Commentary

Heed the warnings. Dark material below.

Severus Snape glowered at his apprentice as she shakily unwarded the room and opened the door for Remus and Tonks to enter. Hermione could feel the heat of his stare burning her face, but she steadfastly refused to look at him and instead focused on the advancing forms of two of her friends. "Oh! Severus, are you feeling better?" Remus asked politely, though he directed the question more at Hermione.

"I'd say he's feeling... all right," said Tonks with a slight, lop-sided grin after running her eyes up and down his figure. Hermione's eyes grew large as she turned to Tonks and quelled any further commentary with her admonishing glare. The pink-haired witch quickly covered her mouth with her hand to suppress her giggles and then shrugged at Hermione. Lupin peered quizzically at the women. Severus looked dumbstruck.

"Right..." Remus said after an uncomfortable silence. "Well, then, we've come down here to check on you both, and Hermione, there are some people upstairs who would..."

"Excuse me," growled Severus as he pushed past the group and stalked out the door. Taking the opportunity, and utterly unable to keep her quip to herself, Tonks shouted after him, "Oi, Snape, you might want to stop off at the loo to, uhm, freshen up before heading to dinner!"

Hermione didn't have a chance to make sure her withering stare hit its mark, as immediately following Tonks' comment, the Auror threw all three of them to the floor when a jet of light penetrated the room, crashing into a vacant worktable behind them. The older witch let out a barking laugh as they were all showered in sawdust and slivers of wooden debris. Her husband haltingly stood, dusting his clothes off with a frown. "Really, Dora, you shouldn't make fun of his personal appearance..." His reprimand was cut short when another series of infectious giggles erupted from the Auror. He let out a long-suffering sigh, though it lacked conviction as he was now openly grinning at her. "Right, well, let's be off then. As I was saying, Hermione, there are some people upstairs impatiently awaiting your arrival."

***

Severus Snape was easily the most challenging patient Poppy had ever had the opportunity to treat over her many years as a Healer. He routinely protested, fought, fled, growled, groused, screamed, and cursed. Once, as a child, he even bit her. In fact, the quick-tempered little boy radiated a feral energy from the first day she met him, and thus she was extremely pleased to watch him grow into a slightly more civilized man – civilized, at least, when he was at full health. However, when injured or ill, Severus simply regressed to that eleven-year-old state of mind where instinct overpowered reason. This was one of those times.

The Healer had been making her way from the infirmary to the Great Hall for the Feast when she found him: a thin figure dressed in black, slumped against the barrister of the Grand Staircase, trembling violently. She had not needed to get a closer inspection to know it was the Potions master, especially since, upon noticing her, he quickly tried to spin his body around and make his way in the opposite direction. "Severus?" she prompted, but received no answer. This, of course, was expected.

Poppy rushed to the form that was now threatening to collapse, rocking dangerously from side to side. His skin was devoid of any color, much more than usual, and his pupils were dilated as his eyes flitted nervously around. "Severus, come with me," she stated in a brusque, matronly tone that brooked no argument.

Despite his seemingly weak state, he shoved her aside roughly and shook his head violently. Anticipating this, as it was his usual behavior, Poppy had braced herself firmly and showed him that she could not be deterred so easily. With a silent flick of her wand, Severus found himself prone and restrained on a conjured stretcher, struggling in vain and hissing incoherent curses with vehemence.

The Healer ignored him and led the floating stretcher to the hospital wing, taking great care to maneuver around the moving staircases and fidgeting furnishings. Speaking more to herself than to him, she scolded, "I don't know why I even bother, quite honestly. I keep hoping for the day that you will wake up and cease this mindless self-destruction! What is it this time, eh, young man? Pick a fight? Overdose on potions? I don't see any blood, so it's not a self-inflicted wound, I assume? Although, truly, they are all self-inflicted injuries, aren't they..." She rambled on even as they reached their destination, and she gently transferred the wildly thrashing man to a solid bed. "All right, you know the drill," she said wryly. "Will it be Silencio and restraints, or do you think that, for once, you can act like an adult and lie there quietly?"

