Chapter 5

With a sickening pop, the two of them reappeared inside what looked to Hermione to be a smaller, dirtier replica of Hagrid's hut.

"Wh-where on earth are we, Se-sir?" she asked, a bit dizzy.

He stood at the one window, grimy with decades of dirt, lost in thought. Drawing a swift breath, he turned to one side and began to rummage through cupboards. "This," he said, his voice muffled, "was my grandfather's house."

Turning toward the door, barely recognizable as such by a tiny outline of sunlight around its edges, she smacked her shin on something hard and wooden. Gasping at the unexpected sting, she cursed under her breath.

"Miss Granger, I have warned you about that uncivil tongue of yours," he said. With a grunt, he re-emerged into the room, hands grasping two extremely dusty opaque bottles.

She bit her lip to keep a sob from escaping. Whatever she had run into had really rather hurt. She felt her leg cautiously; it seemed to be bleeding, but she couldn't tell quite how badly without some light, and he had Apparated them without warning so her wand was still at home. Making his way over to her, he took her arm in his and prepared to Disapparate. A second later, they reappeared in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place, almost exactly in the same positions as they had been minutes before. Stumbling to the bench, she sat down, wincing as she examined her battered leg.

Noticing her sudden hiss as she sat down, Severus glanced over at his young assistant, and a split second later, he was kneeling at her side, wine forgotten on the counter. "Miss Granger, what on earth–" he exclaimed, looking at the deep gash on the front of her right leg.

"I'm not sure, sir. I bashed it on something at the – your house," she said, pressing her lips together to keep them from quivering. Looking around for her wand, she realized it must have been left upstairs in the laboratory, where they had run some more tests earlier. But Severus had placed a hand tentatively on her knee, and muttering a few short spells, most of which Hermione had never heard, he stanched the blood flow and knitted the flesh back together. His hand lingered only a moment longer than necessary on her leg before he stood quickly and went to the sink, returning a moment later with a damp cloth.

"I should have warned you not to move about in there without some more light," he said as he handed her the cloth. "I'm afraid you walked into one of his confounded Muggle farming tools. After all these years, they're still dreadfully sharp."

Hermione busied herself by cleaning up her leg, but in reality she was trying to come to terms with what had just happened. That was the first time she could recall Snape ever mentioning personal information so freely, let alone the longest statement he'd ever made in her presence that was neither unfriendly nor insulting. Smiling, she pressed the cloth to her leg. "Where, exactly, was the house, sir?" she asked.

"The hovel, as I would call it, stands on the northernmost coast of the Isle of Man," he answered slowly, as though he were afraid he might reveal too much. "My grandfather was a Muggle. He ... died. Before I left for school. Even though the Ministry repossessed my former home and accounts, I believe the house is still mine." Sensing her curious eyes on him, he continued, "However, magic there is a different animal entirely. Limited amounts of magic can pass untraced, but anything more intense or longer in duration than the Apparation we did earlier triggers sensors here in Britain, sensors meant to trace runaways from the law." He chuckled grimly at the irony. "No, the Isle of Man is not entirely the friendliest of places, not to wizards, anyway."

"But you could live there, be free–"

"And live like a Muggle. Powerless and weak. No, it seems that my preference for magic is greater than my distaste at the company I have been forced to keep," he snapped.

"Well, Hermione, sounds like you've really gone and done it now," Ron chuckled from the doorway. "What's got his knickers in a twist tonight? Not another fit, was it?"

"Ronald!" Hermione scolded. She knew he didn't really dislike Snape anymore, but why did he have to be so bloody galling? It was hard to tell whether he did it to try to goad the older man into taking more of an interest in life, or whether he did it just because he could.

"Sir, I'm sorry, I've tried so hard to convince the new Ministry that they should issue you a posthumous pardon, but Arthur only has so much clout–" Harry interjected, a look of desperation on his face. His fists clenched at his side as he tried to persuade Snape to believe him.

"If you two imbeciles are quite done with your babbling, I believe I will retire for the evening," Severus said, trying to block out the noise. "I'm quite sure you can help Hermione see to her leg." And with that, he swept from the room.

"What was that all about, 'Mione?" Ron asked, walking toward the kitchen table. "What does he mean, see to your leg?" Harry came over, looking down at her bloodied jeans.

"Hermione, what happened?" he asked, kneeling down next to her, his hand touching her knee where Severus' had rested earlier.

Hermione had absolutely no inclinations toward telling either of them about their evening, though. It seemed ... private. Personal. And besides, she thought disgustedly, neither one of them deserves one ruddy word of explanation from me, after the way they've been behaving. Harry, fawning over Severus as though he could explain his way into the older man's favor, and Ron, arrogant and self-assured, never passing up an opportunity to ruffle Snape's feathers. "Come on, you two," she said instead. "Help me to my room."

The bottles of wine that the two of them had brought back earlier lay untouched and unnoticed on the countertop.

The next day, Severus had another seizure.

***

He had gone to bed without dinner, feeling out of sorts. He had lain there, watching the sun go down, and tried to determine exactly what had him off-balance. Potter's shallow hero-worship bothered him, yes, but it was a minor irritation, nothing he couldn't ignore. Weasley's childish antics were also bothersome, but he had become accustomed to much sharper barbs over the last twenty years, to be sure. But Hermione – when had she become Hermione, he wondered – he had actually wanted to thank her this evening. After all, even if the potion they had concocted wore off, it had still been weeks and weeks in the making, more than their share of long, hot hours in the laboratory, when she could be off doing ... whatever she might want to do. And yet it seemed as though she actually enjoyed the work. The way her brown eyes shone with flecks of gold when she was excited about an idea, the way her brow furrowed when she puzzled out a problem, and every once in a while he found himself fascinated by the trails taken by the beads of sweat that hung on her upper lip, watching them trickle toward her chin, or neck, or ... He inhaled sharply. He may no longer be her teacher, or her his student, but she was still incredibly young, and he had no right to – to fantasize about her in such a fashion. Especially given his current ... situation.

