Five

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

***

Extensive planning and preparation were two areas in which Hermione excelled, her dedicated and punctilious nature never ceasing to impress. Susan remarked upon the fact several times as the two young women carefully settled Snape's body onto the Muggle hospital stretcher.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" the Ministry driver asked casually, raising a questioning eyebrow. Hermione nodded, a combination of bald fear and sudden giddiness threatening to overtake her.

"Of course." She handed him several Galleons. "We may be in there a couple hours. Feel free to wander around for awhile."

He nodded, happily accepting the money and ambling off with a jaunty stride. He had no idea of the lengths to which she'd had to go in order to ensure Snape's safe...and covert...passage to this innocuous Muggle hospital, one of the many medical establishments in London.

"Explain to me why we're doing this again," Susan whispered, tugging at the unfamiliar Muggle blazer she'd put on over her blouse, falling into step behind Hermione, who was now briskly striding forward. Snape's prone form had been settled comfortably onto the stretcher, but she was nevertheless concerned about the excess movement causing damage. Over the past few days, his coloring had shown a remarkable improvement...an indication, she hoped, that with careful nourishment, his body might yet overcome its desperate state.

"It's a relatively straightforward Muggle procedure that will determine the level of brain activity," Hermione replied in a brusque, recited tone, rounding the corner. All three infiltrators were covered with Concealment Charms to ward off unwanted attention. As they approached the emergency entrance, she released the charm, entering as calmly and coolly as she could manage.

The Ministry driver, believing her to be on the explicit errands of Healer Vickers, had seemed merely amused by their obvious anxiety. For her part, Healer Vickers believed her to be enjoying a much-deserved day of relaxation, perhaps a cordial visit with her parents and a few hours spent overseeing her patient's condition. Hermione disliked deceiving anyone, but she suspected that the average wizard or wizard would have deemed her idea entirely without merit, and she hadn't been willing to risk the possibility that Edwina Vickers fell into that category.

But then, as far as the average wizard or witch was concerned, Muggle methods in general were useless. They didn't consider the many advantages of the Muggle sciences, she thought derisively. They were so content to remain in their cushioned microcosm of a society that they refused, by and large, to open their minds to any other possibilities.

She admitted, however, that she was only employing the services of this Muggle hospital as a last resort; she had no means of determining magically the level of electrical activity currently taking place in his brain.

The consequences of her decision were undeniably terrifying. Even with impeccable clothing, professional demeanors and Confundus Charms at the ready, she and Susan could not honestly expect for everything to run smoothly. Hermione knew she was essentially committing identity fraud, posing as the caretaker for a comatose man whose only remaining kin wanted a definitive answer, once and for all, as to whether or not he would pull through the trauma. When added to the unfortunate fact that she'd been forced to sneak into another hospital in order to acquire the appropriate clothing, dressings, and the stretcher, she had become a felon virtually overnight.

Her own boldness shocked and confused her until she looked at his face, remembering why she was so determined to prove that he was not beyond rescue. She gulped rather too loudly, squaring her shoulders. The bright, open expanse of the hallways and the sterile whiteness of her surroundings made her feel doubly exposed. Forging their way through the parting crowd to the reception desk, Hermione and Susan waited patiently for the woman's attention.

"Hello," she said with forced pleasantness, looking up to find them waiting expectantly. She was in her early to mid-forties, a nice-looking woman with a painted smile and weary eyes. "Is this an emergency?"

"No," Hermione assured her. "I actually have a prior appointment for an EEG at ten o'clock. I'm a little overwhelmed...I've never been in a hospital of this size," she gushed effusively, privately praying that her little act would earn her a harmless opinion in the receptionist's mind. "I was hoping you could direct us?"

"Of course," the woman replied, her voice becoming rather harried. Undoubtedly she did not appreciate the discourtesy of two clueless women interrupting her. She rifled through a stack of papers to her right and pulled out a colorful map of the hospital's layout, the major locations marked brightly with large arrows. "You're here at the moment, in emergency services. If you just proceed down here..."

Ten minutes later, they had reached their destination. Snape's body was turned over to the technologist, and Hermione and Susan sank into unyielding plastic chairs in a small, stuffy waiting room, both exhausted beyond measure.

"You really think anything will show up?" Susan had placed her light summer coat over her lap and was tapping on her wand, concealed beneath its folds. "What if something goes wrong and they suspect us?"

"They won't," Hermione assured her, desperately hoping that she sounded more confident than she truly felt. "I'm positive I've considered every angle. They think you're his second cousin and that he's been kept alive at your house with the help of a home aide, and you're just wondering if any advancement has been made in his condition. You contacted me because I work for a small medical clinic in your hometown, and I was able to act as the liaison in getting the ambulance.

