Amid the Cold and Evil Air

The sight really was quite dismal.

The large stone edifice sat in the middle of a gangly forest on the outskirts of a small village in the northern half of the British Isles. The trees, presently devoid of their earthy green foliage, looked broken and desperate, almost begging to have their misery brought to an end. Unfortunately the tenant of the stone structure did not ease the pain of the surroundings. In all honesty, the tenant rarely inhabited the area. Almost a decade had passed since the tenant last called the place home. War had raged for many of those one hundred and twenty months, keeping the building's owner away. Now, as dark and angry clouds rolled across the tired evening sky, a single light flickered in a basement window. It just happened that the lord of the manor had resumed residence. The ominous weather seemed to foreshadow and explain events to come and those that had passed. Dark times had enveloped this creature's past, his every muscle, tendon and vein. It had once corrupted his very mind, blood and heart.

Perhaps now, sitting by the light of a flickering candle, he still was as he had been in his youth. So many lives had been taken in that war, children, siblings, mothers and fathers. Everyone knew someone who had lost a loved one, all except for this man. He'd known no loss of loved ones. He highly doubted whether those he called friends would truly bat an eye if he had been one of the numerous casualties. But that was in the past for the war had ended years ago, on July 11, 2001. That was seven long years ago. In those seven years, the scattered members of Voldemort's collective had been apprehended and charged. So, as the winter storms rolled in on this cold lonely night, the lord of the manor sat by his candlelight lost in thought.

"Achoo!" came a very loud and phlegm filled sneeze.

The disrupter of the silence groaned loudly as he removed his slender glasses and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He'd finally decided to retire to the old place at the start of winter. The poor man had solemnly lugged his belongings to the castle and set about fixing it up to his liking. Without a house elf in sight, for he surely was not going to pay one of those grotesque little creatures to go about touching his things, he had spent many weeks unpacking and organizing. He presently sat at a mahogany desk in the bowels of the castle, bent over an inventory text. He reached his left hand over and pulled out a tissue, blowing his nose for what must have been the five millionth time that hour. The man shook his head once more as he went back to studying the ingredients in the book. He had thrice checked his potions stocks to make sure he had everything. After all, one couldn't be too careful with potions ingredients. Over the years, he'd had many things disappear from his private stores in the hands of three troublesome pupils. Yet, these pupils had turned into fine young men and women, surviving a horrific era and coming out the victors.

Severus ran a hand through his slowly graying locks. Even at the age of 48 he still possessed the appearance with which he could induce fear in his students. The war had taken a lot out of him, having to constantly be on his guard. Another addition to his increasing age was a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. He didn't much mind them, but the gray hairs drove him batty. He'd tried every hair-coloring spell he could think of to cover up the altered locks, but to no avail. Finally, after having almost every colleague tell him he looked fine, he gave up with messing with the look. A sudden shiver shot down his spine as he turned to the last page of ingredients. He drew his cloak closer about him, warding off the chill seeping in from outside.

About a week prior he'd begun to feel a bit under the weather. Severus had simply attributed it to lack of sleep from unpacking. He rarely fell seriously ill and he had just brushed it off. Two days ago, the relentless sneezing had begun, as had the sudden chills accompanied by a high fever. He'd continued ignoring the blatant symptoms that he was ill in favor of reacquainting himself with the old place. He had a dying fire lit in the large fireplace on the east wall of the room. Just as he made one final mark in the book, he heard an unmistakable voice calling out several floors above him.

"Severus? Are you in?" came the recognizable voice of Albus Dumbledore.

With a deep sigh, the Potions Master rose and apparated three floors up to the source of the shouting. There he found the ancient Headmaster, his deep purple robes soaked at the hem with snow, flakes still evident in his sliver hair and beard. As usual, his blue eyes sparkled behind his trademark half moon spectacles. As these eyes took in the appearance of his surly staff member, his lips went from a smile to a frown.

"Severus, are you well? You look…pale," Albus said after a moment of examination.

"I am quite well, Headmaster," Severus replied curtly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And honestly, I always look pale," he added in a silky tone.

"No, I mean you look paler than usual. Are you sure you haven't been feeling under the weather?" Albus continued, taking a step closer to scrutinize the man before him.

"I am fine!" Severus snapped irritably as he momentarily became light-headed, placing a hand against the wall to steady himself.

Albus's eyes scanned Severus's bloodshot eyes, sunken cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes and horrid pallor. He saw the middle-aged man's shoulders slumped forward against the cold and he could feel the heat radiating from the man's body.

"Like I said, I'm fine. A bit tired perhaps, but nothing more," the younger wizard barked.

"I really don't think you're well," Albus chided as Severus let out a rumbling cough.

"I just…need to…go to bed," Severus wheezed.

"Yes, I agree," the silver-haired wizard concurred.

"Do you require assistance?" he inquired, his face covered in nothing but concern for his companion.

"No, I do not require assistance," Severus snarled angrily at the old man.

"I'm tired, not a bloody invalid," he grumbled as he turned to head towards the staircase that would lead him to his sleeping chambers.

"Of course, Severus, of course," Albus muttered quietly to himself.

"Oh, Albus, is there something you needed?" the onyx-eyed man queried as he turned to face his guest.

"Just wanted to see how you were settling in is all," Dumbledore replied with a brief nod.

"Oh. I've been moved in for two weeks," Severus returned with a yawn.

