Chapter Fifteen

Author's Note: Oh my gosh! I updated! And I think it was, what, less than two weeks since my last chapter? Are you impressed? I remember the days when I'd update so quickly the story hardly had time to leave the front page. Alas, those days are behind me. I'm much older *cough* or much slower in any case, and that doesn't always have to do with age. When I finished the last chapter, I went right into the next one, and before I knew it, the first half of what you will read had been written. The second half was difficult. I knew what I wanted to do, and I'm glad I finally got to do it, but I wanted it to be just right. Now, ladyinthecloak, who got a preview of this chapter, told me she was in tears, while Southern_Witch_69, who betaed out my few punctuation and typing snafus, told me it was "cute" (well, actually, she said, and I quote: cute cute ). So I leave you all to decide for yourself how the end of this chapter makes you feel.

Disclaimer: JK Rowling would never do this to her characters, so I take great pleasure in doing it in her stead.

Consciousness swirled dizzyingly around her, allowing her to grasp snippets of conversation before she slid back into the unknown. Eyelids fluttered, trying to open, to signal she was here, awake, and were rewarded with encouraging words: you’ll be okay, there’s been an accident, everything’ll be all right … The platitudes continued whenever she struggled to remain conscious, but none of the voices had anything important to say, nothing that told her what had happened or where she was. And no one at all bothered to answer the all-important question—the only one, really, that had become something of a mantra in her semi-conscious state—my baby, is my baby okay?

She tried to speak, but couldn’t find the strength to form the words. Speech didn’t seem important enough for her lungs to surrender valuable breath. She wasn’t even sure her lips moved. Silence was forced upon her; knowledge was forbidden her. Her fickle consciousness erased any divulged titbits by the next time she awoke, and she was left feeling that she should know something, but that something remained just out of reach.

Voices … She couldn’t recognize any of them; faces blurred with the voices, neither clear enough for her to distinguish who was who. And then a voice she thought she knew … An attempt to turn, to get up, only to be thwarted by a gentle force encouraging her body to relax. And then all was lost once more in the haze of confusing dreams, distant whispering voices, vague memories of being in hospital as a child. A mix of features, familiar and foreign, expressions contradicting each other, some concerned, some bright with feigned cheerfulness. It was difficult to discern her dreams from reality.

Finally—thankfully—the voices were silent, there were no more faces, no more empty assurances, and a Healer gently placed something hard and cool against her lips and told her to drink….

“Mr. Prince, you’ll have to calm down if we’re to help you,” the Welcome Witch said. The kind disposition all Welcome Witches were required to wear slipped as it was put to the test by the white-haired man towering over her, his fisted cane shaking in her face.

“I will not be dismissed, Madam … Oldridge,” he growled after peering at her badge. “Miss Granger is my business partner. She has no other family present—her parents are out of country on holiday and unreachable at the moment—so I am the sole person responsible to dictate what sort of care she gets!”

Madam Oldridge didn’t seem sufficiently impressed, and he didn’t doubt she’d been jaded from numerous dealings with patients’ irate friends and relatives on a daily basis. It was something he could, unfortunately, understand, and he suddenly felt sorry for shafting her.

“Nonetheless,” she continued, “she simply hasn’t a medical expense account set aside at Gringotts for private care. I can’t very well—”

“You seem to have misunderstood me, Madam,” he drawled in a voice much calmer than he felt. “I will be responsible for any costs incurred. Information to my Gringotts account is here.” He slapped a card onto the counter. “I expect she will have a private room, the top Healers working on her case, and the best care one could expect in an establishment such as this.”

A disdainful look emphasized his final point to the obvious vexation of the witch sitting behind the desk. His disparaging statement narrowed her eyes, and she looked about to respond in kind when her eyes scanned the card that had been unceremoniously placed in front of her. He watched in satisfaction as her impatience vanished and her attitude adjusted abruptly.

