Magic and Mystery Coil by Allegory_for_Hatred

End of the Line

Dazai's dream was sweet, and soft, and long. It was rare that he got so much uninterrupted sleep, except for when he was on the verge of insomnia-induced death or was deeply sedated in Mori's office. Both of which happened at a frequency more common than Dazai suspected the rest of the population experienced. But still not frequent enough for Dazai ever to really feel well-rested.

Understandably, Dazai woke up on edge. He had one ear listening out for Mori, the other for Father. Half-consciousness couldn't steal his paranoia. And even though his he ached all the way down to his fingertips, he reached out for a knife. A snake about to strike.

Soft light tickled his eyelid.

Oh, Dazai remembered sluggishly. I'm at Hogwarts.

He pried open his eye, crusty with a long sleep, and blinked blearily up at the infirmary ceiling. Warm, soft, and linen. Nothing at all like Mori's cement-slab office. It must have still been the small hours of the morning, Dazai thought, because the only light filtering through the infirmary came thinly through a window. An overhead torch was lit, but only dimly. Dazai didn't think he'd ever seen a dim flame before, but magic was strange enough that he didn't bother to question it. The warm atmosphere nearly lulled Dazai back to sleep, but now that he was awake, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he needed to be up. Doing something.

Feeling groggy, Dazai started to push himself upright. This was an instant mistake.

Aching, burning pain shot through his entire body, ringing out as a stabbing agony in his head. No Longer Human—when was the last time he overtaxed No Longer Human this badly? Dazai foggily remembered killing the mountain troll—killing Quirrell—and couldn't decide one way or another which time was the worst. They all sucked. Everything sucked. He let out a pitiful groan and slumped back into the bed.

"Don't push yourself, brat."

Dazai jerked upright immediately.

"Lay back down," Snape said, brows furrowed somewhere between annoyance and concern, and pressed a hand to Dazai's chest. He pushed lightly until Dazai's head landed back on the pillow.

Dazai tried not to make his sigh of relief too obvious. "What are—" he cleared his throat, "—what are you doing here?"

What am I doing here? he almost asked. Because if Dazai was being entirely honest, he did not remember going to the infirmary. He didn't remember much of anything after the basilisk, actually. When he really scratched his brain over it—which he didn't want to do, because his head hurt like hell—he only drew up blurry images of the Loyalty Club, Lockhart, and a few other staff Dazai was currently blanking on. But he was hardly going to admit to any of that.

Snape settled a heavy, scrutinizing gaze onto him. The hand still on Dazai's chest moved to his wrist and pressed into the pulse-point there for several moments. Dazai forced himself calm—willed his rabbit heartbeat to slow a little. Snape said nothing, only moved his inspection up Dazai's arm. His hand grazed over a fresh bandage there. Dazai stilled at once, but Snape only seemed to be doing a once-over. He didn't linger more than a second. Shortly, he had moved up to Dazai's forehead.

"I don't have a fever," Dazai told him, swallowing around his tongue.

"No," Snape said after a pause. He dropped his hand back to his lap. Dazai blinked when he saw that Snape's robes were wrinkled. More than that, his sleeves were dirtied with blood and—if Dazai wasn't mistaken—glitter. "Not anymore. How do you—"

"Are you wearing yesterday's clothes, sir?"

Snape's mouth snapped shut.

"You look rumpled," Dazai told him.