Archive of Our Own ^beta

Today, against all odds, I woke up.

The staff in Saint Mungo, where I am and will be residing for the foreseeable future, informed me that two months have gone by since the defeat of the Dark Lord at the hands of Saint Potter.

Saint Potter is also responsible for me still being in this world. Apparently Insufferable-Know-It-All Miss Granger managed to petrify me for long enough to stop the spreading of the venom and the loss of blood, and to have Poppy intervene, so here I – still – am. Marvelous.

They encouraged me to write Saint Potter a thank-you card. I might do it and write inside mind your own business next time, you idiot dunderhead.

* * *

Finally some peace and quiet. I thought people stayed in hospital to be cured, not tortured.

Not only I have begun physical therapy this morning – there isn't an inch of my body that has been spared from the pain of it; the Dark Lord's cruciatus hurt less, I can assure you – but I have also had an Official visit from the Minister himself in the early afternoon.

He woke me up from my nap, for which reason I considered hexing him. Such a shame that I don't have my wand nearby.

The Minister told me I have been acquitted of all charges. Evidently Saint Potter not only had a very emotional speech in front of all the remaining students and staff of Hogwarts in which he declared to the Dark Lord my true loyalties, but he also thought it might be a good idea to share a few selected memories of mine. I am, therefore, not only a free man whose valued privacy has been deeply violated, but an eligible candidate for a Order of Merlin medal. May Odin spare me from it. I might deliberate to snap my own wand in two if necessary.

Hopefully tomorrow will be a quiet day.

* * *

My hopes have been shattered.

Upon hearing a ruckus in the corridor, I have been moved to a more secluded room by the staff, and informed that I will stay in here for as long as it takes me to recover. Apparently a few journalists attempted to break in to take pictures of me. Not a day has gone by so far without me cursing Saint Potter.

* * *

I have seen myself in a mirror for the first time in two months.

It is a miracle it didn't shatter.

* * *

A healer has been summoned to try to reduce the scars on my neck. So far, the results have been lilliputian.

The physical therapy also goes on, and it has yet to become less painful. I have been told I need to be patient. I am thinking of escaping as soon as possible.

I might fly out of the window without my broom just because I am the only living wizard who can, thank you very much. Also, why waste a good chance to cause a scene – I do love a dramatic entrance, or exit, whenever possible. However, shamefully, there is no window in this new room.

* * *

I have resolved to Disapparate tonight.

I cannot stay another day here.

* * *

I did not, in fact, Disapparate.

* * *

To my extreme dismay, Nurse Ludmilla today informed me that, having been cleared of all charges and having become a hero for many, and feeling better, people I know are now allowed to visit me. No, they do not need my permission to come in, so the option to just give the hospital a blank list is, in fact, not an option at all.

The staff believes it would do me some good to socialize. They clearly know nothing about and despise me. The feeling is mutual.

* * *

Nobody came to visit.

Maybe my prayers are being heard.

* * *

My prayers have, in fact, not been heard at all.

The list of visitors I have had in the past two days is way too long for my liking. Twelve people too long, to be precise. And most of them felt compelled to bring me gifts, which I definitely will not keep when I will finally be able to escape Nurse Ludmilla's clutches. Key word, here, being when.

The list, unfortunately, consists of:

1. Saint Potter. He came into the room, looked at me like I had grown a second head – which I have not, thank you very much, they are just scars – and then, to my utter horror, busted into tears. I think I might be traumatized for life. One might have expected just a lone tear down the cheek, maybe trembling lips, but no, of course not. Saint Potter is a fucking ugly-crier, he sobs, weeps loudly. There was snot down his nose. Had it not been for my second visitor,

2. Insufferable Know-It-All Miss Granger, he would have probably hugged me. Maybe even kissed me. I shudder at the mere thought. As I ordered him to cease such emotional displays, Potter, and have some dignity, Miss Granger began weeping too, although much more sedately and with decorum, saying something idiotic along the lines of I am so happy you're feeling better, Professor Snape. Which I am not. My neck is killing me, thank you very much Nagini. I ordered them to compose himself or either leave – fervently wishing that they would choose the second option. Just as I sighed in dismay at them calming down, both of them grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I am evaluating the possibility to cut it off like the Rat did a few years back.

3. Mr. Weasley came in then, because of course they are the Three Musketeers of the Wizard world, but at least he held back his tears and didn't come nearby the bed, muttering something about fearing of being either bitten or hexed. Good kid. He apparently is smarter than I gave him credit for. Well, not that it took that much intelligence to be above the bar I had set for him, to be fair.

4. Minerva, with a bouquet of flowers. Fortunately the three fastidious dunderheads had already left when she came in. Unfortunately, I was pondering the possibility to go to sleep for the foreseeable future. She half hugged me, mindful of the bandages covering my neck and face, and she kissed both my cheeks. I could feel she was weeping. Disgusting. Then she smacked me upon the head screaming that I am an idiot. Much better. She cursed Dumbledore's name twice, and then mine at least ten times more. I much appreciated her words; she is a strong woman, you have to respect her for it, and I love when she curses with that Scottish accent. She then proceeded to apologize for calling me a coward - once again a much appreciated gesture - and for not understanding the game I was playing – thank Odin she didn't, I would have made a terrible spy otherwise - and to conjure up a vase for the flowers – which are yellow and purple and smelly. She stayed for almost an hour. All in all, it wasn't a completely unpleasant visit. I've always had a soft spot for the woman, damn me.

