Chapter Text
Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to the incomparable J. K. Rowling.
Hermione spent her weekend deep in her work in an effort to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room. She battled her way through her morning runs by focusing on her feet. Luckily, Professor Snape tended to ignore her unless he'd had at least one cup of tea. A cold shower afterwards left her shivering in her jeans and over-sized jumper but at least it killed off any … distraction. She told herself it would be easier when she was back in lessons, that things would get back to normal.
Except they didn't. She still ran, ignored Ron, attended classes, did her homework, and studied horcruxes from the privacy of her bed, but she also squirmed her way through her Defence lessons and found it difficult to ignore her throbbing centre when she doused the lights each night. Her first lesson had been almost unbearable. He'd slammed his way into the classroom, just like the Thornton-Snape of her dreams, and commanded silence from the room. Just listening to him speak, his low voice dripping with a sensuality she'd never heard there before, raised the hair on her arms and filled her belly with a liquid heat. At one point, she'd been worried about spontaneously bursting into flame. Only the threat of people discovering her ability kept her in check.
No matter how listening to him, watching the fluid grace of his movements, or feeling the heat of his gaze made her feel, she managed to give no outward indication of what she was going through. She still raised her hand to answer any and all questions, she still paid meticulous attention to her homework, and she continued to ask questions when she deemed them necessary. All the practice she'd had of late had definitely had a positive impact on her acting skills.
Severus was pretty sure that something was different about Hermione Granger. He couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly had happened, but her eyes seemed brighter, her attention fiercer, and her gaze more intense. On one of their morning runs, he'd thought she'd carried the unmistakable scent of arousal with her. Had she made up with the Weasley brat? Was she seeing someone else? He kept his ears open for any hint of gossip and his eyes scanned the Great Hall for her at every meal. All-the-while, he kept telling himself that he was merely curious, that he didn't care a whit if she was seeing someone or not.
Encased in his fragile cocoon of denial he shuffled his way into February. Though his teaching workload was lighter than in previous years (it was remarkable how drastically reduced teaching preparation time was when you weren't teaching eleven-year-olds how to brew substances that were one slip-up away from becoming dangerous), the rest of his work was more demanding than ever. His Head of House duties had been increasing ever since the Dark Lord revealed himself at the Ministry, families, even in Slytherin, were being torn apart left, right, and centre. And, in order to do this tearing, the Dark Lord kept his Death Eaters busy. There was lots of eavesdropping and sabotaging to be done, as well as brewing the fussy and volatile potions His Evilness found himself needing. And the less said about Albus's wants and needs, the better. Severus Snape was done in.
It was the end of a very long day and he was curled up on his couch with Butch's head in his lap. He was almost falling asleep, his hand automatically rubbing in the figure eights she liked over her muzzle when his left arm jerked, and a burning pain shot up and down his forearm. Well, fuck. Did it really have to be now? He stood up from the couch, disturbing Butch as little as possible, and kicked over the empty wine bottle that had been standing on the floor. He hadn't drunk the whole bottle, but he'd made his way through a fair chunk of it. Double fuck.
He went through the motions. Digging out his cloak and mask from their hidden place in the wardrobe, winding his way through the dungeons to the little-known side door, and marching across the grounds as quickly as possible. He was still one of last to arrive as he popped into the Dark Lord's midst. He knelt, bowed, and kissed, before retreating back-first as though he was standing in the presence of royalty and not an evil megalomaniac with illusions of grandeur. It wasn't long before the circle was completely filled with Grim Reaper lookalikes.
"My faithful servants," Severus resisted the wine-fuelled urge to snort, "it's such a pleasure to see you all gathered here this evening. I would like to thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedules to join me." As though they hadn't been summoned by a burning brand and that not responding would mean death. "We have many important matters to attend to, the first being an initiation. Mr Zabini, step forward." A tall figure stepped from the shadows and into the centre of the circle. How in the name of Merlin had Severus not known about this? How did he get out of the castle? How did he lose another one? Zabini knelt before the Dark Lord, bowing to kiss the hem of his robes before settling back on his knees. Severus hoped the ground was soft, his knees would creak for weeks after a good bout of prostration. "Do you, Blaise Zabini, turn your back on the authorities that seek to control you, and promise to serve me in their stead?"