"I even mentioned when I made the application that after your mother...his cousin...died, you were put in charge of him and weren't really sure what had happened before," she added, and though it may have been her imagination, Susan's stiff posture slackened incrementally. "They think you're just trying to become familiar with his case so you can offer him the best care possible."

"Not so far from the truth, then," Susan remarked, her anxiety having eased sufficiently so that she was able to take in her surroundings. To Hermione, the pastel walls, fake plants and purposefully cheerful décor were reminiscent of every medical office in which she'd ever set foot. Some tendencies never seemed to vary between the Wizarding and Muggle communities.

"I haven't been in a Muggle hospital in years," Susan confessed to her, tossing her long braid over her shoulder and giving the tawdry headlines of the Muggle magazines and tabloids a disdainful glance. "You know, I think this is even worse than St. Mungo's."

"I'm inclined to agree," Hermione admitted in an undertone. "Although I haven't been in a Muggle hospital in years either. Not since I was very young, actually."

"Your parents are dentists, aren't they?" Susan asked, glancing around to assure herself that they were alone before surreptitiously tucking her wand into the pocket of her coat. "I almost forgot about that. So you never wanted to give up magic and become a dentist like them?"

Hermione shook her head slowly. "No. They still tell me about their practice whenever I visit them, so in a way I keep up with the field somewhat, but I never considered giving up magic altogether."

"That's for the best. It would be such a shame if you did," Susan insisted. "They say you're one of the best Healers we've got. Even His Highness agrees that your record is getting to be very impressive."

Hermione flushed uncomfortably. "I'm sure I won't be that good for years," she demurred, a sudden noise from the hallway causing her to jump. Susan rolled her eyes but did not reply. "Besides which," she added dryly, "coming from him, that endorsement doesn't mean much."

Susan snorted inelegantly and finally broke down, reaching for a Muggle magazine.

***

After two hours of fidgeting in the waiting room, Hermione and Susan were once again pushing Snape's stretcher through the vast hallways of the hospital, averring to everyone who offered help or expressed concern that they had arranged for an ambulance to transport him and would be fine if left to themselves. Recasting the Concealment Charm on herself and her companions as they exited the building, Hermione led them around the block and back to the shaded street in which the Ministry vehicle awaited them.

The driver was reclining against the hood, munching contentedly on a sandwich he'd no doubt purchased with her tip. He eyed Snape's body speculatively, and Hermione wondered if he had put two and two together and realized whom she was transporting. It had become commonly circulated gossip that she'd demanded custody of his body before St. Mungo's had had the opportunity to allow his life to end. It was probably also commonly known that Narcissa Malfoy had wanted him as well, and Hermione wondered if the driver, like a large percentage of St. Mungo's staff, questioned her motives in acquiring him.

Telling herself to focus on the situation at hand rather than dwelling futilely on ridiculous gossip, she issued verbal directions as the three of them returned his body to the car. A short but tense ride later, they arrived back at her flat. Susan assisted her in returning him to the guest room but left shortly thereafter, citing a prior agreement to have lunch with a friend. Hermione thanked her gratefully for her help and saw her out the door.

She dallied a moment before returning to the room, staring blankly at the man before her. The compulsion to avoid thinking of him altogether was overwhelming, for doing so caused her mind to swim with seemingly endless concerns and possibilities, many tantalizing for personal reasons she couldn't fully explain even to herself.

The neurologist had said the results were unequivocal: despite the condition of his body, his brain was extraordinarily active. The involuntary mechanisms of his body sustained his survival, and he clearly had no conscious control over any other processes, but the baffled doctor had been adamant that he was nowhere near the point of brain death.

What she couldn't understand was why the news had seemed to precipitate such a violent reaction in her. "Will he recover?" she had asked eagerly, almost breathlessly, with Susan bouncing beside her. The poor man had regarded her with a confused expression, likely wondering why a third party, who'd allegedly had no prior contact with the patient, had invested so much emotionally into a man three years unconscious.

"The fact that there is measurable activity is not necessarily a sign that he will recover," he'd drawled evasively. Hermione, whose training had taught her this, remained hopeful nonetheless.

"But there is a chance?" she'd pressed on, aware that she was seeking to validate her own inexplicable desperation.

"Yes," he admitted, eyes crinkling when he noticed the twin smiles that lit their faces. "Since I'm not familiar with his case, I really cannot make an educated guess as to the probability of his recovery. I will be honest with you...it's very slim. But yes, there is a chance. There's always a chance."

She chanted his words to herself now as she approached the bed, triumphantly taking in the faint pinkish tinge that had appeared on Snape's cheeks only a couple days previously. The nourishing potion was indubitably beginning to have its desired effect: his color was returning, his entire appearance becoming less hollow and gaunt. Extending a questioning hand, Hermione lightly pinched together the skin on his forearm, theretofore parchment-thin and weak. After a very brief moment of suspension, it sprang back lightly, indicating a gradual return to normal levels of hydration.

