Sixteen

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

-----

Eight o'clock arrived with a resounding ring from the large, ornate clock in Snape's private laboratory. Exhaling a gusty breath, Hermione smeared her hair back across her sweaty forehead and stared at the product before her, desperate to discern whether or not she'd succeeded in improving their formulation. She swirled the liquid gently, watching as it caressed the sides of the vial. Patterns were alternately created and destroyed as it reflected the ambient torchlight.

She doubled the intensity of her scrutiny; it revealed nothing. She sighed and bit into her bottom lip, worrying it as she held the vial between her fingertips.

"It may perhaps be my imagination, but I believe it is less pigmented than your previous batches. Were you expecting it to be so?"

Hermione could only shrug helplessly in response to the Headmaster's query. "To the best of my knowledge, the additional ingredients shouldn't have altered the pigmentation at all, but it may be due to the fact that it's more dilute." She pushed another stray curl back behind her ear and set the vial on the only workbench within arm's reach. Before commencing with the brewing process, she'd changed into dark jeans and a black tee shirt, but it didn't successfully hide the sweat and potions detritus that seemed to cover her from head to foot. She caught sight of what she suspected might be a portion of a spider leg adhered to the inside of her left calf and shuddered.

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "Well, you can but try. That was quite an intense session, even for a student of your experience. It is fortunate that you're finished, my dear. We can't have you staying up too late when you have classes in the morning."

Hermione nodded, rising stiffly from the wooden stool on which she'd perched while attending the potion. She'd always found Snape's hawk-like observation to be disconcerting, but to be wholly in charge of the potion with no one to whom she could turn for physical assistance had been the most harrowing feeling of all. Dumbledore had interjected helpfully wherever and whenever he could, but it had been her hand and her hand alone that was available to perform the necessary wandwork.

"I do have an exam in Transfiguration tomorrow," she told Dumbledore as she stretched her arms above her head, wincing at the resultant creaking and cracking of her abused vertebrae. "I ought to get this to Professor Snape as soon as possible and do some review."

Dumbledore smiled at her and took his leave of the portrait. Hermione gave him a tired wave goodbye. She'd expected the past few hours to fly by in something resembling the manner of a movie montage as she chopped, ground, mixed, simmered, stirred, and triumphantly proffered to Snape their most efficacious brew to date. Instead, she'd been taxed to the very brink of her Potions ability, grown sweaty and anxious, and had the entire lab to clean...not to mention spider legs to remove from her jeans...before she could adjourn to the infirmary.

She undertook the task with renewed vigor once she'd imagined Snape lying back in his hospital bed, insufferably bored and in pain. She'd stopped by briefly between Arithmancy and Defense Against the Dark Arts in the hope of obtaining an updated prognosis from Madam Pomfrey, but the matron had been too busy with various minor injuries to speak with her. Sorely disappointed, Hermione had plodded through her remaining classes in an anticipatory haze, thinking only of the moment she would be able to escape to the dungeons.

She scrubbed industriously, ensuring that all of Snape's equipment was left in pristine condition. Before leaving, she found herself placing a reverent hand against one of the beautiful, polished work tables, allowing its perpetually cool surface to calm her skin. She loved his laboratory. Though she dreaded to think of him in pain, forced to give up his professional research, she tried to bolster her hopes by envisioning him as a healthier, hardier man, able to resume the experimentation that he loved. His Master's work, when she'd read it surreptitiously, had reflected a mind deeply enamored of the creative flow of research. His physical disabilities sickened her, but the thought of his mental faculties so hemmed in by years of exhaustion was, to Hermione, heartrending.

She shook her head forcefully and gathered up her things after casting a few hasty cleansing spells on her clothes and refastening the elastic band restraining her irrepressible hair. Dwelling on the unfortunate aspects of his situation would accomplish nothing. Exhaling and turning on her heel, Hermione headed toward the infirmary.

-------

The unusually dim lighting that greeted her as she stepped inside was her first warning that Snape couldn't possibly be in residence any longer. He'd been the only bedridden patient as of that morning, she recalled, hurrying down the aisle. She nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to maneuver around the divider that remained erected beside what had been his bed; but when she turned the corner breathlessly, ready to hand him the vial, she found that the sheets had been changed and pressed for the next occupant.

Hermione frowned, her heart rate increasingly slightly. Had he worsened? Had Madam Pomfrey, lacking the wherewithal to continue treating him, sent him to St. Mungo's?

"Hello?" she called, trying to contain the wave of panic roiling through her stomach. "Madam Pomfrey? Hello? Where is...?"

