Behind the Looking Glass

Feed A Fever


He felt absolutely, irrevocably horrible and he had not felt this sick in years. He had no sleep whatsoever. Instead, he had gotten quietly drunk the night before, and his head hurt as if someone had used it in place of a tom-tom. He had let the fire die down as he busied himself with a bottle of Scotch and inner retrospections on his reactions to Hollingsworth, and he was now thoroughly chilled to the bone. He coughed; his throat was painful and sore. He sneezed; his head felt heavy on top of his hangover; his ears were ringing and seemed as if ready to implode.

Completely miserable and shivering with cold, he donned his warmest robes and wearily trudged off to begin the day. He didn’t even care why the few students late for breakfast turned to stare at his very pale, red-nosed, puffy-eyed visage. Nearing the great hall, the normally tempting aroma of breakfast quickly repelled and sickened him, causing him to flee to the dungeons below. Brows furrowed deeply, he sat hunched against the chill behind the desk in his empty classroom and waited for the students to file in. He had a while before class and debated whether or not to take a quick catnap. His body finally won out, and slowly laying his head upon the desk, he fell into a heavy and dreamless sleep.

“Professor?” A hand gently shook him, and received no response.

The voice called again, this irritated him and his eyes slid open. Frowning, he raised his head and answered somewhat sluggishly in a raspy voice, “Yes?”

“There are no classes today – you’ve been sitting here for over an hour,” the voice seemed to come from a far distance.

“It’s Friday; there are always classes on Friday,” he said, wishing the voice would go away and leave him alone.

“Not this time. The students are going to Hogs Meade for the day. Did you forget?” The voice that wouldn’t leave him alone sounded somewhat concerned as its owner realized something was wrong.

He didn’t answer, instead he hunched deeper within his robes and shivered. A hand that must have been connected with the voice reached out and touched his forehead. It felt painfully icy to his fevered brow, and he quickly re-coiled from it.

“I should find Madam Pomfrey, you’ve a very high fever,” the voice was beginning to sound familiar to him, yet he couldn’t quite place it.

“I refuse go to that infernal woman,” he wanted to snarl, but just wasn’t quite up to it at the moment.

“You don’t have to, besides it would take too long anyway. Come on - get up,” the voice was insistent as he felt a hand slide under his arm to gently urge him to stand.

He complied without complaint and again shivering, wrapped his robes closer about him then thrust his hands under his arms as he let himself be lead away.

The hands soon led him someplace where it was wonderfully warm. He was fuzzily aware of being encouraged to sit on something – something soft and yielding. Even though he weakly protested, equally fuzzily aware of his clothing being removed then something warm and soft being slipped onto his body. He was soon told to swallow, and it was remarkably sweet whatever it was. He was then told to lie down, which he did obediently then the hands pulled something warm and comforting around him, and he slept.

Sometime later, he awakened and didn’t know where he was, and this frightened him. Which was odd, for as a usual rule he didn’t frighten easily. The hands quickly came back, and the voice began to make soothing, comforting sounds and he soon calmed down. He had to swallow something sweet again, and then he slept fitfully.

He had a dream. It was a strange dream. He dreamed of an incredibly beautiful, and smiling woman who quickly turned into the new DADA instructor. In his dream, August Hollingsworth spoke to him, he couldn’t understand the words, but the voice was fantastically soft and lilting. Hollingsworth also smiled invitingly at him, which disturbed him greatly and he was saddened because the object of his fevered dream was not a woman, and it soon turned into black nothingness for which he was very thankful.

That afternoon, he was coaxed into drinking some tea and helped to the water closet to relieve his bladder. He had no idea why he was embarrassed, he just knew he was, and the immediate urge to go over-ruled his sense of propriety as he stood with assistance from the hands that gently cared for him to relieve the pressure.

The hands, that had now become a symbol of comfort to him in his fevered brain, guided him back to bed as he walked on weak and shaky legs. As he lay down, his stomach started to lurch and heave, and one of those hands patiently held his head as his stomach relieved itself of its contents. When he was done, something cool and green was pressed to the base of his throat and the nausea quickly passed. Reaching up, he held fast onto the hands until he fell into a restless sleep once more.

The next morning, he awoke. His vision was focused, and he glanced at the window and saw it had snowed heavily during the night. His throat was still sore but didn’t pain him so much to swallow, and his head didn’t feel as if it would crumble from a mere touch. He tried to raise up, which was a bad idea. He quickly lay back down, closed his eyes and waited for the room to cease spinning. The room finally decided to become stable and stay where it was supposed to, and he opened his eyes sensing he was not alone. Cautiously, apprehensive of becoming dizzy again, he turned his head to the right. Two chairs had been pulled together to form a bed, and someone was asleep in them under a pile of blankets.

“Hey,” he croaked, and the figure in the chairs that had just fallen asleep for the first time in over twenty-four hours, didn’t stir.

He reached over and grabbed a copy of Potions Quarterly from the nightstand and tossed it at the sleeping figure. It landed rather hard. The blankets gave a relatively violent twitch, the chairs slid apart, and the figure fell to the floor with a muffled, “Ooof!”

