Four

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

***

Upon arriving to work the following morning, Hermione sent a hasty message to Susan requesting that the two meet for lunch. She needed the advice of someone who would listen carefully without making rash judgments, and as far as she was concerned, Susan was precisely the woman to turn to.

When noon rolled around she hurried up to the tearoom, discovering that Susan had already found them a table and made herself comfortable. Hermione slid into the chair opposite her with such excitement that she nearly toppled over.

Susan coughed slightly on her drink. "What's the matter with you?" she asked.

Glancing around, wondering whether she was being absurdly paranoid, Hermione folded her hands before her and took a deep breath. "I need your advice," she began, "but before I tell you what happened, you have to promise me that you won't deem me crazy for what I'm thinking of doing."

Susan looked perplexed. "Okay," she agreed slowly. "What?"

"Friday night I gave Snape a full physical exam...trying to figure out if there were any injuries Cuthbert missed and all that. Well, I found a few and healed them, but then I discovered something really bizarre."

One red eyebrow quirked upward. "This isn't something that's going to make me lose my appetite, is it?" Susan demanded in a half-teasing tone.

Genuinely confused, Hermione cocked her head. "Pardon?"

"Snape. I don't want to hear anything... personal about Snape."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I didn't come here to gossip with you. This is serious...I think he may be conscious of what's going on around him."

Susan's spoon clattered to the tabletop, causing the other patrons to swivel and stare momentarily. "Are you sure?" she whispered. "How do you know?"

"I performed a basic diagnostic spell that projects a color spectrum. Depending on the color and intensity projected, it indicates the health of the tissues. According to the spell...and I did it at least five times...his head is healthy, but the rest of his body is very nearly dead."

Susan sat back in her chair, crossing her arms thoughtfully. "You're going to have to humor me and start from the beginning," she admitted, sipping at her tea. "I don't understand how it's possible that he's still alive at all."

Mentally quashing her anxieties, Hermione took a quick glance at the nearest clock. They had forty-five minutes remaining, plenty of time for her to bring Susan up to speed. She would have to reveal the full extent of the situation before chancing to ask for her assistance in what promised to be a wholly illicit and rather foolish plot.

"All right," she began. "No one's been able to determine much about the poison he ingested, but here's what we've got so far: sometime during the summer after our sixth year, he was force-fed a very volatile and so far unidentified poison, one that appears to operate by leaching magical force from his body. If it had been fed to a Muggle, it probably wouldn't have made an ounce of difference...but our magic is integrated into our bodies, so it began to rapidly kill him.

"As far as we can tell, either something went wrong in the process of executing the potion's original intention, or its original intention was to render the victim comatose. When they first brought him in, it was assumed that he'd been dosed with the Draught of Living Death, but he never responded to any of the typical treatments."

"So it looks like he's taken it, but his body isn't coming out of it when you administer the antidote?" Susan surmised.

"Correct. I haven't administered it to him personally, but I read in his file that they've tried dozens of times before. They even had the hospital's top Potions master studying him for awhile, trying to determine what alterations might have been made in order to cause the potion to counteract the antidote. No one knows exactly what's wrong with him.

"My understanding is that it's been assumed all along the potion is working very slowly, and he'll eventually die from it. Again, since we don't know precisely what it is and what its intended effects are, we can't say for certain as to whether it will ever kill him or if this is the desired end result."

"How is he staying alive then?" Susan asked, still confused. "If his body is all but shut down, how is he managing to survive?"

"Just barely," Hermione admitted, her throat clenching at the recollection of his wasted, colorless face. "He's on a mixture of Invigoration Draught to provide the bare minimum of calories and nutrients necessary to keep his body alive, but he's basically wasted away to nothing. They've been giving him a Blood Replenishing Potion after they discovered that the poison appears to degrade the blood over time, and it seems to have helped with his condition, but only minimally.

"I spoke with Slughorn on Saturday, and he gave me a potion that should increase the caloric value of the entire mixture," she finished with a sigh, leaning back against her own chair. Her stomach rumbled, but she knew she would be unable to concentrate on any food. "I'm hoping it will put some muscle back on him."

"Why are you so concerned about whether or not he's strong if it's not likely he'll wake up?" Susan bit into her sandwich, chewing pensively. "Or are you certain now that there is a way to wake him up, if that spell indicates that his head's healthy?"

Hermione bit her lip. "That's just it...there's no known spell that can actually measure brain activity. If I could prove that there's a sufficient amount of brain activity, then there's the possibility...however slim...that he will naturally recover from it. Perhaps there's nothing we can do, other than wait."

