Three

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of J.K. Rowling. I intend no infringement and am making no profit.

***

Though Severus was powerless to respond to the girl's distressed murmuring, he was able to sense even the slightest shift in her behavior. Pain, heat, cold, pressure...such sensations escaped him, the nerves in the rest of his body having long since fallen under the insidious control of the poison.

His mind, however, remained honed; he could hear her speaking, and his body's traitorous refusal to respond to her ministrations made him furious. He could not muster sufficient control over his muscles to open his eyelids. He could not shift his head or arms, nor could he so much as twitch his lips. His swallowing and breathing were involuntary, as were the few bodily reactions that kept toxins other than the poison from overloading his system.

It was his own fault, of course, but he was enraged nonetheless. He was an unwilling prisoner of the potion, condemned to spend the remainder of his ignominious existence surrounded by stale hospital sheets and medical apparatus to empty his bladder and bowels. It was a hell more overwhelming than even he, at his masochistic best, had ever been capable of imagining.

His extremities were completely beyond his ability to sense. His brain, desperate to counteract the effects of the poison, had sequestered itself. He could think, too, of course. It would have pained the many skeptical Healers at St. Mungo's to find that after three years of pacing about his room, expounding at great length the hopelessness of his case and the certain failure of his mind to register the outside world, they had only succeeded in infuriating him. He could hear every word, and he had no choice but to endure lecture after lecture, one disheartening explanation after another.

It was ironic that after nearly two decades of diatribes about the potential for potions accidents to cause harm to others, his first abominable failure as a Potions master had hurt only himself.

For three years he'd longed for the potion to live up to its intent, destroying both his mind and body swiftly and systematically. Instead, his brain...the one organ he'd desired to have rendered useless from the very beginning...remained miraculously and inexplicably intact, currently providing him with the unbearable knowledge that he was in the home of Miss Hermione Granger.

Voldemort's torture tactics sudden seemed infinitely preferable.

***

To Hermione's astonishment, it took a full two days for Ron to get wind of what she'd done. She spent the entirety of Saturday alternately massaging and examining Snape's body, determined to improve its condition, and researching whether she could successfully blend a highly caloric nourishing potion with his usual regimen.

Consulting Horace Slughorn was ultimately her largest mistake. At three o'clock on Saturday, she surmised that despite hours of research, she would never be comfortable altering his medicinal schedule without first seeking the approval of a certified Potions master. As a Healer she knew that a nourishing potion would not adversely affect his body in its current condition. Frankly, she had doubts that it would make the slightest bit of difference...it was entirely possible that the poison he'd ingested would prevent any such recuperation.

She felt she absolutely had to try, however, and thus she contacted Professor McGonagall by Floo at five past three that afternoon.

"Hermione!" McGonagall exclaimed, surprised. "It's wonderful to see you, my dear. What can I do for you?"

"Actually, Headmistress, I was hoping I could speak with Professor Slughorn." She leaned slightly into the flames, the improved view illuminating the Headmistress' office and startled expression of McGonagall herself. "I've rather reached an impasse regarding one of my current patients, and I can't proceed until I've verified with a Potions master that..."

"Is this about Severus Snape?" the Headmistress interrupted sharply. Hermione drew back.

"Yes, ma'am, and I really need to verify with Professor Slughorn that..."

"Well, come through, girl, come through!" McGonagall commanded sternly, beckoning her forward with a short wave of her slim hand. "I can't very well Floo Horace until you've vacated my fireplace!"

With an obedient bounce, Hermione jumped through the fireplace and landed in the Headmistress' office, compulsively brushing the ash off her robes and looking around. The room, lined richly with tapestries and portraits, seemed far too lush for the prim and strict Transfiguration professor.

McGonagall, in the meantime, had snatched up a small handful of Floo powder and promptly Flooed the Potions professor, whose fleshy face appeared in the fireplace grill.

"Minerva!" he greeted her warmly in a booming voice. "What can I do for you? My, is that Miss Granger with you?"

"Healer Granger, Horace," McGonagall corrected him automatically, "and she is here in a professional capacity. She would like to ask you a question about one of her current patients."