"I do." Zabini's voice was firm.
"Do you swear to obey me?"
"I do."
"Do you swear to devote yourself fully to our Cause?"
"I do."
"And do you swear, should it be asked of you, to sacrifice your life for our Cause?" There was the briefest of hesitations before Zabini spoke again.
"I do."
"Present your arm." Zabini exposed his dark arm to the elbow and presented it to his lord, his right hand supporting it from below. The Dark Lord touched his pale wand to the soft, unmarked flesh and began to hiss in the Parseltongue Severus remembered from his own initiation and all the intervening ones. An inky blackness spewed forth from the tip of the Dark Lord's wand and Zabini began to shake. Severus remembered his own marking like it was yesterday, he'd never felt such pain before. It had been as though there was too much blood in his body, the pressure almost unbearable. After about ten seconds, Zabini began whimpering. Severus very much doubted that the boy had ever had to face anything approaching discomfort in his young life. Severus was one of the few he knew that had managed to remain silent. The one and only time he'd been glad for his father. The whimper turned into a high-pitched moan and Severus watched the Dark Lord's mouth split into a thin, stretched smile. Eventually, the hissing stopped, and Zabini collapsed on the forest floor, stilling into unconsciousness.
"Everyone, welcome your new comrade," the Dark Lord, opening his arms wide in mock-welcome. The Death Eaters surged forward to kick or spit on their new "comrade." Severus contented himself with a quick spit, that conveniently happened to miss. He moved back into his place in the circle and watched in disgust as someone actually pissed on Zabini. This behaviour was used to discourage weakness among the ranks. The results of unconsciousness were not something people wanted to experience again if they could possibly help it.
"Enough!" the Dark Lords high voice seemed to hang in the air. "Someone move him to one side." A snivelling, hunched-over form Severus recognised as Wormtail scurried forward and dragged the boy out of the centre of the circle. The man had clearly spent too long as a rat - a quick mobilicorpus would have dealt with the problem far more neatly. "We have some business to discuss and some punishment to meet out. Corban, tell me of your progress."
"The plan is running smoothly so far, my lord," came a gruff voice from the opposite side of the circle to Severus, as Yaxley stepped forward.
"And do they suspect?"
"The dolts in the MLE wouldn't suspect a person of murder if they found them standing over a body, holding a wand." Yaxley chuckled, his voice low and gravely.
"Good, you've achieved a lot in a short time, Corban, I see the results of your work scattered throughout the Daily Prophet."
"Thank you, my lord," Yaxley said with a bow and stepped back into his place.
"Severus." He stepped forward with a bow as the Dark Lord spoke his name. "How goes it for the lauded Order of the Phoenix?"
"Poorly, my lord." Severus was sure to inject the appropriate level of disdain into his voice. "The Ministry, in its infinite wisdom, has been putting security measures in place that make it difficult for the Order to act with any kind of stealth. They are being blocked at every turn. And those who actually work for the Ministry are kept so busy that they have very little time to devote to," he nearly said "Albus," but caught himself just in time, "the old man's whims. The less … upstanding … members appear to be having difficulties as well."
"That's all very general, Severus," the Dark Lord said with a sneer. Well, fuck. "Can you give me something more specific?"
"Of course, my lord. The werewolf, Remus Lupin," Wormtail flinched, "is having very little luck with the werewolves. It would appear that most of the clans are inclined to support you, my lord, as well as the isolated werewolves."
"Excellent, Severus, good news indeed. And what of Potter's mudblood? Did the order remove her parents to safety?"
"No, my lord," Severus had been asked this before. The Dark Lord seemed curiously interested in why Dolohov's attack on one-third of the Golden Trio had failed. "I have managed to find out that the Granger's are simply travelling. The mudblood," a sour taste filled his mouth, "moved to the Weasley's once her parents had left."
"But why can't we trace them?" hissed the Dark Lord.
"I'd been puzzling through that myself, my lord. I overheard a conversation a few weeks ago that suggested that the mudblood and her parents are Catholic."
"And …?" Naturally, the Dark Lord deemed muggle religions beneath his notice.