"But you don't know how to measure this?"

Susan seemed to flinch slightly and lean backward when confronted with what Hermione suspected was probably a rather manic gleam in her eyes. After two years of reasonably close acquaintance with the Hufflepuff, Hermione had reached the conclusion that she was profoundly unhappy to even consider breaking any rules.

Hermione, fortunately, was a seasoned expert. Seven years of schooling with Harry and Ron had taught her that perhaps some rules were meant to be bent.

"There is a way," she began, feeling the grin spread across her features. Susan put down the remainder of her sandwich and wiped at her lips with her napkin.

"I don't think I'm going to like this."

***

Interspersing bouts of potions research with her chores for the remainder of the workday, Hermione succeeded in determining that no one, as far as the hospital's library was concerned, had ever successfully altered the properties of the Draught of Living Death. There were methods to improve and expedite its creation, of course...Harry's damnable Potions book in sixth year had proven that.

Still she couldn't fight back the inkling that they were overlooking something. After all, if Snape...the Half-Blood Prince himself...could modify the execution of the brewing steps while a student at Hogwarts, there really was no conceivable restriction on his brilliance as a potion maker. They had no way of speculating whether he had or hadn't managed to make some kind of modification to the Draught. Perhaps, when it came down to it, McGonagall was correct: the ingenuity of the potion itself ought to be their first and only necessary indication as to the identity of its brewer.

And if that was the case, she stood no chance whatsoever. Hermione was an excellent potion brewer, and she excelled in the comprehension of any kind of magical theory, but she knew her limitations; she could not possibly unravel anything Severus Snape had created.

At ten past six she slipped past Healer Vickers' office, desperately wanting to escape for the day. She'd dealt with the last of her patients and had managed to do a bit of detective work in addition. Jogging lightly through the hallways, she made her way to the ground floor and ducked past the Welcome Witch, hurrying through a large wooden door marked STAFF ONLY.

When she'd first arrived at the hospital to begin her apprenticeship, Hermione had been given the token tour, walking alongside her fellow students through the various areas of the hospital. She had wondered then, as she still did now, whether potion makers in all companies and disciplines were always relegated to the cold, dank basement areas. St. Mungo's Potions masters, an elite and highly unsocial group of witches and wizards, seemed to prefer to exist in this manner, however.

According to several dusty files pertaining to Snape's initial examination and diagnosis, the Potions master who had been assigned to make a determination about the poison he'd ingested had worked closely with Cuthbert over the course of Snape's first six months in the hospital. Hermione could still vividly recall the overwhelming sense of hopelessness and melancholy that had set in during her seventh year. At Hogwarts discussions were centered around those students who had lost family members and close friends; at The Burrow, they'd been given the gruesome details of Snape's condition.

Hermione still felt that she had been the only one truly concerned about his welfare. Harry and Ron, while their desires certainly were not malevolent, felt no anxiety on their former teacher's behalf. The Weasleys on the whole did not concern themselves with his progress...or lack thereof...and before long, Tonks had taken to consulting with a friend at the hospital and sending Hermione short missives every few weeks, knowing how she worried about him.

It surprised her that no one had ever considered it odd that his continual decline had left her wracked with worry. Molly Weasley had been the one to spark her interest in his case as they shopped for their school books a week before seventh year began. She'd found Hermione grabbing the textbook for N.E.W.T.-level Potions and had released something akin to a sigh.

"It's such a shame about Professor Snape," she remarked, shaking her head slowly. Hermione had noticed out of the corner of her eye that the older woman gave a short nod in the direction of the uppermost shelf, which was covered in a thick layer of grime and contained books so dirty their titles were rendered illegible.

"Such a brilliant man." Mrs. Weasley had then wandered off to rejoin her children, and Hermione had grabbed the nearest step stool and taken a look for herself.

Her recollection of the small, leather-bound book containing Snape's earliest work was brought to an abrupt halt when she found herself standing before the Potions masters' break room, staring resolutely at the door. Shaking her head firmly, Hermione lifted her hand and rapped four times.

A short, skinny man with squirrelly eyes opened the door, peering at her with a look of blatant irritation. "What?" he barked, nearly upsetting her balance.

"Hello. I'm sorry to interrupt you. My name is Hermione Granger; I'm a Healer on the third floor."

"Is this about that last batch of Deflating Draught? I told them three hours ago I'd brew another."

"No, no," she assured him hastily, lifting the yellowed file of parchment in her hand. "I was actually hoping to speak with...ah...an Albert Brauer. Several years ago he helped to treat a patient of mine."