A quickly scratched note on a fluttering piece of parchment was sent off posthaste, whipping upwards, above heads and down the corridor. Severus relaxed slightly, regaining a more preferred composure, his cane now fulfilling its intended duty.

“She will be moved immediately, Mr. Prince,” Madam Oldridge informed him affably. “I’ve alerted Healer Bane, and he will be reassigned to her case as well.”

A nod of his head indicated he understood and any misunderstanding had been forgotten. His eyes darted occasionally down the corridor the note had flown, and the flesh between them pinched with concern. The best care, the best accommodations: he could only hope it was enough. He would do anything in his power for her. He should have been able to do more, to stop this from happening. He thought he had been prepared for something like this. Unfortunately, he had underestimated Draco and had got lax over the last few weeks, as it seemed Draco had believed his vengeful act had been successful. No, he should have been able to do more….

Severus had Apparated directly to the Strega Letteraria only to find the doors locked, warded, and posted with a note stating the shop would be open at one o’clock, sorry for the inconvenience. He had unlocked and unwarded the doors and strode inside to find no one there, then had gone directly up the steps to her flat, which had been taken two at a time, calling out her name. A thorough search of the flat had proved equally futile, so back down into the shop he had gone to try to determine where she could possibly be.

Riffling through a stack of papers on the front counter, his hand had inadvertently bumped against the mouse to her computer, making the screen spring to life. Little notes were pasted all over the screen in what looked like different colored pieces of paper, though when touched, he had found they were in fact part of the screen. Smirking through his panic at something that was so Hermione, he had quickly scanned jotted notes about book orders, bills due, shopping lists, and general reminders until finally his attention had lit on one in particular: Minerva, 10:00.

With no time to waste, he had run back up to Hermione’s flat to use the Floo. Before throwing in a fistful of Floo powder, it was necessary to remind himself in his panicked state that Samuel Prince mustn’t affect a familiar attitude with Minerva. Thankfully, years of practice had skilled him in subterfuge under panic. A quick call, a quick explanation, and Minerva had divulged that Hermione had planned to go to Diagon Alley, shopping for maternity clothes. Words of thanks were barely out of his mouth before he had ended the call, and then he had somehow made his way out of the shop, miraculously remembering to lock and ward as he went, unable to Disapparate quickly enough.

He had got no further than the Leaky Cauldron, where gossip had already consumed the lunch-hour crowd. Passers-through had been milling about, more than willing to talk to the patrons about the current excitement: a pregnant woman bleeding, found by Proprietress Sweeting—right behind her shop, no less!—cuts all over the poor girl’s body, there were! Oh, yes, Healers called for, but an off-duty Healer across the way had kindly tended to the bleeding girl—poor thing!—and Disapparated with her directly to St. Mungo’s.

That had been all he needed, and now he was standing before the information desk at St. Mungo’s, talking to the Welcome Witch—and apparent funds-verifier—Madam Oldridge, and awaiting news about Hermione. Inside, he was literally sick with worry, his thoughts an incoherent tangle of if-onlys and what-ifs. Outwardly, however, he affected an air of concerned business partner, willing to do anything to ensure comfort and top-rate care, revealing nothing of his inner turmoil.

Fluttering parchment and scratching quill caught his attention, and Madam Oldridge pushed a yellow slip toward him. “Her room number is on the badge, sir. Please be sure it is upon your person at all times.”

Fourth Floor, Albus Dumbledore Ward, he read with some surprise. He looked up questioningly. “I’m sorry, Madam. Where—”

Madam Oldridge conjured a ball of light no bigger than a Snitch and said, “Follow the ball. It will lead you to her room. Don’t forget, without the badge, you won’t be admitted.”

Distractedly, he touched the yellow slip to the front of his robe, where it grabbed the fabric securely. The ball of light hovered before him, shifting side to side, as though anxious to get moving, though it made no sign of doing so on its own.

Severus looked at it in consternation, waiting for it to do something, and finally said, “Well? Now would be nice.”

