Mr. Potter shivered uncontrollably whenever my fingers moved over the wounded area, the junction between his neck and left shoulder. The salve stopped the bleeding entirely. As the blood coagulant dried, the skin around each wound puckered with fury. The risk of infection was ever-present. There's nothing more poisonous than saliva, whether it belongs to a human or a vampire.

             Administer the cleansing potion.

             It was difficult, but not impossible, to get enough of the Canis Capellum down Potter's throat to constitute an entire dose. I managed to get six ounces into him by holding him in a seated position, and rubbing his throat to induce him to swallow. I had demanded a full pint of blood from Le Clair before allowing Illumina to take him away to distant safety. He was reluctant until I explained that Mr. Potter's guardian would demand far more than a pint of it when he found out what had happened. A pint would give me enough to make a week's worth of the potion. I made Illumina promise to send me a pint every week until further notice.

              Keep the patient level and calm to reduce heart rate.

             I had banished both Hagrid and Dumbledore in order to work as quickly as possible. In the distance, I had heard the Headmaster arguing with Madam Pomfrey at the end of the corridor that led to my private quarters. There was barely enough light for me to work by, but it had been enough. The fire behind the black screen cast shadows and flickers upon the quiet bedroom. There wasn't a sound but the crackling of the logs on the hearth, and Potter's strange, intermittent gasps for air.

             Wait for signs of returning consciousness, and then administer the restorative draught.

             Ah, the hard part. Nothing to do but repeat the procedure twice a day until the little brute opened his eyes and recognized his surroundings. It wasn't that this list of instructions had done me any good last time I had used them. I had spent eight long weeks beside Illumina's bed, hoping, praying, promising whatever gods would listen that I would give my all for her to survive this ordeal. She had survived, surely, though the gods had exacted their own devious price at my lack of specificity on the conditions of her survival.

             Clean the wound.

             Rub in the anti-venom and blood coagulant.

             Administer the cleansing potion.

             Keep the patient level and calm to reduce heart rate.

             Keep the lights dim and the distractions few.

             Wait for signs of returning consciousness, and then administer the restorative draught.

             It was easy enough to tide myself over with the promise that when The Boy regained consciousness, I would be free to throttle him back into unconsciousness. But after hours, and days, and finally a week wore on with hardly a sign of life from him, I believe I finally began to worry. It's very hard to keep an angry grudge continually fed when the object of your baleful emotion is lying against your chest, breathing unsteadily, heart barely beating. An occasional delirious whimper was all I had to go on.

             Dumbledore taught my classes in my absence, because I was afraid to leave Potter alone, even when necessary. I ate beside Harry, slept beside him, and waited. And waited. It occurred to me that perhaps I should have been keeping a proper medical journal that would relate my findings to other healers who wanted to know how to treat patients with similar bites. I kept track mentally of what was going on, but never put quill to paper.

             1 November: Patient who can best be described as a barely-adequate, sixteen-year-old specimen, is suffering from a vampire bite that he received while sticking his scrubby nose into his Potions Master's personal business. The offending vampire donated his blood to the cleansing potion only when threatened with the incandescent wrath of patient's werewolf guardian, leaving attendant entirely unsure who he should cheer for if a confrontation between the two parties should play itself out at a later date.

             2 November: Patient's condition remained stable and unchanged. There were the expected primary indications of vampirisis. His irises turned red. His canine teeth lengthened, and he salivated when suitable prey (attendant and others) approached him. All senses were extremely sensitive. As yet he has not exhibited the secondary indications: he can digest human food (broth being the only thing I could get down his throat) and his skin remains warm to the touch.

             3 November: Patient's condition worsened. His skin grew cold to the touch, though his heart continued to beat. Thankfully, his body continued to process the food and medication that I have managed to get down his throat.

             4 November: Patient's condition improved guardedly. His skin was clammy yet, but not ice-cold. He smelled horrendous. I remembered how horrible Illumina had smelled, and how distressed she was about it. What a trivial thing to worry about, all things considered.

