Midwinter Sun

Midwinter Sun

Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. - Victor Hugo

Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory. - Albert Schweitzer

I had never heard my professor swear in front of a student. Clearly, whatever the glow meant, it was something bad. I really should have expected it, though. I was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, for Merlin's sake. Normal, happy, non-life-threatening things do not happen to me. And if it were enough to make a Death Eater swear and lose his composure, my health readings must have been awful.

"That changes things," Vance murmured. "That changes things."

"What's wrong with me?" I managed to whisper.

"Very little," the older woman replied, clearly trying to be encouraging. "You do not appear to have degenerative nerve damage, exceptionally extensive neurological damage, particularly devastating muscular damage, or any cardio damage at all. In fact, for the most part, you are a healthy young man, Mr. Potter."

"What's wrong?" I asked in a stronger voice.

"The tests are hardly conclusive, Mr. Potter," Snape replied, seeming to have come out of his stupor. "We will not be able to answer that particular question for some time yet."

It was amazing that, in two sentences, Snape could make me feel like an utter fool. His residual bitterness and sarcasm seemed to drip like poison. He made it utterly clear, in tone and facial expression, that I should have known the answer to my question before asking it. The fact that Vance looked as though she wanted to strangle him then and there was a small balm to my much wounded pride.

"Then why did you swear?" I countered. "You don't normally do that."

Snape glared at me as though he wished he could turn me into a pile of smouldering ash by the power of his will alone.

"The results, while inconclusive, are leaning toward one diagnosis," Vance replied for my professor. "And Professor Snape happens to share that particular diagnosis."

I winced, not wanting to share anything with the Potions Master, much less a medical diagnosis. Snape, on the other hand, would have made a thundercloud appear cheerful and happy at that particular moment. The glare was turned from me and Vance received it at full power. She ignored it entirely and Snape, his weapon defeated, stormed from the room in a swirl of heavy black fabric.

"What exactly is the diagnosis?" Remus asked worriedly. "I know that Severus suffers and he did not when we were in school, but nothing more. When I taught," here the werewolf paused for a pained breath, "he was better than he is now. He isn't seen without a pain reliever or muscle relaxant."

"I hardly think that it is my place to say," Vance hesitated for a moment. "But seeing as young Harry may have a similar... problem, I suppose... Severus suffers from a focal dystonia in the hand. At the moment, it has remained hemi, but we do have fears that, should he continue to suffer at Lord Voldemort's whims, both of his hands shall be affected. His position as Potions Master is in jeopardy. Albus suspects that Voldemort may be trying to draw Severus out of Hogwarts by making him incapable of fulfilling his position as Potions Professor."

I just blinked at her. Sitting where I was, she could have been speaking fluent Greek and I would not have misunderstood her more. The only bit that I caught was that Snape was in some sort of danger from Voldemort and that it involved his hands.

"What?" Thankfully, Remus seemed to be in the same predicament. "He suffers a what?"

"A focal dystonia in his hand," Vance repeated slowly. "His right hand to be exact. He is a lucky man to be ambidextrous. He would be in a world of trouble right now if he were right handed."

"A focal dystonia?" I echoed. "What's that? Do I have that in my foot?"

Vance smiled at me and rested her hand comfortingly on my knee for a moment. "The similarities in your diagnoses, Harry, are in the dystonia. I think you may have it as well. It is fairly rare and usually associated with the Cruciatus Curse, though, for some as of yet unknown reason, sometimes Muggles suffer from the condition as well. Severus' dystonia exists only in his right hand, at the moment. For you, it is probably generalised, given your age and position."

I felt like a complete moron. The Mediwitch clearly expected me to understand everything she just said, but that was not the case at all. "Generalised? Dystonia?"

"Remus," Vance chided. "Didn't you tell him anything?"

Remus opened his arms, palm up, as if to proclaim his innocence. "It could have been nothing, Emmeline. I did not want to scare him."

"I wouldn't have been frightened," I protested.

"Very well then, I would not have wanted to be frightened myself. No use in creating problems that don't exist."

Vance rolled her eyes, an action that made her seem more like an irate schoolgirl than an accomplished Mediwitch working with a secret, underground militia. "I apologize, Harry. I would not have brushed over it so quickly if I had known that Remus had not explained everything to you."

"It's fine. But what is this dystonia? I've never heard of it before."

"It isn't generally studied, either in our world or the Muggle one. It is fairly rare and, when it occurs in witches and wizards, almost always associated with Dark magic. It is a major side effect of the Cruciatus Curse, as I am sure Severus has explained to you. A few other spells, all quite Dark, can also cause it. No one knows for sure why it happens to Muggles as well. I have dedicated the past few years to studying it, along with a few other so-called Dark Diseases. The Ministry checks up on me on a fairly regular basis to make sure I'm not hiding dead Muggles in the closet, but my research should be helpful to the Order, especially you and Severus. We are in the process of developing some new treatments, ones that will last longer and be more effective at the same time."

She paused for a moment, letting me absorb the information.

