Chapter Four

T/N: Special thanks to exartemarte for helping me to navigate the treacherous waters of British fermented beverages.

The evening after the argument with Snape was a nightmare for Hermione. She went straight to bed without eating dinner...as if she could have taken a single bite that didn't taste like sawdust...and, pleading extreme fatigue, closed the curtains of her bed canopy, then cast an Imperturbable and a Muffliato.

It occurred to her that she had better test to see if anyone could hear her.

"Parvati?"

No response.

"PARVATI!!!" she shouted as loud as she could. There was no answer. Brilliant, no one could hear her; now she could give herself over to her rage without anyone deciding she'd lost her mind.

"Fucking . . . bastard . . . greasy . . . ungrateful . . . GIT!" she shouted, punching her pillow savagely with every word. "After all I've done for him! No one else will even go near him . . . and to think that I actually gave up classes to be with him!"

She continued this tirade until it dawned on her that her pillow was soaked with tears. She had been weeping with rage and impotence. Calm down, Hermione, she thought. He's not worth your grief.

The next morning was no better. After a restless night filled with incoherent dreams about her professor, she woke up to a splitting headache and swollen eyes.

"Mione?" asked Ron, after she appeared in this state at the breakfast table. He came closer and took her hand, pressing it lovingly against his chest. "Are you feeling all right? You look a bit ill."

Hermione snatched her hand away, a bit embarrassed. She still hadn't got used to Ron's demonstrations of affection . . . they made her feel odd.

"I just had a bit of a bad night, don't worry."

"Really, Hermione, you do look ill," insisted Harry with a worried look, laying a hand on her forehead. "Well, at least you don't seem to have any fever."

"It's nothing, really, I just had a few nightmares last night. All I need is a bit of rest," she said, taking two slices of toast and getting up from the table.

"Get some rest, Mione," said Ron sagely, and she simply nodded and went back to her bedroom.

Harry stared incredulously at Ron.

"What?" he said, his mouth full.

"You've got no idea, have you? Hermione's always been a terrible liar. Seriously, Ron, you're planning to marry her and you still can't read her?"

"She's just tired, that's all. Must have been spending too much time with Snape...that's got to be exhausting."

"Think what you want, I know something's the matter with her. She's not herself, she didn't even try to visit Snape or go to the library."

"You know what, Harry?" Ron said impatiently, "I think that all that mystery-solving to defeat Voldemort has fried your brain. Come on, it's Saturday morning and it's a glorious day. We can't let it pass without at least playing a game of Quidditch."

Harry acquiesced...it was Quidditch, after all...but he made a mental note to keep an eye on his friend. He didn't like the way she was looking at all.

She looked no better at lunchtime, and busied herself pushing her food from one side of the plate to the other, drinking glass after glass of pumpkin juice as if she were dehydrated. Ron, for his part, seemed completely oblivious to his fiancée's condition, talking excitedly about his promising future as Keeper for the Chudley Cannons, and including Hermione by saying things like, " . . . and then I'll acknowledge the crowd, and you'll be sitting in the part reserved for players' wives, and I'll blow you a kiss," to which she responded with a slight nod and a forced smile.

"Are you coming to Hogsmeade with us tonight?" asked Neville. As they were all of age and enrolled in a special program outside the normal course of study, they enjoyed complete liberty to come and go as they pleased, provided they didn't make waves or draw undue attention to themselves, and they were taking advantage of this opportunity to go out and enjoy themselves as often as they could.

"Thanks, but I think I'm going to stay here and study . . . I still haven't got that antihemorrhagic potion to thicken properly."

It was that comment which made up Harry's mind to go to the Hospital Wing and investigate. They'd all had problems with the antihemorrhagic potion, but Hermione's was by far the best of the group. Something else was going on . . . of course it was typical of Hermione to insist on perfection, but she was lying...he could always tell when she was lying.

He slipped away after lunch and went to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey seemed very worried about Hermione.

"I know that girl has had much more patience than the other nurses, and I've no right to ask even more of her, but . . . she's been the only one who's been able to manage Professor Snape. And whatever it is that's happened between them, he seems to be very sorry. Well, after his fashion. He's asked after her several times today . . . and you know how he is."

