Spinner's End

I own none of the places, characters, or ideas created by JK Rowling that appear in this story. I take credit for everything else.

Thank you, Southern Witch, for betaing this for me.

Chapter 2- Spinner's End

The shock, combined with the musty, humid air, proved too much for Hermione. She sank into a squashy chair by the bed and fisted her hands in her lap. There were few occasions in which Hermione's instinct had failed her and even fewer instances when her intelligence had. When Nagini had tore into Snape's throat, she knew instinctively that the bite would be fatal, and after the Potions master had given Harry his crucial memories, Hermione knew rationally that he was dead. It was the only sensible conclusion, yet here in this squalid, little room, Severus Snape lay alive, a little worse for wear, but living in defiance of all Hermione's formidable acumen.

"I'm sorry," she said faintly. She pressed a hand to her racing heart and let the rapid thumping against her fingers steady her. With a great composure she did not feel yet, she said, "I don't understand how this is possible. I saw him die, and Harry said..."

"Now there's a trustworthy fount of magical knowledge," Severus snarled. His disdain was so complete that neither Nestor nor Hermione knew how to respond. Nettlebot hummed noncommittally, and Hermione flushed a bright red that enveloped her entire face. From the first announcement of Voldemort's ultimate defeat, Harry Potter mania had gripped the Wizarding world fast and hard. Harry could do no wrong, and it had been many months since Hermione had heard anything but adulation uttered for her very good friend. Even Rita Skeeter...in complete disregard of her newly published book...had penned a glowing report of Harry's heroics. The article had appeared on the front page of the Daily Prophet with a bold headline that declared Harry to be the Salvation of the Wizarding World.

Snape's continued hatred of Harry, so reassuringly familiar, worked better than any healing potion for Hermione's spinning head. "But Professor Dumbledore and Sir Nicholas told Harry that people can't be brought back from death," Hermione appealed to Nestor in a great rush. She shot a timid glance at Severus, who was scowling at her and Nettlebot in great irritation and pain.

"The simple explanation is that Severus Snape was never dead, Miss Granger," Nestor replied. Hermione bestowed a dubious gaze on the Unspeakable which deeply impressed both men in the room with her opinion on the matter. This was not a witch to be contradicted with such a blasé explanation.

"I know what I saw, Mr. Nettlebot," she told him determinedly.

"What I would like to know," Severus interrupted in a measured tone that reminded Hermione of her days in the Potions classroom, "is what Miss Granger has to do with any of this. I may be forced to endure the Ministry's intrusive presence, but I want the girl out of my house. She is useless here. I refuse to endure her pointless nattering." His long fingers convulsed on the top of his blanket, and he pressed his palms flat against the bed to hide his shaking. Beside him, Hermione tried to keep the injured look off her face, hiding her mortification in the shadows of her winged back chair.

"Ah, yes. I'm glad you asked," Nestor answered, ignoring Snape's latter comments. He produced a letter from inside his jacket and held it up for Hermione and Severus to see. "I had my own message from Dumbledore, you see, though mine was delivered far sooner than yours, Miss Granger." He tucked the parchment back into his suit. "Dumbledore's correspondence arrived shortly after I received news of You-Know-Who's attack on Hogwarts. It informed me that Headmaster Snape was in grave danger and provided me with incontrovertible proof of his loyalty to Dumbledore.

"It took me an hour to trace him to the Shrieking Shack. He was motionless on the floor when I discovered him, lying in an alarming amount of blood. At first I thought he was dead...the neck wound should have killed him in minutes...but when I examined him closer, I could feel a faint pulse in his wrist. I brought him to the Department of Mysteries where we treated his wounds as best as we could and then moved him here. It wasn't until the following day that the immobility wore off. We were all astonished when his neck wound healed within a week, clearly aided by some magic we were never able to determine. The Healer told us he was very fortunate and that the snake venom may have played a role in his survival."

"Pity," Severus interjected with renewed vehemence.