             5 November: Patient began performing wandless magic in his sleep; a very respectable Patronus appeared several times. There was the sudden apparition of 300 plus roving fancies. But the real show-stopper was the Norwegian Ridgeback dragon drawn out of thin air. I had to employ the services of the gamekeeper in order to rid my quarters of the beasts The Boy had conjured. Once the bedchambers and living quarters were cleared, my knees were knocking so badly that I had to sit down and listen to my heart for a full quarter-hour. Hagrid found it necessary to remain in my quarters for another two hours, watching the patient as he slept. I drank three whisky-straights and I’m not quite sure when I fell asleep, except that I awoke in bed with Harry curled around me.

             6 November: Harry spoke in his sleep, asking for Mr. Weasley. My attempts at a Legilimens spell met with mixed results. I couldn't concentrate on the images because they were too random and fleeting. I would prefer not to allow Mr. Weasley into my inner-most private quarters, but upon hearing that Potter was asking for him, the Headmaster insisted that I allow Mr. Weasley to see my patient.

             7 November: That would be today, technically, though it's very early morning. Is it Saturday again?

             I saw no point in writing any of this down. A week had already gone by; a week of waiting; a week of spending every waking moment by the side of Harry's bed, formerly my bed; now our bed; a week of sleeping with Harry lying on my chest, feeling his skinny body shudder with interior cold.

             One thing was certain– today would begin with a bath. Yes. It was high time this child smelled better.

             I wondered if I had done the right thing as I lowered Potter into the tub. Not just in caring for him. There was no doubt in my mind that I would live long enough to regret saving his life. But I was more presently concerned with the morality of stripping him naked and bathing him.

             I was trying to keep my eyes on his face even though I knew the simple fundamentals of this task required me to stare at his entire body. Even bedraggled, frowzy, and downright unpleasant, the boy was beautiful to behold. Mother Nature could be a vindictive bitch when the mood took her, but in Mr. Potter's case, she had been extraordinarily kind. My heart caught in my throat as I stared at him. I was jealous and covetous in equal parts. I hated myself for the thoughts that possessed me, thoughts of how I might play this doctor/patient situation to my advantage, how I could parlay my care of him into having my way with him. Maybe I could even convince him that it was part of the cure for what had happened??

             What kind of depraved individual had I become, to be capable of thinking of sex with a vulnerable sixteen-year-old in my care? How many times had I seen the looks that passed between my father and the patients I knew that he had been intimate with? How many times had I despised him so thoroughly for taking advantage of their trust, for abusing his position of power and dominating them in their ignorance?

             I usually tried to avoid thinking of Mr. Potter beyond the realm of master and pupil. In that realm there was safety for both of us. With him lying naked in my grasp, it was hard not to think of him as human, entirely human. Harry was so beautiful in ways I never expected him to be– not in a feminine way, but in a stubborn and unbreakable masculine way that so amused me and made my heart light. The more he fussed and contorted when I tried to wash him, the more determined I was that he would bend to my will. Was this what Lily had seen in James? Had I had misjudged the dynamics of their relationship? I had always presumed that James had been dominant over Lily, that he kept her isolated like a precious bauble or a Ming vase that he wanted for himself. Had it been the other way around? Had Lily captured James, the wild animal, and possessed him in order to subdue and thereby control his fearsome nature to her own advantage?

             Harry writhed again, bringing my mind back to my task. I was reaching him on a certain level– that gave me more delight that I thought possible. After a week of fearing for his life (well, three or four days at least in the fearing for it) I was thrilled to be getting a reaction from him. I washed him thoroughly at least twice, and decided I should repeat this process again tonight. I should repeat these baths twice a day, though perhaps those of the basin variety might be safer.

             Having finished my task, and deciding to linger longer would endanger both of us, I pulled Harry out of the water, letting him hang dripping on a levitation spell while I stared around the bathroom aimlessly. Not having planned further ahead of improving his scent, I had forgotten to bring an extra robe for him. I pulled my own off the door and bundled him inside for the trip back to the bed.

             I emerged into the bedroom to find Dumbledore standing there smiling at me. He was instructing the small army of house elves about how to change the sheets on the bed, what spells to cast to make them soft to sensitive skin, what folds to use that would keep the material from creasing and bruising the patient's tender skin. He had also brought a tray of food for me.

             "Ah, Severus," the Headmaster said benignly. "I wondered how long it would take you to decide Harry might use some soap and water."