"Goodness, my dear, you're here late," the mediwitch said, emerging from her office. She was, Hermione was rather surprised to note, wearing semi-casual clothes, a long skirt and a simple blouse. Her usual coat was nowhere to be seen. "I'm terribly sorry," she continued, wiping her spectacles on the soft material of her blouse and blinking rapidly at Hermione. "I'd only just put out the lights. I'm about to leave. Are you looking for Severus?"

"Yes," Hermione said immediately, her mind latching on to the other woman's effortless use of his given name. Severus. She wanted so badly to be able to walk into a room and say his name herself, appropriately and unhindered by formalities.

"I discharged him about an hour ago," Madam Pomfrey elaborated, hands perched on her hips. Her nose was wrinkled in the early stages of irritation. "No one likes to be stuck in here, naturally, but he does get dreadfully restless. That man can be downright intolerable when he wants to be. Why don't you stop by his rooms? I suspect he's catching up with the work he's missed."

Hermione agreed that this was logical and headed for the dungeons once again, her pace hastened even more. The thought of entering Snape's chambers was no longer as bizarre and forbidding as it had once been, but it remained as thrilling. She knew she ought to keep her imagination under tight rein, but it was difficult not to entertain the delicious thought of him leaning back in his armchair, relaxed and seductive, fortified at last by the healing potion over which she'd slaved for hours.

He's ill, she reminded herself. She had to respect that, rather than get ahead of herself. Professor Flitwick had been all too happy to stop by earlier and repeat the incantations, but even he had seen fit to warn her not to invest too much hope in their efforts. She feared that her desperation, and perhaps a fair bit of delusion, was beginning to show on her face.

Arriving at his office, which she'd decided to check, she found it locked. Satisfied that she was committing no act of impropriety by calling at his private rooms, she hurried thence and stood before the door, steeling herself. She was just raising her hand to its surface when it flew open suddenly, revealing the startled but obliging countenance of one of the kitchen house-elves.

"Good evening, Miss!" the elf squeaked, cocking its disproportionately large head to the side. Hermione peered at the creature, obviously female, and was startled to realize that it was Winky. She was amazed by the graciousness with which the previously suspicious elf was treating her. "Winky is just giving Professor Snape his supper, but if you is wanting something as well..."

"No, no, that's fine," Hermione said with alacrity, peering past the elf into the hallway beyond. She couldn't afford to get tied up in conversation when Snape was probably awaiting the potion with increasing vexation. Shadows played across the richly colored floor, exactly as she remembered, and the faintest of breezes stirred the tapestry. She nervously took in the light emanating from his living room, obviously occupied.

"Is Miss sure? We has been very busy in the kitchens this evening making a wonderful roast..."

"I've already eaten, but thank you so much anyway," Hermione managed to say, biting her lip. Really, if she didn't learn to keep that unfortunate habit under control, Snape was going to become all too accustomed to the sight of her with chronically dry, ragged lips, hardly an inviting or attractive trait.

Winky persisted, speaking rapidly in her childlike voice. Hermione was just beginning to wonder how she would ever manage to extricate herself politely when Snape's voice rang out sonorously from the living room.

"Allow the student in, please."

"Yes, Professor!" Winky squawked, stepping aside to allow Hermione to pass. Hermione couldn't stand what she perceived to be the crushed look of failure marring the elf's features, so she leaned down and murmured to her softly,

"If you'd like to send over two servings of dessert later, I'd be happy to convince the professor to have something with me."

Winky's brown eyes grew enormously wide. "But Miss, Professor Snape is never touching sweets. He is very particular; he eats so little..."

"Then we must show him what he's missing out on, mustn't we?" Hermione returned sotto voce, smiling. Winky began to nod slowly, sensing the creation of a covert bond between the two of them.

"Yes, Miss," she agreed with a growing smile. "We is fattening the professor up a bit. He needs it, Miss."

Hermione nearly choked on the laugh that rose in the back of her throat. "Yes he does! Will you help me, Winky? Whenever the professor and I are together, we must be sure to get him to eat something. Do you think you can do that?"

"Oh, yes, Miss! Winky is sending over two servings of dessert later, Miss, just as you say, Miss."

"And be sure to make one of the servings extra large, Winky," Hermione whispered, craning her neck toward the living room. Somehow, the currents of warm air escaping from his fireplace actually carried Snape's rapidly mounting impatience.

Sure enough, Winky had barely a second in which to smile broadly at Hermione and vigorously nod her head before Snape called imperiously, "If you insist on being present in my residence, Miss Granger, do have the common courtesy not to skulk in shadows. What is it you want?"