She found herself suddenly unable to speak while standing in his room. The night before, when her hopes had still been founded on speculation, the knowledge that he might not be cognizant of her words had led her to sit by his side for hours after Susan had left, talking about everything that crossed her mind. As she'd carefully and thoroughly washed his hair in preparation for the procedure, she'd allowed her attention to wander to their time together at Hogwarts, laughing at memories of his classes.

A mortified flush suffused her face as she recalled admitting aloud that she'd found his disciplinary methods deplorable but his instruction brilliant. She couldn't even begin to fathom what he must be thinking of her in the aftermath of that little session. The recording had left no lingering doubt. There was indeed activity taking place in his mind; but whether or not that activity included the preserved ability to process language, she had no way of knowing.

But, when taken as a sum...the unmistakably positive diagnosis of her spell, the surprising reading of his EEG, and his marked improvement over the past few days...the events displayed an evident trend. Snape was improving, and it was likely that his mind, ever active and unpredictable, was cruelly trapped within an intractable and unresponsive body.

She clapped a hand to her forehead, berating herself for her indecision and thoughtlessness. Dashing out into her living room, she scooped up a handful of CDs, all easily recognizable classical works, and dashed back into her guest bedroom. Though she did not have a stereo in that particular room, Hermione was nothing if not resourceful. She painstakingly levitated the CD player from her living room into the bedroom, settling it atop her desk and plugging it in quickly.

Truthfully, she had no idea as to Snape's personal tastes in art, music, literature...if he had any especial preferences, that was. She supposed it was entirely possible that he, like many in the Wizarding community, largely eschewed Muggle music and literature. However, she was resolutely determined to provide him with some kind of respite from the lack of stimulation. It was horrifying, really, to think that he had been isolated within his own mind for the past three years. She shuddered as she placed in the first CD, envisioning the many and varied curses that his temper had undoubtedly developed.

Relishing the first soothing strains that hit the air, she hurried to the kitchen and grabbed the bowl and wash rag she'd come to think of as his. Gently wringing the sudsy rag and rubbing it across his scalp, she commenced removing the sticky residue left behind by the paste the technologist had applied. Hermione watched his features closely, constantly hoping for some instinctive reaction to the music...a visible relaxation of the tension in his forehead or the fine lines at the corners of his lips.

"The neurologist insists there's a chance you'll pull out of this," she said in a conversational tone, forcefully overcoming the strange nervousness she now felt in his presence. Trapped within there was the same acerbic Potions teacher of her youth, and a part of her anticipated and feared his opinion still. "Not that I needed him to tell me...I know there's always a chance, even if it's small."

She began to lightly rinse the shampoo from his scalp, vanishing the water as it pooled on the rubber mat she'd placed beneath his head.

"I realize you probably would have trouble believing this," she continued, "but it's your attitude toward recovery that matters now. I thought it seemed absurd at first, too, but it's been substantiated time and again that a positive attitude can significantly speed recovery time in cases that were once thought hopeless."

She snapped her mouth shut, belatedly noting her thoughtless gaffe. "Not that I consider you hopeless, though," she hastened to add. "But many other people do. Professor McGonagall has all but given up hope for you, but I know it would mean the world to her if you recovered."

Having finished washing his scalp, she removed the light cotton shirt in which she'd clothed him and examined his upper body. The few deep scars that had probably marred his skin for years stubbornly persisted, but his ribs, she thought, seemed less protuberant. She placed her fingertips carefully against his temples and throat, vigilantly seeking any signs of increased swelling. He'd been running a steady and worrisome temperature since she had brought him home, but according to his file, that had been par for the course; the infection brought on by the poison had elevated his temperature more or less permanently. She quickly measured it and found that it had dropped four-tenths of a degree, results that, though they would have seemed modest at best in any other patient, positively thrilled her.

"You're definitely improving," she whispered, surprised to find herself absently running the short strands of his hair through her fingers. "I think as long as this continues, we can start paying more attention to cleaning up the rest of you."

The lack of response no longer pained her as it had in the first couple of days she'd cared for him. She envisioned him sequestered within his mind, his brain whirring madly. He was likely orchestrating the best possible way to exact revenge for the mindless chatter she was forcing him to endure, but it hardly mattered to her. Any improvement automatically sparked an enthusiastic and positive reaction from her, which he would certainly have loathed.

"I imagine you're hating this," she said with a chuckle, returning to the kitchen and placing his bowl and wash rag in the sink. She then headed for her bedroom, wondering what book he would most appreciate having read to him that evening.