             I nodded in greeting and lay my bundle down on the clean bed. Albus nudged me with a flat package. I glanced up at him as he lifted the top of the box. Inside was a pair of pajamas. I didn't have to wonder who they were meant for.

             "I took the liberty of sending for them. Has he spoken today? Called for Mr. Weasley again?" Dumbledore asked.

             "No, sir. Not yet," I replied. I spent an inordinate amount of time drying the wild locks on my pillow, not wanting to venture into dressing Harry in front of the Headmaster lest my desire for my patient become wholly evident.  

             "Would it be imprudent of us to allow Mr. Weasley to visit nonetheless? His presence might spark Harry back to us," Albus suggested. I sensed from his tone that no would not do for an answer.

             "As you wish, sir," I replied.

             "Capital. He is waiting outside." Dumbledore headed in the direction of the door.

             "Can I dress the patient before you return?" I called. Mr. Weasley was already poking his head through the opening door.  

             Madam Pomfrey was due to visit within the hour, and I was still lying in bed with Fang Boy sleeping on my chest. I had removed his blindfold, a safety precaution I was employing for my own protection. He was sound asleep. There shouldn’t be any harm in removing the blindfold for the moment. His eyes were moving back and forth under his lids. He was dreaming again. Could he sense me in his mind, watching these silly sexual fantasies of his?  

             Our seven a.m. bath had gone very well. He reacted to the feeling of my hands, to the warm water, to the scratch of the wash-cloth, to the sound of my voice. He tried to lift his right hand several times. I couldn't wait until nightfall, when I could again justify undressing him and caressing him from head to toe.

             I should have risen from the bed and left him to rest until Pomfrey's visit, but I couldn't seem to rise above my animal interest in his dreams. He had sensed my presence, but was unsure if I was real or part of the dream. I took on a corporeal form and stood watching him as he was chained to a large, cold slab of stone by barely-defined robed individuals. They removed his clothes with long, sharp knives, and even while he screamed for them to stop, he reacted to their sexual touches. I moved towards him in the dream, and the robed figures melted away. In the real world, he relaxed against my chest– having interpreted my presence in his dreams as an answered cry for a rescuer. However I had other ideas. I caressed the underside of his bound arm and straddled him on the stone.

             I smirked outwardly at the strange cry he made when I imagined kissing his throat, nibbling his shoulders, moving down his chest. What would Potter look like in ten years? In five years? In two years, when he would no longer be my student? Ah, no longer my student, but still very much my responsibility. Dumbledore had already made that clear. Whatever Mr. Potter decided to do with his future, I was going to follow him. Whether it was to a wizard university, a Quidditch team, or to a muggle convenience store, I was going to be going wherever Mr. Potter's whim and Voldemort's military advances took him.

             I imagined Potter a safer five years older, and his limbs grew in proportion to my demands as our dreams intertwined. At twenty one, he was uncomfortably boyish yet. I should have imagined him at twenty five. But this was enough. In our shared dream, I nosed down his chest, nuzzled each nipple in turn, stroked him sides, and licked his throat hungrily.

             Dreams or not, Potter was responding to the imaginings I was inflicting on him. I could feel him growing hard against my leg. He moaned and shifted when I nudged my knee up between his legs. I watched his pristine, pale face bead up with dots of sweat, and watched his mouth part around a gasp. A flush of ever-so-human redness worked into his cheeks. I moved my hands down from his sides and cupped under his rear, squeezing as I worked his legs a little further apart. I brought to mind the perfect memory of him on my office divan, writhing with pleasure, and the look of utter perplexity when he had orgasmed. Truth be known, I had had a hard time banishing the mental image from my head for some days after that night in my office with him.

             Perhaps I had been without a suitable companion for far too long when this type of action no longer seemed inappropriate or even wrong. Potter moaned and arched backwards into my hands. I concentrated on the Legilimens spell, wanting him to focus there and not on the real world around him. Inside his fantasy, I was rubbing against him, pushing him against the rock slab, and he wanted more. I allowed him to take control of the dream, letting him show me what he wanted me to do. I was inside of him in seconds, though he wasn't sure exactly where or how or what the dynamics should be, and we were rutting like animals in the wild. If it hadn't been so heart-breaking and naive, it would have been too absurd.

