Chapter Three

It was midsummer, but a light drizzle was falling, cleaning the air and the vegetation that surrounded the castle, as well as the stones of the castle itself. Severus watched the rain fall outside his window, watched the grey clouds and thought that he too felt that way: grey and weak.

He had begun to miss his nurse. Not that he had any affection for her, but . . . now no one at all came to visit him. Even Minerva had stopped coming, but he didn't blame her: he knew exactly how much work was involved in being headmaster of Hogwarts, from his own experience, and besides . . . well it wasn't as if anyone were eager to see a person like him. So he resigned himself to wait for his nurse.

"Hello, Professor. How are you feeling today?"

Severus heard Hermione's voice and was glad she was back. Of course he would never let her see it, but that didn't mean he wasn't sincerely glad.

"Late today, Miss Granger?"

"No, not late. I had classes. Most of the professors just assign readings and exercises to make up for the classes we missed, but there are two classes I have to actually attend: Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions."

"And who's teaching Potions?" asked Severus with a twitch of irritation. Even though he hadn't taught Potions for two years now, he couldn't help feeling that someone was trespassing on his turf.

"Professor Slughorn."

Severus's eyes widened in surprise and she went on. "No one else would take it. Professor McGonagall admitted to me that she didn't especially want to hire him, after the way he'd acted during the battle, but it turns out there's an asinine rumor circulating that the position is cursed, just the way DADA used to be."

"And who do they imagine cursed it?" he demanded, a bit confused. "Voldemort's dead, the Death Eaters are in hiding . . . who's left?"

Hermione moved away from the bed under the pretext of needing something from the table. In these situations, location was paramount.

"You, Professor, who else?"

Severus regarded her incredulously, then gave a bitter laugh. Would they never . . . well, not forgive him, but . . . leave him in peace?

Hermione for her part would have liked to say something supportive, tell him that she was sorry, or that it shouldn't matter to him, but she knew it was better to keep such sentiments to herself. To fill the awkward moment, she began to chatter about her studies.

"I need the DADA classes because it's so practical. Of course I learned a lot with Harry and during the war, but..." she took a breath "...and then there's Potions. For some reason I still have some problems with that subject."

She opened a cabinet and began to take out vials of potions and unguents for his wound. "Today, for example, I couldn't get my antihemorrhagic potion to thicken properly."

"Did you grind the elderberries?"

"No, I chopped them, like the book says."

The professor raised an eyebrow, and picked up his wand from the bedside table.

"There are things in that book that could do with improvement. Accio Moste Potente Potions!"

He raised his hand and waited for the book, which Hermione had laid on the table, to respond. But it did not move.

"Accio Moste Potente Potions!"

Nothing.

He fell back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

"Did you know about that, too?"

"No. I don't think anyone did. If Madam Pomfrey had known, she would have told me."

"Not a word to anyone, do you understand?"

Hermione set the vials down and sat down on the edge of the bed. If it had been any other patient, she would have taken his hand to comfort him, but not Severus.

"I'm sure this is all temporary, Professor. The inability to walk, the lack of . . . "

The words died in her mouth. After a pause, she started again. "I've read of cases like this...a life-threatening illness, a profound depression, any situation that imposes an abnormally high degree of stress. Wizards can lose their magic. But once the underlying problem is cured, the magic returns." She was whispering. "We just have to be patient. The magic will return."

Sunk deep into the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut, Severus spoke from between clenched teeth.

"And if it's connected with the spinal injury? I'll stay like this forever, unable to walk, unable to do magic?"

Hermione smiled. There was something she knew that he did not.

"Professor, you're totally capable of walking."

His eyes flew open and he struggled to sit up and speak, but she stopped him with a hand against his chest. "The Mediwizards treated the injury. There was a certain amount of inflammation of the spinal cord, but that's completely corrected. Your body will regain its ability to walk as soon as you command it to. But in order for that to happen, you've got to be aware that you can do it...and not only that, you've got to want to do it."

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He sat, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, and Hermione had to smile. Snape at a loss for words was not something she'd ever had the pleasure of seeing before. If she could borrow a pensieve from somewhere, it would be an amusing sight to show Harry and Ron.

