's not even sure about food just yet.

Poppy just smiles at him and says 'goodbye'. She'd been kind enough not to thank him for the flowers with the students on the ward eavesdropping; she's fairly certain the Ravenclaws are awake. She can always thank him in person later. Severus really can be quite a dear. And a curmudgeonly old stick in the mud, there's no point in denying it. Although looking at the things so often inflicted upon him, just this past week alone, for instance, she's not altogether sure 'dull' applies. And yet she knows no one else more resistant to change.

Well, he can try to be as resistant as he pleases, things have already begun changing for him whether he likes it or not. She can't help smiling at the thought.

Doing a Tempus to check that the time is reasonable, she can be considerate that way, she reaches for the Floo powder to call Minerva.


Honestly, Severus had been anticipating hearing just how poorly the boys were doing from Poppy. This leaves him a little less eager to think of them. As he's decided he won't be seeing other staff before the assignments lying on his desk are due - by coincidence, today's assignments are both for morning classes - there's little rush to look at them, and his interest wanes. He decides to take care of the couch instead. It will doubtlessly bother him until he's sorted it.

The first order of business is finding the damn couch legs. Except he'd Disillusioned them. A blanket 'Finite Incantatem' is seldom wise - Merlin knows what all it's likely to undo - but on the other hand it's generally not all that effective either. Mixed blessing. It helps, greatly, to direct the Incantation at a specific target and spell. He stands beside the couch looking about, and begins circling it, muttering to himself about things as he goes. Opportunely, quite, Sunny seems to guess what he's looking for, or perhaps it was the muttering - so useful - and promptly he trips over the stack the elf had been so good as to put directly in his path.

Splendid.

Fortunately his toes are less affected by the collision this time thanks to his boots. Good things, boots. He can't recommend them highly enough. He might have padded about barefoot in his pyjamas - he rather appreciates the underfloor heating - if there weren't a student potentially running about his, their chambers. As it stands, that concession to propriety has saved his toes from another stubbing. On balance, unquestionably almost worth the bonding for that alone.

Oh, absolutely.

But as he has no idea the elf put the legs in his way, his less than civil thoughts are entirely self-directed. As so often.

He ends the Disillusionment on the legs and then turns back to the couch. Another 'Finite Incantatem' returns the remainder of its legs to their current form.

Fucking hell.

It's the bloody corgi of couches.

Well, if he'd been at all uncertain as to his seriously diminished capacity for reasoning yesterday - just in case the poison hadn't settled that once and for all - this definitely takes the prize. Brilliant.

He has six legs, essentially identical save the grain, that need to be reapplied to the couch in the proper location and orientation. This will involve crawling.

A surprising number of things do.

Fine.

Somehow it seems... appropriate.

A Wingardium Leviosa lifts the couch a bit, he gets down on the floor and begins the perfectly onerous task of trying to match the leg to the... stump. He absolutely deserves this. Any trace of his previously improved mood is now long gone. Completely and thoroughly dissipated. He does however have a charm at the ready to reaffix the pieces once he has them matched. That had been... crucial when he was learning to work the wood in the first place. It doesn't even leave the trace of a seam a Sticking Charm would. He finds it... acceptable.

Truthfully, even he won't be able to tell this had ever happened when he's done. His resolve to give himself a break apparently only goes so far.

He works for a while in relative silence - save more muttering - when suddenly light begins pouring in through the windows, illuminating the room from one moment to the next. He casts a Nox on the sconces in response. It must be seven.

He's got two of the legs done - it should become faster the more he finishes - when he can feel something... shift via the bond. He stops his work and... listens to it for a moment. 'Feels' might be a better descriptor. Either way, he has no doubt she's awake now. Then it's clearly time to stop, because he has no desire to be caught crawling around in front of her door like that. Possibly he has even less to draw attention to what he'd done to the couch; he's undecided. Another Transfiguration lengthens the four remaining stumps just as he had last night, he lowers the couch to the ground and it again looks... unmolested.

At least there's that.