             An insistent knocking brought me back to reality. I edged my way out from under Potter, left him lying carefully on his stomach. I hoped I didn't return with Madam Pomfrey to find Harry humping the pillows. Poppy was in a foul mood. She had not approved of the Headmaster allowing me to fend for Mr. Potter. Within five minutes of being inside my rooms, she was letting her opinion be known once more. She was plotting how she might whisk Mr. Potter away from me and bundle him off to the professionals at St. Mungo's. After all, whatever medical training I had had was second-hand, no matter how many of my father's texts and papers I had studied. I was a mere amateur by comparison to the fine mediwizards who had years and years of specialized training for this very sort of thing.

             "How often are you bathing him? He's all sweaty," she complained as she sat gingerly on the bed. Could she tell that I had been lying there up until she knocked?

             "Twice a day," I answered. She wrinkled her nose in reply. "The smell is a side-effect. It will vanish as his condition improves."

             "Is he eating?"

             "I am pouring nutrient-enhanced broth down him with the medications."

             "He's sleeping fitfully," she commented. I concentrated the Legilimens spell, and discovered he and I were no longer on the rocky slab, but that we were in his bed in Gryffindor Tower. McGonagall was standing over us. She didn't look happy. She was carrying a wide belt, and was sporting a bushy mustache. I stifled a smile and pulled away from his dreams.

             "Unusual dreams are another side-effect of the bite. I recommend reading Van Essen's tome on—"

             "Could you write down all the expected reactions and side-effects one should look out for? I want the doctors at St. Mungo's to be well-informed, at such time as Harry is transferred there for proper treatment."

             "Surely you haven't been owling anyone about what has happened here?" I asked sternly.

             "I am close friends with the wizard in question. He will not reveal what I have told him in confidence."

             "What exactly have you told him?"

             "That one of my students has been bitten by a vampire, and that I seek his expertise with the treatment."

             "You of course did not mention which student?" I pressed her. Her evasive eyes revealed far more than her tight mouth. "Have you no common sense!?" I howled. Harry's limbs stiffened on the bed at the sound of my shout. His fingers curled into small, tight claws.

             "There's more at stake here than your reputation, Professor Snape."

             "My reputation is not the point!" I shouted again. Potter began to breathe quickly and lightly. He was perking his ears to our conversation.

             "Mr. Potter's continued good health is my first and foremost concern. I don't care if it was your wife who bit him," Poppy said.

             "It wasn't my wife,"I snapped.

             "No. Sorry. Ex-wife."

             "Illumina is not the one who bit him," I said.

             "I saw her with my own two eyes in Hogsmeade at the Three Broomsticks not two weeks ago. She was cozy in a corner talking to Remus Lupin. You can stop protecting her."

             "It wasn't Illumina, and I'm not protecting anyone!"

             “It’s perfectly normal for you to feel hurt and angry at her because of the divorce.”

             “I’m not angry at her!”

             "I wanted the opinion of a medical professional who has had more experience than you have with these bites. Doctor Toadvine has treated six others like this in the last year."

             "Toadvine?" I howled. "Who the bloody hell do you think gave him his recommended course of treatment? Please complete your examination of my patient and return to your—"

             "Professor?"

             When Harry started mumbling, Pomfrey leapt off the bed backwards several feet. I sat down in her place, barely able to get the words out of my mouth.

             "Yes, Mr. Potter?" I said, taking one of his hands into mine. He reacted to my hand, taking a tight grip. I willed his eyes to open, but they remained closed.

             "Shhh," he whispered, and promptly fell back to sleep. I smothered a cackle of relief, and continued to hold his hand. Pomfrey rushed back to the bedside, putting her palm on his forehead.

             "He'll be coming around soon then?" she asked.

             "The progression is beginning to reverse," I nodded.

             "I'll be back tomorrow, and I'll bring any suggestions that Doctor Toadvine might have."

             "You do that," I muttered.

             10 November: More tactile ways. What an idiot I am! Well, it's pretty clear Potter knows I'm here. The little fucker keeps trying to bite me! If Dumbledore hadn't protested, I'd've fit Potter for a muzzle. What's worse, he's levitating in his sleep.

