Well and Truly

Well and Truly

Hermione walked stiffly through the halls of St. Mungo's, neither hearing nor seeing the people who brushed past her. The setting sun cast a funereal hue over the city as she stepped through the exit. Despite the summery warmth, she clutched her arms around herself as if fending off a chill.

Head bowed, she walked steadily ahead, as unstoppable and as unguided as a somnambulist. Her mind dizzied itself with incomplete thoughts.

Snape... Ron... party at the Burrow...

had to see Snape...

Ron wants me... did want me...

Snape doesn't want me at all... not now...

cried too much...

Apparated automatically... how...

Snape's angry with me... why...

I care... why... how...

She had neither tears nor voice left for the sob that wanted to escape from within her. Her body would no longer do her mind's bidding, and her mind had abandoned her body in turn. She felt like a ship whose crew had mutinied. It seemed she was only passing time before she sank.

She sniffed at the thought. It was most unlike her to allow for flights of fancy or silly analogies. Then again, she hadn't exactly been herself lately; the stinging bereavement she had felt when Snape had recoiled from her touch was evidence of that.

When her legs were finally too tired to go any further, she came to a lurching stop. The last light had faded from the sky as she had made her dazed promenade, and it was now completely dark. Her eyes darted from side to side in momentary panic before she realized that she stood on the patch of green across the street from number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Nervousness displaced the relief, however, when she realized that Ron and Harry might both be home. She straightened her back and steeled herself as she ascended the front stairs.

"Loathsome, tainted carcass! Brutish, malodorous impostor! Violated! Corrupted!"

A shoe sailed through the hall and glanced off the shrieking portrait ineffectually. Ron's enraged voice rang through the foyer. "Shut the fuck up, you old hag!"

"Blood traitor! You dare accost me in my own home! I see your nose, but not the dog to which I shall throw it..."

Mrs. Black's affronted screech pierced Hermione's listlessness. She shook with fury as she flew at the portrait, flailing her fists angrily.

"You've been told to shut up! This isn't your house any more, you bigoted old shrew! Shut"...smack..."up"...smack..."now, do you hear?" she shrieked.

Mrs. Black cowered against the background, covering her face with her arms against Hermione's relentless assault.

"Abuse! Desecration! Maligned and brutishly manhandled in my own home!" she wailed piteously.

"I told you,"...smack..."this...isn't...your...home any more!" Hermione shouted.

Ron wrestled her away from the portrait and swiftly pulled the velvet curtains closed. "Merlin's balls, 'Mione, calm the hell down!" he huffed.

Hermione glared indignantly. "She deserves it! And were you or were you not the one who threw a shoe at the old bitch?"

Ron drew back in shock. "You know, I never heard you use words like 'bitch' before today. Come to think of it," he said, narrowing his eyes, "I never heard you use words like 'fuck' before today."

Hermione looked down, torn between shame and indignation. "I can't believe you, of all people, would have a problem with such language," she spat.

Ron clenched his jaw and crossed his arms. "It's not about your language, Hermione," he said impatiently. "Today was supposed to be a happy day. You said, just last night, that you would marry me. And today, you look at me like I'm some shit you stepped in."

His speech, she noticed, was slightly slurred. She sniffed the air between them. "Ronald, have you been drinking?" she asked exasperatedly.

He leaned down until their noses almost touched. The heady reek of firewhiskey saturated the air between them. "What the fuck if I have?" he demanded.

She reflexively took two steps back. "Ronald!"

He leaned closer. "It's a bit late to get offended by profanity, Professor," he sneered.

Hermione hunched her shoulders and backed away. For an instant, Ron seemed unrecognizable and threatening.

"What happened to you today?" he asked harshly.

"I, I...I really don't know," she stammered lamely. "I wanted to be with you, Ron, I really did, but..."

"But what?" he pressed on. "But I didn't shave properly? But I was disgusting? But you finally decided that I wasn't good enough for you to actually marry?"

She stamped her foot. "None of those things, Ron!" she screamed. "I can't explain what happened! Something about it scared me, freaked me out. I said I don't know why." A mean and petty feeling slithered over her. "I'm sorry to have disappointed you when you were clearly so anxious to get laid," she said nastily. "Is this what this is, Ron?" she held up her hand and gestured toward the ring. "Is this a 'get laid anytime pass'? Does it entitle you to shag me any damn time you feel like it?"

Ron's eyes drew up in surprise. "No!" he shouted. "This," he said, grabbing her hand roughly, "is an engagement ring. For the woman I love. And you..." he jabbed his finger at her pointedly, "... you took it. You said 'yes'. You said you loved me. I wasn't after a shag, Hermione. I wanted to make love to my fiancée. After all, I could get a shag from any number of places."

