Author’s Note: Vaughn still wears the beta crown, for which thanks are due. As ever, any errors are mine and mine alone, the Potterverse most certainly isn’t, and comments and critiques are appreciated.

I don’t think the violence in this chapter is graphic enough to require a warning, but there are numerous references to blood/bloody wounds and some implied self-injury.

---

Insidious

by Grainne

---

Chapter 14: After the Flight

Snape stood in a hedgerow at the edge of an empty field, surrounded by a tangle of hawthorn, blackthorn and hazel. Potter’s words, Fang’s frantic barking, and the screeches of the Hippogriff were still ringing in his ears, and his breath came in deep, shuddering gasps. He sagged back against an elder tree. Side-Along-Apparating a protesting teenager was not easy at the best of times; doing so in haste and out of one’s mind with rage (and with an injured arm, to boot) was downright tricky.

Draco had burst from Snape’s grasp and started running across the field the instant he’d realised where Snape had brought them. His pale hair reflected the moonlight, standing out clearly against the darkness of the fallow earth and the great stone house that lay beyond. Snape dearly hoped that Bellatrix was not in one of those darkened windows, keeping watch. She had been conspicuously absent from the attack on the castle. In all likelihood, then, the Dark Lord had forbidden her to go, forbidden her to assist her nephew during his “test”…it all made sense, really. No wonder Narcissa had come to Snape; she’d known that her own sister would never directly disobey an order from the Dark Lord, not even for the sake of her own kin.

Snape raised a hand to his face and prodded the wound on his cheek. The blood was sticky now, no longer running freely. He slid his hand down along the left side of his neck, his fingers shaking. The wounds there were not as deep. The Hippogriff’s talons had been partially deflected by his forearm, which he had thrown up instinctually in defence. Would that he had not. Snape had a sudden, pleasing, vision of having his jugular vein slashed open by the giant beast, of bleeding to death quickly, quietly, and effortlessly, of being done with this nonsense forever. The vision was soon spoiled, however, by the realisation that Potter would have borne witness to the sight and no doubt would have derived great satisfaction from it. Insufferable, stupid, thoughtless boy! He could ruin anything, it seemed, even a good death fantasy.

Gritting his teeth, Snape gave his tattered left forearm a squeeze with his right hand. Yes, here was the sorry flesh that had taken the brunt of the attack, rent, he had to assume, to the very bone. However, all of his mortal wounds could be healed well enough with the right potions and salves, plus a nice hot cup of tea and about three days of uninterrupted sleep. And therein lay the crux of Snape’s dilemma.

He had just cast the Killing Curse on one of the most powerful wizards of all time in front of numerous witnesses. No Death Eater would dare accuse him of inaction or confused loyalties now. He had every right to take his place at the Dark Lord’s side (or, more likely, at his feet) and, as long as Snape didn’t show any signs of aspiring to the top position himself, he might make out very well indeed. He wasn’t sure about the tea, but he knew the Dark Lord could provide him with everything else he required, including a place to hide, and Snape could potentially milk the, “but, Master, I rid you of Dumbledore” line for years to come. With any luck he could live out his remaining years well fed and student free, with only the odd bit of bowing and scraping and poison brewing to get in the way of his own pursuits.

None of the Death Eaters would blame him for taking this course of action; it is what any one of them would do, were they in his position (save Bellatrix, as she’d no doubt go on grovelling and shedding blood for the sheer bliss of it, but she was hardly a good role model). He had earned his rest. And yet…

And yet, Harry Potter was not going to pack it in. Of this Snape was certain.

There would come a day when Harry Potter would find and destroy the last of the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes. There would come a day when Harry Potter would seek out the Dark Lord himself, and Snape still had a major say in determining how that destined encounter would play out. Would Potter turn up as a fractured, bitter teen or as a chastened, wary young man? Would he sacrifice himself and his companions in a hot-headed attempt at revenge, or would he overwhelm his foe with the sheer righteousness of his intact soul, aided by those bound to him through friendship and blood?