After an awkward conversation with Snape, Harry decided to talk to Hermione. He found her curled up in an armchair in the common room, which was vacant at this hour, as everyone was out on the grounds or in Hogsmeade enjoying the beautiful summer day. She was holding an open book in her hands, but was not reading it. He went over and knelt down beside her.

"I've just come from the Hospital Wing." He began slowly, trying to find a way to broach the subject without raising her hackles. "You've had a fight with him, haven't you?"

"Harry . . . " She laid a hand over his. "I'm just all in. It seems I haven't got anywhere with him. I haven't even been able to heal that damned wound . . . "

"Mione . . . "

"I know, I know, Harry, it's not my fault. But I feel useless there, and unnecessary. There's just no point to my going there any more."

"You're wrong about that. Snape's been asking after you."

Hermione raised her left eyebrow, a gesture she had apparently acquired from hanging about in bad company.

"Go and give him a chance. You know, something I learned in the war is that do what you will, you can't save everyone. It doesn't matter how hard you try, there will always be things beyond your reach. We may be witches and wizards, Mione, but at the end of the day . . . we're still just human beings. Keep that in mind and go and give Snape a second chance. From what I've heard, you're the only one who's been able to manage him."

She spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the chair in the common room, Harry's words circling round and round in her head like goldfish in a bowl. Should she go to the Hospital Wing? Would it even be worth the effort?

The clock in the Gryffindor common room struck four, then five, then six. She skipped dinner, knowing that she would be unable to swallow a single bite. At half past seven she could no longer fight the miserable feeling that she was not where she ought to be. She went to her room and changed clothes so that she wouldn't look so depressing, and headed for the Hospital Wing.

Poppy received her with an enormous smile; she'd become very fond of the girl.

"Hermione! I was sure you'd come back ! Although I confess I was beginning to have my doubts . . . but we'll talk later. There's someone who's been waiting for you."

Hermione went to her patient's room and got the surprise of her life: Snape, fully dressed in his classic black suit, seated in the wheelchair reading the Complete Works of Oscar Wilde.

When he heard her come in, Severus looked up and set the book to one side. For a moment they both hesitated, regarding each other in uncomfortable silence.

"I thought..."

"Not another word on the matter, Miss Granger," he interrupted.

Hermione could only smile and nod. She hadn't expected the professor to want to discuss his defeat in their battle of wills. She was contented to know that she had won...there was no need to blazon victory all over her face.

"Would you like to go for a stroll around the castle grounds?"

"After twenty years of walking them, I'm frankly sick to death of the castle grounds. No, I think I'd rather go to Hogsmeade."

"But . . . it's Saturday . . . most of the students are there . . . "

"Best to get it over with, don't you agree? Sooner or later they're going to find out about my . . . condition. Assuming that you haven't already discussed it with your little friends."

"Not a word, Professor, just like I promised you," she replied, with a show of offense.

"Let's go, then, Miss Granger. I have an urgent need for a glass of Firewhisky, and something tells me that once we leave here I'm going to need more than one."

So they donned their capes and left the Hospital Wing, Hermione wearing a huge smile and Severus an expression that threatened to pulverize the first student who made the slightest comment about his condition. Magic or no magic, he was still Severus fucking Snape.

They crossed the school grounds and went down into the village, drawing up in front of the Three Broomsticks. The pub was packed and rowdy...par for the course on a Saturday night...but as soon as the wheelchair came gliding across the floor, a funereal hush fell. For a few moments there was only the sound of glasses being set down on the wooden tables, a nervous cough, a quickly silenced murmur. Madam Rosmerta stopped what she was doing and turned to see what had cast such a pall.

"Professor Snape!" Her jovial tone had a forced quality. "How wonderful to see you doing better at last. It's an honor to have a real war hero in my establishment," she added, in a tone that brooked no argument: he was welcome in her pub, and no one had better cross her about it. "Over here, please."

Rosmerta seated them at a table in a quiet corner, and the volume of conversation gradually returned to normal. Evidently his reappearance in public wasn't going to be such an ordeal after all.

"What can I bring you?"

"I'd like a glass of Firewhisky; make it a double. And the lady?" He looked a question at Hermione.

"A butterbeer," she replied without thinking.

"Butterbeer? I thought you told me you had put childhood behind you. What are you now, eleven?"

