Chapter 14: Accidental Detour

The physical reaction to Snape's presence, the deep, heavy thump against her ribs, confirmed what weeks of mental discipline had attempted to deny: the boundary he had imposed was merely professional, not emotional. His intentional absence had worked better than any punishment he might have inflicted, forcing her into a state of debilitating emotional exhaustion. The obsessive perfection she maintained was exhausting and unsustainable. Every glance averted, every corridor avoided, every perfectly executed homework assignment was a testament to the fact that her whole existence at Hogwarts had devolved into a reactive performance designed to minimize her transgression. She was constantly waiting for the inevitable critical gaze that never arrived.

This intense internal monitoring reached absurd levels. The silence was the worst element because it allowed her mind to fill the void with increasingly dire hypothetical scenarios about what she had done that night.

She was sitting in a remote corner of the library, staring blankly at a copy of Ancient Runes Made Easy, when Elliot Vane approached her table. She noticed he paused slightly before speaking, a subtle acknowledgment of the invisible wall she had erected around herself.

“Hey. Are you actually absorbing any of that, or are the runes just blurring now?” he asked, pulling up a chair opposite her. His tone was light, casual, and refreshingly devoid of the hyper-vigilance she felt everywhere else.

She closed the heavy book, consciously relaxing her grip on the spine. Her hands were always clenched now, either in preparation for work or in preemptive defense.

“Just trying to look productive,” she admitted, offering a weak smile. “The concentration isn't great lately.”

Elliot nodded slowly, pushing a stray lock of dark hair back from his forehead. He had a natural, easy demeanor that she found comforting because it lacked any judgment. He had noticed her distraction, the general air of tension that never seemed to leave her shoulders, despite her best efforts to appear composed. He was perceptive, which was perhaps why he was in Ravenclaw, but he never pressed.

“I’m running into Hogsmeade this afternoon,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “Need to pick up some specialized ink from Scrivenshaft’s for a particularly fussy Charms essay. It’s supposed to improve the runic retention or something equally dubious.”

He paused, letting the silence hang naturally, unlike the charged silences she endured in the dungeons.

“It would be good to get out of the castle for an hour or two. You look like you need the fresh air more than I do, quite frankly. Want to come along? Consider it an errand, nothing more strenuous than that.”

The offer hung there, simple and tempting. A rare chance to step away from Hogwarts, to breathe. The oppressive weight of the castle and its single, dark resident felt momentarily liftable. It was a perfectly innocuous suggestion, a harmless errand proposed by a classmate. Snape had restricted her interactions with Elliot once before, but that was when the lessons were still mandatory, and her Occlumency was a live concern. Now, both the lessons and his attention were gone.

“I think I do need fresh air,” she agreed, picking up her quill, though she made no move to pack her bag. The idea of trading the library's stifling quiet for the noisy reality of Hogsmeade was suddenly irresistible.

“Great. The carriage leaves at three,” Elliot said, standing up. “Be ready. Don’t bring any books.”

She watched him leave, feeling a small, contained burst of lightness. It was a fleeting sense of freedom, the temporary suspension of the relentless anxiety that had become her constant companion. She packed her things with newfound energy. This wasn't a desperate escape or a reckless venture involving mead. This was just a simple outing, a mental health day disguised as an academic favor.

She dressed carefully, though not for show. She instinctively layered extra robes, choosing materials that felt substantial and grounding. She knew that the urge to armor herself was more emotional than physical. She wanted the extra weight to shield her vulnerability against the perceived omnipresence of Snape’s control, even miles away in the village. If she could just get away for a few hours, perhaps the intensity of her reaction would fade.

She met Elliot at the designated spot. The carriage ride down to the village felt slightly surreal. They engaged in light, distracted conversation about the upcoming NEWTs and holiday plans, subjects that seemed impossibly mundane compared to the internal drama she had been living. She found herself responding easily to Elliot’s questions about Charms, enjoying the simple relief of discussing non-controversial topics.

When they stepped out of the carriage at the edge of Hogsmeade, the cold autumn air hit her face, sharp with the clean scent of woodsmoke and freshly turned earth. She pulled the hood of her outer robes slightly forward, savoring the difference. The village was bustling, full of students enjoying the Saturday privileges, a vibrant, chaotic contrast to the frigid order of the castle.

She started walking slightly ahead of Elliot, breathing deeply. The cold air felt like a cleansing agent, pushing some of the internal tension out of her chest. She delighted in the momentary freedom, the physical and emotional distance from Hogwarts that had felt impossible to achieve for weeks. She could almost feel the tightness in her jaw easing.

Elliot followed her pace easily. “So, Scrivenshaft’s first, then maybe a quick stop at Honeydukes? I’m craving something violently sweet.”

