For the next fifteen days, the deathly pale boy lying face down in the hospital wing became a part of Hogwarts. Not an active part, mind you, more like a figure.

 Five days ago, Severus had remarked over a cauldron that the boy might as well be a lamp or a doorstop with the amount of activity he was showing. 

Poppy kindly reminded him to watch his words by hitting him on the head with her latest copy of Healing Hands Gazette, causing him to drop his Ashwinder Eggs into his brew with a violent plop. A rather ironic response, but he said considerably less about their newest addition to the castle after that. 

Poppy had taken it upon herself to try and see if she could get rid of the boy's wounds altogether. She knew it would probably be impossible, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try. She always tried her best when it came to her patients. and she was never to back down from a challenge. And besides, he was such a handsome boy, it would be a shame if he had all those scars. 

She often found herself talking to him as she healed his wounds. Good morning, dear, how are we today? she'd say she set down all her endless potions and got to work. 

She wondered what his name was, or what he'd want to eat when he woke up. Or what his eye colour was. She wasn't the only one who wondered that, either. Everyone had their assumptions to make about the boy's eyes. 

"I say they're green, I mean, we all thought he was a nymph, so it just makes sense." Professor Flitwick had remarked as he dumped two brown sugar cubes into his cup of tea. 

"Filius, it was just you that thought that," Minerva had said matter-of-factly, as she spread a generous amount of lemon curd on her toast. 

"Besides, I think they'd be blue. His robes were blue, so it makes sense," 

"It matters not what the boy's eye colour is, what matters is him waking up so he can be properly interrogated," Severus had said in his most frigid tones as he ate his shredded wheat. 

"He's such a sourpuss," Professor Flitwick grumbled as he added another two sugar cubes and vanilla powder to his cup.  

"Perhaps they are purple, he is quite mystical, wouldn't you say," Dumbledore said cheerfully after appearing seemingly out of nowhere as he passed by them on the way to his office. 

Regardless of the reasonings, everyone hoped that he would wake up soon. 

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Poppy and Severus stood in the dimly lit corridor outside the hospital wing, the air thick with the faint scent of antiseptic and herbs. Severus held a small phial in his hand, the liquid inside looking like nothing more than water. 

"I've checked his heart rate," Poppy murmured, her voice calm but with an undercurrent of quiet certainty. "He should wake up any moment now."

 She had never once been wrong about matters of patient health, so her word was the holy law. Severus, for all his sharp intellect and quick wit, had learned long ago not to question her in these things.

"I'll set it up," Severus said, his tone clipped, already moving towards the bed where the unconscious patient lay. But Poppy's hand went out, a firm grip on his arm, halting his advance.

"Severus, gently," She spoke softly, but with authority. 

He shot her a look, brow furrowing. "That's not how it works, and you know it," he replied, his words carrying an edge of impatience. His manner was always efficient, even if that meant being a touch rough in his methods.

Poppy's stern gaze met his—unyielding and resolute, a look he knew all too well. It brooked no further argument.

With a resigned groan, Severus let out a breath. 

"I shall try," he muttered under his breath, giving a nod. He had acquiesced, but only because he didn't have the time to argue. 

Wangji's eyes slowly opened, glassy and unfocused. He blinked once, then twice, and slowly, each of his senses switched on one by one. Two things started to fall into place in his brain. His back felt like agony, and he was thirsty. 

He felt the fabric underneath his hands, and it felt like soft cotton. A tingly smell of herbs invaded his nose.  Was he dead? No, he was definitely dead. Was the afterlife filled with cotton sheets and medicinal herbs? No, no, this couldn't be right. 

 Panic ever so slowly started to rise in him, no. no, he remembered everything, blood tears, hatred. He frantically shot up but slumped down on his hands when a wave of pain hit him like a lightning bolt. 

What little light was in the hospital ward stung Wangji's eyes, as he looked around. Where was this? It wasn't Cloud Recesses. Qinghe? No. It was odd, too foreign too outlandish, everything was too strange for him to even comprehend. The only thing he knew was that he was in bed. He looked down shakily and saw that he had bandages going across his chest.

 Someone bandaged him? With such gentle care? Impossible. But at least now he knew for certain he wasn't in Cloud Recesses. 

Another wave of panic, and another bought of thirst. Why was he so thirsty, he had bigger things to worry about. Why wasn't he dead, he should be dead, he wanted to be dead.

 He sealed his core, he made his choice; he wanted this! He sealed his core. His core, the core that he could feel spinning around in his dantian. It was unsealed. Why? Why did he need to be alive? Why did he need to be alive and somewhere else? 

he looked around frantically, his eyes landing on a small wooden table next to the bed. Two things were on it. His old robes, which had somehow been miraculously cleaned of blood and repaired. The other was what looked like a bowl made of pure iridescent crystal with water inside it. The bowl itself was a work of art, cut perfectly with diamond patterns and a perfectly rounded smooth rim. 

