Two

Chapter Two

May, 1998

The battle was over. Dolohov shook his head in disbelief.

Potter lived - bloody Harry Potter lived, and for the moment, so did he. Lucius had shoved him into the dirt as he and Narcissa sprinted for the castle in search of their son. Merlin only knew where Severus was, probably hiding in a cellar somewhere. Dolohov crouched behind a tree. Bodies of Death Eaters and Order members littered the ground. Behind him, Hogwarts castle heaved and smoked, flames belching into the dark sky.

Nearby a twig cracked, and two exhausted and battered young women emerged from the trees, their clothing spattered with blood. The redhead was crying.

"I need you to be brave, Ginny," murmured the girl with curly brown hair. "Your mum is going to need you very much right now."

"Why, Hermione?" Ginny asked her friend. "What's happened?"

"The Mudblood," Dolohov sneered as he took aim at Hermione, who had bent to help Ginny Weasley regain her feet. "Taught the werewolf a lesson; now to teach the Mudblood." His wand was cool in his hand. Avada was too good for her.

"Because," Hermione continued, "Ginny, something's happened. To Fred."

"But he's not... No, Hermione! No!" Ginny's cries filled the air, and she sagged to the ground.

"Ginny! Please be strong, Ginny!" Hermione begged her friend.

"For you, Mudblood," Dolohov hissed. "I'll teach the jumped-up whore to play with magic. Unde Orieris, Ibi Adeste!" Brilliant sparks flew from his wand, striking Hermione in the back.

The brown-haired girl screamed and crumpled forward, and Dolohov allowed himself to caper obscenely. One less Mudblood, even if it was too late. He straightened up and found himself staring at the business end of Kingsley Shacklebolt's wand.

"Going somewhere?" Shacklebolt asked calmly.

"YOU!"

"Me," Shacklebolt replied. "Antonin Dolohov, you are bound by law. Will you come quietly? The battle is over."

"Mud-lover," Dolohov cried. "You cannot do this – cannot take me!" Taking his wand, he leveled it at Shacklebolt.

"Dolohov, don't be a fool!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

A sheet of green encompassed Dolohov as his own killing curse struck him down.

"Shit," Shacklebolt muttered, bending down to retrieve the dead man's wand.

"Kingsley, help me!" Ginny Weasley cried, struggling out from beneath the prone form of Hermione. "He hit her with a curse; she's alive, but she's not moving! Help me, Kingsley! Help me!"

Tucking the Dark wizard's wand into his pocket, Shacklebolt hurried over to the girls. Ginny's face was streaked with blood and tears. Hermione was filthy, dirt encrusted on her skin, blood beneath her fingernails, and traces of a memory clinging to her jumper.

Now that's odd, thought Shacklebolt, staring at the silvery thread, where did that come from?

Ginny whimpered.

"Fred," she whispered. "Fred's dead, Fred, Fred, Fred..."

"Come on," he said, pulling the redhead to her feet, "we need to get her to safety."

"But Fred – I need to find Fred!"

"He's in the castle – we've found him. Nothing... nothing's going to hurt him now."

There was light where there had been no light before.

Soft cloth enveloped her body. Cotton? She had been wearing jeans and jumper.

There was quiet where once there had been noise: explosions, chaos, confusion and curses.

Hermione struggled to open her eyes. Her head felt heavy, full of sand.

The room swam into focus. When had she opened her eyes?

A room.

A wall, painted pale yellow; in the wall, a grey door with a small window at the very top.

A white iron bed frame.

The smell of Muggle antiseptic and cleaning solution where once there had been smoke.

Muggle cleaning solution?

Where was she?

A bell chimed in the distance, and the grey door with the small window opened. An Indian man in a white coat walked into the room and over to her. He shone a small flashlight in her eyes, first the left, then the right.

She blinked.

"Good afternoon, Hermione," he said slowly, carefully, as if he were talking to a child. "How are you this afternoon?"