"Sure, sure," Slughorn boomed, stepping through the Floo and into the room. He was as immense and eccentric as Hermione recalled, his enormous belly reaching out to greet her long before his hand managed to shoot out and shake hers. "Wonderful to see you, my dear, wonderful indeed! I understand you've just been promoted. Working directly below Edwina Vickers now, aren't you?"

"Yes, Professor," she replied, wringing her hands lightly. She'd anticipated the need to slog through a bit of small talk before he finally answered her questions, but she abhorred the thought of being away from Snape for long. He was due to have his daily potion at four o'clock, and she didn't want to chance the effects of administering it even a minute later.

"I had quite a few classes with Edwina myself when I was in school. Brilliant woman. You know, I believe you might also be acquainted with..."

"Horace, Healer Granger has a patient waiting," McGonagall intervened softly, a surprisingly neutral tone for the stiff Headmistress.

"Well, go ahead, my dear. What can I do for you?"

"Professor," she began slowly, "I'm currently overseeing a patient who has been in a coma for some time. He's on an infusion of Invigorating Draft and Blood Replenisher, and it's keeping him alive successfully, but it hasn't done much to restore hydration or muscle tone. I'm concerned that..."

Slughorn's bushy mustache twitched suddenly. "Are you talking about Severus Snape, then?" he exclaimed. "I suspected as much! I told you it was true, didn't I, Minerva?"

Hermione trailed off and turned inquiringly to McGonagall, whose lips were pursed in disapproval. Sensing that no explanation would be forthcoming, she turned back to the Potions professor, who was more than happy to indulge her.

"I have a good friend who brews potions for St. Mungo's who told me you'd petitioned to care for him," he explained, growing more vociferous as he went on. " 'What a splendid idea!' I said. 'Why, if anyone can cure him, it will be that girl. Such a smart one. Best in her year!' "

Hermione sensed an oncoming blush spreading across her cheeks, but she wasn't sure if it was due to embarrassment or frustration. "Thank you, Professor. That was very kind of you. Yes, I've agreed to take care of Professor Snape. Whether or not a cure can be found, I'm afraid I can't say at this time."

He clapped her comfortingly on the shoulder. "I have faith that you'll figure it out, my dear girl. After all, if your friend Harry can survive the Killing Curse, there's nothing out there can't be overcome, eh?"

Having never considered Snape's predicament from this perspective, Hermione felt oddly heartened. "I certainly hope so, Professor. In any case, I was wondering if you could suggest a nourishment potion that wouldn't react adversely with the other two. I'm positive that if administered by itself, any number of potions wouldn't cause any shock to his tissues, but I didn't want to overlook the possibility that the mixture may cause him harm."

Nodding thoughtfully, Slughorn stroked at his mustache, belly heaving as he sighed in thought. "Well, I think I may have just the thing for you," he said suddenly, shaking a finger in emphasis. "Not the strongest of potions, mind, but then it certainly won't counteract the Invigorating Draft or Blood Replenisher. I'll fetch it for you, shall I?"

"Yes, sir," she exclaimed, immediately reverting to student mode. "I would appreciate that very much."

Slughorn disappeared back through the fireplace, leaving Hermione to chat idly with McGonagall. She seemed pleased that Hermione had agreed to look after Snape and care for him, but like every Healer who'd given his or her opinion on the matter, she openly expressed doubt that anything could ultimately be done to save him.

"It's such a terrible pity," she concluded at precisely the moment Slughorn reappeared through the Floo. "He was such a brilliant man. That poison sounds diabolical enough to have been his own invention."

Hermione nodded absently, herself convinced that if anyone else were afflicted by the poison, Snape would have been one of the few Potions masters capable of discovering the antidote. She could make an amateur attempt, of course, but as a Healer, her ability to brew advanced potions was only moderately more developed than any other Hogwarts graduate.

Slughorn presented her with an enormous jar of what he explained was an especially light nourishing potion generally used to improve the growth rate of prematurely delivered babies. Intrigued, Hermione peered at the liquid, a light rose in color.

"And it doesn't contain anything that will counteract the other two?" she repeated for what felt like the seventeen thousandth time, unwilling to take the chance of putting his life in further jeopardy.

