Mended

One

"It is unlikely..." The healer at St. Mungo's begins, Danu ignores her and lies her cheek on Severus' upturned hand resting on the edge of the bed.

The nurse is attempting to tell her the same thing she has heard four times already that week, and it was only Tuesday. The very thing she had heard daily for the last three weeks.

The many ever changing healers, assistant healers, resident healers, and healers in training each told her the same thing. Severus would likely never speak again, and if he did, it would be difficult, if not impossible to understand what it is that he would be saying. The snake not only bit him, but drug it's fangs across his throat; ripping and tearing vital structures responsible for Severus' breathing, speaking, and even swallowing. The healers had done all they could to regrow the strands of tissue within his throat, but they were uncertain as of yet how much good it would truly do.

The first several days, the thought of never hearing his resonant, mellifluous voice again filled her with such despair that she sobbed until her head ached and her eyes were so swollen she herself was nearly admitted as a patient alongside him. Now, however, she did not care if he never spoke again. She only wanted him to wake up.

His eyes had opened once, but only briefly when he was first brought to St. Mungo's, and not since. Occasionally one of his fingers will flex, or his eyes will move behind the lids. Reflex, they told her each time it happened. Severus was in there though, she knew it.

Late in the night on his second day at St. Mungo's, Severus' breathing became raspy and labored; it could be heard from outside of the door. A "death rattle" she heard one of the healers murmur as they rushed into the room and pushed Danu aside. For nearly two and a half weeks something that resembled a pair of bellows hung suspended in air above him, breathing for him. Once he began showing signs of strength, the device was removed. Severus took a deep gasping breath, flexed his fingers and toes, and turned his head to the side. It was the first and only time he had shown signs of life since he had been bitten. That, the healers finally agreed, was not reflex.

"I wouldn't expect him to be much of a singer after this." The healer changing the dressings on his neck chuckled as she tosses the soiled linen in a bin in the corner.

Danu lifts her cheek from Severus' hand and glares at her until she becomes fidgety and uncomfortable, before finally turning and scurrying from the room. As her eyes scan the room, she finds the Auror of the day stationed in the corner of the room, one brow raised at her in question as the quill levitating at his side scribbles frantically on a length of parchment so long at this point it was probably three times her height, if not more.

Three times a day a new Auror comes in to take the place of the previous one on duty. After three weeks, their faces had begun to morph into one another. These Auror's never spoke to her, they were only present to record every movement and word within the room and be there in the event Severus were to wake. These Auror's were rookies, either new to the job, close to retirement, or on a well-deserved safe job after the war. The one who interrogated her, however, was the head Auror. He was relentless, borderline cruel and uncaring.

—

The interrogations began the day after they had arrived at St. Mungo's. Danu still had Severus' long dried blood covering her body, it flaked and cracked, leaving small piles of nearly black particles wherever she went. She had refused to leave his side for any reason. Harry, Hermoine, and even McGonagall begged her to go home to rest for a few hours, to clean herself up and then come back, but she had refused. The three of them stood opposite her around Severus' bed, peering down at his pale, lifeless face. She wanted to tell them to leave, that her husband was not on display. It had been hard enough to keep the reporters out of the room, she didn't need them adding to his undoubtable distress, even if he were unconscious. It was then that a plump middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and a white goatee entered the room. His overall demeanor told her that he was a no nonsense type of man that demanded unyielding respect.