The ball took off with a start, zipping and zinging through the throng in the hallway, and Severus had a job keeping up as it flitted in and out and up and down, mindless of its follower’s disparate size. At least it had the decency to wait for him when it reached the lift.

Healer Bane was slow in emerging from the room. So slow, in fact, that Minerva had appeared, and no sooner had she arrived than a fit-to-burst Ginny catapulted off the lift and commenced chattering nervously about whom she had informed about Hermione’s being in hospital. She’d instantly Floo-called Molly—who was beside herself with worry and ended the call promptly to contact Arthur—had left a message for Ron, who was onsite with his Horntails and probably couldn’t be arsed to find the courage to come by for a visit anyway, and finally had got a hold of Ellie, who had promised to tell Harry at the first possible opportunity. And Alpin—poor Alpin, how could he live with such constant prattle?—had been enlisted to contact everyone else Ginny’d been unable to reach.

Mr. Prince had relegated himself to the end of the hallway, cringing while Ginny whinged, and paced. He’d rather have waited in silence—and preferably alone—but, he had to admit, Hermione would be appreciative that her friends had called on her. Thus, he remained stoic and tried to appear unaffected, aside from the path he was wearing in the floor and the occasional anxious glances he shot at the closed door of Hermione’s room.

He had shaken hands with Minerva, who’d greeted him warmly; though the way she had looked at him bordered on recognition, whether imagined or not he wasn’t sure. She had introduced him to Ginny as Hermione’s new business partner, Samuel Prince, and Ginny had congenially mentioned that Hermione had only nice things to say about him. It was a worn-out cliché, something one automatically said when acquainting oneself with a friend of a friend, but somehow, he didn’t doubt that Hermione had confided in her friend and there could be some truth in what she said. He hoped it was true anyway.

All three paused when the Healer appeared, pulling the door to Hermione’s room silently shut behind him. Mr. Prince wasted no time walking over to the two women, and they waited—he assumed both were as anxious as he was—for news. Nodding his greetings, introductions falling by the wayside in lieu of more important information, Healer Bane looked at the trio gravely.

“Miss Granger has suffered quite a bit of blood loss,” he began, “but we’ve managed to get it under control, and she seems to be taking well to the Blood-Replenishing Potion. I have no idea what sort of curse was used on her. She hasn’t been conscious or coherent long enough for us to properly ask. There were several cuts to her body: her face, her arms, legs, chest, stomach—”

Minerva’s gasp filled the corridor, Ginny sobbed, and Mr. Prince braced himself against the wall with a hand. Deep breaths staved off the nausea he felt and stabilized the dizzying spin of the corridor. Focusing on the Healer’s face and voice helped calm the overwhelming desire to push past him, burst into Hermione’s room, and rush to her side. He knew, of course, what curse it had been, and he had never thought he’d truly rue the day—as much as he did at this moment—that curse was created.

“She was very lucky,” the Healer continued. “Pregnant women, of course, seem to have an innate instinct to protect their unborn child. Most of the cuts to her abdomen were superficial. There was only one we were concerned with, but it wasn’t crucial. Her arms sustained multiple defensive wounds.”

The two women at Mr. Prince’s side began talking simultaneously at the Healer, firing questions off so quickly he couldn’t possibility get a word in edgewise. Under different circumstances, Severus might have found the doctor’s fishtailing head amusing as he looked back and forth between the two women, mouth opening and closing with unvoiced answers. As it was, he thought a well-placed Silencio was in order.

Finally, he had had enough. Mr. Prince’s cane struck the floor with such force sparks flew upward from the floor, and the corridor was once again filled with blessed silence. The calmness in his voice as he spoke contradicted the roiling insurgence in his gut.

“Please, Healer Bane. How is the baby?”

The two women looked at the Healer expectantly, and even the usually stoic, regal countenance of Mr. Prince contained a dichotomy of fear and hope.

