After dinner, around 8:00 P.M.

Sour. Yuck.

Alvis screwed up his face, moving the willow bark around with his tongue until he could discretely spit it into a handkerchief. This was the third strip he'd gone through in an hour, a new record. Willow bark was always bitter, but you were supposed to chew it until that bitterness faded and then keep going, only stopping when it got too hard. He'd never had the bark go sour before. It was weird.

Worse, the headache he'd been doing all this chewing for had yet to fade. And he needed it to. Finals were next week, which also meant essays due in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, History of Magic, and (of course) Defense Against the Dark Arts, which was why he (and the rest of his year, plus a fair number of N.E.W.T.S. students) had been assigned this extra study period after dinner.[1] Alvis didn't have time to be waylaid by his stupid head. Extra lessons with Professor Storm to control his little...problem...were no excuse.

So he sucked it up and dug a fourth bark strip out of the pouch. The batch was brand-new, delivered three days ago from an apothecary in London, and at this rate he would finish it off before finals. He scribbled a note to himself in a margin to research more effective headache cures (they had to exist somewhere) and hunkered back over his Runes essay. Among the soft rustling of parchment, scratch of quills, and muffled whispers of his classmates, he could almost forget the soft pounding behind his eyes.


Drip.

A splotch landed on the parchment, smearing the final word before he could finish it. Alvis blinked at it. He checked the nib of his quill for leaks, but found it still firmly in place. He adjusted his glasses and leaned over for a closer look, his mind running unusually slow as it tried to piece together what had happened.

It wasn't usual to be leaking ink, but why was the ink red...?

Drip. It happened again. This time, the red landed not on his parchment, but on his glasses. It pooled on the clear lens, bright crimson in the candlelight. Another soon followed, on the opposite lens.

Alvis sat up straight, moving slow so the drips...the blood...wouldn't fall onto his essay. He didn't blink, though he shook slightly with the effort. That was enough to send new warm, sticky streams rolling down his cheeks. They felt like tears, but when he raised his hand to wipe beneath one eye, his fingertips came away red.

The trembling became more violent. His entire arm shook by the time Alvis managed to thrust his hand in the air and signal the nearest teacher.

"P-Professor?" The call came out as a reedy, desperate squeak. Alvis took a breath through his nose, willed it not to become a sob (he failed) and tried again, voice strained with the effort of not panicking. Anyone who looked at him would see the issue plain: bloody tears stained his cheeks and they just kept coming. "I...I need to go to the hospital hut. Please."

1.	Like in this open thread from the last school year.

The professors hadn't lied when they all gave speeches about what fifth year would entail.  Kelvin had never had problems keeping up with the essays and readings in the past and in all honesty he wasn't now.  The last couple month though, he just hadn't been able to meet his own deadlines of when everything should be done.  The professors were assigning more work and longer essays with no regard for what had already been assigned in other classes. 

That, and there were suddenly a lot more distractions now.  Some of his classmates had changed over the summer.  And now they'd be in the middle of class or studying and they'd say something or he'd look at them, and then he couldn't keep his mind on the lesson or book at hand.  Or worse, Kelvin would be studying in the common room and the quidditch team would come back from practice.

Essays were suddenly much harder to finish, even though the subject matter wasn't any harder to grasp.  The finer points of vanishing living creatures was easy enough to explain so long as there wasn't a hot sweaty quidditch player in front of him...or his mind wandered off to think about said quidditch players rather than re-read the supplemental charms textbooks.

Kelvin was pulled out of that line of thought by Alvis...squeaking across the table from him.  Kelvin hated when his own voice did that, and tried not to draw any more attention to his housemate until he heard him ask to go to the hospital hut. 

He looked up to see blood leaking from Alvis's eyes.  Or was it that he was crying blood?  Either way, it was a gory sight.  With blood on his glasses and face.  Thank Merlin they were in the brightly lit Great Hall, cause it was not a sight Kelvin would want to come across in the dark common room in the middle of the night.

"Professor!"  He shouted, a bit panicky.  Kelvin didn't have to be a healer to know that whatever was happening wasn't good.  He dug around in his bag trying to find something that Alvis could use to...wipe his face...or eyes...or something.  He found a handkerchief that was clean other than a few ink blotches and thrust it at Alvis.  "Here—for—it's clean."

Alvis's hand lingered in the air for an uncomfortably long time before he forgot why he'd raised it and let it drop. Students on either side of him retreated to avoid the blood, but he barely noticed. He felt oddly numb, his body and mind tingling with white noise. This...this situation was not...optimal. He should be doing something. Right?

