Chapter Text
BEFORE WIGGENWELD
You didn’t mean to end up this way. It was a gross miscalculation of endurance that, frankly, you owed more to an overtaxing of homework rather than your own inherent ineptitudes.
You were still fresh off your first few months at Hogwarts and you’d barely scratched the surface. But your skills had improved so quickly, so dramatically. The encouragement from your professors had been intoxicating. One professor in particular, but you weren’t going to think about that.
Really, this would not have happened if you hadn’t been so rushed. You were tired, overstimulated. For the first time, the thrill had gone to your head.
You had been foolish and overconfident. Acromantula poison left untended for too long.
The tickling had been an irritant at first, stinging, yet manageable. And the Diricawl nest you were defending turned into a bit of a caper you hadn’t anticipated when a surprisingly resourceful poacher got hold of your nab-sack and led you on a long and winding chase that ended miles from the nearest Floo Flames.
The chase was all you had in mind, you admitted, the battle spirit overtaking you. Your only focus, the poacher’s retreating figure, your only thoughts, the report you would make to Fig about your progress, his praise, his platitudes and rewards. You disregarded the tremors as they started so faintly. Your sweat, you owed to the warmth of the night and the strenuous bounding about.
You had gotten ahead of yourself tonight and for all the wrong reasons. Hubris of the highest order. When you checked your pockets as your breath came short, you found no potions to speak of, no salves. Just your wits, you thought brashly, that would be enough to get you back. A quick broom flight away.
Of course, you had been stupid. The poison was farther along than anticipated, your adrenaline having cloaked its true advancement.
And where does that leave you now? Crumpled in a pitiful heap in the Transfiguration Courtyard, curled up in agony as you crawl your way past the Wyvern Fountain and huddle against it, a momentary spasm making it too difficult to continue. You’ll rest, but only for a second.
You just need to make it to your dormitory. The promise of a cool room, fresh sheets, Wiggenweld, water, antidotes. You can make it.
But then…
He finds you there. Happenstance, it must be, but why does it have to be him? On one of his nightly prowls, no doubt, the Auror in him untamable and unquenched, always on the search for threats in the dark.
“Foolish,” he breathes gruffly as he sees your felled form and rushes across the grass to your side.
He lays a hand to your forehead and curses. He gathers you in his arms, picking you up with a strength you hadn’t anticipated, carrying you so securely despite the to and fro of his limping, rolling gait.
Your hands clutch at his coat lapels. You tell yourself to release him, not to show weakness. You can’t help it, the fabric of his coat feels good in your hands. You can’t let go. You grit your teeth, refusing to cry out. “I can manage, I can manage,” you mutter stubbornly.
“Quiet,” he hisses. He is angry. You can tell without looking.
But of course, you look anyway.
His grizzled jaw is clenched tightly, a spark of fury in his eyes. Anger at you? You can’t be sure.
“Please,” you say. “Don’t tell.”
“Be silent,” he says again.
You don’t want the others to know, for Fig to discover that you can’t be trusted to handle yourself. You don’t want to lose your opportunity to excel, to ascend. What new spells might you now be denied because you didn’t have the foresight to stuff sufficient Wiggenweld in your pocket?
You refuse to allow him to take you to the Hospital Wing. He could disregard your request, of course, you are hardly in a state to fight him. But he yields without a word.
He deposits you gently on a bench outside your common room, raising your head to tip the Wiggenweld into your mouth. The fizzing liquid slips down your throat, cooling your insides. The red haze of agony recedes in an instant. He administers the antidote and the final sparks of pain fade gently away into the night.
You blink, alert at last.
He is kneeling next to the bench, eye level with you and frowning deeply. “Have a care with your life,” he says tonelessly. “No one else seems keen to take charge of it.”
And with that, he leaves you. No House points taken, no lectures. Just his disappointment. His bitter disdain.
You have double potions tomorrow. The Wiggenweld lesson, of all things.
You groan and head for bed.