Even the minute hesitation of the Healer folding his clipboard under one arm and pushing his glasses up his nose before speaking had a number of hexes running through Severus’s impatient mind; suspense belongs in a bloody book, not in hospital, for Merlin’s sake!

“The baby will be just fine,” he finally said, to the sudden tearful outburst of the two women and the slumped shoulders of one very weary and relieved Severus Snape.

Hermione’s eyes opened to find unfocused light coming from across the room. Had she fallen asleep on the couch again? Why were her eyes so blurry? A hand lifted heavily to rub her eyes, but ended up bumping into the side of her face and slumping off somewhere to the side. She was so tired. Exhausted was an understatement. But there was so much to do; it wouldn’t do to have a lie in today. Yet her leaden body refused to obey the command to get up—and panic set in when the next few earnest attempts proved futile as well. What in Hades was going on?

She blinked at the fuzzy rectangle of light, trying to clear her vision. It looked to be some sort of window, but no window she was familiar with; that she knew without even seeing it clearly. Her mouth peeled open, tongue unwillingly removing itself from the roof of her mouth, and she tried to call out. For water. For help. Anything.

The bustling of matronly robes at her side suddenly made her aware that she wasn’t alone, and she forced her throat to make a noise—no matter it felt as though it were about to split—a thousand questions compressed in a single “Unh?”

Flimsy plastic smelling faintly of petroleum met her lips and offered refreshingly cold water, from which she drank heartily until the cup was prematurely removed and a voice “tut-tutted” beside her head.

“Don’t drink too quickly, Miss Granger. You’ll make yourself ill. A little at a time, that’s a dear.”

The cup was offered again after a short respite, and what felt like a hand slid behind her head for support while she drank. She dutifully took small sips until her mouth no longer wanted to stick together, her throat felt more lubricated, and she felt as though she might be able to speak.

“Where … am I?” she was able to whisper with some difficulty. “What—?”

A voice belonging to a small but round silhouette, which partially occluded the fuzzy window-light, interrupted her questions, gently saying, “You’re in St. Mungo’s, Miss Granger. Do you remember what happened?”

St. Mungo’s? She had no memory of getting there or even why she was there. But something was definitely wrong. She couldn’t move, could barely see much less speak, and … oh, gods. The baby.

She felt the tears forming at the corners of her eyes and begin to slide down the sides of her face. She had trouble forming the words. She wanted so desperately to put her hands on her stomach, to feel what she hoped was still the rounded bump of her belly—even though, gods, what if nothing was there, what if…?—but her arms flopped uselessly at her sides.

“My baby…?” her voice croaked, choked with tears and hoarseness of throat.

A comforting hand rested upon one of her shoulders—too comforting, the panicky voice in her head suggested—and the tears now fell in earnest. The touch was so sympathetic, so gentle, as if coming from one who was soothing a great loss….

The woman hushed her and allayed her quickly mounting fears by saying, “Your baby is just fine, Miss Granger, just fine. She wasn’t hurt at all. Quite lucky, the little mite. You just relax. Get your strength up. The waiting area is full of people who will be happy you’ve finally woken up.”

Relief flooded through every limb of her body, weakening her even more if that were even possible, and with arms still unwilling to move, she concentrated on feeling the baby inside, caressing it with her thoughts. Everything will be okay, little one. Hush, we’ll be okay. The woman let her drink a little more and continued to chatter in her ear.

“Have patience. It’ll take some time before you are strong enough to move. You had severe injuries, mostly to your arms, some to your legs, chest and stomach, a couple to your face—we administered a regenerative potion to your eyes since he cut one of the tendons quite close, so things’ll be a bit hazy for a while. You’ve been given a nerve regeneration potion as well as a lot of Blood-Replenishing Potion, and those will take a bit of time to work properly. And don’t you worry, none of that will hurt the baby. She’s been monitored since you arrived, and none of the cuts penetrated your womb or cut off critical blood supply.”