"Catholics mark themselves with holy water on entering church. I have no evidence to confirm this, but I think it's possible that the frequent application of holy water to the skin may have had the same effect as imbibing the water, as is commonly done to eradicate the residual magic of curses."
"An intriguing thought," the Dark Lord said with a nod of satisfaction, "perhaps, once sovereignty is mine, we can test this theory." The circle chuckled, amused by the prospect of cursing others for "research." "Though you have impressed me, Severus, that does not negate your failings." What failings? "I spoke with the Malfoy boy over the Christmas break, and he told me that you have been … pestering him, interrupting his work. This is not acceptable behaviour, is it?"
"No, my lord." Once again, Albus's instructions were putting him in harm's way.
"Then why would you do it?" the Dark Lord asked with a sigh. "Crucio."
Severus knew only pain. His knees buckled, and he lay prostrate on the cold, damp ground, spasms wracking his body. His muscles rapidly contracted and expanded, his nerves were on fire. He submerged himself in the cool lagoon of his mind but couldn't detach himself completely. When, at last, the spell was lifted, Severus lay there, gasping for air. A boot connected bluntly with his chest, knocking the little air he had from him. Another drove into his kidneys, a third shattered his cheekbone. And he fell into blissful oblivion.
Hermione was a little late for their morning run. Getting out of her warm bed had been a struggle this morning. Crookshanks followed her through the castle, as he often did, frequently brushing up against her jogging bottoms (leaving his orange hairs behind him) and hissing at portraits as they passed them. When she made it to the Entrance Hall, she was surprised to see that Professor Snape wasn't there. He'd never been late before. She went to the main entrance and peered outside. No sign of him nearby. She'd expected Crookshanks to rush outside and off to the forest, as was his custom, but, instead, he sat at the entrance to the dungeons, meowing at her.
"What, Crooks?" The tomcat continued to meow at her. "Not going outside?" Crookshanks demonstrably shook his head and lifted a paw to point down the stairs that led to the dungeons. "Okay, c'mon." She followed Crookshanks down the stairs into the early-morning gloom of the dungeons. Crookshanks took her through the labyrinth of corridors, eventually turning into an unlit one. "Lumos." She followed the bushy orange tail, the only part of Crookshanks that was illuminated, trying not to worry about what could be lurking in the darkness.
She squealed as she tripped over something, catching herself on the wall. She swept her wand lower, seeing a pair of feet in familiar black boots. Acting on instinct, she lit the cold torches that lined the wall, fire arching from her fingers, and dropped to her knees near Professor Snape's head.
"Professor?" She shook his shoulder gently. "Professor, can you hear me?" He looked awful, face covered in congealed blood and bruised. "Professor … Severus? Can you hear me? It's Hermione." He stirred slightly. "Severus, you're hurt. I need to get you somewhere safe." His eyes flickered open.
"Look … at … me," he gasped. Understanding almost immediately, Hermione looked him directly in his bloodshot eyes. She felt a gentle push against her mind and opened it to him. He showed himself entering his quarters from his office, uttering the password "yellow submarine." She saw the healing potions in his bathroom cabinet. Lastly, he showed her Professor Bagshot and a familiar tapestry of a cavorting griffin Hermione assumed was the entrance to her living quarters. He broke the connection, his pained presence suddenly missing from her mind, and fell back into unconsciousness.
"Okay, Granger," she took a deep breath, "get it together." She tapped herself on the head and felt the tell-tale trickling sensation of the disillusionment charm. She did the same to her unconscious professor and cast a quick mobilicorpus. "Right, Crooks, I need you to lead the way back to Professor Snape's office, okay?" The cat raised his furry eyebrows, the derision clear even on a feline face, and trotted off down the corridor. She was on edge the whole way there, no one could find them like this. It would ruin so many things for the Order, not to mention ruin Professor Snape's reputation. She jumped at shadows and small noises, but the unusual trio didn't run into anyone. The door to his office opened as she muttered the password, she kicked it closed once they were both through and repeated the process with the door to his quarters. With barely a glance around the warm and comfortable-looking living area, she found the door to the bedroom, a somewhat smaller version of the student dorms. She levitated him onto the navy-blue bedspread and was accosted by Butch as she came charging out of the bathroom.