"I know, Professor. It's not something that happens much to wizards. Muggles suffer this type of thing more often. They can get psychological help, but there's no real wizarding equivalent. So you're sort of on your own to deal with this." Hermione rose to leave, but felt a steely grip close over her wrist, holding her back.

"Swear to me, Miss Granger, that you will tell no one anything of this. No one. Not even your . . . little friends."

His dark eyes were fixed on hers: two deep, hypnotic pools. Suddenly the penny dropped: he was trusting her, incredible as that might seem. He was in her hands now.

"I promise, Professor," she replied, meeting his gaze, and added, "and I promise I'll help you get through this."

Severus breathed a sigh of relief. He had confidence in the little swot; she always managed to work out a solution to even the most difficult problems.

He sank back into the cushions, closed his eyes, and waited for her to do her job.

The days passed without much variation. A Thursday was much the same as a Saturday; she was always close by. And when she wasn't there, he missed her. He had grown accustomed to the sound of her voice, to her quiet presence as she studied silently in the corner. She brought him books and chocolate biscuits, his two weaknesses. And though he himself said little, he let her chatter on about whatever took her fancy once she had finished studying. It wasn't vapid chatter about meaningless things; she wasn't like her little girlfriends, who would have been talking about boys, or clothes. She was more likely to talk about books, spells, potions, or her anticipated future as a Mediwitch. Thanks to her he was introduced to some Muggle authors he might otherwise have scorned to read; he was particularly moved by Oscar Wilde's Ballad of Reading Gaol.

And one morning, when she approached to dress his wound...which was much improved, but not completely healed...his attention was captured by a glint of red on the ring finger of her left hand.

"Miss Granger!" he said, feigning admiration while firmly refusing to release her hand. "Is that something new on your hand? A ruby? How Gryffindor. Potter?"

"Ron," she corrected him, gently withdrawing her hand, her gaze lowered. Modesty? thought Severus. No, he amended. Not modesty . . . shame!

"You didn't tell me you had a serious suitor."

"It didn't seem appropriate."

"When is the happy event?"

"After the NEWTs."

He quirked his left eyebrow. "Quite soon, then. Any reason in particular for the haste?"

The implication irritated Hermione.

"I'm not pregnant!" she snapped.

"What's your hurry, then? You're both still young, and for some reason you don't seem to me to fit the profile of those empty-headed girls who are in such a rush to get married right out of school."

"Ron . . . the Chudley Cannons have offered him a position, and he's anxious to start a family. He's always dreamt of having lots of children."

"And your training at St Mungo's? And your dreams, of becoming a researcher?"

She took a great gulp of air before responding.

"I can do all of that. Although the children may mean I'll have to wait a bit."

"And of course that's fine with him."

Hermione said nothing. Snape gave a low laugh.

"I expected a little more of you before you tied yourself down."

"You...who are you to be handing out that sort of advice?" She was shaking with rage. "I'd say you've waited overlong, by the looks of it. I've never met a Mrs. Snape, and I don't imagine I ever will."

The sarcastic smile died on Severus's lips and he fixed her with a malevolent look.

"You have no idea of my motives for deciding not to form a family, Miss Granger," he said in a low, menacing voice. Its timbre alone should have frozen her blood, but she refused to be intimidated. Looking him defiantly in the eye, she did her best to match his tone of voice.

"I saw your memories, sir. Harry showed them to me."

This girl...this child...had caught him in his own trap. And she was not intimidated, even by his best threatening tone.

"I'll thank you not to speak to me of that matter ever again," he said, without breaking eye contact. At least in this he would not be defeated.

"I might ask the same, sir," she said with a tight smile.

And they spoke no more of it.

But Severus was convinced that Hermione was about to commit the worst mistake of her life in marrying Ron Weasley. For one thing, the boy was hardly her intellectual equal. Of course, he did have a formidable analytic mind, but Hermione's thirst for knowledge was of a different calibre altogether. A Ravenclaw might have suited her, perhaps...but the Ravenclaws lacked the sprit and valor that she exuded from every pore.

