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The Quickening	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 32428 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
A/N – I didn’t want to draw out the agony so I thought I would try to update quickly.
Trelweny – I was delighted to receive your review. For some reason it didn’t turn up on the site but came through email. Not sure what happened there. Hoping I haven’t missed others the same way.
Anyway, I’m really pleased you’re enjoying the story despite your original misgivings about the content.
I loved your sleepy rant about JKR knocking off our favourite characters. I was devastated when Snape died too – my favourite by far. I hope that I’m bringing him back in a slightly credible way. I trust that you will find this chapter brings a little relief. :)
Oracle Obscured – I loved Merry Christmas Galvanismus! It cracked me up. Yes it wasn’t much of a Christmas present I agree. This chapter is intended to bring a little satisfaction. Short and, hopefully, sweet.
Chapter 17
Hermione wasn’t fooled by the pretty kaleidoscope of lights that danced on the ceiling directly above her head. Everything was wrong. The room was wrong. The sounds were wrong. The light was wrong. Her head feeling like a cracked egg was definitely wrong. And where was Severus?
She tried sitting up too quickly and the nausea surged, her gravelly throat constricting as she attempted to swallow. She was so desperately thirsty. Her slitted gaze took in the stark whiteness of the walls. It was the infirmary. She was in one of the isolation rooms—isolated.
What had happened? Her memories were scattered and seemed to be actively resisting her attempts to impose order. She slowly dragged an arm out from under the covers. Not only did her limbs feel like they were moving through custard but she had been firmly cocooned in multiple layers of starched white sheets—a definite sign that Madam Pomfrey had been tending to her.
Where was Severus? She rubbed her eyes and her fingers ran into an unfamiliar gauzy wrapping, before trailing further over the lumpy pad of a head dressing. She couldn’t remember hitting her head. When had she done that? Frowning, she squinted out the window at the fans of golden sunlight that framed the distant trees—it was morning. How was it morning already? Her swimming thoughts coalesced momentarily and she remembered something. A different light. A blueish light of some sort. Like lightning but . . .
It hit her with a jolt. The curse! Severus! The poison! He was dying. Was he dead? Did he die? Shit!
She kicked frantically at the suffocating sheets, trying to pull free. Let me fucking go!
Shrieking in frustration, she finally disentangled herself and slipped down onto the icy floor.
Her stiff hospital gown bulged around her like a malformed marshmallow, as she wobbled unsteadily toward the door. It seemed to take an eternity, her numb toes not helping in the least. With a final lurch, she fell heavily against the dark wood, sucking in air to try to still her spinning head and quell the nausea that had risen to her throat. She waited a few moments until she felt marginally better before turning the handle and stepping out. Severus’ room was next door. The door was closed.
Her hand shook as she reached toward the handle. No, no, no, no, no. Her mind was a constant loop of denial. She grasped the cold metal and turned.
Never before had she been more relieved to see Madam Pomfrey’s scowl.
“Hermione. You shouldn’t be up!”
The mediwitch stood from where she had been holding a cloth to Severus’ brow and walked briskly over to put an arm around Hermione.
“You had a bad fall. You need rest. Not to be tottering around like a newborn deer.”
But Hermione wasn’t listening, she was focused intently on the pale form lying in the bed.
“Is he . . .”
Madam Pomfrey sighed, not because it was a silly question—he had been as close to death as she had ever seen a man—but because she had found that feigned irritability was a good antidote to overwhelming emotions, which often caused more damage to her patients than physical injuries.
“He’s alive,” she said, guiding Hermione slowly toward the bed.
“I administered the healing potions and blood cleansers throughout the night. He’s stable now. Hopefully out of danger. But he has a lot of healing to do. And of course, who knows what sort of permanent damage there might be. Only time will tell.”
Hermione’s eyes didn’t leave him as she forged on, finally grasping the bar and leaning on it to look at him. His face had aged ten years. The poison had ravaged him and left him barely living. A shell.
She felt so guilt ridden that she wanted to turn from his ruined body and run away. To pretend that the whole thing had been some horrific dream. But running was out of the question—both physically and emotionally. She wasn’t very good at pretending. She had no choice but to face up to what had happened. To what she had been part of. And seeing him here in front of her was the most tangible reminder she could have.
“Madam Pomfrey, can you please bring my bed in here. I need to watch him recover.”
The mediwitch was prepared with a sigh but the look on Hermione’s face told her it wouldn’t even be heard.
She squeezed the fragile girl’s shoulder gently before leaving the room.
“Severus,” Hermione whispered, grasping his limp hand in hers. “I didn’t mean it when I told you we had no future together. I had to say it, otherwise the curse would have remained with you and the whole thing would have been for nothing. It broke my heart to say it. Please believe me. I trust that you accept me as I am. All those things in me that I can’t even accept myself. And you do make me feel complete. I think we could be good together. I have learnt a lot about myself in this last couple of weeks and, even with the curse, I was willing to accept you. Perhaps, once all this is over, we can get to know each other properly. We might even grow together. Heal together. I know I’m willing to try.”