"Well, why don't you, then?" Hermione cried out. She trembled with the force of her anger and with the tears that beckoned but could not come.

Ron dropped her hand, and his mouth fell open. Hermione straightened up defiantly and looked away.

"Is that really what you mean, Hermione?" Ron whispered hesitantly. "Do you really want to... you know..."

Hermione crumbled. "No, Ron! Merlin, no!" she gasped. For the first time, she considered a life without Ron. It seemed incomprehensible, like an offense against natural law. What would she do, what would life be, without Ron and Harry? And surely, if she lost Ron, she'd lose Harry, as well.

"Where did you go today?" he asked in a threadbare voice. "I looked for you. I wanted to say sorry. George and Ginny just said you looked upset and left, but they wouldn't tell me where you went."

Hermione inhaled sharply. She recalled her surprise at having Apparated to St. Mungo's, then the tearful conversation she'd had with Professor Snape. She cast her eyes down and bit her lip like a child caught in some infraction against the rules.

"Hermione?" Ron pushed, his voice pleading.

"I went to see Professor Snape," she mumbled.

Ron's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Snape?" he asked incredulously. "You left Harry's party...you left me...to go to Snape?"

Hermione closed her eyes and pressed the knuckles of her fist to her forehead. "I just wanted to check on him. I didn't know where else to go. I just wanted to get away from that party."

"Snape." Ron said simply. "Snape. You left me to go see Snape." He looked at her closely. "Why, Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know, Ron. Like I said, I just wanted to get away from that party." She had no idea how to tell Ron that she felt more sure-footed as Snape's caretaker (or had, at least, until their last conversation) than she did as one-third of the so-called Trio of Heroes.

Ron shook his head sadly. "I never would've thought, Hermione... I mean, wow... it's like some kind of alternate universe." He grimaced, then swallowed, and stood very straight. "We're supposed to be happy," he stated emphatically.

Hermione bowed her head and covered her face in her hands. "I know, Ron. I know."

He pulled her to him suddenly and stooped to look in her eyes. "I love you, 'Mione," he whispered. She felt him shaking. "Please, 'Mione, please don't leave me. I love you so much," he murmured through tears. He cupped her face in his hands. "I'll do whatever you want. I'll wait as long as you want. Sex isn't that important. I can wait, I promise," he pleaded.

"I love you too, Ron," Hermione said quietly. Ron's arms encircled her, and he buried his face in her hair. Hermione envied the ease with which he wept. She felt that she might never cry again, as if she had exhausted her life's allotment of tears.

They clung silently to each other so tightly that their survival might have depended upon their embrace. They did not stir until Harry entered the foyer and closed the door softly behind him.

He stopped short when he noticed his two best friends entwined just in front of Mrs. Black's covered portrait. Ron and Hermione broke apart, and Harry looked from one to the other before excusing himself tactfully.

"It's getting late," Hermione said.

"Yeah," Ron agreed.

"See you in the morning?" Hermione asked thinly.

"Yeah, sure."

Ron looked at Hermione, his eyes full of sadness and hope, then trundled off to his room. Hermione stood forlornly for several minutes before she, too, made her way through the darkened house.

In the sacrosanct darkness of her room, Hermione pondered her conversation with Professor Snape. He had opened her up and lain her bare with little effort at all. Even without resorting to Legilimency, he had an unsettling ability to pierce her mental defenses.

She remembered holding Snape's hand as he questioned her about saving his life. That touch, that comfort had been so easy to offer. It had seemed so right. How could she possibly touch her professor, with whom she shared no bond of friendship or romance, a man with whom she had no past and no future, when she could not endure intimacy with the man she'd loved for eight years?

Professor Snape doesn't expect anything of you, said a voice within her. The realization left her ill.

She stared up at her darkened ceiling. She felt heavy and swollen with unshed tears.

*****

Hermione watched helplessly as the dark-haired witch raised her wand yet again. She knew what was coming. She steeled herself against the inevitable pain.

"Play with me, little Mudblood!" the woman taunted. Her eyes gleamed with an insane glee. "Go ahead, resist!"

"You're...dead," Hermione breathed. "Saw...you...die..."

"You saw what you wanted to see, little girl," the woman sneered. "As you're about to find out, I'm very much alive."

A red stream of light flew from the witch's wand.

Hermione writhed in pain.

Someone else stood behind her. She felt him lean close, so close the stubble from his jaw chafed the smooth skin of her cheek.