He grew very still and looked up at the Healer hopefully, and though she smiled back down at him, she was not fooled. It took only a matter of seconds before he tried to stand, screaming obscenities at her as he toppled off the bed. She leaned against the wall and observed him with an eyebrow raised, watching humorlessly as he tried to crawl out of the room.

With a dramatic sigh, she said, "I see. No need to break tradition, is there?" A few delicate, wordless, flicks of the wrist, and Severus Snape was restrained on the bed, his mouth opening and closing in blissful silence.

"Yes, that's better. I'm going to administer the usual: the modified Calming Draught first, and a potion for anxiety, then we will run some diagnostics, all right?" His dark eyes glittered maliciously at her.

Poppy had long ago adopted this particular bedside manner, especially the reciting of her every action to the patient, because of this man before her. Her first time to attend to him, small child that he was, she did not bother to explain her actions, as most children at Hogwarts did not care what she would do, just so long as it worked. But for this little Slytherin, any touch on his person (especially, and understandably, when restrained and silenced) that was not given a full commentary resulted in very, very extreme panic attacks. (Although, truth be told, even when she took great care to describe her treatments, his stay in the infirmary was always punctuated with anxiety-induced complications.) Poppy had even enlisted his help to create a specialized Calming Draught to ease his stay, one she always had in stock just for him.

In fact, ever since Madam Pomfrey was first introduced to the young man, Severus Snape had provided a peculiar challenge to the Healer. Unlike most of her patients, this wizard required a special, careful treatment both psychologically as well as physiologically. His violent mood swings were tolerated, if not subtly encouraged, by Poppy. Outside these walls, she knew that he never expressed his fear or pain – instead, he dissociated himself from his emotions. It was a survival technique, a coping mechanism, employed by many children that hailed from severely abusive homes. A learned response: never show weakness – when threatened, shut down.

Yet, Poppy was able to somehow establish a trust between herself and the younger man over the years. With her, and only her, he allowed himself to feel, to convey his emotions to her, never fearing that she would twist the circumstances to her advantage. She supported his intuitive need to scream, curse, cower, hide, and even cry. The only action she prohibited was physical harm, especially as it was nearly always directed at himself.

It was a link, a deeply etched connection. It united them both, allowing him to know he was protected while in her care. Subconsciously, the two shared a profound, maternal relationship, something that defied speech and emotion: an impenetrable bond.

While ruminating over this, the Healer administered the potions to him and was pleasantly surprised that he drank them without resistance. Poppy waited for his body to release its tension before she rattled off her diagnostic spells, intensely focused on the colors the waves of light emitted.

She tsked tsked a few times before staring him directly in the eye and inquiring, "If I lift the Silencio, will you be calm enough to explain your injuries without resorting to idle threats?"

He shook his head.

"Fair enough." She left the small room momentarily, returning with a vial that she explained patiently, "This contains the general pain reliever." In a more cohesive state of mind, Severus would know immediately what the container held – but Poppy did not want to risk any chance at unsettling him, so she quietly described every medicinal element that she used.

The Healer lifted his head slightly and pressed the potion to his lips, slightly concerned that he drank it so greedily. "I'll leave you alone for a bit, and when I return, I'll see if you feel better enough to be released from the two spells so we can continue treatment, all right?" He nodded in silent acquiescence.

*

Fifteen minutes later, Madam Pomfrey peeked in on her irascible patient. His wide, dark eyes followed her every moment as she confidently strode into the makeshift room, carrying with her a few jars of cream. He still trembled, though it was not nearly as pronounced. His eyelids drooped sleepily; his breathing was slow and steady.

"Feeling better?" she asked kindly.

He nodded in agreement and gave a lopsided smile.

"Nausea?"

He shook his head slowly.

"I'm going to check your temperature." Poppy stated as she leaned over his motionless form while casting another diagnostic charm. "You still have a fever, but it is much more mild. Ready to move and talk again?"

Another slight nod.

"You agree to the rules? No cursing, no screaming, no biting, kicking, or hitting? No harm to me, and certainly no harm to yourself? And you will stay in this bed?"

An emphatic nod this time.

"All right. There's a good lad," she said gently as she lifted the charms and gingerly perched on the edge of his bed.