Snape had the potion he needed even now, hidden away in the satchel next to his skin. The ritual could still be completed. In fact, whilst examining his injuries, Snape had thought of a way he might go about doing so. It was risky. It would involve breaking several laws (not to mention forgoing tea and proper healing and sleep for a while longer), but it just might work.

Snape gazed up at the night sky. Yes, he probably could see the thing through, but did he really want to?

Seeing it through meant honouring promises and righting old wrongs.

Both noble things, Snape thought, but not imperative to my present existence, surely?

Seeing it through meant doing things he couldn’t talk his way out of.

Never a good idea.

But seeing it through also meant a greater chance of survival—not to mention freedom—after the big showdown, didn’t it? And Snape hadn’t spent all those tortuous hours in Surrey over the past year only to give up now, had he?

Wishing that, for once in his life of careful stratagem (punctuated by moments of astonishingly bad judgment), the easy way out and the best way forward could overlap the slightest bit, Snape closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Unbidden, Potter’s last words resurfaced.

“Kill me then. Kill me like you killed him, you coward—”

Snape’s eyes flew open. That was it; he’d do it. The boy would see…the boy would be made to see how wrongheaded he’d been all along, how much he owed to Snape. Snape would drag his sorry carcass to Surrey once more, then, before he reported to the Dark Lord. He would undergo excruciating physical and mental pain, and he would place his life in the hands of ignorant Muggles—all for the sake of seeing Harry Potter’s horrified face when the final confrontation came. And hopefully living to laugh at it.

But first…

Snape did a quick patch up job on the worst of his injuries. It would hurt like the blazes to reopen the wounds later, but he couldn’t afford to pass out from blood loss until he had all his ducks in a row.

Snape started picking his way across the field. There were lights on in the manor now, and as Snape made his way toward the house he heard a querulous voice.

“Where is she? What’ve you done with her? Out of my way.”

Snape came to a low stone wall at the edge of the field and crouched down behind it. Beyond the wall, a manicured lawn sloped up toward the rear of the east wing. There was a small terrace off the ground floor rooms, and Snape could make out two figures standing on it, silhouetted against the light coming from the French doors. One of the figures—thin, agitated—was clearly Draco. He was brandishing his wand. The other figure was squat, or perhaps doubled over. He or she did not appear to be moving, and Snape wondered why Draco didn’t just push past and go into the house.

Snape clambered over the wall and crept closer. Soon he heard an all-too-familiar voice wheedling, cajoling.

“…resting, young master Malfoy. You wouldn’t want to disturb her beauty rest, would you? Not that she needs it, of course, but still…leave it until morning. Come around front. I’ll have the house-elves let you in. Would you care for a nice cup of tea, perhaps, or a bis—”

“No, I do not want tea and biscuits,” Draco shouted. “And this is my father’s house, not yours, you manky old twat! How dare you presume to—”

As Draco’s tirade continued, Snape crept as close to the two figures on the terrace as he dared. Then he rose and took careful aim.

“Stupefy!” he yelled. “Incarcerous!”

Wormtail crumpled, senseless, onto the terrace and was instantly bound by thick ropes.

Draco whirled round.

“I didn’t need you to—”

“Go wake your mother,” Snape cut in, swooping down on the unconscious Wormtail and collecting his wand. He peered at it, gave a wave, and said a quiet incantation. A puff of something, almost like smoke, emerged from the tip of the wand. Snape repeated the incantation several more times until the air around his head was thick with the ghosts of various spells. Snape smirked and tucked the wand into his sleeve.

“You’ll find that her chamber has been heavily ensorcelled—soundproofing charms, Intruder Alarm Charms, Confundus-on-contact on the doorknob, that sort of thing. You can manage those, I trust?”

Draco nodded brusquely, his eyes aflame.