This wasn't right. She tried to talk, to scream, to murmur, but she was stuck, trapped.

Have I been Petrified again?

A noise came from her throat.

"Subject responds to conversational stimulus," noted the doctor into a Muggle tape-recorder. "Excellent progress."

He turned to Hermione.

"Hermione," he said, "do you know where you are?"

No.

"N-no..." It was a whisper and it exhausted her. The room began to fade around her again.

"Hermione," chided the doctor. "Stay with me, Hermione. You're in the Midvale Psychiatric Home; you know this, we've spoken of this before..."

But before he could continue, her world faded to black.

"She's coming round again."

"Blimey, 'Mione, you gave us a scare."

Harry first, then Ron.

What had happened to Dr Gupta? Who was Dr Gupta?

"Can't believe it; you almost went the way of old Snape. He's not woken up yet."

Snape? Did she know a Snape? Pieces of memory filtered back into place. She knew a Professor Snape - she had watched him die.

Dr Gupta's face faded away. She struggled to open her eyes.

"Where?" she croaked.

"Hospital Wing," Harry replied, sitting gingerly on her bed. In a corner of the cubicle of cloth, Ginny Weasley curled up in a chair, asleep, face streaked with tears.

"Ginny and Kingsley brought you here. You were hit by a curse."

Somebody swore at her? No, no, no, this was the magical world. She was at Hogwarts.

Hogwarts. Where she had studied Potions and Defense against the Dark Arts with Professor Snape.

"Professor Snape?" she croaked. Why was her throat so dry?

"You're mental," Ron chuckled. She moved her head slightly, and blinding pain shot through her skull. Where Harry had been seated, Ronald was standing by her head. "First things out of her mouth are questions about her Professors."

"Bu..."

"Oh, old Snapey's fine. Out cold, of course; right next to you actually." Ron gestured to the wall at her left. "You regained consciousness and made such a fuss when Kingsley and Ginny brought you in here after the battle that Madam Pomfrey sent a team of Healers down to the Shrieking Shack at once. Would you believe the old bastard's still with us? He probably won't wake up for a while or speak, but better that he not be able to take points, eh?"

"I don't..."

"What's that? Hermione?" Harry asked.

"I don't remember," she said. Something else was missing. What was it?

"'Mione, I'm afraid, well, bad news..." Ron was talking, his hands twisting.

With an effort Hermione looked up.

"Fred's dead," Ronald blurted.

"Oh, Ron, I'm so..."

"'s okay," Ron choked, "we're slowly getting used to it, but George... I don't know about George; he's not doing well at all. But as long as we're together, 'Mione, it's okay."

He reached down and took one of her hands.

"How long..."

"How long have you been here? Three weeks," Harry replied. "We've been here every afternoon. You're one of the last to leave Hogwarts. You and Snape."

"Mum will be happy to take you in at The Burrow when it's inhabitable again," Ginny said, stirring in her chair. "But right now, well, it's difficult for her to have people who aren't, well, us around."

Ron nodded. "But the minute you can, Hermione, you can stop with us for as long as you want."

"Or with me," Harry chimed in. "I'm going to be renovating Grimmauld Place, and I can use the help. And when you're ready, I'll help you with your parents. They're still in Australia."

"But..."

Harry's words tumbled over each other.

"And if you don't mind, I've arranged with Professor McGonagall to take Snape in when he's ready. It's the least I can do for him, after all he's done for us and for my mum."

Ronald snorted.

"The two of you are mental," he amended his previous statement. "Both of you – all protective of Snape. Have you forgotten what a vindictive bastard that man is?"

"Ron, he saved our lives," Harry began.

The curtain rustled, and Hermione caught the scent of a familiar jasmine perfume and a whiff of Muggle antiseptic and cleaning solution.

"I don't remember..." The room began to swim.

"It's okay, love, we're here, you don't have to remember, just as long as we have you back."

Jocasta Granger took her daughter's hand in hers.