Hermione hurried away, giving Winky a hasty little wave so as not to allow the shadow she cast along the corridor to reveal their sudden friendliness. Her eyes brightened by her secret mission, Winky disappeared.

Turning into the living room, Hermione beheld her professor seated in his armchair, the sleeves of his frock coat rolled up and a small glass of liquor within easy reach, precisely the tableau she'd imagined. He was also...she was profoundly relieved to note...tucking into a rather overlarge plate of roast beef, steamed vegetables, potatoes, and creamy squash soup. In the cracking firelight she could almost imagine him content and relaxed, even if not a happy person by nature.

"I'm so thrilled to see that your appetite has returned, sir," she ventured warmly, holding up the vial. "I've brought the..."

"I have no appetite, Miss Granger. It was simply an attempt to alleviate the stomach pains that seem to accompany every variant of this particular potion. Hand it over, if you please."

Trying not to feel stung, Hermione approached quickly and took a seat across from him. His gaze passed over her in only a cursory fashion, but she suddenly wished that she'd changed into more formal school attire. The firelight flickering along the exposed skin of her forearms made her feel tremendously self-conscious.

On further inspection, she noticed with chagrin that he'd been piercing and rearranging the food before him more so than actually eating it. "Have you eaten enough, sir?" she asked, momentarily withholding the vial. Snape's eyes narrowed.

"I have ingested as much as I wish to. I repeat, I will take the potion."

"I really think you should eat more, sir," she said, tucking the vial into her school bag, bulging with the aforementioned Transfiguration review materials, and withdrawing the parchment on which she'd been keeping her clinical notes. "In fact, Madam Pomfrey mentioned that I ought to have been keeping detailed records of your eating and drinking patterns anyhow."

If looks could exert physical force, Hermione was certain she'd have been pinned to the opposite wall like a helpless piece of stuffed taxidermy. Snape was now positively glowering at her, in between sending dark looks in the direction of her school bag.

"Madam Pomfrey means well," he ground out through clenched teeth, "but I haven't all the time in the world. I wish to take the potion and be done with it."

Mustering her courage, Hermione crossed her legs and leaned back into the unexpectedly plush surface of his sofa. "I'm afraid I have to insist that you finish your dinner, sir."

"Impertinent Gryffindor," he growled. "You will hand over the vial, Miss Granger, or I shall shortly begin subtracting House points."

"I'm adhering to Madam Pomfrey's express instructions, sir."

"Five points from Gryffindor."

"She was adamant that you need to keep up your strength."

"Ten points from Gryffindor."

"Nourishment is important, sir," she retorted, feeling her anger mount. She sounded condescending, she knew, and her tone bordered on insubordinate. She felt her face beginning to flush as she wondered whether he was thinking uncharitable...though rightly deserved...thoughts about her own level of nourishment. "You've clearly had a difficult time..."

"Fifty points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger. Would you care to make it one hundred?"

"I just want to be as thorough as we possibly can..."

"How many points are you willing to sacrifice?" His voice was so deep and quiet as to be nearly a menacing whisper. Hermione replied instantaneously and with a bravado that shocked even her.

"All of them."

Snape closed his mouth, his lips twisting in an unattractive sneer.

"I'll send Gryffindor into debt if I must, sir, and risk the others' displeasure. I'll earn them back with the most vile detentions you can come up with. I don't care. If all our hard work is to pay off and allow you to heal, then you must eat something. Please."

The ire drained from him slowly, visibly. The long, sallow fingers that had been twitching in his lap slowly resumed the action of lifting food to his mouth with his fork. Hermione felt her mouth split into an enormous smile, amazed that she'd won the argument.

"If it helps, sir," she added wickedly, "you can feel free to curse me between bites."

Snape stopped in mid-chew, and she wondered if she'd finally crossed the line, but he simply shook his head in exasperation and then swallowed. As the food incrementally disappeared from his plate, Hermione's feeling of victory multiplied. The silence stretched between them until he'd literally scraped the plate clean with his fork and leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms.

She gulped and reached for the vial. He'd won, really: she'd forced him to eat, but she was positive that his watchful gaze had taken in the way she'd traced the shape of his shoulders and chest with her eyes.

Damn, she thought, furious and mortified, as his own eyes crinkled slightly in amusement. Handing over the vial, she patiently recorded in her notes what he'd consumed as he uncorked, tipped back, and drank the contents.

"Does it taste any different?" she asked as tonelessly as possible, beginning with the requisite data collection.

"Mildly. The aroma differs as well."

Hermione looked up, slightly alarmed. "It does? Does that indicate contamination of some kind? I was very conscientious..."