“Good. Now, let’s hope she hasn’t been sedated, because you two need to get as far away from here as possible as soon as possible. No elaborate packing; no orders for the house-elves. Just gather the essentials and go. Quickly. Quietly.”

“I’m—we’re not going to run away. I’ve done nothing wrong. I got them into the castle, as promised. I had Dumbledore—”

“Don’t you ever say his name to me again, boy,” Snape growled, grabbing Draco’s chin and squeezing it between thumb and forefinger, hard.

Draco’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re not allowed to hurt me,” he said.

“In case you hadn’t realised, my vow to your mother has been fulfilled. I am allowed to do whatever the bloody hell I want.” Except go home again, Snape thought. His hand shook as he let go of Draco and pointed toward the house. “And you’re not running from the Dark Lord, you stupid boy. You’re running from the Aurors. Now go wake your mother.”

As soon as Draco left, Snape looked down at the bound, motionless form on the flagstones. The snarling, wounded thing that had taken hold of Snape’s chest when he’d discovered Wormtail’s betrayal had demanded total vengeance—disfigurement, damage, death—but he could no longer afford to indulge such passion. Or perhaps he had lost it altogether, up there on the Astronomy Tower…

Oh, Snape would still have vengeance on Wormtail, but it would serve a purpose. As for the severity of the punishment, well, that would depend entirely on attitudes at the Ministry, but given the plight of Stan Shunpike, Snape thought he had every right to feel hopeful.

Snape unfastened the top of his robes and slipped a hand inside, feeling for the clasp on the small satchel strapped round his waist. He withdrew two of the miniaturised jars from the satchel, enlarged them, and set them on the flagstones next to Wormtail’s head. He crouched down, removed the stoppers from both jars, and sniffed at them to make sure their contents were still good. Then he plucked a hair from his own head and added it to the first jar, which was filled with a thick, bubbling sludge.

“Rennervate,” he whispered, pointing his wand at Wormtail’s chest. The man’s eyes flew open, and then his mouth. He began to struggle against his bonds.

Quick as a flash, Snape pinched Wormtail’s nostrils and poured the contents of the first jar down his throat. Wormtail gagged slightly, but Snape released his nostrils and clamped his hand over the rat’s mouth until he was certain that all of the Polyjuice Potion had been swallowed.

He waited out the terrible transformation that followed, waited until his own eyes stared coldly up at him, until his own mouth snarled and spit, starting to form the words of a curse. Then he pinched the nose again—his nose, now—and poured the contents of the second jar down the throat that could not help but open itself up to him.

This time the results were much less dramatic. The body on the terrace grew limp. The mouth went slack. The black eyes rolled back in their sockets.

Snape brushed aside a sweaty tangle of dark hair and bent until his lips were almost touching one of the pale ears. “You may consider this one part of what you owe me,” he whispered. “And, perhaps, one part of what you owe Mister Potter. Pray we never need to collect in full.”

*******

Snape left the Polyjuiced Wormtail in the duelling gallery. The secret laboratory would have been a more convincing place for “him” to seek refuge, but as it had never been discovered during any of the previous Ministry raids, Snape was not optimistic that the rat would be found whilst still in his transformed state. This way, if he were lucky (and Snape was disturbed to find that he’d been using that phrase increasingly as the night wore on), they would find and imprison his sleeping double before the Polyjuice wore off and they realised that they’d been duped.

He was also counting on the fact that it would be some time before the Muggles were informed of his crime, if ever. Potter, Lupin, Tonks—they might push for it, but the Ministry already had enough egg on its face in that department after what had happened with Sirius. Snape had a feeling that Scrimgeour wouldn’t inform the Muggle Prime Minister unless Snape forced the issue by openly attacking Muggles; Scrimgeour was more the type to proclaim loudly in the Prophet that the Ministry had formed a special task force to investigate the matter, whilst privately lifting a snifter of the finest brandy to the fact that the meddlesome old man was…

No, no, no, Snape thought, but his mind would no longer let him avoid the word.