"My beautiful, brilliant girl," she murmured. "You've come back to us. I knew you could, my sweet, sweet, darling girl."

"Mum?"

"Of course you know your mum! I'm right here, darling."

Muggle antiseptic and cleaning solution.

Where are Harry and Ron? Why aren't you in Australia – it's not safe yet!

Questions tumbled through Hermione's mind as her mother sat on the bed and gathered her into her arms. She smelled of jasmine. She smelled of Mum.

"It will take time, Mrs Granger," Dr Gupta said, sliding into the room. "But we have every hope that your daughter will make a full and complete recovery."

Recovery from what?

"I understand; it's just been so long... seven years... and now, to have my daughter back..."

"She's coming in and out – I believe she wants to rejoin us, Jocasta, but, as I said, this recovery will take time. The fact that she is with us more than she has been in the past seven years is a positive sign."

"Hermione?" Jocasta asked.

"Mum? Why..." Hermione tried to start.

"She knows me!" Jocasta's voice was triumphant.

"Mum, where am..."

"You're in London, dearest, at the Midvale Psychiatric Home. Don't you remember?"

"No... Why am I here?" Hermione furrowed her brow. Was it the effects of Dolohov's curse? Could that be playing tricks on her memory?

"You've been catatonic for the last seven years, ever since the, erm, accident," Jocasta explained patiently. "We've had so little contact with you – only briefly five years ago, but you just sank back into your state." Her mother reached out and smoothed her hair from her face. Hermione noticed it was short. When had she cut her hair?

"I don't understand..." Hermione bit her lip and blinked back the tears. "Why aren't you in Australia?" she blurted.

Jocasta looked confused.

"Australia?" she asked as the room began to swim again.

"Mum!" she cried. Hermione blinked, and when she opened her eyes, she was back in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. The darkness of the ward pressed down upon her. In the cubicle beside her, she heard Professor Snape's steady breathing.

"Mum..." She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried, really cried – perhaps when Ron had left them in the forest, perhaps quietly, when she had heard that Fred and Tonks and Remus had been buried, perhaps when she had discovered that Professor Snape was still alive, her eyes had stung with tears that she'd hastily swallowed – never cry in front of the boys. But now, she turned her face to her pillow and began to sob in earnest.

June, 1998

Harry and Ron visited her regularly.

She assumed they didn't want to talk about the after-effects of Dolohov's curse that still plagued her.

Madam Pomfrey was strict, of course, but when she saw Hermione was beginning to stir more and more, she allowed her to move about the Hospital Wing.

By this time, Hermione and Snape were the only patients left. Families had come to collect their wounded and recovering.

But nobody had come for Professor Snape or Hermione.

In the night, Hermione would write letters to her parents, telling them they had a daughter who loved them very much; explaining why she'd done what she'd done, why it was necessary to protect them; that she'd come to get them the minute she could. If Madam Pomfrey noticed her lack of sleep due to her scribbling, she said nothing.

In the mornings, she would crumple the letters and set them alight with her wand. Her letters were useless – they didn't know her, and given her situation confined to the Hospital Wing, they never would. But in the night, when she tossed and turned, it always seemed so necessary to explain what she had done.

Sleep would bring odd dreams of her parents, a kindly Indian doctor, and a pale yellow room with a white iron bed and the smell of Muggle antiseptic and cleaning solution. Sometimes, the dreams became so vivid she would struggle to wake, head in a fog, clinging to the reality of the Hospital Wing and the gentle pacing of the school matron.

In the cubicle next to her, Snape slept on. Madam Pomfrey began to allow her to help change Snape's dressings and reapply the dittany to his wounds.

And it came to pass that her face was the first one that Professor Snape saw when he awoke one rainy morning at the end of June.

AN: I have made no money from this. Thanks go to Subversa and Savine_Snape for their invaluable help!

Unde Orieris, Ibi Adeste can be translated as "from whence you come, go there!"