5. Poppy, with yet another bouquet of flowers. She didn't stay long and she spent all the time inquiring about my health and my progress, business-like as usual. Good. You have to appreciate a dedicated worker when you meet one – they're quite rare after all. She, too squeezed my hand before leaving, and left her flowers – pale pink and white, but equally smelly – near Minerva's.

6. Mr. Weasley. No, not Ronald. George. I don't exactly know why he came by. He stayed just for a couple of minutes and simply stared at me, like he had to make sure I was really alive and I wasn't just a figment of his imagination. I refrained from asking him to leave only because Poppy told me about his brother and, despite what people might think of me, I am not a cold blooded bastard. Not completely, at least. Also I accidentally cut off his ear. He brought me a plate of home-made cookies; I imagine his poor mother is stress-baking as a way of grieving. I told him to bring his parent my sincere condolences.

7. Filius with chocolates – lovely – accompanied by

8. Rolanda, with more chocolates – oh I do love my chocolate, and no I'm not high on sedatives! - and

9. Pomona with a plant. My room is becoming increasingly similar to her greenhouse. They all apologized, saying they had not understood what was going on, otherwise they would have helped me, they would have tried to keep on a facade, to lessen my burden, to keep the Carrows occupied, and all that. Trust me, they are all terrible actors, they wear they hearts on their sleeves. Had I included them in Dumbledore's plan, the Dark Lord would have seen it without applying legilimens. But they still went on apologizing, trying to offer their sympathy, and all that nonsense. Really, what's so difficult to grasp? I was a triple-agent, it was imperative that they did not understand or suspect it. Somehow though, me stating the obvious out loud wasn't a great consolation for them, for Pomona began weeping, Rolanda rolled her eyes so hard I worried they would be stuck in her head, and Filius squirmed like he had ants in his pants. I am surrounded my a bunch of overly-emotional idiots playing professors for overly-emotional children, clearly.

10. Mr. Longbottom, with a get-well-soon card showing a moving baby elephant with a creepy smile. He stayed on the door torturing his hands and stammering, attempting for casual conversation. At his approach of such a nice weather today, isn't it? I counted backwards from one-hundred in order to keep my composure. I would have snapped and thrown him out had I not been informed that he had decapitated fucking Nagini. Good job, kid. You've got more balls than I thought. Who informed me of such heroic action? But of course my eleventh visitor, who accompanied him,

11. Miss Luna Lovegood, who gamboled inside my room – she really can't walk normally – with a balloon. Room – balloon. Eheh! She tied its rope to the rail at the foot of my bed, so now as I write this I can see it floating not far from me. She then proceeded to hug me, no matter how hard I glared at her. I suspect my reputation has been tarnished. By the way, the balloon is red and reminds me of a novel by a muggle writer who isn't half bad, in all honesty. I asked Nurse Ludmilla to move it somewhere else thought, but she refused.

12. Sybil. I wonder if I can obliviate myself. I will not add anything more.

* * *

I have been told I can leave in five days if I keep making progress. Wonderful. I will finally be able to resume eating.

No, what they serve here isn't food. I am pretty sure it is not even edible.

I have, unfortunately, finished my chocolates.

* * *

Four days to go, and Minerva came back.

I feared she was here to cry and apologize some more, but she instead surprised me with a proposition to come back to the school, either a DADA or Potions teacher. The choice is mine. She gave me time to think about it. After all, the school year is over, and the school still needs repairs before it will open again. She won't hire anyone before I let her know my decision.

I don't know what I will do. Teaching isn't my passion, but it has been my life for the most part of twenty years.

May Odin spare me from getting soft, but I have grown attached to the dunderheads I meet each September, both to the old ones who come back and to the new ones who just arrived. I have gotten accustomed to the hormonal-induced breakdowns and the inter-house squabbles between students, and to having dinner with my colleagues.

At the same time, I don't know if I wish to go back to a place that holds so many sad memories of my days as a student, as a teacher, as a headmaster. That school is not a happy place, not for me.

* * *

Two days to go, and I keep thinking about Minerva's words.

For many years I was a puppet, a pawn in a war, moved and directed by others. To suddenly have complete autonomy isn't as easy as one would have expected – and I wasn't expecting anything at all, I should have died, once again that you very much Saint Potter. I might come back just to make your life miserable in your seventh/eighth year.

* * *

I leave in three hours. All the nurses have come by to wish their best. Nurse Ludmilla was misty-eyed and kissed my cheek. Too many people have been kissing me as of late, I need to remedy such snub.

A small package was delivered by an own a few minutes ago. I wondered what it was, and I found my wand inside. I am still clutching it. It was recovered by Mr. Weasley and later given to the Aurors and the Ministry; they graciously kept it for me. This, more than anything else, means that it was time to go back out in the world.

I have been in Saint Mungo for two months, sleeping, and for three more weeks, in rehabilitation. It's time to go out.

I wrote to Minerva, yesterday. I have decided that I will pass the summer traveling and clearing my mind, only then I will tell her something. It's been a hard year. Long and difficult. I need to think, quietly. I do not know what my decision will be, but I know that, no matter what, I will have people supporting said decision. It's much more than I have had so far.

It's time to get to living.