             11 November: Potter's dreams are becoming easier to read all the time. They involve the expected topics of a victim of such a bite– sexual bonding with a variety of partners, blood play, gratification through sadism, masochism, and voyeurism. I may have to wash my mind out with soap and water.

             Curiously enough, Potter is also having dreams about being the Emperor of the Universe. He apparently has a keen desire to realign the moons of Jupiter, and he would like another satellite around Saturn. He conversed at length with the centaurs, and left Mars where it belonged at their behest. He keeps insisting there's a tenth planet to our solar system, to which the centaurs can only smile.

             Patient called again for Mr. Weasley, and so I must allow another visit. Damn. I told the Headmaster I would allow a second visit only under the strict proviso that Weasley may not tell anyone the true nature of Harry's condition. I fear he's already been talking though. Dumbledore said the school is alive with rumors that Potter has been killed, and that the students believe that the faculty is diverting all enquiries until the proper arrangements can be made. Gryffindors are lurking in rotation at the access entrances to the dungeons. I have also seen Volkova's shadow on the ceiling, and heard her footfalls in the corridors outside the dungeon.

             12 November: Mr. Weasley visited after a Quidditch game, late in the evening. He smelled so strongly of healthy exertion and masculine sweat that Harry was levitating off the bed with vampyric arousal. Patient's response truly frightened Weasley this time. I began to hope that Weasley would not be back. I sent him scuttling to Gryffindor Tower, sobbing like a two year old. I gave Potter another dose of the cleansing potion and added a drop of Sweet Sleep for good measure.

             McGonagall came to see me not half an hour later, and it was clear that Weasley had spilled the entirety of my patient's condition to her. Minerva, being who she is, took it very much in stride. Dumbledore had already told her what happened, but had waffled somewhat on the exact nature of his condition. Harry slept like an angel during her visit. I saw her give him a small pinch on the arm to try and provoke him, but he never felt a thing. Once Minerva left, I bundled down under the covers with Fang Boy and went to sleep though it was barely ten. Caring for someone night and day can be more exhausting than one might imagine.

             13 November: I had a very rude awakening this morning. The sun wasn't even out when an urgent knocking on the outer door roused me. I threw on a heavy robe and trudged down the corridor. If I had known where the day was going to lead, I'd've stayed in bed.

             "What do you want?" I asked. Miss Granger thrust the morning edition of the Daily Prophet at me, and sobbed loudly. Feeling rather decrepit and cranky, I wanted to send her on her way without her vocal chords, but I had left my wand on the bedside table. I lifted the paper. On the front page, there was a picture of The Boy's glasses snapped in two, speckled with blood, tangled with leaves and long black hairs. The headline jumped off at me in a vibrant, gaudy red.

             "Of course it's not true, you stupid annoying brat," I snarled, giving her back the paper after gulping down the first few lines of the story.

             Before I could stop her, she darted past me, having spotted the open door behind me. I could have rushed after her or cast a wandless jelly-legs spell to prevent her from entering, but what was the point? Surely if Miss Granger were confronted with a full-throttle vampyric reaction from Mr. Potter, she'd come running right back out of the room in a second or two. I closed the corridor door and plodded back to my suite. The least Granger could have done was bring me a cup of hot tea. Annoying me at this hour of the day. I should deduct points from Gryffindor for bad manners, bad judgement, and littering the hallway with newspaper refuse.

             Much to my disappointment, she didn't come shrieking back out of the bedroom. I found her sitting on the bed beside Harry. Potter was wide awake, trying to sit up against the headboard. I nearly fainted in shock.

             "Hi, Hermione. Hello, Professor," Harry murmured, rubbing his red eyes. To her credit, Miss Granger didn't start back from him at the sight of his eyes, or the long teeth that pointed out of his mouth when he yawned widely. Instead, she lunged at him and hugged him tight to herself. Harry’s eyes were crossing, she was squeezing so hard.

             "I saw the paper...and Ron said...and...oh, Harry," she cried. "Can I get you anything?"