A handkerchief thrust into his face. Kelvin looked terrified, trying to flag down a professor as others from their table scattered. He felt terrified, waves of panic growing stronger as those around them joined in. Alvis forced a sick, shaky smile (it looked wrong, like he'd forgotten how to do it) and grasped for the cloth. He missed the first time but snagged it on a his second try.

"Th-Thanks..." He shuddered again and buried his eyes in the handkerchief. Blood soaked the white cloth, thick enough to stain his fingers and palm. He scrubbed his face and looked up again, still smiling wrong, still attempting reassurance. The whites of his eyes had gone red and the blood continued to flow. "I...I think I'm okay. I have to be okay. R-right? It doesn't hurt."

And that, somehow, was the worst part. His eyes were bleeding, harder than he'd ever bled in his life, and that should be excruciating, but it wasn't. He didn't feel a thing.

"It doesn't hurt. So I have to be okay. It would hurt if I wasn't okay." The fake smile cracked and faltered, replaced with a trembling lips and violently shaking hands. His classmates were afraid, and so Alvis was afraid, raising his voice to a panicked shout and cracking, desperate fear. "It wouldn't not hurt if I wasn't okay. So I'm okay. Okay? I'm okay! I'm not-- This isn't--"

A rustle overhead. Bird's wings taking flight. Alvis jerked his head to look and nearly fell backwards off the bench. He saw nothing. What had he been expecting? An owl? No. Something else. Someone else.

Memories -- his own, or maybe others' -- pricked at the back of his mind. Headlines in the Prophet. A dozen wizards dead. Dozens more in St. Mungo's. Students pulled from classes to be privately informed of a loved one's illness or passing. Search for a source ongoing. Healers overworked.  Bleeding. Vomit. Coma. Death. Panic.  Contamination...

A bloody hand shot out, grabbing someone's sleeve. Maybe Kelvin's. Maybe a teacher's. Maybe someone else entirely.

"Help me," he gasped, voice weak as his shaking grasp. "I...I'm not okay."

It was a boring as usual study session. Midterm Exams were just around the corner and despite having had to study more than the four previous years their workload had increased yet again. Any free time they had was spent studying, eating, and sleeping. Even then it felt like the hours spent sleeping were fewer than normal.

Moira was focusing on her own work, only glancing up occasionally but those glances had shown her Alvis discreetly chewing Willow Bark. He was going through more of it than normal and she couldn't help but be a little worried.

However, that worry was soon outlived as stronger emotions took their place. His voice had squeaked as he called out for a Professor, needing to go to the Hospital Hut. Like everyone else she looked towards him and like everyone else she could only stare for a moment, that was most certainly NOT normal.

Watkins at least had attempted to help though with so much blood a handkerchief couldn't do much but the way he had done it.... It was as though he didn't want to touch Alvis at all. In fact the others close to him were moving away. She couldn't figure out if it was the blood or they were worried he'd spread whatever it was to them.

There was no time to be worrying about such things, he was steadily getting worse and quickly. There was so much blood and no one was making a move to help. Clenching her teeth against a multitude of emotions - anger and terror included - she moved from her table to where Alvis was.

His hand shot out and grabbed hold of her sleeve as soon as she got there. Moira's heart did a little flip at his desperate plea for help and she wrapped her arm firmly around him. "I've got you." Alvis was taller than her, but fortunately he didn't weigh overly much. If someone would get over their insane repulsion and help her it would be much easier, but she'd go alone if she had to.

“What is going on here?”

Esther strode over to the Ravenclaw table, frowning with annoyance but also confused, a textbook clutched in her hand. She had been doing a bit of studying herself (idle studying, given the presence of a few friends and housemates who had chosen to hang out at the table as well) and though she hadn’t really been concentrating, per se, the sudden scattering of Ravenclaws had been just enough to draw attention.

Backing away from it all, one Ravenclaw nearly bumped into her. Irritably Esther stepped to the side before he could, shooting him a disgusted look as he turned heel and fled without so much as an apology. Um, rude. “Kelvin? Moira?”

But because Alvis seemed to be at the center of it, she was already stepping up to his other side, looking down to see what was wrong– “Oh my god.”

Blood streamed down his face, making a bloody mess of his hands, face, everything. She jerked her hand away from his shoulder, looking between Moira and Kelvin, appalled. “His eyes. Why are his–”

A professor. Clearly they needed a professor.