Digging from under the mountain of blankets, August Hollingsworth’s head popped into view, hair tousled and looking quite tired and sleepy. Turning to the potions master Holly said, “Well, I see your back from the dead, so to speak.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” he said, allowing his head to fall back onto the pillow. Snape shut his eyes as he realized just who had undressed him, put him to bed, and helped him perform bodily tasks that he would rather not remember. Gah, he thought, he had even held Hollingsworth’s hands when he had nearly relieved his body of its internal organs when he was nauseous.

“You’ve had a rather rough turn with the flu,” Clothes rumpled, Holly stood and reached a hand to Snape’s forehead then commented, “Fever’s down finally – still a bit warm though.”

Snape would have stiffened if he had the strength to, but he had used that up tossing the magazine. Instead, he suffered as he helplessly lay there. He soon became very irritated, and really had no idea why he felt annoyed as Holly bent to fluff the pillows and smooth the blankets.

“Leave!” He forcefully croaked.

“Wha - what?!” Taken by surprise, Holly stammered incredulously.

“I – said – leave! Do you not understand the meaning?” Though Snape’s voice was still hoarse, his tone was cutting and hurtful.

Face reddening, Holly straightened. The small professor was exhausted and feeling ill used, and looked as if ready to start weeping. Blinking rapidly to fight the tears of fatigue that threatened to form and spill, Holly slowly backed away from the bed, and then quickly turned to leave.

Snape ordinarily would have sneered at what he would have normally considered the ridiculous sight of a man weeping, and he would have immensely enjoyed this small yet cruel victory, but this time somehow he couldn’t. He was keenly aware he had intentionally went out of his way to wound with cruel words this small person, who for whatever reason, had faithfully cared for him while he was helpless and ill. His anger faded and was replaced with the rarely felt feeling of regret.

“Don’t - I’m – sorry,” he quickly said, though the words felt odd in his mouth.

Holly stopped, back still turned to Snape and said tightly, “You know, you’re really an ungrateful son of a bitch. Ever been told that?”

The accusation jarred Snape a bit and he quietly replied, “Many times.”

“They probably had good reason too, I’ll bet,” Holly's voice held an edge of bitterness, as the hurt was still stinging.

“More than likely.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

Snape thought for a moment, and came to the startling conclusion that it had never bothered him until now, when he actually heard the incriminating statement come from the DADA instructor’s lips.

“Not until now,” he muttered.

Holly turned to face him and asked, “What’s so different about now?”

“Don’t push it Hollingsworth,” Snape warned, his tone firm yet held no malice at the question.

“Huh, don’t push it…. You’re lucky I didn’t go to Hogs Meade with the rest, Pomfrey went as well. Everyone spent the night there, because of the snow and thought it would be an adventure for the students, and they are not back yet. Your sorry arse would have still been in the dungeon if I hadn’t found you.”

Their eyes locked, inky black against brilliant blue, until Snape blinked and asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“After the way I’ve terrorized you since you’ve been here, why did you help me?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

“Why – did – you – help me?” Snape repeated, and sat up sensing Holly was not entirely being truthful.

Hollingsworth looked at him for a long moment before answering with Snape’s owns words, “Don’t push it Snape.”

Touché.

The potions master chewed the corner of his mouth as he carefully considered the reply, “Fair enough.”

They continued to stare at one another. Each privately wanting and needing something from the other that they dare not admit for fear of discovering self-revelations, and having secrets revealed. The silence became heavy and awkward as it hung in the air between them threatening to become an impenetrable barrier.

Snape attempted to breach that barrier; he opened his mouth to speak wanting to say something – something kind – something with meaning, yet the reserve that had been ingrained in him from his earliest days prevented it. Despite his efforts to mask his face, a world of pain crossed it and he closed his mouth then layback down pulling the blankets over his shoulder as he turned his back to Holly, “Get some rest Hollingsworth.”

“Right,” Holly saw those emotions and badly wanted to reach out to him, but was forced by necessity to change the subject, “Want something to eat yet?”

“No… perhaps later,” Snape replied quietly from under the mound of blankets.

“Then I’ll just leave you to sleep – you’re right, I do need to get some rest. I’ll inform the kitchen elves to bring you something in a couple of hours,” Holly said, and left Snape to ponder why in the world he would care so much about Hollingsworth’s opinion of him.

Closing the door, the younger teacher desperately wished the secret, so closely guarded, could be revealed and knew Snape did not understand the obvious feelings that were being struggled with. It was now made painfully aware the secret that had to be kept in place, was tormenting the both of them. They had come so close to coming together that it was physically excruciating to pull apart as they did, and Holly's heart literally felt that pain.

As promised, the kitchen elves were informed to bring a light meal to the ill professor. After leaving the vast cooking area, and no longer able to contain the pent up sentiments, with hands clasped tightly across the chest and slightly bent at the waist, August Hollingsworth fled down the corridor to the small chambers that was called home, and quickly slammed the door. Filled with self-loathing, and yanking off the wrinkled clothing then violently flinging the garments across the room, a sob escaped and was quickly pulled back in, “Goddamn me!”