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Potions, Plans, and Second Chances	By : strawberryf1re Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 14246 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe (characters, settings, etc.) ŠJ.K. Rowling. No profits are made from this work.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Rating: M – inappropriate for readers under the age of 16; contains scenes of explicit sexuality and violence.

Disclaimer: Characters and settings ©J.K. Rowling.

Author's note: I could not believe the overwhelming support I received for this story. Thank you all so much for your reviews!

Potions, Plans, and Second Chances

K. Marie

Chapter 2

Cold.

It was the only tangible thought that entered his mind. There was a violent tremble to his entire body, quickly accompanied by a feeling of nausea. His stomach heaved and the taste of bile filled his mouth. He turned his face to the side, lurching what little contents his stomach contained.

A sudden wave of panic washed over him, and his breathing became rapid wheezes. A sense of doom engulfed him. He couldn't get enough oxygen. Deeper breaths. Deeper still. He couldn't sate his thirst for air.

His hands, trembling and weak, roamed the pockets of his tattered robes. His spidery fingers searched the depths, but found nothing – nothing but the bottom of the pouch. He tore his hands from his robes and the faint sound of fabric ripping reached his ears, but he didn't care. His tremulous hands reached for his throat, searching for the fatal wound, his ragged breaths still failing him. His heart was fluttering so fast in his chest he could barely feel the pulse.

His fingers found the twin scars on his throat. Scars. Scars. The panic that gripped him slowly dissipated, his ragged breathing finally providing him the air he sought so desperately to have. His chest was sore as it stretched to accommodate his filling lungs, and he became vaguely aware of an odd twinge of pain with each beat of his heart.

Turning his head, he felt the soft whisper of blades of grass against his face. He breathed in deep, drinking in the scent. Quickly it was replaced by the pungent odor of bile, of blood, and of human waste. His stomach lurched again, his throat burning.

Slowly, he peeled his eyelids back and was immediately blinded by a surge of white light. Shielding his face with a jerky movement of his arm, he felt a sudden wave of excruciating pain wash over him and a shout escaped his lips.

He fell into impossible silence; the only sound was the blood rushing through his ears…

The first thing he remembered was the smell of a woman; the intermingling scent of floral shampoo and an exotic perfume he had never before encountered. Somehow it overpowered the sickly stench that emanated from his own body; a mix of blood, sweat, dirt, and waste. The taste of bile lingered in his mouth.

The feeling of hands roaming his body registered shortly. There was fabric resting against his legs, and he became vaguely aware that his body was trembling. Small, gentle – yet firm – hands lifted his arm, turning it delicately, as though inspecting a very fine piece of pottery that would shatter at the slightest movement. He could feel a ginger touch smoothing over his forearm, the pads of his hands, the length of his fingers. And then his arm returned to the bed, and he became aware of the dampness of the sheets upon which he lay.

The voices – he hadn't noticed them before – flooded his mind. Before, a dull murmur as the two occupants in the room conversed over him – the words were foreign to him, if only because the syllables were muffled and unclear – now formed full sentences in his mind. He could understand their speech, and though they spoke as though he wasn't there, he knew they were referring to him.

"Conjecture," a man's voice said softly, as though he were afraid of being overheard.

"Very well," the second voice belonged to a woman, and she must have been directly over him. No doubt she was performing the gentle exam. "Thank you, Marcus. You can leave."

Vaguely, he heard heavy footsteps and the soft click of a door closing. Quietly, the woman above him made soft sounds as she moved over him, thoughtful hums, though he doubted she realized she was even doing it. He felt her uncover his leg, her warm hands manipulating the limb delicately. Finally, agile fingers smoothed over his toes, and the blanket was returned.

The quiet click of her heels indicated she moved around the bed. His other leg was suddenly bare, exposed to the cool atmosphere of the room. Her warm hands were pleasant against his frigid flesh, the feeling of her soft palms smoothing over the wiry hairs of his leg. She reached the pad of his foot, released a thoughtful "Hmm," and covered him once more.

Suddenly there was a bristle of fabric covering his groin, and without thinking, Severus wrenched out his hand, holding tight to her wrist. The jerky movement forced him upright, and he grimaced in pain as he aggravated his wounded ribs, gingerly leaning into his arm.

She released a quiet, surprised cry when his hand wrapped around her arm. As her eyes met his, a foreboding sense of familiarity washed over him. He hoped he concealed the flash of recognition that he knew must have crossed his face as he met her gaze. Those amber eyes held such defiance in the past, a certain stubbornness that was so very Gryffindor.

Of all the Healers…

Her lips parted, and he shook his head slowly.

"But I need to ensure—" She choked her own voice, her eyes frantically searching his face. She could not conceal the subtle glance to his throat, and even less so when her eyes flickered to his left forearm.

Severus released her wrist as he lowered himself once more to the bed. An excruciating wave of pain coursed through his body as though every bone was shattered, and he groaned in pain. He allowed his eyes to close against the bright lighting of the room, the rushing sound of blood pulsing in his ears. Vaguely, he heard the rustle of paper. A violent shiver wracked his body, sending a subsequent wave of pain coursing from his toes to his fingers, and reluctantly, he pulled the sheets to his chest. The small movement did not do much to lessen his pain, but he was slightly warmer, and less exposed.

He felt her hand supporting his head, the cold lip of a goblet pressed to his mouth. His gaze flickered to her face, the compassion in her eyes burning like fire. He tipped his head back and swallowed the soothing solution, and the pain in his body dulled almost immediately.

She hadn't torn her eyes from his face, and he held her gaze steadily. He wondered what thoughts must be battling for the forefront of her mind. Of all the Healers to care for him, she would be the one to oversee his treatment. It was a cruel twist of fate, and if he didn't fear his chest would split, Severus would have laughed.

When her eyes did abandon his gaze, it was only to linger on the scars of his throat. He suspected that the moment she discovered those distinctive scars, she already had her suspicion – but surely she would have disregarded it. Magic won't return life to the dead, and she, of all people, would know that to be true.

A rather peculiar feeling washed over him as he held her steady gaze. She must have been panicking under that calm countenance she offered him; her face had blanched the moment she met his gaze. And yet, he felt a soothing sense of serenity in her presence. She was the first person he had encountered since his "death" in the Shrieking Shack that he had recognized – and had recognized him – and she had no intent on harming him.

Even so, he knew, rather solemnly, that despite the feeling of tranquility she offered him in that moment, he could not confess to her that he was as she suspected. To do so – it would thwart all that he had managed to build in the past six years. She had no proof, and even if she were to tell anyone – they would think her mad. He had died six years ago on the second of May. He held her gaze steadily.

She breathed deeply, and he knew she was no doubt, psychologically steeling herself. He could nearly see the thoughts as they crossed her mind: the shock of her recognition; the need to remain professional; and the overwhelming sense that her world as she knew it was coming to a crashing halt. She turned from him, reaching for the basin on his table.

She intended to bathe him. Briefly, Severus felt humiliated. Whether it was within her responsibilities as a Healer or not didn't matter to him. For her to witness him in such a vulnerable state – to the point that he could not even perform the most basic daily tasks – it was beyond shame, it was opprobrious. He was by no means a proud man, but to be reduced to an invalid in the care of a former student, one whom he had mercilessly tormented through her years at Hogwarts—

Of course, she would be the Healer assigned to his care.

Without the energy to resist her, he cooperated as she smoothed the warm cloth over his face. Her touch was gentle and soothing, and he admitted – begrudgingly so – that it did, indeed, feel good to be clean. As she moved over his throat, he tipped his head back for her. She paused as she cleaned away the filth from his scars, a small crease pressing itself into her forehead as she furrowed her brow.