“I– I’ll be right back,” said Esther faintly. It was difficult, looking away; there was just so much blood. But she had to, and so with one last fearful look, she ran. Surely there was someone in the staff room—?

She was nearly at the doors when a hand reached out, holding her back. Esther opened her mouth, ready to tell its owner off, when she looked up and almost sagged with relief: Professor Donovan!

“Oh thank Merlin,” Esther rushed out, too relieved for appearances. “Professor, you have to come quick. Alvis—his eyes–” She glanced back, shooting the Ravenclaw table a panicked look.

Friendly amusement gave way to concern. “What’s wrong with Alvis?”

But they were already being called over, and from the clamor the Care of Magical Creatures professor must have heard what she needed because she broke out into a run, rushing forward until she took the spot beside Alvis Esther had so quickly vacated.

“Alvis?” Sitting sideways on the bench, Shona placed a careful hand on the boy’s arm, trying to get a better look at his face. She had just arrived from the staff room, fresh from grading assignments yet triumphant, but the situation quickly sunk in: one Ravenclaw standing off to the side, Kelvin Watkins, practically frozen with panic; another, Alvis Norling, tucked into the side of one Moira McBoid, who had an arm curled around him, silent and protective. There was bloodstained parchment in front of them. Coppery and spiced with panic, Shona’s nostrils flared at the scent of it. “Can you–”

She got a good look at his eyes then and sharply drew a breath. Red eyes—and possibly a panic attack, because it seemed Alvis was no longer able to see.

“Alvis, this is Professor Donovan.” Shona kept her voice low and calm, trying for soothing, but firm as she silently drew her wand. “I’m going to try something.” Gods, please let this work. “Okay?”

There didn’t seem to be a wound, was the thing—just a kid’s eyes hemorrhaging, easy as one pleased. And Shona – while certainly experienced in the care and keeping of animals – was not a medical professional. But for whatever reason the infirmary had been moved, no, kept outside, and right now a five-minute walk seemed like a horribly long time.

Shooting the gods and whatever else might be listening a quick and fervent prayer, the werewolf took another breath and gently grasped Alvis’ jaw, resting the tip of her wand against a corner of an eye—murmuring a spell frequently used to treat hyphema in animals.

Moira. Thank the stars.

Alvis went lax like a puppet with cut strings, his body slumping towards hers as his girlfriend (still pretend, technically, but how could that matter now?) pulled him near and held him close. He lay his forehead on her shoulder, trying to match his ragged breathing with hers even as he heard Esther Morrell gasp, "Oh my god." and "I'll be right back."

He kept his grasp on Moira's arm, but shifted it in search of her pulse-point. That and her breathing kept him grounded, helped him think. He needed to think, even though his brain felt less stable than their summer trip's boat in the heart of a storm. He'd heard of this. Recently. Wait...no. He'd read of this recently.

"The Prophet." His other hand groped at the tabletop, smearing more blood across his essay in search of his bag. "The news...St. Mungo's...M-Moira, I think I've been..."

And then he heard it again, that flutter of wings overhead. It came closer this time, and louder. Alvis twisted in search of it, eyes rolling to the enchanted sky.

The next thing he knew, someone else lay a hand on his arm and a new presence arrived. It took Alvis a few blinks to see her, his vision blurred by irritation and the loss of his glasses, though he couldn't remember where'd they gone. More bloody tears joined the mess, which now spread from his own clothes onto Moira's.

“Alvis, this is Professor Donovan." And sure enough, the blurred figure finally reformed into the teacher in question. She had her wand out, expression and voice unified in her attempt to be assertive, yet assuring. "I'm going to try something. Okay?"

Alvis gave a jerky nod, stilling his jaw in Dovonan's grip so she could hold his head still. The spell spread heat across the front of his eyes, heat that turned into a low burn. He bit down a gasp (it came out as a whimper) and forced himself to keep his eyes open, but focused on nothing. Gradually, the blood drained away and the his vision cleared...

...just long enough for the professor to see that the blood came not from the eyes themselves but from the tear ducts, the red in the whites coming only from irritation. The moment she lifted her wand, twin lines of scarlet returned to pool on the edge of his lids before the next blink sent them rolling. However, their flow now was lighter and the relief offered a moment of mental clarity that Alvis desperately grasped.

"Professor, I think I've been poisoned." The words came tumbling out all at once, tripping over half-formed sobs. "I-I didn't even think about it. The paper said potions. I don't take any potions. It's just --"

Finally, his hand found the book bag. He yanked it towards him, only to turn it upside-down, the open flap spilling its contents across the bloody table, his lap, the bench, and the floor. Books, quills, and parchment went everywhere; his ink bottle smashed and the bag of willow bark  slipped to the ground.