***

Hermione was both astonished and pleased to find that after two years of struggling to maintain a constructive and healthy schedule with the hectic lifestyle brought on by St. Mungo's, Snape's presence had forced upon her life a much-needed sense of constancy. She attended to him each morning, regularly Flooed home to give him a cursory check during her lunch hour, and spent all available hours in the evening playing him music, discussing the patients she'd attended to that day, or reading to him from whatever book happened to strike her fancy.

Frequently she would find herself regretting the scarce moments when she left him. She would climb into a full bubble bath, release an initial sigh of relief, and instantly wish to return to the guest room. Lying in the tub reading silently to herself suddenly seemed unforgivably selfish when he remained behind with nothing but Vivaldi on repeat to keep him company. Thus even more of her typical activities were foregone in favor of spending casual evenings with him, a pastime she quickly grew to appreciate greatly.

Ron's rapidly increasing insensitivity irked her to no end. She had, as promised, devoted the Sunday following Snape's appointment to a raucous and thoroughly unpleasant evening at The Burrow. A well-meaning but critical Molly Weasley and the simultaneously concerned and judgmental glances of Harry and Ginny were just a few highlights of the time she'd spent there, and afterward she had expected that Ron would concede her some time to herself. Instead he insisted on popping over to her flat at all hours of the day and night, ostensibly to check on her and discuss potential plans for their wedding.

Sinking miserably into the chair beside Snape two months after bringing him home, Hermione finally acknowledged...out loud, nonetheless...the niggling truth that had been dogging her for ages, metamorphosing into fully-fledged panic.

"I don't want to marry Ron," she blurted out, eyes darting over to Snape's motionless frame. The closed eyes and relaxed lips put forth no judgment, so she continued, her panic slowly abating.

"I can't figure out why. That's the most frustrating part. I know that I love him, but it's becoming more and more clear to me that we've grossly misjudged what kind of relationship this is." She sighed, resting her chin atop one fist pensively. "I know if you were awake you'd snap at me to be an adult and just tell him and have it over with, but I can't do that. It will break his heart.

"The worst part is... I think he really does love me." Images of Harry and Ginny's wedding surfaced in her mind's eye, and she recalled with sickening dread the look of accusation in his eyes as they'd stood on the platform, Hermione attending the bride and Ron the groom. Ron, as he himself was quick to point out many times that evening, had proposed some time before Harry.

So why are they marrying first? his expression seemed to demand of her as Harry and Ginny were bound together before friends and family.

"I can't continue lying to him." She leaned over and turned off the CD player, finding that even the softest sounds grated on her nerves. "It's despicable of me to do it at all, and I know it. So why do I?"

In the ensuing silence she could hear the faint, rhythmic ticking of the clock in the living room. Shaking her head derisively, she rose to her feet. "But I can't expect you to be my psychotherapist. I shouldn't bother you with this."

She retreated to the living room, abruptly anxious to avoid him. Though he hadn't the means to scold or insult her for her childishness, she imagined that he was mentally ridiculing the pathetic excuses she consistently fed herself; he, after all, had been privy to all of them over the past few weeks.

Settling on her sofa, she placed into her lap the box containing his belongings. She'd already washed his clothes; they were hanging neatly in her closet, a contrast that had made her stand back and do a double-take when she'd first placed them alongside her jumpers and slacks, unaccustomed to the sight of a man's clothing beside her own. He had been given honorary status as a second tenant, and his wardrobe now comprised the enormous black void adjacent to her favorite evening dress.

Despite this, his presence in her home still seemed half-formed at best. There was nothing about the furnishings, the décor, or the general attitude of the flat that suggested he had become a resident. Wondering it it would please him to know that she had allocated him more than simply a portion of her closet, Hermione began to draw forth the few articles that sat in the box, musing.

The photograph of Narcissa Malfoy she would most certainly not put up anywhere. She'd told herself for weeks now that its connotations bothered her simply because she disliked the woman, but in truth, it was something about the blatant intimacy, the sensuality, of the picture that got to her. Staring at it unabashedly, she wondered if he'd stolen it from Lucius Malfoy; it had to mean that he harbored illicit feelings for the woman.

Surely he hadn't taken it himself? She bent closer, her gaze sweeping over the deep, swirling blue of Narcissa's eyes, wholly at ease with her bed partner, whoever he...or she...may have been. Hermione desperately wished the picture would have retained more of its original movement, perhaps allowing her a brief glimpse of the other, mysterious occupant. Narcissa stretched, blinked, and flashed a sultry smile, all overtly seductive actions meant to show off for the camera.

It was disconcerting, really, to see such a condescending and vain woman, the epitome of aristocratic snobbishness, lying comfortably and vulnerably while glowing with the telltale suggestion of satisfying sex and favored company. What Hermione couldn't shake from her mind was the constant question of whether or not Snape was behind the camera, equally relaxed, equally sated.

Shoving the image roughly to the bottom of the box, she set the it aside, ignoring the odd fluttering in her abdomen.