The man snickered nastily in her ear.

Hermione awoke soaked with sweat, her sheets twisted around her.

"It was just a dream," she reassured herself, but her heart continued to hammer against her chest as if it were trying to escape. She shivered in the darkness. Adjusting her linens, she turned onto her side and stared out the window to await dawn's first pale brushstrokes.

****

Breakfast had become the most harrowing meal of the day at Grimmauld Place. Ron shoveled his bacon and eggs into his mouth with unprecedented gusto (even for Ron). Hermione suspected that he was keeping his mouth full to avoid talking to her. Harry, sensing the discord between his two best friends, kept his head down most of the time, anxious lest he find him self twixt and 'tween their equally redoubtable tempers.

Hermione fell back on her old standby, burying herself in a seventh year Charms text. Even Kreacher sensed the tension. He brought out platter after platter of food, keeping himself and his young charges busy, and he slinked against the wall as if he wished to be invisible.

The tension was interrupted by the whooshing entrance of a tawny, stately looking owl.

"Another Ministry owl," Ron said nonchalantly. The three of them had received so many Ministry owls since the end of the war that it was almost mundane

Only Harry seemed excited at the prospect. He looked up eagerly, his green eyes alight with anticipation. "Hey, maybe it's from the Auror Academy! Maybe they've accepted my application already! Or," he said, suddenly serious, "maybe they've already turned me down..."

"Turn famous Harry Potter down for Auror training?" Ron laughed sneeringly. "Not bloody likely." He helped himself to a crumpet. "They're probably owling to ask you to teach Auror training."

Harry grinned. "Looks like we're counting our dragons before they hatch. Hey, Hermione," he called. Lost in her textbook, Hermione didn't notice the owl flapping insistently over her plate.

"Her...mi...one!" Ron and Harry called together.

"Huh? What? Oh!" she gasped as she looked up. She took the scroll from the owl, which clicked his beak reprovingly. She rewarded him with a generous morsel of bacon, and he exited with a supercilious whoosh.

"What is it, 'Mione?" Ron prodded impatiently. "Open it!"

"Yeah, Hermione, come on!" Harry echoed.

Hermione broke the seal and unrolled the parchment nervously.

"From the Office of Kingsley Shacklebolt," she read aloud.

"The Ministry of Magic requires your presence at a private hearing regarding the protection of Severus Snape. Please arrive at the Minister's office promptly at 10:17 am on Monday, the Tenth day of August, Nineteen-hundred and Ninety-eight.

Hermione smiled. True to his word, Shacklebolt had made Snape's security a top priority. She folded the parchment carefully and put it on the table.

"Kingsley got right on that," Harry said approvingly. "Wasn't it just yesterday that you talked to him?"

"Yes," Hermione said shortly. The memory of Saturday at the Burrow was still fresh and raw. Harry looked at her curiously but said nothing. Ron focused intently on his plate.

"I'm glad the Ministry is looking out for Snape," Harry finally said. "He's not the world's most likeable man..."

Ron snorted sarcastically. Both Harry and Hermione glared at him sharply.

"Like I said," Harry continued, "he's not going to win any popularity contests any time soon, but I reckon he's paid his debts. I'd like to think he has a chance at living a peaceful life."

Hermione nodded in agreement. "I hope Shacklebolt will make Rita Skeeter pay for compromising his security."

Ron snorted again. "Didn't you say some of those letters were marriage proposals? Seems to me he should be grateful for the publicity."

"Really, Ron," Hermione scolded, "he didn't ask for any of that."

Ron rolled his eyes and grinned lopsidedly. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth, that's what I say."

"That's the sort of thinking that got the Trojans in trouble," Hermione retorted irritably. "Besides, you shouldn't assume that Professor Snape is as attached to the idea of marriage as some other people."

Hermione could tell by Ron's curious look that he was trying to discern whether her last sentence had been a barb, and if so, if it had been aimed at him. Although she hadn't consciously intended to insult him, she took a certain measure of delight in witnessing his discomfort. Snape's haunted visage was burned into her mind, and Ron's callous words had inflamed the violently protective emotions she had begun to feel for him.

"Yeah, well," Ron finally answered, "I guess he's still too hung up on Harry's mum to care."

Harry's green eyes narrowed into a dangerous glower. "Watch it, Ron," he warned.

Chastened, Ron looked down at his plate. "Sorry, mate," he mumbled.

