Not About Our Scars

Ch.1: St. Mungo's

Bright sunlight shone through the window, starting yet another uncharacteristically warm London day.

Severus had been transported to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries shortly after the battle, and it had been a few days from his arrival before he finally awoke.

A chirpy little witch in garish Healer robes had then introduced herself as Fenella Braithwaite, and proceeded to nervously blabber her updates.

Potter had maintained his saviour streak, defeating Voldemort once and for all and, of course, making sure the whole wizarding world knew the most intimate details of Severus' life.

He groaned.

"Of course, since Harry Potter has made sure the Ministry knows of your heroism, and no charges will be pressed against you. Personally, I wouldn't be surprised if you were awarded the Order of Merlin!"

Had his throat not been ripped open by an over-sized, vicious snake, Severus would've screamed. Instead, he could only groan louder.

Healer Braithwaite seemed to obviously misinterpret his frustration with eagerness for information.

"As far as your treatment goes, it was lucky Miss Granger happened to carry an antidote to the snake's venom. Had she and the others found you any later, there would've been nothing we could've done."

And what a tragedy that would've been, he mentally commented. Now that speech was painful, even his thoughts had started dripping with sarcasm and rage.

"Even so, you'll have to remain here until we can figure out how to get the wound to heal permanently. We've had a similar case before, but your situation is proving more delicate. So close to the carotid arteries... once again, you were very lucky..."

As the young witch droned on, Severus couldn't help but think he was anything but lucky.

Just as he had been ready to welcome death, that comfort had been snatched away from him, however small a comfort that would have been.

"Oh - Mr. Potter and his friends have visited last night, and Professor McGonagall sent an owl this morning, she seems very concerned. I'm sure you can expect them all soon." Healer Braithwaite informed him, reassuringly.

He allowed himself to doze off, too exhausted to try and argue.

--------

Healing was a painful and tedious job.

Three weeks had passed since Severus had regained consciousness. He had fallen into the forced routine of bandage changing, potion drinking and regular check-ups by the Healer-in-Charge. When he wasn't fading in and out of consciousness, he had become the unwilling audience to Healer Braithwaite's trivial chit-chat. Some days, she would share stories of nameless past patients she obviously found amusing, most of whom Severus suspected were made up. Other days, she'd report some silly article she'd read in the Prophet, and launch into the longest list of trivia on the subject. By the end of the first week, Severus had a whole new knowledge of the history of the Holyhead Harpies (the Healer's favourite team), and had heard the story of how she'd met the team's Captain back in 1972 at least twice.

It was when she had informed him that his former colleague and current permanent patient, Gilderoy Lockhart, had heard of his presence at the hospital and was willing to deliver a signed picture to his room that Severus finally snapped. There was only one place Lockhart could stick that autograph, and Severus made sure to clearly imply it in his response.

He was still rolling his eyes at such nonsense, when Healer Braithwaite erupted in a triumphant "Ha!", proud of herself for finally figuring out what could get him to talk back. The following days, he would add the sporadic comment to the witch's rambles, usually to let her know just how much he did not care about Celestina Warbeck's new album, that wizard who had come in with a gnome still firmly biting his nose, or this week's Quidditch match. He didn't really care for anything much, lately, and he started voicing his annoyance more and more frequently.