Fourteen

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

AN: I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who's reading again. My hiatus from writing involves a long story in which my brother compromised, unsuccessfully tried to repair, and then thoroughly destroyed my old computer. I've been relying on university computer labs for a year, and I've been unable to find the time and privacy to write in them. I was too afraid to even go to my usual fanfic-related sites, to be honest. Feel free to be justifiably angry with me and stop reading if you deem that an insufficient excuse.

But for those of you who do continue to read...or, I should say, have resumed reading...thanks so much for your kind words. I sincerely hope there will be no more interruptions!

~Lisa

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It was still difficult not to fall into her old habits. Sitting at the dinner table Tuesday evening, the other Gryffindor seventh-years chattering incessantly around her, Hermione felt none of their happiness, nor their enthusiasm. After a grueling Potions class during which Snape had treated her abominably, she found that it was impossible to keep her thoughts from straying toward the Potions master and whether she would ever be capable of gauging his true feelings. Recalling his biting commentary on the final product she and Ginny had turned in made her grit her teeth in anger.

She knew that she ought not to hold his behavior against him. He'd spent years treating many students cruelly, students whom he might otherwise have tolerated, all for the sake of playing a role; she didn't doubt that he sometimes slipped back into that persona without realizing it on a conscious level. Yet after what she'd thought was a promising breakthrough the previous evening...Snape had complimented her, of all things...he'd shown all the understanding and compassion of a snarling bear, albeit with more restrained and dramatic delivery.

Ginny seemed to notice her introspective mood, but she was too absorbed in a conversation with a Hufflepuff boy to pay Hermione much attention. It didn't bother Hermione. It afforded her the chance to observe her instructors and classmates in an attempt to coalesce her stray thoughts. She longed for some form of sense.

Ginny was ever and always devoted to Harry, but it didn't prevent her from enjoying the occasional flirtation with a Hogwarts boy, especially present and rising Quidditch stars. She leaned toward him momentarily, flashing him a winning smile, and Hermione saw the boy blush obviously and pause in his tale. Ginny utilized the lull in talk to sip at her goblet of water and treat the table to an unobstructed view of the beautiful emerald bracelet Harry had given her for Christmas, all expensive silver and brilliant gems against her slender porcelain wrist. A few other girls shared envious glances and looked at her with some antipathy. The Hufflepuff boy simply reddened even more unattractively and gulped some pumpkin juice, sensing that his tenuous hold on the beautiful star of the Gryffindor Quidditch team was drawing to an all-too-premature end.

It wasn't unforgivable vanity that caused Ginny to behave as she did, though it was understandable that other girls might view her that way. Hermione knew that they viewed her first and foremost as a threat, and the accusations of vanity and self-absorption, unfounded or not, piled on from there. Hermione had never begrudged Ginny her harmless flirting, one of the few distractions available to her to enjoy, and that kept her head above water when the winter grew interminable and her classes became difficult. Ginny had begun lately to seem more and more inspiring, someone who could handle the challenges and issues Hermione still often found intolerable. Where Ginny slipped on a piece of jewelry to fondly remember her lover and bolster her spirits before making her way confidently to the dinner table, Hermione still hid in unflattering clothes and struggled daily to simply be herself rather than give in to the old unnamed despair.

She'd never thought of herself as an inherently antisocial person. Certainly she didn't think she was a misanthrope, but the company of others was so frequently difficult for her to endure. Her mood was bad, thanks in part to Snape, she knew, and self-pity would help her to achieve nothing; but she'd invested her anticipation and her heart so deeply in her project, in her desire to excel academically and to help her professor, and she was beginning to sincerely doubt whether she could tolerate the manner in which he insisted on working together. She knew that a consummately professional woman would have long ago accepted that Snape treated her terribly in class and with a little more respect in private, viewing it as simply a professional hurdle to be overcome like any other; but Hermione, caught in equal parts between her desire for intellectual achievement and her desire to forge some kind of bond of friendship with her professor, found it exhausting and wrenchingly confusing. Consumed with self-doubt, she had no friends other than Ginny to speak with.

They annoyed her, at times...the other Gryffindors. She wondered if, in actuality, it was the barbed and nasty side of Snape with whom she could most identify during the long periods she spent at the table in her classmates' company. She wanted to see every side of him, to get to know the man who could possess a personality so bewilderingly complex but maybe, someday, treat her as an equal; the mere glimpse she'd had of that side of him the previous night had left her breathless and speechless when she replayed in her mind the scene between the two of them.

Glancing up at the head table, Hermione was dejected to see that he still hadn't arrived in the Great Hall. She sipped listlessly at her pumpkin juice, wanting someone with whom to share her moments of confusion, those times when she looked at her peers and found herself struggling in vain to find any common ground. Their conversations alternately bored and exhausted her. With Harry and Ron, the talk consisted of nothing but sports and physical self-improvement, interspersed with talk of girls, girls, and more girls when Ginny and Lavender were absent. It was threatening and disheartening to realize that men could not only have such egotistical pride in their appearance but could also be so intolerant of girls who didn't push themselves to the same extent.

