Birthday Party

2: Birthday Party

"Happy birthday, Harry!"

"Cheers, mate, and may you live forever!"

"Gimme a kiss, love, before you drink this, will you?" The last sentence came from Ginny and caused laughter in the kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Everyone knew that Ginny disliked Firewhiskey, but of course they couldn't celebrate Harry's birthday with milk.

Family and friends had gathered around the big table in the kitchen; it was the cosiest place in the house, and they had spent a wonderful evening together. Harry smiled widely at everyone: Molly and Arthur Weasley, his wife Ginny, and Ron, of course, his oldest and best friend. Tonks had had to stay at home as Teddy had the flu, but had sent Lupin as a substitute. Only one was missing, really. Well, one and a half.

"Where is she, then?" Ron asked at the very moment Harry thought of Hermione.

Harry turned to him thoughtfully and looked him up and down. "Possibly avoiding you, Weasley," he mocked, and Ron laughed. It was an old joke, now. He and Hermione had been together, briefly, at their last year at school, after it had become clear that the year was to be repeated by everyone. It hadn't worked out between them, though, and after a few weeks they mutually had decided to drop the romance part and go back to their former, fabulous friendship. It had worked perfectly.

"She usually isn't late," Ron now said, slightly worried. The meal, delicious as it had been, had been less fun without her and her daughter, Sasha.

Harry nodded; he had followed his friends thought easily. "Don't worry, Ron. I've left the shields down so she can Apparate right to the front door whenever she's done with whatever she's doing tonight."

Getting up, Harry went to kiss Ginny and was just about to go upstairs and check on their sleeping son when the ear-splittingly, loud crack of a badly performed Apparition spell made everyone jump. Molly Weasley dropped the bowl she had just planned to take to the sink; Ginny gave a small cry and Harry and Remus had their wands out instantly. Damn! Harry thought, but wasn't really worried. Just someone who was – impolitely enough – Apparating directly into his kitchen; just someone who was quite obviously in a hurry. This someone had better be able to explain what the fuss is all about.

But Harry forgot his wand and his thoughts only a second later and froze at the sight in front of him. So did everyone else. Arthur Weasley slumped heavily into the next chair, and his wife grabbed hold of the table. Ron didn't believe his eyes, nor did Remus. They just stared in disbelief. After all, this was a birthday party. Harry had expected some more guests, not... this.

A man stood swaying in the middle of the kitchen. A tall man, dressed in black, his face white as freshly fallen snow, and it was certainly no one who had been invited.

Snape.

The man's harsh attempts to get some air in his lungs rang through the silent room. Sweat had plastered Snape's hair to his skull; it stuck to his face and covered the pain in his eyes. In his arms he held a lifeless figure tightly pressed to his chest. A woman, deathly pale and with curly brown hair. Hermione. And... and... Sasha?

Silence rang like church bells as Harry and his friends and his family tried to understand why Snape was standing in the kitchen with Hermione in his arms and Sasha as well, why he was swaying, why he looked so utterly, completely awful, and where the small drops of blood came from that appeared out of nowhere on the clean, light planks of the floor. Certainly not out of the wounds in Hermione's face? Certainly that was nothing but a bad joke?

It was an endless moment, but then Snape took a step forward, staggered, and finally fell. He had to let go of both the woman and the child, but managed to rather let his bundle slip gently to the floor than dropping it. "Please," he rasped. "Help them."

That broke the silence. They sprang into action, not wasting time by asking useless questions. Hermione was lifted up, and Ginny gently took Sasha in her arms. "They're alive," she murmured only seconds later – she was a mediwitch at St. Mungo's and knew what to do with torture victims. And tortured they had been, that much was obvious. Ginny ordered Harry and Ron to get her supplies, told her mother to set up some beds and managed to tend to both Hermione and Sasha in the next twenty minutes without losing either life.

Snape, after having delivered his burden, got hesitantly back to his feet, left the kitchen and found a chair in the living room where it was quiet and where no one would bother him. He didn't seem to notice the turmoil outside the room. He sat in the darkness, glad for a moment of peace. Only Molly once peeped in, casting him a nasty look for not offering his help – after all, he was skilled enough with healing potions. Apart from that the others left him alone, simply because they had forgotten that he was there at all.