"Hey, Butch," she stroked her gently behind the ears to calm her down, "your dad's hurt, but he'll be okay. Come on." She grabbed her collar and corralled her into the living area. "Keep her company, Crooks." Crookshanks slunk through the door just as she closed it. Back at the bed, she checked that Professor Snape was still breathing. He was, thankfully, and he didn't seem to be actively bleeding. "Expecto patronum," she cast, letting the image of her parents alive and well swell inside her. Her silver otter burst from her wand, looked to Professor Snape in concern, and then turned to her. "I need you to take a message to Professor Bagshot, okay?" The otter nodded expectantly. "Professor, it's Hermione Granger. I need you to come to Professor Snape's quarters immediately." The otter stayed in front of her for a beat before charging at the ceiling and disappearing from sight.
The bathroom was fastidiously tidy, the white tiles house-elf clean and the blessedly-silent mirror gleaming. She opened the cupboard and took a quick inventory of its contents. She located and picked up a rack of healing potions before rushing back into the bedroom. She raised his head with another pillow and gave him a series of potions, tipping them into his mouth and massaging his throat to get him to swallow each time. She felt awful rubbing at his bruised skin but persevered. She didn't know enough about healing to do much more. She used a cleaning charm on his face, revealing the mangled mess underneath. She'd never seen someone look this hurt, not outside of television and films. Feeling awkward and useless, she removed his dragonhide boots and managed to extricate him from his cloak, making something fall to the floor with a clatter. She bent down and picked up the stark, silver mask from where it had fallen under the bed and placed it on a chair by the dresser with distaste.
"Hermione?" a voice came from the living area.
"In here, Professor," she replied.
"Under the circumstances, I think Bel is fine," her professor said as she walked into the room. "Well, fuck, Sev, you're a right mess," she said to the unconscious man. "Has he come 'round at all?"
"Only briefly when I found him, he was lying on the floor further in the dungeons for god knows how long before then." She could hear panic creeping into her voice.
"I'm going to do what I can for him, we can't take him to the Hospital Wing. What did you give him?" Hermione rattled off the list of potions she'd force fed him. "Okay, that's a good start. Go stand on the opposite side of the bed and do what I say." Hermione hopped to. Professor Bagshot, or rather, Bel started muttering under her breath, running her wand over the length of his body and leaving a trail of different colours behind it. "Blue is internal bleeding." Hermione saw there were only a few spots of blue, hovering around his kidneys. "It's good that there isn't too much, the vessel repair potion you gave him should already be helping with that."
"What's the red mean?" Hermione asked. Red was everywhere.
"Fractures," Bel said with a grimace. "We'll have to go through all of them and heal them one by one."
"And the green?"
"Ulcers, we won't worry about those, they were already there."
"Already there?"
"Sev has had ulcers for as long as I've known him - too much stress, not enough spa days." Bel chuckled at her own joke.
"And the black?" Thin black wisps were spread throughout his entire body.
"That's just damage from smoking." She pointed to the thin blue lines that hovered over him, from head to foot. "Now this is the real problem, the reason he's unconscious."
"What is it?"
"Nerve damage."
"Nerve damage? From what?" She paused thoughtfully for a moment. "This is from the cruciatus curse? But that's Unforgivable!" she said with a gasp.
"Really, Hermione, you think You-Know-Who cares about whether or not a spell is Unforgivable?"
"Of course not, you're right." Hermione was a little embarrassed. "This is all so awful, I didn't really think. Do you really think You-Know-Who was the one to curse him?"
"I know he did."
"How could you possibly know that?" Hermione asked, sceptical.
"No one else would dare." A wicked grin spread across Bel's face. Hermione could definitely see the truth in that. "The internal bleeding's stopped," she indicated to the shrinking blue, "the damage is still there but we should be able to start healing him now. She traced her wand lightly over his shattered cheek, chanting soft words that Hermione didn't recognise. The red slowly began to recede. She repeated this process over one of his temples. Nodding, with a pleased look as that area of red dissolved as well.
"Now, we need to get his clothes off, it's never a good idea to heal blind. Are you any good with a severing charm?" Bel asked Hermione.