"To the point of aggravation to any and all who helped you, I'm sure," he grumbled. "No, Miss Granger, it does not necessarily indicate contamination. There are interactions taking place in this particular formulation which were absent from the others. Some alteration in its taste and aroma is not necessarily indicative of errors or contamination."

Momentarily reassured, Hermione recorded his response and moved to the next question. "Since the previous batch, did you notice improvement in any of your symptoms?" She felt stupid asking the question since clearly the potion had not offered him much in the way of protection against his terrifying collapse and the resulting organ dysfunction.

"Yes."

She looked up, eyes wide and hopeful.

"I spent rather more time asleep."

Hermione's quill was poised mid-stroke above her parchment, dripping ink. She sat paralyzed until the very corner of his mouth twitched, and then he dissolved into chuckles.

"That really isn't funny!" she protested, but he quirked an eyebrow at her, and she was forced to crack a smile as well.

"The outcome of this venture may not be as positive as you've dared to hope, Miss Granger. You and I both know that. If I cannot laugh at my own expense..." He trailed off, shrugging.

"You had me going there for a minute," she told him, lightly scolding. "I was hoping you'd tell me there was some genuine improvement."

"Would it mean so terribly much to you if there had been?"

The quiet, intense quality of his question caught her off guard. "Of course," she exclaimed, the teasing undertones of her voice dissipating entirely. "I would be thrilled if I thought it helped you at all, sir."

Snape's gaze found its way to the wall just above her head. "Very well. If you insist on having all pertinent information...and I shall not be held responsible for how deeply you regret knowing this...then I am obligated to inform you that I have experienced some..."

Hermione raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to finish. He seemed to be struggling with the most appropriate euphemism, she realized.

"Physical improvements."

"In what way?" she asked briskly, preparing to group her observations loosely into organ systems, as Madam Pomfrey had instructed.

Snape glared at her. "Is that not sufficient cause for hope? Must I degrade myself further?"

"Sir, there's nothing degrading..." She choked. "Oh. I see. That is, I think I see. Would you... be willing to elaborate, or would you prefer to discuss this with Madam Pomfrey?"

Hermione thought she'd handled it about as well and as professionally as could be expected. She strove to keep her countenance neutral while her mind, dirty and disobedient as always, raced with the thought of what he might be alluding to. Madam Pomfrey had said that sexual health and energies were among the most transformative in the body. His collapse had been a gigantic setback, to be sure, but if he had noticed a lessening of his sexual dysfunction...

Might the long road to healing be within view?

Hermione blushed furiously and coughed. The tables, she was dissatisfied to note, seemed to have turned in her professor's favor; having said his uncomfortable piece, he was now watching her with speculative amusement.

"I have already informed her of the changes," he was saying. His tone was no different than if he'd been dictating the ingredients of a rudimentary first-year potion, but she sensed that he, too, was aware of the shared tension strung between them.

Hermione nodded, rather too emphatically. "Then I'm sure she'll keep me updated. She's been very good about it so far, updating my notes whenever you've contacted her. As for Saturday, I've already told her that I'll be sure to keep her apprised of the results once we add the final ingredient..."

She ducked her head, trying to put a halt to her rambling, and tucked her notes back into her bag. "I should go," she was saying, "to do some review for Transfiguration," when, with a delightful pop, two heaping plates of chocolate mousse appeared on the table before them.

Snape regarded his dessert with all the enthusiasm he would have shown for a plate of decomposing logs. Hermione, torn between the ardent desire to feed and strengthen him and the telltale heat and pulsing in her lower abdomen...she needed to escape his gaze, immediately...sat, rooted to the spot.

"A highly unusual occurrence," Snape remarked silkily, "the appearance of dessert in my quarters." Hermione's face flamed, and she feigned interest in retying the frayed laces of her shoes. "It is not something in which I usually indulge."

"Perhaps you ought to broaden your horizons, Professor."

"Perhaps you'd care for some dessert, Miss Granger."

Hermione met his eyes levelly, understanding the challenge. She thought that she and Winky had been relatively quiet, but clearly they hadn't been fooling anyone: he knew perfectly well that she'd arranged with Winky for the helpings of dessert to be sent to his room, and he wasn't about to eat unless she remained there, enduring the latent discomfort of his revelations.

"I think I could manage that, sir."

She picked up her fork slowly but refused to bring it to her lips until he'd taken his first bite. Later, pounding her head into the pillows in frustration, desperate to be able once again to concentrate unimpeded on her Transfiguration review, she would recall that the sight of his dark eyes dilated with the pleasure of eating dessert ought to be outlawed for the safety of witches everywhere.