Chapter 3

Sorry that it took so long to get this chapter up. I'll try to be posting more like once a week if I can.

Thanks to JK Rowling for the universe and my amazing beta, Elizabeth.

* * *

Snape bestowed a malevolent glare on Hermione before trying to sit up, at which point he winced and fell back on the pillows.

"What have you done to me?" His hoarse question came after a moment of angry sulking with his eyes firmly shut.

"I haven't done anything to you but put a bandage on you. You crashed into a stone wall, so I imagine your ribs are bruised," Hermione mused, putting her book on the bedside table.

"I appear to have been taken against my will," he snarled viciously. The effort gave him a violent coughing fit; the force of it brought him up from his pillows again.

Hermione rushed to him with a glass of water, which he attempted to swat away but found that he couldn't because of the spasms. Grudgingly accepting the water, he gulped it down until his coughs subsided.

She shrugged. "I suppose, but can you really say that anything unfortunate has happened since?" With a wave of her wand she refilled the glass and set it on the table beside her book.

He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a muffled maternal voice in the hall..."Are you all right, dear? I heard you coughing."

"I'm fine, Madame, thank you," Hermione called back, glad that she had locked the door.

"Supper is in ten minutes," Madame added. A moment later her footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Hermione turned her attention back to Snape, who arched a brow. "You seem to speak fluent French," he commented acidly.

She shrugged and he glared at her, clearly not satisfied with this answer. "More time for that later. I have some questions for you, Professor."

"And what might those be, Miss Granger?" he sneered.

"First off, I would be delighted to know why you're not currently rotting in the Shrieking Shack," she retorted, matching his tone. Intimidating her might have worked when she was a student, but now she was twenty-two. She was a fully-fledged witch, his equal.

"And I would be delighted to tell you that it is none of your business," he replied, though he didn't seem at all delighted.

"Very well," she said primly.

She stood up and pointed her wand at both of his hands and feet, apparently casting a nonverbal spell. Snape moved his hand to see what she had done to it, and found that he was unable to move it farther than about three inches from the bed. Upon attempting to test the range of motion of his other limbs, he found them in a similar state.

"What is the meaning of this?" he growled, pulling at his invisible restraints.

"Three things: you're not healthy, not clean, and not dead. I mean to explore these rather startling facts with you in due course ... especially the latter point. But, now, if you'll excuse me, it's supper time." She smiled smugly and left the room.

Dimly, Snape was aware of two muttered words: "Colloportus. Silencio."

He was locked in.

No one could hear him.

Bugger.

* * *

Hermione descended the stairs, knowing full well that she would have a furious Snape to deal with when she returned. But it was worth it, for what she planned to gain from him.

She made her way to the dining room, where her hosts awaited her. Madame was just setting out the silverware as she entered, her husband seated at the head of the small table. He rose to greet her with a kiss on both cheeks before chivalrously pulling her chair out for her.

"We are so pleased to at last have someone staying with us, and how wonderful that you are so young and beautiful," he said as he took his seat, smiling sweetly at her.

The old man reminded her of Dumbledore in the way his eyes twinkled when he spoke; in the way his primary goal seemed to be making her feel comfortable.

"I'm very happy to have found such a lovely place to stay," Hermione replied graciously.

Laid out on the table in front of them was a modest smorgasbord of French cuisine. There was bouillabaisse (a savoury fish soup), chitterling sausage, foie gras, and chicken drenched in red wine sauce.

"This all looks absolutely delicious," Hermione remarked as Madame sat down across from her.

"Thank you, dear, but it was very easy, really. I've been cooking my entire life." And Madame proceeded to launch into the story of her childhood and teen years, up until she met her husband.

"One night, he took me to the opera, and at the end of the first act he proposed. I knew even then that it would last," she concluded, refilling Hermione's glass with red wine.

"Is this wine produced here? It's simply wonderful," Hermione stated as she took a sip.

It was rich and heady, the flavour strong and sweet enough to almost be a dessert wine. She remembered what awaited her in her bedroom and put the glass down; she wanted to be aware for that encounter.

"Yes, this particular bottle is about ten years old. It is called Allemand Cornas, and is a very popular wine among our more wealthy customers," Madame told her with a wink.

"How lovely," Hermione murmured, swishing the liquid around in the glass.

"Tell us, then, how you came to France," said Monsieur after a moment, and Hermione began her story.

* * *

That infernal twit dared to lock him in a Silenced room.

He hadn't stopped fuming since she had left, and he fully intended that she would bear the brunt of his rage for leaving him invisibly shackled like a common prisoner.

When she opened the door, he was ready to spit fire.

But he didn't.

His expression remained the same, as he had, after all, had many years to practise keeping it in place. But his eyes widened a fraction when he saw her. She was transformed.

Not transformed, exactly. She looked the same.