"Yes," she replied, deciding now was not the time for modesty.
"Cut down the front and then across horizontally and continue down the arms. It should just fall open if you do it properly. Hermione concentrated more fiercely than she had probably ever done and drew a careful line along the front of his frock coat. It fell apart, revealing the stark white skin, mottled with bruises beneath. She repeated the procedure horizontally and peeled off his frock coat and shirt completely. Later, she would think about the broad, firm frame he had under his robes, but for now, she was wincing as she tried to unstick his clothing from the congealed blood. She used a fresh cleansing charm and the clothing came away more easily. Bel surveyed the damage with a practical eye.
"Okay, Sev," she narrated, "Time for the hard part. Your ribs are always a bitch." Then, instead of using her wand, as Hermione had expected, Bel began to palpate the ribs with her fingers.
"What are you doing?" Hermione asked, she was ashamed how little she knew about healing. She was definitely going to need to make a trip to the library later.
"I need to make sure they haven't punctured the lungs before I heal them. I did it without once and nearly killed him."
"Does this happen a lot?" Hermione asked in horror.
"This is the first time this year," she said with a shrug, "But last year was bad. He was not in the Dark Lord's good books at all. With the regulations that Umbridge bitch had in place, he had a hard time leaving the castle on time." Bel finished feeling his ribs and stroked a lank strand of hair from his forehead affectionately. "You're gonna be the death of me, Sev." She began her song once more, low in her throat and almost continuous. She moved her wand backwards and forwards until the red had faded away completely. Bel slumped down on the bed next to him and sighed. "I'm afraid that's all we can do for him for now. Nothing really helps with the pain from nerve damage but the restorative potions will do their job over time. He's used to it."
"There's really nothing we can do?" He looked so helpless lying on the bed, his battered skin turning purple in places.
"Well, you can apply a bruise salve to the nastier bits," she pointed to a few areas around his ribs, "you'll have to turn him a little so that you can get at the damage near his kidneys. I'll go take Butch down to Hagrid for some exercise, poor girl will have been trapped inside all night." She stood up and stretched out her arms and back. "And I should probably update Albus. Can you stay with him until I get back? Much as he would hate to hear it, he really shouldn't be left alone right now."
Once Bel had gone, taking a fussing dog with her, Hermione went looking for the bruise salve. It was in the same cupboard she'd found the other potions in, labelled clearly in the handwriting she was now very familiar with. Back in the bedroom, she mentally braced herself to rub her hands over her professor. A professor she'd recently fantasised about. A professor whose name she'd gasped as she came over her own fingers. A professor who was currently injured, and who she should definitely not think about sexually right now. Or ever, really, but that ship had sailed and was cleanly over the horizon.
She unscrewed the lid from the glass jar and dipped two fingers into the lavender scented salve. The face was probably the best place to start. She rubbed it into the surface of his cheek, keeping the pressure of her fingers as light as possible, and then began to work her way down. She managed to get all the way to the waistband of his trousers without any major difficulties. She wasn't entirely sure how to go about doing his back. She settled for lifting an arm above his head and rolling him towards her slightly, holding him against her chest while she used a spare hand to rub the salve on the worst affected areas and repeated the same procedure from the other side of the bed. Once he was settled on his back once more and the salve was neatly away, she turned to the problem of what to do next. He certainly wouldn't want to wake up stripped to the waist with a student in his bedroom. She used her wand to raise him above the bed a little, realising as she did so that this would have been a far easier way to apply salve to his back, and stripped back the bedclothes. She lowered him onto the newly-revealed crisp white sheets and tucked him under the duvet.
His wand had clattered to the floor as she removed the sheets. She bent to collect it and placed it carefully on his bedside table, next to a hardback copy of Dickens's American Notes. A flick of her wand transformed a small wooden stool into a squashy armchair, she didn't want to use the chair she'd placed the mask on, and she settled down to read his book, careful not to knock out his placeholder. Crookshanks eventually butted the partially closed door open and slunk into the room, jumping on to the bed and sniffing at Severus (it was going to be difficult to think of him as Professor Snape after tucking him into bed) before settling on Hermione's lap, poking and prodding at her until she was in a position he found comfortable.