             "Glass of water?" he whispered. His eyes were already drooping closed. Before I could stop her, she jumped off the bed and grabbed the pitcher on the side table. She brought a glass back to Harry, but he was already asleep, leaning back against the headboard and pillow, snoring intermittently. Hermione sat down with a 'mphff' of despair, and drank the glass herself. She quickly discovered it was not a pitcher of water, as she had assumed. As she wheezed and coughed, I scolded her.

             "As you can see, he is clearly not yet demised. Now if you would be so kind as to quietly exit these premises, I will consider letting you live," I said coldly. Granger was still coughing.

             "What was that?" she gasped, eyes watering. I took the glass from her, hauled her to her feet, and pushed her towards the corridor exit.

             "Iska," I snapped. "Good day, Miss Granger."

             I ushered her out, and secured the door. My feet had not carried me the twenty meters to my rooms before another knock sounded. I shuffled back to the entrance.

             "Who is it?" I demanded.

             I rolled my eyes, and reached for the handle. Remus Lupin stalked in, absolutely bristling with anger. He too carried a copy of the Daily Prophet. I pointed towards my door, and he ran at full speed.

             "He's not dead," I called after him. Lupin was pacing beside the bed, running his hands through his wild hair. Harry was snoring loudly, half sitting up and half lying down, his mouth hanging partially open. I'd never seen him look quite so undignified. It was actually rather amusing. I wished I had had a camera.

             "He's not dead," Lupin smiled, tears brimming in his eyes. He stifled a heaving sob with a quick laugh.

             "I was about to test his indications, if you would care to help," I offered. Lupin gingerly picked Harry up. Potter stopped snoring and stirred in his grip. Remus laid Harry out straight on the bed and petted his cheek as I measured his fangs, the diameter of red versus green in his irises, and so on.

             "What's your verdict?" Lupin murmured when I put away my wand and basic notes.

             "Definite improvement. Canine teeth are smaller by another eighth of a centimeter. His irises are becoming green again. You can see the rings around the inside edges. His skin temperature is practically normal. He is reaching consciousness on a nearly regular interval. Now, we only have to wait for him to maintain consciousness."

             "He's going to be okay," Lupin nodded.

             "Of course he is," I snapped.

             "I saw the papers, and I lost my mind. I came right over from Hogsmeade. I'm sorry. I thought you might be lying to me about his condition. How can I help you? Let me do something constructive."

             "I was about to give him his morning bath."

             "You want me to undress him?" Lupin paled. Seconds later, he flamed with fury. "You've been undressing him?"

             "Twice a day in order to bathe him. More often than that when he.....when necessary," I replied as coolly as I could. "I'm his doctor. He's my patient. I'm perfectly immune to the sight of him, Lupin."

             "You damned well better be," Lupin growled at me, huddling protectively over Harry.

             "Undress him and take him to the tub."

             "Um....” Remus said, nervously licking his lips. “I don't think I can do that."

             "Go fill the tub with water, and I'll undress him," I said impatiently.

             "You go fill the tub," Lupin replied, his eyes narrowing angrily at me.

             I went into the restroom and turned on the tap. It was not loud enough to cover the sounds from the other room– Potter was giggling. I went to investigate, and found Lupin was holding him in a seated position, and was licking his ears. Harry tittered and twitched, his face curling up in puzzlement and humor. Lupin unbuttoned Harry's shirt, lapping at his ears quite carefully.

             "Do you mind not doing that to my patient?" I asked. Lupin gulped, retracting his pink tongue from the boy's ear. "Get him into the tub before the water cools," I ordered.

             "He loved when anyone did that when he was a baby," Lupin began to explain. I glared at him, and he stopped. I pointed to the bathroom. Lupin's shoulders drooped. He peeled off Harry's shirt and moved to carry him to the tub. I briskly peeled off the boy's bottoms and tossed the night clothes into a growing pile in the corner. Seconds later, the pile vanished. A house elf materialized, lay several layers of fresh clothes on the chair, and bowed to me before he vanished once more.

             I picked up the clean pajamas on top and went into the bathroom. Lupin was kneeling beside the tub, and Harry was lying inside. The water had shrunk to a mere two inches and remained there even as it continued to pour from the tap. Lupin wasn't supporting Harry as I imagined anyone who had ever bathed someone would be doing. In fact, he was clearly nervous at the prospect of being in the same room with the boy. What was the matter with him?