But she was glowing.

Not a magical glow, but rather a glow of self-assurance and happiness.

And it disappeared when she saw his face.

He had to blink a few times before he regained his composure.

"I don't suppose I am worth an explanation of your disturbing behaviour?" he snarled from his helpless position on the bed.

"Not just yet," Hermione replied, her breath suddenly short. Feeling a bit dizzy, she sat in the chair beside the bed.

She retrieved her wand from her sleeve and removed his ties to the bed. He didn't thank her.

"Would you like to tell me why you're alive, then?" she continued idly, placing a hand on her chest as her vision faded a bit, then returned.

"No, Miss Granger, I would not." This was the most polite he had been so far, yet she was still frustrated at his lack of cooperation.

"Well, know that you won't be leaving any..." She stopped short, breath turning thick in her throat and choking her. She slumped against the chair, her eyes rolling back into her head as her world went black.

When she could see again, the light was dim and filtered through cracked, dirty windows. She was in a small, dingy room with various pieces of decrepit furniture shoved into corners, the floor coated with a thick layer of dust.

Without understanding why, Hermione caught the blood in a cupped hand. Carefully she lifted Snape's head up with her free hand and poured the precious gift down his throat...

"MISS GRANGER!"

She opened her eyes and found Snape regarding her with an expression both furious and marginally concerned.

"What happened?" she asked, rubbing her head.

"You appeared to be having a seizure and were muttering incoherently," he told her distastefully. "You could have warned me that you had a delicate condition before unceremoniously abducting me."

She glowered at him. "I do not have a delicate condition! That's never happened to me before," she said indignantly.

She then remembered chasing the strange, fragmented, yet somehow familiar pictures that had flashed through her mind as she chased him through the streets of the city. She paused.

"Except for earlier when I was running after you. It was like I was reliving something," she said slowly, her eyes widening. "You . . . you were in the Shrieking Shack and a unicorn walked in and gave its blood to save your life."

"That's ridiculous. No such thing ever happened." He refused to meet her dumbfounded gaze.

"I didn't say that it did, Professor Snape." She crossed her arms and stared at him knowingly.

Snape eyed her defensive stance and sputtered angrily, realising he had been trapped. He stayed silent, unwilling to betray himself further.

"So that's how you escaped. Unicorn's blood. Didn't it curse you, though?" she asked, suddenly timid.

"No, Miss Granger." He wasn't going to volunteer anything, apparently.

"Why not?"

He sighed in frustration. "Evidently the oaf didn't do his job properly," he muttered. "As you seem to know, he who selfishly takes an unwilling unicorn's blood to save himself will be cursed for the rest of his life. However," he paused as a cough seized him, "occasionally a unicorn will sense that someone with unfulfilled potential is dying. Someone pure at heart," he snorted derisively, "whose time in this world is not yet finished.

"The unicorn will seek out this person and willingly give its blood to sustain him or her. In this case, the blood is a gift and thus does not curse the drinker." He sighed. "While you may not have found me living the most comfortable life, Miss Granger, I can assure you that it is entirely my own doing. The unicorn was obviously mistaken in choosing me," he murmured, the crossness gone from his voice.

Snape turned from her in a gesture of silent dismissal.

Hermione still had so many questions to ask him, so many memories still flitting around elusively in her mind. But he was obviously done talking to her for tonight. With a heavy sigh, she conjured a sofa in the middle of the room, as well as a pillow and blanket. He deserved to sleep on a comfortable bed after all his trials.

But, Hermione, being of a determined and curious nature, found that sleep was not easy to find when her mind was so crammed with questions and suppositions. She could not get comfortable on her couch ... not with the one man who could satisfy her burning desire to 'know' just a few feet away.

She knew he was having trouble sleeping, too. She could hear him rustling the bed covers, but, though the words were practically ready to leap from her tongue, she forced herself to leave him alone. She was sure he needed rest for his weary body and mind. She was resolute that she would handle this situation maturely.

Good night, Professor Snape, she thought resignedly.

* * *

Snape laid in the comfortable bed, his thoughts anything but comfortable. He was shaken by Hermione's sudden recollection.

He had Obliviated her for a reason, dammit!

He rolled over with a grunt. It was not unheard of for Memory Charms to break down, especially when the subject in question made contact with someone in the hidden memory. Flashbacks would occur, and eventually the subject would have access to the "blank spot" in their memories.

He was as good as done for. Of course she would reveal his existence to the Wizarding world. Being a Gryffindor, she would not understand his need for privacy and hatred of fame. 'The war hero deserves recognition!'

If he had wanted recognition, he could have gotten it easily enough in the last five years. He lived as a destitute Parisian urchin because it suited him; no one bothered him except the occasional policeman shooing him from a street corner.