"Just watch how you speak about my mum, is all," Harry said gently. "All right, I am off for the day. You two have a good day. Oh, and try not to set off Mrs. Black any more than you have to. She's getting worse and worse, and you two attacking her last night didn't help matters. She was going on and on about it this morning. Kept saying something about Mudbloods and shoes."

"Barmy old cow," Ron groaned. "I'm telling you, you ought to call Bill in to see if he can break the curses on that damned portrait."

Harry frowned thoughtfully, then raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Not a bad idea, that," he agreed. "I'll put that on my to-do list for the day. It would be nice to get rid of her." He rose to shake Ron's hand, then hugged Hermione. When she raised her eyes to his, she found his gaze locked on her face. She clearly saw the questions that were brewing in his mind...questions about Ron and her...just as clearly as she saw his ambivalence toward knowing the answers. She took comfort in that ambivalence.

She smiled at him, hoping to communicate strength and cheer. His own hesitant half-smile made it clear that she had communicated nothing of the sort.

"Have a good day, Harry," she said softly.

He squeezed her shoulder. "You too, Hermione. Bye, Ron."

"All right, Harry, see you later," Ron mumbled.

Harry slipped out, leaving Ron and Hermione alone with their awkwardness.

Hermione looked around, taking in the pots hanging on the wall, the dishes on the table, the open door of the pantry...anything to avoid looking directly at Ron. When she finally cast him a sideways glance, she found that he, too was avoiding eye contact.

The uncomfortable silence expanded and thickened between them. Awkward seconds evolved into unbearable moments, pushing them to an impasse. Hermione thought wistfully of Professor Snape, pale and vulnerable in his bed. She longed to see him again, to slip into the comfortable, responsible role she occupied with him at St. Mungo's.

Ron broke their impasse with the silence. "Uh, so, do you like the ring?" he asked timidly.

"Oh, yeah, it's really pretty, Ron!" Hermione breathed. "It was... well, it was a surprise."

"I just couldn't wait any more. It's gonna be great, 'Mione," Ron enthused.

Hermione swallowed uncomfortably. "Are you sure, Ron?" she asked. "I mean, is it really appropriate now, just after the war?"

"It's never been a better time," Ron replied, looking thoroughly convinced. "Think about it. Would we have got together without the war? Even though I've been in love with you for years? It's perfect. Voldemort thought he was going to take us all down, but he's dead, and things are better than ever. It's the best way to get even with the old bastard."

"I hardly think getting even with a dead man is a good reason to get engaged," Hermione snapped.

"That's not the only reason, Hermione! I love you. I don't want to waste any more time. I want to go ahead and settle down and have a normal life. We deserve it," Ron pleaded.

Acid stirred in Hermione's stomach; she felt an overpowering anger. "So how much did you pay for the ring, Ron?" she demanded.

Ron looked down at her sternly. "None of your business, Hermione."

"If we're going to get married, it most certainly is my business!" she said sharply. "We need to be on the same page financially, and I need to know how you paid for this!"

Ron looked stunned, and she could tell he was considering her words carefully. She felt an irrational burst of anger at this unexpected show of consideration. With a twinge of disgust, she realized that she had actually intended to goad him until he fought back.

"I used what was left of my stipend," he answered.

"Ron, I've told you, that stipend..."

"I know!" Ron boomed. "Don't say another word about it. I have a job now, anyway."

"When did you get a job?" Hermione asked stiffly.

"Last week. George is opening up the shop again, and..."

"The shop?" Hermione screeched. "You're working at your brother's joke shop?"

"Yeah, I am!" Ron thundered. "What's the problem? You wanted me to get a job, get a plan, and I did. So what the hell is your deal?"

"What the hell is your deal, Ronald?" Hermione prodded. "I thought you wanted to be an Auror. I thought you had ambitions."

"For Christ's sake, Hermione, get off it!" Ron shouted. "I'm tired right now of saving the world. I want a life. I want a home. I want a good job that pays well. But if that embarrasses you, if it's not good enough for you..."

"It doesn't embarrass me, Ron," Hermione protested furiously. "I just think you could do better. The joke shop... I mean... can that job really last forever? Won't you get bored?"

"I don't think so, Hermione. I think I've had enough excitement for one lifetime, and I just want to enjoy life again. You have no fucking idea of how humiliating it's always been, not being able to buy you a decent Christmas present, or to pay Harry back for the stuff he bought me. And... and... well..." Ron licked his lips nervously as he struggled for the right words.

His voice faded into a hoarse whisper. "I thought it would be nice to help out George, and I thought... I thought that it would be a good way to honor Fred."