Hermione noticed his hands begin to tremble again, and she braced for another bitter outburst. But instead of harsh words, Severus turned nearly white and succumbed to a coughing fit that clenched and burned his lungs and made him nauseous. The cough rattled his ribs and turned his steady breathing to wheezy gasps for air.

Hermione jumped out of her chair and hovered anxiously by the bed. "Isn't there anything we can do? Is there a Calming Draught somewhere?" She looked around the room, but the two tables flanking the bed only held a mix of useless objects: a stack of dusty books, a cracked glass, several empty potion bottles, and a moldy piece of toast.

Nestor opened the door Hermione and he had entered through, but it no longer opened into the Department of Mysteries. Instead, a dreary hallway now stood opposite Snape's bedroom, illuminated by the yellowish light filtering through a grimy window. Nestor shouted into the hallway. "Tilly, you are needed upstairs."

Seconds later, a tiny house-elf appeared in the doorway, clutching a tray of potion bottles between thickly bandaged hands. She was wearing a pristine pillowcase dotted with pink flowers, and her droopy ears flattened against her head as she entered the room.

"Tilly is hearing your call for help, Mr. Nettlebot, sir. Tilly is being a good house-elf and coming right away to bring Master Snape his potions, sir." Tilly padded into the bedroom but stopped several feet from the bed. She goggled at Hermione, who smiled encouragingly at the elf.

"And a fine job you've done, too. Thank you, Tilly." Nestor bent and took the tray from her hands. "Can you please bring the professor a glass of water?"

Tilly's ears perked upward and she bobbed her head enthusiastically. "Tilly will be getting that right away, sir. You can trust Tilly." She ran from the room in a patter of feet which were quickly lost in the hacking coughs coming from the bed. Hermione frowned at the empty doorway, hands on her hips. "She hurt herself. Did you see the bandages on her hands?"

"Come hold him steady, Miss Granger," Nestor commanded. "I won't be able to administer the Calming Draught with him moving around like this." Nestor placed the tray Tilly had brought on top of a teetering pile of books. The glass bottles glinted in the candlelight as Nettlebot rummaged through the substantial collection of potions crammed onto the tray.

Lips pressed together, Hermione stood by the bed. The gravity of Snape's illness was clearer now that she could examine him closer. Dark circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes, and the hole that Nagini had torn into his neck was healed in a long pucker of flesh, though it was still discolored by a fading yellow-brown bruise. He had lost more weight than she had originally thought; his skin was stretched taut and clammy across his face. She tentatively pressed a hand to his shoulder and felt the damp fabric of his nightshirt.

"You'll need to do better than that. Get your arm around his shoulder and prop him up," Nestor growled, the command a faint glimmer of the authority that had made him head of the Department of Mysteries.

Hermione wedged her arm underneath Snape's shoulders and heaved him upward so that he fell awkwardly against her chest. With one leg propped on top of the bed, she grit her teeth and tried to hold him as steady as she could. Nestor tipped a bottle of viscous liquid into Severus' mouth, who choked and sputtered but managed to swallow the potion.

A moment passed, then two, in which there was no change, and Hermione started to count the seconds until Snape went gradually limp against her, his head lolling to one side. He was a heavy weight despite his appearance. Hermione needed Nestor's help to maneuver the professor fully onto the bed.

They were spreading the blankets back over Severus when Tilly came in. The elf handed a glass of water to Nettlebot, then stood on tiptoe to peer fretfully over the bed. "Master Snape will be alright now, sir?"

"For the moment," Nestor reassured her. He set the glass of water on the bedside table. "Will you take Miss Granger to the kitchen, Tilly? She might like a cup of tea while I finish up here."

Hermione followed Tilly down a flight of dark stairs and into a shabby sitting room. The kitchen was down another hallway. While the rest of the house was falling into disrepair, the kitchen was immaculate. A jumble of Muggle appliances were scattered across the counters, and bright, warm sunlight streamed through a window above the sink.