Another thing kept him living on the streets: guilt. Despite whatever he had done for the Order of the Phoenix during the war, he could not forgive himself for all of his sins in the name of the Dark Lord. They had haunted him every night even as he responded to the burning of the Mark, off to commit more horrors.

Because of him, countless Muggle-borns, Muggles, and even Death Eaters were dead. He had sometimes had to frame one of his supposed comrades for an obvious crime in order to deter the suspicions about his loyalties.

He still felt that Dumbledore had been far too forgiving in letting him spy for the Order. For what he had done even up to that point, he deserved Azkaban and nothing better. Even with that chance to redeem himself, he had been forced to commit more crimes, murder more people while he plotted his hidden sabotages.

He had fully expected to die in the course of the war, but fate had not dealt him a kind hand. In the Shrieking Shack, he had thought he would at last find peace. But then the unicorn and Miss Granger had seemed to conspire against his wishes.

Now that he had crossed paths with the harpy who had denied him his eternal rest, he couldn't help but wonder if she was somehow a part of his 'unfinished work'. He hoped to whatever benevolent or malevolent power controlled his pathetic fate that he would rid himself of her soon.

He rolled over again, and found himself staring at his captor. She was finally asleep, her hand dangling over the side of the couch, her mouth sloppily agape. Her wand lay on the floor just below her hand, which gave him an idea.

He slowly got out of bed, trying not to wince at the pain in his ribs and the dizzy feeling in his head. Silently he crept to where she slept and reached a hand down for her wand, but found himself unable to get closer than five inches to it. In frustration he thrust his hand forward, only to have it repelled as though some magnetic force kept him back.

Snape growled in frustration and skulked back to the bed. He should have known the little nit would protect her wand from him. He didn't want to know what she thought of him now.

But when had he ever cared what anyone thought of him?

It did him no good to care.

He crept back to bed with a silent curse, and eventually, he slept.

* * *

When Snape awoke, the room was lit in a golden glow. Sunlight filtered through the blinds on the window, casting dancing patterns on the rug. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking around sleepily. At first glance, the room appeared empty, but then a movement in the corner caught his attention.

The sight before him stopped his breathing for a moment. He felt as though he were silently choking. For, back turned to him, Miss Granger stood in knickers and nothing else, wiggling a bit as she pushed her legs into a pair of jeans. What disconcerted him most about this image was her evident lack of bra; that was an image he wished dearly not to associate with the pushy know-it-all he had known in his time at Hogwarts.

He coughed loudly and averted his eyes as the expected shriek pierced his ears. She spun around, her jeans half-fastened, her arms crossed over her chest, and her face red with embarrassment.

"How long have you been awake?" she asked, voice trembling.

"Only a moment," he muttered, keeping his eyes focused on the lamp beside the bed.

She gave an indignant little huff, then picked up her wand and magicked the rest of the clothes onto her body.

"How did you sleep?" she asked absently as she tied her hair back.

Its bushiness had decreased in the years since Hogwarts, but it still needed to be reined in at times. When he didn't answer for a few minutes, she turned again to see him regarding her with a stony expression.

She wondered if he regretted telling her so much about his past earlier, and now wished to avoid speaking if he could. Well, that was fine. She didn't need him to speak for now.

"As I was saying yesterday, you won't be leaving anytime soon," she commented, slipping into a pair of ballet flats. "It's clear to me that you're not in any condition to go out on your own. Why a man of your talents is even homeless in the first place is perplexing."

He snorted mirthlessly, staring up at the ceiling. She would know about talent, the know-it-all who couldn't bear anything below an 'O' on her exams. He didn't need some snooty little witch to tell him he had skill.

"Glad I amuse you," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

Moving toward him, she restrained his limbs once more and pulled his tattered shirt up to inspect his ribs. They were indeed covered in bruises, as well as protruding from the loose skin around them. His stomach didn't have the swell of malnutrition, but he was definitely undernourished.

"What in the name of Merlin are you doing?" he snarled, thrashing against his restraints. "Did I give you bloody permission to touch me?"

"No, you didn't. Sorry. But really, you don't have a choice, because I've decided I'm going to heal you until you're as well as you were at Hogwarts."

"This is outrageous! If you do not let me go this instant, I swear you will pay," he shouted, his eyes boring into hers.

"I'll pay? Do tell me, how will you make me pay? I've gotten the impression by now that you don't want anyone to know that you exist," she spat back. "So I think that alerting the authorities is rather out of the question, don't you? Besides, I can't see that you have your wand with you," she stated triumphantly, folding her arms.

Furious, he returned to his old tactic of keeping silent. He was burning to lash out, even strike her, but the invisible ties on his limbs prevented that.

"I'll let you go as soon as you're healthy again. I promise."

Grudgingly, he looked up at her face. Her impertinent, smart-arse little face.

"Very well," he said through gritted teeth.