She smoothed his hair back with one hand and half expected him to nuzzle into her. He loved to be nurtured, even if he would never admit it. But he remained motionless. For now, she just needed to be grateful that he was alive. It would do her no good to expect anything more.
Madam Pomfrey returned, wheeling the bed, and placed it parallel to his so Hermione could lie and watch him. And this is how she spent the next day and a half. Dozing on and off. Dreaming of him in between. Watching for signs of recovery as Madam Pomfrey floated in and out, administering potion after potion.
She reached the point where she had recovered sufficiently to be able to leave the infirmary herself, the only visible reminder of her role in the exorcism, a peppering of red grazes on her forehead.
When her bed was removed from his room, she pulled up a chair and continued to watch. She left him only once to gather a bag of clean clothes, books and toiletries. A second brief departure was when she enjoyed the most heavenly shower in his bathroom after days of lying in bed. Even her meals were brought in by the house-elves, allowing her to spend every moment with him.
But the time she looked most forward to was immediately after Madam Pomfrey completed her rounds, when she would crawl up onto his bed and lie next to him. She didn’t want to place any extra burden on his over-taxed body so she lay by his side, just beneath his arm-pit, curled up. There she would read, write or just doze—feeling, rather than watching, his recovery. Her whole body was tuned in to him and she could sense his gradual improvement.
It was at the end of the third day, when she was lying next to him reading a book about combined charms that she felt a strange tickle in her hair. She absent-mindedly brushed it away as she continued to read. It came again, more insistently, and she reached up quickly, wondering if some bug was hoping to use her curls as a nest. But it wasn’t a bug. It was a warm, soft hand, stroking her gently.
She squeaked and rolled over, his face contorting as she accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.
“Severus!”
His eyes remained closed but the ghost of a smile curled the corner of his lips.
“Oh Gods! Severus!”
She slid up on her knees so she could lean in closer to him. His eyebrows twitched slightly and the muscles in his jaw flexed as he seemed to be trying to communicate. Placing a trembling hand on his cheek, she gave a tearful smile.
“I'm so glad you’re back,” she murmured, stroking him gently.
He groaned and pulled feebly against his binds, clearly forgetting that he was still shackled in his bed. She reached out for his hand so he didn’t need to move.
“I missed you.”
He squeezed her hand gently in return, holding it for a moment before his head fell to the side and he lost consciousness again.
She was so relieved and grateful that she sat stroking him, smiling at the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was going to be alright. She hoped to God that he wouldn’t suffer any permanent losses. She wanted him to be the same. The Snape that she had come to know over the past days. Although, admittedly, she wasn’t confident which parts of his personality were influenced by the curse and which parts were native Snape. But, most of all, she hoped that the curse would be gone.
Hermione remained with him, like an unusually attentive cat, even through Madam Pomfrey’s rounds, where the older woman worked methodically around her. She had watched Hermione’s progressive migration toward her patient over the preceding days and decided that it was the best thing for both of them.
Hours later, Hermione was lying on her back next to him, one leg crossed over the other, a wizarding crossword against her knee, when he suddenly cleared his throat. She jumped and twisted around and was shocked to see his eyes were open, a sleepy smile on his lips.
Hermione could only smile in return.
“So you’ve taken to sharing my bed have you?” His gravelly voice rumbled up from the depths of his lungs.
Hermione’s grin grew. This was a good sign. A bit of teasing. That was definitely classic Snape.
“Well your company has been less than stimulating,” she rolled onto her stomach. “So it was safer to lie here than to fall asleep standing up.”
What started as a rolling chuckle ended as a hacking cough that made him wince with pain.
“I’m sorry Severus,” she leapt up with concern. “I won’t make you laugh again.”
He shook his head, waving a shackled hand up and down, as he waited for his coughing to recede. “I need you to make me laugh,” he finally ground out. “I feel like shit.”
Hermione giggled and nestled herself closer to him.
They remained looking at one another. There were so many things that needed to be said. But it was all too big at that moment.
“What are you reading?” he gestured to the book in her lap. It was as safe a topic as he could have chosen.
“Oh, it’s just a Wizarding crossword,” she curled a stray lock of hair behind her ear, glancing down at it with some embarrassment.
“Give me one of the clues,” he said.
She looked at him curiously. Maybe he was also wondering how much the poison might have impacted him. Was this a test?
She folded the crossword and peered at the parts she had already completed.
“Actually,” she said. “I’m pretty sure a close friend of yours is the answer to one of these. L, something, something, K, H, something, something, T. It’s got to be LOCKHART.”
“As in Gilderoy?”
“Yep. The very same.”
A trademark sneer appeared on his face and she couldn’t have been happier to see it.
“What’s the clue?” he asked. “Anagram of Knut?”
It took Hermione a few seconds before she exploded with laughter. She even forgave the poor spelling.
He was back. He was snarky. And he was perfect.
With any luck he would also be hers.
- 16
- 17
- 18
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The Quickening