"He's in the last lab. Fifth door on the left."

The scrawny man slammed the door in her face, leaving Hermione feeling disoriented and more than a little annoyed. Making her way to the end of the hall, she knocked again, praying that Brauer turned out to be a great deal better-tempered than his colleague.

Upon hearing a thick German accent shout out, "Enter," she opened the door tentatively and stepped inside. It was a clean, well-kept room, its lighting much better than the laboratory rooms at Hogwarts. A graying man in his early seventies was attending to a bubbling cauldron in the corner.

"Hello," she began again, anticipating an equally hostile reaction. Potions masters were not renowned for their conversational skills regardless their place of employment. "My name is Hermione Granger. I'm a Healer on the third floor..."

"Well, come in, Healer Granger." The man waved a hand beckoning her forward, not turning his back or removing his attention from the potion before him. A moment later he murmured a stasis charm and pocketed his wand, turning to meet her. He seemed pleasant enough, she decided: tall, slim, with a very dignified air and an intelligent curve to his brow. He proffered his hand and she shook it, wondering if he was Muggle-born.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, and she held up the file.

"I understand that you offered your expertise when a patient of mine was first admitted to the hospital three years ago, a Severus Snape."

Brauer's hairy eyebrows raised. "Yes, I did. Unfortunate man."

"Is there anything you can tell me about the initial examination performed on Mr. Snape? I understand the poison he'd been dosed with was impossible to identify, but is there anything you recall about the Healer who was put in charge, Amory Cuthbert?"

He frowned. "Well, that was a few years ago now, and my memory's not what it used to be, miss. Can you be more specific? What in particular would I recall?"

Hermione decided to dispense with the strict professionalism and be honest with him. "Well, I'm having difficulty charting Mr. Snape's health history. In particular, I need to know if a diagnostic spell was ever performed that assesses tissue health. It causes a glow of color...an aura, if you will...to surround the body."

Brauer suddenly nodded forcefully. "Yes, yes. I remember that, all right...passed a wand over his body, and he started glowing thick, deep red. So red it was almost black." His eyes seemed to fog over momentarily as he became immersed in his memories. "I've never seen a man who looked more ill. They were convinced he would die that night."

"Can you recall if there was any difference in the color spectrum over his body? Was it all the same color over each body part?" She was becoming too excited by the ramifications of what he'd suggested. "Were there different colors for his limbs, torso, head?"

"No, no, it was all the same...that horrible deep red. Why do you ask?"

Triumph fluttering in her stomach, Hermione offered the confused Potions master a brilliant smile. "Nothing in particular, sir. I just needed to clarify what was written in the report. You've been a great help...thank you so much."

"You're welcome." He looked at her oddly for a moment as she turned and dashed out of the room.

***

Dedicated book aficionado that she was, Hermione had set about organizing her books the moment she'd moved into her flat. Fiction and other works read predominantly for pleasure were located in a large oak bookshelf in her living room; the many professional journals with which she kept abreast of news and developments were stacked neatly in the vicinity of her desk; and the elevated shelf on the back of her guest bedroom contained old textbooks and other volumes of an academic nature.

In retrospect, she'd been fortunate that Molly Weasley hadn't turned around that afternoon in Flourish & Blotts to find her happily devouring the small black volume that contained a series of Snape's published articles, including his Master's-level paper that had earned him the certification for which he'd become famous...and infamous...around Hogwarts, cementing his reputation as a highly intelligent man to be avoided at all costs. At Hogwarts, "Potions master" was synonymous with "cold bastard," and she rather suspected that he had willingly cultivated the honor.

The book contained other papers by different students; it was, as far as she'd been able to tell, a poorly bound anthology of potions research in Britain, and this particular edition was devoted to the graduating Masters of that year. Naturally, when she'd first laid eyes on his name that afternoon three years ago, she'd been unable to tear her gaze away.

She still had no conception of how many times she'd read through his work, consuming every word greedily, excitedly. Much of her fascination lay in savoring the succinct but elegant way in which he wrote, wishing that she could hear him lecture in such reverent tones in class. The chance to swap caustic criticism for a true conversation...and to hear him expand upon the theories he'd so inventively laid forth in his work as an apprentice...would have been an amazing experience to her. She'd become instantly enamored with the idea of getting to know him as a scholar, an admiration that seemed to increase exponentially each and every time she read the book.