Only when it was certain that Hermione and Sasha would live and would be fine in a few days, Harry remembered Snape and considered that maybe he should try to get some information out of the man. Seeing him nowhere in the kitchen, Harry finally found him, eyes closed, in the dimly lit living room in front of the burnt down fireplace. "Having a nap, Severus?" he asked acidly. How the hell he can sleep when Hermione... when they are in such a bad condition? But then he saw that Snape wasn't sleeping, but staring with heavy lids into flames that weren't there.

Harry pulled a chair closer to Snape and sat down. "We could have used your help, you know," he said, a hint of accusation in his voice. "You are good with healing potions, you..."

Snape slowly lifted his head. In his eyes was a look so full of horror that it shocked Harry to the bones. "Gods, Severus, what happened?" Harry exclaimed, jumping off his chair. "Look, can you tell me... right, wait, I think I get you something to drink first." Harry realised with a sudden feeling of fear that Snape seemed unfocussed, absentminded, in a dreamlike condition that was totally atypical for him. Something is wrong here. Harry thought. I just need to find out what it is. He rushed back into the kitchen, filled a glass with Firewhiskey, went back to Snape and held it out to the silent figure.

No response. No movement.

Harry hesitated. It was hard for him to speak to Snape even under the best conditions. His dislike of his former teacher had mostly subsided, but still Harry didn't feel comfortable around him and possibly never would. But Snape was their spy, with immense skills in getting the Aurors to the right place at the right time; in the past years, he had helped to bring most of the remaining Death Eaters down. Only the inner circle with Dolohov as leader had survived so far. Snape had dedicated his life to this task and simultaneously had kept his colleagues in the Order at bay, had never befriended any of them with – maybe – the exception of Remus Lupin.

Harry didn't really want to be here, trying to talk to a man who seemed to have looked into the face of the devil himself, but then, who else should do it? It was his house, after all, and Snape therefore his guest. It's past midnight, and this must have happened at a meeting – he must know something about it. He needed Snape to talk; maybe the Firewhiskey would loosen his tongue. Harry reached out and gently touched Snape's shoulder in order to get his attention.

Snape flinched, moved, and swept Harry's hand away.

"Severus, tell me..." Harry started, than stared at his hand. A drop hit the floor.

Damning his thoughtlessness for not having lit the candles when coming in, Harry took a closer look and only now saw that Snape's shirt was sticking to his haggard body. The fabric seemed to be wet, soaked even. For a moment, Harry wondered why Snape's hair was dry when his shirt was wet; then his brains caught up and he muttered, "Lumos".

Obviously, it wasn't rain that had soaked Snape's shirt; it was blood, and neither Harry nor anyone else had realised it as Snape, as always, was wearing black. He's wounded, Harry thought in disbelieve. Why didn't he say so?

Then a horrible thought crossed his mind. He knows exactly what has happened – he must have been there, he must have witnessed it, and he doesn't want to talk about it and all this is his fault, somehow this is his fault, and that's why he tries to hide in here! Harry knew it there and then, knew that Snape could have prevented Hermione's and Sasha's injuries, and the hate he felt for the shaking man in front of him hit him like a hammer. Hermione, she always avoids being in the same room with him whenever they attend at meetings together – she knows he's a monster!

Harry's voice was quiet when he stated, "That's not Hermione's blood on you, is it. Why didn't you tell us you are injured? What are you not telling us?"

*************************

From the moment he had Disapparated from the hideout, had arrived at Harry's place and found it was indeed the right night, the night of Harry's party, the night when Ginny would be most definitely home, the night when the barriers would be down to allow direct Apparition – from that moment on the world had gone quiet for Severus Snape. The sounds had became muffled, everything had gone slightly blurry, and straight thinking had turned into something other people did. He was in pain, but didn't care, grateful that no one tried to ask him stupid questions. Somehow, had found a quiet place to sit down and just had wrapped both his arms round his waist, carefully supporting the broken bone.