Hermione covered her face in her hands and shook her head in shame. She despised herself for the way she had attacked Ron. She had always hated his lack of sensitivity, but she herself had just trampled his emotions as if they were insignificant.

"There was another reason," Ron murmured.

The gentle tone of his voice stunned Hermione, and she looked up at him questioningly.

"I wanted to have a steady income so you could go to university next year. You know. If you wanted."

"Oh," she whimpered. That was the last thing she would have expected Ron to say.

Stunned, she sank down into her chair. "I'm...sorry, Ron," she whispered hoarsely.

He knelt in front of her chair and pulled her into his arms. "It's all right, 'Mione," he soothed. "You didn't know."

But I should have, she thought guiltily.

***

Visiting hours had just begun when Hermione walked through the façade of Dowse and Purge, Ltd. "I'm here for Severus Snape, please," she said to the Welcome Witch, preparing to make her way to his ward the way she had done every day for the last three months. She had just turned to walk away when the Welcome Witch's voice caught her off guard.

"I'll need you to state your name and sign the log, please."

Hermione cocked her head to the side and stared dumbly at the apologetic-looking witch. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger," the Welcome Witch whispered. She looked around the reception area furtively and leaned closer to Hermione. "Some security protocols have been violated at St. Mungo's, so I have to keep a written record of all of Mr. Snape's visitors."

Hermione nodded and took the quill the Welcome Witch held out to her. "Hermione Granger," she said softly. She signed her name on a blank piece of parchment, and the date immediately appeared beside it. The Welcome Witch waved her wand over it, and the air in front of the exit glittered for a moment. As she passed through the shimmering, magical mist, Hermione smiled in approval; she found this level of security quite to her liking.

Her skin tingled as she stepped through the shimmering mist. She wondered if Kingsley or the Aurors had influenced St. Mungo's new policies or if Maire had filed a complaint. The idea pleased her...if it were true, it was evidence that she had retained a certain efficacy in this strange, new world... she was still Hermione Granger, Accomplisher of Important Tasks. Hope budded within her.

Little by little, though, anxiety replaced that nascent hope. During the course of Snape's treatment, she had begun to feel a sort of connection with him...she had even dared hope that they might become friends. His behavior last night, though, suggested that she was alone in her hope. She had lain awake most of the night puzzling over it.

She flexed her fingers as she recalled the way he had snatched his hand out of her grasp. Hermione did not like violating the boundaries of others, especially physical boundaries. It made her feel clumsy and inconsiderate. Furthermore, she had become deeply invested in Snape's recovery. If she had offended him in some way, if he no longer wanted her assistance or company...

The mere thought caused her to shiver. Her steps slowed as she drew closer to his place. She walked between the rows of beds where the seriously ill of St. Mungo's convalesced. Some lay in the preternatural tranquility of the comatose; others sat up feebly in their beds. All, it seemed to Hermione, had at least one person to sit beside them, if only to stroke their hands and murmur tearfully. She unconsciously pressed her hand to her heart where an empty, final feeling seemed to settle.

Snape had no visitors except for her; the realization pressed upon her with new poignancy. She thought grimly of the hateful letters she had passed on to Shacklebolt. If he were to send her away, there would be no one to care for him, no one to plead his case with the weary Healers, no one to insist upon the respect that was his due. There would be not one person to stand between him and a world that was divided between those who despised him and those who pitied him. Suddenly, that seemed more important than squabbles with Ron or the constant hum of anxiety in her muscles, more important, even, than finishing school. It seemed more important than anything, including herself.

Finally, she stood before the curtains that surrounded his bed. Her hand trembled as she reached out to part the curtains. She hesitated. A part of her...a part she was only just now aware of and did not understand...wanted desperately to see Snape and hear his voice. Intimately connected to that part of her was another part that so strongly feared his rejection that she could have turned on the spot and fled.

A deep voice interrupted her vacillations. "You may enter, Miss Granger," Snape said softly from behind the curtains. She pulled the curtain aside, embarrassed at having been caught, and stepped timidly into the small space allotted to her professor.

He sat, head bowed, in a semi-reclined position upon his bed.

"How did you know..." she began.

"I know your footsteps," Snape replied quickly. He looked up at her briefly before allowing his hair to cover his face again. Hermione was surprised to notice that he was flushed and embarrassed.

"Sit, Miss Granger," Snape commanded. "Please," he amended.

He looked up in astonishment when she sat on the bed. She immediately regretted the decision and moved awkwardly to the chair.

He cleared his throat. "My memories, Miss Granger..." He broke off, and she understood that he was searching for the right words.