…dead. Dumbledore was dead.

Snape’s thoughts were (thankfully) interrupted by the arrival of Draco and Narcissa. The latter looked groggy, but ordinarily so. She had not been dosed with any potions—“Do you think I’d be stupid enough to drink anything that despicable creature brought me?”—and, when Snape repeated what he’d told Draco, she grasped the situation immediately and sent her son to collect the things in his father’s safe. There were places Lucius had told her about, people who owed Lucius favours. Snape didn’t doubt it.

When the boy had gone, she begged Snape to come with them, to see them safely to—but he cut her off.

“Better I don’t know,” he said. Better for me. “And I have other matters that want attending to. I must report back to the Dark Lord before long, or he will grow suspicious.”

It was only then that Narcissa broke down, flinging herself upon him, clutching at his robes and pressing her lips to his injured cheek.

“What will happen to Draco?” she sobbed. “You promised…you promised…”

“I must go,” he murmured, gently disentangling her and pushing her away. That wretched vow had been fulfilled; he would not be making another. “I will do all I can, but I must go. You should too.”

He waited until Narcissa and Draco went out the front door, and then he left the way he’d come in—through the French doors, across the east terrace, and down the lawn. He paused just beyond the stone wall. He withdrew Wormtail’s wand from his sleeve; from the satchel he took a third jar, as well as the silver dagger. He enlarged both the jar and the dagger; he unstoppered the jar and—with a only a heartbeat’s hesitation—tossed back its contents.

There are worse things I could do. There are worse things I could do. There are worse things I could do, he thought, trying very hard to ignore the fact that this personal motto of his was, at the moment, in direct conflict with the Slytherin “do for yourself” mantra.

He felt the potion spread throughout his body. There was a moment of dizziness, and then his head cleared. His veins, however, felt as if they were on fire—not the type of fire that boiled the blood but the fire of longing, of overwhelming need. His veins ached with it. He'd never felt so lonely in his life.

Trembling, Snape turned back toward the manor and raised Wormtail’s wand.

“Morsmordre!” he cried. He flung the wand away and heard it clatter against the stone wall.

Then, clutching the dagger to his chest, he sprinted into the open field and Disapparated.

*******

Petunia was not having a good night’s rest. The most ominous feeling had overtaken her just before bedtime. In an effort to dispel it, she’d re-scrubbed all of the countertops in the kitchen, rearranged the dry goods cupboard, and made Vernon double-check the security of the doors and windows. But she’d still gone to bed uneasy and dreamt of upsetting things—falling through the air with the cries of strange birds ringing in her ears, ordinary household appliances coming to life and attacking her, Dudley sobbing and shrinking away into nothing before her very eyes.

She awoke from the most recent of these frightful episodes—in which she’d been trapped in the lounge, helpless, as dark, viscous puddles spread across her pristine carpet—with her heart racing. Her husband’s normally comforting bulk and rhythmic snoring did nothing to soothe her. Petunia pulled the pillow round her ears, squeezed her eyes shut, and began mentally listing all the cleaning products she had on hand in the house. Just after “HG Mouldspray” she drifted off into another nightmare—this one involving two very familiar pairs of green eyes.

By morning, Petunia had acquired two things that are the stock in trade of the average insomniac: dark circles under the eyes and a tendency toward grumpiness. She got dressed in the bathroom, just so she wouldn’t have to listen to Vernon humming as he did his tie.

It was all very well for him to be so jolly! All he had to do was make his way through a bit of morning traffic and then, thanks to Mr Prince, he could sit and wait for the phone calls from America and Japan and God knew where else congratulating him on all the business he’d drummed up for the company. No doubt Miss McMeeve provided him with fresh coffee and pastries from the bakery across the street at the merest wave of his hand, and he would lunch out with important clients at Grunnings’ expense.