She applied a paste into his wounds that bled as she cleaned them. He pulled his left arm from her as she gestured to clean it, and she held him with a fierce, challenging stare. Her eyes lingered only a moment on the silvery Mark, and she moved on. If she had any doubt of his identity, he hardly believed it persisted. Watching her face, he winced in pain as her hands roamed over broken bones.

A sense of incredible intimacy engulfed him as she moved down his body, cleansing every spot of dirt and drop of crusting blood. She handled him gently in a way he had not experienced in what seemed like eons – there was compassion and empathy even in her slightest of touches. He didn't understand the strange sense of warmth he felt for her in that moment, but he could not deny its existence. He knew it was based in the fact she was his first kind encounter in years, and a part of him so desperately reached out for that – but he knew it could not last.

When she was finally finished, she wrung the cloth out into the basin. The sound of water inspired a feeling of ungodly thirst, and he was painfully reminded of the disgusting taste of bile and blood in his mouth.

"I was asked to do a consultation," her voice was meek as she lowered into the chair.

Her wand was held towards the head of the bed, and he felt himself rise slowly. He didn't expect the seated position to be comfortable, but it was welcoming to his sore back.

"I am the best Healer this hospital has to offer," there was no pride in her voice, no condescending tone he would have expected a position to offer. She stated it as plain fact, no suggestive intonation at all. "Your injuries are severe, as I'm sure you can imagine. The others – they don't trust their ability to heal you properly."

As he stared at her face, he wondered how much strength she required to maintain such a calm façade. A fine silver chain hung from her neck, and her rapid pulse caused it to shudder just slightly against the delicate flesh of her skin. Despite her calm breathing, he could easily see that she was just moments from collapsing.

"My colleagues tell me you haven't spoken a word since you arrived here," she stood for a moment, reaching for the folder at the foot of his bed. Holding it to him, her finger rested on the identification sticker on the front. "You are listed as a number, and that's all. We have no information on your identity, no history."

She sunk into the chair, the file open in her lap. As he watched her closely, the folder in her hands began shuddering violently as her hands trembled, the quiet rustle of the paper the only indication he needed to know she was, indeed, crumbling under her suspicion. She looked at him after a long moment, her voice cracking as though she were about to cry. "You're more than just a number, though. If you are who I think you are… you're a hero."

A hero. If he weren't so exhausted, he would have sneered. Turning from her, he let his eyes stare at nothing. Vaguely, he registered the feeling of warmth around his head as she set his hair to rights. It spread around him, smooth and clean as though he had just stepped from the shower. He felt her lift the debris from the pillow, and quietly it fell into the trash.

He couldn't look at her. In that moment, he was afraid that if he met her eyes, his entire composure would crumble. She had already bathed him, and if that wasn't humiliating enough – the last thing he needed was to break in front of her. The first familiar, compassionate human being to encounter and it had to be her.

The only reason it was so difficult for either of them was because they were both there that morning. There's a certain affinity to be had in the mutual experience of death, an intimacy that is shared between those who witnessed such a traumatic event. She had been there, witnessed the great serpent sink her venomous fangs into his throat; she had conjured the vial that collected his memories for the boy to view in the Pensieve – no doubt he confessed to her all he had seen.

An interesting twist of fate. Not only had she bore witness to his attempted murder (and presumed death), she would be his first compassionate human contact in the six years since that early morning. While he may not have approved of his sudden sentimentality towards her, he certainly understood its source.

"Where have you been?" her voice was barely audible, as though she was afraid of breaking him. "I… I watched you die."

He couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his mouth or the quiet chuckle that broke free. His eyes were fixed on a crack in the ceiling, and he shook his head. Though he knew that he had needed her to believe such, he was fleetingly insulted that she discredited his abilities as a wizard. He had thought he proved himself rather admirably on the many occasions he had come to her aid, her infinite resourcefulness proving quite valuable to Potter, but not necessarily the solution to their problem.

She came into his view rather suddenly, her wand held at his face. An irrational sense of panic washed over him, only to be replaced by an unbearable pain in his nose as a crack resonated in the room. The scent of blood overwhelmed his senses and a cool cloth was pressed against his nostrils. A small pair of fingers clamped tight on the bridge, and a whispered command had his hand replacing hers on the flannel.

"Confuto epistaxi." For a brief moment, he felt as though two large wads of cotton were stuffed into his nose. The scent of blood faded and she pulled the cloth out of his hands.

The lack of commentary as she worked over him would have grated at the most patient man's nerves, and Severus was not that man. As her wand flicked this way and that, her quiet incantations and whispered monologue (most of which was completely unintelligible) sifting through his ears like sand, he could feel the wounds begin to seal themselves. It was a calming feeling but it didn't last; within seconds she was applying a devilish liquid to his gaping wounds. He didn't realize it at first until he was overcome with a feeling not unlike that of the Cruciatus Curse – as the potion frothed, a vicious hissing sound lifting off the flesh with a gray smoke. The feeling of searing hot blades pressing into his skin overwhelmed his mind, and for a moment, he thought he would faint from the pain. He would not be spared the experience however; a loud groan escaped him and his entire body violently tensed against the pain, the ropy muscles of his withered body contracting maliciously. Clenching his mouth closed against crying out, he ground his teeth.

When the final drop settled into his flesh, Severus was finally released from the throes of agony. Cynically, he thought to himself, that while the torture curse was cleaner, a sadistic son of a bitch could garner much more satisfaction with that hateful little potion she had in her hands. Faintly, he realized she was casting a healing spell above him, her wand directed at each individual wound. A soft golden glow accompanied the feeling of warmth surrounding the lacerations that spanned his body.

He found it both irritating and interesting that the very student who never seemed to silence herself in his classroom was so averted to providing any commentary on her next movement. As her eyes busily scanned his form, her hands busily worked with her wand, quiet words escaping her lips in a tongue that was foreign to both of them – at least, he didn't believe she spoke Latin, and he sure as hell didn't. As she worked, his skin darkened to a sickly bruise color, and admittedly, he wondered how she could distinguish the true bruises from the marks she created.

Under each purple stain, a sickening snap resonated and his brain surged with pain. She was setting each individual bone – one of the easier tasks as a Healer, he knew – and each spell yielded a subsequent grunt of agony as he curled his fingers around the edge of the mattress, squeezing until his hands were white as bone.

He didn't notice when she tucked her wand away, and only turned to her when she spoke. "This is going to very unpleasant," her voice carried a tone of sympathy and apology. "But it must be done to ensure the proper treatment of any internal trauma."

Severus was familiar with the next step in her process, an unbearable procedure that he had endured at the hands of Poppy Pomfrey many times before. Nodding slowly, he swallowed deep, the muscles in his throat sore. He watched her as she watched him, and a moment passed where she was simply sitting the chair, her amber eyes fixed on his face, betraying her as she scanned his features.

Volumes were spoken through a person's eyes; it was no coincidence they were called the looking glass into someone's soul. Legilimency was a very valuable skill to have, but so often, it was not required to know the thoughts running through a person's mind. As she sat across from him, her glossy amber eyes moving over his face as though she could never look at him enough, she spoke volumes upon volumes of silent words. She was questioning her sanity, for one; but then, wouldn't he? She had witnessed his final breath – or so she believed. Convincing an episode as it was; potions could do peculiar things to the human body, if given the opportunity.

Finally, she rose, moving to the medicine cabinet. His dark eyes watched her move, the subtle tremor of her hands she couldn't seem to control, her carefully contained frustration as she struggled with the various vials in the drawer. Finally, she turned to him, a vial in her hand. Her warm hand pressed against the back of his head, supporting him once more as he swallowed the sticky, unpalatable potion, grimacing as it slithered down his throat in disgusting globs.

The anxious sigh that rattled her throat did nothing to ease his own apprehension. There was a certain blessing in being unaware of the procedures she was performing, and it was that one did not know what to expect. But he knew fully what would come of her next move, and as she raised her hands in the air, he breathed in deep, bracing himself for the violent surge of agony that was about to wash over him.