Bel was gone for several chapters, but she returned bringing the smell of strong coffee and bacon sandwiches with her. She called Hermione through to the living area. She finally took a proper look at the cosy space for the first time. The couch and armchairs were of the squashy, brown leather variety. Bookshelves lined the entirety of the wall opposite the fire. There was a small, round dining table with four chairs, a muggle chessboard at its centre. There were large windows on either side of the fireplace, enchanted to look across the sloping lawns that led from the castle to the lake. A large wicker dog-basket was tucked close to the fire, which the house elves had been in to light, and it was piled high with various blankets and the occasional chew toy.
Bel was sitting on the couch, laying their breakfast on the coffee table that, judging from the scuff marks, often served as a footrest. Hermione chose an armchair with a stack of journals resting on its arm and sank into its comforting embrace. It was a much better chair than anything she had ever managed to transfigure.
"How's he doing?" Bel asked, mouth half-full of bacon sandwich.
"The same," Hermione said with a shrug.
"He'll probably be out for a few more hours."
"How did you learn to heal like that?" Hermione asked, the more she thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed to her that they didn't learn any practical first aid in school. It was especially ridiculous given the times they were living in.
"My mother taught me," her teacher replied quietly, her voice oddly weak. "We bounced around a lot when I was a kid and … yeh … sometimes healing came handy." Hermione thought it best to abandon that avenue of pursuit for now.
"How long have you been in the Order?" She hoped this would be a safer topic.
"Since the first war, I joined a year or so before Sev." Her voice seemed back to normal. "I was just starting to make a name for myself in Magical Theory and I was headhunted by both sides. I joined the Order and Albus wanted to make me into a spy. I flat out refused. I'm a terrible liar, I'd have been dead in an instant. Sev joined a year later - I was one of the lucky few to be told. Well, I accidentally eavesdropped so they brought me in on it properly. You-Know-Who's displeasure became particularly vicious toward the end of the war. I'd be terrified for his life each time he was called. He'd come back an absolute mess. He was much lower ranking back then, and no way near as intimidating as he is nowadays. He was just a kid, really, we all were." She trailed off, staring into her coffee.
"It must have been so hard." Hermione wasn't sure what else to say.
"No harder than it is for you guys now, I guess, I can't imagine trying to get through school with this kind of threat looming over everyone."
"It is hard to worry about your NEWTs when you're worried about people's lives, but we have to keep going, we have to carry on as though there's going to be an after. Otherwise, what's the bloody point in fighting?" Riled up and angry about the hurt Voldemort was forcing people to live through, the fear they had to deal with, and the heartbreak they had to suffer, Hermione felt uncomfortably hot. She stripped off the hooded sweatshirt she was wearing and filled a glass with water from the sideboard. She felt as though she might burst into flames at any moment.
"Where did you get that scar, Hermione?" She whirled around to face her professor.
"What scar?" He hand went up to her collar-bone, the strappy top she was wearing insufficient for keeping it covered. She hadn't let anyone see her scar since Professor Snape had examined it at her parents' house. It was puckered, purple, and angry-looking. She normally tried to ignore it, forcing her attention elsewhere when it was exposed. "Oh," she continued lamely. "This was a gift from Antonin Dolohov. Why?"
"I have one very similar." Bel unbuttoned her robes to the waist and lifted the vest top she was wearing beneath, exposing her midriff. It was covered in a delicate network of tattoos, spanning from below her belly button and creeping upwards until it disappeared under her vest. Flowers, animals, trees, and runes were woven together to form an intricate, undulating tapestry.
"Wow, that's beautiful," Hermione didn't have any experience with wizarding tattoos, but she could tell this one was exceptional.
"The skin is still warped underneath, but the art means you can't even tell if you look closely." She prodded at her stomach, pushing what looked like a hippogriff out of the way of one of the ridges of scar tissue.
"Why did you get it covered?" Hermione asked.
"I was fed up of the pitying looks I was getting from the people who saw it." Hermione flushed at thought of who would have seen it in that location. "I didn't mind the way it looked so much, it's a badge of survival, but I hated the looks I was getting. My friend's a tattoo artist in Diagon Alley, it seemed like a logical step."