Hermione sank into a chair beside a rickety metal table while Tilly set about making the tea. The elf moved around the kitchen with a bustling confidence that belied her anxious manner upstairs.

"Tilly, what happened to your hands?" Hermione asked. A frown tugged the corners of her lips downward when Tilly's ears dropped close against her head.

"Tilly must be punishing herself for being a bad house-elf. Master Snape is not wanting Tilly's help, but she is helping him anyway. Master Snape is not always knowing what is best for him, but Tilly knows. She helps him when he works as Headmaster at Hogwarts." The little house-elf puffed her chest out with pride.

"You're a Hogwarts house-elf?"

"Yes, miss. Tilly was in charge of Master Snape's rooms when he was being Headmaster at Hogwarts. When Tilly is hearing that Master Snape is ill, she comes to his home to help him get better. He was always being very kind to Tilly at Hogwarts." The kettle on the stove whistled shrilly, and Tilly poured the boiling water into a brown teapot on the table.

As much as Hermione hated to order a house-elf to do anything, she thought this situation might warrant the breach of her magical creature code of ethics. If Snape's waspish temper was any indication, poor Tilly might find herself in a full body cast before long. It was for her own protection, Hermione decided.

"Tilly, I don't want you to hurt yourself anymore when you do something Professor Snape orders you not to. You are not to punish yourself. Do you understand?"

Tilly looked at Hermione, her shoulders half hunched beneath the pillowcase, ears still flat against her head, before she slowly straightened up and beamed. "Yes, miss. Tilly will be taking good care of Master Snape."

Hermione nodded her approval and took the cup of tea Tilly offered her. The china cup was a delicate creation with a chintz pattern as feminine as the pink flowers on Tilly's pillowcase. It was strange to think of Professor Snape owning something so frivolous, let alone using it for his own tea. Perhaps it was a family heirloom, a treasured teacup of his mother's. Although, the place seemed cluttered with possessions he didn't care to maintain, and Hermione did not think Professor Snape was a man given to sentimentality.

He did love Lily, though, or had loved her. When Harry had told Ron and Hermione about Snape's memories, Hermione had seen how hard it was for Harry to admit his most despised teacher was capable of loving someone and having friends. The idea wasn't that shocking to Hermione; she was sure there were a great many things they didn't know about their professors. Hadn't Dumbledore proven that?

But for Snape to do everything out of lost love for Harry's dead mother? The idea was inconceivable to her. People did many foolish things for love, but Hermione would never believe Snape capable of the same mistake. Prejudiced to his own detriment, perhaps, but not a lovesick idiot.

When Nestor made his way downstairs at last, Hermione thanked Tilly for the tea and followed Nettlebot into the sitting room.

"We can Floo back to the Ministry," Nestor explained as he searched for a tin or jar of Floo powder on the mantelpiece.

"Is Professor Snape going to be alright? I thought you had said that he was getting better after the attack." There was a shadow of blame in her tone, although she hadn't meant to sound accusing.

Nettlebot paused in his search and turned slowly to look at Hermione. "Severus Snape is dying. He has only months left, possibly six from what we can tell."

"And you can't do anything? There must be something in the Department of Mysteries that can help him." She was never very fond of Professor Snape; he had always been unfair and spiteful at Hogwarts, but she knew now that he was also capable of great courage and decency as well. To die alone and sick in this shabby, little house seemed a very cruel end to a man who had survived so much

"Snape's illness has us baffled, Miss Granger. It is obvious that magic is responsible for his weakening condition, but this is magic we have been unable to identify. Professor Dumbledore seemed to have great faith that you hold the key to solving the mystery. His letter to me suggested that you brush up on your reading." He arched a questioning brow.

"Brush up on my reading?" Hermione repeated slowly. "Was that all he said?"

"Yes."