"Not at all," Slughorn assured her, patting at his stomach in satisfaction. "It won't work quickly, of course, not on a body of his size, but with any luck, you'll see some improvement in a couple weeks."

Hermione was almost tempted...almost...to hug her former teacher. She wished both Slughorn and McGonagall a good day and returned to her flat, anxious to examine the potion herself before administering it to Snape in half an hour's time.

***

Ron, as she later found out, had heard from Harry, who'd heard from Remus Lupin, who had been reinstated as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, about Hermione's kind actions toward her former teacher. At six o'clock on Sunday evening, Hermione was reclining in one of her threadbare living room chairs, poring over a variety of potions texts she'd borrowed from St. Mungo's medical library. She was exuberantly researching potions known to result in coma or coma-like symptoms, determined to prove Slughorn's faith in her had not been in vain, when Ron burst through her fireplace.

"Hello," she began, halting when she noted the look of apoplectic rage on his face. Ron leaned over, shoving his nose practically into contact with hers.

"What were you thinking?" he shouted, and she pushed back against the uncomfortable chair, seeking to avoid the spit flying from his mouth.

"Ron, calm down," she sighed, absently marking the page in her text and setting it aside. "Do you want a cup of tea? Sit down, at least."

Ron apparently would consent to do no such thing. He began to pace in front of her, and Hermione wondered just how insensitive it would be to inform him that he was grossly overreacting to the presence of a man who was no longer cognizant of the fact that he existed.

"How could you bring him here?" he cried, glowering in the direction of the guest bedroom. "Where is he? In there? Lupin overheard Slughorn telling everyone about what you're doing. Where is he?"

"In the guest room," she snapped. "Where else?"

"I don't want to live in the same place as him, Hermione." He looked down at her, his expression still thunderous. His ocher jumper and flaming red hair lent him a fiery appearance that only served to make his ranting seem all the more unnecessary and absurd.

"I wouldn't call his current state of existence living," she replied dryly. "He won't infringe on your life. I can promise you that."

Calming somewhat, Ron ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I just... How do you think it looks to other people when the girl I'm going to marry starts taking care of Snape? He killed Dumbledore!"

"Our entire world is aware of that fact, Ron. They're also aware that Dumbledore himself established that there were extenuating circumstances." She rose to her feet, suddenly too worn down to want him around. She wished he would leave immediately, dragging his juvenile grudges with him. "When are you going to let that go? Harry's got over it."

"Harry had the pleasure of killing V...Him," Ron shot back irrelevantly.

"And that's supposed to excuse the fact that you can't get over some childish dislike you had for him in school?" He followed her into the kitchen where she poured herself a glass of milk. "Besides which, you said it yourself: Harry killed Voldemort, and it was Voldemort who was ultimately responsible for all the deaths we've suffered. Not Snape," she added firmly, taking a sip.

Ron remained silent, his lanky form leaning against her counter.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked solicitously. He shook his head, shaggy red hair flapping with the movement.

"I've got to get back home. I promised Mum I'd be there for supper."

She nodded, staring at the scuffed surface of her refrigerator. It had been nearly a month since he'd stayed over, always opting instead to return to The Burrow to be with his family. She couldn't blame him, really...the stress of arguing over the wedding plans had put a damper on any desires either of them had...but it hurt nevertheless.

As he turned to leave, Hermione concluded miserably that she was actually relieved to see the back of him. She would have spent a miserable fifteen minutes going through the motions even if he had wanted her that evening.

"Ron," she began haltingly, and he turned to regard her again. "Are you... Are you having any... second thoughts about the wedding?"

His features grew stony again. "No," he said with a steely undertone. "Are you? Is that why you're always so distant lately?"

The suspicion in his eyes cut deeply, and she found herself once again dissembling to keep from having to admit to him the truth, much as it pained her. "No, it's just that it's been ridiculously busy at work. Summer holidays and all that."

Confusion and disbelief flashed in his gaze, and she wished, not for the first time, that she could escape the memory of all the times those icy blue eyes had pinned her in one lie or another. "I'm sorry," she added in an afterthought. "I was just worried."