             "Why does the water do that?" Remus asked.

             "It has a drowning fail-safe," I explained, putting down Harry's clothes.

             "Ingenious," he replied.

             "There's soap and a cloth," I pointed.

             "Thank you. I have bathed him before, you know," Lupin huffed. "Though he was...he was much smaller that time," he added, his eyes traveling all the way down Harry's body and back again to his face. "He looks just like James," Remus sighed with bittersweet nostalgia. Not wanting to delve into the truth or fiction of that remark, nor the exact reasons why Remus Lupin should have been intimately familiar with James Potter's anatomical dimensions, I left the room, hoping Lupin would stop admiring Harry long enough to give him a proper bath.

             "Where's the patient?" Dumbledore asked. I jolted, and caught my wand as it leapt to me at my instantaneous command.

             "Sorry to barge in," McGonagall added. "The door was ajar."

             They were standing in the bedroom doorway, peering inside. Dumbledore was smiling, and McGonagall was tisking her disapproval at the first mess she found. I lowered my wand and put it away.

             "When was the last time you straightened that bookshelf?" she asked.

             "My patient is having his morning bath."

             "'My patient'? How extremely proprietary," Dumbledore commented mirthfully.

             "Irregular visiting hours are strongly discouraged," I complained.

             "We saw the Daily Prophet," Dumbledore explained.

             "Yes?" I said simply.

             "The Minister of Magic has owled. I dare say we can guess the topic he wishes to discuss. I want to know what I should feel at liberty to tell him,” Albus continued.

             "That my patient is on the mend."

             "Excellent news," Dumbledore beamed. "He is on the mend," he repeated to Minerva, as if she hadn't heard. She gripped Albus's hand tightly, and they shared a relieved sigh between them.

             "Is there any way I can be of service?" McGonagall asked me.

             "Aside from keeping Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger off my doorstep?" I asked archly. “Your Gryffindors are making a nuisance of themselves.”

             "Consider it handled. Anything else?"

             "I'm expecting another delivery from Illumina. It should be brought to me at once."

             "Understood."

             "Severus? Is he supposed to be levitating?" Lupin called from the bathroom. Dumbledore scurried in that direction, going past me despite my protests.

             "There is something I need to discuss with you," McGonagall continued. "It's about Professor Volkova."

             "What about her?"

             "She asked me the strangest question last night at dinner."

             "What was that?"

             "It seems she's lost her bindy."

             "Her what?" I screwed up my features.

             "It's a potion with—"

             "I know what a bindy is. Most people outgrow them with training brooms and soothing blankets."

             "Hers is not a child's bindy. It was a gift from her grandfather. Apparently it's been in her family for centuries."

             "How does this affect me?"

             "She thinks you have it. She was positive, in fact."

             "I don't have her bindy," I said. But then I remembered the green potion in the vial that Harry had given me, that day when he helped me get the charm repeller off the ceiling of the Black Queen's Tower. I had yet to test the potion inside the vial. I hadn't had a chance. I had assumed it was the Gallahad Elixir, as had Mr. Potter, I was sure. "What does her bindy look like?" I ventured.

             "It's greenish silver, with the consistency of liquid mercury. If you happen to come across it, or if one of your students happens to bring it to you," McGonagall walked delicately through the words, so delicately that I felt she must already know I had what she was looking for.

             "Of course," I nodded.

             "It may very well be a potion she used in the commission of her previous job, but at this point, it holds sentimental value for her. It's her only link to her grandfather, and she misses him very dearly. You understand what it's like."

             "I never liked my grandfather on either side," I told her.

             "I wasn't talking about your grandfathers," she replied. I needled her with a dark stare, and she shrugged it off. "If you find Volkova's bindy, please return it to me."

             "Not to her?" I questioned.

             "I'm most anxious to see it for myself," Minerva murmured. "How often does one get to study a centuries-old Benedictus In Tenebris potion??"

             "I will contact you first," I promised. She nodded approvingly. A brilliant pop of magic behind her made us both stare. Four house elves appeared around the bed, stripped it, redressed it, and vanished again.

             "Wish I could get that kind of service in my quarters," McGonagall chuckled.