The woman’s voice faded into the background as memories began to resurface: Diagon Alley, shopping for maternity clothes, the crowd, being pulled between shops by Draco, struggling… “I am going to teach you, and your gallant business partner, a lesson once and for all. Do you hear me, Mudblood? And when I’m through with you, your life will be as empty and useless as my father’s.”

“He … he cut me?” Hermione asked shakily.

“Several times, dear. We counted forty-two slashes. Most weren’t very deep, but some … some were quite serious. If the shopkeeper hadn’t noticed you immediately like she had, you might not be with us now.”

A shopkeeper? She didn’t remember that. But … oh! Her shop! She had to—gods, she had to contact Severus, tell him to—

Suddenly, nothing mattered but Severus. She just wanted Severus.

“Who’s here?” she asked, hoping Severus would be waiting for her. Maybe he didn’t know. No one knew how to contact him.

“At last count, let’s see …” the woman paused, mumbling, “there’s a Professor McGonagall; Ginny—she’s very pregnant, that one—surprised she didn’t begin her labor, so upset she is; your business partner—Prince, I think his name was? Oh, yes, a Mrs Weasley—she’s so nice; she wanted me to tell you she has all your purchases safe at the Burrow. A middle-aged couple; their last name is Granger like yours, but for the life of me I cannot remember their first names—they’re Muggles by the looks of them. And some boy who looks incredibly familiar just arrived before I came in: tall, nice build, messy hair, glasses?”

Harry. She wanted to groan. Not only that, but her parents too? She suddenly wanted to hide, wanted all of them to go away. Well … all but one.

“Can I see Se—Mr. Prince?” she asked. “Just … just Samuel Prince.”

She felt the woman arranging her bedclothes and tidying bits of her hair, tucking the unruly parts behind her ear and under her head. “Of course, dear. Just Mr. Prince. He seems quite concerned. Has been pacing for gods know how long, even after the Healer told them you’d be all right, waiting for you to wake up so he could see you. Hardly speaks to anyone except to ask if you’ve awoken yet.”

Hermione smiled, and the woman encouraged it. “That’s it, dear. You look right pretty when you smile. And you’re all nice and tidy, so don’t you fret about how you look for your Mr. Prince.”

She felt the blush rise in her cheeks. Was it that obvious how she felt about Severus? And, oh dear, it suddenly occurred to her that if that were the case, the woman probably believed her baby to be Snape’s—well, Mr. Prince’s—child. Well, no matter. It looked as though she would be forced to have everything out today, and no more lies would have to be told.

“If you need anything, I’ll be here the rest of the day and most of the night. Just call for Matron Bonham, dear.” The portly silhouette moved off in the direction of the wall opposite the window, skirts bustling in her wake. When the noise from the hallway reached her ears through the open door, Hermione called out.

“Wait!” she said as loud as she could manage.

Matron Bonham paused and asked from the doorway, “What is it, dear?”

“Did you say ‘she’?”

The woman chuckled. “Yes, dear. It’s a girl.”

When Severus entered the room, she felt as though her face was glowing. Her entire body was vibrating with the news. Just three little words, “It’s a girl,” made every other difficulty she had endured and would have yet to endure today seem so far away. The telltale sound of Severus’ cane in counterpoint to solid steps had her head turning in the direction Matron Bonham had exited only a minute earlier.

“Well, you look a lot better than I expected,” he said gently. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re here,” she whispered. “Because … because it’s a girl, and she’s okay, and you’re here now so everything will be all right….”

Something clattered to the floor, and she felt the bed depress as he sat on it and his arms gather around her gently. He remained that way for some time, his face buried into her shoulder and his breath soft and pulsing in short, semi-controlled gasps. She tried to wrap her arms around him, to comfort him, as she could feel how upset he was, but she was too weak. Slight disappointment followed as he laid her back down carefully, and she felt his fingers smooth away locks of hair and then caress the side of her face.

