The Confession of Miss Price

I returned to Hogwarts for the first time since my graduation in the summer of 1995. Albus Dumbledore had told me very little of what my position there would be, only that I had been selected because of the recommendations of my superiors in the Spell Damage Ward at St. Mungo's. I was placed under the authority of Madame Pomfrey, who insisted I reread Cavendish's Curing the Cruciatus: Healing in the Face of the Dark Arts and chatted amiably with me at times but answered my questions about my new position with grim silence. After a while, I stopped asking and learned to be satisfied with the higher pay and quieter lifestyle that had come with my mysterious new place in the world.

And so, though still unsure of my exact duties, I did my best to keep busy during the first month. The vast castle was eerily silent and empty during the days, which grew hotter and hotter as the summer wore on. I spent my time in the quiet ward studying, straightening the untouched sheets on the sterile cots, and reviewing the materials given to me by Pomfrey, who quizzed me on them regularly as she resumed control of the ward in the evenings.

It was a sweltering afternoon in mid-July when Pomfrey told me that the headmaster wanted to speak with me. Her flustered attitude, furrowed brow, and determined frown as she walked me to Dumbledore's office made me wonder if I had been mistaken in supposing that she had ever liked me. Yet it was in that meeting with Dumbledore himself that I learned the full degree to which I was to be trusted. I had never spoken to Dumbledore until that moment, despite having been a student at Hogwarts for seven years. I had never before had the occasion or the courage to speak to such a venerable wizard who, during my own years at Hogwarts had been working to bring about the fall of You-Know-Who. And now, he told me, I was to aid in that same fight, however indirectly, as the medical aid to Severus Snape, whose secret missions apparently required the attentions of a healer better versed in the effects of dark magic than Pomfrey. Externally, I swallowed my apprehension and told Dumbledore that I would be glad to help. In truth, my mind screamed its protestations and wondered seriously if St. Mungo's would consider rehiring me. Dumbledore had told me that Snape and I had spent some of the same years at school together, but the name only brought up recollections of mentions of him in articles I had read following the first war. I wasn't sure how helping a Death Eeater could serve Dumbledore, unless Snape was involved in some sort of espionage. In any case the situation sounded unnecessarily hazardous and completely terrifying. Nonetheless, I was determined to honor my commitment.

Despite my worry, the summer continued quietly. There were a few nights in July when Madame Pomfrey had me wait in the ward through the night, warning me to be ready to treat any number of maladies but to be most prepared for advanced Cruciatus damage. The first night passed calmly. My greatest challenge came from my struggle to stay awake into the earliest hours of the morning. At a quarter past three, the soft 'woosh' of a portkey announced the entrance of a sallow, hook-nosed man into the ward. His robes were dark, in his left hand a metallic mask glinted in the candlelight, which he thrust into his robes quickly. I stood and asked lamely, "Are you alright?" He only scowled and strode out of the room, leaving me to wait until Pomfrey returned in the morning.

Three more nights followed this pattern. On the fourth, the soft sound of the portkey did not reveal the dark man standing tall and disdainful in the center of the ward, but instead what appeared to be a pile of black robes that emitted a muted and very human groan. I rushed over, easily levitating him to one of the beds. Just as Pomfrey had said, there was some Cruciatus damage, not as much as I had anticipated but certainly a significant amount. I cast a number of complicated charms to alleviate the residual pain as he slipped into unconsciousness. After pulling the bedsheets out from underneath him and adjusting them over his still body, I lowered myself into a nearby chair. It was odd, really, to see him lying prostrate before me. I had not yet seen him so still. His skin, even paler than usual, the large nose, the frowning mouth, and dark, sweat soaked hair were certainly unusual, even unattractive. Yet even then I sensed something almost magnetic about him. He must have a certain degree of courage, I thought, to be willing to put himself through such peril. About a half hour later, the combination of the comfortable bedside chair, the late hour, and the gentle rhythm of Snape's breathing lulled me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"Some Healer you are," were the gruff words that woke me a few hours later. Thrusting my grogginess aside, I offered him Invigorating Draught, which he testily refused, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Are you sure you're alright?" I asked, standing and moving to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. He swatted my hand away, glowering at me as though he had never before been so irritated and stalked from the room. Though I had had uncooperative patients before, his rebukes struck me as unusually affecting but by the summer's end, I found myself increasingly immune to it.

I had wondered how my periodic treatment of Snape would change once the school year started and this time I was soon rewarded with a more timely explanation. A few days after the start of the term, I was summoned to Dumbledore's office, where Snape was waiting. I was informed that the portkey would now lead to Snape's own private chambers, where I was to wait for him. Snape remained mute but clearly unhappy. I wondered idly if he even knew my name before deciding that it ultimately didn't matter much.