His head hurt.

She found him on the floor sometime after midnight, dressing robe wide open, arms pinned in the bed sheets that he had dragged with him as he fell. Ron and Harry ran in minutes later, hearing her panicked cry, and after his fit passed, they managed to get him untangled and back into bed. Straightening his limbs, Hermione checked his vital signs with some quick diagnostic spells, and determining that he was alright, if weak, she gently covered him with the duvet and settled into the wingback chair near his bed.

"What are you doing, 'Mione?" Ron yawned. "Won't the coin thingy tell you if he falls out of bed again?"

She pulled a blanket up over her knees and crossed her arms. "It would, but it's not another seizure I'm worried about. This is the first one he's had since he took the potion, and I have no idea whether there might be other side effects as well."

"So you're going to stay with him all night, Hermione?" Harry asked. "I can stay too, I could sleep on the floor, if you need me to."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Maybe she'd been spending too much time with Severus and not enough time with Harry, but the constant adulation was starting to wear on her too. "No, thanks, Harry. I promise I'll call you if I need you though." Nodding, the two men headed back to bed.

The next morning, she awoke with a painfully stiff neck, but was relieved to see that Severus had not apparently stirred throughout the night. Checking him once again and seeing that he was sleeping soundly, she fixed herself a cup of strong tea and began yet another set of calculations. Now that they knew for certain that the potion they had prepared was only a temporary treatment and not an absolute cure, perhaps she could narrow down exactly how long it would last. By lunchtime she thought she had it figured out, but she would need to run some tests on him later to double-check her hypotheses.

Severus didn't wake up until close to dinnertime, though, and unlike past episodes when he had been fatigued but lucid, this time he was groggy, incoherent. She kept him in bed for the remainder of the night and consigned herself to another stiff neck as she settled in once more into the wingback chair. At least I had had the presence of mind to bring a good book, she smirked, given that my present company is less talkative than usual. But less than a chapter into the latest romance novel that her mother had sent her from Muggle London, he began to mumble.

Setting the book down, she went over to his bedside. He seemed feverish, moving about restlessly under the covers. This was definitely unusual, she thought. Perhaps a delayed effect of the potion, or could he have injured himself during the seizure? His vital signs had seemed fine earlier, she knew. Feeling his forehead, she realized he was quite warm, but when she turned away to fetch a glass of water from the bathroom, his hand clawed at her wrist. "No ... no, stay, please," he muttered, dark eyes wide open but not entirely seeing her. " 'M-mione, stay with me."

She froze, both at his words and at his touch. His skin, dry as paper, and – he had called her 'Mione. Had asked her to stay – why? "I'm right here, S-Severus," she whispered, and a ghost of a smile flitted across his face. Pressing her hand to his lips, he kissed it, then clutched it to his side as he fell back asleep. She sat there for the remainder of the night, uncomfortably ensconced on the edge of the bed, but absolutely unwilling to let go of his hand.

***

Two Weeks Later

***

"Alright, Severus," she said briskly, handing the man a vial. "This should do it. Bottoms up!"

Severus' upper lip curled into the semblance of a sneer, but wordlessly he swallowed the bitter brew. After his seizure, or so he had been told, he had slept for the better part of an entire day. He remembered little about the fit itself, but he did remember Hermione taking care of him. He was less than comfortable about that, if he was utterly honest with himself. He recognized that not only was he growing comfortable with her company, he was actually attracted to her, both physically and mentally. Of course nothing could ever come of such a thing, he chided himself. She was far too young, let alone his former student, and one he had hated to boot. He could only hope he had behaved properly, but she had never hinted at anything of the sort.

Once he had become fully awake, Hermione had filled him in on what had happened and shared with him her notes on possible adjustments to the potion. Once he was well enough to join her in the lab later that afternoon, they had run a few scenarios and had realized that if they changed the formula minutely, they could brew a version of the potion that would be virtually guaranteed to provide Severus with one week without seizures. Of course, that meant that he would need to take a draught once a week for the rest of his life, or until they found a cure, but it would almost certainly prevent him from having any major seizures again. By dinnertime, they had brewed the latest of the trial potions and had decided that he would try it in the morning, after one more night's rest. Two weeks had passed since he had taken the new potion, and so far, it seemed to be working.

"Would you like to rest a while before dinner, or would you like to get back to work?" Hermione asked, taking the empty vial from Severus and adding it to the collection to be cleaned.

"I see no reason to wait. Since this potion seems to be effective, I believe we could safely stockpile several months' worth. It would certainly free you to pursue ... other things," Severus said cautiously.

"What do you mean?" she asked, casting a sterilization spell on the vials so that they could be reused.

"I mean that while I appreciate your assistance these past few months, it would seem that I no longer require your help," Severus stated.

"I don't understand," she said. "I thought–"

"You thought wrong, Miss Granger," he barked, infuriated with her and with himself. "You have no need to waste your mind, your life, on these meaningless potions."

"Meaningless?" she shouted, stung at his words. "These potions save your life, and you think they're nothing but drivel?"

"I assure you, Miss Granger, you know nothing about what I think," Severus rejoindered.

"Clearly," she said, fighting back tears.

"Oi, what's going on here?" Ron and Harry trotted into the room. "What's with all the shouting?" Harry said. "Is everything alright? Hermione, why are you crying?"

"Probably because Snape here has been pardoned," Ron said with a smile. "Great news, eh?"

"Indeed, it is perfect timing," Severus said. A second later, he was gone.