He immediately sat up and laid his head in his hands, rubbing vigorously at his temples. "Headache still," he gasped out in a raspy, hoarse voice. Poppy retreated from the room and returned with another vial that Severus recognized immediately: a headache potion. He downed it in one gulp as she resumed her position, taking a seat next to him on the bed.

Severus looked around the room, taking in the present scenery for the first time since arriving. His head throbbed with growing intensity, his stomach still fluttered as the last vestiges of anxiety slowly began to dwindle. He did not want to look up at Pomfrey, did not want to see the pity in her eyes, did not want to hear platitudes from her lips. He was bested, physically, by a slip of a girl. It was beyond humiliating, beyond shameful, and pity would push him over the edge of any shred of reason he still entertained.

Yet, Snape could not help watching with trepidation as the Healer reached out to him, then asked, "Severus, mind if I adjust that hair of yours?"

He nodded and only flinched minutely when her fingers tucked a lock of his hair behind his ears. Inwardly, he berated himself for the display of weakness. Though Madam Pomfrey was one of the elite few people he allowed to touch him, and she had always respected his boundaries by asking first, a flinch was still a flinch, and there was no mistaking the irritatingly condescending compassion in her question.

"I brought in some salve for your more pressing injury, and I'll give you privacy to apply it yourself. When I return, we'll take a look at your forehead... Although, it seems that it has been partially healed already. I didn't realize that you were properly self-medicating now?"

"I'm not."

"Ah." She knew better than to question him. He always explained his injuries to her in his own time, if he felt it was necessary. She stood and smiled down at him lovingly before exiting the area, drawing the curtains closed as she left, securely ensconcing him in comfortable seclusion.

***

The dinner had ended both far too quickly and not soon enough. Hermione's head ached as the feast wore on, and she found herself too emotionally drained to truly interact with her friends. At best, she was able to smile and laugh at their recounts of their current affairs; at worst, she was unable to fully concentrate on the thread of conversation and just nodded dumbly in what she hoped were the appropriate places.

Their company soothed her frayed nerves, allowing her to fixate on the swirling, musical sounds of tinkling laughter and crescendos of heated debates and discussions that played out through the massive room. An immense, vocal symphony surrounded her, distracted her, comforted her. It was a paradox, then, when the same relaxing tones would sharply, unexpectedly, attack her senses. When the solace of her tightly knit cluster of friends suddenly sparked within her a deep, penetrating loneliness.

So it was with a mixture of relief and profound sadness that Hermione found herself in her rooms and alone once again. Her brain hurt. Her heart hurt. Her soul hurt. She didn't want to dwell on the events of that afternoon, nor did she want to revisit the wave of emotions that had assailed her when she had come to the sudden realization that Professor Snape would not be making an appearance at the dinner. Her lips broke into a small smile when she remembered the livid expression on the Headmistress's face when she reached the same conclusion.

With a long stretch, Hermione made her way to her wardrobe. Stifling a yawn, she stripped herself of the cloak, robes, sweater, skirt, shoes, and stockings (in that order) and dropped them at her feet. Leaving on the camisole, she slipped on a pair of crimson red pajama pants and made her way to the bathroom. It wasn't until she returned that she noticed the tiny box protruding from the pile of clothes. She gasped. She had completely forgotten her stolen treasure. No, not stolen, just borrowed, she assured herself.

She sat heavily down on the thickly carpeted floor, crossing her legs and leaning forward slightly to pluck the tiny shoebox from its confines. Reaching for her wand, she muttered the quick counter charm and restored the cardboard rectangle to its original size. She felt the tiny tendrils of magic wrapping around her mind, urging her to put the box down, reminding her overworked brain of uncompleted to-do lists, whispering of the allure of sleep, but she resisted. As soon as she removed the top of the box, the feelings vanished immediately.