He was cold, so bloody cold. Maybe, if he closed his eyes for a little while, he would remember why he was here, and where 'here' actually was. Why on earth he felt so awful?

Then the smell of Firewhiskey intruded his peace, shook him, revolted him. Why people always try to shove that stuff down my throat? he wondered. Don't they know it makes me even more sick than I already am?

Someone was touching him. He pushed away the hand.

Words dropped in his mind. They had a meaning. Potter's question – had it been Potter? – troubled him. What blood? Looking down his chest he saw himself still breathing and suddenly, viciously felt his life pouring out of the slashes on his chest. He realised only then that, if no one took care of him, he would die.

Impossible. He couldn't die.

Snape lifted his head and looked at Harry. "Not her blood", he rasped, angry. "Mine. Do something about it!" The room around him began to loose structure; Potter's head was buoying somewhere near the ceiling. Odd – was he ill, that he felt so close to death?

Harry dropped the glass in his hand and reached out to grab Snape's shoulders. The feeling of the wet fabric under his steadying hands filled his stomach with uneasiness, but Harry didn't dare to let go, as otherwise Snape would have hit the floor.

Light-headed; tired; annoyed; scared: a mixture of different feelings plus a sudden weakness washed over Snape, and as the last bit of strength left him, he went limp like a rag doll. He nearly dropped off the chair, but someone caught him. If they – whoever they were – would only leave him alone! But no, of course not: now someone for some peculiar reason ripped his shirt open, and someone gasped. Himself? Someone else? Someone picked him up, lifted him like a child, and carried him through endless rooms to a table – dreadful was the pain, and dreadful was the embarrassment. Blood coloured the floor, running from Snape's thin wrists and leaving dark red pools on the floor with every step Remus took, safely taking his friend back into the kitchen where it was warmer and where there was enough space for treatment.

Snape's head, too heavy for his aching neck, slumped helplessly over someone's arms. Darkness was all around him, interrupted by muttered words and piercing candle light. Then he was put down, gently, caring. Snape didn't want gentleness, but feeling the hard, wooden surface of the kitchen table beneath him he welcomed the smooth texture that slightly pulled him away from unconsciousness. Maybe he should get up; maybe his injuries weren't that bad at all.

"Ginny!" Harry screamed, rubbing his bloody hands off on his trousers. "Ginny, get down here, quick!" Snape mustn't die. A dead man couldn't answer questions.

Remus held his struggling friend down, shocked at the state Severus was in. With one hand he hindered Snape to get off the table, with the other he unceremoniously ripped off the black shirt. The sight of the deep slashes, the soft sound of the blood dropping to the floor made him sick to the bones. "Why you didn't say anything, you blasted idiot!" he shouted, and then Ginny came running downstairs and stopped dead at the sight of yet another patient.

"Good gods," she murmured. Her kitchen had turned into a slaughterhouse whilst she had been upstairs, and on her dining table laid the victim. "Hand me the bottle, Harry," she ordered, snipping her fingers impatiently. She wanted to sedate Severus as quickly as possible. One look in Severus's face confirmed that he indeed was still conscious – his eyes followed her very movement. "Drink this," she urged, slipping her hand under his neck, but he snarled, ripped his head free and gripped her wrist instead. She saw only then that his other arm was broken. How came that he hadn't said so? How on earth could he lay still? The pain must be immense – how he could be so unnaturally calm?

Snape stared at the women bending over him. Ginny. Mediwitch. She would make sure that he lived. But to his conditions. "No sedative," he murmured, barely able to hold her wrist between his shaking fingers, barely able to focus on her. But he lay still; if he didn't, she wouldn't listen to him.

"Look, Severus, I need to take care of you, and it will hurt," Ginny said gently and wiped his hair out of his face.

"Fine for me," he murmured, his arm dropping back on the table. He knew that he had a reason for wanting, needing to suffer. But he kept forgetting what this reason was.

Ginny, who had learned long ago not to argue with patients gave in, knowing that he'd be unconscious in a moment anyway.

But she was wrong. He didn't lose consciousness. With every bit of his will he fought to stay awake.