The moment she began reciting the incantation, his body felt as though it were combusting from the inside. The waves of excruciating torment that flooded his body in that moment made the previous potion – the one he likened to the Cruciatus Curse – seem like a sexual climax in comparison. A groan escaped him, choked with a sob, as the agony persisted for what seemed like an eternity, and he was certain she had just disemboweled him.

Then, as sudden as it had struck, the feeling washed away. His entire body felt warm, as though submerged in soothing water, washing away the filth and the guilt and the pain. It vaguely reminded him of the feeling of blood returning to the empty veins as death relinquished his icy grasp.

He hadn't realized it, but as he basked in the blissful feeling of her spell, his body had tensed, flushing as it was with blood. With his back arched in the air, his face twisted into a pleasured gasp, as though he had just experienced the godliest of orgasms a man could experience. As she released him from her spell, he slowly returned to the surface of the bed, and was unpleasantly surprised at the symptom that protruded from his body as a result of increased blood flow.

Shamefully, and a bit embarrassed, Severus gathered the sheets around him to his groin. An overwhelming sense of humility struck him as he avoided her eyes. She was simply studying him, he knew – gauging his reaction, no doubt, and trying to predict his future behaviors – but having been at her mercy for far too long, he couldn't help but feel what remaining pride he had wilt beneath her stare. Not only had this young woman – whom he had brutally and mercilessly taunted and ridiculed for nearly her entire time at school – bathed him and tended to his wounds, she essentially witnessed an incredibly private, intimate moment. And not once did he detect criticism or judgment in the warmth of her eyes.

Holding the blankets protectively to his groin, he shook his head, as though literally shedding from it the thoughts that lingered there.

His Healer rose once more from the chair, moving to the medicine cabinet – a routine he was quickly growing weary of. She rummaged through the drawer, withdrawing a small vial and displacing its contents into a goblet. Assisting him to drink – and with no lingering discomfort, or any other emotion aside from compassion and concern – she cradled his head in her hand, the goblet held to his lips.

"It's really quite amazing you survived this long with these injuries," she said. "Had you not received proper treatment in time—" Her voice cracked, and as he watched her face he could tell she had thought back to the morning in the Shrieking Shack. "It is fortunate you arrived here when you did."

He turned from her, allowing his eyes to drift to the ceiling once more, lingering along the length of the crack there. It was not lost on him how difficult it was for her to recall that moment; it almost seemed as though she struggled as much with the memory as he did. The corner of his mouth tugged in the faintest of smirks. How curious, indeed.

Of course, she would be his Healer. Fate was a cruel temptress in that way.

Her fingers were wrapped around the armrests of her chair, as though she were afraid she would be torn from it in any moment. She was close to him, and her subtle scent lingered all around him.

"Why do you refuse to speak? I know there is nothing wrong with your vocal chords. They may be the only thing, but they are fine."

He hadn't noticed earlier, but a pretty diamond ring rested on her finger. No doubt she was engaged to the Weasley prat. Surely she could have done better than that dunderhead? His cynicism influenced the tugging at his mouth, the corners lifting into a slight smirk. She must care for him, because she was not a woman who needed to settle. His eyes traced the gentle curve of her jaw, the pleasing arch of her cheekbones, the warmth in her amber eyes. Across the bridge of her nose, he noticed a few faint freckles. Like most men, his gaze finally fell to her bosom, and above the neckline of her lime green healer robes, her collar protruded almost delicately, and her chest was freckled from a sun-kissed childhood. She was not incredibly endowed, but there was a pleasant curve to her breasts even he couldn't deny. She was much more attractive now than he remembered, though it could simply have been that she was much older, and no longer his student. She certainly would not have needed to settle on Weasley – though how she could tolerate the brainless conversation, Severus could not fathom.

She leaned into his bed, her face level with his as she stared deep into his eyes. He could see his reflection in those pretty pools of light, and suddenly he could understand her painful empathy and relentless compassion; he looked absolutely pathetic lying in that hospital bed. Her breath on his face as she spoke was strangely comforting. And at the same exact time, he wished she would just leave.

"Can you at least confirm my suspicions?" her voice was pleading. "You – you don't understand. I watched you die. I saw the pool of blood, your last breath. You stopped breathing."

Turning his face from her, he stared out the window. Having been living in isolation for the past six years with little human interaction outside the hostile encounters with those he hunted, to have her in his company for more than three hours was overwhelming. His head began to throb and he was overcome with the seductive desire to sleep. Allowing his eyes to flicker closed, he hoped she'd understand his silent dismissal – if not, she could sit there and stare at him for the rest of her day, he didn't give a damn.

He heard a small, defeated sigh and the whisper of fabric. Her heels clicked quietly against the tile floor. Subtly, he turned to peer at her from the corner of his eye, watching her leave, but she had paused by the privacy curtain. His curiosities piqued, he opened his eyes and met her gaze.

"If you prefer, to… limit your exposure to those who may recognize you, I may be able to have you moved to an isolation wing, and restrict visitors and mediwizards."

Of course, she would be the Healer to care for him. Thoughtful, compassionate, and loyal to a fault, she would see to it that he received anything he needed while he was committed. Easily a situation to be manipulated if he so chose – and it was a consideration he was seriously entertaining. Offering a brief nod, he agreed to the proposed situation.

"I can see if Marcus is willing to work with you."

To this, he shook his head. Not only was Marcus MacLean a blundering idiot – Severus had worked with him in the past, and the man could not tell foxglove from wilted lily, let alone wield a wand effectively to heal the wounds she had managed with ease – but the fewer people to work with him, the fewer that would have the opportunity to recognize him. After he was able to walk – and breathe easier, he added as he tried to inhale deeply and nearly choked – he would disappear.

"No?" her brow furrowed at his refusal. "Just me, then? I'll see what I can do, but my services are very high in demand." She spoke with the simple factual intonation to her voice again – no pride, as though she were confirming something as simple as her birth date. "I won't be available at all hours, but I can certainly be the one to provide your treatment."

He allowed his eyes to flicker closed as he turned away from her. His mind was drifting and the words she spoke seemed to fade away. He was suddenly reminded of his intense exhaustion, and as his body began to force upon him the rest it so desperately needed, he felt himself slipping to the brim of consciousness. The last thing he remembered was the quiet click of the door, and he was lost in his dreams.

"Sev."

Severus looked up from his drawing to the pretty girl across from him. They were both belly-down on the gray carpet of the Evans' home, crayons in their hands and coloring books at their elbows. Severus was coloring a picture of a hippopotamus, while Lily was busily filling in a drawing of a unicorn.

"So these – unicorns, I mean – are real?" she asked, a delighted wonder in her voice that made Severus smile, too.

"Yes," he replied, matter-of-factly, sitting straighter to look at her. "In fact, at Hogwarts, there's this place – the Forbidden Forest – and they live in there! I bet we could go see them sometime. Students aren't supposed to go in the forest, but—"

"I think, as long as I'm with you, we'll be okay," Lily said, nodding. "I think we should go look at the unicorns, Severus!"

"Alright!" Severus responded cheerfully. "We'll do it!"

He lay down on his stomach once more and returned his attention to the picture beneath him, a pink crayon in his hand, busily filling in the body of the hippopotamus. Lily was giggling uncontrollably over her picture and Severus couldn't help but join her in her inconsolable laughter.

"You're my best friend ever, Sev," Lily said finally, breathing heavily between giggles.

Warmth filled the boy as she spoke to him, his heart swelling with joy. "You're my best friend too, Lily."

Jumping to her feet, Lily launched herself over Severus, wrapping her arms around his neck and laying on top of him. "Stay with me forever!"