Hermione sifted through the container, carefully avoiding the rat corpse. The first thing she pulled out was a photograph that resembled a Muggle Polaroid picture, the kind that had to be shaken vigorously before anything would appear. Peering closely at it, she could make out a tiny human form: a toddler. It appeared to be a boy, though at that age, it was difficult to tell. Especially when said child was clad only in a diaper. She had a strong feeling, however, that it was another image of a young Severus Snape. This feeling was validated as she looked at the bottom white strip of the photograph, which was labeled: "Subject: Severus Snape. Age: 3" in bubbly, feminine handwriting. Below that was something indecipherable typed in faded ink, obviously stamped on some years ago.

Puzzled, Hermione continued to stare at the unmoving image, willing it to reveal its secrets. It was in black and white, and in the background seemed to be a wall on which was painted a mural of some sort. The child sat staring off into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the small mountain of toys set before him. Squinting her eyes and bringing the picture closer, Hermione was able to make out the corner of a clipboard intruding into the photograph. Curious, she thought to herself as she laid the picture gently down on the carpet, off to the side.

She reached for another photograph: it was a magical image she retrieved, one that presented an auburn-haired young girl of around nine or ten. The girl giggled and reached for the camera, causing the scene to tilt from side to side, before a lanky boy rushed into view and sat next to her, pointing at Hermione.

A single tear traced a path down Hermione's cheek as she watched the magical loop cycle over and over again. The boy was the same child she had seen in the other pictures, and yet he wasn't, because she had never seen Severus Snape laugh so freely. She had never seen him happy. She had never seen the look of wonder and awe that crossed his face as he gazed at the girl next to him. She had never known the innocent face that stared up at her, the black eyes that hinted at playfulness. She never knew this boy; she had never seen him before.

Wrenching her eyes from the photograph, she quickly set it down and reached for another object, pulling out a crisp envelope with the broken seal of Hogwarts on the flap, and displayed across the front "Severus Snape," along with a smudged address. Hermione smiled though her tears, her heart warming to the fact that young Severus thought this letter to be a prized possession, much like she did when she received hers. Briefly reading the standard letter sent to all eleven-year-old witches and wizards and allowing herself a moment to reminisce, Hermione set the envelope and its contents carefully down beside the picture of the laughing young Lily Evans and Severus Snape.

She resumed her digging with renewed vigor, pulling out a very thumbed-through, dog-eared, paperback book. The faded cover revealed a title, Oliver Twist, in a simple black typeface. She carefully pried open the novel, inhaling as she did that beautiful musky scent that accompanies all older books. On the back of the front cover, scrawled in the poor penmanship of the very young, was written:

I am an orphan in this house. These people share only my blood, nothing more.

Hermione furrowed her brow in a mixture of despair and concentration. She flipped through the rest of the pages, looking for more notes in the margins, but found none. As she lifted it gingerly to set it aside, an object fell from a hidden spot near the end of the book.

Another photograph.

Hermione picked up the Muggle Poloroid and studied it carefully, even though her body fought valiantly to release it in disgust. It was also in black and white, portraying a tiny Severus Snape, no older than four or five. His hair had been shaved off to within a half inch of his scalp, and he was completely nude. His dark eyes bored into Hermione's, but they were shuttered, lifeless, cold, numb. Even at his young age, he looked starved, his ribs protruding frighteningly above his concave belly.

A plump, large hand was splayed across the crown of his head, nearly fitting the boy's skull into its palm, as it pushed the child forward, into the camera.

Another hand, with long, thin fingers, was between Severus' legs.

With a rising wave of nausea, Hermione threw the photo across the room, unable to examine it any further. Her body began to shake. Her mind screamed within her head, in one long sentence, Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod!

With tears prickling at the edges of her vision, her stomach wrenching itself into knots, Hermione conceded defeat to the overwhelming need to distance herself from her recent discoveries. Carefully packing the box back up, she slid it deep into her wardrobe, hidden from view.

She crawled into bed, doused the lights, and after several hours of broken sobs, she fell into a fitful sleep. That night, she dreamt of the sweet, laughing, dark-haired boy...

Only to have the vision replaced by a child staring at her with eyes already dead.

Author's Note – Three cheers for my amazing beta, Angel Mischa, and the awesome Amsev – both of whom take time from their busy schedules to help out this struggling author. Without their combined efforts, this story would not exist.

Up Next: Childish behavior.