Alvis lurched to his feet, realizing too late that the action also untangled him from Moira. However, once he was standing straight, he suddenly forgot why he'd stood up in the first place. He braced himself on the table, elbows locked and mind spinning, and found himself looking again to the open sky...no. To the enchanted ceiling. His ears rang. It sounded like a bird's song.

"It's here," he breathed. And then he giggled, sounding more than a little mad. "D'you hear that? I think it's actually here. That bird...It found me..."

Alvis' relief in having Moira present was almost palpable to her, and when he seemed to have some sort of recollection after Esther ran to get help she continued to keep hold of him, listening as he mentioned the Prophet even as he tried to find his bag. She quickly reached the same conclusion he had. He had received a batch of willow bark that had been tainted by poison.

Moira watched him carefully, feeling like she had lost him somewhere until Professor Donovan called him back. It was all she could do, watching as the Professor cast a spell in attempts to help. The blood continued to flow after a moment, but at a much more manageable rate.

Alvis began to explain before he had an odd look. The delirium was setting in as he lurched to his feet and away from her. There was no helping it. Reaching out she grabbed the pouch that contained the willow bark and gave it to the Professor before wrapping an arm around her boyfriend again as he began to go on about a bird finding him.

"Professor he chewed three pieces of it since the study session began. He never takes that much." Glancing to Alvis worriedly as he giggled madly again she tightened her grip and looked to Shona once more. "Professor, please. We have to get him to Madam Nagde."

Shona watched the blood ebb with a sharp cut of relief and elation; to see it return so soon after—her jaw clenched, lips pursing into a grim line. Between the sight, its metallic tang, and the low but rising thrum of panic emanating from those nearest, it was a testament to her own control that her eyes didn’t flash even a little. God knew she was certainly tempted.

Ever since the explosions Shona had had her fill of hospitals; as much as visiting Maiko had been a pleasure (wolf or not, pack was pack), the circumstances that had led them there had hovered over them like a cloud of smoke—a feeling that had only persisted, given the solemn quiet of the ward and the tension of other families. Pain was palpable even without visibility; within the ward’s sterile, cheerless walls, it tugged at her senses, insistent and miserable. One could only imagine how much worse the tumult was now.

To see it affect a student so directly... With wide, horrified eyes, they watched Alvis spill his things, stopping short of spilling out of his seat himself. The look in his eyes growing distant.

And then he began to laugh.

Shona paled.

She leaned out of the bench, looking around Alvis to meet Moira’s own worried gaze. “Three? You’re sure?” But in the Hufflepuff’s face there was only confirmation to be seen, coating the leaden weight in her gut with awful certainty. Shit. Shona was not a medical professional, but as the symptoms stacked up she could recognize signs of Streeler venom poisoning when she saw them.

“Shona?” Rick emerged from the loose crowd that had gathered on the fringe, cutting through it with a lack of patience that made students hastily step out of his way. The change of clothes and irritable expression said it all; he’d been on his way out, ready to go home.

Shona felt a pang of regret for keeping him, but urgency won out. “Poison,” she said briskly, answering the unspoken question in those furrowed brows as she rose from her seat—urging Alvis (and by extension, Moira) to rise as well. Now that her beta– brother was here, taking charge of the situation fell a little more easily on her shoulders, making it easier for her to think. Swiftly a course of action unfolded itself before her, clear as rain. “I might have something for it, but the hideaway’s too far. I need to you to help get them to Tulo.”

She let go of Alvis; smoothly Rick took her place, his hand firm on the boy’s shoulder. “What about you?” he asked, as the Ravenclaw proved unsteady on his feet. Any trace of irritation had been replaced by ready watchfulness.

Shona gave a quick shake of her head. “I’m going ahead.” She was already stepping away from the table—pausing only to gauge the (cognizant) students’ reactions. “You guys fine with that?”

Pity and worry (and not a little disgust—something that was quickly tamped down out of shame) tugged at Esther, who bit her lip almost fretfully as she looked on. The spell had worked, thank Merlin, but only for a moment; the symptoms returned, though lighter than before.

Stll, relief was short-lived.

Poison? Like anyone else Esther read the papers and listened to the wireless—it wasn’t fashion or gossip, but she wasn’t unaware of what had happened. Who was, these days? After the awfulness on Guy Fawkes, it seemed as though everyone knew someone who either worked at the hospital or had been admitted there. And that shocking article had only been published just yesterday. People had died.