He glares in the direction of the kitchen towards the cupboard that undoubtably holds the remainder of his bottle of firewhisky once more. Always assuming he hadn't finished it and blacked out. He doesn't think that was the case. The lack of certainty, however, is a mite worrisome. But then, what isn't these days?

He Banishes the four remaining legs to the furthest corner of the window seat and Disillusions them again before taking his seat at his desk and resuming his perusal of the seventh year boys' assignments. He's just finished reading Goyle's Magical Creatures' work and is about to Incendio the scroll when Miss Granger comes bursting into the room - at least that's how he'll recall it - and he momentarily forgets the Incantaion for the Fire-Making Charm.

The one that they teach to the first years.

That one.

He blames whatever the hell she's wearing today for that.


He is proud, exceptionally so, of not Transfiguring her knickers today. Even if it was only just. The narrowness of that escape is naturally a source of far less pride.

Her legs seem even longer today, and he has a bizarre thought that she's applied the same Charm to them as he has to the couch. Or that he had perhaps cast it too broadly and somehow affected her in the process... Either of which would be highly improbable. He shakes it off.

Whatever that thing she's wearing is - a nightgown surely implies more fabric, doesn't it? - it emphasises her... erm, her... assets. All of them. Merlin, at least he hopes that's the lot...

There's an even more uncomfortable moment when he wonders if that was all she was wearing when he carried her to bed last night - thank Merlin for thick comforters - and goes astonishingly pale. But he's quite certain, and doesn't care to examine how or why (and most definitely not the associated snippets of memories), that she hasn't changed. Somehow he'd allowed the fact the thing had sleeves, no matter how... tiny or loose, to calm him into thinking it wouldn't have been so short. Or low cut. Or form flattering.

It's the empire waist that nicely emphasises her... endowments that seems to be causing him some trouble. If she had any idea how much - but then that is undoubtedly what his skills as a master Occlumens are for, apparently he has trained most of his life for just this moment; too perfect - she'd be sorely tempted to Transfigure her entire wardrobe. Small favours.

Ah, and of course the shortness of the skirt. Which is so short he's not sure how it can be called a skirt at all. Yes, that too has him off keel.

He stands there blinking. At least he's no longer frozen completely. Although he's not quite sure blinking helps...

Well, it's decidedly... short. Small? Skimpy. Not as much so as Monday's... thing, but still... And it's the deepest green. Which suits her. Very well. Far better than the white had. And then he has to wonder if that is a genuine response, an objective one, or something... possessive. To the extent he's able, he decides it's genuine as he would probably have chosen black were he simply being possessive, and then he has to try not to think about what that means given that he'd already effectively done that Monday morning.

Her legs really do appear incredibly long, he hadn't imagined it. He's still struggling to explain that - it's probably a feature of having what must be every last millimetre of them on display. He imagines because he can't see her knickers (surely also only just) - or at least he thinks he can't, he's trying hard not to look one way or the other - but the fact he doesn't register them (with his rather excellent peripheral vision) seems to suggest to the eye (that is very much not looking, ta) that her legs go on forever. For such a petite thing, she seems to be eighty percent legs. Which would also be improbable. He's reasonably sure.

He's less sure about where to look. And where not to look. He would consider scanning the Black Lake for the Squid or examining the ceiling for cracks right now were he only able to tear his eyes away.

Oddly, so very, he seems physically incapable of that just at the moment.

Monday there had undoubtably been more to see, but the very fact her knickers were visible had caused him to desperately not wish to see. And naturally the off the cuff Knickers-to-Tracksuit-Bottom Transfiguration (surely that should be a thing) had helped. (And now it would be Minerva's turn to be so proud. Severus had learnt his lessons well.) This, by virtue of covering more, slightly more, somehow seems to draw his eye, suggesting a safety that most definitely isn't there.

He swallows, his throat all too explicably constricted. Then he has a strange turn, as it occurs to him that the thing he'll probably be proudest of today is the fact he hadn't Transfigured her knickers - again - and he's wondering when his life was reduced to... this.

Probably Sunday.

Possibly as early as Friday even, he's unsure. It hardly matters. What matters is getting a blanket around the young woman again.


And then it seems they will need to have a talk after all.