"There's something you're not telling me, Hermione." He crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively, but his features, at least, had softened a bit. "I'm not trying to bully you, you know. I just... I get so frustrated with you sometimes."

"I know."

"You spend all your time at work, and on the few occasions when you're not at work, you're holed up in here working on something else," he barreled on, ignoring the fact that she'd already acknowledged his irritation. "My family are starting to wonder what kind of marriage this is going to be, with you always hiding out here. It wouldn't kill you to come to dinner and see Mum and Dad once in awhile."

She felt guilty tears pricking at her eyes. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'll try to make time for that." She realized she was still clutching at the glass of milk and put it quickly onto the counter. "What about next weekend? Everyone usually gets together for Sunday supper, right?"

His white-knuckled grip on his arms relaxed, and both of them fell to his sides once again. "Yes," he replied. "And Harry and Ginny will be there next week. Will you show up?"

She nodded immediately, ignoring the alarm bells sounding in the back of her mind. Showing up at The Burrow after several months' absence would be tantamount to a torture session at the hands of the most sadistic of Death Eaters. Molly Weasley would flay her alive for having virtually ignored her son all these weeks.

"Good. You promise?"

"I'll be there," she insisted, rather too vehemently. Ron's eyes flashed again, but he simply nodded.

"All right. I'll see you next week."

He approached her slowly, hesitantly, and they shared a brief and wholly unemotional peck on the lips. The awkwardness strung between them caused Hermione's eyes to water further. She was immensely relieved when he finally disappeared through the door.

After seeing him out, she turned on her heel and immediately headed for the guest bedroom, desperately endeavoring to take her mind off their painful conversation. By the time she was bent over Snape, nervously examining his coloring for any signs of improvement, her eyes had welled to overflowing. One small sniff sent a thick tear streaming down her face, and it promptly plopped onto Snape's nose.

She swore softly and reached for a tissue. "I'm sorry," she murmured immediately, wiping the drop of moisture from his nose. "I shouldn't be looking after you in this condition. Stupid of me."

The utter silence emanating from his wasted frame somehow comforted her.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she continued in a lost tone, hunkered down beside the bed. She continued to trail on as she ran her fingers lightly and skillfully over his legs and arms, feeling the condition of the muscle beneath the skin. "I should be focusing on you, and I'm sitting here crying about myself."

Two years previously her ornery half-Kneazle, Crookshanks, had passed on, and Hermione had missed him sorely since that time. She'd never been ashamed to admit openly to others that she was one of those people who consulted her cat during times of confusion and melancholy, but having an actual person before her was more emboldening yet.

"I can't marry him when everything between us feels so off." She pulled out her wand and cast a diagnostic spell over his chest, the results just as depressing as the previous day's. "It was great before, when everything was casual. He didn't expect an 'I love you' and a renewed commitment every time we saw one another."

She set his right arm back on the bed, running her fingertip over the sunken curve of his bicep. Looking at Snape's body, she felt an odd combination of confusion and interest. She'd never known what he looked like underneath the voluminous black robes he'd worn at Hogwarts, and thus she had no means of knowing what was normal for him. She wanted terribly to restore some vitality and muscle to his form, to provide some hope that perhaps he would awaken from his extended unconsciousness. If he did so suddenly, it would likely require months of grueling physical therapy and chemical supplementation for his body to regain its strength and ability to move smoothly.

A smile quirking at her lips, she turned her attention to his legs. The sores had healed on the white skin, and only a light dusting of black hair remained on the stringy muscle. She massaged at his right calf gently, remembering how silently he'd stalked about Hogwarts. Undoubtedly his enormous boots had helped in that venture, but he'd possessed a particular grace that was entirely and inimitably his own...and oddly appealing, at that.

"You can't give up yet, you know," she whispered, moving on to his left calf. "I think we can get your muscles back into shape, but something has got to be done about your organs." She cringed, recalling the bloody red of the diagnostic spell. "I don't know how to cure that," she concluded, helplessness flushing over her. Determined not to cry any more in front of her old Potions teacher...unresponsive though he may have been...Hermione retired to her bathroom to draw herself a hot bath.