"Always!" Severus replied, his cheeks flushing red as she hugged him tight, her small form pressed into his back.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

The next time he saw Hermione Jean Granger was several hours later. The only other person to enter his room had been a nurse, who brought with her a goblet full of water and a menu for lunch. Having absolutely no appetite, Severus pushed the menu off his bed onto the floor, and continued gazing out the window.

Of all the Healers in the entire hospital, it would have been his fortune to be assigned to Granger. Barely, he could recall the expression on her face as Harry Potter ripped himself out from the Invisibility Cloak that had concealed him from the serpentine menace that he would later defeat. When Albus Dumbledore had told Severus that the time would come when Potter must learn his fate – a detestable fate, leaving the man experiencing a range of emotions towards Dumbledore, the least of which was absolute fury – he knew that moment had arrived. It was only too appropriate – a man's dying wish to have his name cleared of all the sins he was accused of, his only desire before his final breath to look into the eyes of the woman he had dedicated his life to.

The fact that Dumbledore had used Potter like a puppet angered Severus more than words could describe. The sense of betrayal that overwhelmed him in that moment was not like the unbearable sorrow he experienced the moment he learned of Lily Potter's murder. The only saving grace, in his opinion, was that at least this time he was not responsible for the boy's inevitable death. He had done exactly as he promised Lily's memory; he saved the boy from countless threats, preserving the life she died to protect. And yet, even as he lay there on that shambled floor, he knew his task was not complete.

If he denied his amusement at Granger's shock, he would be lying. The fact she could barely hold her composure while she worked with him earlier was gratifying in a sadistic way because he knew it meant he played his part well. She had thought him to be dead and gone, and the moment her eyes met his, she blanched, as though she had seen a ghost.

And from her perspective, she had.

While he received a great deal of satisfaction from her astonishment at his survival, he could not believe the amount of compassion and empathy she showed him. He was unfamiliar with the functioning of hospitals – he had not been treated in one for what must have been several decades now, not since he was a teenager – but he didn't believe it was a Healer's task to bathe the patient and clean him of his filth. But she had taken the time – and a lot of time it indeed required – to clean him thoroughly. The memory of her warm, soft hands roaming his body delicately was, at the very least, an incredibly pleasant thought. It had been a very long time since he had been handled in such a way, and despite his own restraint, he couldn't help the subtle reaction of his body to the woman's touch.

It was absurd to imply he had been at all aroused by the feeling, but he did indeed derive some pleasure from her delicate touch. How very depraved of you, Severus. He mused, burying his head in the cushion of his pillows.

The first compassionate human interaction in six years and it was Granger. It was the only rational reason he had to understand his reaction to her, why her mere presence was so compelling. Regardless, he still felt pathetic.

His pitiful mood was only exacerbated when he felt a fleeting feeling of joy as his Healer poked her head in the room. Really, Severus. He thought. Are you so depraved that you're excited over her doing her job?

"I just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed," she said softly, peering around the privacy curtain. "You're due for some potions, too."

His eyes followed her as she crossed to the medicine cabinet, her hands rummaging around in the drawer. He suspected they were feeding him the standard set of potions: a generic healing potion that would promote circulation to injuries, an antitoxin to help prevent infection of the wounds, a supplement that increased bone cell repair to strengthen mended bones, and a potion that Severus himself had developed to combat the psychological side effects commonly inflicted after repeated victimization to the torture curse.

She remained by his side, her gentle hand cradling his head as she aided him in swallowing the cocktail of concoctions. Her warm brown eyes searched his features, desperately gleaning anything from them she could. He held her gaze for a moment before turning from her to stare out the window, and with a sigh, she was gone.

His frailty never ceased to frustrate him. He could barely hold the goblet to his mouth to drink, let alone stand to use the loo. He dreaded the moment when he would no longer be able to quell the urge to relieve himself. How demeaning. Humiliating.

Fisting the soft fabric of his covers, he released a bitter groan. Severus Snape had slipped through Death's icy grasp more times than he wished to admit, and here he was, lying in a hospital bed, unable to piss without someone holding his dick for him. The thought sent a surge of anger through the man, and had he the energy to do so, he would have thrown the cursed goblet at the wall.

The next time Severus had any company in his room was that evening. Hermione came in to inform him of the room change she had offered earlier, and she was not alone as she entered the room; MacLean, the dunderhead Healer who couldn't differentiate asphodel from a bezoar, had accompanied her to assist with the move.

Strangely enough, the man did not seem to recognize Severus though they had worked together in the past. A blessing, he thought, as together the Healers levitated Severus to a stretcher (which, surprisingly, caused him no great discomfort whatsoever) and began the rather menial task of transporting the stretcher to the next floor up.

Emerging onto the isolation ward, Severus cast a mildly interested glance around. The hall looked as though it had gone unused for quite some time, but as they moved through the corridor, candles flickered to life. It was as though the human presence inspired the hallway to facilitate life; brooms appeared from seemingly nowhere, sweeping the dust from the cool tile floor and the door to the room he would inhabit opened before they reached it.

Wizard medicine had improved to the point where this ward was unnecessary, he knew, and it was also likely that they only placed patients there for extenuating circumstances. There was little to no risk of communicable disease once the patients were safely shut away in their own rooms, and so the isolation ward – with its special precautions – was unnecessary. Silently, he thanked the progress of medicine, because it allowed him to remain isolated from the rest of the hospital and away from those who may recognize him. It was unfortunate that Granger had already suspected him; he did not need the rest of the hospital to become enlightened, as well.

Marcus and Granger guided his stretcher to the empty room. A bed appeared from nowhere, the candles throughout the room igniting and emitting a soft glow. Once Severus was levitated to the bed, Marcus was dismissed and Granger brought the covers over his legs. Her small hands began moving over his body in another examination, much more expedient this time, but just as thorough.

He watched her closely as her warm, gentle hands smoothed over his flesh. Her fingers pressed in against the bones she had mended, the bruising all but cleared away. She gingerly touched the bridge of his nose and the skin around his eye – and while it wasn't swollen any longer, the contact still caused him to wince as the flesh was still tender. Her hands skirted around his throat, her gaze resting on the scars there just briefly before she moved down his chest.

Severus' mouth tugged into a smirk as she struggled to avoid staring at the scar of the Mark. She thought she was being subtle in her covert glances to his forearm as she examined his chest, the mended ribs, the healing lacerations – but the constant flicker of her focus from the point of interest to the fading Dark Mark was more than conspicuous. And it was amusing.

When she finally finished her examination, she brought a chair to his bedside. Her eyes flickered over his countenance, studying his features as though she would never see him again. Had he been a younger man, falling under the scrutiny of an attractive woman may have caused him unease; but Severus, a man of forty-three, found her constant gaze less flustering and more vexatious. Warranted as it may have been – he had played his part well, and she believed him to have been dead for six years, after all – it was still irksome.

She finally lowered herself into the chair, her chin resting in her palm as she leaned on the edge of his bed. Her head turned to the side, a curious habit he had noticed when she had been his student – the prognosis that she was about to ask a question. Her incessant interrogation was rather irksome, too.

"How long are you going to continue without speaking?" The change in her expression betrayed her, and without having to perform Legilimency on her he knew what she was thinking: Why would you ask a man who will not speak how long he would keep from speaking?

The corner of his mouth tugged slightly, enough that she would register the sardonic smirk. You are safer this way, Ms. Granger. Turning from her, he looked out the window. The sun was slowly setting beyond the trees, the sky painted with yellows and oranges and reds. Her curiosity would be her demise; it was only fitting she owned a cat as a pet. If she did not know, she could not be forced to tell. It was bad enough she already suspected him – to know for certain would guarantee her endangerment.