Unsettled by these thoughts, Petunia burned the toast, undercooked the bacon, and let all of the fried eggs run together in the centre of the pan.

At first, Vernon balked when he saw the plate of flabby bacon and the strange four-eyed conglomeration that quivered slightly on his plate beside a stack of charred toast triangles. However, he was never one to let food go to waste, so he wisely waited until he’d gnawed the last bit of gristle and chased the runny yolks all round his plate several times in an attempt to sop them up before mentioning his wife’s condition.

“Are you…are you quite all right, dear?”

“I’m perfectly all right,” Petunia snapped. “Why do you ask?”

“You look a bit queer.”

“If you must know, I didn’t sleep very well. I kept having odd—” Petunia started and glanced at her husband, who was watching her with narrowed eyes. She jumped up to clear away the dishes. She’d almost forgot how much her husband despised dreams, especially odd ones.

“Odd?” Vernon said, his eyes shifting back and forth. “Odd, did you say? Odd what?”

Petunia forced herself to smile. “Oh, nothing. Really. I…I’m just worried about the black spot. Silly to lose sleep over it, I suppose.”

“Ah,” Vernon said darkly. “I see what you mean. That infernal day.”

Petunia turned toward her husband, puzzled. He got up and went over to the wall calendar. He pointed to the black spot that marked the day on which Harry was due to arrive back from school.

“But it is for the last time,” Vernon said, stabbing the calendar with one plump finger. He turned to his wife, eyes glittering. “Don’t you worry, Petunia. I’ve a plan. I’m going to set him to re-glazing the greenhouse, and when he’s not working, he’s to stay in his room. He’ll be gone before we know it and then all this, this, this…freakishness will be out of our lives forever.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly.

For some reason, the mention of Dumbledore and Harry made Petunia feel weak. She reached a hand behind her and grasped the counter, steadying herself. “Yes, dear,” she said feebly. “Won’t that be nice. But I meant about the roses—the black spot on the roses. Mr Prince said it is quite insidious, you know. He said black spot requires constant vigilance, because, if you’re not careful, it’ll come right back next season.”

Vernon let out a barking laugh. “You and your Mr Prince and those roses. I still say there’s something funny about a man who makes a living in flowers and spends his time writing letters to housewives.”

Petunia felt her cheeks burn. “Vernon Dursley! It is thanks to Mr Prince that my roses are the envy of the neighbourhood, and all of Surrey, for that matter, and goodness knows he’s helped Grunnings—”

“Yes, yes, all right,” Vernon interrupted. “I find him a bit odd is all. Reminds me of…well, he needs a haircut, at any rate.”

Petunia just stared at her husband coldly. Privately she agreed, of course. She’d been up half the night with the upholstery cleaner after Mr Prince’s first visit, and some mornings, when the sun hit the sofa in a certain way, she swore that she could still see the grease marks. However, it was petty and rude of Vernon to make such a remark, given all that Mr Prince had done on his behalf. And the “letters to housewives” thing still stung; Vernon had made it sound like he thought it a waste of time…thought her a waste of time.

“Well, I’m off,” Vernon said a little too loudly. “Lots to do, want to get an early start.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Petunia replied. She turned and finished clearing the breakfast things, repressing the urge to bombard her husband with all of the uneaten toast.

It was fortunate that Vernon left when he did, not only because of the risk of an aerial burnt toast triangle assault, but because only minutes after he’d driven off, there was a flash of fire in the air before the door of number four, and a letter sailed through the letterbox as if the postman himself had guided it. The envelope was large, bore no stamps, and was addressed to Mrs Petunia Dursley in lilac-coloured ink.