At the Gryffindor table, while the pumpkin juice was refilled and the sweets began to appear, the talk shifted from one discipline of study to the next without warning or pattern as the seventh-years bragged about their academic achievements and their boundless knowledge. They visibly and blatantly sought to show up one another's accomplishments, and it sickened Hermione. She found herself tuning in to a discussion of Transfiguration and wondered why people who would generally display no interest in a topic felt the need to expound like pedantic experts when faced with someone else who genuinely cared for it. She wondered if the instructors behaved in the same way or if time and maturity led them to understand that there was more to life and its enjoyment than hearing one's voice asserting that there was no one smarter or more knowledgeable.

Overcome with fatigue and irritation, Hermione stood suddenly, leaving her dinner mostly untouched. Ginny glanced over at the sound of her discarded silverware striking the wooden table and swallowed her pudding with a delicate look of concern. "You okay, Hermione?" she called as the sixth-year Hufflepuff, who clearly still felt that his seat next to her entitled him to monopolize her attention, snapped his jaw shut and glowered uncharitably in Hermione's direction.

"Fine," she called neutrally, brushing nonexistent crumbs from her robe. "I have to go change before my evening brewing session. I'll talk to you later tonight."

Worry flashed in Ginny's soft eyes, but she accepted Hermione's response with a nod and returned her gaze to the Hufflepuff. He lost no time in reiterating his glowing description of his latest triumph on the Quidditch field. Unreasonably disgusted, Hermione left the table.

She made her way to her rooms and changed her clothing, telling herself all the while that the mark of an adult was not the ability to weather any situation unaffected but to accept the feelings it dredged up and press on anyhow. She was positively dreading having to see Snape, whose mood had probably not improved since Potions class. The thought that he might have obtained a meal for himself from the kitchens, stolen a couple hours' rest and recuperation in private, and improved his outlook on her and on the evening crossed her mind only transiently. She snorted at herself and left her room, cloak in hand. Upon reaching the dungeons, she found herself almost appreciating the clammy air and silence. Perhaps this, and not the library, was where she belonged when she felt the need to take refuge from her exasperating fellow students. A small room with an enchanted ceiling, cool walls and a large armchair might be just the ticket.

Feeling a headache coming on, Hermione paused outside the laboratory and knocked three times softly. No response followed, but she waited the requisite several minutes to be sure that Snape hadn't merely been placing a stasis charm on a potion before abandoning it to answer the door. She was accustomed to him charming the door to admit her, or calling out at the very least, but she wasn't about to incur his wrath with impatience.

Hermione knocked again, and an ominous silence followed. A tight feeling began to creep through her bowels. She knocked again, urgently, without waiting to give him a chance to respond. Finally, desperately, she pushed open the door. It swung open with no resistance, a sure sign that it had been unwarded at some point during the day and Snape had not returned since. All required ingredients for the potion lay neatly on the nearest workbench; the cauldron had already been prepped and set in place. The Potions master was nowhere in sight.

"Sir?" she called, trying to keep her tone from sounding frantic. She didn't believe herself to be early, but there were plenty of plausible reasons why Snape...unfailingly punctual though he normally was...might be running late. She made a cursory pass through the entire laboratory to search for anything amiss, but her growing hysteria wouldn't permit her to linger any longer. She deeply feared that something had happened to him and needed to find him. The urge sat heavily in her throat.

Praying fervently that he wouldn't expel her for trespassing on his personal living space, Hermione walked quickly through the tapestry that acted as the separatory piece between the laboratory and hallway running past his living room. She hardly noticed its soft touch against her cheeks. The store room was locked and warded; she could feel the thrum of magical energy, as strong as ever and totally impregnable. Hermione moved straight into the living room and gave a startled cry when she saw him in front of the fireplace, his robes and limbs splayed across the dark beige carpet like the crushed exoskeleton of a large, skinny black spider.

"Professor!" she called, dashing over. Dumbledore, she was relieved to see, stood sentinel in his portrait.

"Thank Merlin!" he called, in a tone of voice she'd never before heard from him, as he ceased his frantic pacing. "I've been trying to find someone who would stand still long enough for me to ask for help! You must find Poppy at once."

"How long has he been like this?" she cried, falling to the floor beside Snape and pressing her fingers to his temples, then his wrist. His pulse was detectible but faint and erratic. All the color had drained from his face, leaving a lingering, greenish-blue hue that made bile rise into her throat. Some instinct whispered to her moments before Dumbledore supplied the words for which she'd been searching.

"There is no more time," he said, his voice broken. "I will go for Poppy again. You must help him, Hermione. He will stop breathing..."

"No, he won't," she said shortly, and she drew out her wand and began with the plethora of spells Madam Pomfrey had used over the years...spells to stabilize, spells to strengthen him, and, first and foremost, spells to ascertain the state of his breathing and regulate it. Years seemed to pass. She drew up in her memory the many pages of his medical records she'd pored over, hours' worth of clinical evaluations and emergency treatments, until the words shimmered before her in bright red letters that looked to be spelled in his blood.