“Sounds like a plan. Just don’t let the violently sweet thing distract you from the fussy ink,” she replied, hearing the unfamiliar sound of her own casual voice. It didn't sound rehearsed or pitched for professional deference.

They moved toward the cluster of shops lining the main street. The afternoon crowd was thickest near the confectionery. She was still feeling the weightlessness, the sheer relief of being temporarily invisible to the man who defined her emotional landscape inside the castle.

Elliot made a ridiculous, casual joke about the Ravenclaw who specialized in invisible ink but always misplaced his notes. She turned quickly to look at him, a genuine laugh bursting out of her mouth, feeling the relief of a tension release. Her attention was wholly focused on his reaction, on the shared moment of simple humor.

That focused attention, that moment of looking away from where she placed her feet, proved disastrous.

Her left foot caught abruptly on something hard and immovable, a deeply set, uneven cobblestone block near the edge of the pavement, worn down and treacherous. It wasn't a visible hazard if you were looking forward, but she was mid-turn, thrown off balance by the unexpected laughter.

One moment she was laughing, the next moment she felt a sharp, sickening jolt travel up her leg. She lost balance completely, the ground rushing up to meet her. Her ankle twisted visibly beneath her weight, radiating immediate, sharp pain that made her cry out. It wasn't a controlled sound, just a sudden, involuntary gasp of pure physical agony.

She was falling toward the hard, unforgiving stones.

Elliot reacted instantly. He lunged forward, managing to catch her upper arm just before she collided with the main pavement. His grip was strong and steady, preventing the worst impact. He didn’t try to pull her upright, recognizing the precarious angle of her weight. Instead, he absorbed the momentum of her fall, lowering her carefully onto a nearby wooden bench outside the Three Broomsticks.

She landed heavily on the narrow seat, a rush of sound filtering out of her ears. For a second, the shock prevented any coherent thought.

“Are you alright? What happened?” Elliot’s voice was high with alarm, instantly leaning down to assess the damage.

She tried to answer, but another wave of nausea passed over her, cold and immediate. She closed her eyes tightly, gripping the edge of the bench. The initial pain subsided into a throbbing, insistent agony centered in the joint of her left ankle.

She opened her eyes, feeling a flush of humiliation. This was humiliating, such a common, clumsy accident happening in full view of a dozen students. Then the sharp frustration set in, fueled by the pain. She had managed weeks of perfect, obsessive control, only to be undone by a misplaced cobblestone outside a pub.

“I think I turned it,” she managed, her voice tight. The ankle was already starting to swell visibly over the edge of her boot, creating painful pressure. The throbbing was rhythmic, a constant interruption to coherent thought.

Elliot, looking significantly more alarmed than he had been when discussing invisible ink, didn’t waste time.

“Don’t move,” he ordered. He knelt immediately, ignoring the curious glances of the passersby. He carefully pulled her foot up onto his knee, gently probing the area just above her boot while avoiding touching the swelling joint.

“It’s not broken, I don’t think. But it’s twisted badly,” he muttered. He pulled his wand out of his sleeve, a quick movement. He pointed the wand at the ankle and muttered a low, steady incantation. It wasn't a complicated healing charm, but a simple, temporary immobilization charm designed to prevent further damage. A cool, stiffening sensation wrapped around the joint, tightening the pressure but providing a welcome, albeit minimal, relief from the throbbing.

“That should hold it until we get back to the castle,” Elliot said, standing up quickly. His casual demeanor had evaporated, replaced by decisive concern. “We need to get you to the Hospital Wing immediately. Waiting for the next scheduled carriage is out. This needs immediate attention.”

He looked around, assessing the situation. Hogsmeade was not a place built for quick emergency transport.

“Stay here,” he instructed, not waiting for a reply. “I’ll find a way to get a message to the Three Broomsticks or maybe a Patronus to the school. We need the fastest transport possible.”

He dashed into the nearest alley, presumably seeking a discreet location to attempt communication or appealing to a local proprietor for assistance.

She was left sitting on the hard wooden bench, resting her throbbing, immobilized foot on the cobblestones. The immediate area cleared somewhat as people moved past, though she could feel their lingering, curious glances. The pain was still immense, a raw, insistent reminder that her moment of freedom had been abruptly and awkwardly terminated. Emotional drainage compounded the physical discomfort.

Elliot returned quickly, slightly out of breath. “Okay, Madam Rosmerta is sending a house-elf with a direct message to Professor Flitwick. We should have a response, or ideally, a portkey or direct transport, in the next ten minutes or so.”

He sat beside her, radiating concern. “I’m really sorry about this. That cobblestone is infamous. Someone should have repaired it years ago.”