And to think that in no time she'd be burdened by a pack of redheaded brats, occupied with nothing more challenging than cooking and changing nappies . . . Merlin, what a waste! Any idiot could spit out a dozen children and feed them, but . . . what a waste. Severus gave a mental shrug each time the thought accosted him, telling himself that if that's what she wanted out of life, then that was fine. But he knew that wasn't what she really wanted . . . and it bothered him, like a pebble in his shoe. If he had been wearing shoes.

Hermione for her part was concerned with other things. The professor was making no progress at all, and if he continued at this rate, he would spend the rest of his life lying in that bed, unable to walk or perform magic.

I've got to get him out of there, she thought, desperate. Keeping him cooped up in this bedroom was tantamount to condemning him to unremitting depression. Perhaps if she could take him to his old potions laboratory he would recover his desire to move about, do something on his own . . . but how to move him? She wasn't about to cast a Mobilicorpus and carry him floating about Hogwarts, at least not if she wanted to see her next birthday. She knew that the professor would die before he would tolerate such a humiliation, too similar to his experience with the Marauders, even if he weren't floating upside-down. She'd have to talk with Professor Flitwick.

And so it was that Hermione turned up one morning at Snape's door pushing . . . .

"What the devil is that, Miss Granger?"

Hermione clucked her tongue.

"Professor, a fine analytical mind like yours . . . one would think you could figure it out for yourself."

"A wheelchair?!"

But it was no ordinary Muggle wheelchair. In the first place, it was a marvelous bit of woodcraft, made of ebony, beautifully carved and exquisitely upholstered in a dark red chintz with deep golden whorls. It was enchanted to ascend and descend staircases and overcome any obstacle in its path. It was also enchanted to obey the magical will of whomever used it, but . . . that particular feature would have to wait.

"What is wrong with you, Granger, did you fall off your broom and hit your head? There is no way on earth I'm going to use such an article. Get it out of here, I don't want to look at it."

"Fine, then, what were you planning to do, Professor? Spend the rest of your days flat on your back in that bed?" she exclaimed, exasperated, hands on her hips, doing her best to loom menacingly above him.

Severus was momentarily nonplussed. No student had ever dared to take such a tone with him. But he was not about to be scolded by some apprentice . . . or by anyone else, for that matter. He sat up abruptly, putting on his best bitter vampire face and his most intimidating voice.

"I have no intention of rolling about out there so that students can make fun of me!"

"News flash, Professor! The students have always made fun of you, and they're not about to stop now. And you know that perfectly well." Hermione leaned over and looked straight into his eyes, a few inches away from his face. "Oily bat of the dungeons, greasy git, Batman!"

"THAT'S ENOUGH, GRANGER!" he snapped. Desperate to shut her up, he put a hand over her mouth. She didn't even pause to think; just grabbed the hand and removed it.

"It's not as if you didn't already know!" she spat angrily. "And nobody gives a toss whether you walk, drag yourself, fly, or sleep hanging from the clothes rail."

"Why do you give a toss, then?"

"That's an excellent question, Professor; I have no idea why I should care, if you yourself don't!" she hissed, then took a deep breath to try and calm herself. "I shouldn't care. But I do," she concluded sadly.

Silence fell like a stone between them; there was nothing else to say. Severus was stupefied to think that at least to one person it mattered whether he lived or rotted in a hole somewhere.

But Hermione was feeling defeated and impotent. She headed towards the door with a weary step and picked up her rucksack from the floor.

Gathering his courage, Severus asked, with studied casualness, "Tomorrow, then, Miss Granger?"

Hermione paused for a moment and thought about it, but had no idea what she was going to do.

Without turning around or saying good-bye, she left the room.

A/N: The Ballad of Reading Gaol was the most poignant work of Oscar Wilde, who wrote it while serving a sentence of two years at hard labor for the crime of sodomy. After writing it he was never able to write another word (of literature, of course) and he died soon after.

He did not wear his scarlet coat,

And murdered in her bed.

It's not difficult to imagine why Snape would have been moved by this poem.