Even at Our Worst

⧏ ▴ ⧐

March 1st, 1997

The infirmary has been slow today— which I suppose is a good thing. I've taken over for Madam Pomfrey while she goes to grab a late dinner, more than happy to give up my Saturday night to organize her stores. We had Apparation lessons again this morning; I managed to get one foot inside the hoop, which was more than many others could do at this stage. I received a short and to the point letter from my Mother, letting me know to stay at Hogwarts for the Easter holidays. Fine by me.

The glass bottles clink together in my hands as I shuffle them around. I squint at the contents, identifying them before placing back on the shelf by category of ailment they soothe. I place dittany and murtlap beside each other at eye level, both best for skin injuries. I pop a cork off a tall bottle and take a short whiff of the leaves inside— asphodel. I tuck it in where I put other ingredients for sleeping draughts.

The last three months had been rather difficult. It took a great deal of concentration and an absurd number of activities to keep my mind off of it: Draco's task. Daphne was rather worried about me, saying I had put far too much on my plate, but I couldn't find another way around it. At least I had something to look forward to, though; Theo's seventeenth birthday was next weekend, and I knew it would be a moment of respite for us all. Theo had tried to play it down, telling Draco, "If you've got too much going on with— well, you know— it won't really be this big thing. A small gathering, really. It's completely miss-able."

Draco nodded as he spread butter on his toast. "Nott, I'll be there," he said with finality. Theo had grinned.

The selfish thought crossed my mind on multiple occasions: that I wished the task could be over and done with, so I could start worrying about the aftermath rather than the buildup. Knowing another war was likely about to begin any day now was very, very taxing.

The doors to the infirmary banging open pull me from my thoughts, and I whip my head to face the commotion. I'm faced with none other than Harry Potter, carrying a limp Weasley in his arms. The pair are trailed by Professor Slughorn, whose face is horribly pale. I deposit all of the vials I had been holding on the nearest table, rushing towards Potter.

"What's happened to him?" I say with authority, pointing towards a bed for Harry to rest him on. He stares at me, apprehensive. "Potter, I really think it's best you put whatever you have against me aside so I can help your friend." My eyes look over his shoulder to Professor Slughorn, noticing he's holding a bottle of mead and anxiously tapping it, his mouth forming silent words in a panic. Harry looks behind me, lips screwed up in defiance. "Madam Pomfrey is at dinner right now. I'll call for her, but in the meantime— Ron is unconscious, Harry. I'm sure you can see that."

Harry gives in with a sigh, rushing to put Ron down on the bed. "He started frothing at the mouth and— convulsing— after drinking that mead." He nods his head towards Professor Slughorn as I move to Ron's side, feeling his pulse— strong, good. I lay the back of my palm on his forehead and then reach for my wand as Harry continues, tapping it against Ron's chest. "I— I gave him a bezoar and he came to for a moment, but he passed out again."

"A bezoar?" I nod, pouting my lip. "Good call." I'm mildly impressed. I shout out to the infirmary owl, Arwin, and alert her to go find Madam Pomfrey at once. She soars out the open front doors, no note needed to convey that we have a patient. After determining Ron is not in any mortal danger, I rest my hand on his wrist, reaching out with my magic to feel for the ailment. His blood reeks of something gone stale— poison. It's diluted now, but no mistaking it.

I narrow my eyes in Professor Slughorn's direction. "Professor, where did you get that bottle?" I say slowly.

He blinks, seeming to have forgotten where he was for a moment until he meets my eyes. "Oh, Miss Burke. Hello," he says vaguely with a nod.