“It wasn’t your fault. I was looking the wrong way,” she said, trying for reassurance, though her voice lacked conviction. She knew she had suffered the injury because of distraction, because she allowed herself a moment of carelessness in a public space, forgetting the need for constant vigilance.

The ten minutes stretched into what felt like an hour. The pain, though somewhat contained by the charm, was sharp and intrusive. She focused on steadying her breathing, trying to impose mental discipline on a purely physical problem. This was exactly the kind of messy, unpredictable complication her new, rigorous regimen was supposed to prevent.

Eventually, a sleek, dark black carriage arrived, pulling up directly opposite the Three Broomsticks. It was clearly not the standard student transport.

Elliot helped her stand, supporting her weight firmly. Moving was agony, even with the charm. She hopped awkwardly toward the carriage, leaning heavily on her classmate.

The ride back was slow, despite the urgency. Every bump in the road sent a shockwave up her leg. She kept her focus internal, refusing to cry out or show the extent of the discomfort. She was embarrassed, frustrated, and mostly angry at the sheer, brute inefficiency of physical injury.

When they finally arrived back at Hogwarts, a Prefect, a stern-faced fifth-year, was waiting near the entrance to assist with the transfer. Elliot explained the situation quickly, and the Prefect took over, helping her navigate the steps into the castle and toward the Hospital Wing.

Elliot stayed with her until the Prefect was in place. “I’ll stop by later,” he promised. “Make sure you get properly healed.”

“Thank you, Elliot, and I'm sorry for ruining the day,” she managed, genuinely grateful for his decisive action and steady support.

"It was not like you planned this," he joked.

The Prefect was all business, ensuring the trip through the nearly deserted Sunday corridors was efficient. The pain flared with every step, forcing her to rely almost completely on the Prefect’s sturdy shoulder.

They reached the doors of the infirmary. The massive wing was quiet, with only a few beds occupied by students suffering from minor ailments. Madam Pomfrey appeared instantly, recognizing the signs of an immediate physical injury. The matron’s presence was loud, practical, and immediately reassuring.

“Oh, my dear, what have we here?” Madam Pomfrey tutted, directing the Prefect to lower her gently onto an empty, prepared cot near the door. The sheets were crisp, white, and cool against her flushed skin.

“Twisted ankle, Madame Pomfrey. Outside the Three Broomsticks,” the Prefect reported formally before melting away.

Madam Pomfrey pulled a privacy screen around the cot with a sharp, decisive flick of her wrist. She examined the ankle with deft, gentle pressure. She tutted again, a sharper, more medically concerned sound this time.

“You’re lucky you had that immobilizing charm, dear. It’s a bad sprain, but nothing a quick application of Episkey can’t partially address. But I prefer to let things set properly before full healing if possible, especially on the ligaments.”

Pomfrey pulled out her wand. She performed a simple, basic healing spell. It was the kind of targeted charm that addressed immediate swelling and reduced the sharpest pain, an intermediate step before more aggressive, full-restoration magic. The effect was immediate; the throbbing receded to a bearable, dull ache. She then wrapped the ankle tightly in a sterile bandage, providing mechanical support.

“There. Now, you need to stay off that for at least twenty-four hours,” Madam Pomfrey announced, straightening up. “I’ll give you a proper restorative draught in a few minutes, after I check on poor Mr. Davies. He seems to think he’s immune to dragon pox.”

Madam Pomfrey moved away from the screen, her attention diverted by an explosive coughing fit coming from the far end of the ward.

She settled herself onto the bed, trying to collect her composure. The physical relief of the diminished pain was immense, but she remained shaken. She was embarrassed and profoundly frustrated that her carefully managed façade of control had been broken by such a mundane event. She needed a moment to reassert her internal monologue, to smooth the wrinkles in her armor. She focused on the clean, crisp sheets and the dull throb in her ankle, trying to mask her lingering discomfort and the exhaustion of the past weeks.

She pulled the thick blankets up to her chin, focusing on the simple, practical reality of the injury. It was minor enough to be easily treatable, but inconvenient enough to force her back into the castle's public eye in a position of vulnerability.

She closed her eyes briefly, intending to use the quiet moment before the arrival of the restorative draught to fully impose control on her breathing and heart rate. She was almost there, centering on the cool sensation from the bandage, the rhythmic dull throb of her recovering ligaments.

Then the quiet was brutally interrupted.

A powerful, dark shadow fell abruptly across the doorway of the private screen, cutting off the dim light filtering from the main ward.

She opened her eyes, startled by the intrusion. Professor Snape was standing perfectly still just inside the threshold of her curtained cubicle.

He stood there, framed by the white sheets and the dim infirmary light, dominating the small space with his abrupt, imposing presence.