Petunia didn’t see this mysterious letter, however, for she was still stewing in the kitchen. She tipped the burned toast into the bin and placed the breakfast dishes in the new dishwasher. Then she donned her rubber gloves, picked up a scrubbing brush, and tackled the egg-encrusted frying pan. As she scrubbed, she peered out the window into the back garden, craning her neck so that she could see her rosebushes. The sight of her precious rosebushes always made her feel better, with their perfectly pruned shapes and their shiny green leaves and their award-winning—

Petunia shrieked, flinging up her rubber glove-clad hands. The scrubbing brush sailed through the air, spraying everything in its path with soapy water. The frying pan turned a somersault or two before clattering to the floor. Without a thought for the mess, Petunia rushed out the back door into the garden.

Her eyes had not deceived her. The rosebushes were bare—neither blossoms nor buds remained. A few blooms lay crushed on the ground, but the majority of them were simply gone. Beheaded stems dangled at crazy angles. One whole branch of her prize-winning James Mason had been completely torn away. A howl of rage gathered in Petunia’s chest, but when she opened her mouth, only a squeak emerged. It was then that she heard the faint cry.

“Help…please?”

Petunia looked around wildly. “Who’s there?” she cried, panicked. Then she remembered her mangled roses and the tales she’d heard from Yvonne about gangs of thieves operating in the neighbourhood. They lured you out of your home on some pretext or other and then bound you in your own shed while they ransacked your house. It had happened to Mrs Greenacre only last week; they’d got all her wedding jewellery and her husband’s Bang & Olufsen audio system.

Petunia rushed back toward the kitchen door. Before she reached it, she heard the cry again.

“Mrs Dursley, please…terribly sorry, but I—AGHHH!”

There was a tinkling of glass from the direction of the greenhouse, followed by some rather indelicate language. Recognition overcame shock, and Petunia reversed direction.

“Mr Prince? Mr Prince, is that you?” Petunia followed the sound of the cursing and moaning. She found him around the back of the greenhouse, or, rather, in the back of the greenhouse. She shrieked for the second time that morning.

By the looks of it, Mr Prince had been knocked into the greenhouse after a tremendous scuffle with the rosebush vandal. The macabre scene included plenty of blood, broken glass, and flower petals. Mr Prince himself lay on the narrow path that ran around the greenhouse, clutching his wounded left arm. His upper torso and head leaned back through the broken glass panels. He appeared to have narrowly missed cracking his skull open on the edge of a workbench and was awkwardly propped against a large sack of potting soil, which had burst. Little bits of peat moss and vermiculite clung to his hair and dusted his shoulders. His face, where it could be seen through the blood and dirt, was ashen.

“I’m so sorry,” Mr Prince whispered. “I couldn’t stop him.” He gestured weakly to the severed rosebuds and blossoms that lay scattered all around, now lying in pools of blood. “I think he—”

“Who?” Petunia cried. “Who did this?”

“Didn’t see…face,” Mr Prince said.

His voice was fading, and Petunia had to draw near to hear him.

“I tried…tried to save,” he said, and promptly fainted.

Petunia shrieked for the third time. Then she ran back into the house and dialled 999.

*******

Petunia told the paramedic that Mr Prince was her bachelor cousin and insisted that she be allowed to accompany him to hospital. As the ambulance careered through the streets of Little Whinging, she stared at him with something akin to regret. In the harsh light of the ambulance interior, his pale skin seemed almost green. His hair was too long and his features were too harsh and his clothing was too awful for words, but he had nearly given up his life in an attempt to defend her roses. Mr Prince, for all of his eccentricities, understood the importance of having and maintaining something of quality—of fighting for it, if necessary.

In Slurrey District General’s casualty waiting room, Petunia’s less charitable feelings had time to reassert themselves. She went from worrying about Mr Prince to worrying about her roses, about what the neighbours would say, and about how quickly the greenhouse could be repaired.

After a cup of terrible tea and an attempt to skim through a tatty (not to mention tarty) copy of Minx, Petunia settled in to mourning her roses in earnest, and—truth be told—being a tiny bit annoyed with Mr Prince for getting so bloodied up and creating such a fuss without preventing the loss of even a single bloom.