But Hogwarts was Hogwarts, and more than a premier institution of learning it was supposed to be safe. Feeling the effects of events occurring beyond its walls was unavoidable, but this? Something actually happening here? It just struck too close to home.

The clatter of Alvis’ things was a welcome distraction. Esther latched onto the task of picking them up, hurrying to help. She didn’t care about dropping to her knees, or checking the books for damage, or shuffling the spilled parchment into something more organized—only that she had something to do.

She startled at the Charms professor’s arrival, and nearly made a face at the look on his as he approached. Thankfully, however, he seemed to grasp the gravity of situation. Esther looked to Kelvin and Moira, before settling on Alvis with another anxious look. “Yes, professor,” she managed, tucking the last of Alvis’ things into his bag, and swung it over a shoulder, clutching the strap in a tight grip. She wasn’t particularly close with either student (Moira or Alvis, that is), but Juni was, and even then, Esther was a prefect; she took her responsibilities very, very seriously.

Propped up between two sets of shoulders -- first Moira and Shona, then Moira and Professor Donovon-the-brother  -- Alvis let his head roll. The giggles turned to a bit of a manic grin and his eyes slid out of focus. He didn't hear what anyone was saying. He didn't need to. It felt good to fly.

He let his supporters lead the way, stumbling between them as his head rolled back to look up at the ceiling. What crowd they'd gathered gave way to let the procession through, the rustle of their cloaks like a hundred wings. Beautiful, white wings. Caladrius wings.

"There's a lot of them, isn't there?" he rambled, leaning with each step so his weight sometimes favored Donovon's side, and sometimes favored Moira's. "Didn' think there would be. Not 'posed t'be common in Britain. Lucky though. All this poison goin' around, but those birds...just gotta look 'em in the eye and it all goes..."

Two steps out of the Great Hall, they happened to catch a blast of cold wind as the main doors swung open and shut. The sudden chill and lungful of fresh air brought Alvis around for another fleeting, cognizant thought. He could be in real trouble here. If he put off what he'd wanted to say any longer, he might never get another chance.

"Moira." His weight swung haphazardly in her direction, grin dropping and replaced with desperation. He probably would have grasped her with both arms if it weren't for the Charms professor's steady support on his right side. "Moira, I need to tell you something."

His legs twisted around each other, sending him even more off-balance than he'd been originally. He swung 'round enough to catch a glimpse of Esther trailing after them, then back so he could focus on Moira. It all left him at an awkward angle, mostly slumped over Moira with real, watery tears swelling and mixing with the blood to drip pink down his stained cheeks. It hurt to keep his eyes open, but he forced himself to do so and to hold her gaze.

"I don't want to stop. Not at Christmas, not after. I know we said we would, but...I want to keep going. With us. I just...really..."

His lips kept moving, but his voice forgot to keep up. Alvis mouthed through a few words that might have started with 'L' and probably ended in 'you,' before dissolving into incomprehensible mutterings, his gaze turning skyward once more. Where was that bird? He'd be back to normal if only it showed itself...!

He stumbled a step, untwisted his legs, and lurched back to a semi-normal balance. For the rest of the trip to the hospital wing, he wouldn't put up the slightest fight.

The trip was going quickly despite Alvis' awkward stumbling and weight shifting thanks to the Professor. Another student trailed after them a ways with Alvis' bag. Her things were a distant thought and not one she was worried about. Nothing personal among the lot anyway.

He was going on about birds until the cold blast of air hit them. Alvis became aware and seemingly desperate. His sudden twisting  movements caused Moira to pause in her walking, planting her feet so they didn't end up a mess on the cold ground. Forward movement was momentarily impossible unless they dragged him. Not the wisest course. Her gaze was held rather firmly by a teary blood-filled one, body braced as she supported most of Alvis' weight as he spoke.

The moment was over quickly and they resumed walking as Alvis once more spoke about birds. For more than one reason Moira was glad it was the male Professor Donovan helping. Undoubtedly it would have been faster for him to just carry the younger man but honestly until she saw Alvis reach the hut with her own eyes she wasn't letting go.

Moira's thoughts were reeling the rest of the trip, going much faster than the first half as there was no more resistance against their progress. After they got him into Nagde's care she was ushered back out and left staring at the door. Taking a slow breath she let it out and turned, going back to the castle not caring about all the blood she was covered with. At least people would give her a wide berth.


Exit Moira