"As to what the problem is exactly... Well, that is a bit harder to explain. We really don't know what causes it, even in the case of the use of the Dark Arts. Do you understand the mechanics of the Cruciatus Curse? I know you studied the Unforgivables at Hogwarts." When I shook my head, she continued. "The Cruciatus Curse does not actually cause physical pain. That is, the curse does not attack the body as a whole. The curse affects the brain and forces the person to feel the pain of torture without the torture actually occurring. This imbalance can be what drives Cruciatus victims mad." I nodded here, remembering Neville's poor parents, confined to madness and a ward at St. Mungo's. "It is assumed that this imbalance is what causes the disorder as well. The other spells associated with dystonia and dyskensia are also spells that cause the brain to feel something that is not real. Some are hallucinogenic, some are torture spells that are simply weaker forms of the Cruciatus, and some others are Dark spells once used by medieval lords to reward particularly loyal retainers. The Muggles were a step ahead of us for once and actually found out what part of the brain is affected: the basil ganglia. We hope that this information might help us to rehabilitate Cruciatus victims."

"The problem that is caused by... whatever it is... is a bit harder to explain. Perhaps if I could ask you some questions, you might understand better. Have your muscles hurt at all over the holiday? I know you had not noticed your feet moving differently, but did anything hurt?"

I shrugged, as nervous teenagers are wont to do. "Sometimes," I conceded. "If I had been working in the garden for a long time, my legs would cramp up, but that's normal. If you overdo anything, it hurts. Merlin knows, I've done that on my broomstick more than once."

"Were there any other time?"

"Sometimes it hurts to hold my quill for too long. When that happens, my script is horrible: almost as bad as when I first started Hogwarts and did not know how to use a quill at all."

"That's one symptom of it. At St. Mungo's, we call it fixed muscle posture. It can mean that your muscles are twisting in ways that they are not supposed to move and then becoming stuck in that position. Have you been experiencing any spasms?"

"What?"

"Spasms... Have your arms and legs been moving jerkily at all? Does any limb tremble involuntarily?"

I frowned. "Sometimes I'm a little shaky after I do a lot of work during the day. But that's normal, isn't it? I mean, I don't drink that much water and I am either in the hot sun or my stuffy room, so it's just normal dehydration."

"Did you ever feel that it might be a good idea to drink more, then?" The Mediwitch's tone had a slight edge to it, which was rather appropriate, considering that I had just told her, point blank, that I cared little for my person well-being.

I shrugged. Looking back on it now, at twenty-three, I think part of the self-deprivation bit I did over that summer was grieving for Sirius. I felt that I had killed my own godfather and needed to suffer somehow for it. In a normal home, such an action would have been noticed and stopped quickly, if not at once. But the Dursley's, for all of their trying, ran anything but a normal household. No one noticed that I was not drinking enough water. Only a few years previous, my sole source of nutrition had been one or two bowls of cold, canned soup a day.

"Very well," Vance replied to my nonverbal answer, as she organized the parchments on the table. "I will have to consult with Snape on a few things and come back tomorrow. I do not believe that we need to allow Poppy to know anything, just yet, or anyone outside of the Order."

I remember Remus walking Vance to the front door, ever the polite gentleman. I remained where I had been for most of the night: sitting on the old Black family sofa, folding and refolding the same damn piece of parchment. I honestly did not know what to think that night. Not even twenty four hours previous, I had understood my life. I had been the boy who lived under the stairs and cleaned the house and garden. I had been the boy who lived at a Wizarding school for most of the year and with hateful relatives over the holidays. What was I now? Snape and Vance had both agreed that the testing was not conclusive. Was I the boy who lived with a Dark curse? Was I just the boy who lived with too many Charlie horses to be normal? What was going on?

After Vance left, whether by Apparation or broom, I do not know, Remus returned to the parlour. He walked me to one of the bedrooms, not the one that I shared with Ron and Phineas Nigellus, but one I had never before seen. Like a parent I never had, he quietly tucked me into bed and left a glass of water on the bedside table.

That night, like so many other nights that summer, I had trouble falling asleep. Uniquely, though, this time I was plagued with fear for myself and, admittedly, Snape. I had not forgotten my guilt and pain over Sirius' death, or Cedric's, for that matter, but my own problems, for once, were at the forefront of my mind. This Dark disease that Snape suffered, what was it? Vance had given us such a medical description that I did not understand it. And her cold comfort, telling me I had no degenerative nerve damage, was hardly a comfort at all. Would I still be able to fly a broom? Even if Umbridge's ban could be lifted, would I ever be able to be Seeker on the House team again? Would I need special treatment? Vance and Remus had been so serious. How would this affect my life? Could I still have even a slight chance at defeating Voldemort? Vance said that Snape's hands were affected; did that mean I would not be able to do wand magic anymore?

As these questions plagued me, I eventually found some restless slumber in the early hours of the morning. I had alternating nightmares: some of Voldemort cursing my friends and innocent Muggles, some of Sirius falling through the Archway and Veil, and others of me being removed from Wizarding society.