And Severus Snape did not spend six years protecting that troublesome, irresponsible boy and his insufferable friends only for her to allow her need to know absolutely everything earn her a malicious beating and merciless slaughter at the hands of his obliviously faithful followers in search of information.

She released a frustrated sigh – the kind that escaped her whenever she had to explain a particularly difficult concept to her dense friends. The familiarity of her mannerisms caused a small, nostalgic smile to cross his face. At least some things hadn't changed.

"I will find out either way, you know. I'm a very clever witch, or so I'm told." Her voice carried with it that certain bossy tone that he had grown so weary of as her teacher. Vaguely, he recalled the plethora of times she had argued with him during class, often times proving a very valid point – not that he would have given her the satisfaction.

Very clever, indeed, Ms. Granger. A chuckle escaped him, pleasant only until his throat felt like it was closing, a raspy cough forcing itself through his lungs. Grasping at his chest with his hand, he tried to force air into his chest, but it only aggravated his cough. A feeling of panic began to overwhelm him, his inability to breathe only exacerbated by the constricting feeling around his chest. As though that blasted serpent had coiled herself around his abdomen, squeezing him tightly and ceasing all bodily function, he felt as though his lungs were crushing inward under the pressure of his bones.

An icy goblet was presented before him, his hands closing over hers as she helped him drink the water. Finally, he was able to breathe, and as she pulled the goblet from his lips he gulped for air. His eyes were watery and he leaned back into the pillows, his waifish chest, ribs pressing against his flesh, expanded with his greedy breaths for air.

The feeling of panic quickly faded and as he looked at her, her concerned brown eyes searching his face for a sign, a signal – he felt strange. Staring at her, he felt… warm. A feeling that was completely foreign to him, a feeling that he had not experienced in many, many years. The past seven years of his life had been so cold, so desolate of any kindness, any concern – from the moment he did as Albus had asked him, he had been thrown into a world of hatred, of deception, of cold.

"What is it?" she was leaning in close to him, the smell of her fragrance teasing his senses. She pressed her fingers against his throat, and he knew she was checking his pulse – she was probably concerned he was experiencing an arrhythmia or worse.

Moistening his dry lips with his tongue, he tried to speak. His voice was so dry, so sore, that it was as though the words were stuck. Clearing his throat, Severus tried again, and finally, a breathy word pressed passed his lips, aggravating his already sore throat. "…thank…"

As though she couldn't believe he would, in his sane mind, actually offer her any expression of gratitude, she pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. But then, was she so wrong in doing so? Severus Snape, offering thanks to a student – or anyone at all? He would have laughed if his previous chuckle hadn't erupted into a very uncomfortable situation. The feeling of panic was still very real to him, and he was not looking forward to having to experience that again.

Her hand abandoned his forehead and she touched two of her fingers to his throat. Her eyes fell to her watch, and Severus turned away to watch the quickly darkening sky. Just beyond the horizon, the sky was fading orange from deep navy blue. Briefly, he wondered how long she normally worked at the hospital; she had been there all day, hadn't she? How long had he slept after she left?

"Are you at least going to tell me your name?"

No.

She seemed to be giving him some time to consider his answer, as though something would have changed since the last time she pressed the question. Her earlier proclamation that he was a "hero" was touching indeed, though futile. She mumbled a thoughtful "Hm."

"I understand." He heard the whisper of fabric, and suddenly she was pressing something cool into his palm. "I know you're familiar with this."

As she pulled her hand away from his, he curiously studied the Galleon she placed there. When he looked up at her, she wore a proud smile, her amber eyes glittering in the candlelight. "It's fake. I've charmed it with a Protean charm. If you need me, just use it and I will be here as soon as I possibly can."

Lowering his gaze to the coin in his hand, he examined it with an air of intrigue. She was right; he was quite familiar with such cleverness. He had suspected that the coins of "Dumbledore's Army" – of which, many he had confiscated during his classes – had been charmed by one certain clever Gryffindor Muggleborn. He had been impressed then, especially when the serial number around the edge had transformed into the next meeting's time. He closed his hand around the coin and nodded to her, a small smile flickering across his features.

"If I can't make it immediately, the serial number around the edge here" – her fingers curled around his and opened his hand gently, pointing to the edge of the coin – "will change to the time I estimate I will arrive."

Very good, Ms. Granger. There was always a certain gratification to be held when a student proved their teacher wrong. Severus had always known Hermione Granger was an intelligent and skilled witch, but he always believed that her associations would doom her to failure. Especially when it became apparent she was quite smitten with the Weasley boy – perhaps a talented Quidditch Keeper, but thick as a troll.

There were very few instances where Severus was wrong, and even fewer instances when he would enjoy being wrong. And her surviving cleverness was indeed one of those instances. In spite of himself, a subtle smile flickered across his features. It was not unnoticed by his Healer, whose breast might have visibly swelled with her own pride.

"It's identical to the method Dumbledore's Army congregated in my fifth year at Hogwarts," she said coolly, as though she were openly brandishing her certainty of his identity. It was actually a fairly innocuous gesture: if he were in fact her former Potions professor, he would immediately recognize what she was speaking of; and if he wasn't, well – "Dumbledore's Army" may have been a fairly alarming euphemism had he been a Ministry official several years ago, but now? It was about as distressing as "Lord Voldemort." The irony was not lost on him, and he smirked.

Curling his fingers around the coin, he nodded and turned to face the window. A very clever witch, indeed, Ms. Granger. Ten points. He heard the door close quietly, and he was, once again, alone.

Gingerly, he turned onto his side, facing the window. The silence weighing in around him was exhausting; the only thing more tiresome was her constant inquiries. Yawning, Severus allowed his eyes to flicker closed, vaguely aware of the cavernous growling of his stomach. He began regretting discarding the meal menu earlier.

Severus crept quietly along the sidewalk in the dark. The streetlights flickered, the moon offering more illumination than their failing bulbs. As he walked, his boots kicked crispy leaves and broken twigs, his long cloak sweeping against the sidewalk and dragging the debris behind him. He crossed paths with an animal of some species; it hissed as he approached, and as he drew his illuminated wand, it skittered away, its claws scratching against the concrete walkway.

The house of his target; it was dark except for one room. The soft light created a glowing aura of gold outside the window. A fleeting feeling of frustrated anger washed over him, but he had seen the man out with another individual not even an hour previous. There was no way he was home yet – and even if he was, as long as he was alone, Severus could ensure success. His heart was racing, but Severus silently swept up to the door, holding his wand close to the lock.

"Alohamora," he whispered, hardly expecting success.

He was reasonably surprised when the he heard a quiet click. Turning the doorknob, he gently pushed open the door. An awful squealing creak violated the silence, and Severus quickly activated a silencing charm on the door hinge.

"Nox," he whispered, and the light from his wand died away.

As he stepped into the house, his heavy boots clunked against the wooden floor. He would have rolled his eyes in aggravation had the circumstance been less dire. Behind him, the door quietly closed and locked. Activating the same silencing charm on his feet, he moved further into the house, carefully studying the room. His eyes were quickly adapting to the fathomless darkness, and the obstacles in the room – a couch, an arm chair, an oversized television, among other objects – were becoming more than just silhouettes.

Moving towards the hallway, Severus sought the room in which he'd wait until the house's inhabitant returned home. There was a faint yellow light coming from the hallway, and as he turned into it, he noticed the thin beam of light beneath a closed door. He cautiously approached the door, his wand raised and ready to attack. With a flick of his wrist, the door burst open.

He released a relieved sigh when all he encountered was a dingy bathroom. Still, ever vigilant, he searched it quickly, before closing the door once more and tucking away in the master bedroom.

He was tracking Rodolphus Lestrange, a strangely elusive – albeit very dangerous – former Death Eater and Bellatrix Lestrange's widower. He had been presumed incarcerated, and how the officials at Azkaban failed to notice his absence in their cells was beyond him; but then again, the Azkaban officials were as mindless as those that worked at the Ministry. Perhaps it wasn't so remarkable.