"Get some sleep, Severus," the blue-eyed wizard stated firmly.

Severus merely nodded and trudged up the stairs, clasping the railing firmly. It appeared he was too tired to apparate safely anywhere, even within the confines of his own home. Albus watched as the almost fifty-year-old pulled himself up the long stone staircase. Satisfied that Severus had made it to bed without collapsing, Albus apparated back to Order headquarters. Last August the Order had officially disbanded, as their services were no longer needed, but the members still gathered regularly out of tradition. Dumbledore appeared in the Black's ancestral home with a soft 'pop'. Even after Sirius had died years ago, the Order had kept the Manor as its headquarters. During the war, the location and security had been crucial. Slowly, Albus entered the kitchen to find five smiling faces.

"How's he doing?" Minerva asked.

"Well, he's all unpacked, but he looks awful. I believe he has a bad case of the flu," Albus answered with a mixture of happiness and glumness.

"Oh my," Molly Weasley remarked softly.

"Do you have any idea how to get him back on his feet?" Tonks inquired, sending a lock of dark purple hair behind her shoulder.

"I'm trying to think," the Headmaster answered with a smile as he leaned on the table, tapping his chin in thought.

"Well, we could do something, couldn't we?" Remus interjected.

"He's a very stubborn man, that one. It'd take an army to get him to do anything he doesn't want to do," Professor Sinistra muttered.

"You'd be surprised. Last year I got him to sing me happy birthday in seven languages and all it took was three glasses of firewhiskey," Minerva recalled with a chuckle.

"Oh, I remember that. He didn't speak to you for a week afterwards," Albus added through a fit of laughter.

"Well, you don't give a sick man alcohol and make him good as new," Sinistra griped.

"That's true. So, getting back on topic, how can we help dear old Sev?" Remus retorted with a shake of his gray head.

Remus, while also only 48, looked a great deal older. For the past two years, he'd been receiving treatments for his lycanthropy and the results had been positive. He'd gone into remission last February and had only suffered one relapse the following June. Even with the occasional relapse, Remus was grateful for the work that had been done in the field to cure him.

"Why don't we visit him…and take care of the house while he gets better?" Tonks suggested.

"Or I suppose we could take care of him ourselves," Molly proposed with a nervous glint in her eye.

"That is a wonderful idea, Molly!" Albus exclaimed happily.

"Any volunteers?" he inquired.

"I suppose I'll help. It was my idea, after all," Molly answered, raising her hand.

"I'm in too," Tonks said as she reached for her mug of hot cocoa.

"I'll help too, Albus,' Minerva stated matter-of-factly.

"If I must, I offer my services as well,' Sinistra muttered from the corner of her mouth.

All eyes were now on Remus. He looked at each of the four women in front of him, to Albus and back again. He slowly but emphatically began shaking his head in the negative. Before long he was standing up, and backing away from their expectant looks.

"No. Absolutely not! Remember back during the war when he dislocated his shoulder? I tried to help him and he nearly took me out…with his bad arm," Remus whined.

"And besides, I'm no nurse or motherly figure. If I was, I'd be very frightened," he added as an afterthought.

"Alright, Remus, alright. You didn't have to volunteer anyways," Minerva chided with a shake of her head at the man's antics.

"Thank you, Minerva," Remus commented, collecting himself and taking a seat at the table.

The elderly witch merely nodded. Silence fell over the small kitchen as everyone became absorbed in their own thoughts. Suddenly there was a 'pop' followed by a scream emanating from the sitting room. Molly disappeared in a flash to find George on the floor, laughing uproariously at his four-year-old niece, Paige, who sat on the couch crying.

"George, what have you done this time?" Molly bellowed angrily as she sat down next to her weeping granddaughter.

"I swear I didn't do anything, Mum. I just apparated in and Paige just started bawling," George answered as he tried to calm himself down.

"Uncle George scared me, Grandma," Paige whispered into her grandmother's apron.

"Sorry, squirt," George murmured to the sniffling little girl.

"What were you doing up so late anyway, half pint?" George continued.

"George, that's enough. Just put her to bed," his mother ordered softly.

The tall redhead nodded and scooped up his small niece and carried her upstairs. He slid her under the covers of her large four-poster bed and kissed the top of her copper head. She'd inherited both Ginny and Dean's hair color. He tucked her in and closed the door lightly behind him. Once the door clicked, he apparated into the kitchen and began rummaging through the cupboards, and listened to the chatter of the four witches at the table.

"So, I think we ought to start first thing in the morning then," Molly said as Minerva scribed something on a piece of parchment.

"I agree. Say, Molly, you want the first go?" Tonks inquired with a chuckle.

"Oh honestly. You all make it sound like some sort of brutal sporting match," Mrs. Weasley snorted.

"What you all talking about Mum?" George inquired around a bite of cold biscuit.

"Ol' Sev has fallen ill and we are going to get him back on his feet," Tonks answered.

"Good luck with that," the thirty-one year-old snickered.

"Have fun ladies," George smirked before he headed for the stairs and bed.

After George had foraged through the cupboards and taken his leave, the four women sat and shook their heads. Some things never changed. With one final look around the table, Minerva made the final comment of the night.

"Good luck, Molly, and remember, if he gets too much, we're here for you," the 80-year-old woman stated with a warm smile.

"So then let's get that oversized lazy arse well," Sinistra sniggered as they all headed to bed.