But that wasn't it, it was the water inside it. He, for reasons unbeknownst to him, felt like he needed to drink it.  Part of him was screaming not to, to hurry up and die, to find something sharp to end whatever the hell this surreal nightmare was. He didn't want to stay for longer, something in the back of his mind was screaming at him that it would keep him here. 

Don't drink it, don't drink it just hurry up leave, just hurry up and go, find something sharp, find something pointy, something jagged, find a rope, find a crossbeam, break your skull, bite your tongue, find some poison, swallow a shard of glass. 

Everything his brain was saying was overpowered by one thought and one thought only. 

But I'm thirsty. 

Wangji knew better than to drink anything, but he was so thirsty, and the water looked so cool and refreshing. How could he not drink that crystalline liquid that just slid down his throat like liquid silk, and hit his taste buds like the finest tea money, favours and social standing could buy... Oh... He had already drunk it all.

Everything felt odd...numb, his head was floating, and he had this odd sense of calmness like for the moment everything was going to be alright. He knew it wasn't though, how could it possibly be? After those horrid thoughts he himself had come up with, how could it be? But the faint buzz in his head grew louder, overpowering those ideas, and convincing him that it was going to be okay.

There was a small shuffling noise behind him, they were clearly footsteps. He knew that there was someone behind him, he could feel their presence, and all he had to do was turn his head just a little, and he would see who it was. 

He felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, and his whole life was being brought before him again. Mother passing away, kneeling outside the Gentian house, growing up with Uncle, learning alongside Huan-ge.

Why was he thinking about that now? It didn't feel bad, but it didn't feel...right.

More memories, standing guard for the night, meeting the most beautiful boy he had ever seen, learning his name, watching him from afar, trying to pretend he wasn't quickly falling madly and hopelessly in love with him.

He couldn't help the smile that came onto his lips, even though he knew it shouldn't be there.It shouldn't be there. 

Fire engulfed his home, his memories, the place he grew up, his leg getting broken, and he was dragged to Qishan. Hiding out in a cave, Wei Ying was pale and feverish, a song he composed in the dead of night for the ears of one person alone, Wei Ying was gone. And just like that he came back, pale and hollow, all the light gone, everything he loved slowly slipping away while he watched helplessly.

Qiongqi path, bodies everywhere and innocents being abused, again he stayed silent. Watching Wei Ying struggle in the Burial Mounds, trying to help, but still not doing enough. Wangji felt his chest constrict as the memories forcibly flashed by him. It wasn't right. It wasn't right at all

Wei Ying was bloodied and broken, desperately trying to protect him, going against his clan, and kneeling in the courtyard, looking death in the eyes.  

 Blood, so much blood. Blood and flayed skin flying everywhere, left right left right, blood filling in the cracks in the stone, blood filling up his mouth, his ears, behind his eyes.  No, this wasn't right, everything was spinning. he was spinning, someone was spinning him, someone had chopped off his head and they were using it as a spinning top.

 The room was too small, he felt like it was going to explode. He was going to explode. he was going to die. He was going to die again. Stop, everything needed to stop, the universe would tear in two. 

He felt horrific, he felt filthy, and he wanted it to stop, the room was melting, turning to tar. His lungs were filling up; he couldn't breathe. Breathe, he wanted to breathe, he needed to, but his body wouldn't obey him.

Stop, please, just stop. Please, please, PLEASE STOP! his mind screamed.  Whatever was making this happen seemed to oblige as everything came to a jarring halt.

"Stupefy," A voice had come from behind him, and everything faded to black for the second time.

Wangji lay unnervingly still, his body eagle-sprawled across the bed. He was so pale, that he looked almost translucent, with sweat clinging to his forehead and dampening his hair. The room felt heavy with an oppressive silence, broken only by the faint rustle of sheets sticking to his clammy skin. His breathing was shallow and erratic, and it even stopped in a few intervals. 

Severus dragged a hand across his face. He had delved deep into painful memories before, but nothing nearly as painful or as complex as this. There was too much to sift through, and he would certainly have to compact it, otherwise he'd be explaining the situation to Dumbledore for days on end. 

Dear lord, he'd need enough headache to fill the lake. 

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Hello all! So, Chapter 4? Quite a doozy, huh? I wanted to really show the inner turmoil going on in Wangji's mind, along with some side bits of the Hogwarts staff. One of my headcannons is that Severus fears nothing, but the women of Hogwarts.

 Also, yeah, he eats shredded wheat. I just know he would. I found myself literally shaking in excitement once the words started forming in my head, I just couldn't stop myself. It is approximately 1:05 AM as I am writing this. I have no regrets. I've always been a night owl anyway. I can't wait to get into the swing of things as I have so many other drafts that I can't wait to integrate. And yeah, I found a nice chapter divider. I'll probably change it though. 

That's all for now.

Stay safe and stay fabulous. 

Sincerely, Amethyst.