Despite his pure-blood status, which admittedly garnered him less renown since the fall of Voldemort, he was residing in a fairly decrepit neighborhood in an even more dilapidated house. The structure was upright, certainly, but from Severus' daylight investigation, done under the cover of Polyjuice and the stray hair of a Muggle living nearby, he was a bit concerned with just how long the building would remain standing.

There was a boisterous group of men crawling down the sidewalk outside, and Severus could hear their rowdy conversation through the open window of the bedroom. Quickly, he concealed himself from sight with a disillusionment charm. The obnoxious squeal of the rusty door hinges betrayed the man as he entered the house, and with a sudden feeling of unease Severus realized Lestrange was not alone—

The quiet click of a woman's gentle step drew Severus from his dream. His eyes flickered open; the room was nearly pitch dark, and beyond the window, the starlit sky carried with it just whispers of clouds. There was a vicious wind blowing despite the peaceful semblance, the icy howling of the breeze leaking into the room.

Turning to peer over his shoulder, Hermione Granger came into his view. Curiously, he watched her as she leaned against the foot of his bed, gingerly turning onto his back. He knew it had to be late, and yet she was still in the hospital – did she ever sleep? He wouldn't have been surprised, given her study habits during school.

"I'm going to stay in the next room over, if you need anything. I didn't want to be too far away should something happen."

His curiosity waned as she spoke, and he simply nodded in response. Her dedication to her work was far from surprising, though he wondered what value she would be to him if she were exhausted and overworked tomorrow morning. Vaguely, he pondered if she realized she was no longer under constant threat of less-than-pristine grades.

"I don't understand why you won't talk," her voice was soft, almost childlike, and as she chewed her lip in quiet contemplation, her eyes flickered over his face in the darkness of the room. "But I do understand that it is going to take some time to earn your trust."

You foolish girl. I regret my generosity earlier. You lose ten points. He turned from her, his gaze lingering on the night sky once more.

She bid him a good night and left the room, and he was once more surrounded by the impossible silence of the room. Quietly, he cursed her, her incessant curiosity and desire to know absolutely everything the one trait that both charmed him and irked him. Her inquisitiveness, something he should never discourage (but often times did), was going to get him killed – or worse, her.

If he had the strength, he would have Disapparated from the hospital the moment she had closed the door. Even if he splinched himself in the process, it would have been a more favorable circumstance than her blood on his hands.

When Severus woke the following morning, there was an absolutely appalling taste in his mouth and the hollowed shell of his stomach was painful. Rubbing the sleep (and several gobs of crusted debris) from his eyes, he stifled a yawn in the crook of his elbow. The movement of his shoulder and arm caused him to wince, an intense ache in the sinewy muscles of his shoulders and arms. Moving his long legs, Severus noticed a similar soreness in his thighs and calves.

Surely Granger would invade the room soon to continue her irritating quest of obtaining information about his identity; perhaps she would have with her an analgesic. Or a muscle relaxant. Anything to ease the discomfort that plagued him. Tipping his head back against his pillow, he craned his neck, the same deep ache extending from his shoulders to the base of his skull. He needed to vacate the bed, stretch his aching limbs, but the tingling in his toes was indication enough that he was not ready for that.

Sighing, he stared out the window, the pale blue sky littered with wispy white clouds, the songs of birds leaking in though the window. With a soft whisper, the window opened slightly, and a pleasantly cool breeze swept into the room. The stale air of the hospital room, which smelled vaguely of sickness, dust, and an odd smell Severus couldn't quite identify, became perfumed with the scent of fresh air, mowed grass, and blossoming flowers. His lip curling in a sneer, Severus suspected the pleasant smells were the effect of a charm of some sort; the hospital was located in the middle of London, and it was needless to mention that London was not famous for its abundance of greenery.

There was a quiet knock at the door, but Severus didn't respond – had she expected him to, he would begin questioning just how clever Granger truly was. A man who would not speak would not answer the door verbally. Beyond the privacy curtain, the latch of the door clicked, and he heard her soft footsteps enter the room.

"Good morning," she said cordially.

Turning his attention to her, Severus' eyes flickered to the newspaper in her hand. He offered her a nod in greeting, and she waved the paper in her hand.

"I didn't know if you'd be interested, but I brought you the paper." She came to his bedside, leaving the folded paper beside his leg. "I need to examine you, but before I do, is there anything I can get for you? Do you need to use the loo?"

Severus had ignored his body's natural forces since the moment he was admitted, and despite his lack of sustenance and infrequent drinks, he became unpleasantly aware of the fullness of his bladder. Frowning, he nodded to her, hoping she would allow him to handle the task himself. She smiled, a pretty smile that was quite pleasant to see – and despite himself, Severus thought fleetingly of Lily Evans – she moved to his bedside table and removed a long plastic container.

"I don't suppose I need to show you how to use this," she said, handing it over to him. Severus held the urinal in his hands, his eyes flickering over the meter on the side, measuring the container's contents. "I'll be on the other side of the curtain."

She moved around the curtain, drawing it a little further to provide him with the most privacy she could offer. He stared at the urinal for a moment, his brow furrowing in a combination of emotions; frustration that he was reduced to pissing in a bottle, shame because he couldn't make it to a lavatory to receive himself in the way he was accustomed, and anger that he was so dependent on a woman he had tormented the entire time she knew him.

Turning down the covers, Severus positioned himself within the container, relieving his body of its waste with several grunts and groans as he did so. The movement of his body caused him pain, but the pressure of his extended bladder was more uncomfortable than any aching joints or muscles he may have suffered. As he finally finished, he removed himself from the urinal, drawing his robe back over his groin, and covering himself with the blanket. His aching muscles groaned with use, and as he adjusted his position in the bed, he became woefully aware of the surge of pain that shot through his spine.

Once Granger rounded the curtain once more, she smiled kindly at him and retrieved the urinal, tapping it with her wand. It vanished, replaced by an empty receptacle, and she placed it on the bedside table. Pulling on a pair of gloves, she began her examination, her warm hands soothing to the aching, ropy muscles of his body.

Her fingers edged into the healing lacerations, and Severus winced; he narrowed his eyes in a scowl, but she wasn't paying him any mind. Turning from her, he stared out the window, the wispy clouds drifting along lazily as the wind carried them to the east. He felt a cool whisper of air brush against his chest as she removed his gown, rolling it down to his lap. Her warm hands were now exposed to him, and her palms smoothed over his waifish chest, and Severus felt strangely self-conscious of his withered form. He tried to focus on the sky outside, but it was becoming more and more difficult.

She drew in a sharp gasp, and Severus looked at her in alarm. Her eyes were fixated on his chest, and with a foreboding feeling, he followed her gaze; the silvery scar that traced his sternum, the only remnants of a vicious stabbing he fell victim to over twenty years ago as a young Death Eater. Her forehead was wrinkled with a furrowed brow, and suddenly, Severus understood. He understood why she reacted in such a way, why she was so focused on the mark on his chest. Twelve centimeters; it would be very distinguishable, a confirmation of identification, nearly as clear as a tattoo. It wasn't often someone endured a wound like that, and if she had found his records – if he had any remaining, he wasn't sure – it would have been noted.

Damn it, girl. Can you never settle with ignorance?

Finally, she looked up at him, her hands moving from his chest to the ribbon of his gown. She tied it loosely around his neck, turning from him once he was covered and emptying her pockets of the vials she carried. His dark eyes watched her closely, reading her face as though it were an open book; if she had any doubt remaining last evening, it was dismissed entirely.

She held up a small ampoule with a yellow liquid, swirling the jar in her fingers. "This will begin to heal your heart. I need you to drink all of it, and I warn you now, it isn't exactly palatable."