"My memories. They are scattered, incomplete. I am quite sorry, but I remember very little about you..."

She opened her mouth to assure him that it didn't matter, but he stopped her short. "Don't. I have... very vague memories. The snake... when I was bitten..." He swallowed hard and stared into her eyes intently. "You were there, weren't you? I am told you saved my life."

"Yes," she whispered.

"You have told me to consider you a friend, and you have told me that you were my pupil," he continued.

"Yes."

"What did I teach?" he asked, and the childlike openness of his question moved her.

"You taught Potions, sir," she replied. "Well, in my sixth year, you taught Defense Against the Dark Arts." The answer seemed to surprise him pleasantly.

"This is extraordinarily awkward to ask, Miss Granger, but given the fact that my memory is what it is, I am forced to ask it." His brow furrowed, and he looked down for a moment. "Was there anything...untoward about my, ah, relationship with you?"

Hermione stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. "Un-unto-toward, sir?" she stammered. She noticed the scarlet warmth suffusing his face and understood. Was that why he had seemed so embarrassed when she first arrived? Had he wondered whether she was a lover he had forgotten? The thought brought her to the brink of laughter but made her squirm as well.

"No, sir. You were my teacher. You called me an "insufferable know-it-all" one time. Another time, Draco Malfoy hexed me and made my front teeth grow down to my chin, and you said you saw no difference. You called me a silly girl more often than I can recall," she rushed.

His shoulders sank in relief. His face, though...his face betrayed another emotion. Surely, she thought with a jolt, he was not disappointed?

"I suppose," he said thickly, "I owe you an apology for having said those things to you."

Hermione's eyes widened. Professor Snape apologizing for anything was unthinkable. Ron was right, she decided. They had indeed entered some sort of alternate universe.

"Why, Miss Granger, if I made those dreadful comments, did you... why have you been here all this time?" Professor Snape asked.

She inhaled slowly as she considered his question. "It seemed to be the right thing to do," she said simply.

"Pity, in other words," Professor Snape sneered disgustedly.

"No!" she said hotly. "Not pity! None of us realized how much you had done for us all during the war. And even before the war, you saved my life and my friends' lives on numerous occasions. Without you, the war would have been lost. All of our suffering, all of our struggles... it would have meant nothing without you."

He stared in disbelief. "So you offered your company as an act of contrition for not having known," he said resentfully. "You are a veritable saint."

Hermione's eyes widened, and her heart thumped uncomfortably. "I know it's too little, too late, sir," she said remorsefully. "I am grateful to you. But you were a spy, and you played your part extremely well. Nobody knew. D-Dumbledore..." she stuttered awkwardly. Snape flinched visibly at the name.

"Dumbledore," she continued, "made certain that your allegiances were always suspect so that your cover would remain intact. I never knew, sir, I swear."

"I apologize, Miss Granger," he said hoarsely. "You must understand, though." He paused and closed his eyes. "My last complete memory is that of a serpent lunging toward my carotid artery. At best, my memories are fragmented. You are the only person who has ever come to visit me since I returned to my senses. I have no idea who you are. I have no idea what I might have been to you. From what you have said today, I was unfairly critical of you. Perhaps you can see how I might question your motivations."

Hermione looked at him, weighing his words carefully. Her knowledge of Professor Snape was limited and bifurcated: he was always either Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin and Bane of Gryffindor House, or he was Severus Snape, fragile amnesiac. She had come to think of him more and more as the latter. She had even developed a delicate affection for that persona. When he had spoken so bitterly, though, and questioned her motives, he had been every bit the irascible Potions master who loomed so large in her childhood memories. That man scared her. That man could easily dismiss her, and where would she be then?

Hermione grimaced guiltily. She could not expect Professor Snape to remain in this limbo forever. She thought of the other patients on the ward, those blessed others who could count on the unfailing love of their families. Snape had suffered alone, his sole companion a former student whose devotion was less than completely selfless. How could she so unfairly prefer this weak and uncertain man to the billowing, acerbic reality of Severus Snape?

They sat, each of them lost in their own reflections. Finally, Snape settled uncomfortably on his bed and cleared his throat.

"I should like to know, Miss Granger," he said tensely, "if you might know... what became of my wand?" The quiver that crept into his voice tugged at Hermione's emotions and sent a thrill of excitement through her. This, at least, was something she could give back to him.

She smiled. "I have it," she said. "I picked it up and asked the Ministry to put a trace on it, just in case anything happened to me."

