The familiar sense of nausea that accompanied Apparition washed over him and he had just enough presence of mind to realize that he had made it back to Hogwarts before his knees gave out. Hogwarts. Hogwarts was good.

He attempted to breathe slowly and tried to will the frantic beating of his heart down, but this appeared to be impossible. With every ragged breath he took, there was a sharp stab of pain on his left side, just below his ribcage. He crushed his hand against the open wound, praying that he would make it to his quarters before he bled to death. It would be a shame to have escaped the Dark Lord's torture only to collapse in sight of rescue.

The blood was beginning to seep through the opening between his fingers, and he knew that he had to get up. Still, his legs wouldn't obey to his commands. They felt foreign, as though they were no real part of him and he couldn't control their movements. He pressed his free hand against the grass and attempted to push himself up. It worked – for a moment. Then he collapsed back onto the ground, face first into the wet grass.

The smell of it penetrated his nostrils and he inhaled sharply, hoping the scent would calm down his overactive breathing. Then he pushed himself up and tried again. This time he actually got to his knees before collapsing in pain. The wound below his ribcage hurt worse than ever before, and the pain was coming in quick, sharp stabs. He could feel the sweat roll from his forehead. He was spent, exhausted, and there was no way he was going to be able to make it back to the castle.

A gentle hand closed around his upper arm and slowly pulled him up. He tried to expel the tears of pain from his eyes so that he could see who had come to his rescue. He hadn't exactly been expecting anyone to help him – no one had known he had left, after all. And besides, who would have wanted to help him? His colleagues? Not after he had killed their trusted mentor. His students? Hardly. They would be delighted to see him suffer.

An arm went around his waist and he noticed he was being gently led back to the castle. He leant upon his rescuer heavily – and he wasn't too surprised to hear the person breathe heavily. What he was surprised about was that the breathing was distinctly female.

He blinked a last time and slowly his surroundings came into focus. As he had already discerned, his helper was a woman. Her stern face was somewhat drawn with exertion and her glasses were slightly askew. She wore nothing but a tartan robe, but the piece of cloth was more than enough to identify her. Long black hair hung loose around her face, but he knew the strands to be usually pulled back into a stern bun. No, there was no question about the identity of his rescuer. Why Minerva McGonagall had decided to help him, though, was beyond him.

'Minerva,' he croaked, his voice dry and cracked from screaming. 'What are you –'

'Shut it,' she hissed, pulling him towards the doors a little bit harder. 'I trust you have the Potions you need ready?'

He nodded meekly, unable to protest.

'Good. Do you have something to patch up that wound you have?'

He only now became aware of the bloodstains on Minerva's tartan nightdress. She'd be in a right state about that later.

'Poppy,' he uttered, knowing McGonagall would understand him.

Minerva, however, shook her head at the mention of the Healer's name. 'Not a chance. She said she wouldn't help you and Poppy is not one to break a promise.'

'Damn Ravenclaws,' he muttered under his breath.

Minerva only raised an eyebrow and began hoisting him down the stairs to the dungeons. He winced as they descended. If Minerva had been gentle before, there was no trace left of that now. She brusquely guided him through the cold, deserted corridors, towards the entrance to his former office and his quarters. It was a good thing, he mused, that McGonagall had been down here before. He didn't quite feel up to giving directions.

At long last they reached the dark wooden door that led to his quarters, and Minerva stopped abruptly. He very nearly lost his balance, only managing to grab onto his colleague's tartan nightdress at the very last moment. Minerva looked at him with something that could only be described as contempt. Once again he wondered why she was helping him at all.

'Password,' she prompted in a curt voice. He looked at her dazedly for a few moments, then realized that she didn't know the password to his quarters was the exact same one as the one to his office.

'Dumbledore,' he breathed, and the door swung open. Minerva's hand on his arm contracted briefly and he heard a sharp intake of breath from beside him. Sentimental Gryffindors. Then the Deputy Headmistress led him inside his quarters.

She deposited him roughly on the first piece of furniture she encountered – his couch – and then stood beside him, her hands on her hips.

'Well?' she spat.

He merely looked at her questioningly.

'The Potions, for Merlin's sake,' she snapped, flinging her hands into the air. 'Where are the Potions?'

Ah, so that was what she was on about.

'The cabinet,' he said, gesturing weakly towards something behind Minerva. She immediately spun around and headed for the cabinet. She brusquely pulled open the doors, and he flinched. Didn't she have any idea about the value of some of those Potions?

Probably not, he decided as he watched her read the lables on the bottles and carelessly pull a couple of them out. However, he felt too drained to comment on her indelicate handling of his Potions – and, besides, he felt positive that she would leave the second he said a bad word about her.

She marched back towards the couch, leaving the door of the cabinet ajar. She uncorked the first bottle and even in his half-dazed state he managed to recognize it as blood-replenishing Potion. Minerva put a hand under his chin and forced his head back, then tipped the bottle and allowed its contents to flow into his open mouth. She swiftly uncorked the second bottle and gave him that, too. It tasted like a sedative.

Then her hand left his chin and started tugging at his collar. He stared up at her, wide-eyed.

'What are you –' he croaked.

'If you want someone to fix that wound for you, you're going to have to take off your clothes,' she snapped, her fingers still working on his collar. Despite the fervour with which she said that, he could see a faint pink tinge in her cheeks. Interesting.

Minerva appeared to be done with his collar and was now beginning to pull the robe over his head.

'Minerva, is this really –'

'Shut up!' she snarled, releasing her hold on his robes. She retrieved her wand from her pocket, pointed it at him and muttered something under her breath. His robes immediately disappeared, and he was left in nothing but his underwear. He knew it was his turn to go red.

Minerva focussed with such determination on the wound in his side that he was surprised her stare didn't burn right through him.

'Right,' she said after a moment's scrutinization. 'This may hurt.'

'What –'

But McGonagall had already pulled out her wand and was now tracing the still bleeding wound. She didn't speak, and he was unfamiliar with whatever spell she might be using – but it certainly worked. The wound began to close right beneath her wand. It also hurt like hell, even despite the fact she had given him a sedative. He had to bite down on his lip so hard he drew blood in order not to scream.

Minerva had finished closing up his wound, and all that was left now was an thin, angry red line and a lot of dried blood. Minerva pursed her lips, and, with another flick of her wand, vanished most of the blood.

'W-why,' he stuttered, having finally managed to slow his breathing down enough to talk, 'are you doing this?'

She regarded him as though he was deranged for a moment. 'To keep you from bleeding to death, of course. Unless you'd like it differently?'

'No, not at all. I was merely wondering ... why help a traitor?'

The moment the words left his mouth he knew he had gone too far. The pink tinge in Minerva's cheeks went up a notch, her lips thinned and her nostrils flared. Her eyes were colder than ever before.

'Minerva,' he began, but it was already too late. McGonagall turned on her heels and stormed from his quarters. She slammed the door shut behind her. He groaned and closed his eyes. This was bad indeed; his actions were much too suspicious already. He would have to take more care next time. He didn't think Minerva – or anyone else for that matter – would come to his rescue a second time. And it was probably better that way. At least he wouldn't endanger them. That still didn't answer the one question that plagued his mind.

Why had she helped him?