While Hermione mulled over Dumbledore's cryptic instructions, Nestor rummaged for the Floo powder, eventually finding it in an innocuous, if rather battered, Whittard tea tin. When they had both Flooed back to the Ministry, Nestor handed her a neatly rolled scroll from his limitless pocket of supplies.

"I don't want to rush you into a decision, Miss Granger, but please remember that his time is very limited. If you decide that you want to help, that scroll contains all the information you will need: contacts and possibilities we have already ruled out. Owl me when you have made up your mind."

"I'll be sure to give you my answer soon," Hermione promised.

"Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you in person after everything we have heard about you, but I must be going." He jerked his head towards a growing flock of memos fluttering around his head and made an irritated snatch for one. He gave Hermione a parting, lopsided grin and walked briskly down the corridor. A flapping group of memos, much like the lime-green smoke from earlier in the day, was trailing in his wake.

Hermione secured the scroll inside her robes before moving towards the opposite hallway of outgoing Floo connections. It was gratifying to see all the constructive changes the Ministry of Magic had undergone since Voldemort's death. Wizards and witches crowded the hallways, and their confidence in the new Ministry was echoed in their smiling, busy bustling.

The atrium had been emptied of statues and banners except for a simple monument at the center of the room where the Fountain of Magical Brethren had once stood. Newly appointed Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt had ordered the war memorial to be erected the day after the Hogwarts victory, and months later, flowers and notes still appeared daily.

The monument was made of ten smooth walls, and in large words around the top was written, "To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure ~Albus Dumbledore." Hermione circled the memorial, reading the names of everyone who had lost their life in the fight against Voldemort. On the tenth side, topped by a statue of a phoenix with wings spread, was a list of the Order of Phoenix members who had died in the war. Dumbledore's name was the first engraved on the list. Beneath his name and right above Remus Lupin's, Hermione found Severus Snape's name.

A sudden, fierce hope gripped Hermione that Professor Snape would make a miraculous recovery and live to see his placement on the memorial. How livid he would be.

"People will think you very impertinent standing here with that Cheshire grin on your face, Miss Granger," Kingsley Shacklebolt said from behind her. He stopped by her side, arms clasped behind his back, and scanned the names. "Our victory was very costly."

Hermione nodded her agreement, and Shacklebolt turned his head to look at her. "I received an owl from Harry this morning."

"Minister?"

"He will begin work for the Auror Department next month."

"I haven't made a decision yet," Hermione replied to the question hidden in his statement, though he was regarding her with open frankness.

"You would make a wonderful addition to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. We need more witches and wizards like you and Mr. Potter. The Ministry already lost too many brave people to the war."

Shacklebolt's obvious sincerity was as important to Hermione as the opportunity to liberate oppressed magical creatures. The Ministry of Magic had been unstable since Hermione had been first introduced to the Wizarding world, filled with leaders who made poor decisions to further their own agendas. Shacklebolt had brought a much-needed stability to his post as Minister, and his decisions so far were sensible and impartial.

"Can I owl you with my decision next week? I'd like to hear from my parents first, and... something came up this morning." Hermione had meant to say that Nettlebot had spoken with her about a research project, but when she had opened her mouth, the words had rearranged themselves into the vague explanation she had given Kingsley. She hid her surprise in another perusal of the names etched on the war memorial.

So there were still machinations in the Ministry after all. Hermione was more curious that Kingsley didn't know about Severus Snape than that the Unspeakables were keeping information from the Minister.

Kingsley and Hermione were interrupted by a frazzled looking witch with a purple-plumed quill stuck into a teetering bun at the top of her head.

"The World Cup Quidditch delegates arrived early, Minister, and Mr. Bartlebee is threatening to release Hinkypunks into the bog again if a Ministry Official doesn't come out to fix the Muggle problem with his southern wards."

"Thank you, Miss Weston," Kingsley replied. His unruffled reply made Hermione smile, and she shook his offered hand in farewell, watching as he strode toward the lift with a fretful Miss Weston hovering at his elbow.