Hermione did not customarily drink alcohol. It hadn't ever appealed to her, really, and on the few occasions when she had tried it, the taste hadn't really been to her liking. But if he was going to needle her about being an adult . . . she cast about wildly in her mind for something she had heard Ron and Harry order.

"A pint of bitter, then," she said, her pride getting the better of her common sense. At least that didn't have so much alcohol in it; that's what she'd read, anyway. Not like whisky.

Severus smiled...at least that was his intention; he'd had had very little practice smiling...and almost laughed out loud when Rosmerta placed a pint glass of amber liquid in front of Hermione.

"This whole thing is for me?" she asked in a whisper.

"Cheers, Miss Granger." Severus lifted his glass happily, but seemed almost immediately to remember something, for his face hardened and his tone darkened. "To the end of the war, and the beginning of our lives."

At first they talked little, but as the level in her glass dropped, her tongue loosened considerably. She didn't have to drink much to achieve this effect, since she had hardly eaten all day except for the pumpkin juice, and this, combined with her lack of experience drinking, made the alcohol go straight to her head.

"They're watching us, Professor. I wonder what they're saying," she said between giggles.

For his part, Severus was enjoying seeing her like this. Of course, had any other person in her condition shared his table, he would have found it revolting, but this was different in some way he couldn't put his finger on. She had always been serious and reserved in his presence, but now she couldn't seem to stop talking except to take another pull at her glass, and she looked enchanting, with her generous smile and rosy cheeks. Enchanting? Where did that come from? Okay . . . it's the Firewhisky talking, he thought, unable to take his eyes off her or to do anything that might chase the smile from her face.

" . . . and all the time we were thinking it was you who was hexing Harry so he'd fall off his broom, and . . . I set you on fire!" she confessed giddily, covering her face with her hands and peeking through her fingers to see her professor's reaction. Snape wanted to get angry with her, he really did, but try as he might to muster up some indignation, none would manifest itself, and he lifted the glass of whisky to his lips to hide his smile.

"Ooh, Professor . . . I've got to go to the loo, but I don't know if I can stand up . . . my legs are so . . . heavy!"

Seeing the way she reeled, Severus realized that the drink had affected her more than he had at first thought. They should go back to Hogwarts immediately . . . and pray that Minerva would never find out that he was guilty of getting her favorite student pissed, or she would Transfigure him into a rat and keep him in a cage in her office.

When Hermione returned, she sat down heavily in her chair and rested her chin on her hands, looking at the table. She seemed to have fallen asleep.

"Granger . . . Granger! Are you feeling all right?"

"No . . . um . . . not really . . ."

"Can you walk?"

"I think so . . ."

"Let's go, Granger, head up, we'll leave with the same dignity as we came in with, let's not give any more cause for gossip than we already have." Leaving some coins on the table, he helped her to her feet.

They left the Three Broomsticks, with Hermione more leaning on the wheelchair than pushing it. No sooner had they emerged into the quiet street than Severus began to chide her...although not too severely, since this was partly his fault, and he knew it.

"For God's sake, Granger, don't you know your limit?"

"I've never drunk alcohol before . . . and I haven't had much to eat today," she confessed, not without embarrassment.

"You should have told me that earlier. We could have asked Rosmerta for something to eat. But it's water under the bridge now. We'll have to walk back to Hogwarts. Apparition's out of the question; if you can't even stand up, you'd be certain to Splinch yourself."

"I'm so sorry, Professor . . . "

The night air appeared to have an adverse effect on her, for shortly after they headed out towards the castle she had to stop and duck behind a tree to empty the meager contents of her stomach.

Brilliant, thought Severus. Minerva's going to have my guts for garters.

Bacchus must have been watching over them, because they managed to reach the castle under their own steam, and then make their way to the Hospital Wing without anyone's noticing them. Hermione cast a few spells to help the professor get his pyjamas on and lie down in the bed. And that was the last thing she was able to do, because with an enormous yawn she sat down on the bed beside Severus, blinked a few times in a vain effort to keep her eyes open, and finally gave up. With a "Merlin, I'm exhausted," she rested her head on the pillow . . . and fell asleep.

"Granger? Granger!" Severus's voice rose in alarm. "Hermione!" he exclaimed finally, shaking her, panic washing over him. "You cannot fall asleep here!"

But Hermione only groaned and settled in at his side. Giving up, Severus covered her with the blankets.

"A rat," he murmured. "A black, skinny rat."