"I am worried about what people will think when they see it, so far, the only people who have are you and Professor Snape. And Madam Pomfrey, of course, she was the one who healed it in the first place. Do you think I should get mine covered?" she asked, curious.
"Only you can decide that. If you feel as though it would improve your quality of life, it's worth considering." Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "If you do decide you want to do something about it, let me know and I'll introduce you to my friend."
"Thanks, I appreciate it." Bel looked at the clock on the mantlepiece and stood up with a sigh. "I have errands to run for the headmaster, are you okay to stay here with Sev? At least until he wakes up?"
"Of course," Hermione was itching to get back to American Notes.
"Send me a patronus if you need me, your otter is adorable, even at daft AM in the morning." And then she was gone and Hermione settled back in her transfigured armchair, occasionally glancing at Severus, and reading his book.
Severus was warm and comfortable, and reasonably pain-free given the night he'd had. He remembered only flashes of the rest of the meeting; he remembered apparating, and he remembered falling against something cold and hard. None of this accounted for his current position. He flexed his toes, pleased to find that they seemed to be working; his fingers were in order too, a little stiff, but movable. There was the usual after-pain from the cruciatus, but he'd been given his nerve-restorative potion. Bel had clearly found him.
Though he was aware of himself, he was struggling with his surroundings. Not a good position to be in his line of work. He heard distant sounds, echoing inside his skull but nothing coherent. He tried opening his eyes; they felt heavy like they were gummed shut. He rubbed at them, amazed that his hands and arms were cooperating properly. The sounds started again. Was that his name?
"Severus?" The echoing coalesced into a single voice. He tried his eyes again, blinking against the harsh light of the room. "Severus, can you hear me?" That was definitely not Bel.
"Her- Hermione?" he asked, unsure and voice cracking.
"Yes, sir," she responded, coming over to his bedside. She produced a glass of water, a metal straw already in place, and helped him to sip. The cool liquid flooded his mouth, tasting like life itself. He pulled himself into a sitting position and gulped down the rest of the water greedily. He slumped back afterwards, already exhausted.
"What day is it?" he asked her, voice smoother than before.
"It's Saturday, sir," she looked at her watch, "Just after lunch."
"Where's Bel? How did I get here?" he was beyond confused. "And Butch? Where's Butch?"
"Butch is fine, sir," Hermione's voice was calm and soothing, not a hint of her occasional shrillness. "She's spending the day with Hagrid and Fang, she'll get lots of exercise." He was about to repeat his first two questions when she continued. "Bel is running some errands for Professor Dumbledore, she'll be back before long."
"And how did I get here?"
"Crookshanks found you."
"That beast of yours?" he asked, incredulous.
"Yes. And he's not a beast. I'm always perfectly nice about your pet, I'd appreciate it if you'd offer mine the same courtesy." She snapped in the tone he had come to associate with the way she spoke to Potter when he was being particularly dense. He did not want to examine why he was so familiar with her habits and mannerisms because, deep down, he knew the answer was totally unacceptable. "When you didn't show up for our run, he insisted on leading me into the dungeons, into an unlit area I've never seen before. You were collapsed on the floor and unconscious. I managed to bring you round enough for you to give me some instructions; you showed me a few images of what I should do. I disillusioned us both and levitated you here, sent a patronus to Bel, and then pumped you full of healing potions. She healed the fractures and the potions took care of the rest." She finished with a shrug.
"Well, thank you, Miss Granger. It would appear that I'm in your debt."
"Forget about it," she said with a shrug. "It's not like you haven't saved my life on multiple occasions."
She did have a point there.
"Why did you stay?" he asked, her continued presence was definitely the most confusing aspect of the whole affair.
"It was fascinating watching Bel work," she replied. Ever the know-it-all. He tried to ignore the pang of disappointment. "And …" she trailed off.
"And?" he asked, a small bubble of hope expanding in his chest. She visibly steeled herself.
"And … I didn't want to leave you. I didn't want you to have to wake up alone and confused. I want you to know that I'm here for you." She said it all a little fast, but he understood. She cared … about him. It was, quite frankly, baffling. She may have none of the irritating feelings he had been developing since he visited her parents' house, but she cared.
It was enough.