If it was as he suspected, "not exactly palatable" was not an accurate description. Alastor Moody often compared the taste of vile liquids – such as Polyjuice Potion, for example – to goblin piss, and even that did not even begin to capture just how foul the potion was. Taking it from her, Severus steeled himself. He was accustomed to swallowing the most offensive of concoctions, but never on an empty stomach.

What was more intimidating was the somatic reaction he knew he'd experience as soon as the potion settled in his stomach. Sometimes, his intimate knowledge of alchemy seemed to be a damning thing; knowing too much about the effects of potions may be beneficial in some circumstances, but like now, it was more a curse. His stomach was churning violently in her apprehension.

Taking a deep breath, he choked down the potion, his face twisting into an awful grimace. The distaste quickly subsided as the crushing feeling leapt upon him. Clutching at his chest, his lungs desperately trying to fill with air but managing only the smallest of raspy breaths, Severus felt the beads of sweat freckle his forehead and chest. His heart felt as though it was going to cease beating, the gargantuan force of a giant's hand crushing the organ. His body forced him upright of its own accord, his hands grasping at his throat and chest, gasping for air, the pathway to his lungs seemingly shrinking to an impossible size. He couldn't breathe enough air, he couldn't breathe enough air—

As soon as it struck, it passed, and Severus collapsed into the pillows of his bed. His emaciated chest heaved with panting breaths, the feeling of oxygen filling his lungs nearly orgasmic after just having suffocated. He became aware of a warm pressure against his thigh; small, gentle fingers squeezing reassuringly and with sympathy.

"I don't like to mention it mimics a heart attack," Granger offered with an apologetic smile. "It's much more difficult to administer it when the patient is so apprehensive of dying. Though – I'm sure you knew that, given you didn't actually protest during the throes."

If she had honestly believed otherwise, he would have requested another Healer, one who did not underestimate his abilities. Though, given her belief that he had been dead for the past six years, he already knew she did not give him credit where it was due. A scowl crossed his features as he glared at her, and he turned his eyes to the second vial, filled with a vivid blue solution.

"Ah," she followed his gaze, lifting the vial into her hands and swirling it around. "This is the second dose. To be taken in an hour. And this" – she held a vial with green solution inside – "addresses the problems with the rest of your organs."

Humoring her, he lifted his chin in a slight acknowledgement, and then he focused on the morning's Daily Prophet. Spreading it open in his lap, he began to scan the headlines for anything of interest, mostly pertaining to the target he failed to terminate.

"I wanted to inform you that I am bound by confidentiality laws. If… if you so desired, I wouldn't even be able to change the name on the chart. You would continue to be patient" – she reached across his bed to the folder at the foot – "zero two three dash ten." There was an air of uncertainty in her voice, something she had come to express whenever she spoke out of turn in his class.

An eyebrow arched in piqued curiosity, he turned towards her. Was she suggesting that she would continue to deceive her colleagues and superiors for his sake? She had not the slightest idea why he was concealing his identity from the hospital, despite the fact that his lack of medical history could, in all actuality, impede his recovery. He obviously made his fair share of enemies, if he had been transferred to the hospital with such malicious injuries.

Perhaps it was due to those obvious facts that she was so willing to continue his charade. Intrigued, he folded his hands atop the newspaper, turning his full attention to her. She did not miss the sudden change in his mood.

Her voice was rushed as she spoke, as though she was simultaneously afraid of her confession all the while being too honest not to divulge to him. "I also reviewed the file of whom I believe you to be."

You bloody belligerent, insufferable know-it-all. You haven't changed in the slightest. As she spoke, his heart may as well have ceased beating. He felt his features transform, just briefly, into an alarmed expression, his eyebrows furrowing and a flash of concern in his fathomless eyes. He understood why she knew to look for the scar on his chest. Forcing an emotionless mask, he simply stared at her, willing away the churning in his stomach. He had worked in the shadows for six years, having convinced the world that he was dead. She would not ruin all he had worked for because she could not bear the thought of not knowing everything.

"It is rather bare, as well," she said, nodding to the file in her lap. "But it makes note of two particularly distinctive marks. And no, not the Dark Mark," she paused, her gaze flickering to the scar on his forearm, "but those."

She leaned over him, the folder in her hands resting on the edge of the bed. As she drew closer, her hands touching his chest, she traced the line of the scar along his sternum and the one above his nipple. Her scent was intoxicating, and as much as he hated to admit that her proximity was affecting him, he couldn't help the feeling of warmth that washed over him in that moment. Depraved fool. He thought bitterly to himself, the scent of her fading fragrance and the smell of her sweat, faint and not unpleasant, lingering in the air between them. His eyes fell from her face to the neck of her robes, modest and yet teasingly revealing; his gaze traced her subtly exposed cleavage as she leaned over him. He breathed in deeply, savoring the smell of the woman near him, before remembering just what it was she was telling him.

The feeling of warmth faded fast and suddenly he felt incredibly frustrated. Lack of human interaction for six years was no excuse for allowing his emotions, pathetic and profligate, to overwhelm his rational thought. She was nothing more than the insufferable know-it-all that proved quite valuable to Potter's survival and success, and even as a young woman, successful and talented Healer as she was – she was not an object to be coddled, nor cherished. She was a barricade to his task, and her desperate desire to learn his identity would be their doom.

But if what she said was indeed true, and she could neglect to change his file name, then perhaps it would not be so detrimental. Perhaps then he could entertain the idea of hearing his name on the lips of an individual who did not seek to harm him – a person who would say his name, holding it safe in her mouth as though it were a precious treasure—

Fuck it all. He released a resigned sigh. You idiot girl, you're going to get me killed.

She slowly lowered herself into the chair once more, firmly clutching the file to her lap. Her amber eyes were wide as she held his stare, and he detected just the subtlest of tremors in her hands. He looked to the door, the quiet click of the lock ensuring their privacy. As he turned his attention back to her, her eyes were wider still, if it were possible; her eyebrows nearly vanished into her hairline. The subtle tremor in her hands had become violent, and she pressed her closed fists into the tops of her thighs, trying to force them to be still.

Her trepidation in his presence was certainly welcome. Even in his frailty, he made her nervous, and he cherished it. He cleared his throat. "Yes…Granger." The words were difficult to force through his raw throat; his gravelly, raspy voice nearly painful as it vibrated against the hypersensitive tissue. His broken sentences were almost as grating to his sensibility as his voice was to his throat. "But… mustn't say… word."

If she couldn't understand him, she would be forced to wait until he had the strength to form full sentences. Speaking required more of his energy than he wished to admit, his chest heaving with the effort. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, though he suspected he only imagined it; while he was no Healer, he didn't believe the mere act of speaking could cause one's throat to erupt into bleeding.

Her eyes widened impossibly as she listened to him, her eyebrows riding further and further up her forehead with each whispered syllable. Her jaw hung slightly open, her lips parted in a silent gasp. "But – you're—"

A hero. Of course. "It… irrelevant." Water. He needed water. The gravel in his voice was nearly choking him, his throat burning with the irritated tissue. He knew if he didn't wet his mouth, he would erupt in a coughing fit. "Water…"

Frantically, she conjured a goblet full of water, lifting the cup to his lips. He drank and drank, his thirst seeming impossible to quench. His throat was beyond repair, it seemed, the burning sensation continuing to scratch at the tissue, the threat of a hacking cough looming ever closer.

Finally, after what seemed like a gallon full of icy water, Severus pushed her hands from his mouth. She lowered herself into the chair, and Severus winced as his head began to throb, the surge of ice water inspiring a vicious headache. Fleeting though it was, it only exacerbated the pain elsewhere in his body, and he scowled.

Her eyes were still carefully focused on his face, the same look of amazement glittering in the depths of her eyes. "But how?"