~*~

"I don't want you to be so upset," Remus told me as we sat down for breakfast on my third morning at 12 Grimmauld Place. "You look like you haven't slept for weeks and you aren't eating."

Being a sullen sixteen year old boy, I shrugged and poked my kippers with a fork. They did not move.

"Snape and Vance are coming back, with Dumbledore, tonight."

"What?"

"They want to do one last test, to be absolutely sure of your diagnosis. Then we can decide on a course of action."

"A course of action? What am I, a puppet?" I snapped.

Remus curled his lips in a lupine snarl, despite the waning moon. "Harry, you know better than that. We are trying to help you. We can hardly let you go without medical help."

"Of course not. I have to be the Boy-Who-Lived, don't I?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I had said the wrong thing.

Remus slammed his fork and knife down on the wooden table. "If that is how you really feel, then you wouldn't mind if I left right now."

Watching Remus stalk out of the kitchen, without even cleaning his plate as he usually did, I wanted to call him back and apologize. I did not, though, and I washed his plate and mine, after a few bites of food. Despite Remus' superior cooking, it tasted like dust in my mouth.

That day, Remus lurked in Buckbeak's room, feeding him dead rats and ferrets, and generally avoiding me. I was too embarrassed by my breakfast table outburst to find him and apologize. I made myself a simple sandwich for lunch and one for Remus as well, though he never came downstairs to eat it. I tidied the kitchen and parlour, slightly compulsively and because there was nothing else to do. The fact that Dumbledore, Snape, and Vance were returning to Grimmauld Place that evening gnawed at my stomach and put me into a black mood.

When they arrived, Remus and I escorted them to the same parlour. Remus and I had cleaned it as best we could and it looked slightly more presentable that night. We had Ever-Burning candles in the wall sconces and I had found a silver-plated candelabra buried in once of the upstairs rooms, which was now on display with candles of its own. Dumbledore, in robes decorated with silver moons and golden stars, looked more stately than usual. Snape looked about as sullen and put out as I felt. Vance was carrying a bag that seemed to be absolutely stuffed with parchment and potions vials.

Vance fed me potion after potion, scratching down the details of my reactions, as the older men watched worriedly. Finally she murmured a last charm, which was so powerful it literally knocked me to my knees. Luckily, the Blacks, when they still owned the house, believed in luxury and the Persian rug was still several inches thick, cushioning my fall nicely.

"What was that?"

Vance frowned at me for a moment, her eyes exuding pity. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"What is it?" Remus asked, sounding slightly frantic.

"The original diagnosis was correct. Harry is indeed dystonic."

Snape buried his head in his hands, as Remus pulled me into his arms. I embraced Remus as well, searching for some sort of comfort. I still did not know anything about this disease. Nothing in the rather extensive Black library had more than a passing mention of it, and certainly not of the Muggle kind I supposedly had.

"What can we do about it? Will it get worse?"

Vance appeared slightly startled by Remus' sudden questions. "There are some potions and a few charms that may help with the symptoms. We will have to experiment to see what combination will work well for Harry. As for getting worse, I do not know. Wizards usually do not have this kind of dystonia. This is a Muggle sort, perhaps Harry inherited it from his mother or his upbringing had some sort of effect on it. I just don't know. I have read of cases where the Muggle's symptoms worsen over time, but I have also heard that it plateaus. We will have to wait and see."

"What sort of potions will I have to take? What will they do?" I questioned, quietly twisting out of Remus' warm embrace so that I could face the Mediwitch Order member.

"Some will help with keeping your muscles correctly positioned, some will work on your nerves, and some on your brain. The charms will act similarly. In the future, you might need some potions to block the pain. As I said, we will have to experiment."

"What about school? Will I still be able to fly? Get to classes?"

"I do not know about flying. With your legs being affected, it might not be a good idea. If you were, say, fifty or sixty feet above the ground and your legs began to spasm or twist, you could seriously hurt yourself in the fall. If the potions work exceptionally well, though, it might be a possibility. And I imagine you will be able to go to your classes just fine."

I turned to Dumbledore then. "What about the Prophecy, sir? Will I still be able to fight Voldemort? And how? If I can't fly... Well, what if I can't hold my wand? Or turn it correctly? Or duel?"

Dumbledore rested his arm gently on my shoulder. "We will deal with that when we come to it, Harry. At the moment, it does not seem to be affecting your handwork. If it eventually does, we will deal with it then. Though, that does give me an idea."

"An idea?" four voices asked at once.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled so brightly it made me nervous. "Yes, quite an idea at that. I wanted young Harry to work with Severus on his Occlumency again this year. Severus, what would you say to mentoring Harry through his condition as well?"

Snape looked like he just drank a bowl of curdled milk. "Very well, Headmaster."

"Delightful. Why don't you start next week, so it will not be so straining when school begins?"

It may have been phrased as a question, but everyone in the room saw it for what it was: a direct command from the leader of the Order of the Phoenix. As the adults in the room began to discuss other Order business, I could only think of one thing. I would spend the rest of my school career in close proximity to Snape. I would be utterly miserable.