Her smile widened as she watched him wrestle with his childlike eagerness. His eyes glittered hopefully, and his face flushed. He looked happy. He stretched out one trembling hand as Hermione reached into her sleeve to procure the birch wood wand. She had barely freed its length from its invisible sheath before he snatched it away impatiently. He held the wand with a tremulous reverence, his face aglow. It seemed to Hermione that she was watching the years peeling themselves away; he might have been eleven, receiving his wand from Ollivander for the first time.

He pointed the wand at the stack of books Hermione had set on the table. "Accio book!" he cried excitedly. Nothing happened. Hermione bit her lip to stem the flow of advice that so naturally wanted to spring from her mouth. Certainly, she reasoned, Severus Snape knew all about focus, intent, and proper wand technique.

"Accio book!" he called. "Accio book!" His face reddened, and the knuckles of his wand were white and strained.

"Perhaps you could try another spell, sir?" Hermione offered meekly. Snape looked through her as if she weren't completely there. He eyed his wand questioningly.

"Try to disarm me, Professor," Hermione volunteered, whipping out her own wand. This was one spell she knew he could never fail to produce. Snape slowly raised his wand once more and pointed it at her. He screwed up his face and gripped his wand tightly.

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted. Her wand remained motionless in her loosely fisted hand.

His wand quivered as he thrust it forward forcefully. "Expelliarmus!" he cried desperately. "Ex-pell-i-armus!" Hermione's wand did not even twitch in her hand. Alarms began to peal in her mind.

Snape's eyes went glassy, and his face lost its color. He began to tremble; Hermione fought against the panic rising in her gut.

"Lie down, sir," she commanded with a confidence she did not feel. He remained upright, staring blankly back at her.

Hermione quickly moved toward him and lowered the head of the bed while raising Snape's feet.

"Maire!" she cried, hoping frantically that the venerable Healer was on duty today. "Maire! Please, come quickly!"

The words had barely fled her lips when Hermione heard the curtains rustle. She whirled around and was relieved to find Maire standing just behind her.

"Professor Snape tried to use his wand," Hermione said breathlessly. "He couldn't do any magic at all, and he, he, well, he sort of went shocky!"

Maire moved swiftly to Snape's bedside, holding out her wand. "Mr. Snape!" she said. "Mr. Snape, do you hear me?" Snape made no movement; he simply stared into space as he continued to shake. Maire pulled his blankets around him and waved her wand over him as she assessed his vital signs. Hermione felt weak and sick as Snape twitched with increasing violence in his bed.

Maire Summoned bottle after bottle, pouring each in turn down Snape's throat. His back arched upward and his eyes rolled back, and his hands twisted themselves into claws. Foam oozed out of the corners of his mouth. His entire body gave one last, violent heave before his eyes closed and he fell limply against his bed. His face, while unnaturally pale, was calm once more.

"Wh-wha-what happened?" Hermione squeaked nervously.

"He went into shock, as you might have suspected. Then, he had a seizure," Maire answered calmly as she continued to check Snape over.

"A seizure?" Hermione's mouth felt unusually dry as she formed the words. "I thought...well, wasn't he over that?" she asked, half-pleading.

Maire turned toward her. "He was certainly doing much better," she answered. "This is the first seizure of this magnitude that he's had in a month. He's exerted himself much more than usual over the last few days, though, and he seems to be a bit overtaxed. However, as far as seizures go, this one wasn't so very terrible."

Hermione swallowed uncomfortably. "I shouldn't have given him his wand," she whispered. "I didn't know...I didn't think doing magic would hurt him..." Her legs wobbled dangerously.

Maire cleared the distance between them and placed a steadying arm around Hermione's shoulders. "Sit down, Miss Granger," she said kindly. "There you are. Listen to me." She knelt and looked Hermione directly in the eyes. "You did nothing wrong by returning Mr. Snape's wand. He simply suffered a shock, and his body was too overburdened to right itself." She Summoned tea and biscuits. "Here you are now," she said. "You seem a bit overtaxed yourself, I must say."

Hermione accepted the refreshment gratefully. She had eaten little at Grimmauld Place, and her hunger was asserting itself insistently. The tea seemed to suffuse her entire body with its warmth, reinvigorating and comforting her unexpectedly. Her mind began to clear as she ate, and her quivering limbs regained their strength.

Her mind could not stop replaying the horrific event. She had known something was amiss when Professor Snape had been unable to disarm her; that discovery had frightened her almost more than the seizure. Her research over the last few months had indicated that a person's magical reserves could be weakened by physical trauma, but most of the information had suggested that, while weak, the magic did indeed exist, waiting until its host was physically able to harness it. Nothing at all had suggested a complete lack of magical ability.