He would have laughed if his throat weren't burning so badly. She clearly doubted his skill as a wizard, and had he cared, he may have actually been insulted. An accomplished Potions Master and talented duelist, meeting his demise against a predictable wizard? Ms. Granger, one does not survive for seventeen years feigning loyalty to the darkest wizard of the ages without learning how he thinks.

Clearing his throat, he swallowed hard before speaking. The words still scratched at the sensitive membrane, the tissues irritated and his voice raspy and broken. "Did you… think that I… wouldn't… come prepared… that morning?"

The look on her face granted him the satisfaction he was seeking. She looked completely puzzled, her body leaning towards him as she sought support from the arms of the chair. She had believed him to be dead for six years, having witnessed his exsanguination – her shock was warranted, but it was entertaining nonetheless.

"Pre—what do you mean?" she stammered. Stuttering was very unbecoming of her, and he was not ashamed to admit he was really relishing her stupefaction. Hermione Granger was rarely speechless, and though he had not been her teacher in seven years, it was still gratifying to have left her at a complete loss for words or intelligent thought. Her hands were trembling violently, no matter how tightly she gripped the arms of her chair.

Severus let his gaze pass over her, from her face to her chest to her white-knuckled grasp to her knees. Her entire posture was indicative of intent listening, absolute focus on his speech, as though missing a single word would mean her death.

"Granger… don't… give… enough credit… there are many… things I am… skilled…" His throat was scratchy and dry, and he reached for the goblet. She rose to assist him in drinking, and after a long and satisfying gulp, he leaned back into his pillow, his chest heaving. His lungs felt as though they would burst with the effort it required to speak, and he was quickly exhausting all of his resources.

He really needed a meal.

"What should I call you?" Granger asked, her voice trembling. As he surveyed her face, he noticed the tears brimming in her eyes.

"Anything but… my name," Severus managed, his exhaustion overwhelming him. He allowed his eyes to close, settling into the cushion of the pillows. Her frantic breathing was a melody to him in that moment, and as his raspy, ragged breaths began to slow, he felt himself drifting off.

Hermione didn't leave Severus Snape's side that morning. He had dozed off, his head hanging to the side of his pillow, his shallow, rattling breaths heaving his emaciated chest. Fleetingly, she wondered if he had been brought any food.

Severus Snape. Severus Snape. Severus Snape. As she stared at his withered countenance – barely a whisper of what it was when he di—when she thought he died – she kept repeating his name in her head. Severus Snape. Severus Snape. The swelling in his eye had gone down since yesterday, and as her eyes skimmed the visible portions of his body, the gently glowing wounds seemed thinner now, too.

Severus Snape. She could only tear her eyes from his face for a few seconds at a time. Her mind was whirling with the knowledge that she was in fact sitting across from the man who was perhaps responsible for the defeat of the most maniacal, evil wizard that had ever lived – who knew just how much he had assisted Harry in his quest. Her amber eyes were fixed on the distinguishing features of his face; the prominent cheekbones, the hooked nose – all things she had come to despise during her adolescence, and now she viewed with an odd sense of warmth, endearment. Severus Snape.

He inhaled deeply, releasing a long sigh, vacating his lungs of all the old air that had grown stale within him. His mouth smelled of sick, and she chastised herself for failing to clean his teeth yesterday. Another task to add to the list – along with getting the poor man a decent meal. She wondered if she would ever learn how he survived the ambush that should have claimed his life.

Patience, Miss Granger. She scolded in her head, his resonating, oily voice speaking the words.

Severus Snape. Turning towards the medicine cabinet, she lifted the second vial of blue solution into her hands. Pushing some stray strands of hair away from his face, she leaned in close to him.

"Sev," she whispered softly. "Wake up. I need to give you your next dose."

"Sev, come on," she fisted her hands onto her hips, her chest broadened in an attempt to seem intimidating. "Give me my wand."

Severus smirked. "You'll have to get it, Lily!" and with a laugh, he tossed the wand up into the tree behind him.

"Sev!"

He laughed again, a delightful feeling filling his entire being, and he turned and grabbed tight to the limbs of the tree. With a final playful glance tossed over his shoulder at his friend, Severus launched himself upwards into its tangled branches. Higher and higher he climbed, Lily's disgruntled cries from below him charming him in a way only she ever could.

"Severus Snape, you get back down here right now!" she shouted, her small hands grasping onto the branches he had used to ascend the tree.

"I think I'm going to make you come after me, Lily!" he replied, peering at her through a cluster of leaves. "If you ever want your wand back, you'll have to come get me, first!"

"Oh, you—" she began sputtering harmless threats, gently lifting herself onto the first layer of branches. Reaching up through the leaves, she squinted through the dirt and broken bark that sprinkled from Severus' foothold on a high branch. "Sev!"

"Sev," Hermione said again, a little louder. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and she gently shook him. Her face was near his, her voice still soft, hesitant to startle him but knowing full well she would have to if he slept any deeper.

The heavy lids of his eyes slowly lifted, his dark eyes glossy and red. It took a moment for him to awaken, and as he raised his gaze to meet her, he seemed startled by her proximity. He pressed himself into his pillows, and Hermione recoiled in surprise.

"I didn't mean to startle you, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I need you to drink this. All of it."

Snape's eyes flickered from her face to the vial in her hand, and he grimaced. Pulling the ampoule out of her grip, he gulped it down, his face twisting with disgust. As though in anticipation, he placed his hands on his chest, staring at the blanketed mountains of his feet.

"There is no heart attack this time, I promise," Hermione offered, trying a small smile. She reached for the empty vial in his hand, her fingertips brushing against his gently as she took the glass from him.

His brow furrowed as he looked at her, wrinkles pressing themselves deeper into the weary flesh of his face. The shadows circling his eyes hadn't lightened any with rest, and Hermione frowned, her eyes scanning his features.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" she whispered, her fingers combing a stray strand of hair from his damp brow. "A cool cloth?"

Severus shook his head, his gaze wearily watching the movement of her hands, as though concerned for their intention. As she tucked the stray hairs behind his ears, Hermione couldn't help but wonder when he had last been handled gently, lovingly – or if he had only been on the receiving end of hateful contact. The thought chilled her and saddened her, and she tried to disregard it. Despite her emotional attachment to this man – and while she hated to admit it, he had evoked many an emotion within her in the six years as her pedagogue – she had a responsibility to see that he was properly – and professionally – cared for, her own personal needs disregarded.

"Food," he managed, his voice still weak. "Famished…"

Hermione nodded. "Of course. Do you have any preferences?"

"Something… edible."

She could have sworn a glimmer of a smile flickered across his face, but it was fleeting. She may have imagined it, but she found herself laughing at his blatant sarcasm. While he may still be the icy and unsociable man she remembered, his crass sarcasm was a welcomed gesture. It ensured that while many a thing had changed in the years he had been gone, some things would always remain the same, and there was a great comfort in that idea.

"I will have one of the nurses bring a plate of food to you," Hermione said, smiling. "If there's nothing else, I have a few other patients in need of my services. If you need anything," she touched the hand she had placed the fake Galleon in a day previous.

He simply nodded, turning from her to face the window. She followed his gaze, the diaphanous clouds gently breezing through the clear blue sky. Hermione may not have believed in the working of a Higher Power – she had seen far too much evil in her life to put much weight in any religion – but she couldn't help but ponder the curious workings of Fate.

A/N: Normally I shy away from the concept of repeating a story from the perspective of different characters, but I couldn't help but feel drawn to expressing Severus' point of view here. Considering he had been thought of as dead for the past six years, I thought having such a considerate human being taking care of him – especially one with which he was quite familiar – would evoke an interesting reaction. I hope you all agree.
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Potions, Plans, and Second Chances