It was around this time that she first thought to be suspicious of his presence at Privet Drive that morning. After all, although they’d corresponded regularly, she hadn’t seen him in person since December.

Thankfully for Mr Prince, it was also around this time that a glassy-eyed nurse entered the waiting area calling for a Mrs Petunia Dursley.

*******

“You want my what? Oh, no, I’m sorry. I don’t think I could…that is to say, I haven’t even…I barely know him, you understand?”

The doctor tilted his head. He glanced once more at the clipboard he held. “He is your cousin, yes?”

Petunia stammered and stuttered and tried not to stare at either this obviously foreign doctor or the ravaged form of Mr Prince lying on a nearby bed. The doctor’s voice was light, lilting, but his eyes smouldered. Petunia felt them judging her, accusing her.

“But surely this is highly irregular? You have supplies here at hospital, do you not? And how do you know I’m even compatible?”

The doctor reached out and stilled one of Petunia’s agitated hands. She stared down in shock at the light brown fingers covering her own pale ones.

“Mrs Dursley, this is highly irregular, but it has been a highly irregular night. Slurrey District General is having some trouble with its blood supply. I do not have time to fully explain, but your cousin will die if he does not have a transfusion soon. He believes you may have the same blood type, but we will run a test to be certain.”

Petunia opened her mouth to protest again, but at that instant Mr Prince’s eyes, which had been closed, opened. The pain and the weariness that she saw there cowed Petunia completely. She stared into those eyes and, when they closed once more, she let her own eyes wander down his thin form.

He was tall and bony, not unlike herself. Save his horrible hair, he might have been her cousin, and what would life have been like if she had had a cousin, or even a brother, like this one? What would it have been like to have someone who didn’t laugh at everything she held dear—someone who didn’t laugh at everything, full stop? What would it have been like to have someone stand up for her, someone to be an ally against Lily and that strange world that she had been so bloody eager to throw herself into? And not just someone like Vernon, who only drove himself mad and near apoplexy in his attempts to deny the wizarding world’s existence, but a true ally—someone who would have stood alongside Petunia when she’d argued to their parents that magic was dangerous and unnatural, that it would bring nothing but shame and pain upon their family.

And hadn’t it just? she thought, tears welling in her eyes.

“Mrs Dursley?”

“I…I suppose I could. It’s not dangerous, is it?”

“It shouldn’t be for you. The nurse will want to ask you a few questions first. If you would have a seat…just through here, please.”

*******

For Petunia, the next few hours in hospital passed as if she were in a dream.

She must have talked to the nurses and produced her National Health card, or at least given them the name of her GP. She must have had her finger pricked and answered a lot of impertinent questions before they’d allowed the transfusion to take place. She must have given a statement to the police.

But Petunia did not remember any of these things clearly. No, by the time she was discharged, the only things that Petunia remembered clearly were Mr Prince’s eyes.

They had opened for a second time, just after the transfusion began. The nurses had been bustling around checking IV bags, plastic tubing and monitor readings, and in an effort to distract herself from all the distressing medical reality, Petunia had glanced over at the recipient of her reluctant benevolence.

He’d opened his eyes, and Petunia had been shocked to find that all the weariness had gone. Or, if it hadn’t, Petunia had not been able to recognise it for all the glittering and the burning and the piercing and the overall staring. Yes, Mr Prince had been staring at her in a way that he never had before, like he’d been able to see her without her makeup or her clothes or her prize-winning James Mason or her carefully constructed life on Privet Drive. It had made her skin crawl.

And as she’d lain there, transfixed by those horrible eyes, the corners of his mouth had quirked upward. He had smiled at her. Then his lips had begun to move. She hadn’t quite been able to make out what he’d said; it had been a sort of chant and it hadn’t been in English. If he had bowed his head and closed his eyes, Petunia might have thought him a Catholic engaged in fervent prayer, but he had continued to stare at her—to stare and chant and chant and stare until she had shuddered and willed herself to look away.

*******