She looked at Maire questioningly. "Why," she asked shakily, "was Professor Snape unable to use his wand? I mean, nothing happened at all. It was... scary," she finished in a whisper.

Maire looked at her steadily as she considered her question. "I do not doubt that it was frightening, Miss Granger," she said solemnly. "By all accounts, Mr. Snape was an extraordinarily powerful wizard before his injury. It must have been unnerving to see him unable to manage a simple spell." Hermione nodded.

"I have placed various monitoring charms on him, though, and they indicate that his magical abilities remain unharmed. See?" She waved her wand widdershins over Snape's sleeping figure, forming an oval from his head to his toes. A faint, bluish glow encircled him.

"The blue hue lets me know that his magic is alive within him. He is simply unable to access it right now," Maire explained. "This should pass with time."

Hermione released the breath she had unconsciously been holding. "I am so glad. He would hate life without magic," she said.

Maire smiled understandingly. "You will find, Miss Granger, that the basic desire to live and thrive allows human beings to adjust magnificently to the most unimaginable circumstances. Your professor," she said, gesturing toward Snape, "obviously has a desire to live. Otherwise, we'd never have wrested him away from the brink of death."

Her words washed over Hermione and sank into her consciousness. Hermione had never considered that Snape might truly want, not only to live, but also to thrive. In fact, she had come to see his entire life up to now as a sort of protracted suicide. Despite all the odds favoring his early death, though, he had survived. For the first time, she allowed herself to consider the possibility that all her research, all of St. Mungo's expertise, might have failed if the man himself had not desired, however dimly, to live. She began to wonder what he might want to live for.

***

Hermione fumbled clumsily with her quill. Books and parchments crowded her lap and threatened to fall. She peeked anxiously at Snape. He had slept for just over two hours and had not stirred once. She thought of his face, so eager and childlike as he reached for his wand. She had never really seen him smile before then. Now, having seen it, she ached for it. Once again, she wondered what she would do if he commanded her to leave. She would not force her presence upon him, but she could not bear the thought of him waking to each lonely day with no one to care whether he smiled or not.

She couldn't bear the thought of a day without seeing him, whether he smiled or not.

The idea made her nauseously giddy.

Snape shifted and mumbled unintelligibly. Hermione watched fretfully, anxious lest he suffer another convulsion. His black eyes fluttered open and looked about the room before settling on her. He had sought her out, she realized with a lightheaded thrill. She rose hastily, unmindful of the books, parchments, and quills that crashed to the floor as she made her way to his bedside.

"Miss Granger," he croaked. She could hear his thirst in his voice.

She reached for the glass of water at his bedside and raised it to his lips. He drank gratefully, never removing his eyes from hers. He pushed the glass away and continued to stare at her.

"Miss Granger," he said again. She took his hand in hers and grasped it heartily, thankful that he was alive, that he was awake, that he knew her. He closed his fingers over her hand.

"My wand, Miss Granger," he asked, searching her face. She knew that he yearned for her to tell him that it had all been a dream, that his wand had worked perfectly, that one part of him had escaped the ravages of Nagini's venom. She was tempted to tell him exactly that. She twisted her hands, resisting the urge to bite her nails.

"It didn't work, Professor," she said quietly. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. She wondered if he might cry.

"Maire says it's temporary," she added. He lifted his fingers to his temples and pressed. Thus he lay for many long, silent moments until the need to break the silence swelled unbearably within Hermione.

"Professor Snape?"

He neither moved nor spoke.

She cautiously placed her hand on his shoulder. "Professor Snape?" she asked again. "Professor, are you all right?"

Snape inhaled and exhaled slowly. He lowered his hands and turned his face toward her. His eyes, when he opened them, were flat, shuttered. Hermione imagined she could see his fear and disappointment straining against those shutters.

His voice was thin and measured when he spoke. "I am partially paralyzed and prone to seizures. I owe my life to a former student, whom I apparently tormented. I cannot perform a basic Summoning charm, nor it seems, any other spell. It would appear, Miss Granger, that I am well and truly fucked."

Hermione fervently wished that she could tell him it wasn't so, that it was but a matter of perspective and all would be well. Unfortunately, he had made his point quite clearly, and she had never been a particularly good liar.

****I do not own Hermione, Snape, Ron, Harry, Grimmauld Place, St. Mungo's, or anything else remotely connected to the Harry Potter Septology. No money has been made.****

****I want to thank Angel Mischa for her patience and encouragement. Thanks, too, to all who have read and reviewed. Your kind words have meant the world to me.****