*************************

Ginny worked fast. Her hands were flying, and her voice quickly got hoarse from the complicated, sung incantations that were always used for these sorts of slash-injuries. The Dark Arts had invented lots of similar spells that caused deep and severely bleeding wounds; St. Mungos had developed an incantation that worked for all of them.

It was not an easy task, and when she finally was done with Snape, she was shaking. She'd never had to treat a patient who was so determined to witness every healing spell, and she had never healed someone who, for reason she couldn't understand, didn't flee the pain, but welcomed it instead.

But she stopped the bleeding and mended his broken arm. She was able to ignore the stare of those deep, black eyes and the harsh screams. Finally, she was able to seal the deep slashes. She heard Severus gasping for breath and felt him fighting against Remus's strong hands and the binding spells that held him down, and she saw Remus wincing at his friend's screams with every spell she put on her patient. She wouldn't sleep well for a while after tonight. Why? she thought. Why is he doing this?

And then, before she was really satisfied with her work, Snape through gritted teeth bit out the command to leave him alone: he refused further treatment and demanded in a barely audible voice to be unbound. Slowly, he fought himself into a sitting position, pulled the blood-stained table cloth round his shoulders and made clear simply by looking at them with hate in his eyes that he wouldn't allow anyone to get near him again.

For several minutes he was able to do nothing but breath and prevent himself to fall off the table. Occasionally, he shook his head as if to clear it after a severe hangover. He seemed to be searching for words; then, finally and with every pair of eyes upon him, he started to talk.

He told them about this meeting and some of the others. In detail he told them about the witch he had killed a few weeks ago and the wizard he had tortured, but didn't tell them the reason why he had done so. Without so much as a flinch he explained that tonight he hadn't tried to save the woman and the child from torture in order to save his own life. He clearly remembered telling Avery that he hadn't acted earlier because one of them might have killed him. "The child was to be for Macnair," he said, in a strangely surprised voice. "I didn't know that he likes them so young."

"You mean... what you're saying is... you witnessed them torturing her? You saw it? They did that and you sat in the same room, the... the whole evening? You were there, doing nothing, whilst... whilst..." Ron stammered, disbelieving and shocked.

"Yes."

"I knew it!" Harry said bitterly, with ice in his voice and shaking with rage. "When I found you in the living room, just sitting there, I knew it. I understand you didn't really like it; but any of us would have rather died than allowing her to get hurt!"

"She obviously wasn't important enough for me to act sooner," Snape pointed out, quite calmly and ignorant to the reaction his cruel words caused.

"You could have..." Ron started, but didn't finish the sentence. His urge to beat the man on the table unconscious nearly overwhelmed him, despite the fact that it would mean to hit a defenceless man.

"There. Was. Nothing. I. Could do. Nothing! Be glad I got them out alive at all." Slightly amused, Snape saw that Potter was only an inch away from casting a killing curse. Might be not a bad idea, to get killed now. But then, he couldn't just die. Not after all he had done tonight. It wouldn't be fair.

Still, it was obvious that he had to get out of the house. Slipping off the table, Snape underestimated his weakness and nearly fell. He scowled at Remus who – hesitantly – stepped in to support him. Ignoring Lupin, Snape found his balance without help and turned round to Harry.

You won't make it much longer - you already look like a ghost, Snape, Harry thought. "You should stay... rest..." he started, but heard how false his voice sounded. He wanted the man to go as quickly as possible.

"A shirt, Potter," Snape demanded hoarsely. "I consider it best if I leave now."

A few minutes later, the door closed behind him. They didn't bother to hold him back.

"Will he be... you know, will he manage?" Molly Weasley asked awkwardly, and Ginny nodded.

"It's not ideal, but he seemed fine enough," she said slowly. "Although he is nothing but skin and bone, he should survive that easily – he's been through worse, and his will to live is strong. And his own healing potions are better than mine – he will go home and take them, I assume. But maybe I will have a look at him tomorrow." She wasn't happy about the situation, but neither could she stand the thought of Snape being under her roof, being so near to Hermione and Sasha. That he had saved them in the end in her opinion didn't outbalance at all what Snape had allowed to happen to them beforehand.