Settling herself in the chair bedside the guest bed, she placed a quick finger to his temple. His pulse throbbed softly but steadily, and she felt a slight rush of relief. His coloring did not seem to have improved since she'd given him the nourishment potion along with his usual regimen two days prior, but the sores on his body had fully healed, and his muscles had grown supple with regular kneading and massaging.

Paging through the book, she began to scan his papers for any mention of the Draught of Living Death, absently keeping a running commentary. It wasn't until she'd remarked for the seventh time, "That's just brilliant! How did you ever come up with that?" that realization hit her fully.

There was a possibility...slight, true, but extant nonetheless...that he could hear every word she said.

"I wish you could respond to me," she admitted in an almost heartbroken tone, setting the small volume down on the bed-table and crouching beside him on the bed. "I don't know how I'm ever going to get you out of this. I can't even follow all of your theories, let alone find the cure for a poison you likely created."

His face was unresponsive, of course. Feeling strangely disappointed, as though she'd honestly expected a reaction, she took his left hand in hers and began to run the pad of one finger gently over the ugly lines of the Dark Mark on his forearm.

"I'll never find out why you did it now." She shook her head, releasing his arm but keeping his hand within hers. It was large and cold, almost clammy. "I always used to wonder that. You never seemed like the kind of person who would care about a person's bloodline."

She snorted. "As far as I could tell, disliked everyone equally. I always thought it was intellect that mattered to you, not upbringing."

Deciding that her behavior was becoming inappropriate...he was not, after all, a close friend or confidant, and she had a responsibility to maintain a proper clinical demeanor in his presence...Hermione returned to her chair and picked up the book once again. Her mind was rife with ideas for proceeding with his physical examination, but glancing through his research had yielded no headway as far as the poison was concerned.

Resolutely deciding that she liked the idea that he could hear her...it gave her an illusion of control over the entire situation, of hope...she began to read aloud from his first paper, published when he was merely twenty.

***

Thursday night found Hermione and Susan crouched in her living room, observing the scant specimens of his life that had been brought to the hospital with Snape. Susan had come bearing gifts...a large bottle of wine and an enormous cheesecake...and the two women sipped their drinks and ate their dessert as they looked over the articles.

"Ready for the big plan tomorrow?" Susan teased her as they hunkered down on the floor, the box placed between them.

"Mmm," Hermione assented, sipping her wine. "You verified that they gave you tomorrow off, right?"

"Yes. All taken care of."

A few minutes passed in silence, the two young women vacillating between boredom and disgust. "These are all just mundane things," Hermione muttered darkly, enlarging yet another piece of clothing, regarding it, and tossing it aside. It smelled strongly of mildew and disuse. "None of this is going to help me figure out how to cure that poison."

"You'd think they wouldn't have bothered to reduce and pack his clothes," Susan remarked with a grimace of her own. "What's the point? If he's never going to wake up again, he's hardly going to need them."

Hermione disliked taking a negative outlook on his situation, but she privately agreed that packing so many clothes had been rather fruitless on the house-elves' part. What appeared to be the entirety of Snape's wardrobe was now strewn around her living room, and it truly wasn't going to do him much good.

"Look at this," Susan breathed, pulling out a small silver locket. She prised it open and gasped again. "Do you think this is his mother?"

Hermione gently took the locket, draping it in her palm and studying the picture carefully: a thin, drawn woman with very dark features and a tortured expression in her gaze. There was no denying the resemblance of coloring and face structure, however, and she did appear to be an older, wearier version of the sullen young woman whose picture Hermione had found years prior.

"Yeah," she replied, surprised to find her eyes tearing up slightly. "I"m pretty sure this is Eileen."

"Eileen?" Susan repeated.

"His mother, Eileen Prince."

Susan cast her a puzzled look but said nothing, instead lifting out the next item. "Hey!" Susan exclaimed, handing Hermione the scuffed Wizarding photograph. "It's that evil Malfoy woman."

Shocked, Hermione accepted the photo and stared at it. It was indeed Narcissa Malfoy, and a much younger Narcissa at that. The photo was so old that she no longer moved much, apparently having grown lazy with time. She lay on her side swathed in sheets, the golden curtain of her hair the only feature of the photo that remained bright and illuminated. Her posture was relaxed, languorous, the smile on her full lips almost feline.

Susan stared unabashedly at the gauzy, nearly transparent sheets and the shape and suggested color of her body beneath them. "Do you really think we should be looking at this?" Her voice was a mixture of amazement and revulsion.

"No," Hermione admitted quietly. "Probably not. It's not relevant to the poison, after all." But the moment she placed it back in the box, she wondered just how far its implications reached.