Gradually, color reentered his face. When Hermione cast the final spell to return him to consciousness, he sat bolt upright, gasping violently for air. "Professor Snape," she tried to say, positioning her arms beneath his shoulders to support him, "you need to lie down. Please, don't move too much..." The scratchy wool of his frock coat abraded the exposed skin of her wrists and arms as he fell into her heavily. She winced at the feeling of his bony shoulders. "Professor Dumbledore has gone for Madam Pomfrey..."

All Snape could seem to do was cough. Finally, the spasms wracking him no longer, he sagged back to the floor. His breathing quieted. Poppy Pomfrey rushed into the room just as his eyes opened and he stared at her with consciousness and clarity for the first time. Headmistress McGonagall followed, her green skirts hiked up around her ankles to facilitate a faster stride. When the two women hastily knelt by his side, Hermione knew she ought to step out of their way and let them attend him, but she found she couldn't relinquish her grip on his shoulders. His solidity, however malnourished, reassured her.

Madam Pomfrey and the Headmistress wasted no time in Transfiguring a nearby armchair into a cot, to which Madam Pomfrey carefully but firmly strapped him before they began to levitate him slowly. Madam Pomfrey flicked her wrist toward a small urn-like receptacle on the mantelpiece, and powder whisked through the air. Hermione watched as the fireplace beside them burst to life with brilliant verdant flames, and they entered it hastily. "We shall speak with you later, Miss Granger," the Headmistress called over her shoulder, just before they disappeared through the wall of flame into the Floo network.

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Hermione returned to her room, shaking violently all the while. Dumbledore kindly followed her progress through the castle, hopping from portrait to portrait in order to accompany her. Hermione was touched that he'd chosen to remain with her rather than return to one of the portraits in the infirmary to watch the proceedings, but she was relieved when, upon opening the door of her room, she turned to the landscape in which he'd been standing only seconds before and found him vanished. Presumably to give me some privacy, she thought, rubbing at her suddenly blurry eyes.

It was the last coherent thought to pass through her mind for hours. She couldn't seem to stop shaking. Shaking, she walked numbly through her room and gathered up her pajamas, slippers, and bathrobe. Shaking, she made her way to the nearest girls' bathroom and submerged herself in a hot tub for an hour, her eyes and skin glazing over with steam and shock.

Shaking, she emerged from the water and toweled vigorously at her pruned skin until it felt boiled and harsh. She methodically brushed her teeth, staring at the red, flashing blur of her toothbrush in the mirror. The face it passed across was pale and lifeless, with dark, swollen circles under its eyes.

Ginny was nowhere to be seen when Hermione returned to their room. She knew she ought to concern herself with her friend's whereabouts, but she couldn't seem to find the mental energy necessary to form the thought. Instead, she picked up a bottle of Ginny's rose-pink nail polish and applied the varnish to her toenails, needing to find solace in the stroking of another brush. The tears didn't start until the polish had dried and she'd crawled under her covers, still shaking.

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They didn't come for her until half past three in the morning. It had been approaching one o'clock when Hermione had finally stopped crying and fallen into a restless sleep. She was so deeply entrenched in her nightmares that Dumbledore's voice inserted itself into her dream, failing to bring her to consciousness for nearly a minute.

Rising foggily from sleep, Hermione turned to stare at the portrait above her bed. It was small and rectangular, a simple still life...or as still as Wizarding portraits could get...of a young boy and his pet dog. The dog was happily sniffing at Dumbledore, whose posture was slumped and expression haunted.

"Hermione," he said softly. "You're wanted in the infirmary."

"He's not...?" Her voice cracked and trailed off. She couldn't voice the word, but she doubted that there was any need. The expression in his eyes told her that it had been Dumbledore's greatest fear as well, probably for more hours, days, and years than she would ever know.

"No," he replied, his tone gentler. "He's recovering."

She nodded and rose, stumbling as she tried to come to her feet. She knew she ought to dress before allowing herself to be seen publicly, but somehow the effort and delay made her feeling of illness grow worse. She padded her way softly over to her shoes and drew them on with anxiety, not wanting to wake Ginny, who was buried under a pile of blankets. She snored lightly, undisturbed.

She pulled the door shut slowly, almost silently, behind her. As she drew her bathrobe on over her clothes, beginning her walk down the hall, Dumbledore's voice followed her from the landscape near the door. "Miss Granger," he called in an authoritative tone that made her instantly stop in her tracks. "Before you go..."

She shut her eyes in pain and turned to face him. She felt half dead and overwhelmed, and the thought that she hadn't yet experienced in her life a pain to rival Snape's only made her feel more heartsick for him. "Yes?" she replied, preparing herself for the worst news, short of death. Was he in a coma? Was his prognosis too poor to contemplate?

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, slowly. His eyes, which had been determined only a moment before, softened to their usual approachable baby blue, though they didn't sparkle. They held instead a reflective sheen she knew to be tears, and her own welled up automatically in empathy.

"Severus is not yet ready to hear everything from you," he finally said in slow, measured tones. "But if you were to tell him how concerned you are about him, personally, that might... help him somewhat. He needs to feel that there are reasons other than work and pride and spite for him to fight this pain and get out of bed in the morning."

The tears spilled over before Hermione could stop them, and she nodded and continued on her way. So Dumbledore knew. Didn't he always?