“Gods, Hermione, I was so scared,” he half-whispered. His voice wavered, and she regretted not being able to see his face. “I received an owl from Draco. He threatened … he suggested that if I wasn’t so occupied with you perhaps I’d have the time to finish his potions. I Apparated to the shop, searched your flat, finally found a note that you’d gone to see Minerva, so I Floo-called her, and she said you’d gone to Diagon Alley, but by the time I got there, people were already speaking of the attack in Tom’s pub.” He took a deep breath as though he hadn’t taken one since he’d received Draco’s owl. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. Oh, gods, I’m so sorry. I should have been there. I should have been able to stop him. I’m so sorry.”

She did the only thing she could to comfort him, to let him know it was all right, and her cheek leaned into his caressing hand as she shushed him with comforting words. “No. No, Severus. Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault. You can’t possibly be with me all the time. You can’t possibly protect me from every nutter who’s out to do me harm. I don’t blame you. Really, I don’t.”

“But I tried, Hermione. I tried everything I could to make sure you were safe. I should have gone with you to Diagon Alley—”

“I should have let you know I was going, and I didn’t, so I’m at fault more than you,” she countered before he could finish.

“No. I should have—it’s my duty to make sure you’re all right. You are going to have a baby,” he said, placing his other hand on her stomach to emphasize his point and allowing her to finally feel that her child was still there, “and you have no one to take care of you. I want to take care of you. I—”

“Severus,” she said in a quiet voice, but one that brooked no argument, “listen to me.” With a great effort, she struggled to move her hand towards the one he’d laid upon her belly. She felt him reach for her and grasp her hand, pulling it together with his to rest on the swell of her stomach.

“Everything you’ve done for me … I’m so grateful. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I don’t know where I’d be right now without you. Probably homeless and begging for Knuts on the steps of Gringotts.” She chuckled, but then grew serious. “You saved me from Draco once. We thought it was over. Maybe we got a little overconfident. Maybe we underestimated him. He blindsided us—me. But just because you happened not to be there that one time does not mean you failed. It doesn’t mean I think any less of you. It doesn’t mean I think you don’t care.”

Severus pulled her hand upward until she felt his lips brush the back of it, felt them linger longingly on her knuckles, and sighed. “I more than care for you, Hermione Granger. I don’t know what I’d do without you. My life—well, it was practically nothing without you in it. I don’t want to go back to nothing. You give everything I do a purpose. And I … I nearly lost you today.” His voice dwindled to a whisper at the confession that sounded as though it were a recent realization. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Her throat swelled with impending tears. His voice telling her these words: it was a heady feeling. She was extremely glad at this moment that she couldn’t see his face clearly because this way it was Severus Snape saying these things to her, not Samuel Prince.

“Severus,” she choked out, trying hard not to cry, “I don’t want to lose you either.”

A loud, unsteady exhale revealed he had been holding his breath, as though waiting in suspense for her response. She felt movement beside her, heard him mutter “Finite Inflecta Vox Vocis,” and watched the blurry shape of his body loom larger until she felt the tip of his nose graze hers and felt his breath against her mouth.

“Hermione Granger,” he breathed in a voice that was all Severus Snape, free of glamour, “I love you.”

His lips descended, touching, sliding against hers gently. A soft, slow, languorous kiss that spoke more than could be fully conveyed with a simple ‘I love you.’

When he pulled back, she sighed in pure happiness and knew she was grinning like a fool. Still holding her hand captive, Severus placed kisses on each knuckle. She savored every one and wished she were strong enough to return those kisses. Instead, she was relegated to just lying back, enjoying the attention, and basking in her newfound happiness.

“Why are you smiling?” he murmured against the back of her hand.

Sighing, she said, “Because you’re here. Because right now, despite everything, I am so incredibly happy. And because … I love you, Severus Snape.”

Finite Inflecta Vox Vocis: End warped voice